by Sharon Pape
When the alarm woke Rory at one o’clock she was momentarily disoriented. She was in her house, in her bed, but why was she wearing jeans? And what day was it anyway? She groped through the fog in her brain like someone groping in the dark for a light switch. Then, as if she’d flicked that switch, the fog cleared and everything came back to her—Hobo! the sting!
She jumped out of bed and pushed her feet into the loafers she’d left on the floor. Then she loaded the .45, tucked it into the holster suspended from her belt and made sure she had a set of plastic handcuffs in her purse. She was pulling a comb through her hair when her stomach started grumbling about neglect. She realized that she hadn’t eaten a thing since lunch the day before. To appease her body, and because she couldn’t afford to faint in the middle of the sting, she grabbed an apple and ate it while she drove to Helene’s. As it worked out, Rory didn’t have to worry about her aunt hiding in bushes or on rooftops to watch the delivery of the puppy. She’d arranged the shifts at the vet so that Helene would be watching Hobo instead.
She let herself into her aunt’s town house at one thirty. She had half an hour to wait. She settled herself in the living room near a window that faced the street, so she’d know as soon as the deliveryman arrived. She started reading the newspaper, but gave up when she realized she wasn’t absorbing a thing. She made two calls to check on Hobo, first to the front desk for a formal status report, then to Helene’s cell phone for a more subjective and detailed view. Everyone seemed to think he was doing exceptionally well.
By three she could no longer sit still, so she started rearranging Helene’s DVD collection alphabetically. At three thirty she’d completely run out of patience. She dialed Dog’s World. Debbie answered the phone as usual, but when Rory identified herself, the woman’s tone changed from cheerful to guarded.
“Is there a problem with the delivery?” Rory asked politely. She didn’t want to get snippy with Dog’s World, since she needed them a lot more than they needed her.
“No, well, yes, sort of,” Debbie babbled. She clearly didn’t cope well with stress. Rory couldn’t imagine why they’d hired her. It was a good bet that a company in the business of stealing dogs and reselling them was a stressful place to work. Maybe she was the mother, sister or daughter of the head honcho. Nepotism in the workplace could be ugly.
“So there is a problem?” Rory asked, forcing her to choose one answer.
“Yes, a problem on the supplier’s end.”
So why in hell didn’t anyone call to tell me that? she felt like yelling. But what she actually said was, “Oh no, you can’t imagine how much I was looking forward to getting that puppy.” She was going for devastated with a splash of vulnerability. “I went out and bought him a bed and toys and everything.” She added a sniffle for effect. “What happens now? When will I get him?”
“I’m sorry. All I can tell you is that we don’t presently have your puppy, and we don’t know when we will,” Debbie said without inflection. She’d either been given a script to read or she lacked the gene for compassion.
“Will you call me when you do?” Rory asked.
“Okay, but there’s no way to tell how long that might be.”
Rory thanked her and hung up. She was frustrated and angry. If there’d been something unbreakable to throw she would have thrown it. Debbie was lying. The beagle puppy had already been stolen. Either they’d sold him to another client for more money or they’d somehow gotten wind of who she was and pulled the plug on her. If they’d wanted to keep her as a customer, she reasoned, they would have called, apologized and made some excuse as to why they couldn’t deliver the puppy as scheduled. Since they hadn’t called, it was more than likely they wanted nothing more to do with her.
She went over everything in her mind from her first conversation with Dog’s World to the one twenty-four hours ago when they’d called to tell her the puppy was available. At first she couldn’t see how or when things might have gone awry, but then it struck her and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t realized it before. If the man she’d heard over the speakerphone had sounded familiar to her, the odds were that she’d sounded familiar to him as well. Only, he’d been able to put a name to the voice in time to avert disaster. Score a point for the opposing team.
After dealing herself a harsh mental flogging, Rory decided there was still reason to be heartened. She’d known the man’s voice even if she couldn’t place it yet, and he had known hers. That meant there was a good chance he was one of her suspects. It was only a matter of time before she zeroed in on him.
Rory spent a second night in the chair beside Hobo’s crate. She’d brought along a pillow so that she didn’t have to rest her head against the metal bars. By now the entire veterinary staff thought she was mad as a hatter. They spoke slowly to her in sweet tones as if she were fragile and required special care. Rory didn’t bother trying to correct their misconception. Hobo was doing well and that was really all that mattered.
Later the following day he’d recovered well enough for Dr. Holbrook to discharge him. He was back on solid food and loudly protesting his incarceration. Rory’s father had taken the last shift, freeing her to buy groceries and run some other errands. When she walked back into what she now thought of as Hobo’s room, her father was sitting beside the crate, listening to his iPod and conducting an imaginary orchestra with an air baton while he read a paperback. Hobo was lying with his head between his paws, looking lower than a pregnant ant, as her uncle Mac used to say. As soon as he caught sight of her, he jumped up, hitting the top of the crate in the process. Unfazed, he started yodeling his joy, while his tail went into hyperdrive. The racket made it past the music being piped into her father’s ears and he finally looked up.
“Mission accomplished, ma’am.” He popped out his earbuds and snapped her a neat salute. “One Hobo safe and sound as instructed.”
Rory grinned, returning the salute.
Frustrated that no one was paying attention to him, Hobo let loose with another hearty round of Alpine vocals that brought Holbrook double-timing it into the room.
“Your dog’s got an impressive set of lungs there,” he said, flashing his overbleached smile as he went about setting Hobo free. “They can hear him out in the waiting room and halfway to Manhattan.”
Rory laughed. If she’d known Hobo’s serenade could bring the vet running, they wouldn’t have had to wait so long the first time she’d brought him there.
While an ecstatic Hobo kept trying to jump into her arms, Holbrook went over some basic instructions with her. “Keep him hydrated and give him small amounts to eat several times a day instead of one big meal. I wouldn’t let him run any marathons for a while either. In fact, he’s probably going to want to sleep more than usual for a few days. Just take your cues from him. He’s been through quite an ordeal.”
Rory thanked him for saving Hobo’s life, which he had. Of course there was still the question of whether he’d arranged to have the dog poisoned to begin with.
“Nice guy,” her father remarked as they walked out to their cars.
“The best,” she said, hoping that in fact it was true.
When they got home, Hobo took some time to sniff every corner of the house, perhaps to determine if there was still a ghost in residence. Then he curled up on the living room couch and fell fast asleep.
He slept a lot over the next two days, going from one of his favorite snoozing spots to another. Rory stayed home, afraid that if she left him alone and Zeke made an appearance, it would be too much for him. When Tina called to see how the patient was doing, she mentioned that every dog she’d ever known adored chicken soup. Rory immediately called her mother for the family recipe that had been passed down from one generation of women to the next for at least a thousand years, if her grandmother was to be believed.
Hobo confirmed Tina’s statement. He wolfed down the soup and chicken as if he hadn’t eaten in a week, which was true to some extent, and then he begged for more. W
hen he realized no more would be immediately forthcoming he ambled off to find his next napping place.
While Hobo whiled away the hours healing, and chasing rabbits and squirrels in his dreams, Rory spent much of that time at the computer in the study. She’d decided that the best way to thank Zeke would be to renew her efforts to find out who’d killed him and thereby give his restless soul some peace.
Unfortunately, in spite of her best efforts, she kept coming up empty. The train ticket was the only evidence that tied the killer to this house and that day in 1878, so she didn’t have a lot to go on. As nice as the people at the Tucson and Phoenix historical societies were, they couldn’t offer her much help. Yes, Ezekiel Drummond had been a federal marshal. And yes, his last case involved a fugitive by the name of John Trask who was wanted for raping and murdering five young girls. Rory was welcome to come down there and read through all the material they had from that time period to see if she could find out anything more. And no, they were sorry, but most of that material was not available online. With each website Rory visited, it became increasingly apparent that she’d have to make a trip to Arizona. In the meantime, an IOU of her intentions would be the best she could do by way of thanking Zeke.
She pushed back from the computer, plucked the dognapping file off the desk and went downstairs. She found Hobo asleep on the living room floor, basking in the sunlight that was shining through the large front window. She sat down on the couch to review her notes, with the hope of spotting a new connection or lead she’d somehow overlooked before. Within five minutes her eyelids were drooping and she gave in to the luxury of a nap. It had been a rough few days for her too.
She awoke to find Zeke, or at least a washed-out, barely intact version of him, perched on the arm of the couch watching her and Hobo sleep.
“Hi,” she said, sitting up. “How are you?” It struck her that as common and overused as that question was she’d never asked it of Zeke before. Death had made it seem pointless. Yet it had become increasingly obvious to her that her understanding of the discarnate state needed some rethinking.
“I’ve got a ways to go,” he said so softly that she had to strain to hear him. “But I had to make sure you were all right.” His mouth lifted in the barest of smiles. “I see the mutt made it.”
“Thanks to you. If you hadn’t helped . . .” Her voice tightened with emotion, making it hard for her to continue.
Zeke shrugged off the praise, but she could tell by his expression that he appreciated it. “How did the delivery go?” he asked. “Did we get the bad guys?”
Rory would have preferred to give him good news, but she couldn’t change the facts. The sting had failed miserably. She explained her theory as to why and tried to put the best spin on it she could. At least they knew Dog’s World was behind the thefts. It was just going to take a little longer to catch them. She was sure they’d be able to come up with a new plan.
Zeke didn’t seem as disheartened as she’d feared, but then it was difficult to tell, since he was fading more by the minute. “I’ll think on it,” he murmured.
The phone rang, startling them both and waking Hobo, who looked up and spotted the marshal less than three feet away. Rory braced herself for one of his lapdog impersonations. But Hobo stayed where he was, languidly wagging his tail. Then he put his head down and went back to sleep as if everything were perfectly normal. Rory glanced at the marshal and thought she saw her surprise mirrored in his face.
The phone rang twice more before Rory finally grabbed it off the base. After a brief conversation, she set it down again and turned to Zeke, who was on the verge of disappearing into the ether.
“That was a woman by the name of Julia Davenport.” She raised her voice in the hope that he might still hear her. “She says she has information about the dognappings. Her friend Marti Sugarman told her to call me.”
Chapter 29
Rory didn’t know if she was more surprised that Marti Sugarman had a friend or that she’d referred that friend to her. Of course Rory wasn’t the one who’d done Marti wrong, but people had an unfortunate tendency to focus their anger on the messenger of bad tidings, and Rory had laid a dandy set on her doorstep.
With Zeke out of action for the immediate future, and Hobo still sleeping through his convalescence, Rory went out to her office alone to meet with Julia Davenport. Julia arrived at exactly three p.m., having come straight from the elementary school where she taught. She was thirty-something and pretty, with full, rosy cheeks and a tiny, upturned nose. In polite society of a different era, she would have been described as Rubenesque.
“How did you and Marti become acquainted?” Rory asked once they were both settled, she at her desk and Julia on the couch.
“Through my dog Lola,” Julia said. She rummaged around in her purse and withdrew a photo that she passed to Rory. “She’s a Cavalier King Charles spaniel,” she said proudly. The photo showed Julia holding a little black and white dog with long fur and tan markings over her huge eyes. “We met Marti and Falcon at obedience class.”
Rory couldn’t help thinking that was one class Falcon must have flunked, but she kept the thought to herself. “She’s adorable,” Rory said, handing back the photo.
“But Lola isn’t why I called you,” Julia said. “I just bought another King Charles, a male, so she wouldn’t be lonely when I’m at work. Louis was delivered two weeks ago. He’s the reason I’m here.” She spoke slowly, in a pleasant singsong rhythm, as if she were still speaking to a roomful of second graders.
Rory took a pad of paper and a pen from the desk and asked Julia to please continue.
“Well, yesterday when I was brushing Louis, he whimpered and tried to pull away from me. I thought maybe he’d hurt himself, you know, running through the bushes in the backyard. So I looked through his fur to see if there was a cut or a scratch. What I found was a small cut that was almost completely healed. Only it didn’t look like something a dog would get from a branch. It was too straight and healing too neatly, like a tiny surgical incision.”
Rory could imagine her adding, what do you think of that, boys and girls? “Where did you buy your dogs?” she asked.
“Lola came from a breeder, but I got Louis from It’s a Dog’s World. Have you heard of them?”
Rory nodded, but didn’t elaborate, having found over time that the less she said the more she was likely to learn during an interview. “Were they recommended to you?” she asked, hoping there was a trail she could follow back to the source.
“No, I just came across their ad in the newspaper. When I called they quoted me a price that was five hundred dollars less than what the breeders were asking.” Imagine that, class.
So much for a trail. “Did you contact Dog’s World when you found the wound?”
“Right away. But they said they had no idea what it could be. They insisted the dog was checked out carefully before he was delivered to me.” Julia slumped against the back cushions of the couch as if her day in the classroom had finally caught up with her.
“Then you told Marti about it?” Rory asked, to prime the pump again.
“Yes. She’s my only real ‘dog person‘ friend.”
Rory smiled. There was a time when she wouldn’t have understood that comment, but now that she had Hobo in her life no explanation was necessary. With friends who weren’t “dog people” there was a limit to how much you could go on about your pooch before they drifted off to sleep and eventually out of your life.
“I’m sure Marti was sympathetic,” she said.
“Absolutely. She came right over to look at Louis. When she saw that the incision was in the scruff of his neck, she told me that’s where ID microchips are usually implanted. The chips get injected under the skin, but to remove them you have to make an incision. Marti knows everything when it comes to dogs.”
Rory was beginning to understand the appeal of Marti’s friendship as dog mentor and confidant to the younger woman.
“That’s
when she told me that you’re investigating the dognappings,” Julia went on. “She said I should definitely tell you about this, because it might help you solve the case.” Wouldn’t that be wonderful, children?
Rory thanked Julia for coming forward and sent Marti a silent apology for all the unkind thoughts she’d harbored about her.
“Does it sound as suspicious to you as it does to Marti and me?” Julia asked.
“It definitely bears looking into.” Rory set down the pad and pen and opened the bottom drawer of her desk. “I want to show you something.” She withdrew the sketch of the man who’d delivered the second threatening letter and held it out to her. “Do you recognize him?”
“Yes, of course. That’s the young man who delivered Louis. How do you know him?”
Rory put the sketch down. “I don’t. I got his description from a witness who saw him making another delivery.” Apparently he was an all-purpose deliveryman. She wondered how much he earned for aiding and abetting and whether he delivered poison as well as dogs and letters.
“Then Dog’s World really is behind the dognappings?” Julia asked, stunned that she might actually be the victim of a crime. “Wait . . . wait a minute,” she said before Rory could reply. “Does that mean my Louis belongs to someone else?” Tears welled up in her eyes as it hit her that she might have to give him back.
Rory plucked a tissue from a box she kept on her desk for just such occasions, a habit she’d developed when she worked for the police department. Investigating criminal activity often led to tears for a variety of reasons. She handed Julia the tissue. “How old is Louis?”
Julia took the tissue, but didn’t use it to blot the tears that were threatening to overflow the banks of her eyes. “Ten weeks now. He was eight weeks when I got him.”
“Then you probably don’t have much to worry about. The thieves seem to steal the really young puppies from pet stores and breeders. It may just be a matter of working out payment if you want to keep him.”