The play went off without a hitch. To my eye, at least, the performance was flawless from start to finish. None of the actors flubbed a single line. There were no costume malfunctions. No falling lights. Flint was every bit as good on stage as he was in the rehearsals. Even though he perked up his ears and looked at the audience a handful of times, the audience oohed and aahed, appreciating how cute he was.
Best of all, the new scene with Blue alone on the stage as he dialed a cordless phone was nothing short of a triumph. Following his scene, the audience gave him such a thunderous ovation that Karen had to stall by pretending she couldn’t catch her breath when she burst through the front door in answer to Blue’s phone call.
Even so, numerous times during the performance, I suspected a dog whistle was being blown. Flint’s responses were subtle—perking up his ears and looking briefly at the audience. Baxter was once again scanning the audience surreptitiously, but when I glanced up at him after each act, he shook his head. He’d failed to spot any telltale actions in the audience.
My emotions were in a jumble as the play ended. At once I wanted to feel elated, and yet the audience’s laughter and cheers felt macabre and inappropriate on this day. Yet I also felt proud of all of us for persevering despite such a hideous, heinous act. I tried to put all of that out of my head and rose with the audience and clapped as the actors took their bows.
On the opposite wing of the stage from me, Baxter gave Flint two long-stemmed roses to carry. Although we’d muffed Pavlov’s curtain call on Sunday night, Blue’s behavior was fully choreographed. The four actors faced him and called simultaneously, “Come, Blue!” He trotted onto center stage, holding the roses in his mouth. The final twenty-or-so audience members who weren’t already giving the actors a standing ovation now rose. The applause was all but deafening.
I grinned, so proud of Flint that my eyes teared up as I awaited the huge, “Aww” he would get from the packed house. He was trained to drop both roses at Karen’s feet, then to pick one up and head toward Sally, but stop, turn around, and drop a rose Hammond’s feet—Blue’s beloved original owners in the play. It was all but guaranteed to get a huge laugh.
Flint, however, dropped both roses before he reached Karen at his “marker two,” which was when I was supposed to give him a “Drop it,” command. He backed away from the roses and shook his head. Baxter and I exchanged surprised glances as the audience laughed and cheered. I gestured at Baxter to join me on the other side of the stage, and he came right over.
“Flint’s still pawing at his tongue,” I told him, pointing.
“It looks like the stems must have tasted bad. But Pavlov had no problem with yesterday’s roses. Not with holding them in her mouth, I mean.”
“Maybe they were coated in something that tastes bad.” Baxter immediately sniffed at his own hand that had handled the roses immediately prior to Flint. He grimaced and touched his tongue to his finger tip. “Hot sauce,” he said.
I cursed under my breath. Someone had still managed to muck with Flint’s performance! At least whoever did it hadn’t put anything horribly toxic on the stems. Meanwhile, on stage, Hammond fetched the flowers where Flint had dropped them, and gave one to Sally and one to Karen, kissing each of them and almost sweeping them off their feet in the process.
Only then did I realize that John was standing backstage in a darkened corner on the opposite wing. Our gazes met. His expression had gone from a glare to a smile. He mimed applauding for me. I gave him a thumbs-up. Even so, I didn’t know what had caused his glare. Probably he, too, recognized someone had tampered with the roses. I hoped, though, that he wasn’t jealous that the play had gone so well without him at Flint’s audio controls.
“When did John get here?” I asked Baxter.
“He’s here?”
“He was standing in the far corner just now.”
Baxter looked, but John had left. “I’m surprised I didn’t see him when I came down.”
I signaled for Flint to come, and he trotted off the stage. I gave him a couple of treats that I had stashed in my pocket. My experience, at least, with hot sauce was a grain-based bite of something was more effective for easing the burn than drinking water.
John rounded the back of the stage and joined us. “What happened to the roses?”
“Hot sauce,” Baxter said. “The roses were sitting back stage on the prop table for the whole play, per usual.”
“Any idea who tampered with them?” John asked.
“‘Fraid not.”
“So the police didn’t arrest you,” I said to John. “That’s got to be a huge relief.”
“If only,” he grumbled. “I am being charged. My lawyer got the D.A. to concede that, since this was supposed to be strictly an interview, not an arrest, and I had come to the station voluntarily, they’d let me go home and find a caregiver tonight for Flint. While I spend the night in jail. If not longer. I have to hope that the judge will allow me to post bail.”
“Geez,” Baxter said. “Sorry, bro. That really sucks. And it’s...so premature.”
“They’re going to arrest you when you return?” I asked, stunned.
“Right. They’ll have my bail hearing in the morning. Or the probable-cause hearing, or whatever it’s called. At least it gives me the chance to talk with Sally before I’m placed under arrest. And to make arrangements for Flint’s care.”
“But surely you’ll be able to get out on bail. Plus, their evidence is just circumstantial.”
He shrugged. “They didn’t believe me about the torn pocket. I didn’t have any witnesses. And Sam’s story about meeting the guy who was going to donate lumber doesn’t seem to pan out.”
“Doesn’t Valerie know about the donor?”
“Yeah, and so did I, and a handful of other people. But the donor was at work all day. Sam was supposed to meet with him on Saturday. So the sheriff thinks I set him up to go to a place that was typically deserted, where I could make his murder look like an accident.”
Sally noticed John as she along with the three actors finally came off the stage. Her coolness toward him as compared to two days ago was difficult to miss.
“Hi, Babe,” he said. He tried to kiss her on the lips but she turned her cheek to him. She grabbed his arm. “Are you being arrested tonight?” she asked.
He nodded. His eyes filled with tears.
“We can watch Flint again,” Baxter offered. “He and Pavlov are getting to be good buds.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll come to your hearing,” Sally said.
“I didn’t do this, Allie, Sally. I didn’t kill Sam. I’m being framed.”
“Do you have any idea who did kill him?” Baxter asked.
“Maybe the same person who planted tongue-burning hot sauce on the roses. Maybe it’s someone who wants this play to fail. Even if it takes someone’s murder to wreck my work.”
Baxter shook his head as if with disgust. He let out a low whistle for Flint, and they both left the room. Once again, John had ignored his dog.
Sally’s three fellow actors had been standing nearby, chatting, but were now blatantly listening in on our conversation. Greg took a couple of steps toward us. “At least the performance tonight went perfectly,” Greg said. He looked at me. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you that Flint wasn’t going to bite me. Maybe the troubles with the dog are over once and for all.”
“That’s a batch of baloney,” John said. “Just a few minutes ago, someone dowsed the roses’ stems in hot sauce. Sunday night, it was dark chocolate. And overhead lights crashing. Tomorrow night it could be a lethal toxin.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Allie, you and Baxter are going to have to protect Flint’s life. I’m not going to be able to protect him myself from my jail cell.”
“We’ll guard him just like we would our own dogs,” I said honestly.
“Whoever’s doing this must know by now that we have a competent understudy,” Greg said. “If someone’s truly out to d
estroy the play, Pavlov’s in just as much danger as Flint is.”
“Now there’s a reassuring statement,” I grumbled.
Hammond said, “Maybe someone was eating a taco at the table and spilled some sauce without realizing it.”
“None of us benefit from the show being shut down,” Sally said. “We’d all be out of jobs. And it would crater the entire season for the theater.”
Felicity was also approaching and overheard. “Are you talking about what would happen if we had to close Good Dog, Blue! this week?” she asked.
Sally nodded.
“Oh, that would crater more than just the season,” Felicity exclaimed. “It would effectively bankrupt us.”
“Right,” John said. He now looked more angry than depressed, at least. “Nobody with a stake in this theater’s future would be pulling this kind of crap. Which means I have no motive, damn it all! That hick of a sheriff we’ve got has his head up his ass.”
“Unless the murderer was a hothead, who tends to do and say things without thinking them through,” Felicity growled, glaring at John the entire time.
John balled his fists. “For the last time, I did nothing wrong, Felicity! And you’re every bit as big of a hothead as I am!”
“Tell that to the judge in your bail trial,” she snapped. “I’m sure she or he will be thoroughly impressed.”
“On that note,” I said, “it’s time for me to call it a night. Do you want Baxter and me to take Flint with us to the hotel?”
John grimaced, then nodded. “You’d better. I still have to pack a bag before I turn myself in to be arrested. They agreed to let me wear my own clothes tonight. A small town courtesy from our hick sheriff.”
“Chin up, Captain,” Hammond said. “You’ll be out on bail in the morning, and you’ll be able to write with authority on what it feels like to be thrown in the slammer.”
John gaped at him. “Are you trying to help me experience punching my lead actor in the nose?”
“No, sir.” He took a step back. “I hope things go smoothly, and you’re exonerated quickly.”
John mumbled his thanks.
I left and located Baxter, who was outside with Flint, and told them both that Flint was coming to the hotel with us for the night. Baxter said he wanted a private word with John, so I said I’d meet him at the hotel and took control of Flint’s leash.
It was a beautiful night, and a pure pleasure to breathe in the crisp night air and walk the couple of blocks to the hotel. Behind me, there was still a hint of a reddish glow tinging the craggy mountain tops from the setting sun. The world continued to go on its course, despite the out of control behavior of its inhabitants. Sunsets, mountains, love, dogs. There were many wonderful things to balance out the bad.
I spotted the car in the parking lot, curious to see that someone had stuck a piece of paper under the windshield wiper; no other car windshields had one, so it was unlikely to be an ad. I pulled it free.
In block printing from a Sharpie, the note read: Leave now or else you’re next!
Chapter 16
The sheriff had little to say when Baxter and I gave him the threatening note. I had gotten Flint settled in our room with Pavlov and waited for Baxter by the car, showed him the note, and we’d driven here together. “It’s most likely a prank,” Sheriff Caulfield said. “Folks around here would know by your license plates that you’re from out of town. It’s a cheap way to get a laugh from some drunkard’s buddies. Though I can see why it upset you.”
“No kidding,” Baxter said. “Do you suppose anyone with half a brain wouldn’t be upset by a death threat?”
“Like I said. It’s upsetting, and we’ll do our best to try and track down the jerk who wrote it. If we do, he or she will get their due punishment. But you said yourself just this afternoon that your connection to Sam Geller is all but nonexistent. That you’re helping to improve upon the training of a dog that his late brother once owned.” He spread his fingers as if to emphasize his words. “For this to be a serious threat from the killer, you’d have to be doing something to tick off his killer something fierce.”
“Maybe I am, and I just don’t realize it. Maybe I’m unknowingly interfering with the killer’s master plan,” I said.
“Okay,” Sheriff Caulfield said. “Let’s go with that theory. So you tell me. How could you have put yourself in the perp’s way? You found the body, of course. But what else have you done since you arrived Sunday afternoon?”
“I don’t know. None of this makes any sense. All I’ve done is work with Flint, and had my dog be his understudy in one performance.”
“We’re also taking care of John Morris’s dog,” Baxter added. “John’s being held in custody until the bail hearing.”
“And?” the sheriff asked.
Baxter looked at me, his face blank.
“And...maybe that prevented someone from snatching Flint?” I said. That was such a weak motive, I phrased it like a question. “Or maybe I saw something that identified the killer, and I just haven’t put the clues together yet. Or maybe the killer simply thinks I might be able to identify him or her, and wants me out of town.”
“From what I heard tell, John Morris was at the theater tonight, hiding in the shadows,” the sheriff said.
Again, Baxter and I exchanged glances. “Well, I wouldn’t say he was deliberately hiding, necessarily. He was simply standing in an unlit corner.”
“How many people besides Mr. Morris would be able to pick out your car in a hotel parking lot?”
That was a good question, and Baxter and I looked at each other in silence.
“It’s hard to say,” Baxter replied. There actually wasn’t anyone we could say for certain knew what our car looked like.
Sheriff Caulfield leaned back in his chair and eyed us both. “When were you planning on heading back home?”
“Sunday morning,” Baxter replied.
“The hotels are all booked solid. Maybe someone tried to scare us into leaving just because he really, really wants our room.” Getting punchy with exhaustion, I chuckled at my lame sarcasm.
“It does get a mite crowded here during theater season,” the sheriff said with a grin.
“Why are you making jokes about this, Allie?” Baxter snapped. “What if the killer is serious? He or she could be some nutcase who’s hearing voices to kill anyone who comes into contact with the dog starring in Good Dog, Blue!”
“Frankly, I’d prefer not have to take this seriously.”
“The Subaru is actually your vehicle, isn’t it, Mr. McClelland?” the sheriff asked Baxter. “Maybe the note was meant for you.”
“Allie and I discussed that possibility during our drive here,” Baxter replied. “But it makes even less sense for someone to target me. I’m just here as Allie’s assistant.”
“But you’re also Mr. Morris’s friend, aren’t you?”
Baxter grimaced. “Our friendship’s taken a bit of a beating this weekend, but, yeah.”
“Did you know anyone else at the theater? Sam Geller? Anyone?”
He shook his head. “I’ve met Felicity a couple of times, briefly, back when they were dating, but that’s it.”
The sheriff nodded. After a long silence among the three of us, he said, “You do realize you can leave town anytime, don’t you? We have evidence that shows we’ve got the right guy in custody. I’m not trying to kick you out of town, but there’s nothing holding you here if you want to play it safe.”
“Nothing except Flint,” I replied. “I want to make sure he’s going to wind up in a safe, loving place when this all shakes out.”
“And I want to see things through with John,” Baxter said. “As long as Allie isn’t risking her neck. Which is now a concern.”
“That’s something I’d want to take into consideration, if I was in your shoes,” the sheriff said. “We do know how to reach you at your home, where you’d be safe and sound.”
“Maybe you’ll be able to identify someon
e’s fingerprints on the piece of paper,” I said.
“Maybe.” The sheriff rose. “If Mr. Morris’s prints are on it, that could help us get a confession.”
“If he’s guilty,” Baxter grumbled. They’d taken my prints when we arrived on the theory that they needed to exclude my prints; Baxter had not touched the note.
***
The next day was Wednesday, and the Main Stage was dark, while the Ruth Theater, their second, newer-but-smaller venue a block away was putting on a play called The Time Post, which all I knew about was that it required next to no scenery. That performance would be followed by Boomtown, their improvisational show. Originally, we had discussed taking the dogs on a long hike with John, thinking that would do wonders for Flint in terms of ridding him of his stress, which, sight unseen, had seemed a necessary step to helping Flint overcome his difficulties. After Flint’s stellar performance last night, however, and John’s arrest, helping to train Pippa as an understudy was a bigger priority.
Valerie arrived at the theater the same time we did. As we chatted in the lobby, Felicity emerged, hauling an armload of clothing toward the door. Pippa was following closely behind her, wearing what looked at first glance like a Yankees striped shirt.
“Something’s wrong with our machine,” Felicity explained. “The repairman is here now. I’ve got to run the costumes down to the nearest cleaners.”
“If he’s here now, why can’t you wait until it’s fixed?” Valerie asked. “We’re not staging Good Dog, Blue! again until tomorrow.”
“He isn’t certain that he’s got the right parts for the job. If all of the costumes for two productions need to be cleaned tonight, we’ll have a disaster on our hands.”
“True,” Valerie said and started heading toward her office. “Heaven knows Murphy’s Law has been having a field day with us.”
Pippa had come downstairs with Felicity and was now tugging at the laces of her sneakers. “Not now, Pippa,” she said. She looked at me. “I need someone to watch Pippa until I get back.”
Dog Drama Page 14