An Allie Babcock Mystery
DOG DRAMA
by
Leslie O’Kane
Book Six in the Series
Copyright 2017 by Leslie O’Kane
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Although this book is set in the actual town of Creede, Colorado, and it is loosely based on Creede’s wonderful repertory theater, changes were made to suit my story purposes. None of the characters are even loosely based on the staff, crew, volunteers, or actors that make the Creede Repertory Theatre such an extraordinary endeavor. Any additional resemblance to people living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Also by Leslie O'Kane
Allie Babcock Mysteries
Give the Dog a Bone
Woof at the Door
Of Birds and Beagles
Dog Drama
Terrier Terror
Life's Second Chances
Going to Graceland
Women's Night Out
Finding Gregory Peck
By the Light of the Moon
Molly Masters Mysteries
Death Comes eCalling
Death Comes to Suburbia
Death of a Gardener
Death Comes to a Retreat
Death on a School Board
Death at a Talent Show
Death Comes to the PTA
Short Story Featuring Allie Babcock
A Dog-Gone Christmas
The Body Shifters Trilogy
The Body Shifters Begins: Jake Greyland: A Short Story
Standalone
A Dog-Gone Christmas
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Leslie O'Kane
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Note from Allie Babcock
Foreword | Important Note from the Author | Please Read This | (Speaking for myself, I tend to skip forewords.)
Chapter 1 | Having a Ball...
Sign up for Leslie O'Kane's Mailing List
Also By Leslie O'Kane
Dedication
To Pam Howell.
Thanks for being such a wonderful research-trip companion
Books by Leslie O’Kane
Life’s Second Chances:
Going to Graceland
Women’s Night Out
Finding Gregory Peck
By the Light of the Moon
Book Club Trilogy
How My Book Club Got Arrested
Molly Masters Mysteries:
Death Comes eCalling
Death Comes to Suburbia
Death of a Gardener
Death Comes to a Retreat
Death on a School Board
Death in a Talent Show
Death Comes to the PTA
Allie Babcock Mysteries:
Play Dead
Ruff Way to Go
Give the Dog a Bone
Woof at the Door
Of Birds and Beagles
Dog Drama (in July 2017)
Leslie Caine Domestic Bliss:
Death by Inferior Design
False Premises
Manor of Death
Killed by Clutter
Fatal Feng Shui
Poisoned by Gilt
Holly and Homicide
Two Funerals and a Wedding
Body Shifters Trilogy
The Body Shifters
Mind Echoes
Chapter 1
The scenery through the windshield of my boyfriend’s Subaru was truly spectacular—golden-brown canyon walls, as steep and narrow as New York City high-rises, reaching up to a cloudless, deep blue sky. The late afternoon sun cast shadows on the brightly painted western-style shops and storefronts to either side of us.
“Here we are, Allie,” Baxter told me. “Downtown Creede. The theatre is just at the top of the hill.”
“What a cute little town,” I said. “I’m a little annoyed at myself that I’ve lived in Colorado almost my entire life but have never been here before.”
“It is pretty remote.” Baxter gave my thigh a quick squeeze, and I scooted as close to him as my seatbelt would allow.
At age thirty-four, I had finally found my soulmate.
Though we’d been living and working together for over a year now, we both felt happiest and most productive when we were together, something that I hoped would last forever—despite the inevitable fits and starts of any long-term relationship.
As we drove closer, the mountains’ impressiveness increased. In Boulder, the Flatirons were a stunning backdrop. Here, the mountains so dwarfed the buildings, they seemed to be in the foreground. “From a bird’s-eye view, this town must look like colorful dots within a mountain crevice.” I paused, reassessing my statement. “That is, provided the bird was flying at extreme altitudes...an eagle, maybe.”
“Or maybe a canary with a window seat in an airplane,” Baxter quipped.
I laughed and managed to refrain from giving him a playful jab, not wanting to distract him from his driving.
We pulled into the dog-friendly hotel where he’d made our reservations. Dog-friendliness was going to be a lodging requirement for our foreseeable future. Baxter and I shared a passion for dogs. Our marvelous predilection was a blessing that had been handed down to us from generation to generation in both of our families.
My German Shepherd, Pavlov, hopped out of the Subaru. Baxter snapped her leash onto her collar and led her to an undoubtedly oft-tinkled-upon lodge-pole pine next to the parking lot. I grabbed our suitcase out of the trunk, along with my hip pack (which was technically a “fanny pack” but I always wore it on my right side). My little pack had become a staple during my work assignments. It contained treats, kibble, a clicker, scoop bags, and a small first-aid kit.
After I’d taken a couple of steps, Baxter traded me the suitcase for the leash and put his arm around my shoulders as we headed to the office door. His affectionate gesture chipped away the last of my restraint at exhibiting my joy. I took a couple of happy hops. “This is so much fun,” I said.
Baxter chuckled.
“Not only do I get to spend a romantic week with you in the mountains,” I continued, “but I finally get to work with a Border Collie. They’re so darned smart and easy to train, this is the first time an owner has needed my services. Don’t tell John this, but I’d have taken this gig for free.”
“You’ve already given him tons of free hours these past few days.”
“Yeah, but analyzing videos of your friend’s stage-play, featuring a dog, is hardly a sacrifice. I’ve loved every minute.”
“You also had to train Pavlov in stage acting.” (My dog was perhaps going to be an understudy as I worked with the canine star of the play.)
“Also not a hardship. Beside
s, that will come in handy when I work with future clients. It didn’t seem fair to charge John for something I probably already should have done with Pavlov.” As a professional dog therapist, I’d been hired to help resolve an apparent case of severe stage-fright from the canine star of the show, John Morris’s Border Collie. “In any case, he’s paying me for a full forty-hour work week, plus expenses, even if I log fewer hours, so it should all come out in the wash.”
“John’s lucky to have you,” Baxter said. “He even said so himself.” He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead, then held open the door for me. My heart fluttered when our eyes met. I was head over heels for the man. To my never-ending amazement, he appeared to be equally smitten with me.
We checked into our room, which, as it turned out, the hotel owners—a friendly middle-aged couple—had dubbed the “John Wayne” room. The paneled walls were adorned with black-and-white studio photos and movie posters of the Duke, and they had a handful of his CDs stacked beside a plasma-screen television set with a CD player. The furniture was basic western—varnished- log bedposts and dresser legs, a green plaid bedspread, small nondescript nightstands.
“Huh,” Baxter muttered. “The lady told me over the phone that they’d had a cancelation in John Wayne’s room. I assumed some guy named John Wayne had cancelled his reservation.”
“Is that why you didn’t tell her I would have preferred an Audrey Hepburn room? Or a Lassie room?”
“Are you implying you won’t be watching Rio Grande with me?” he asked, wiggling its CD case at me.
“Not unless Audrey Hepburn or Lassie costar.” Pavlov raised her head and looked at me with her soulful eyes. “Better yet, Rin Tin Tin,” I added, giving Pavlov a hug.
We set about unpacking and agreed we’d like to walk to the theater. After the eight-plus hour drive from our home in Dacona—twenty miles east of our office in Boulder—Pavlov, too, seemed to be eager to stretch. In anticipation of her perhaps having to fill in for John’s dog in a performance or two this week, I had been training her in pedestal-and-target techniques. That was a highly regarded method for teaching dogs stunts on stage.
I grabbed my hip pack and my iPad. “I should have brought a dog whistle with me,” I said. “I could have tested my theory during a rehearsal on stage.”
“That someone in the audience is distracting Blue with a whistle, you mean?” (Blue was the name of the dog character in the play, as played by Flint, but after three days of training Pavlov to respond to “Blue” for the role, we had taken to using the names interchangeably.)
“Right. In the videos of the botched performances, Flint moves his head the same way Pavlov does when she hears an unexpected noise.”
“Could be,” Baxter said. “But didn’t you say yesterday that they’d checked for you, and they haven’t had any repeat customers for all four performances to date?”
“Right. But that doesn’t mean it’s not a group prank...teenagers passing around a dog whistle.”
“Huh,” he said, which meant that he’d heard me but was skeptical. I couldn’t disagree. It did seem to be a stretch to think that a group of people would randomly decide to sabotage a theater production. Considering the Creede Playhouse was hosting the play’s premier, what would motivate a batch of pranksters to focus in on this particular show from day one?
Baxter’s friend, John Morris, had sent me links to his personal recordings of scenes in which his highly trained dog acted erratically on stage. Flint had been perfect in their many rehearsals, but in front of a packed house, he had ignored or forgotten his cues. My first question to John had been if he’d taken Flint to a vet for a thorough checkup, especially of his hearing and vision. He sent me a copy of the exam. The vet had run every test he could think of, but Flint had no physical problems whatsoever.
“All set?” Baxter asked as he and Pavlov stood by the open door waiting for me to lead the way. I didn’t answer; the act of walking outside spoke for itself.
With Pavlov in perfect heel position at Baxter’s side, Baxter took my hand and we laced our fingers. Pavlov had become thoroughly devoted to him, so much so that she was almost more his dog now than mine. On the other hand, his male KC Cavalier had compensated by making me the head of his pack.
“You haven’t even mentioned how we left Ginger behind for the first time,” Baxter said, all but reading my mind.
“Remarkable, isn’t it? They’re in good hands, though.” My mother and her new husband were watching Ginger, my King Charles Cavalier, and my Cocker Spaniel—along with Baxter’s Cavalier, and their own two dogs. It was quite a canine menagerie, but they had a huge yard and lived in the outskirts of Berthoud, in a rural area where no neighbors would object to a passel of dogs.
Ginger was gorgeous, with brown and white markings. She was not quite two years old. It made me smile just to think of her. Cavaliers are wonderful lap dogs. They epitomized the Charles Schultz saying: “Happiness is a warm puppy.” If it was possible for a dog to have the perfect body temperature for sitting upon one’s lap, that was the breed. Doppler, my seven-year old Cocker, did pretty well with the Cavaliers, largely because he enjoyed his moving up to the second in command in the canine portion of his pack. Pavlov was firmly number one.
We had told John—who was both the director and playwright—to expect us to arrive between four and four thirty. Having had short notice, we managed to leave our Boulder offices early this Sunday morning. We’d made good time and arrived at the Creede Repertory Theatre a few minutes before four.
John happened to be in the lobby as we entered. John and Baxter greeted each other with a semi-hug, semi-handshake. John was a nice looking man, and he and Baxter had an immediate, easy rapport. After telling me that Flint was currently asleep on his dog bed on the second floor, John and Baxter made small talk about the rainy weather last month—May—at some lake they’d gone to last year. Baxter and I had attempted two camping-and-fishing overnight excursions. I wound up with poison oak at the first one and needing stitches in my neck at the second. (Let’s just say that I’m supremely dreadful at casting the hook.) We’d agreed in the ER that, from then on, campouts were something Baxter would do with friends like John.
The walls of the lobby were covered with photographs and framed posters of past performances. Impressively, this little, remote theater had recently celebrated their fifty-year anniversary. What most captured my attention, however, was that every single poster for John’s play had a red-and-white banner on it that read: SOLD OUT. The posters themselves showed an adorable photograph of Flint—a black-and-white Border Collie—smiling as he gripped in his mouth a long-stem rose. The charming image perfectly befitted the name of John’s play: Good Dog, Blue!
When their topic of conversation shifted to the business at hand, my interest perked up. The majority of dog owners tend to fib about their dog’s misbehaviors. Few want to admit that they were the ones who instigated the phobias that their dogs now exhibited. For example, my dogs are trained to ignore dogs that we pass on sidewalks or paths. I can tell at a distance when owners have trained their dogs to be afraid of other dogs; they stop walking and grab their dogs. Then they further train their dogs to bark by calling out that their dogs aren’t good with other dogs—which dogs interpret as their owner barking, so they follow suit. By the same token, it was possible that John was afraid of Flint performing in front of a large audience.
“So, yeah, like I told you guys,” John said, meaning me and Baxter, “Flint is still spot-on during rehearsals, but has been tanking during the actual performances, every single time.” All the enthusiasm had promptly drained from his voice.
“How did today’s matinee go?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes. “Same old same old.”
His frustration with what seemed to be a financial success confused me. “Do the ‘sold-out’ signs mean that only tonight’s show is sold out?” I asked.
“No, the entire six-week run has sold out,” he replied. “We’re extendi
ng it another week, to try to accommodate the unexpected crowds. But, frankly, that’s only due to my ingenuity. I wanted the actors to be prepared for anything...which is an unwritten rule of any and all live performances. All sorts of things can go wrong. Especially when you’re working with dogs or children. So I wrote dozens of adlibbed lines for virtually each and every conceivable dog-related mishap.”
I grinned. “You’ve practiced the art of feigning spontaneity on stage.”
“Precisely.” John rolled his eyes again. “The actors are prepared for poop, pee, whining, barking, puking, walking away, falling asleep on the stage, etcetera.”
“Sounds good as far as it goes, but what about when Flint misbehaves?” I joked.
“Whoops!” He snapped his fingers, as if he’d had an epiphany. “So that’s what I’m doing wrong!” His expression once again darkened. “That’s another reason I wanted to be sure my play debuted right here, in my home town. All of the actors are practiced in the art of humorous improvisation. We have an audience-participation comedy show on weekends. It’s called Boomtown. We’re having a special kickoff show on Wednesday, though. You should attend, if you get the chance.” He shifted his gaze to Baxter. “I’m hoping we can squeeze in a backpacking trip.”
I fought away my mental image of Baxter climbing to a vertiginous cliff. (I have a fear of heights.) “John, why are you concerned about Flint—”
“Good Dog, Blue! is Standing Room Only because it’s a relatively small theater,” he said, cutting me off, “and it’s funny. The cast jokes about whatever ‘Blue’ is doing on stage. The audience doesn’t mind, because the play is being advertised as a not-to-miss event for dog lovers. Furthermore, all of the locals know Flint. That’s what happens when you live in a town of, like, two hundred homes.”
“But surely this has to be a huge success for a first-time production. It can’t be all that critical to retrain Flint to respond correctly to his cues,” I persisted. “The theater is selling out, and everyone’s happy, right?”
“Not counting me.” He put his hand on his chest for emphasis. “I wrote a really tight script that’s hardly being used at all. It’s like I’ve created a satirical sendup of my own creative endeavor. It’s wrecking all of my aspirations for Good Dog, Blue! Plus, Flint is miserable. He’s sensing that I’m not happy with his performance miscues.”
Dog Drama Page 1