by Tracy Weber
“About what?” he snarled.
Betty pointed toward her car. “About your dog.”
Dr. Steinman edged next to Betty’s SUV and glanced into the back seat. His hands formed tight fists. “What are you doing with my property?”
I opened my mouth to reply, but Betty shoved her palm in my face. “I’ve got this, Kate.” She turned back to Dr. Steinman. “The more important question is, what are you doing with your so-called property?” She made finger quotes around the last word. “That dog was locked in a cage, covered in her own filth, without any food or water. That’s animal abuse. I could get you tossed in jail.”
I had a feeling that Betty was overstating her position. If his home was any indication, Dr. Steinman could hire a bevy of attorneys. As disgusting as his crime was, I doubted he’d ever get within a thousand feet of a jail cell.
“You’re the ones who should be tossed in jail,” he hissed. “You obviously trespassed on my property and broke into my shed. Lord knows what else you’ve stolen from me.” He pointed at me. “Before I call the police, tell me: who are you, really, and why are you harassing me?”
Betty stood tall, taking full advantage of her five-foot-four-inch frame. “Kate’s not the one harassing you. I am. I’m an animal welfare advocate. Kate learned that a dog was being abused at this address and asked me to investigate. I did. Lo and behold, she was right. Wasn’t she, Jamar?”
Jamar grunted.
“We saw that the animal was starving and had no access to water. It was in imminent danger, so we broke into your shed to take care of it. After giving it the care it needed, we waited for you.” She pointed to her friend. “Jamar and I, we’re not thieves. We don’t steal anything—not even abused animals—no matter how much we want to.” She smiled, but the expression looked more threatening than friendly. “Which is why you’re going to give us this dog. Then we’ll call it good.”
“It’s not my dog. It belongs to my son.”
Betty planted her feet wide. “Then I guess we’ll have to wait for him.”
“You’ll be here awhile,” Dr. Steinman scoffed. “The idiot got arrested for dealing drugs again. No way am I bailing him out this time. He can rot in prison for all I care.”
“He left you his dog?” Betty asked.
“You could say that. The fool convinced me a few months ago that he could make easy money breeding designer mutts. All I needed to do was lend him my shed. I thought he was showing some initiative for once, so I said yes. I should have known better.”
I didn’t say it, but torturing and breeding unhealthy dogs didn’t sound like the kind of initiative that should be encouraged—or enabled, for that matter.
Dr. Steinman continued. “I hired someone to dump the mangy things at the pound two weeks ago, but my son’s crack-head girlfriend called and begged me to keep the one with the puppies. She said she was going sell them for bail money as soon as they were old enough.”
Betty didn’t say anything, but her body was so rigid, it could have been carved from ice. Dr. Steinman kept talking. “Too bad for her, she OD’d again and is stuck in rehab. I was going to sell the puppies anyway, but someone stole them last week.” He gestured toward Betty’s SUV. “That one was headed for the pound tomorrow.” He narrowed his eyes for a moment, then widened them again in sudden understanding. “Wait a minute … ” He grabbed my wrist and snarled, “You stole those puppies, didn’t you?”
I yanked it away. “No. I didn’t.”
Betty stepped between us. “It doesn’t matter who took them. They’re gone, and you’re not getting them back.”
“This is ridiculous. I’m calling the police.” Dr. Steinman spun toward the house and stomped away.
Crap.
I wanted to chase after him, but my feet were super-glued to the driveway. My heart, on the other hand, did back flips. If Dr. Steinman made that call, I’d spend the night in a jail cell for sure. Which would be significantly more pleasant than facing Michael after he bailed me out in the morning.
I had to stop him, but how? Begging for mercy would be useless. Having Jamar tackle him while I ripped out the property’s phone lines wouldn’t work much better. I finally leveled the one threat I thought Dr. Steinman might understand.
“I wonder what your patients—your so-called extended family—will do when they find out you’re an animal abuser?”
He froze.
“Especially when we start posting the pictures,” Betty added.
Pictures?
Taking photographs would have been brilliant. And brilliant, I wasn’t. The only pictures I had were the ones indelibly seared in my memory. Betty was a better con artist than I’d realized.
Dr. Steinman slowly turned around. “I told you, the dogs weren’t mine. They belonged to my son.”
“I doubt your clients will see much of a difference,” I replied. “You allowed the abuse to happen, and on your property. Besides, your son is in jail now. That poor lab’s condition is solely on you.”
“The newspapers won’t see a difference, either,” Betty added. “Frankly, I’d like nothing better than to report you to the ASPCA and let you deal with the fallout.” She shrugged. “I still may.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Problem is, they’ll just slap you with a fine. You’ve got too much money for that to be a deterrent. You’ll pay up. You’ll hire someone to deal with the PR disaster. Then you’ll forget all about it. Someday your son will get out of jail. He might even convince you to try something like this again … ”
She stared at Dr. Steinman for several long seconds, then lowered her voice menacingly. “Nope. There’s only one way to deal with scumbags like you.”
My heart stopped back flipping and dropped to my stomach. Betty’s threats were making me distinctly uneasy. I grabbed her arm. “Betty, he won’t call the police. He won’t risk ruining his practice. We’ve got the dog. Let’s go.”
She yanked her arm back, never taking her eyes off Dr. Steinman. “Not yet, Kate. I’m talking to this … ” She paused a beat. “Gentleman.” She took several slow, menacing steps forward until her nose was inches from his. “Let me make myself clear. Breeding dogs again would be a very bad idea.”
She pointed to Jamar, who still leaned against the SUV, glowering. “My buddy Jamar doesn’t talk much, so I’ll do it for him. We go way back, to when I helped run a dog training program at Monroe.” I assumed she meant the Monroe Correctional Complex, a Washington State prison that housed violent inmates. She cocked her head to the side, as if thinking. “I forget now, Jamar. What were you in for? Assault? Robbery?”
Jamar’s voice contained no inflection. “Attempted murder.”
“That’s right, attempted murder. Nearly ripped a man’s head right off his shoulders.”
Dr. Steinman winced. Then again, so did I.
“You’re still in touch with your friends from the old days, right Jamar?” Betty asked.
“Yep.”
My uneasiness deepened to dread. “Betty, this has gone far—”
“Quiet!” she snapped. “I’m having a conversation here.” Her eyes were so cold, I almost didn’t recognize her. “Back. Off.”
I stopped talking, but I wasn’t happy. I wanted to save the dog as much as anybody. But not at the expense of getting someone—even an animal abusing jerk like Dr. Steinman—hurt.
Betty continued. “Here’s the thing about ex-cons, especially the ones who’ve graduated from my program. The only people they hate worse than child rapists are animal abusers. Isn’t that right Jamar?”
“Yep.” His upper lip twitched.
“And now, they’ll be watching you. So when you or that loser son of yours get to thinking that you might want to make a quick buck selling puppies—heck, even if you get a hankering to adopt some cute little mutt of your very own—you might want to reconsider. Jamar and his friends
will be checking on you. If they find out that you have a dog—any dog—they might not take it too kindly.”
Dr. Steinman’s voice sounded fierce, but his hands trembled. “Are you threatening me?”
“Threatening you?” Betty placed her hand flat on her chest. “A little old lady like me threatening a big, powerful, rich man like you?” She scoffed. “That’s preposterous.”
She lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “Jamar, though, he’s sensitive. Hates it when I get upset. And nothing gets my granny panties in a bunch faster than arguing with greedy puppy-mill breeders.”
Dr. Steinman shrank.
Betty seemed to grow three inches taller. “Now, Jamar and I are gonna take this dog, and we’re gonna do right by her. We’ll make sure she never sees your scummy face again. In exchange, you’re going to make a huge donation to the Humane Society. I’d ask you to donate to my rescue, but I don’t want your filthy money.”
Jamar stepped next to Betty. “You’d best be believing the lady. You will not be getting any more dogs. You hearing me?” He cracked the knuckles on both hands. “’Cuz I’d hate to have to come back here and remind you.”
Dr. Steinman gave a single nod yes.
Betty gave him a not-all-that-friendly slap on the back. “Well, that’s just peachy. It’s good to have everybody on the same page.” She winked. “So glad we had this little talk.” As she sauntered back to the 4Runner, she called, “Come along, Kate. We’re done here.”
Dr. Steinman’s skin was still green when we pulled out of the driveway, which wasn’t surprising. I felt like I’d been sucker punched, too. Betty, Jamar, and I drove in silence for about five minutes before I found the courage to speak.
“Betty, you weren’t serious back there, were you? I don’t like Dr. Steinman either, but I don’t want him hurt.”
“Settle down, Kate. You worry too much. No one’s going to hurt that SOB. They won’t have to.” Betty made eye contact with Jamar in the rear view mirror and winked.
I narrowed my eyes at her, then leaned over to look in the back seat.
Jamar tenderly rubbed the Labrador’s ears, wearing a huge grin. “We sure had him going though, didn’t we?” he said. “That guy totally bought that I was an ex-con.”
Now I was confused. “Wait a minute. You mean you’re not?”
Betty chastised me. “Kate! I’m surprised at you. Do you think every black man is some sort of criminal?”
Only when you tell me they are.
Betty continued talking. “I babysat Jamie here from the time he was six. Helping me nurse my foster dogs is probably what made him want to go to vet school. He’s never gotten so much as a parking ticket.”
“Jamie?” I gave her a droll look.
Jamie reached through the bucket seats and handed me a business card. Puget Sound Mobile Veterinary Services. Jamie Butler, DVM.
“Jamar’s my given name,” he said, “but I go by Jamie. Betty thought Jamar would work better today.” He lowered his voice and put on a tough expression. “Sound’s more gangsta.” He chuckled. “You totally bought it, didn’t you?”
My cheeks grew warm. “You two could have filled me in on your little charade. Now I feel like an idiot.”
“Sorry about that,” Betty said. “Our Punch and Judy routine works better if we’re the only ones in on it. Adds to the authenticity.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Let’s just say this isn’t the first dog I’ve grabbed from a puppy-mill operator. Jamie pretty much always comes with me. Cowardly scumbags respond best to intimidation. And Jamie here’s a darned good actor.”
He sure fooled me.
I addressed Jamie directly. “What about your supposed friends?”
“Most of my buddies love animals as much as I do. I’ll get a couple of guys to drive by the property every now and again. Maybe park across the street, smile and wave. It’s a sad fact of our country, Kate, but being black is often all it takes to intimidate. If my friends do see dogs on the property, Betty and I will call Animal Control.”
I looked at the Labrador, who was now sleeping with her head in Jamie’s lap. “So you’re a veterinarian. That explains why you were looking at her so carefully. Do you think she’s going to be okay?”
He gently rubbed her neck. “I’ll do a more thorough examination when we get her to Betty’s, but I think so. She’s dehydrated, malnourished, and infested with fleas, and she desperately needs a good grooming. I suspect she’s got a reasonable skin infection brewing underneath all of that filth, but I haven’t seen anything too alarming so far.”
I wasn’t sure how to feel about Betty’s deception: angry, impressed, shocked, or disturbed. I settled on grateful.
“Thank you—both of you—for coming all the way out here to help me.” I nodded toward the lab. “And especially for helping her.”
“Not a problem,” Betty replied. “Any time.”
“Hopefully there won’t be another time,” I replied. “I don’t think my heart can take it.”
Betty replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Of course there will be. Face it, Kate. You find needy animals almost as often as you stumble over dead bodies.”
I couldn’t bring myself to admit she was right.
Twenty-Two
Betty and Jamie chatted amiably the rest of the hour-long trip back to the studio. I slumped silently in the passenger seat, second-guessing myself. When I’d first seen the dog inside Dr. Steinman’s shed, I’d immediately assumed Momma Bird was the one who’d left the note on my car, hoping that I’d be curious enough to go to Bainbridge Island, find the yellow lab, and rescue her.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
Momma Bird taking a trip to Bainbridge Island, that I could believe. She was homeless, but she still might own a car. If not, a bus ride and a walk-on ferry ticket would have gotten her there. I could imagine her learning about the backyard breeding operation somehow—maybe through Dr. Steinman’s drug-dealing son or his girlfriend—though that was more of a stretch. I could even imagine her rescuing the puppies.
But she’d never skulk around leaving notes on parked cars. Momma Bird wasn’t one for subterfuge. If she’d wanted to sic me on Dr. Steinman, she’d have told me about him face-to-face, likely conning me out of at least twenty dollars in the process.
So who’d really left the note? Michael had canvassed the neighborhood trying to find Mutt and Jeff’s owner. I’d asked most of my yoga students about them as well. Did someone we’d spoken to leave the note on my car? If so, why not simply talk to us?
Then again, maybe the note had nothing to do with the dogs. Betty and I assumed that the Labrador was Mutt and Jeff’s mother, but that was pure conjecture. Maybe my original assumption had been correct—maybe the note pointed to evidence about Dr. Dick’s murder. If so, I’d totally blown it. The instant Tiffany and I found the dog, we shifted into rescue mode. Signed confessions could have wallpapered the shed and we wouldn’t have noticed.
One thing was certain: I wouldn’t win sleuth of the year any time soon. I couldn’t go back and search the shed now, at least not without risking arrest. My next best option was to grill Momma Bird, though at the rate I was going, I’d have to hire a real detective to find her.
Luckily it didn’t come to that.
When Betty dropped me off at the studio, Momma Bird was standing in front of the PhinneyWood Market selling the Dollars for Change newspaper. I said a quick goodbye to Betty and Jamie, asked them to keep me posted on the dog, and strode directly toward her.
Momma Bird wore one of her usual quirky outfits: neon green Crocs, a bright yellow muumuu with purple daisies, and a hat shaped like a pink flamingo. She held a stack of papers in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. When she glanced my direction, her bright eyes sparkled with humor.
“Well hey there, Yogi Kate. Care to buy a
Dollars for Change today?”
I handed her a dollar and took the paper.
“There’s a great article on page two about Seattle’s shortage of low-income housing,” she said.
“Thanks. I’ll read it later. I’ve been looking for you. Where have you been?”
Momma Bird tilted her head and peered at me shrewdly. “What are you, my parole officer?”
“No, but I’ve missed seeing you.” The statement was true. “And I need to ask you some questions about something that happened last Thursday.”
Her eyes shifted toward Pete’s Pets, so quickly that I almost missed it. “What happened?”
“You left a box of puppies outside my boyfriend’s store.”
Momma Bird’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t leave nothing nowhere. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have papers to sell.” She turned her back to me and approached a woman pushing an empty shopping cart. “Care to buy a Dollars for Change today?” The woman rolled the cart past her without responding.
I kept talking. “My boyfriend saw you with the box in front of his store. So if you didn’t leave it, you probably saw who did. We’re not trying to get anyone in trouble. We just want to find out where the dogs came from.”
She whipped back around, suddenly interested. “Ah, so you’re solving a mystery again then, are you? The last time I helped you with a case, you paid me fifty dollars.”
“It was forty dollars, and that was a murder, not a puppy dumping.”
She waved a paper through the air. “Murder, abandonment, it’s all the same to me. Time is money. If you can’t afford to pay me, I have to get back to work.” She walked toward an outdoor display of dark green watermelons, preparing to accost another shopper.
I pulled a ten-dollar bill from my pocket. “You win. I’ll give you ten dollars for five minutes of your time.” The pretend negotiation was part of Momma Bird’s and my game. We both knew I’d always planned to give her the money.
She tucked the bill inside her bra and pointed to a bench near the bicycle rack. “Let’s have a seat.” Setting the papers on the ground, she slowly lowered herself onto the bench. “Don’t know how much help I’ll be. Like I told you last time, I try not to see too much in my line of work. It’s not safe, you know?”