Phantom in the Pond

by Dorothy Bodoin

  In front of Jennifer’s house again, I found a tub and everything I needed to get to work. Molly turned over a pretty black and white cocker spaniel to me. “Hi, Jennet, here’s Waffles, your first client. Her mom left her with us. I set you up next to Jennifer. The water’s warm, and you have soap and towels. If you have any trouble, Jennifer can help you.”

  “Hello, Waffles. You’re going to have a nice bath.”

  She wagged her tail as I removed her leash and collar and lifted her into the tub. “I won’t have any problems. I’m an expert at grooming dogs.”

  As the reality of her situation dawned on her, Waffles tried to leap from the tub.

  “Waffles! Stay!” I said in the voice I used for Candy at her most rambunctious.

  The spaniel stayed, but uttered a canine scream of pure terror that must have been audible all down Sagramore Lake Road. No one else’s dog was making such an ear-splitting commotion.

  “Are you trying to kill that dog?”

  I looked up to see Brent standing on the sidewalk holding tightly to his collies, Tempest and Chance. He had an amused smile on his face, and merriment danced in his eyes.

  I’d never seen him looking quite so dressed down. He wore paint-stained jeans and his green shirt must have been one of his favorites, appearing to have endured many launderings. With sleeves rolled up to his brawny elbows, he was quite definitely ready to make a hands-on contribution.

  “You’d think so,” I said. “Waffles, behave. It’s just water. Water is good.”

  The breeze blew a strand of hair in my face, and I felt as if some of the bubbles had landed in my eyes.

  “Let’s have a race,” Brent said. “See who can wash the most dogs with the least amount of trouble.”

  “Unfair. You’re grooming your own collies.”

  “The dirtiest on the street,” he said.

  In my brief moment of distraction, Waffles had her paws on the rim of the tub, poised to jump down and make a run for it. I pushed her gently back into the water.

  “You’re on,” I said.

  Forty-eight

  As I tied a red bandana around Waffle’s neck, the sounds of an altercation shattered the carnival atmosphere that had prevailed on Sagramore Lake Road. Until now.

  Four houses down, two women were shouting at each other. Their voices grew louder with each angry exchange. The steady conversational hum around us died, and even the more vocal of the dogs grew silent. All eyes turned to the antagonists who faced each other on either side of a tub in which a white and tan pointer stood passively, its coat dripping with soapy water.

  A young girl with long platinum blonde hair wrapped her arms protectively around the dog in the tub. “Go away! Leave me alone!”

  “Cat fight in Dogtown,” Brent said.

  “Shh. Listen.”

  “That’s my dog, and I’m taking her. You stole her right out of my yard.”

  The speaker, also blonde, but older, reached over the tub for the dog, drenching her black sundress in the process. “Come here, Tilda,” the woman said. “I’m taking you home.”

  “Over my dead body!” the blonde girl cried. “Get your hands off my dog!”

  The tall woman lifted the pointer out of the tub. Holding the wet dog close to her chest, she took off running in our direction.

  The girl screamed. “Stop her! She stole my dog!”

  I started at a popping sound. Thinking gunshot! I almost threw myself on the ground with the retriever.

  “Don’t panic,” Brent said. “A balloon bit the dust.”

  Jennifer, who had just finished drying her dog, pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. “Uh-oh. Should I call the police?”

  Brent said, “Call them. I’ll stop her.”

  He moved to intercept the woman and dog, but not quickly enough. The woman hoisted the dog into the back seat of the car she’d left at the curb with the motor running, got behind the wheel, and sped down to the lake. Fortunately no people were in the street or she would have run over them.

  My mind registered a late model car styled like a Taurus and a bland color. Beige, perhaps. But I could only make out the first two letters of the license plate: M and I.

  Jennifer dried her hands on a towel and let it fall to the ground. “Okay, I called. I’d better find out what that was all about. Molly, keep an eye on things here.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I said.

  “Wait up.” Brent passed his dogs’ leashes to Molly and sprinted after us.

  The blonde girl was sobbing over her empty tub, her cell phone in hand. All activity around her had ceased. The stillness on the street reminded me of a scene from The Day the Earth Stood Still. Bits of red and blue balloon lay shining on the grass, the last vestiges of the festive air.

  Brent broke the spell. “The cops are on their way, Miss. Did that woman just run off with your dog?”

  At the same time, Jennifer said, “Is the dog’s owner here? The one who brought her?”

  “I’m her owner,” the girl said. She looked shell shocked and pathetic, holding tightly to a leash with no dog attached to it. “I’m Lorna Courtland. That woman got out of her car and walked right up to me. She started saying Sissy belonged to her.”

  I frowned, appalled at the woman’s boldness. “That’s a new approach to dognapping.”

  “We had flyers up all over town,” Jennifer said. “She must have come here planning to snatch one of the dogs. Don’t worry, Lorna. She won’t get far.”

  They were comforting words, but she would. With her good head start, the woman in black could be out of Foxglove Corners before the police arrived. As if on cue, a siren wailed in the distance.

  “Now we can get to the bottom of this,” Brent said.

  Lorna dried her eyes on a damp towel, smearing her blue eye shadow. “I walked over here from my house. I don’t drive. How’ll I get Sissy back?”

  In his best lord-of-the-manner tone, Brent said, “We’ll help you.”

  ~ * ~

  Tall and imposing, Lieutenant Mac Dalby consulted his notebook. “Miss Courtland, where did you get your dog?”

  “Why does that matter?” she asked.

  “I’m trying to fill in the blanks. Did you buy her from a breeder? An ad in the paper?”

  Lana swiped a tissue across her eyes again. “Sissy was a present from my boyfriend. She means the world to me.”

  “Where did he get the dog?”

  “From a pound up north. He didn’t want to leave her there to be put to sleep.”

  “When was this?”

  Lorna paused. “Last month sometime.”

  “So, conceivably, your Sissy could have been this woman’s pet.”

  “You’re wrong. If that was true, what was she doing in one of those high-kill places a hundred miles from here?”

  A woman standing near Lorna, holding onto the leashes of two exuberant ginger colored puppies, said, “She was so nasty. If she had a legitimate claim, couldn’t she have presented it civilly?”

  “She just snatched Sissy and ran,” Lorna said. “You can’t let her get away with it.”

  Mac chose his words carefully. “We’ll do our best to find her and get her side of the story.”

  That wasn’t the response Lorna wanted to hear. “There’s only one side. Mine.” She turned to Brent. “You said you’d help me. Can we start now?”

  Brent glanced at me. Most likely he was wondering if he had spoken too soon. “We have to find Sissy and the lady first, Miss Courtland.”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “It’s a little late to follow her. Maybe the lieutenant can put out an APB—or something. Wet pointer. Light brown Ford.”

  “Hold on, Fowler.” Mac turned to Lorna. “Can I have your boyfriend’s name and contact information?”

  “Sure,” she said. “It’s Duncan. Duncan O’Meara. He’ll tell you.”

  “O’Meara.” Mac repeated the name, and Brent and I exchanged looks. Mac’s expression was unre
adable.

  Was it possible Lorna didn’t know about her boyfriend’s checkered past? In particular, about his dealings with dogs? She didn’t seem to. She was young, perhaps impressionable. And O’Meara, even though I’d never met him, might well be a charmer. An Irishman with a handsome face and a gift of gab?

  Brent stepped back and lowered his voice. “She has to know what he’s been up to. His name has been in the papers and on television.”

  “And on Kate in Your Corner,” I added.

  “…and your boyfriend’s address?” Mac waited, pencil in hand.

  “I’m not sure,” Lorna said. “He just moved into a new apartment.”

  She knew. I was certain of it. Perhaps not everything, not about Sea-to-Sea Transport, perhaps, but she must know where O’Meara lived.

  “He just moved,” Lorna repeated.

  “Is this place in Foxglove Corners?”

  “It’s south of Maple Creek,” she said. “I really don’t have his address yet.”

  Mac snapped his notebook shut. “We’ll be in touch.” He nodded to us. “Fowler, Jennet. Carry on with whatever you’re doing.”

  Lorna turned to Jennifer. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Jennifer said. “The day isn’t ruined, and no harm’s been done, except to Sissy.”

  “Can I leave everything here?” She pointed to her supplies scattered around a heap of soiled towels and the tub, still full of water. “I just want to go home.”

  Apparently she’d forgotten about Brent’s offer to help her. He didn’t remind her. I watched her walk slowly toward the lake, my heart breaking for her. Or for the woman in the black sundress. At this point I wasn’t sure. Whoever truly owned the dog.

  “That no good O’Meara is still in the dog business,” I said. “Only now instead of stealing them in transport, he’s taking them out of people’s yards.”

  Brent stared at the departing form of the blonde girl. She reached the lake and turned left, disappearing from our sight. “That little girl looks too young to be mixed up with a crook.”

  “An apartment south of Maple Creek,” I said. “That may lead Mac straight to O’Meara.”

  “I don’t know about that. South of Maple Creek is pure country. State land. There’s a log cabin or two, an old farmhouse. Off hand, I can’t think of any apartment buildings in the area.”

  “What a coincidence, this happening at the fundraiser,” I said. “But like Jennifer said, it hasn’t ruined the day.”

  Washers still bent over their tubs, squeezing shampoo out of bottles, rinsing sudsy coats, or aiming blow dryers at their clients. People waited in line with their pets for a free station.

  “I’ve bathed and groomed six dogs already, including Chance and Tempest,” Brent said. “Where do you stand?”

  In the excitement I’d forgotten about our, that is—his—bet.

  “Three,” I said. “You may win this one.”

  Forty-nine

  “What happened over there?” Lila asked as I accepted a second cup of lemonade. “Why is the policeman here?”

  “One of the dogs was stolen right out of the washtub,” Brent said.

  Seeing that he wasn’t going to elaborate, I said, “Two women are claiming ownership of the same dog, and it looks like Duncan O’Meara is in the middle of the conflict.”

  “Oh, my,” Letty said. “We saw a pretty girl run by. She was crying. We couldn’t imagine what was wrong.”

  “Did you see a speeding beige car?” I asked. “The driver is the person who took the dog.”

  “I did,” Lila said. “But I didn’t know it was going to be important.”

  “What a lot of drama for a small town fundraiser!” Letty said.

  Like almost everyone else in Foxglove Corners, the Woodville sisters knew about O’Meara and his fake transport service, if only from watching Kate in Your Corner.

  “The girl, Lorna Courtland, says she’s O’Meara’s girlfriend,” I said.

  “And the police are hot on his trail,” Letty added.

  “I hope so.”

  Lila took Brent’s empty cup, refilled it with lemonade, then added a scoop of crushed ice.

  “Thanks,” he said. “O’Meara’s leading them on a merry chase.”

  Lila laid her hand on Brent’s arm. “We want to thank you for your donations, Mr. Fowler,” she said. “Everyone has been wonderful, but you’ve gone above and beyond.”

  “We all want the shelter to stay in Foxglove Corners,” he said.

  “Yes, well, so do we.”

  “Will it make a difference?”

  “Every little bit helps,” Letty told him.

  Back at our work stations, Brent began to fill his tub with warm water while Molly stood by with an Australian shepherd puppy, a blue merle like my Sky. Unlike Sky, the shepherd was a bundle of quicksilver. Brent would have his hands full.

  Although the drama of Lorna and the pointer hadn’t lasted long, the brief interruption had chipped away at my energy and motivation. The sun grew progressively warmer. I was happy I’d worn a sleeveless blouse but feared my arms were burning. I moved closer to the house and the shade of a towering blue spruce.

  “We ought to plan another fundraiser right away,” Brent said.

  That was a good idea but… “The animal shelter won’t stay on Park Street,” I said. “I just learned that the house belonged to Major March. It’s part of his estate and will be sold.”

  Brent turned off the hose. “But that’s the Woodville sisters’ home. Where will they go?”

  “They have a farmhouse and acreage. I’m not sure where it’s located.”

  “What will they do with the dogs?”

  I shrugged. “Take the ones they can’t place with them, I suppose.”

  “That isn’t good,” he said.

  “All the fundraisers in the world can’t match the money Major March contributed to keeping the shelter up and running,” I pointed out.

  Bent fell silent. He lowered the shepherd into the tub from which the pup promptly tried to escape.

  “I wonder if—”

  At the same time, I said, “Do you think—?

  The idea must have come to us at the same time. Anyone watching might have seen lightbulbs turn on over our respective heads.

  “Lila and Letty would make perfect caretakers,” I said. “They’ve been rescuing strays for years, even before they came to Foxglove Corners.”

  “But my collies aren’t strays. They lost their homes, nine times out of ten because they grew old. The house is going to be a refuge for geriatric collies, not strays.”

  “Still,” I said. “Something might be worked out. You haven’t had any luck with your other prospects. If Lila and Letty accept your offer, they’ll stay in Foxglove Corners. And they’re not the kind to be spooked by a ghost or two.”

  “It could work.”

  Caroline’s portrait, Lila’s coffee cakes, Letty with her down-to-earth practicality—they’d all have a new home on Loosestrife Lane.

  “I’ll think about it,” Brent said. “I’ll talk to them.”

  “There’s no time like the present.”

  He squirted shampoo over the coat of the struggling shepherd. The dog shook himself, giving Brent’s shirt another dousing.

  “I’ll have a word with them as soon as I’m through with Laddie here.”

  I had a feeling the deed was as good as done. Brent would welcome dogs of another breed. His aging collie pack would have the happy, peaceful future they deserved. Still, one unhappy dog was caught between two homes, and O’Meara remained at large.

  Well, we can’t have everything.

  I ran my hands over my arms. Yes, I was getting sunburned. How many more dogs were waiting for a bath? All of a sudden I wanted to go home to my own collies. Brent was winning the bet and I didn’t even care.

  ~ * ~

  The next day, I entered Clovers to find Annica and Brent in the window booth I always gravitated toward. It was
as if they were waiting for me. They were drinking lime coolers. Seeing the drink topped with a scoop of frothy green whipped cream, I wanted one more than anything.

  “Join us,” Annica said. The sun struck dancing lights in her red-gold hair and her seashell earrings had a shine. “Brent has good news.”

  I eased into a seat beside him. “I think I know what it is.”

  “Lila and Letty agreed to sign on as caretakers for my collies,” Brent announced. “They’re happy. I’m happy. They’re coming to dinner at the Hunt Club Inn on Saturday. We have a lot to celebrate.”

  “What about their policy of taking in stray dogs no matter what their breed?” I asked.

  “We compromised. If a stray is in need, it’ll be welcome. But collies will rule.”

  “When will this happen?”

  “As soon as they can move. They’re bringing five dogs with them. No collies.”

  “Once again, all’s well that ends well,” Annica said.

  “Well, not quite. I haven’t heard that Lieutenant Dalby arrested O’Meara yet. Is that man destined to be a fixture in Foxglove Corners?”

  “He’s the last blight on our fair summer. Look…” Annica drained her drink. “I finished my shift. How about if we take a little trip to Maple Creek?”

  “Who?” Brent asked.

  “Jennet and me. You can come along if you like.”

  “Why?” I asked. Although I thought I knew.

  “I’ve been thinking. That girl said O’Meara moved into an apartment south of Maple Creek. The last time I passed that way, there weren’t any apartments there. So she lied.”

  I consulted my mental to-do list. Except for walking dogs and making dinner, it was blank.

  “It’s a nice day for a drive,” I said. “I’m free. I think Lorna lied, too. Who knows? She looked young and innocent, but she might even be O’Meara’s partner in crime.”

  Brent rose. “Shall we go then?”

  Yes. One more adventure!

  “As soon as I have a lime cooler,” I said.

  Fifty

  A little later we piled into Brent’s vintage Plymouth Belvedere and drove out of Clovers’ parking lot.