Play Dead

by Leslie O'Kane

  The dog completely ignored this command. When George stepped to the left as if heading toward the kitchen, Rex dashed ahead of him. George followed, then reversed fields and tried to head down the hall. Rex stopped in his tracks and galloped ahead, but the moment Rex got far enough in front of him, George ducked into the first door he passed, which was a small coat closet.

  What followed was a truly pitiful scene—Rex howling and scratching at the door and trying to tunnel through the carpeting. The dog made such a racket that George couldn’t hear me call to come out. I walked up to Rex, growled, “No,” and pushed the button on my noisemaker. Rex stopped and I immediately praised and petted him. This afforded me my first glance down the hallway, where every door bore gouges and claw marks, and each doorway was delineated with shredded carpet.

  George Haggerty emerged from the closet, then had to fight off Rex, who was intent on licking his master’s bright red cheeks. “He’s not always quite this bad,” George cried over the noise of Rex’s excited barks at their reunion. “Sometimes he sleeps through it when the wife or I leave the room.”

  “I can see where we need to start.”

  I discussed my treatment plan and billing procedures, all of which he agreed to. His one bone of contention was when I suggested he purchase a Gentle Leader collar, which George thought was a muzzle. I explained that the collar actually works just like a horse bridle; one strap fits behind the dog’s ears and the other loops around the dog’s muzzle just below the eyes. The dog’s jaw is unrestricted, but the handler can control the dog’s head position.

  I keep a spare Gentle Leader in my glove box and showed George how to slip it on Rex while enticing him with a treat. At first Rex pawed at the collar and tried to rub it off, but by my encouraging Rex with treats and pats during basic leash training, he eventually accepted it. As soon as I showed George how effective a word of warning followed by a firm pull on the leash was when discouraging Rex from jumping up, I’d made a sale.

  During the bulk of my initial hour-long treatment, we focused on having George stand up then sit down, Rex repeatedly rising and trying to lead the way. We gradually wore the dog down to the point that he would allow George to leave the room briefly and then return.

  As I was about to leave, I assured George that he needed to continue to work on this and not to make such a big fuss out of leaving and returning. I thanked him for being such a good sport, as I was certain his knees had to have been killing him by then.

  He gave me a weary nod. “I was thinking, wouldn’t it be easier if I just bought another dog to be Rex’s companion?”

  “You want to get a second dog?”

  He scanned my face as he accompanied me to the door. Rex, to my—frankly—considerable credit, stayed put. George half shrugged, half nodded. “What about the collie that belonged to that woman who was killed yesterday? Could I just borrow that dog, do you think?”

  “Sage?” I gaped at him, completely taken aback by the suggestion.

  “I figured Beth Gleason had to be the ‘accident’ you told me you witnessed yesterday. Her death was all over the news this morning. I figured her collie probably needs a temporary home, right?”

  “Um, the collie’s fine. And while it might well help Rex if he had a canine playmate, we need to work with him first. I suspect Rex would have jealousy issues if you were to get a second dog at this time. However, if you’re thinking about preventive measures for his house wrecking, you may want to consider building a high-quality pen and doghouse in your yard.”

  He nodded and combed his ringers through what was left of his hair. “See you tomorrow evening. We’re meeting out front on the sidewalk, and you’re going in my house with me, right?”

  “Yes, and I’ll show you how to reprimand him when he jumps up.”

  George furrowed his brow, but nodded.

  I drove to my appointment with Mugsy, feeling horribly uneasy. George’s question about Sage had been an unwanted reminder that all of my new clients knew about Beth Gleason and Sage. There was no way I could guarantee that I wasn’t being set up—their dogs’ problems a convenient method for getting to Sage through me.

  Chapter 12

  John O’Farrell answered the door. He reached out to me on the porch, took my small hand in his beefy one and shook vigorously. “Thanks a lot for coming on such short notice.” He held the door open for me. The shrill din of screaming children, barking dog, and squeaking wheels inside was sonic-ear-shattering.

  Though his wife, Sarah, greeted me with more enthusiasm than she’d shown upon our initial meeting, her red hair appeared to be standing on end. The tufted hair combined with her thin, beak-like nose made me think of a cardinal. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she all but shouted. “We’re having a hard time with Mugsy’s barking.”

  The source of Mugsy’s nervousness was abundantly clear. The children were racing in circles from room to room. Someone had fashioned a wagon out of roller skates and twine, on which little Emmy sat, giggling away as her brother, Ben, pulled her across the hardwood floors at a dead run, Mugsy chasing after them.

  “Hold it right there, partner,” John said during one of the revolutions, stepping in front of his son and laying his hand atop the boy’s red hair. Ben giggled and tried to squeeze past, but John grabbed him good-naturedly and flipped him over one shoulder. Ben squealed, and Emmy immediately hopped up and held up her arms, crying, “Me, too,” while Mugsy maintained her relentless high-pitched bark.

  Though Sarah wore a bit of a frazzled expression, she had an amazing tolerance for noise and commotion, far surpassing my own. Over the background noise I asked her, “Has Mugsy nipped at anyone since yesterday?”

  “No, though she’s been barking like this ever since we got up this morning. It’s d-r-i-v-i-n-g me c-r-a-z-y.”

  I wasn’t sure why she spelled this. It wasn’t as if Mugsy could have understood the reference to her behavior. Maybe Sarah was overly conditioned to spell as a means of parental communication.

  To my immense gratitude, John shooed the kids into the TV room, while Sarah and I took seats on the sectional couch. Our brief time alone was spent on my declining her offers of various beverages. John returned, took a seat next to his wife, and said to me, “What’s happening with Beth Gleason’s murder? Are you the one who found the body?”

  “How did you know that?” I asked, giving away my answer.

  “There was a mention in the papers that the woman who found the body was an acquaintance who trained dogs.”

  “Yes, that was me.” I watched for his reaction, wondering whether this was typical human curiosity, or something more.

  “What happened to her dog? Did a family member adopt him?”

  I sat there in silence, mulling my answer on the one hand and alerted to the fact that he’d just leapt with suspicious quickness onto the issue of the collie that could potentially identify the killer.

  “John,” Sarah said, giving a bit of a forced giggle, “we are paying this woman by the hour to work with our dog, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah. But that doesn’t mean we can’t chat with her, does it?”

  “No,” she said through her smile, “but we can chat with lots of people without having to pay them for it.”

  I cleared my throat to cover a smile at her comment. John, however, shot a surprisingly hostile glare at his wife when she wasn’t looking. Not married myself and having grown up in an essentially single-parent home, I couldn’t begin to guess at the depths of emotion that might run under their still waters. However, I happened to agree with his wife. My meter was running, and besides, Beth Gleason and Sage were none of John’s business. I’d had nothing but admiration and pleasant feelings for John, but was beginning to wonder if I needed to reassess my opinion.

  “All right. You’ve decided to keep Mugsy, so we need to work on her understanding and accepting her relatively new role as a family dog, rather than just John’s loyal canine companion.”

  “Yes,” said Sar
ah.

  “Which of you feeds her?”

  “I do,” John said, which I’d expected.

  “I’d recommend you alternate those duties between the two of you and that you consider allowing Ben to set the bowl down and call Mugsy to dinner. This brings up another point we need to address immediately. Ben and Emmy need to be taught the basics of how to approach and handle dogs safely. You can hire me to do this, or you can save some money by letting me recommend a video or two on dog safety, which you can rent. You can watch it with your children and go over the lessons with them afterwards.”

  I paused. John gave the briefest of glances to his wife, then said, “Let’s have you work with the kids. Money’s no object.”

  Money’s no object! Yippee! My favorite phrase! “Fine,” I said somberly. “That’s what we’ll begin with, then. Even though much of what I’ll be teaching them will be common sense to the two of you, it’ll be best to have you listen in, so that you can reinforce my instructions after I’ve gone. Okay?”

  They nodded in unison, and John said to Sarah, “Well, honey, you go get our hellions in here, and we’ll let Allida here show ‘em what to do and what not to do.”

  We both watched her leave the room, and John promptly turned to me and asked, “Where is Sage now, Allida?”

  I gritted my teeth. What was it with this question? Just last night Dennis Corning had asked me the very same thing! He and George Haggerty had inquired about adopting Sage. I could see maybe one dog lover immediately wondering about the whereabouts of a deceased stranger’s dog—but three! “Why do you ask?”

  “He’s a fine dog, that one,” John said with a shrug. “I’d just like to know that he’s being taken care of.”

  “He is. How did you meet Sage?”

  The kids came galloping into the room—though Emmy stopped just inside the doorway. “Through his original owner.” John turned his attention to Ben and cried, “Come here, sport.” Mugsy hopped up on all fours and started barking as Ben did a flying leap toward his stepdad, trusting that he’d be caught. Fortunately, John was well-coordinated and strong enough that he caught the six-year-old with ease. Then John rose and started doing airplane-like swoops, with Ben providing sputtering—and spitty—propeller noises.

  “You knew Hannah Jones?” I asked.

  “We’re not on that subject again, are we?” Sarah asked as she neared. Her daughter grabbed hold of her leg, forcing Sarah into a Frankenstein’s-monster limp till she reclaimed her seat.

  “Nope,” John answered mid-flight pattern. “We’re onto the subject of how to treat Mugsy right so she won’t bite us no more.”

  “Anymore,” Ben corrected.

  John set him down on the floor. “Why, by gosh, you’re right! It is ‘anymore,’ ain’t it?”

  “Isn’t it!” Ben said, giggling infectiously.

  Sarah was watching her husband and son with such obvious pride and love that it was touching to witness. What was going on with this family? Why the constant tension before and the lovey-dovey attitude now? Sarah looked my way, and I felt my cheeks grow warm. I felt guilty about my suspicions regarding John. Much as I wished that being a dog lover and a good family man exonerated a person from all possibility of having committed a heinous crime, they didn’t. Otherwise, our judicial system would have undergone some radical adjustments long ago.

  I’d taught dog safety classes to large groups of children back in Chicago. Having just one family in a class was a pleasure. It took me twenty minutes to get through the basics, then we worked at changing some behavioral patterns on John and Sarah’s part. This is often the fun part of this job—getting people to change their own habits while they think you’re adjusting only the dog’s behavior.

  As I was leaving, I said my goodbyes, then John came running out of the house toward me.

  “Thank you for helping us, Allida.”

  “My pleasure.” Not to mention that it was my job and I was charging him. Once again, I was leery at his ditching his family to stage this conversation, and hoped that he wasn’t yet again about to harp on Sage.

  “As one fellow dog lover to another, I’m sure you understand why I’m concerned about that unfortunate girl’s dog.”

  “Believe me, John,” I said, maintaining my smile, despite my unease and disappointment, “Sage is in good hands and is doing fine.”

  “Did you see to that yourself?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Did you place the dog somewhere?”

  I studied his face, honestly not sure if I was being paranoid, or if the question truly was out of line. “I’m really not at liberty to discuss any details about the case.”

  He nodded. “Of course. I understand.”

  “How well did you know Hannah Jones?”

  “Hardly at all. Ate at her restaurant a lot, years ago. I’m a vegetarian.”

  “Really?” I instantly felt a touch of chagrin at my surprise. He was a solidly built man, and I’d rarely met a non-thin vegetarian—yet to make the assumption that he couldn’t be a vegetarian was every bit as silly as assuming I couldn’t play basketball. “But how did you meet Sage? Surely she couldn’t bring him to her restaurant, right?”

  “Oh. No, that’s true. Not at the restaurant, but on other occasions.” He took a step back and held up a palm. “Gotta get back to my monsters. See you next time.” He pivoted and went back inside, leaving me in the same state of mild discomfiture as before.

  As I drove off, I decided that the past couple of days had taught me two important life lessons I hoped I’d never forget: 1) Check out your prospective housemate thoroughly before you agree to move in. 2) Never find a dead body. The ramifications of number two were all-encompassing.

  Next on my agenda was a visit to Dennis Coming’s house. He lived in west Boulder, next door to Hannah Jones’s house. Sage’s old residence. My office was somewhat on the way, so I planned to have lunch with Doppler there first. Too bad I’d forgotten to clear out my half of the groceries from the house. Funny that I’d remembered Doppler’s food, but not my own. Though I never publicly admitted it, I like the taste of Milk Bone—but not as the main course. I couldn’t bring myself to try kibble, though, and Doppler probably wouldn’t want me sharing his food anyway.

  I grabbed a sandwich from the deli section of a grocery store and then headed to my office. Russell’s car wasn’t there, which was not surprising on a Sunday. But lately, I wouldn’t have put it past him to be waiting with Doppler for my return.

  There was an envelope on my desk, which I now remembered spotting when I’d first arrived last night, but I’d had so many things on my mind then, I didn’t open it. Besides, I’d suspected it was a note from Russell, and I still wasn’t in a mood to be flirted with. “Allida” was printed on the envelope in neat block lettering.

  I pressed the playback button on my recorder and opened the envelope. My mother’s voice said, “Morning, Allida. Call me as soon as you get this message. This is your mother, as you probably realized.”

  I skimmed the rhyming note on the front—getting to know you, yada yada, wanting to show you my world, yada yada. I have very little patience for mushy rhymes. I opened it and saw that the card was, indeed, signed “Love, Russell.”

  You’re sweet, Russell, but I’ve kind of got my hands full right now, I thought as I dialed my mother’s number.

  She said, “Oh, good. I’m glad you finally called. Is now a good time for me to see your new office?”

  “Now?”

  “A book I ordered finally came in at a store just a mile or so from you, and I thought I might as well stop by.”

  I just wasn’t up for having Mom in my office at the moment. Her wanting to visit right now seemed contrived—as though she wanted to check the place out to make sure I was safe here. All the while, I was still worried whether or not she was safe as Sage’s caretaker. “Thanks, but I have to come out there anyway later this afternoon. My car’s still full of stuff, and I need to stash it in your spare r
oom, if that’s all right with you. How about I just pick up the book for you before I leave?”

  “Is there some reason you don’t want me to see your office?”

  “No, of course not,” I replied in a partial untruth. “I just thought it’d be more convenient for you if—”

  “I want to see my daughter’s office,” Mom said. “The book was just an excuse.”

  “Okay, Mom,” I immediately replied. Why did I ever attempt to out worry my mother? She had two extra decades of worry experience on me. “Come on down. I have one more appointment, but I’ll meet you here at two o’clock. Do you know where the place is?”

  “Yes. Can I bring Pavlov and Sage?”

  “I don’t see why not,” I said slowly, surprised at Mom’s suggestion. I hated the thought of her being with Sage in Boulder. Beth Gleason had died that way. Then again, nobody would threaten her if she was with both a collie and a German shepherd.

  The Corning residence was nestled into the foothills at the end of a wildly winding, mountainous road. It was one of those palatial homes that always make me wonder how anyone can earn enough money to afford them. I knew the answer with regard to Hannah Jones, whose house I identified as the only one next door, but the Comings’ place was even larger. Plus, these folks had to be young enough to have a two-year-old. Maybe they were the same Comings that made the casserole dishes.

  I didn’t think, “How did you get to be so filthy rich?” would be an appropriate introductory question. So, when a handsome, thirtyish man answered the door, I said instead, “You must be Dennis Corning. I’m Allida Babcock.”

  He shook my hand. “Nice to meet you. Come in.” He was wearing jeans and a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, but he also had a white cable-knit sweater loosely tied over his collar. He was inside his house, for crying out loud, so I saw no excuse for wearing a sweater draped on his shoulders, other than for giving off the full yuppie effect.