“And yet, just after he’d gotten jabbed by the tack in his sleeve, she was telling John the opposite...that he should know her well enough to realize she’d never do such a thing.”
Baxter grimaced. “That could have just been words. What else was she supposed to say under the circumstances?”
“True. The jilted lover...who he’d exploited.”
“We don’t know John’s side of the story. We just know that John worked for over two years on this play.”
“We know that John said he worked on it for two years,” I corrected. Truth be told, I was getting a bad feeling about John and was beginning to worry about his character in general.
“Point taken.” He paused. “He’s a friend, though. I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“I understand. Maybe all Felicity did was come up with the concept of a jointly owned dog that barks whenever his owners’ new lovers tried to talk. Which probably was worth only a dollar or two.”
“Right.” The muscles in his jaw were working, though.
Felicity apparently came up with the dog deliberately tripping the significant others, as well, though. If John truly did cheat Felicity out of the proceeds of a hit play and then dumped her, he might be lucky, karma-wise, to come out of this ugly incident with merely an overnight hospital visit.
“How did you meet John?” I asked.
“At the canine sheep-herding competitions at the Denver Stock Show, three or four years ago.”
“Was Flint competing in the herding class?”
“No. He had a Blue Heeler then that was getting up there in years. I happened to be managing the event that year. John helped me to calm down a pair of irate owners.”
“Why were they irate?”
“There was a gate in the arena that had a squeaky latch. They blamed the squeak for wrecking their dog’s performance. John told me he was writing Good Dog, Blue! clear back then.”
“So that must have been closer to just two years ago.”
Baxter paused. “It was two and a half years ago. I offered to buy him a beer. He told me he owned part of a ranch near Creede. Suggested I bring my dogs... join him for some hiking and fishing. Up until now, he’s always been really laid back around me.”
“Just not at work,” I muttered, thinking about Sam’s statements this afternoon.
***
We managed to arrive shortly before visiting hours were over. We entered his room, which was built for two patients, but the second bed was vacant. John looked pale and as if he’d aged ten years. He forced a feeble smile and promptly switched off the television set. He managed to sit up and gave us both fist bumps in greeting. We made predictable chatter about how he was feeling and this having been a close scare.
“How did the rest of the performance go?” he asked me.
“Really well.”
He nodded. “Allie. The doctor said you’re the one who alerted everyone to check for poison. You saved my life.”
“That sounds heroic, though it wasn’t. But the important thing is that you rest and get better,” I said.
“What’s most important is that we find the person who tried to kill me. I already told the police that it’s Sam Geller. He’s had it out for me for years now.”
“You think it’s Sam Geller?” I asked, surprised. If anything, I would have expected him to be positive that Felicity had done this. “You’ve known each other for years?”
“Quite a few,” John said. “He’s behind Flint’s troubles on stage. He’s doing everything he can to get back at me.”
“For what?” Baxter and I asked simultaneously.
“We got into a big argument over a poker game between me and him and his brother. It was a long time ago, when I was young and stupid. I was real low on money, and I’d been running a tab I couldn’t pay, so I palmed an ace. Even so, when he called me on it, I insisted he was nuts, because I knew the guy was going to clobber me. I even threw the first punch, but the police believed me and not him or his brother. He’s the one that spent the night in jail. So a couple of years later, we run into each other out of the blue, here in Creede, and he recognizes me. Brings up the whole thing. I apologized and gave him a job. The guy just won’t let it go. And I can’t ever seem to catch him red-handed.”
Baxter and I exchanged glances. “You told that to the police?” I asked.
He nodded. “Just a short time ago. I don’t remember what happened to the tack. They said they needed to see if they can find traces of the poison on it. He said he’d go to the theater and track it down. But I don’t think they’re doing anything. I don’t know if they’re taking any of this seriously.”
“Of course they are,” I said. “That’s their job.”
“Has the doctor said when you’re going to be able to leave?” Baxter said.
“Probably tomorrow, thank God. I mean, they had the hospital test my blood, so they know I was poisoned. But Felicity doused the wound in antiseptic and washed it. So Sam’s going to get away with it. And there are tacks on the damned message board in the hallway. They probably won’t even get the right tack!”
A nurse stepped into the doorway. “I’m sorry, but visiting hours are over now.”
“You have to keep my dog,” John blurted out. “I don’t want Sam to steal him.”
“Why would he steal him?” Baxter asked.
“It’s bad blood. His brother used to own Flint. He got cancer and died though, and I bought Flint. Sam’s so delusional he thinks I cheated him”
“Dude,” Baxter said, “why did you hire a delusional man to work with power tools and heavy overhead lighting and so on?”
“To get him off my back.” He sighed as if impatient with us. But his story wasn’t making any sense. “Look, I took some shortcuts to get Flint. I kind of shortchanged his brother. I can get a little carried away with competition sometimes. But the important thing is, I know Sam is out to kill me. And I have to keep Flint from him. Maybe you can take him to Boulder with you. I’ll take good care of Pavlov, and once Sam is arrested, we can get everything straightened out.”
“Mr. Morris,” the nurse said, her voice more emphatic this time, “you need to get some rest. It’s well past visiting hours. I’m sure things will clear up and look differently in the morning.”
“Go to my house,” John said, ignoring her. “Don’t leave Flint alone. I need to get you the keys. They’re in the pockets of my pants, but I don’t know where my things are.”
“They should be in the closet,” the nurse said.
“Wait. Never mind. My costume is in the closet. My pants are still in the dressing room. But it’s easier if you guys just use the spare. The key’s in the hanging planter by the front door.”
“Fine. We’ll get Flint right now,” I said.
“Just stay at my place tonight. Take Pavlov with you, and stay there. Promise me.”
“Promise,” Baxter said. “Get some rest, bro. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Take care, John,” I told him. I gave his hand a gentle squeeze. John’s grip was so strong, I had to pull my hand free from his grasp.
Baxter and I left the room with the nurse. John’s weird stories about Sam and his brother had left me unsettled. His lack of coherency was probably due to whatever drugs they’d given him to treat him, or perhaps a side effect of the aconite.
“Our friend wasn’t sounding like himself,” I said to the nurse as she escorted us toward the front desk. “Is he lucid, do you think?”
“I didn’t hear all of what he said to you, but it’s not unusual for patients to get paranoid and alarmed. He’s been under a lot of stress today.”
“That’s probably all it is.” I looked at Baxter, but he didn’t meet my gaze.
We thanked her and left. We were silent as we made the drive back to John’s house. Pavlov was also silent, but a little restless in the backseat. “Is it just my imagination,” I said, “or is our romantic getaway in the mountains off to a really bad
start?”
Baxter gave no reply.
Chapter 8
“I wish I knew what was going on, Allie,” Baxter said with a sigh after another minute of silence.
“Me, too.” Feeling forlorn, I stared out the window at the shapes of the foothills in the darkness. “I warned you about this, you know. It’s my curse. I have a ridiculous knack for winding up on the periphery of murder investigations.”
“At least this is just an attempted murder.” After a lengthy pause, he added, “Do you want to bail on this job? Tell John that all this animosity makes it impossible for you to help Flint?”
I mulled the question. “No. I haven’t gotten the chance to work with Flint even once. For that matter, we haven’t spent more than fifteen minutes in our hotel room. We had to scarf down our takeout dinner so fast during our rehearsal I’m not sure I even tasted it.” I studied his features. “But is that what you want to do?”
“No. I’d feel terrible if I just deserted John while he was in the hospital.”
“Do you think he’s right about Sam Geller?”
“Hard to tell.” He grimaced. “I’ve never heard John ramble like that. I’m thinking his brain was still feeling the crazy-making side effects of the poison.”
“The whole story was garbled, but if the gist was correct, Sam could be the type of person who thinks if he can’t have something that’s rightfully his, he’ll make damn sure nobody else can have it.”
We parked in front of John’s front door. Baxter found the spare key in the planter, while I let Pavlov out of the Subaru’s hatchback and waited for her.
Meanwhile, Flint watched us through the front window. Baxter let him outside to join us, and soon enough, the two dogs had lifted our spirits. We shamelessly ran around John’s property with them like we were kids. I’d recently taught Pavlov how to play “tag,” and Flint immediately figured out the rules of the game. Although both Baxter and I are athletic, the dogs could literally run circles around us, and their antics made us laugh heartily.
A police car pulled up behind our Subaru. John’s one-acre property was on a dirt road with just a couple of houses nearby, but my first thought was that a neighbor had complained about our whopping and hollering at this late hour. A moment later, I realized that it was far more likely the officer was here to investigate the poisoning.
We stopped our game. Wordlessly, Baxter took my hand, and we walked toward the officer who’d emerged and stood waiting for us at his vehicle. He was bald with wire-rimmed glasses.
“Evening, folks. I’m Sheriff Caulfield. I’m looking into some matters concerning the owner of this property.”
“John Morris,” Baxter said. “He’s a friend of ours.” Baxter then introduced himself and me, and we shook the sheriff’s hand.
“John told us to use the spare key and to dog sit for him,” I explained. “We just returned a few minutes ago from visiting him in the hospital.”
“Can I see some IDs, please?”
We handed him our driver’s licenses, which he examined under his flashlight while we explained how we knew John and that I was here to train Flint.
The sheriff listened, then said, “Mr. Morris is of the opinion that he was poisoned during his performance this evening. Did you witness the incident?”
“Yes, although I didn’t realize he’d been injured until he left the stage,” I said.
“Neither did I. I was up above the stage in a back corner,” Baxter added, “and couldn’t always see his face from my angle.”
“The actress was supposed to grab his wrist, and when she did so, a tack in the cuff punctured his skin,” I said.
“He went back on stage for the second act and became ill about twenty minutes later,” Baxter said. “I helped him until the medics arrived.”
“Do you have any idea who put the tack in his sleeve?”
“No,” Baxter answered. “The costumes are stored in a room upstairs, and anyone who works at theater has access to it.”
“Though it would have taken a while to put the tack inside the cuff,” I said. “The seamstress shortened the sleeves an inch and basted them, so the person who put it there would have needed to poke the point through the fabric enough to keep it in place, but not enough to scratch him as he fastened the buttons.”
“He gave me your names as friends of his,” the sheriff said. “You two just got into town today?”
“Right,” Baxter said, simultaneously with my: “Yes.”
“Thank you for your time. I’ll probably have some follow-up questions, but right now I’m simply trying to gather some information.” He smiled down as he looked at Flint. “Good luck training that dog. I saw the show opening night. The dog was clueless. It was pretty funny, though.”
“So I’ve heard,” I replied.
“He was barking in the beginning, then darting around in the second act. It made me appreciate the actors. They were really quick witted. It wasn’t until I read the program that I realized the dog was supposed to do more than just sit there throughout the third act.”
“Pardon?” I asked.
“Yeah, he just plopped down in the middle of the stage. Then he lay down and went to sleep.”
“That’s not what happened on the video recording I had. This was opening night?”
“Oh. No. Not officially. It was an early showing. Kind of dress rehearsal in front of an audience.”
“Huh. I was told Flint did really well in the dress rehearsal.”
I looked at Baxter, who was obviously as surprised as I was. Greg had also raved about Flint’s performances in rehearsals. Maybe the difference in opinion was simply semantics of what was or was not a “rehearsal.” Either way, John was proving to be suspiciously unforthcoming with information.
“It sounds to me like the dog had been given a tranquilizer,” I said. That would have made today’s tranquilizer the second he’d had, which called into question why John claimed to be surprised by the severity of Blue’s reaction to the dosage. Not to mention his lying to me.
“Yeah, you know, that’s what I thought, too, but my wife thought they just deliberately picked an old, mellow dog for the role.” He headed toward his vehicle. “Have a nice evening.”
“Thanks. You too,” we replied in united voice.
“If you think of anything significant that you might have seen or heard, don’t hesitate to call me.” He got into his car, and we let the dogs back into the house.
The moment the door shut behind us, I told Baxter how alarmed I was that John lied about Flint’s never having had one of Pippa’s pills before today. “His entire premise of needing to calm Flint down before he hurt himself made no sense,” I told Baxter for at least the second time. “He knew I was right there. That’s like self medicating on your way to a doctor’s appointment. What the hell do you think John’s doing?”
“I have no freaking idea. I really thought I knew the guy better than this.”
“I was willing to write off his actions today as bad judgement when something heavy had nearly flattened his dog. But not even mentioning that Flint had been listless during their first actual performance before a live audience? Something strange is going on. He’s not telling us the full story.”
Baxter grimaced. We both stared at Flint, who was lying on his dog bed in the corner of the living room. “If only dogs could talk.”
“You haven’t noticed any bumps our scars on him, have you?” I asked timidly. “I know Flint doesn’t show any of the emotional worrisome signs. He doesn’t flinch if you raise an arm suddenly or anything.”
“I don’t think there’s any chance that he’s been beaten. But it won’t hurt to check.”
We knelt in front of his bed. “Flint, sit.”
He promptly followed my command. I petted every inch of his fur, finding nothing suspicious—no healed scars or bumps. I had him stand, as well; he had a solid physique with no signs of joint pain. As I kept assuring him he was a very good dog, I gave him a roll-
over command and gave him a belly rub, palpitating his lower abdomen in the process. I then batted a chewed tennis ball around with him.
“He seems fine. John sent me his veterinarian records. His blood panel results were all normal. The vet couldn’t find anything at all wrong.”
“Right,” Baxter said.
Pavlov had quietly joined us and was now taking turns panting into each of our faces as we sat on the floor. I told Baxter that both dogs deserved treats for this long, demanding day. We searched the kitchen and found a pair of rawhide strips.
As we watched them both happily gnaw away at them, I said, “Please don’t tell John this, but I’m going to talk to Sam about this brother of his. I want to hear his version of how John got his brother’s dog.”
“That’s not a good idea, Allie. What if John’s right about him? What if he’s unstable and tried to murder John?”
“If he doesn’t want to talk to me, I won’t press him. I just...” I sighed. “I’m sorry, Bax, but I no longer trust John. I hope to discover that I’m wrong. But if John did something really unethical to get Flint away from his rightful owner, Flint could be at risk.”
“I hear you. I want to be there when you talk to Sam, though.”
“Good. I’d feel safer that way, too.”
John’s house had two-bedrooms. We found a set of linens and made the queen-sized bed in the guest room. Baxter nodded right out. Too jittery to fall asleep myself, I grabbed my laptop and researched the participants at the Denver Stock show for the last couple of years. Even though I was native Coloradoan and had spent most of my thirty-two years within an hour’s drive from Denver, I’d never once been to the annual stock show, which took place every January.
I spent an enjoyable time watching YouTube clips that featured working dogs competing for best sheep herding and cattle herding. Afterwards, I located an article in a tiny publication that captured all of my attention. Flint, as it turned out, had done badly in his most recent competition, despite being heavily favored to win. Baxter had told me to wake him up if I found anything major, and I took him at his word.
Dog Drama Page 8