Sleeping Dogs Lie

by Sharon Henegar

  “You know the place?”

  “It belongs to my cousin. Kay. I work for her part time.”

  “Does Kay know Doris?”

  “I'm sure she’ll recognize her from my husband’s funeral, but I don’t think they spoke to one another. Doris doesn’t notice people as individuals unless they are clients.”

  “I gathered from what she said that you’re a widow. I’m sorry,” he said simply.

  “Um, thanks.” Several voices erupted in my head, the haughty one insisting that my private business was my private business, and another reminding me that I didn’t want to think about Roger, let alone speak of him. Still another said Bob saved you from Doris, you owe him some sort of explanation. Just keep it light. “It was kind of—ugly. We had just split up when he died.”

  I bit my lip to prevent more from spilling out. The arrival of Cleta, the waitress, saved me. Her graying hair towered above her in a beehive, and her outfit of classic shirtwaist dress and little apron was complemented by the enormous cross trainers on her feet. “Mornin’, Louisa,” she greeted me, looking with interest at Bob. “How you doin’ on this beautiful day?”

  Too late I realized that coming here might have been a bad idea. Not that Cleta is a gossip, but Maple Street is a tight little community, and everyone knows everyone else’s business. No doubt word had already started to travel that I was sitting on the patio at the Bluebird with a strange man and his dog. When I'd peeked inside from the patio, Cleta had been pouring coffee for Eileen, who owns Trellis Island, the garden-art store. I knew that two minutes after she downed the contents of that mug, she would be in my cousin’s shop saying, “Kay, you’ll never guess who I just saw at the café.”

  I shrugged mentally and smiled up at Cleta. “Hey, Cleta,” I answered. “I'm good. This is Bob and his dog Jack. They’re new in town and I wanted them to get off on the right foot café-wise.”

  “Nice to meetcha,” Cleta nodded at Bob, and looked around for Jack. He emerged from under the table, wagging. “And you must be Jack,” Cleta said. He wagged harder. “Well, you be a good boy and I’ll bring you a cookie.”

  She turned back to Bob and me. “So what’ll it be? Dog biscuits all around, or do y’all want something less crunchy?” A stub of pencil hovered over her order pad, which was solely for the convenience of the kitchen since Cleta never forgot anything.

  “I want a pot of Earl Gray, hot,” I told her.

  She grinned at my Star Trek reference. “You got it, Captain.”

  “And one of Dorothy’s cinnamon rolls,” I added.

  “Coffee for me, and a cinnamon roll sounds great,” Bob said.

  “All righty then,” Cleta said, and went to get our food.

  Jack followed her for a couple of steps. “Here, boy,” Bob said, and he turned back to lie by Bob’s chair.

  I looked at Bob and tried to conjure up some normal, socially acceptable remark. “How about you? Are you married?” That’s subtle, said one of my mental voices. Go ahead and cut right to the chase.

  He looked rueful. “I was, several years ago, but my wife decided a struggling writer wasn’t as good a bet as an insurance actuarial. I haven’t been brave enough to try it again.”

  Instant alarms went off in my head. “You’re a writer? A reporter?” I hoped my voice sounded normal and only mildly interested.

  “Nothing that exciting. I do technical manuals and the occasional magazine piece.”

  “So no newspaper stuff?” If he was a reporter, I thought, I'd have to be careful. I'd learned from the publicity surrounding my husband’s death that the most innocuous utterance could become something quite different when quoted out of context on the front page of a newspaper.

  “Not really, just any kind of freelance I can sell. You said you work for your cousin in her antique store?”

  “Yes, part time. I mind the store when she needs to be somewhere else, and help her move stuff around, and buy stuff at garage sales, which is fun. What kind of magazine pieces have you done?”

  “Oh, uh, usually for trade publications. You know, the latest on potato blight for a farmers’ co-op newsletter, how technology is changing the way pipelines are riveted together.”

  “People really read about that stuff?”

  “Only potato farmers and pipeline riveters. I never seem to do anything any normal person would want to know about.”

  “I'm not sure how much normality I can claim, but I admit I've never read anything on those topics.”

  “Did you work in an antique store in Seattle?”

  I shook my head. “I was the personnel, excuse me, human resources manager for a computer firm. You know, I never liked that phrase. Human resources. Made me feel like I was involved in a cover up for something illegal.”

  Bob chuckled. “Yeah, people as products. Maybe I could get an article out of that for some HR newsletter. So did you up and quit your job to move back here?”

  “No, shortly before my husband died the company went belly up. And both my parents died within a few weeks of each other, and I inherited their house. So I moved back to Willow Falls.”

  “That’s rough.”

  I shrugged. “For a while I made my way through the entire top half of that chart that assigns numerical values to life events so you can rate exactly how stressed out you are.”

  Bob nodded. “I know that chart. Changing jobs and a death in the family get about the same score, which says something about the average workplace.”

  I started to reply, but Cleta bustled up with a laden tray. “Here we go. I had one of the rolls earlier. Dorothy outdid herself today.” A carafe of coffee and a teapot went on the table first, followed by a flowery cup and saucer in front of me and one of the heavy mugs for Bob. Unmatched dinner plates holding enormous cinnamon rolls, gooey with frosting, settled in front of each of us. “This ought to hold you till lunch.”

  Bob stared at his roll. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes at the scent of cinnamon and yeast. “Wow. This ought to hold me till next week.”

  Cleta chuckled as she bent to lay a plate with an assortment of homemade dog biscuits in front of each dog. “Wait till you see what’s on the lunch menu,” she told him, straightening. “You’ll get hungry again. Okay, doggies, eat up.”

  Emily Ann and Jack rose, wagging, and started crunching their treats. Cleta smiled down at them before turning to slide the check under the salt shaker. “Everybody all set?”

  We nodded, and she headed back into the café. I busied myself pouring tea and adding a little milk to it, then cut a bite of cinnamon roll. It was heaven. I looked across the table at Bob, who was savoring his first bite. “Wow, this is good,” he breathed. “Am I ever glad you tried to steal my car this morning.”

  When Emily Ann and I arrived home later that morning, I flipped open my computer and logged onto the Internet. I typed “Bob Richardson” into the search box on the Google page and sat back to scan the results. More than ten thousand entries were immediately at my disposal. I took off the quotes and added High Cross, but that only increased the number of hits. I tried an advanced search. Ah, now we were down to a mere 2800 or so.

  I read the descriptions of several pages. The many obituaries didn’t seem appropriate, unless he was a spy or a fugitive who had stolen some dead guy’s identity, which struck even my fevered imagination as farfetched. Dozens of genealogy pages beckoned; they might be about this Bob Richardson but I'd never be able to tell. Unfortunately I hadn't thought to ask him his grandmother’s maiden name. I saw that I could buy some rather fetching water lilies bred by a Bob Richardson. I noticed as well an artist, a professor, a hypnotist, a floral designer, a minister, a restaurant owner, and a dog groomer, but none of their web pages sported portraits. Too many Bob Richardsons in the world to be able to find a particular one this way.

  What I didn’t find was any article, about potato blight or pipeline rivets or anything else, authored by any Bob Richardson.

  CHAPTER NINE

&nb
sp; Jack followed me out of Bob’s bedroom and down the hall. “Call me old fashioned,” I remarked to the dog, “but I would keep my computer on the desk. But I suppose the point of a laptop is you can move it anywhere.”

  Jack’s expression was agreeable. When we reached the living room the dog went to the front window and lifted the sheers with his head to peer out. I inspected the room for a laptop, but saw nothing on the few pieces of furniture or lurking in a corner. The dining room was the same. I walked to the kitchen, which looked as it had last night: clean and quiet. A single coffee mug sat upside down on the counter, and a teaspoon reposed in the sink. I hadn't noticed them last night but I'd been focused on the phone. I turned in a slow circle, then began opening cabinet doors, which proved to hide only the normal kitchen accoutrements of dishes, pans, and food.

  Frowning, I tried another hop to check the top of the refrigerator. “The man doesn’t have a computer, or he doesn’t keep it in the house. Maybe he goes to the public library to use one,” I commented. I looked around and realized neither dog had followed me into the room. I always feel much sillier talking out loud to myself than to a dog. I turned to leave the kitchen, and saw a small object on the table in the corner. Three steps, and I picked it up: a printed book of matches. Opened, the outside looked like a business card for a bar called The Last Resort. Small black print on white showed an address and phone number and “G. Harburn, Prop.” in the lower right-hand corner.

  I turned it over. Inside the name Trixie and a phone number were written in purple ink, the i’s dotted with a star and a heart. I frowned. Who was Trixie—could she be the woman in red? I had difficulty imagining that name with the classy suit, but parents are apt to stick any old name on their infants. I myself knew lawyers named Brandy, Junior, and Chip.

  By now slanting morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window. I shoved the matches in my jeans pocket and went the stove to switch off the light over it. As I brought my hand back down, both dogs burst through the kitchen door. Emily Ann, who is usually content to stay on a sofa—any sofa—until it is time to eat or run to, say, Philadelphia, glued herself to my leg. Jack stood with his back to me, facing the front of the house, and growled. A deep, menacing, real growl.

  I'd always heard the phrase ‘my blood ran cold,’ but I hadn’t known until then it was actually possible. Both dogs became absolutely still. Jack’s hackles were raised. I felt the hairs on the back of my own neck stand up which, combined with my blood running cold, was amazingly uncomfortable—like an ice pack in need of a shave.

  I swallowed the big lump of fear in my throat and whispered, “What’s the matter?” I edged around the dogs, forcing my stiff legs to carry me across the kitchen to the door. I squinted around the door frame. Through the big window in the living room, where the sheer curtains gave a misty unreality to the view, I could see my car being searched by a strange man. His head was under the open back hatch and he was rummaging in the spare tire compartment. A few feet behind him stood another car, large and black.

  Apparently finding nothing, he backed up, and I saw that he was dark-haired and tall, wearing a navy sport coat and khaki slacks that seemed rather formal for searching my car. He walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, and started groping under the seat. I knew nothing was there, and soon he knew it too. He straightened, and turned to look at the house. As he did, sunlight glittered on something metallic at his waist. I'd never seen a gun tucked into a waistband outside a movie, but I was instantly convinced that this was the real thing.

  I ducked behind the doorframe. Jack growled again. I looked at him and saw that he was trembling, his tail tucked in tight. His big ears were clamped against his skull, and his lips pulled up to expose the tips of his shining teeth. I risked another peek around the door jamb. The man was walking toward the house.

  The next thing I knew I was by the back door, a dog on each side of me. I had no memory of moving—I might have levitated across the room. The door was locked. I didn’t see a deadbolt latch to open. It was the old fashioned kind that needs a key to unlock it. Bob must keep a key somewhere close. Hadn't seen one when I searched the kitchen. But one of the keys on his ring must open it. I struggled to get into my pocket for Bob’s keys. No, that pocket had the book of matches. The other pocket.

  The keys clattered in my shaking hand as I tried one after another. The front door rattled. Had I locked it behind me? I heard the rattle again. The next key I tried slid into the lock. The back door opened. Two tiptoeing leaps and I was across the porch and down the stairs. I grabbed for Emily Ann’s leash, and Jack streaked ahead of us into the woods. We ran.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I hate to run. I'm not built for it—my legs aren’t long enough to work gracefully at more than a fast walk, I have hip joints that creak, and ankles that are perilously prone to turning. I immediately break into a sweat when I move fast, and I hate being hot.

  I also hate the woods. Things reach out and grab you or poke you. Poison ivy lurks, and you don’t see until you’ve sat in it or your dog has nosed through it and given you a big kiss on the ear. You can’t see where you’re going, and you plunge into hidden creeks and trip over leaf-covered logs.

  Now I discovered that with sufficient motivation—like a strange man with a gun trying to break in—none of this mattered in the slightest. Jack bounded ahead and I puffed along as fast as I could. Emily Ann, damn her, was barely trotting. Why in the world had I chosen a greyhound? And how come Jack’s short legs carried him so much faster than mine?

  This particular patch of woods was no better than any other I had been in. Oh, I’ve read the Gothic novels where the heroine—usually clad in a Victorian high-necked yet diaphanous nightdress and flimsy slippers—is able to narrate a description of every plant as she flees from the villain. “I darted past a towering columbo oak, its pinnate leaves trembling in the wash of moonlight. A nearly impenetrable understory of myanumma bushes, species Crotoniguestulafogma if I am not mistaken, writhed their sinuous, twisted branches covered in the tell-tale glaucous leaves of leathery pea green, serrate edges dew bedecked and dripping…”

  I am not horticulturally adept, even when no one is chasing me with a gun. I crashed into brambles that I thought were blackberries because of the withered fruit that smeared on my shirt. My socks and jeans got plastered with stick-tights. My right foot squished down on a pallid mushroom and I slipped, wrenching my back as I struggled to stay on my feet. My glasses steamed up. I became aware of a low, growly muttering and realized I was cursing steadily.

  I had no idea how far we’d run when I had to stop, get my breath, and wipe off my glasses.

  Jack circled back to where Emily Ann and I stood panting. Well, I was panting, Emily Ann was her usual cool, unruffled self; she sat down quietly at my side. I finished drying my lenses and put them back on to survey our surroundings. Behind me, broken twigs and fallen leaves gave evidence of our passage through the underbrush. Bob’s house was out of sight, but I didn’t know how far away it was. Starting off our dash with a goodly amount of fear-induced adrenalin meant that I had run farther than I'd normally be able to manage. But I hadn’t been gliding through the woods like something out of James Fennimore Cooper. It wouldn’t be difficult to follow our trail.

  I peered through the trees. Off to my left a building stood where the land dipped. Of course we couldn’t just walk to it. Oh, no. We had to negotiate a barbed wire fence first. Jack walked under the lowest wire and stood wagging at us from the other side.

  The fence posts tilted a little so that the wire sagged encouragingly. I shoved at a couple of the posts, but their off-plumb angle was deceptive—they were still firmly embedded in the rocky ground. I pushed down the top strand of wire, but it was too far off the ground for me to swing my leg over without endangering portions of my anatomy that were extremely reluctant to encounter barbed wire.

  I looped Emily Ann’s leash over one of the posts and pushed down on the second strand of wire
and up on the top strand. My right foot went through to the ground on the other side. I had to let go of the top strand to bend over and slide my body through, and my shirt caught on a barb and ripped. I cursed as I wobbled, balancing on the right foot as I brought the left past the barbs. I thought I was all the way through when I realized that my hair, short as it was, had tangled with a barb. The time it took to free it gave me a chance to think about when I had last had a tetanus shot. When I was finally through, I held up the bottom strand as far as I could and coaxed Emily Ann through. She might have been able to leap over the top, but I couldn’t take a chance on her getting ensnared by the wire.

  Throughout my negotiations with the fence, my heart pounded as hard as when I had been running. My imagination created vivid scenes in which I heard a shot a split second before being pierced by a bullet. The short tragic film ended with the villain burying me in these woods and never being caught, while Kay spent the rest of her life wondering where I was.

  The building I'd seen proved to be an old barn, not very large, built into the side of the hill so that you could enter either floor from ground level. The foundation, made of the same stone as Bob’s house, supported boards weathered to silver.

  I took a deep breath and listened. Birds still sang their morning chorus, in the distance traffic hummed, and Jack shuffled through fallen leaves as he sniffed at the base of the upper-level door. Both dogs were calm, so I went over and pulled at the door. The hinges gave a loud creak but the door opened easily.

  Inside, slanted morning light streamed through two windows high in the wall as well as gaps between the boards. A drift of leaves and a few stray pieces of paper—some faded gum wrappers, an old flyer for someone’s gardening business—decorated the floor. Jack went to a stack of hay bales piled near one wall and gave them a searching examination with his nose. They looked old; dull and faded and not fragrant like I think of hay being. Jack gave a huge sneeze; they must be full of dust.