Sire and Damn (Dog Lover's Mysteries Book 20)

by Susan Conant

  Rowdy sat directly in front of me and met my gaze.

  “But you’re only a little safer with me because we’re going out, and I hate to break the news, but it looks like rain. With luck, though, you won’t have to leave the car. You’ll just have to be there for Zara, who is so, so scared and for good reason, maybe more than she knows. But we know, don’t we?”

  It was tempting to hear his woo-woo reply as a statement of agreement, but in the spirit of honesty, I have to say that he may have been asking for liver treats.

  “We didn’t see the slightest sign of Izzy last night. I didn’t see anything, you didn’t smell anything, and neither of us heard anything.”

  “Roo,” said Rowdy. Translation: If you don’t happen to have liver handy, cheese will do.

  “I love you, Rowdy,” I said and added blasphemously, “I am weak, but you are strong, buddy.”

  Although I was sorry that Steve had vanished while we were in the middle of an argument, even a stupid one about OmniThrive, his absence meant that I could leave without having to concoct an excuse. Still, it bothered me that he hadn’t left a note the way he usually did. On the off chance that he’d left voice mail or sent me a text, I checked my smartphone, where I found nothing but a one-word text from Zara: Ready?

  Almost, I replied.

  Rita? she shot back.

  Not here.

  A second later, I heard Zara’s footsteps on the stairs. It was typical of her to have texted me when she’d been almost at my kitchen door. As we’d previously arranged, she wore the same yellow rain slicker and matching boots that she’d had on when Izzy had been stolen. If she needed me to deliver the ransom, it would be easy to switch rain gear, including boots, since we wore about the same size shoes.

  On the assumption that the dognapper would be watching from nearby, it also seemed wise for me to avoid wearing the slicker I’d had on when he’d seen me. If Zara felt able to deliver the ransom herself, I’d never have to leave the car, and the dog thief wouldn’t see me at all; and if she needed me to substitute for her, he’d see me only in her outfit and mistake me for her.

  But what if Zara left to deliver the cash and didn’t return? What if the instructions for reclaiming Izzy included unknown complications that would require my help? What if I were forced to show myself? My best bet, I decided, was to look as anonymous as possible by enveloping myself in a long and voluminous unisex garment, namely, Steve’s army-green rubberized rain poncho, which had the advantage of being the sort of fashion-free, rainproof camouflage favored by the birders who frequented the banks of the Charles even in downpours. To complete the look, I paired the poncho with ugly army-green Wellies that I’d owned since high school and had worn perhaps twice.

  Zara approved. “Androgynous and anonymous. You could be anyone.”

  I removed the poncho, checked the time, and prepared to give Rowdy his dinner. Although it was an hour before we’d really need to leave, Zara and I were impatient to be on our way. I, in particular, was eager to be gone before Steve returned. I had no desire to lie to him about the purpose of our trip but couldn’t tell him the truth, either. I measured dry food into Rowdy’s bowl, poured in a little water, and defiantly mixed in a scoopful of OmniThrive.

  In expectation of dinner, Rowdy doesn’t leap quite so high in the air as Kimi does, but he shrieks as piercingly as she does. And when he whirls in circles, you’d swear that he’ll turn into malamute butter in the manner of the tigers in the objectionable children’s book that no one reads anymore.

  “Down,” I told him. Tail flying, eyes glistening, he hit the floor.

  Putting the bowl in front of him, I said, “Okay.” To Zara, I said, “Thirty seconds maximum, usually less. I’ve timed him.”

  During the twenty seconds it took Rowdy to empty his bowl, I got his lead and my dog-walking waist pack from the hooks on the kitchen door, fastened the lead to Rowdy’s collar and the pack around my middle, and grabbed my purse, my phone, and Steve’s poncho. “Let’s go.”

  “I know we’re early,” Zara agreed. “But what if we get a flat tire?”

  Zara’s car, which was in our driveway, still had two big crates in the back. I crated Rowdy, got into the front passenger seat, and watched as Zara fiddled with a variety of controls that I didn’t understand. Faster than I’d have thought possible, the humidity dropped perceptibly, and in response to the sudden comfort, I closed my eyes and sank into the luxury of the leather seat. As I was wondering whether this little power nap would revitalize me and prepare me for any crisis that might lie ahead, I was jolted out of my reverie by frantic tapping on the window to my right.

  “Let me in!” Rita demanded. “I have to get out of here. I’m going with you.” Her hair was almost standing on end, and her eyes were wild.

  Zara threw some switches, lowered the window, and told Rita that the doors were unlocked. Even so, I got out, ushered Rita into the back seat, and closed the door before again settling myself in the front seat.

  Out of breath, Rita was almost panting. “I’ll explain. Just go! Get me out of here! I won’t be in your way. I won’t interfere.”

  While Rita was still speaking, Zara backed out the driveway and onto Appleton Street, and then turned left onto Concord Avenue.

  “Rita, what’s up?” I asked.

  “Just when you think that things can’t get worse, they do,” she said. “Zara, I’m sorry to blurt this out, because it concerns you, too, but—”

  “My mother and your father. I already know.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Uncle Oscar knows, too,” Zara said.

  “I’ve heard him hint—” I started to say.

  Rita interrupted. “And no one told me?”

  “Maybe you could just tell us what happened,” I suggested.

  “When I got up from my nap, not that I slept, there they were, right in the upstairs hallway, my hallway, Aunt Vicky and my father.”

  “In flagrante delicto?” Zara spoke lightly. “Right there in the hallway?”

  “No, not quite in flagrante, but close enough. Zara, does my mother know?”

  “Probably. I’m sure that my father does. That’s why he’s not here yet, why he’s not getting here until just before your wedding.”

  “Wedding,” Rita spat.

  “How did you leave things?” I asked.

  “I didn’t. I just ran out. I was going to get in my car and go, I don’t know, anywhere, but my parents’ rental car was blocking mine, and I couldn’t face going back inside, and I don’t want to be alone, anyway. Oh, God! Willie. I put him in his crate, but—”

  “Is Quinn still home? I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “If you don’t want to talk to Quinn, you should text him,” Zara said. “Just tell him to take care of Willie.”

  Silence.

  “I don’t know—” Rita murmured.

  “What?” Zara said.

  “It could be awkward,” I said.

  After taking an audible breath and exhaling, Rita said, “Zara, you may find this incredible, but I do not know how to send text messages. Leah showed me, but I don’t remember what to do, and for all I know, the battery in my cell phone is dead. I practically never use the damned thing.”

  “I’ll do it,” I offered.

  “What if Quinn asks where I am?”

  “I won’t reply if you don’t want me to.”

  “I don’t. And if he calls you, don’t answer.”

  After sending Quinn a text telling him to take care of Willie, I set my phone to DO NOT DISTURB and dropped it in my purse. “Done,” I said.

  “He’ll remember anyway,” Rita said. “He loves Willie, and he’s very responsible.” She paused. “In certain respects.”

  By then, we were on Mount Auburn Street in Watertown, perhaps a half mile from Watertown Square.

  “Zara,” I said, “we’re early. Do you want to pull over and wait?”

  “No. I want to get closer than this, close enoug
h so I can walk there if we get a flat tire.”

  “I can go in your place,” I reminded her.

  “I can do it.” Zara’s jaw was set, her face wooden.

  I tried to sound soothing. “Let’s review the plan. Zara, first you drop us at Pignola’s. Then you go to the parking lot. I’ll point it out when we drive by. There are two. One is next to an indoor skating rink. A hockey rink. That’s the one closer to Pignola’s.”

  “Hockey,” Zara said. “Yes. Remember that picture of Frank Sorensen I found online? He was with some other hockey players. It could’ve been taken at this rink.”

  “His brother probably played hockey, too,” I said. “It’s big in Waltham and Watertown. That’s why he thought of this place. He knew it from hockey. I wondered. Anyway, the other parking lot is for the tennis courts and the picnic area. That’s the one he meant. No one’s going be playing tennis or having a picnic in the rain, so go right to the end of the parking lot and walk toward the river.”

  “He didn’t say to go to the river,” Zara objected.

  “You won’t. Beyond the tennis courts, you’ll see a grassy area with picnic tables and benches, I think, and beyond that, there’s a steep slope down to the river. There’s no path that I know of. Along this section of the river, the hiking trail is on the opposite bank. On this side, it’s all overgrown, and there’s trash and litter, and I think that that’s where the desk must be. I don’t know how far down. It could be near the top, but if it isn’t, be careful. The ground is going to be slippery from the rain, and there’ll be branches you could trip on, so watch your step. Take your time. Don’t run.”

  And that was when Rita precipitated an ill-timed quarrel.

  chapter thirty-two

  “I still think that you should call the police,” Rita said.

  “No!” Zara had panic in her eyes.

  “I won’t,” I promised, “and Rita can’t because her cell phone is probably dead, and she doesn’t know how to use it, anyway.”

  “Yes, I do, but, Zara, I think that Holly and I should stay in the car instead of waiting at Pignola’s. The glass back here is practically black. No one will see us.”

  “No! He said alone.”

  I said, “We’d still be visible through the windshield or the front-door windows. Zara, please keep your eyes on the road.”

  “We’ll get on the floor behind the front seats,” Rita countered.

  “I should’ve come all by myself,” Zara snapped.

  “No, you shouldn’t have. We’re doing everything right. It’s important to have a backup plan,” I reminded her, “and I’m your backup plan.”

  “I’m not,” Rita said. “I’m just making you more anxious.”

  “What you’re doing,” Zara said, “is pissing me off.”

  Ahead of us, a traffic light turned yellow. “We’re almost there,” I said. “Go slowly and watch on your left. I’ll show you the two parking lots, the one you want and the one you don’t, although it doesn’t matter all that much which one you use.”

  “It does if he’s watching.”

  “There! On the left. That’s the one. And this next one with the sign for the skating rink? When you come back, you’re going to pass that one. Okay?”

  “Got it.”

  “Holly,” Rita said, “Would you like to hazard a guess about how many maps of this area she’s looked at? Including that business about dragging that little figure around and seeing movies. You see? I’m really quite tech-savvy.”

  “Zara,” I said, “take us to the parking lot beyond Pignola’s, not this one. Yes, this turn. And pick us up here. We’ll wander around and keep an eye out for you, and if you get instructions about Izzy and you’re delayed, we’ll just keep waiting. You know, we can always take a cab home.”

  As Zara pulled up near the entrance to Pignola’s, I said, “You can still change your mind and let me go in your place.”

  “No. I can do it.”

  When Rita got out, I grabbed Steve’s poncho, pulled it over my head, and then got Rowdy out of the back of the car. The second I closed the rear door, Zara drove off. Liberated, Rowdy shook himself all over and eyed me with the happy expectation that I’d get him out of the rain, which was falling steadily.

  “Sorry, buddy, but no dogs allowed. Human customers with colds, not to mention strep, tuberculosis, and leprosy, yes, but not you. It’s a crazy world.”

  Rita’s beautiful tan trench coat had probably been billed as water-repellent rather than waterproof. Its fabric already looked wet. She wore open-toed sandals.

  “Rita, go inside,” I said. “We’ll be back soon.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m taking my dog for a walk.”

  “Holly, I know that look of yours.”

  “Rita, when that man stole Izzy, he knocked Zara to the ground. He could do worse this time. Besides, I wouldn’t mind getting a look at him.”

  “What makes you think he’ll be there?”

  “He won’t let that money sit around for long. He’ll pick it up pronto.”

  “What if he sees you?”

  “What if he does? I’m an androgynous dog walker. Now, get out of the rain.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “No, you’re not. Go inside. This isn’t your kind of thing. It isn’t your kind of thing at all.”

  chapter thirty-three

  My parting remark to Rita was meant as a casual statement of fact: a clandestine foray in the wet outdoors was, in reality, no more her kind of thing than dream interpretation was mine. Besides, she wasn’t dressed for rain, and she couldn’t have begun to keep up with Rowdy and me. Especially when we’re in a hurry, we walk faster than most people run.

  We started out on the sidewalk in front of Pignola’s. As I knew from having checked out dog-walking possibilities, beyond the industrial buildings and blacktop directly in back of Pignola’s was the kind of steep, heavily overgrown drop-off I’d described to Zara. It was terrain that would have forced us to bushwhack slowly over fallen trees and past weedy shrubs, whereas on the smooth sidewalk, we reached the turn-off for the skating rink in almost no time. The skating rink was closed for the season, and because of the rain, no one was playing tennis in the long stretch of public courts that ran between this area and the end of the parking lot that Zara had been instructed to use.

  Rowdy and I stopped for a second so I could get my bearings. To our right was the wooded slope that ended at the river, and to our left were the tennis courts. The wide swath of land ahead of us was set up as a small park. In front of us was a large pavilion, a roofed structure with no walls. In the pavilion and along a blacktop path were a dozen or more deep-green park benches, all unoccupied. Beyond the tennis courts were picnic tables at which no one sat.

  On either side of the asphalt path, close-cropped weeds and bare spots served as a lawn; and tall trees intended to provide shade had insect-eaten leaves, sparse branches, and slimy-looking green trunks. Refuse flourished: candy wrappers, scraps of paper, orange peels, apple cores, bits of plastic, and torn bags were everywhere, as if litter were an invasive species given to rampant self-sowing and exuberant growth.

  Although I saw no one and heard no one, I tucked in my chin, pulled the hood of the poncho forward, and hoped that my face would disappear in the fabric. Feeling foolish, I reminded myself to act like a generic, genderless dog walker. The Wellies helped: in themselves, they were unfeminine, and when I clomped along in them, so was my gait. There was no disguising Rowdy, but the absence of an audience dampened his show-dog compulsion to flaunt himself, and the rain washed away his good spirits. His tail was down, his expression, woebegone.

  As we followed the asphalt past the tennis courts, I was alert for even the slightest indication that Rowdy detected Izzy’s presence: the twitch of an ear, a glance to the left or right, the hint of a bounce in his step, or any other sign, no matter how subtle. I saw no change in Rowdy. The bright yellow of Zara’s rain
slicker and boots would’ve stood out. I scanned everywhere and saw no sign of her.

  Beyond the tennis courts, I moved to the right. At the edge of the steep slope, I looked toward the river and easily spotted the broken remains of a cheap fake-birch desk that had been thrown down the incline, where it had collided with the massive trunk of a dead but upright tree. Before or after the crash, the desktop had separated from the legs and from what must once have been shelves. Broken pieces projected from under the remarkably intact writing surface, which lay tilted, one end on the ground, the other in the air.

  Beneath the desktop was a clean white plastic bag: Zara had delivered the ransom. Zara herself wasn’t in sight. Neither was anyone else.

  To see the dognapper without being seen, I needed to move quickly. Still, I paused to pick out a hiding place and to plot a route to it; without a plan, Rowdy and I could find ourselves thrashing around in the underbrush, losing sight of the broken desk, and advertising our presence. Thirty or forty feet downhill from the broken desk were the decaying remains of what must once have been a magnificent tree. When a storm, or perhaps gravity alone, had snapped the massive trunk, the upper half had crashed top-first to the ground but had remained attached to the trunk. Together, the two parts formed an upside-down V. Around, under, and through this structure grew the thick-stemmed vines and weedy brush endemic to this stretch of the riverbank.

  In effect, the shattered tree and the wild vegetation created a rough natural hunting blind. As for a good route to this observation spot, there was none. Pressed for time, I settled for the simple plan of continuing to move parallel to the river before heading down the incline and uphill to the hiding place.

  Now that I knew where we were going and how we were going to get there, I was in a tearing hurry. Smacking my lips and patting my thigh, I urged Rowdy forward and, less than a minute later, headed toward the river. Since any route through the underbrush was as bad as any other, I chose one almost at random and concentrated only on avoiding the thorny canes that would’ve wounded Rowdy’s feet.