Give the Dog a Bone

by Leslie O'Kane

  “Tracy, who was this anonymous caller on your show yesterday who supposedly knew about Ken’s therapy treatments?”

  “I don’t know, Al.”

  I furrowed my brow at “Al,” but decided I’d been called worse.

  “It was some woman, calling from a pay phone,” Tracy explained. “She really was anonymous.”

  “You’re serious? You actually put some anonymous caller on the air without checking her credentials or anything?”

  “Sure. Why the hell not? It’s a talk show, not a witness stand.”

  She had a point there, but I rolled my eyes in annoyance. “Describe her voice to me.”

  “It was halfway between Minnie Mouse and Eleanor Roosevelt.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  “Well? Holy crow! It’s a zoo here. The phone rings off the hook all the time I’m on the air. I haven’t had a minute to myself, and I was trying to eat a bagel.” Her next words were all garbled as she added, “Which is delicious, by the way.”

  “How was the woman’s grammar? Did she say ‘ain’t’ a lot and drop the G on I-N-G words?”

  “Could be. And her diction probably weren’t so hot neither.”

  I clicked my tongue, not sharing in Tracy’s amusement. “Can you replay it for me? If I come down to the station this afternoon?”

  “Oh, hey. No problem. I’ll just stay late and listen to my tapes of the entire show till I hear it. Shall I pick up a nice Chianti and some cucumber sandwiches for you while I’m at it?”

  I gritted my teeth. “This could be important, Tracy. This caller of yours could be a major witness. Or it could be a total hoax. You’ve got to get a tape of the call over to the police, just in case.”

  “Wow! Would that ever make a big story, if a caller to my radio show breaks the case wide open. This could be the biggest break I’ve ever gotten! Thanks, Allida!” She hung up.

  I stared at the receiver in surprise for a moment, then followed Tracy’s reasoning and punched my thigh in frustration. I could already hear the publicity stunt that Tracy would put together: A source close to the double-murder investigation has just informed me that a major witness called my show yesterday.

  I hit the redial, but got a busy signal. Shit! Ruby had apparently been killed simply for trying to leave a message on my machine about the killer’s identity, and my answering machine had been stolen and then smashed. What if this caller was the killer, trying to deflect attention onto Ken’s therapist?

  After three more tries, I got her recording and said, “Tracy, if my friendship means anything to you, do not, repeat, do not say anything about yesterday’s caller being a possible witness. Okay? Tracy? You could be riling up the killer. Call me back as soon as you get this message.”

  Tracy still had not called by my lunch break, so I called the station and was told that she’d “left for the day.” It was all I could do to hang up the phone without relegating it to the same fate as my old recorder.

  Maybe I could find out on my own who the caller was. I found an old directory that listed “M. Culberson” in a northeast Boulder address, but got no answer when I called. I decided to take Pavlov with me and drop in on Theodora, whose business address was listed in the yellow pages, to get a feel for what, if anything, she knew about a certain radio talk show. Yolanda and Mary were perhaps more likely candidates for the anonymous caller, but Theodora was the only one within walking distance, and I sorely needed a walk to calm myself.

  Her business was squeezed between two stores on Fourteenth Street, just off of the Pearl Street Mall. It was upstairs and identified only by a wooden sign flush against the door. The sign—in the shape of a crystal ball on a stand, with lightning bolts emanating from the ball—looked more like one of those balls that collect static electricity than a sign for a soothsayer.

  I climbed the first couple of steps. Pavlov hesitated, and I had to slap my thigh to get her to come with me. We walked up the narrow staircase, Pavlov a step behind me, and entered the open door at the top. I then ran into black velour floor-length drapes, which I had to push aside. Pavlov sat quietly beside me while I stood still, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.

  A large fan rotated slowly from the ceiling, though the room was stuffy. The overwhelming aroma of incense was probably all but intolerable to Pavlov, which could explain her initial reluctance to come up here. Sitar music played from unseen speakers.

  My eyes adjusted. We were in a small room, a couple of feet away from a sunken area filled with pillows that occupied most of the room. The pillows were perhaps intended to break the fall of those who boldly stepped into the center of the room before their eyes had grown accustomed to the dark.

  “Hello?” I said tentatively.

  “Be right with you, Allie,” Theodora called from behind a closed door directly across from me and the pillowed pit that separated us.

  The door opened and Theodora waltzed in. Once again, she was wearing purple. Her dress was in a thin Indian-style cotton print that might be see-through with better lighting. Her long black hair was fastened in a loose ponytail. She stepped down and lowered herself almost regally onto a pillow.

  “Sit down, Allie. I was expecting you. A premonition, if you will.”

  “I’ll stand. Was my dog part of your premonition, by any chance?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “Then I guess there’s no need to introduce the two of you.” Though I tried to be more mature about this, I found her too annoying and suggested, “Of course, if you could tell me my dog’s name, I’d be much more inclined to take you at your word.”

  “That wasn’t part of my vision, I’m afraid. He’s welcome to join me on a pillow, too, where I’m sure you’d both be more comfortable.”

  “Her name is Pavlov. Apparently my dog’s gender wasn’t part of your ‘vision’ either.”

  She tented her fingers and rested her chin on her fingertips. “I sense hostility, Allie.” She gazed at Pavlov and smiled serenely. “You’ll be happy to know that, unlike Maggie, Pavlov has a very clear aura.”

  “That is a relief; however, I have more pressing matters on my mind. Such as why you anonymously called a talk show to cast aspersions on Ken’s therapist.”

  I knew no such thing for a fact, of course, but my bluff hit its target, for she replied, “I need to stop that man. Letting it be known publicly that he’s a sham was the very least I could do, in my duty as an aware woman.” She met my eyes. “Terry Thames had been hypnotizing Ken into believing that he was his best friend. He was trying to get him to sign his money over to him.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Ken told me about the hypnosis, though he needed my psychic abilities to learn what was happening during his episodes of hypnotic suggestion, since he, of course, couldn’t remember.”

  So she’d lied on the air about where she’d gotten the information. “How did that subject even come up? Surely he didn’t come to a psychic because he wanted to know what was going on during his therapeutic hypnosis.”

  “No, but I don’t focus my psychic energies on just one aspect of my clients’ lives. That would be tending to the tree for aphid infestation and missing the raging forest fire upwind. Originally, Ken came to me again because he missed his ex-wife and wanted to speak to her spirit. But I couldn’t find her. Which, it turns out, is because she wasn’t dead. I didn’t know that at the time.” She paused and gave me another of her too-placid-to-be-sincere smiles. “So he hired me to bring her soul into Maggie.”

  “Ken told me the exact opposite. That he’d hired you to get Mary’s soul out of his dog.”

  “Ah, yes, but you see, that was later, once he found Maggie every bit as difficult to live with as he’d found Mary to be.”

  “Okay, I can follow that, I guess.” Which was not to say that any of it made any sense to me or was even remotely believable. But then, Ken was a wealthy man living like a pauper who’d left his
fortune to his golden retriever, and who’d put me, a virtual stranger, in charge of appointing the dog’s caregiver. Within that context, hiring a psychic to put the spirit of a woman he thought was dead into his dog, only to change his mind later, was logical. “If Ken was your client, how did you come to know Mary?”

  “They were both longtime clients of mine. From back when they were still a couple.”

  “This was several years ago, then? When they were married, you mean?”

  “No, I only moved to Boulder four years ago. They started coming to see me every couple of months about three years ago. Two and a half, actually.”

  “Was it a shock when Ken told you about Mary’s death, then?”

  She chuckled. “My dear, I’m a psychic. Things rarely, if ever, come as a complete ‘shock’ to me. No, I’d have to say that I was more confused than surprised. I get a sense of when the spirit of someone I know has passed into the other realm. That wasn’t the case with Mary. And, of course, in retrospect, it’s quite obvious why that was so.”

  Also quite easy “in retrospect” to claim to have had those feelings.

  Her features grew somber. “I experienced Ken’s death, secondhand. It woke me from a solid slumber. I could barely breathe. I knew someone close to me had been murdered. His was such a forceful and reluctant passing to the other realm.”

  It was becoming awkward to continue to stand while she was seated so far below my vision, so I stepped into her conversation pit and sat down on the edge. Pavlov promptly lay down beside me. “You said ‘someone close’ to you. These . . . visions of yours. You don’t know who they’re concerning?”

  She shook her head. “Sometimes they’re quite specific. Other times just general sensations. The time I read about Ken’s death in the papers is when I also realized quite clearly that Mary was still alive. I was expecting her when she came over the other day to summon me to your office and work with Maggie.”

  “Tell me something, Theodora. Am I the only person who sees how wrong what Mary did was? Did you point out to her how cruel her hoax was that she played on her ex-husband? Did you ask her how she could do something like that to him?”

  She frowned and shook her head. “Mary is a deeply damaged woman. Believe me, if you, too, could see how her aura reveals her severe state of despair, you’d know to anticipate almost anything from that woman.”

  “Meaning that she’s dangerous?”

  She sighed, as if weighted down by my lack of empathy. “Meaning that she’s frightened and lashes out when she feels cornered.”

  “With all due respect, she seems to lash whether she’s cornered or not.”

  “She was moving to Texas at the time of her accident. Trying to get a fresh start for herself. She didn’t tell Ken or anyone else that she was leaving. She got the idea of fooling him into thinking she was dead, and she spent a couple of months in Texas, then came back to settle her affairs just last week. She was going to tell him then that she was alive. He died before she got the chance to talk to him.”

  Having met Mary, I didn’t believe a word of that, but it was possible that Mary had conned Theodora into believing she was a victim. “You know a lot about this. Did she explain all of this to you yesterday?”

  She gave me a proud smile and said softly, “Yes, she did. Sometimes even in words.”

  I looked away, finding her attitude too annoying to put into my own words.

  “But, really, you’re here because you think I besmeared Terry Thames’s reputation.”

  This was almost impressive, but I’d told her as much when I arrived.

  “You’re defending the wrong person, Allie. Mary thinks he killed Ken. I’m inclined to agree.”

  I didn’t know Dr. Thames well enough myself to form an opinion, so maybe their suspicions were justified. I’d met with the man just today. A shiver ran up my spine.

  Theodora rose. “You have a problem barker to attend to now, don’t you?”

  “Um . . .” I rose as well, slightly shaken, because she was exactly correct. Could that have been a lucky guess? “I do. I’d better go. Thank you.”

  I went straight home after work and vegged out in front of the TV. Mom had had another reasonably peaceful day with Maggie, who jumped on my lap only once— an improvement. I went to bed sometime after eleven.

  The phone rang, jarring me from my sleep. Disoriented, I fumbled for the receiver on my nightstand, eventually found it, and murmured hello.

  There was someone panting into the phone. My first thought was that this must be an obscene phone call, and I almost hung up.

  “Allida?” a high-pitched female voice gasped. “Is that you?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Theodora. You have to listen to me. We’re both in danger. The killer isn’t through.”

  Chapter 16

  This was the woman who, hours earlier, had told me she “rarely, if ever” was shocked? Now she sounded shaken to the core. I sat upright in my bed.

  Theodora continued, “Allie, an hour or so ago, I had a vision. A clear one. I could see it was Mary. Somebody was trying to kill her, to stuff a pillow on her face.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t see that, the vision was . . . it was horrible! It’s like I was seeing things from the killer’s viewpoint. That’s never happened to me before. Never! It scared me so badly I went to her house.”

  “Why? Why would you take a risk like that?”

  “To see if I could help her, obviously! Only she wasn’t there. Nobody’s been there for days. There’s, like, a batch of newspapers on the front lawn, and her mailbox is practically overflowing. I let myself into her house . . . it wasn’t even locked. I went to her bedroom, and the closets are cleaned out. Then there was this . . . this note on her bed. All it says is: ‘You’re too late!’ ”

  “Is the note in Mary’s handwriting?” I asked, wide awake now but thoroughly confused.

  “I don’t know. It has her vibrations, so I think she wrote it, but I can’t say for certain.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “At your office, when I exorcised her spirit from Maggie’s body.”

  “That’s right when she found out that Ruby had been murdered. Maybe that scared her. She and Ruby could have been partners with a third person who then turned around and killed—” I stopped, realizing that Theodora could be playing me for a fool.

  “Who?” she asked. “Terry Thames?”

  “Maybe. The police need to look into this, Theodora. You need to report her missing.”

  “No way. You do it. I’m not talking to the police. Not if I can help it. I’m not exactly squeaky clean, and I don’t want them checking into my past, you know?”

  “Fine. I’ll call the police in the morning, but I’m going to tell them everything you told me, so you’re going to get pulled into this either way. It’d sound better coming from you, don’t you think?”

  “Can’t you just make up some excuse and drive out here yourself tomorrow, then call them?”

  “I could, but I won’t. I’m telling the police the truth. It’s easier and less incriminating that way.”

  She clicked her tongue. “You don’t know what it’s like, Allie. I never asked for these visions of mine. They’ve been here, all along, lousing up my life. I try to do some good with them now, but it’s just made me a target for everyone’s jokes and finger pointing.”

  “Be that as it may, Theodora, two people are dead, and you’ve just discovered that a third is missing. The police need to be notified.”

  There was a long pause. “Shit! You’re right, damn it all!” She sighed, then added sadly, “They’ll find out about my writing bad checks in Wisconsin. At least I’ll have a permanent address for the next few months . . . the Boulder County jail.”

  “You don’t know for certain that they’ll put you in jail. Things generally don’t turn out nearly as bad as we’re afraid they will.”

  She hung up.
So much for my platitudes. For the countless time I reminded myself to limit my psychology to dogs. I dropped the phone into its cradle and sat down on the edge of my bed.

  Mom tapped on my bedroom door and opened it a crack. “Allida? Is everything all right?” She’d probably been standing there for a while now, listening to my end of the conversation.

  “Not really.”

  Maggie barged past my mother and through the door, leapt onto my bed—stepping on my lap in the process—and, tail wagging, lay down beside me, her head on my pillow.

  “Who was that who called?” Mom asked, ignoring my new bed companion. Mom was wearing her robe, her braid undone so that her long hair hung below her shoulders.

  “Theodora. Psychic healer of dogs and men. I’m sorry it woke you.” I got up, turned my attention to Maggie, and pointed at the floor. “Maggie, off!” I grabbed her collar and gave a tug. She spread her paws. “Off!” I got a second hand on her collar and put one foot on the side of my bed for leverage. I managed to drag her to the floor, though I now would have to remake my bed. “This dog could make a mule weep in frustration!”

  Mom grabbed Maggie’s collar and, in one sure movement born from years of manhandling large dogs, guided her out the door, which she shut between them unceremoniously. “What’s going on?”

  Her question brought the harsh reality back to me. I sat back down on my messy bed. “Somebody involved with Ken is now missing. Mary Culberson. Probably left town, because she knows who the killer is and is scared.”

  I shivered involuntarily and pulled my So-Many-Dogs-So-Little-Time T-shirt down to cover my knees, which I hugged against my chest.

  Just outside the door, Maggie was whining in canine woe, but Mom ignored the noise and dropped into a hard-back chair by the door. “Oh, Allie. Isn’t there some way you can get yourself extricated from all of this?”