I showed him how to fasten the Gentle Leader collar— by offering a treat that coaxed Maggie to stick her muzzle through the loop, and then fastening the clip behind her ears. “She’s probably going to try to rub this off on the carpet,” I warned.
Maggie, however, had other ideas. She shook her head a couple of times, pawed at the strap across her muzzle once, then took off at a dead run. I’d never seen a dog actually try to outrun a collar like this, so the reaction caught me by surprise. She barrelled straight toward— and then through—the screen door.
“Maggie, come,” I automatically called after her, in yet another waste of my vocal chords.
“Oh, crap,” Ken said. “She knocked down the door again.”
With Ken lumbering behind me, I raced through the door and into Ken’s backyard after the dog. She had built up a full head of steam and was soon out of sight. A sturdy-looking, square-jawed woman watched us from her position on a small lawn adjacent to Ken’s.
“Maggie,” I cried again, clapping my hands. It was no use. I turned to Ken. “Do you have any idea where she might be going?”
He shook his head and shrugged for emphasis. “Could be anyplace, really, though she’ll prob’ly stick to the trailer park. We better split up. She was headin’ due west, so I’ll go northwest, you go southwest.”
“I’ve got a spare leash in my pocket. Do you have hers with you?”
“I’ll go get it,” he said and pivoted on his heel to return to his trailer.
I glanced at the square-jawed woman. She was staring at me so blatantly that I decided I might as well acknowledge her presence and walk up to her.
“Hi. Did you happen to see which way Ken’s golden—”
She shook her head and gestured for me to keep quiet. In a hushed voice, she asked, “You got a death wish or something, lady?”
“Pardon?” She didn’t answer at first, so I added, “I’m just here to work with Ken’s dog.”
She pointed with her impressive chin in Ken’s direction, who had just disappeared inside his home. “You’re not safe with that maniac. Believe me. I know. These walls are thin. I’ve lived here as long as they did.”
“They? Meaning Ken and Maggie?”
“Not hardly. I mean him and Mary. Back when she was still alive.” The woman brushed her unkempt black hair away from her eyes, staggering slightly in the process as if she were intoxicated. She looked past my shoulder and I followed her gaze.
Ken had emerged from his trailer and lifted the leash to show me. He waved at the woman beside me and called pleasantly, “Hello, Ruby.”
She lifted her chin and waved, but her expression bore no warmth.
He called to me, “I’m headin’ out now. To look for Maggie.”
We watched as Ken started to head northwest in search of his dog. Under her breath, Ruby asked me, “You ever see any pictures of her? Of Mary?”
“Yes, why?”
“ ’Cept for your hair and face, you’re a dead ringer for her. And I might just mean that exactly.” She let out a laugh that was halfway between a guffaw and a cackle, while I mused that a lot of us were “dead ringers,” except for our hair and faces. “He’s got a thing for small women. A dangerous thing. He killed her, you know. Ran her down with his car.”
The woman was probably drunk, and I had a dog to find, yet she’d scared me enough for me to ask, “Do you know that for a fact? Did you tell the police?”
She scoffed and, again, tossed her hair back from her face. “As if they’d want to know. Police don’t listen to people like me, to trailer trash. And they don’t care about the deaths of people like us, neither.”
“How long ago did Mary die?”
“He kill’t her ’bout a year ’n’ a half ago. Just a few months after, he brought home Maggie as a tiny pup. As if he could just replace her with a dog.”
“They were divorced before the accident. Right?”
“Oh, sure. They got divorced two years ago—nearly a half year before he kill’t her. But she was still over here all the time, arguing with Ken, till her so-called accident.”
Our conversation had roused the attention of a second neighbor who’d been sitting on her front stoop. She rose and ambled toward us and said, “Lady, don’t you listen to Ruby. That man wouldn’t hurt a fly.” As if to augment her point, she suddenly smacked her hands together and killed some insect that had been circling her.
Wiping her hands on the thin cotton fabric of her faded housedress, she stopped right beside me, then narrowed her eyes at me. I had to resist the temptation to step back. She was a large, unattractive woman in her sixties, with short gray hair and pockmarked skin. I couldn’t tell if she was Hispanic, African-American, or a well-tanned Caucasian. She studied me through her thick spectacles, which had blue plastic frames. “Who’s this you talking to, Ruby?”
Ruby turned and started walking southwest, toward the portion of the trailer park that Ken had assigned to me. “Ah, she’s that dog lady Ken told us he was gonna hire. Now she needs us to help her find Ken’s dog.”
Actually, I didn’t especially want their help, but for Ken’s sake, didn’t want to be rude. These women were probably the neighbors who’d threatened to call a “dogcatcher.” I smiled a little, thinking that at least I’d matured from a “dog gal” into a “dog lady.” Maybe I should put that on my business card—Allida Babcock: Dog Lady.
That thought reminded me that I’d yet to introduce myself. “My name’s Allida Babcock.”
We walked in silence for a moment, the women not introducing themselves despite my giving them my name. After a while, Ruby once again pointed with her impressive chin, this time at me. “She’s the one my vet told Ken not to see.”
“Some veterinarian advised Ken not to hire me?” I asked. My ego got the better of me and I cried, “I have an excellent working relationship with a good number of veterinarians in Boulder.”
“Not according to Dr. Palmer you don’t. I been going to her for several years. Rather, my dog has. She knows everything. And she says you’re no good.”
Unable to dismiss such a challenge to my abilities, I said with unmasked irritation, “I’ve never heard of Dr. Palmer. So I’d be rather surprised if she’s at all familiar with my work.”
The large woman who’d joined us gave me a jab on the shoulder, which was probably meant to be friendly, but actually hurt quite a bit. “Oh, don’t you worry about it, Allie. Palmer’s another of those cute little women Ken’s drawn to. Like you. He probably took one look at her and signed Maggie up without even checking to see if the woman went to vet school.”
Feeling more than a little edgy at this point, I said to her, “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Yolanda Clay,” she said, extending her hand. I automatically shook her hand, but regretted it. She had a bone-crushing grip. And I couldn’t help but recall that she’d squashed an insect with those same hands just a short time ago.
Resisting the urge to wipe my palm on my khakis, I turned my attention to Ruby. “And this Dr. Palmer is Maggie’s vet, too?”
“Yep. Her office is right across Violet,” she said, naming the street that formed the southern border of the trailer park. “A lot of us take our animals there, because it’s so close by. Plus, like I said, she knows everything there is to know about dogs.”
“I wonder if she knows where Maggie is,” I grumbled, deeply resentful of this Dr. Palmer. Apparently the feeling was mutual, though I truly was without a clue as to why or how this could be the case.
Ruby started chortling. “Locating that dumb mutt don’t take no genius, hey Yolanda?” She pointed ahead with her chin. Maggie was trotting down the street toward us, proudly carrying what appeared to be a bone.
“Thanks for helping me find her,” I said, not meaning it.
Ruby patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it. But if you want to keep yourself alive, remember what I told you.”
I nodded.
“Ruby! W
hat do you keep saying those kind of things for? You know well as I do that Ken’s harmless!”
The two women turned around and wandered off side-by-side, bickering about Ken. As they rounded the corner, Ruby was claiming Ken had “a violent temper and done Mary in,” but Yolanda kept punctuating the air with cries of “Nonsense!” and “Bull crap!”
I shifted my attention to the dog. She stopped when I was too close for comfort, no doubt having recognized me as the person who’d put the collar on her. She lowered her head, ears back, her tail wagging slightly. I stopped as well. It is not a good idea to approach a strange dog that’s carrying a bone. The dog often assumes the person is going to try for the bone and is quite willing to defend it.
“Maggie, come,” I said, slapping my thigh.
Maggie dashed past me, swinging a wide arc around me. She was still wearing her Gentle Leader collar, at least.
I turned and followed.
“Hey!” came a cry from the other side of the street. It was Ken. He waved at me and picked up his pace in my direction. Meanwhile, Maggie split the distance between us and headed toward Ken’s trailer in a direct line across people’s yards. I waited. Ken joined me and said, “We don’t need to chase her no more. She’s just heading back to the house.”
I fell into stride alongside him. Though he was already winded, he seemed to take one step for my two with his long legs.
Maggie had the pink nose of a digger, and we found her burying her newfound treasure near one corner of Ken’s trailer. Ken immediately went toward her, leash at the ready. “You embarrassed me, Maggie. You made this nice gal search the neighborhood for you.”
I walked over to them as he snapped on the leash. She shook her head and pawed at the unfamiliar collar, but my attention was soon focused on the dug-up portion of the lawn. Unlike most dogs, Maggie hadn’t been scattering her bones in various locations, but had been stock-piling them in this one spot.
I knelt down for a closer look; my heart instantly began pounding.
“Mr. Culberson, did Maggie bring all these bones here herself?”
“Course. You di’n’t think I brought ’em here, did ya?” He let out a guffaw. “She’s got quite a collection going, don’t she?”
“Where is she getting them?”
He shrugged. “She keeps diggin’ ’em up from someplace. Don’t rightly know where. Someone’s lawn, I guess. Or maybe the playground.”
A partially hidden pair of bones had caught my eye. It looked for all the world as though this were an ulna and radius—from a human forearm.
Chapter 4
I studied Ken’s broad face. His expression betrayed no trace of apprehension at my seeing the bones that Maggie had collected. He reminded me of a Saint Bernard— large, loyal, steady, and slow-witted in some areas. If these bones were from a human skeleton, I simply could not believe that Ken was aware of it.
I peered behind me to see if Yolanda or Ruby was watching us, but spotted neither of them. Ruby’s warnings about Ken had unnerved me. I hoped that these bones had nothing to do with Mary’s death—and with the coroner’s lack of records. “Um, Ken? Could you tell me more about how Mary died?”
With his dog’s leash firmly in hand, he took a seat on the edge of the cinderblock steps to his front door. As before with this topic, he instantly looked ill at ease and ran his palm over his scalp. “Not much to tell, really. Whatcha wanna know?”
“You said she was struck and killed by a car. Is that right?”
He nodded. “Down in Broomfield.” Worry lines now creased his forehead. He sighed. “Don’t know what she was doing there. Prob’ly shopping, knowing Mary.”
“So she’d been a Boulder resident at the time?” I asked, wondering if so, why the person I’d spoken to at the Daily Camera had been unable to locate an article about the woman’s death. Broomfield was only a fifteen-minute drive from south Boulder, and a hit-and-run would normally be reported in the local section.
“Yep. For the last fifteen years, even. She bought her own house after we split up, but used to come over all the time, even so. Di’n’t live all that far away. Up in North Boulder. One a them fancy developments out there.” He gestured vaguely to the east.
Though Ken was still holding onto her leash, it was long enough to allow Maggie access to her stash of bones. She had rotated to face away from Ken and was now kicking dirt back onto the bones. Little clumps of the hard, dry soil were spraying up and hitting Ken on the legs, but he remained oblivious.
“Was she buried here in Boulder?” I asked, wondering how long it would take for him to get the connection between Maggie’s stash and my asking all of these questions about his late ex-wife.
He shook his head, his lips set in a frown. “Baltimore. They held the services there for her ’n’ everything. Guess her folks came out ’n’ got her, uh, body.”
I nodded. If there was a tactful way to ask him whether or not he was certain that Mary’s remains had indeed been sent to Baltimore, I didn’t know what that was. If Ken was telling me the truth, however, which he certainly appeared to be, there was no chance that these were Mary’s bones.
Satisfied with the amount of dirt she’d kicked onto her stash, Maggie trotted up the steps to sit beside Ken. As she did so, Ken suddenly exclaimed, “Dang it all!”
“What’s the matter?”
He held his legs out straight. “Look. I got mismatched socks on again.” He shook his head and turned toward his dog. “Can’t you do a better job picking out my socks, Maggie? You want me to go around lookin’ like a fool?”
“Research has shown that dogs are color blind.”
He got up and dusted himself off. “Yeah, yeah. So was Mary, but she used to pick ’em out for me by pattern. Shoulda known better than to keep lettin’ her bring me my socks.”
Maggie let out a noise that sounded eerily like a chortle. Just as I glanced at her, the dog winked. I quickly looked away. This had been too long of a day. I was starting to anthropomorphize, too.
“Ken, I’m going to have to borrow your phone. We’ve got to get the police out here to look at these bones of Maggie’s.”
He searched my features. I’d caught his full attention. “Why?” With jaw agape, he looked at the loose soil where the bones were still only partially hidden, then back at me. “You don’t think they’re Mary’s, do you?”
“No,” I met his eyes, which were now full of fear. “These can’t be Mary’s because, as you just told me, she died in a car accident some twenty miles from here, and her remains are in Baltimore.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t want the police to look at some ol’ soup bones she dug outta someone’s garbage. You’re saying they got to be human bones, right?”
“I think so, but it’s not all that easy to—”
“Oh, jeez! Who else’s bones could they be? Maybe that’s why Maggie’s been possessed by Mary in the first place. Maybe Mary’s ghost is haunting . . .” He let his voice fade, but grimaced as if sickened by the possibilities he was considering. “I don’t know anyone else who died in the last couple years.”
“These bones could have been buried for twenty or thirty years, for all we know. And I’m not certain that they’re human. They just don’t look like . . . your average T-bones to me.”
Ken pressed the heels of both hands against his temples. “This is my fault. I shoulda looked at ’em. Always figured it was Maggie’s property and she wasn’t hurting nobody. I mean, it’s not like the neighbors caught her diggin’ in their yards again.”
My stomach lurched at a thought that occurred to me. Could Maggie have dug up some kook’s murder victim who’d been buried in a backyard? In any case, I reminded myself, these bones were a matter for the authorities, not for me.
We went into his trailer, and I placed a call to the police, using their nonemergency number. I explained that, while I was uncertain, the bones that I’d seen looked like a human’s ulna and radius. Ken paced beside me the entire time, forced to step o
ver various objects in his path, but unable to sit still.
To my annoyance, I was put on hold and then the female dispatcher came back on the line to ask if I was certain that the bones looked like that of a human’s forearm. I repeated that, no, I was not certain. She told me that a patrol officer would be there shortly, then she asked me to stay and watch over the “remains” until they could arrive. I agreed to do so and hung up the phone.
Ken immediately stopped pacing and looked at me expectantly. Frustrated, I glanced at my watch. I’d wasted nearly an hour already and had made zero progress with Maggie.
This was stupid of me. I hadn’t gotten a good enough look at any of the bones to say for certain that they were human. It was far more likely that Maggie had happened onto some large, buried pet from years past. Now Ken was badly upset, I would be late getting to Russell’s, and I would make local police lore as a “Dog Lady” who couldn’t distinguish a human bone from an animal bone.
I touched Ken’s arm and said quietly, “We have to wait here for the police.”
“Are they gonna arrest me?”
“Of course not,” I immediately answered.
“Good. ’Cause I don’t know what I’d do with Maggie while I’m in jail. They prob’ly won’t let me keep her in my cell with me. And anyways, I won’t let her go with me. Ain’t her fault, what happened to Mary.”
“Ken, we may as well make use of my time. Maggie needs to work on her leash training, for one thing.”
As if he hadn’t heard me, Ken went over to a tall stack of newspapers and rummaged through them until he reached a spot in the middle where rectangles had been carefully cut away from each paper. He pulled out an old shoe box. “Okay, Allie. Do me a favor. Keep track of your hours, so’s I won’t have to.” He popped the lid off the box, which was filled with hundred-dollar bills. He counted out ten and held them out to me. “This should last for a while, right?”
“You’re giving me a thousand-dollar cash advance?”
He shrugged. “Don’t have a checking account, so I can’t give you a check.”
This was so utterly bizarre. Here I was in a run-down trailer, a pile of bones in the yard, and a box of money hidden inside one of the many stacks of newspapers. For all I knew, Ken could be a forger, or even a bank robber turned murderer. Maybe a shift in my career focus to let me become “Allie Cat Babcock” wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Give the Dog a Bone Page 4