Three Dogs in a Row

by Neil S. Plakcy

  “We get lots of students who come in with referrals from their professors,” Lou said. “What do you think, Prof? Is it OK with you?”

  “I think it’s great, as long as the tutor only helps you recognize your problems and gives you advice on how to fix them.”

  The computer came back up, and Lou was able to finish his presentation. But it crashed again on the student who followed him, and then on another, and I considered us very lucky to finish the last presentation just before the class was over.

  I felt a great sense of relief when I stood up. “Thanks for being a great class,” I said. “Remember, you get an extra twenty points added to your final score if you fill out the online course evaluation by next Monday. If you have missed any assignments, you have until Saturday at midnight to submit them through the online system. I’ll be calculating your grades and I’ll post them sometime next week.”

  The class applauded, which was always nice. Especially since I was a fill-in; they had started the semester with Perpetua Kaufman, who had died during the winter break. It was my first time teaching that class in years, so I was lucky she had left behind detailed lecture notes, assignments and links to online exercises.

  As the class was filing out, Lou stopped next to me. “Did Dustin talk to you?”

  “Yeah. I’m not sure what I can do to help him but I’ll try.”

  “Thanks, Prof. He’s a good guy. I know you can help him.”

  I wasn’t sure Lou’s optimism was warranted, and as I walked back to Fields Hall I kept thinking about what I could do to help Dustin. I was so preoccupied with his problems I’d forgotten all about Felae Popescu—until I found him in the hallway outside in my office, accompanied by Lili Weinstock.

  11 – Bender

  As I opened the door to my office, Rochester jumped up from his place by the french doors and rushed over to Lili, who scratched him behind the ears. Her masses of auburn curls were tamed by a series of butterfly-shaped barrettes, and she wore a blue chambray shirt and skinny black jeans. She had her messenger bag over her shoulder. After all the drama I’d been going through between Rita Gaines’ death and Dustin De Bree’s problems, I was delighted to see her, even if she was accompanied by the dour Felae.

  “Felae called me this morning and I convinced him to come in,” she said. “I thought maybe you could talk to Rick Stempler for him.”

  Felae stood beside her sullenly. “I am Felae,” he said, extending his hand to me. “Dr. Weinstock tells me I must come to you for help.”

  “Sit down, Felae, and cut the act, all right? You know exactly who I am, and I’m tired of this stupid pretense you have. If you don’t remember that I was your teacher last year for the mystery fiction class, and that you’ve seen me around campus at least a half dozen times since then, then you’re probably dumb enough to have killed Rita Gaines.”

  “Steve!” Lili said, as Felae sunk into one of the two visitor’s chairs across from my desk.

  Felae sighed deeply. “Is true. Americans are too friendly, so I am often pretending not to know people. I remember Mr. Levitan’s class. Was a good one.”

  Lili looked from him to me, then shook her head and sat down. I sat behind my desk, and Rochester sprawled protectively around Lili, between her and Felae.

  “Let’s back up,” I said. “Why were you so angry at Mrs. Gaines?”

  “I am getting call from president on Sunday morning,” he said. “He tell me that I must destroy my painting or I will lose my scholarship.”

  I looked to Lili. “Can Babson do that?”

  She shrugged. “You’ve seen the way he runs this college. I’d say he can do just about anything he wants.”

  “So you drove up to Rita’s farm and confronted her?” I asked Felae. “How’d you know where she lived?”

  “I recognize her from Don’t Operate on Animals rally, and know she contribute to group. I find her name and address in book they keep.”

  “And what did you think you were going to accomplish? You think she was going to say, ‘Sorry, Felae, my mistake’?”

  His shoulders sagged, and although he looked older, I realized he was barely out of his teens, just a kid. “It is wrong, I know. But I did not kill her!”

  Rochester reacted to the anger and desperation in his voice, looking up at him and then sitting up. He rested his head in Lili’s lap and she stroked the soft fur atop his skull.

  “The police may have a different opinion,” I said to Felae. “Where did you go after you left Rita’s house?”

  “I get lost on back roads. I am driving around for a long time. I end up in Levittown.” He said the city name like it was a bad word, and for a lot of people I guess it was. Built in the late 1940s to house returning vets from World War II, the city had a reputation for cookie-cutter housing, endless cul-de-sacs, and a repetitive naming convention for streets. Every street in Twin Oaks, for example, began with a T; every one in Orangewood with an O. Even if you knew where you were going, it was easy to get lost there.

  “What time did you get home?”

  “Maybe midnight.”

  “Midnight! But you left Rita’s late in the afternoon. You were driving all that time?”

  Rochester slumped back to the floor and began gnawing on a rawhide bone. I figured he’d make about as much progress with it as I was making with Felae.

  “I find this bar, and I am served beer there. I drink for a while.”

  Great. “You’re not twenty-one, are you?”

  “Not for six months yet.”

  With Felae’s brooding face, dark hair and heavy five o’clock shadow, I could see a bartender not bothering to card him. But it might be hard to verify his alibi if the bartender knew he was being exposed to a charge of serving a minor. And the police could easily argue that Felae had killed Rita, and then gotten drunk in remorse or anger.

  “You live with anyone?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Four roommates in house. Two of them see me when I get home.”

  “The police will need to know where you were from the time you left Rita’s until your roommates saw you,” I said. “You’d better have an answer for them.”

  “No police!” he said.

  “Felae. You’re a suspect in a murder investigation. If you don’t talk to the police willingly, they’ll hunt you down and bring you in.”

  He shivered, and I felt sorry for him. Rochester must have felt the same, because he pushed aside his rawhide and sat up, this time pushing his head into Felae’s lap. Reflexively, he stroked Rochester’s neck.

  “Have you called your parents?” I asked.

  “My father, he is dead. My mother is back in my country.”

  “What country is that?”

  “Moldova. Is former part of Soviet Union, between Romania and Ukraine. I am from town of Bender, outside capital. I want very much to study in United States, and Eastern give me scholarship.”

  Wow. My trip to Eastern had been more of a commute than a pilgrimage, having grown up in Stewart’s Crossing. I couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for Felae to leave behind his family, his country, even his language, to get an education.

  “I’m calling my friend,” I said, picking up the phone. “He’s a good guy. He’ll treat you right.”

  He turned to Lili. “You will go with me? You are only one I trust.”

  “Steve and I will both go with you,” she said.

  Great. Escorting a student and murder suspect down to the Stewart’s Crossing police station. Add that item to my datebook.

  “I have Felae Popescu in my office,” I said, when Rick answered his cell. “Can I bring him down to your station?”

  “Where’d you find him?”

  I looked over at Felae, who was still stroking Rochester’s head. “He found me. Or rather, he found Lili and she brought him over to me.”

  “How soon can you be here?”

  It was only three o’clock, but Babson had asked me to keep an eye on the investigation into Rita’s
death, so taking two hours off qualified as a PR emergency. “Half an hour? I’ll have to drop Rochester off at home first.”

  “Bring the dog,” Rick said. “We can park him with the desk sergeant. I want Mr. Popescu here as soon as possible.”

  We took separate cars, Lili and Felae in hers, Rochester with me. The quiet in the car was oppressive as I pulled out of the college parking lot, so I turned on the radio and pressed the CD button. A moment later Amadou and Mariam began singing about fast food in Senegal. I thought the upbeat tempo would be a good balance to Felae’s infectious dourness. By the time we got to Stewart’s Crossing they were singing “Je Pense a Toi” and I felt better. I couldn’t speak for Rochester, but then he’s generally pretty easy-going.

  The police station was a squat, one-story building from the 1970s in the poorer neighborhood of town, at the corner of Canal Street and Quarry Road, at the edge of downtown. Canal Street was a block off Main, a mostly residential street whose houses backed on the old Delaware Canal. The towpath on the other side of the canal was now a state park.

  Quarry Road was one of the main east-west streets in town, running from the flat plain along the river’s edge, over the canal on a two-lane bridge, across Main Street and up the hill toward Newtown and Lumberville. Main Street was our central business district, or what there was of one; mostly doctors, real estate brokers, gift shops and so on. Small older homes lined Quarry Road as it climbed the hill, until the sprawling suburbs began. Cops could get almost anywhere in town within minutes.

  I parked in the lot behind the station, and Lili pulled in next to me. Rochester had a quick pee next to a scraggly boxwood hedge, and then the four of us walked in the station’s front door. Ahead of us I saw Rick sitting at a scuffed wooden desk in a big bullpen area; there were three other desks around him shared by other detectives, behind the gated front area where the desk sergeant sat.

  “No dogs in the building,” the sergeant said.

  “They’re with me,” Rick said, standing up from his desk. “Steve, why don’t you and Lili take Rochester for a walk while I talk to Mr. Popescu.”

  “You cannot stay with me?” Felae said, turning to Lili.

  “I promise I won’t bite,” Rick said. “You’ll be fine.”

  Felae turned to me. “I am needing a lawyer?”

  That was a tricky question. An attorney would surely caution Felae not to speak to the cops on his own. That would hold up Rick’s investigation and leave Lili and me stuck in Stewart’s Crossing waiting.

  Lili made the decision for me. “Felae is innocent,” she said. “So he doesn’t need a lawyer.”

  Felae looked at me. Were we throwing him under the bus, leaving him on his own at the police station? I took a deep breath. I knew that Rick was a good guy and an honest cop, and that he wouldn’t do anything to railroad Felae. I nodded. “What the lady said. If you are innocent, that is.”

  “In my country is enough to just be suspected. If you are suspect, you are guilty.”

  “You’re not in Moldova, Felae. The rules are different here.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “And Detective Stempler is a good cop. He won’t hurt you and he won’t try to show you’re guilty of anything you didn’t do.”

  That must have convinced him. He stepped forward, and Rick opened the gate to usher him through to the interview room I knew was at the back of the station. I’d been there a few times myself in other situations.

  “We’ll be at The Chocolate Ear,” I said to Rick. “Call me when we can come back for Felae.”

  “Will do.”

  Rochester, Lili and I walked back outside. “You think he’ll be all right?” Lili asked.

  “I believe what I said about Rick.” And I did. But if he couldn’t verify Felae’s alibi, and the sullen kid was uncooperative, then I could see a lot more trouble brewing for him.

  12 – Santiago Santos

  Rochester seemed to know where we were going, leading Lili and me up toward Main Street and The Chocolate Ear. When I was adjuncting at Eastern, I had become friendly with the owner, Gail Dukowski, and often graded papers at her café. She made delicious sandwiches and killer desserts, and brewed specialty coffees out of a small stone building on Main Street, a couple of blocks from the police station. I still often stopped by for coffee and pastries, and a biscuit for Rochester.

  It was a gorgeous afternoon, perfect for sitting outside at one of Gail’s wrought iron tables. I left Lili and Rochester at a table and went inside. The room had been painted a cheerful yellow and decorated with art deco-style posters advertising French foods, from wines to olive oils to chocolates. Gail’s grandmother Irene was behind the counter. She was a short, spry woman with iron gray hair and she exuded cheerfulness.

  “Steve! It’s so good to see you. Where’s Rochester?”

  “Outside.” I nodded to where Lili sat, with the big golden retriever by her side. I was relieved that he liked Lili as much as I did, and she’d taken to him as well.

  “Now, who is that? She’s lovely.”

  “My girlfriend, Lili.”

  “I’ll have to call Gail out from the kitchen. I’m sure she’d love to see you. But what can I get started for you?”

  “How about a pair of raspberry mochas, with whipped cream and a mocha drizzle? And a couple of pastries.” While Irene started the cappuccino machine, I browsed the case. Gail had been a gourmet pastry chef in New York before coming back to Bucks County to start her café, and her desserts were delectable. “We’ll have one of those chocolate dome things, and a Napoleon, and an éclair. And a plain croissant for Rochester.”

  “You go sit down and I’ll bring everything out, or Gail will,” Irene said.

  I went back outside. “Stewart’s Crossing is such a pretty little town,” Lili said. “Much more charming than Leighville.”

  “You think so?” I sat down beside her, both of us facing out toward Main Street. Rochester sprawled on the pavement next to Lili, and I remembered all the times I had come to the café with him, sitting there to grade papers, with him by my side.

  “I do. What was it like growing up here?”

  “Ordinary. Your basic small town. We were lucky to be close to New York and Philadelphia, so we didn’t feel quite so isolated as we might have.”

  Most of the buildings in the downtown area were gingerbread Victorians, many converted to stores or doctors’ offices. There were a couple of uglier buildings from the sixties and seventies, but a few years before, the town had put in ornamental street lights and flower beds outside the businesses. Daffodils, crocuses, tulips and hyacinths were blooming, and an array of colorful flags flapped in the breeze across the street at the Hair-Due Salon.

  Gail came outside with our coffee and pastry on a tray. Rochester sat up on his haunches; he knew food when he smelled it, and he knew Gail, a pretty blonde in her late twenties, was a soft touch, too. “Haven’t seen you here in a long time, Steve,” she said.

  “I’m working full-time now. Don’t have as much chance to hang out in cafés as I used to.” I introduced her to Lili and said, “Gail kept me caffeinated last year when I was adjuncting a couple of courses.”

  Gail handed Rochester a dog biscuit; I knew that she baked a batch every now and then and kept them on hand for her favorite canines. He greedily wolfed it down. We chatted for a couple of minutes, then Gail went back inside.

  “What if Felae really is guilty?” Lili said when she had left. “And we sent him in there without an attorney to protect him?”

  “If he’s guilty of murder, he deserves to be punished,” I said. “But let’s assume that he’s not, all right? That means he’s going to tell Rick what he was doing after he left Rita’s on Sunday. Rick will check out his alibi, and then he’ll be free to go.”

  “What if his alibi doesn’t check out?”

  I ripped a piece of croissant and fed it to Rochester. “Lili. Either he’s guilty or he’s not. If he didn’t do it, then eventually that’ll be clear, and he’ll be
all right.”

  She drummed her fingers nervously on the table. “I don’t know what to do. I’m worried about Felae. But at the same time I know I should be back at the office. I have so many papers yet to grade. I like being a professor, but this time of year is hell. I don’t have a chance to work on any of my own projects and I’m starting to get itchy to have a camera in my hands.” She dug in her messenger bag and extracted her iPad. “You don’t mind if I check my emails, do you?”

  “I should do the same thing.” I pulled out my phone and hit a couple of keys to draw in my college emails and started answering them. Lili and I sat outside the café, drinking coffee and eating pastries, both of us doing our work while we waited for Rick to call me.

  Just before five, my cell rang. “You can pick up Mr. Popescu,” Rick said. “For now, his alibi checks out, and I know how to get hold of him if I need him.”

  I thanked Rick and hung up. “Should we drive Felae back up to Leighville and then get some dinner?” I asked Lili. At the mention of the d-word Rochester’s head popped up.

  She shook her head. “I have so much work to do. I’ll drop him off on my way home. And you’re already almost home. There’s no reason for you to shlep up to Leighville.”

  The three of us walked back to the police station, Rochester once more in the lead. Felae was standing in the parking lot beside Lili’s Mini Cooper, looking only a bit more cheerful than he had before. I felt pretty cranky myself, since I had expected to have dinner with Lili, and perhaps reap some reward for helping her out with Felae.

  Instead I took my dog home and made myself a big pot of shell macaroni with butter and grated parmesan cheese, my childhood comfort food. Rochester got his regular bowl of kibble. I guess that was his comfort food.

  I was washing the dishes when my doorbell rang and Rochester launched into a paroxysm of barking. I dried my hands and looked out the peephole to see my parole officer, Santiago Santos, in the courtyard.

  He was Puerto Rican, with a bachelor’s degree in sociology from Drexel, and looked like an amateur boxer, about 5-8, stocky, with muscular forearms. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in,” he said. “This a good time?”