Three Dogs in a Row

by Neil S. Plakcy

  “She does long jumps? But her legs are so tiny.”

  “They adjust the distance for the size of the dog,” she said. “And you’d be surprised at what my Tia can do.”

  They trotted off, Tia Juana leading the way, and Rochester and I meandered toward Jerry Fujimoto. He was a whirlwind of activity, chatting up owners and dogs alike, and I knew I’d never get a word in with him as long as the show was on. As I stood there, a boy of about eight with a bichon on a jeweled red leash said, “Can I pet your dog?”

  “Sure. Rochester, sit.”

  The boy tentatively placed his palm in front of Rochester’s mouth so he could sniff, then patted him on the head. The boy’s hair was a golden red similar to Rochester’s, and he was missing his two front teeth. “Is your dog competing?” he asked.

  “Today we’re watching. How about you?”

  “We already did. Puffball came in second in his height class.”

  Puffball. What a name for a boy dog, I thought. Then I remembered that name from the list of Rita’s ex-clients. “I’m Steve,” I said, sticking out my hand to him. “Do you train with Mr. Fujimoto?”

  He shook my hand limply and nodded. “My name is Pippin but people call me Pip.”

  “From the Broadway show? Or The Lord of the Rings?” I asked. Puffball was completely disinterested in Rochester, instead straining toward another bichon, probably a female.

  “I’m a hobbit. Yeah, my parents are big geeks. My sister’s name is Meriadoc.”

  I laughed. I guess Puffball wasn’t too bad then. And that explained why I hadn’t been able to find anything about Pippin Forrest online. “He a nice guy, Mr. Fujimoto?”

  “Not really. He yells at the dogs a lot and he scares me sometimes. But we used to train with this other lady named Mrs. Rita and she was even meaner. When my dad said we were switching she called him a really bad word. At the last show, Mr. Jerry and Mrs. Rita were yelling at each other. He told her he hoped she died and went straight to – a bad place I’m not supposed to say out loud.”

  Interesting. But did Fujimoto mean that enough to kill her? I couldn’t ask Pip that question, but it rolled around in my head.

  Pip petted Rochester some more and said, “Your dog is really sweet. I wanted a big dog but my parents said no.”

  I leaned down to his level. “I’ll tell you a secret,” I said. “It’s not the size of the dog’s body that matters, but the size of his heart. And I’ll bet Puffball has a really big heart.”

  Hearing his name, the dog turned around and returned to Pip’s side, sprawling on his back and waving his little legs in the air. Pip stroked his stomach and said, “Yeah, he’s a good boy.”

  I heard the announcement of Rick’s class and said goodbye to Pip and Puffball. Rochester and I found a place along the side of the ring. I stood, and Rochester sat beside me as if he was observing and taking notes. It was quite comical to watch the owners scurrying alongside, waving their hands, whistling and making clicking noises as if it was an event for sufferers of some obscure mental syndrome.

  Some of the dogs ran right through the course like pros; others were more tentative, and a couple disregarded some of the obstacles. “That’s a weave fault,” the announcer said, as a border collie entered the weave poles from the wrong side. He called a refusal when the Sheltie stopped short in front of the tire and wouldn’t jump through it, and a time fault when a Viszla took too long to complete the course.

  Finally it was Rick and Rascal’s turn. I couldn’t help snickering as Rick, normally the tough cop, babied Rascal up the A-frame, through the tunnel, then over the jump. He ran next to the dog like a crazy person, and I thought I’d get a lot of teasing out of it.

  Though Rick looked nervous, Rascal performed like a champ, and he ended the event in third place, winning a yellow ribbon for his trouble.

  The four of us strolled past the vendors again. “Late yesterday I heard about a woman who wasn’t on the spreadsheets,” Rick said. “Cora Straw. Apparently she left her dog with Rita when she went on vacation, and when she came back the dog was dead.”

  I stopped in front of a display of walking sticks with dog heads. “That’s terrible. What happened?”

  “Rita gave her some story about the dog having a heart attack on the course. But she had already disposed of the body before Cora came home.”

  “That would drive me crazy,” I said. “Oh, look at the golden retriever bookends!”

  A pair of resin dogs looking a lot like Rochester sat on their haunches with their backs against imitation books. “And those yard stakes with little dogs on them!”

  “Step away from the display,” he said, in his most stern voice. “I’m doing this for your own good.”

  I cast a glance back at the kitchen towels and garden flags as Rick grabbed my arm and moved me along. We bought some rubber toys and rawhide chews for the dogs, then headed back toward the parking lot.

  “When I checked in, I picked up a list of all the breeders who were showing,” I said, pulling the paper out of my pocket. “I thought maybe you could call them and ask about Rita.”

  “You forget who’s the detective around here,” Rick said, pulling an identical list from his pocket. “I do have a few skills, you know.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Rascal and Rochester jumped eagerly into the back of the truck, then sprawled out next to each other and went right to sleep.

  “Remember that list you emailed me yesterday?” I asked Rick, as we pulled out of the campus. “The people who trained with Rita? While you were competing, I met one of the ones who dropped her today.”

  “Which one?”

  “Pippin Forrest. But he’s only a kid. I think we can knock him off the list, because I doubt an eight-year-old can get his hands on Rohypnol.”

  “Parents?”

  “What do you mean? Does he have parents? I guess so.”

  “And one of them could have been pissed off at the way little Pippin was treated, right? After all, we’re going on the assumption that someone didn’t like the way Rita handled a dog. A kid just ups the ante.”

  “I didn’t get that vibe from Pip,” I said. “He said that Mrs. Rita yelled a lot, but it seemed like he accepted that from adults. He did say he’s training with a new guy, named Jerry Fujimoto, who Carissa told me had a beef with Rita.”

  “Didn’t everyone?” Rick said. He handed me his copy of the trainers’ list. “Make a note on the sheet for me, will you?”

  I did. “I didn’t see any of the other three people who stopped training with Rita, but we both know one of them—Mark Figueroa. From the antique store in the center of town.”

  “Hmm,” Rick said. “How about the others?”

  “Just did a quick search. Paula Madden owns a shoe store at the mall. I thought I’d get Lili to go over there with me and scope it out. And Sal Piedramonte lives in River Bend. Rochester and I met him and his dachshund last night. He was pretty angry about the way Rita dissed his dog when she found out Blue was deaf. Wanted to give him a different one and put Blue to sleep.”

  “That seems pretty hard,” Rick said. “I mean, being deaf isn’t something fatal.”

  “He said Rita treated her dogs like merchandise.”

  “It’s an attitude. But is it a motive?”

  “Hey, as you pointed out earlier, you’re the detective.”

  “So you do listen to me sometimes.”

  “Asshole,” I said. He laughed.

  “Lili’s finishing up grading her students’ projects,” I said, as Rick drove up to the River Bend guard house. “You doing anything for dinner?”

  “Got a date,” he said. “Loser.”

  He waved to the young female guard on duty, who smiled and opened the gate for him. He dropped Rochester and me off at my house, and I thought about driving into town to look for Mark Figueroa, but he probably had a date, too.

  I microwaved a frozen dinner and poured Rochester a bowl of kibble. When he finished I gave him one of the new rawhide
chews and he settled down with it, his back against the sliding glass door.

  While I ate I grumbled about having a girlfriend and still being home on a Saturday night, but then Rochester came over to me and slumped next to my feet. Then we watched a movie together. I thought it was pretty stupid but Rochester seemed to like it.

  Sunday morning Rochester woke me when the sun was just peeking over the rooftops across the street and we went for a long walk. A bluebird darted between the fronds of the weeping willow at the end of Sarajevo Court, and all around us were signs of nature waking up. I was looking forward to spending the day with Lili. We’d been talking about going down river to the flea market in Lambertville, and I thought it was a perfect day for that kind of aimless browsing. But she called me around ten and asked if we could change plans.

  “This guy I used to work with called me last night,” she said. “He’s hot on a story and he needs some background from me. He asked if I could meet him for brunch.”

  “Background for a story? On what? Art?”

  “All he would say is that it involves Eastern, and I’m the only person he knew with any connections to the College.”

  “It’s not like you need an in. He can call the public relations office. Or hell, he could call me.”

  “Good. So you’ll go up to Summit with me to meet him?”

  “Summit? Where’s that?”

  “Ritzy suburb of Newark. About an hour, I think.”

  “Isn’t that an oxymoron? A ritzy suburb of Newark?”

  “Since we’re heading north you can drive up here to get me, and then we’ll go in your car.” She hung up.

  19 – Peter Pan

  I shook my head. How had I let myself get roped into spending my Sunday with my girlfriend and some guy she used to work with? What if he was still interested in her, and using this as an excuse to get together?

  And what kind of story was he writing about Eastern?

  I rushed through a shower, got dressed, and pacified Rochester with a hard rubber squid he’d already torn one tentacle from. As I pulled into Lili’s driveway she stepped out the door, locking it behind her. She wore what I had come to see was her standard casual outfit; skinny jeans, a man’s button-down shirt, and bright red high-topped sneakers that matched the rectangular frames on her eyeglasses. She had a couple of cameras on straps over her shoulder. Her auburn hair cascaded in waves down to her shoulders and smelled great as she hopped into the car next to me.

  She leaned over and kissed me, then carefully slid the cameras onto the back floor of the car. “Thanks for doing this. I don’t have any idea what Van wants but it sounded very hush-hush. If there’s something strange going on at Eastern I thought you’d want to know about it and figure out the PR implications.”

  “How well do you know this guy?” I asked, as I backed down her driveway.

  “We worked a couple of stories together when we were both freelancing. She leaned back in the seat, stretching her legs. “Our biggest was an expose for the New York Times about child soldiers in Nicaragua. That was a bad story.”

  “He still works for the Times?”

  She shook her head. “The Wall Street Journal.”

  “What would the Journal want with Eastern?”

  “Beats me. How was your day at the dog show yesterday?”

  I noted the quick shift away from Van, whoever he was, but I went with it. I told her about watching Rick and Rascal compete as we drove downriver to Yardley. We picked up I-95 at the Scudder’s Falls Bridge.

  “You know these roads pretty well,” Lili said, as I exited 95 at New Brunswick, where I picked up US 1.

  “My dad grew up in Newark and had family up there,” I said. “So we used to go up this way a lot when I was a kid. But most of the people from his generation are gone and I lost touch with the few who are left.”

  “Really? That’s sad.”

  “My dad was an only child, so most of those people were his cousins. I can’t say I was that close to any of their kids.”

  “I wish I lived closer to my family,” Lili said. “When I was looking for a job I tried to get something near my brother and his kids in California, but nothing came through. I have a few cousins scattered around the country, but the closest to here is one in New Hampshire.”

  We turned east on I-78 just beyond Newark Airport, and Lili called her friend’s cell to get directions to the diner where we were meeting him. “He says to stay on 78 to 24. Then take the Morris Avenue exit. The Peter Pan Diner is right there.”

  “Got it.” We pulled up in front of the diner a few minutes later. A rangy blond guy in jeans and a fisherman’s shirt was leaning on a BMW convertible and talking on a cell phone, and Lili hopped out of the car and ran up to him. I followed her, watching as they embraced.

  “This is Van Dryver,” she said, presenting him to me. “My boyfriend, Steve Levitan.”

  At least she made our relationship clear. That was a plus.

  “I didn’t realize you were bringing someone,” he said, and I wondered if “bringing” really meant “dating.”

  “Steve handles PR at Eastern,” Lili said. “I thought he’d be more help to you than I could. What’s this all about, Van? Why all the cloak and dagger?”

  “I’ll tell you inside.” He led us in, and we sat at a peeling vinyl booth in the front window. The place looked like it had been around since Jesus wore short pants, with a vinyl tile floor, Formica tabletops, and a small jukebox at each table. Around us, teenagers in polo shirts with popped collars ate burgers and fries and joked around.

  “What’s good here?” Lili asked Van, picking up the menu.

  “No idea. Never been here. But I had an interview this morning in Summit and the guy recommended the place.”

  After the waitress took our order, Van said, “The story I’m looking into is about a woman with connections to your college. Started out as a regular obit, but I’ve been turning up some strange things.”

  “Whose obit?” I asked. “Not Rita Gaines?”

  He turned to me. “You knew her?”

  “Steve’s an amateur detective,” Lili said dryly. “His friend is the policeman investigating the murder, and he’s been trying to help out.”

  I winced. “Ouch. Trying?”

  “He’s been helping,” Lili said. “Better?”

  “Better. Are you looking into her murder?” I asked Van.

  He pushed a blond curl off his forehead. His face was tanned and lined, even though he probably wasn’t much older than Lili or me. And yet he still had a boyish enthusiasm which came through when he talked.

  “In a way. There’s something funky going on with her investment business.”

  The waitress delivered our platters and I had to wait til she was finished to ask, “Funky how? Anything that might bounce back and hurt Eastern?”

  “I’m not willing to say anything right now. Just investigating. But I understand she was a member of the Board of Trustees at Eastern, and the College invested some of its capital with her. You know anything about that?”

  “I knew she was on the board, but I didn’t know anything about investments,” I said.

  “And I barely knew the woman,” Lili said. “Met her at a couple of parties. And then there was the fuss at the exhibition.”

  “What kind of fuss?” Van asked.

  As we ate, Lili told Van about Felae’s painting and Rita’s complaints. Van took a couple of notes, but it was clear from his demeanor that what we had to say didn’t matter to his article.

  Lili finished her eggs and pushed the plate away from her. “Is that all, Van? We drove all the way across New Jersey for this?”

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, thanks for brunch.” She scooted next to me with a gentle push.

  I took the hint and stood, then pulled a card out of my wallet. “If you need a formal statement from the College or you want to talk to anyone else there, give me a call,” I said, handing him t
he card.

  “Will do. Take care of Lili. She’s a treasure.”

  When we were out in the car, I said, “You certainly cast your spell on him.”

  “Oh, please. This Peter Pan diner was the perfect place to meet him. He’s an overgrown boy. He won’t settle down and act like an adult; he just wants to keep chasing stories around the world.”

  “And you outgrew that?”

  She looked over at me. “Yeah, I did. Don’t get me wrong. If somebody offered me the chance to go somewhere for a great story, I’d probably jump, as long as it didn’t interfere with school or anything else. But I like my life now.” She took my hand and squeezed. “You think we can still make the flea market?”

  “We can try.” I backed out of the space and hopped back on the highway. But I wasn’t going to let Lili off the hook too easily. “How long did you and he date?”

  She looked out the window. “I told you, we just worked together.”

  I waited.

  “We had a fling, all right? When I was married to Phillip, the magazine editor, I knew he was cheating on me, and when Van pursued me, I didn’t say no. Philip and I were already living separate lives by then anyway.”

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I had never cheated on Mary, and I was pretty sure she had been faithful to me. But I knew enough not to pry into the state of anyone else’s marriage. I could only hope that Lili wasn’t going to make a habit of cheating.

  “What do you think he found out about Rita Gaines?” Lili asked as we got onto I-78 to cut back across the state.

  “No idea. But she was definitely a nasty piece of work, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she screwed a few people along the way.”

  I regretted that choice of words but knew if I called attention to the comparison to Lili’s relationship with Van I’d only dig myself in deeper. “She probably cheated some of her clients or something.”

  “You think one of them might have killed her?”

  I shrugged. “I’m only ‘helping’ with the investigation. I don’t know the ins and outs.”

  Lili turned to look out the window again.

  Oops. That was something else I shouldn’t have said.