Psychologist, I silently corrected, wondering just how many listeners today’s show could have had, considering it had been axed. “You were listening to the broadcast?”
“Yes, once my neighbor called and told me you were talking about Hannah and her dog. I should introduce myself. My name is Susan Corning. Dennis, my husband, and I were taking care of Sage after Hannah’s death. Hannah lived next door to us, so we’re especially interested in any stories about her.” She paused, then said, “How’s Sage doing? I understand he won’t eat anything.”
“I think he’s going to be fine. Was he eating when he was with you?”
“Well, yes and no. He would eat Shakespeare’s food, but he wouldn’t touch his own. And Shakespeare—that’s our shih tzu—was getting so upset by that, of course, that we just figured Sage preferred Shakespeare’s brand, so we started putting that in Sage’s bowl, too, by the second day he was here. That worked out fine. We wanted to keep Sage for ourselves, by the way, but Shakespeare was just too jealous. Plus, we have a two-year-old who kept trying to treat Sage like a pony, and we weren’t sure how long Sage’d put up with that.”
So at least Sage was eating well until Beth adopted him, I thought. I considered telling Susan about the Bitter Apple, but, not knowing the motive behind the food dousing, I decided I’d rather err on the side of reticence, at least for the time being. “Can you tell me anything about Hannah’s relationship with her dog?”
“She treated Sage like he was a person. Better, actually.” In the background, I heard what was either a shrill-pitched bird or a squeeze toy. “She was always cooking sirloin for him, which she wouldn’t even eat herself. She was the original Boulder vegetarian, and an eccentric one at—Brian! Don’t put that in your mouth! That belongs to Shakespeare!”
“I swear,” Susan grumbled, this time to me. “This happens every time I’m on the phone.”
“Ms. Jones didn’t have any ethical objections to feeding her dog meat?” This “sirloin” shot down the only reasonable theory I had formulated—that Hannah Jones had been making some ill-conceived attempt to convert Sage to vegetarianism.
“Well, yes and no,” Susan replied for the second time. “As a matter of fact, she had been trying to invent a meatless recipe that Sage liked. But the woman was eccentric, not stupid. She did realize that Sage was—Brian! No!—that Sage was a dog and needed meat.”
“Were you surprised that she committed suicide?”
“Surprised?” There was a long pause. She lowered her voice and said, “She told us she owned a handgun, which made us nervous, of course. She used to babysit for Brian every now and then. The gun belonged to her late husband, and the rumor was that he ‘d used it to commit suicide. In five years of living next door to her, we never saw it, and she certainly never used it. I guess she must have...gotten tired of living with the cancer and decided to join her husband.”
“She had cancer?”
“Leukemia. It had been in remission, but maybe her condition had recently taken a swing for the worst.”
“I’m a little surprised she didn’t make arrangements for someone she knew to take care of Sage after her death.”
“Yes, that did seem odd, for Hannah.”
“I’ll let you go. Thank you for speaking with me.” I hung up, gathered my belongings, and locked the door. I managed to hit the traffic just right to make a quick left turn onto Broadway. If I hurried home, I could pick up Doppler before Kaitlyn, my chronically depressed house owner and roommate, arrived.
Minutes later, I pulled up to the curb by my house in the northwest section of town. It was a little two-bedroom that looked to be the type of temporary house Laura Ingalls’s father might have erected during one of their stopovers—Little House by the Rockies. Though the house was dwarfed—and often shaded—by a brick apartment building next door, I chose the place because of its low rent and proximity to my office. Also because it had a wonderful, large backyard with a small, Doppler-sized dog door that the previous owners had installed. I might have even considered the place cozy, had I been living with a less neurotic roommate.
I left my engine running for a fast getaway and started to trot up the concrete walkway. To my complete surprise, Doppler was sitting on the front porch. Doppler gave me his usual unadulterated loving greeting, wagging his stubby tail so hard his rear end was wagging as well. He was buff colored with patches of white on his nose and chest.
“How did you get out?” I asked, wishing he could just answer so I wouldn’t have to search for holes in the wire-mesh fence.
I tried to unlock the front door, then realized it was already unlocked. The hinge creaked as the door slowly swung open.
“Kaitlyn?” I called nervously. There was no answer, and her car was not out front. Kaitlyn was the most security-conscious person I’d ever met. She would never deliberately leave the house unlocked. Something was very wrong.
Chapter 4
My heart pounding, I shoved the door wide open and peered inside. Nothing looked out of place. Doppler waited for me to enter first, as he’d been trained to do. This was the first time my dog’s training had backfired on me. Teaching a dog to wait for his owner to cross a doorway is very important in establishing the owner’s rank as master— but not especially desirable when said “master” is possibly about to confront a prowler.
“Anybody home?” I called, hoping to give a would-be burglar enough warning to get out through the back door. I stepped inside. The house was silent. Reassuringly, Doppler was quiet and stayed by my feet. He has such an excellent nose that, had there been a prowler still in the house, Doppler would have darted off, barking as he followed the scent.
Nevertheless, somebody had unlocked the door and let Doppler out. “Is anybody here?” I asked again.
Silence.
The living room furnishings seemed intact. I wandered toward the kitchen. Doppler sat and tilted his head as he watched me, puzzled by my actions. Still fearing the possibility of stumbling onto a burglar—who would be sorely disappointed by our offerings—I wanted to make some noise. I sang the only song that popped into my head, “I’m an Old Cowhand,” which was a very odd choice, as I only know the one lyric—that the guy was from the Rio Grande. Repeating that one lyric, I checked the bedrooms, hallway, and bathroom, finding nothing amiss.
Doppler trotted along beside me as I circled the interior and returned to the living room. “Sure wish you could tell me how this happened, sweet dog,” I said to him. He, of course, didn’t answer. I knelt and nuzzled against his soft fur.
There was a clatter and a bang from the still-open doorway behind me. “Allida?”
I recognized my roommate’s voice. I winced and slowly turned. It was even worse than usual. Kaitlyn Wayne had to have been crying for hours to get her face that blotchy. How could she have managed to drive in this condition? Maybe that explained the unlocked door. Perhaps Kaitlyn had come home early and then left, so emotionally overwhelmed, she forgot to lock the door.
Under unemotional circumstances, she was an attractive woman—five foot five, nicely built despite her own continual assessment that she was “so overweight I’m disgusting,” and auburn hair. Yet I wasn’t even sure what color her eyes were, the irises were so overwhelmed by her eyes being frequently bloodshot and red-rimmed.
“Oh, Allida,” Kaitlyn whimpered. “Thank goodness. There you are.”
“No, there I’m not. I’m just passing through.” I rose for emphasis. “I have to go to—”
“He called.”
“Your husband?” I asked, unable to keep the amazement from my voice.
Kaitlyn nodded, sniffling.
Uh oh. Maybe he was back in town. “He doesn’t still have a key to the front door, does he?”
“Of course he does. The house belongs to both of us.”
I grimaced. So much for my impression of her being security-conscious. The man had left her three years ago, but Kaitlyn clung to the hope that he would see the error of his w
ays and return to her. For a spacious bedroom and access to the whole house, she had charged me well below market value, on the condition that I “be prepared to move out the minute my husband returns.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Bill didn’t call me. He called a real estate agent we both know here in town. He told her to call me and see if I was interested in selling our house and giving him half the proceeds. Do you believe that?”
Yes, actually. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. I’m not going to sell. Not until he comes back for me. I told the agent to tell him that. She claims she doesn’t even know where he is or what his number is. That she has to wait till he calls her again. I asked her when that would be, but she claims she doesn’t know.” Kaitlyn started to weep openly, a tiny whimper that would gradually increase to a wail.
Doppler began to let out whiny little pants, not able to understand why Kaitlyn was crying. I stroked his sleek fur. The first few times Kaitlyn had done this, I had been sympathetic. However, after only three and a half weeks of living with her, I’d lost track of the crying jags I’d witnessed and was now only looking out for myself and my dog. “Kaitlyn, when I got home, the house was unlocked and Doppler was sitting on the porch.”
She instantly stopped crying and looked at me. “Then he was here! He must have been!” Kaitlyn’s expression turned to joy, which should have been a refreshing change—if she hadn’t been quite so manic. She grabbed my arms and did a couple of cheerleader hops, squealing, “Bill’s back!”
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait until you talk to...Bill before you get all excited? Just to make sure he’s feeling—”
“Did he leave me a note?” Kaitlyn raced through the house, frantically searching.
Thinking this was a game, Doppler began to bark, then trotted alongside her, hopping up at her, which he knew very well he wasn’t supposed to do.
She looked devastated by the time she returned. “There’s no note. Nothing. Why would he just come in here and not leave me a note, or something?”
Because he’s just casing the place, wanting half the proceeds from its sale, and he wants nothing to do with you. I left my comment unspoken.
Kaitlyn whined, “What should I do?”
“I’m sorry. I try not to give advice to people. My psychology’s only good for dogs.”
“Fine.” Kaitlyn sank into the nearest chair and flicked a soggy tissue in my direction. “You just go. I’ll be all right here by myself. Like always.” She turned her face to the window.
I gritted my teeth and stared at the back of my housemate’s head, wondering what would happen if I told Kaitlyn how I really felt; that she needed to get a grip on herself and start living for herself instead of pining after some man like a lovesick puppy dog. At that last thought, I gave my own loyal dog a pat, then said gently to Kaitlyn, “Maybe it’s time you tried to meet somebody else.”
“Somebody else?” She scooted around in her seat to face me. She looked stricken. “You mean, start dating again? How can you even suggest that? I’m a married woman!”
I turned on my heel and grabbed the leather leash that hung on a hook by the door. “Yes, well, this is why I work with dogs. They don’t ask for my advice and then argue with me. I need to get going.” I patted my thigh and said, “Doppler, heel,” not bothering to hook the leash on my very obedient cocker spaniel. Doppler followed me out the door and down the walk, then sat and waited for me to open the door to the backseat. I pretended not to notice the curtains parting on the front windows, as a chronically depressed Kaitlyn Wayne watched us drive away.
“Boy, Doppler. I wish I knew what to do about that housemate of ours.” I knew full well that Doppler couldn’t understand me, but I was appreciative of the fact that dog ownership is a nice excuse to talk to oneself. “I know I should try to be more patient with her and try to cheer her up, but she doesn’t want to be cheered. She just wants company in her misery.”
At the light, I glanced back. Doppler, whose front paws were pressed against the ledge of the closed passenger side window of the backseat, seemed to smile and nod at me. It was a long drive to my mother’s place, nearly an hour at this time of the evening. My thoughts kept turning toward the shadowy images of a man in a trench coat shooting a white-haired woman in the head, then drenching Sage’s dog food and treats in Bitter Apple, while Sage barked helplessly.
My mother had gone back to work shortly after my father’s death and still worked part-time as a flight instructor. She lived in a blond brick ranch-style house in Berthoud, Colorado, a small town northeast of Boulder. She had a fully fenced two-acre backyard, which had been dog paradise to the half-dozen golden retrievers we’d owned over a thirty-year period. Mom’s most beloved dog, Star, had passed away two years ago, and she’d yet to feel up to another.
Pavlov, my two-year-old female German shepherd, anticipated my Friday visits and was watching through the window. Pavlov’s loud woofs greeted me through the doorway, causing Doppler to bark back in excitement. Though redundant, I rang my mother’s doorbell.
“Doppler, sit,” I commanded. The little dog was overstepping his bounds by standing in front of me, wagging his stubby tail and whimpering in excitement. Doppler gave a sad whine, but took his rightful place slightly behind me.
My mother opened the door. “Hi, dear,” she said. I stepped in and Doppler scooted past our ankles. “How was your week?” These were the exact same phrases she’d used to greet me for each of the last three Fridays since I’d moved in with Kaitlyn. My mother is a great listener, but her questions tend to be predictable. That was good, because right now, I had to be cautious with my answers. If I started talking about Kaitlyn’s problems, Mom would suggest I move back home, which wasn’t a good idea for either of us.
“Things have been a bit trying, of late. How was yours?” I patted Pavlov’s large head and rubbed her ears, which she really loves. “Hi, Pavlov. How’s my big girl?”
“Judging by the Trudy Truttle show, I’d say your week was worse than merely ‘trying.’”
“Tracy Truett,” I corrected, my arms wrapped around Pavlov’s massive chest. My mother, on the other hand, was not the hugging sort. “Wasn’t she a kick?”
“Yes,” she answered with a snort. “If you like drunks.” She paused and studied me. She rarely saw me in a skirt and heels, which were highly impractical for dog training. “You look nice. Why did you get all dressed up for a radio show?”
“Thought my outfit would make me feel and sound more professional.” Pavlov gave my face a lick—which was something I’d trained her not to do but which had recently reappeared under my mother’s care. Then the two dogs launched into their own circling, sniffing dance of greeting. The two canines could pick up more information from smelling the various scents on each other’s fur than I was likely to extract verbally from my mom this entire visit.
Though I look like a younger version of my mother in many ways, she was, at five-six, considerably taller. Her long braid of once light-brown hair was streaked with gray, which she referred to as “natural highlighting.” She led the way toward the kitchen. Judging by the aroma, she’d made her fabulous lasagna. These free, Friday evening meals were a great enticement for my visits, in addition to seeing Pavlov. And my mother.
“Did you recognize my voice on that call-in show?” she asked.
“Yes, right away.”
“Darn. I was trying to disguise it. I guess my sultry intonations didn’t work.”
“That’s ‘cause you always sound sultry, Mom.”
She laughed heartily. The table was set for two; the lasagna was already on a trivet on the table and two glasses of burgundy were already poured. My mother always drank a glass of red wine with her meals and could either never remember—or deliberately ignored—the fact that I never drank more than a sip or two of wine. It gives me headaches.
“You don’t have to make dinner for me every time, you know.
How about if I bring you dinner next week?”
“No, thanks. I’d rather cook than eat McDonald’s take-out.”
“Actually, I was thinking KFC.”
I washed my hands in the kitchen sink, then stepped out of my shoes, which were killing my feet. Much as it was nice to be taller for a change, I’d sooner strap two-by-fours to my feet.
As I dried my hands on the dish towel, my mother, watching from her seat at the table, said, “I can’t help but feel that this whole business of starting up a dog psychologist practice is just ...such a lot of work. Maybe you should think of a contingency plan if the whole thing doesn’t fly. Speaking of which, have you given any more thought to getting your pilot’s license? Just as a fall-back position. After all, your brother’s done well by it.”
Drat! Not the dreaded be-a-pilot-like-Kevin conversation. A decade or so ago, Mother had given me flying lessons, which I’d greatly enjoyed till an unanticipated downdraft during our lesson had left me permanently shaken.
Mom really is wonderful, and if we weren’t mother and daughter, we’d be the best of friends. But, in addition to her predictable questions, she has a couple of pet topics of conversation that she periodically drags out, dusts off, and thrusts at me like an old scrapbook. My choice of career had been embossed on those figurative pages ever since I not only refused to fly, but deserted a relatively lucrative technical writing job back in Chicago in favor of my one-time “moonlighting” job as a dog trainer.
I gave a glance at the photo of my handsome younger brother in his United Airlines pilot’s uniform. My photograph was there, too, hung on the same wall, but it was a smaller picture, the same size as all of the photographs that she had of her late dogs.
“Kevin and I are very different people,” I began, taking my seat, annoyed at myself for so easily falling into this all-too-familiar verbal exchange.
“I realize that. I had enough time alone with the two of you to know your personalities.”
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