He was in the fifth row when he cried, “You were right, Allie.” He headed toward me with a plastic toy not much larger than a golf ball. “Look what Flint, Pavlov, and I found in the cushioning of one of the theater seats.”
“A squeaker toy!” I said.
“He’d removed a small section of the seat’s foam padding, and filled it with the toy. It was somewhat to one side, so it would squeak when the person in that seat shifted their position.”
“I’m glad we finally managed to get that issue resolved.”
“It makes me wonder if Sam died because of his own stupid prank.”
My thoughts returned to my first conversation with Greg, while he was sitting on the steps of the back exit. “I can’t help but wonder if the dog whistle was all that there was to Flint’s troubles. What if it was John, sabotaging his own play?”
“Why would he do that?” Baxter asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice.
“To get publicity, maybe?”
He spread his arms. “By having the star of his play act up?”
“It’s possible, Baxter. Everyone we’ve talked to so far says they liked the play better with the dog as something of a straight-man for punch lines.”
“We’ve only heard that from a couple of people, though. And John was fairly convincing about not wanting Blue’s hijinks to steal his thunder.”
“But Sam was originally planning to train herding dogs as his career. He was getting a cut out of what the script earned in royalties. He was saying they could do this show in high schools all throughout Colorado. All of which would work nicely with the seemingly adlibbed lines. That way, they’d appeal all the more to dog lovers. It might not have been a bad gig for Sam at all, whereas it might have taken a big chunk out of John’s profits.”
“But if that was John’s intention, why hire you to fix the dog’s training?” Baxter asked.
“We don’t actually know when he would have revealed his ruse. Maybe he planned to wait until partway through the show or the end of the week, even, so I’d be the hero and nobody suspected John had contrived the whole thing. The theater is picking up our tab, not John.”
Baxter stayed silent for a long time. “I see your point. It might generate early publicity, like you say. I’d like to think John isn’t that underhanded.”
Not to mention that he very well might have murdered someone.
***
We went on an abbreviated hike/picnic lunch with the dogs, enjoying even a brief break from the terrible murder and all its ramifications. I could tell from Flint’s body language, though, that he was hoping for his master to return. Flint was looking for John at every bend in our path. I tried to push away how sad that made me. Baxter told me that John had simply sent him a text that read: Made bail. I need some ME time. See you Thursday. My fear that he was planning on going on the lam was so intense that I made the decision not to burden Baxter with it. We would either see John tomorrow, or we would reevaluate if he didn’t show, dealing then with the reality that John Morris had murdered Sam Geller.
We returned to town in the evening and decided to grab a pre-dinner beer. We chose an establishment with a large informal patio, where the management and patrons didn’t look twice at customers bringing two dogs with them to their rustic picnic table. We sat close together on a shaded bench and chatted about Baxter’s business and our slow transition toward eventually establishing a kennel on our property in Dacona.
“Hey, that’s ‘Good Dog, Blue!” a burly man with tattoo sleeves at an adjacent table announced, pointing at Flint. He shifted his gaze to Baxter and me. “I saw the play last night. For the second time.”
“We both loved it,” the equally tattooed—and equally burly—woman beside him declared. “It’s a real hoot. Are you Blue’s actual owner?”
“No, we’re not,” I answered. “We’re just dog-sitting. His real name is Flint.”
The woman nodded. “Yeah, like my husband said, last night was actually our second time. We went to the opening of the show, too. That was kind of nuts. Blue was all over the place.”
“So I heard.”
“This is Allie Babcock,” Baxter interjected. “She’s a dog therapist. She’s been working with Flint since right after the opening-night fiasco.”
“Well, you certainly did wonders with his training,” the woman said. “But it’s kind of too bad. It was a riot when he was just having random interactions with the actors. A friend said the same thing about the Pug that played the role the second night. And another friend said she saw it with a German Shepherd as Blue. Is this him?”
“Her. And she actually is our dog.”
“Yeah. My friend said he wasn’t all that funny. She wasn’t, I mean. Blue is a he, isn’t he?”
“Not when he’s played by a female dog.”
“You should have used jokes about him being a bitch, then,” the man said. “That would have livened the thing up.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed the performance.” I modulated my voice to make it clear that I intended my remark to serve as the end our conversation.
“From what I hear, the playwright is in jail for killing the stage manager.”
“He was just a stagehand,” the man next to her corrected.
“Stagehand. So you must know them, right?” she asked.
Baxter said nothing. The woman kept shifting her gaze between Baxter and me, so apparently that was a plural “you.” “A little,” I replied.
“That’s kind of nuts. Considering that one actor who had a nervous breakdown or whatever and tried to run over his girlfriend. Who was that?” She elbowed her husband. “The actor playing the role of Blue’s owner’s new love interest. The guy’s name starts with a G. George something?”
“Greg?” I asked.
“Yeah. My parents moved out here when they retired, just as all of that was coming down. When was that, Hon? Maybe fifteen years ago?”
“I don’t remember,” he said with a shrug. “They’re your parents.”
“It was one of those dumb things when he caught his girlfriend cheating on him and tried to run her over with a car when he was totally wasted. He was here for the summer intern program at the theater or something, and he spotted his girlfriend and his rival on the sidewalk. He kept crashing his truck into the store fronts along the street, and the other guy kept dodging him, but I guess his girlfriend wasn’t so lucky. Engine finally stalled or overheated, and he passed out. I guess they sent him away for a long time.”
“Yikes,” I said, trying to picture Greg in that role. It was a difficult fit—and far worse than “one of those dumb things” that people do.
“Yeah, so, you know, here we are with that same looney-tunes actor trying to make a comeback, but this muscle-bound stage manager winds up dead. Or stagehand. In any case, the guy was a dead ringer for the guy he tried to run over that stole his girl.”
“Really?” I asked, now intensely curious. “He wasn’t the victim’s brother, was he? Sam Geller’s brother?”
“Lucy’s wrong,” the tattooed husband said. “This Greg Gulliver that you’re talking about was just a teenager back then. Went to Alamaso High, an hour or so from here. So did his girlfriend, plus the guy she’d been cheating with. He was a black kid.” He glared at his wife. “How the hell do you call a black teenager a dead ringer for a forty-three year old white guy?”
“Well, they’re the same basic body type—five-nine or so, athletic, muscular. If the actor was looney-tunes, he might have had a flashback and killed him accidentally, thinking he was the other guy that stole his girl.”
“I’m sure the sheriff would be on top of that,” he retorted. “It’s not like he’d suddenly forget about an incident like that. They keep records of police arrests and everything.”
“Well, sure. But that doesn’t mean they couldn’t have made a mistake. Arrested the wrong guy. I mean, the play was so fun-loving. Silly, even. You’re not going to see someone write a happy play and then crack som
eone’s skull with a rock and push him into a pit.”
“Maybe he would. We don’t even know the guy who wrote the play.”
“I do! I’ve seen him around town plenty!”
“Not enough to recognize he was Flint’s owner,” her husband said with a “gotcha” sneer.
“I did, too. I was just trying to be friendly. I didn’t want to invade their space and ask, ‘What are you doing with John Morris’s dog? Are you watching him while he’s in jail?’ That would have been super rude.”
“Um, Allida,” Baxter said, “maybe we should go get something to eat.”
“Oh, they have great brats or burgers here,” Lucy said.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Baxter replied, lying.
Lucy snorted and slapped her knee. “Oh, of course you are. You’re from Boulder. Well, in that case, you’ll want to go to Arp’s. They’re the only vegetarian-friendly restaurant in town.”
“So does that mean the other restaurants are hostile to vegetarians?” I teased.
“Just that we’re mostly meat-lovers,” she replied.
“It’s not like they’d kill you, grill you, and serve you to us carnivores,” her husband added, laughing heartily.
On that note, I decided to guzzle the rest of my beer. I was beginning to get the idea that the man enjoyed disagreeing with his wife—and our relaxed mood had been spoiled.
“We’re actually from Dacona, well outside Boulder’s city limits.” Baxter stood up. “We’d probably be harder to chew than your average Boulderite.”
“Thanks for the tip about Arp’s,” I said, rising. “Have a great evening.”
“You, too.”
We left. Baxter grimaced at me as we walked down the sidewalk. “I kind of stuck my foot in my mouth. I just wanted out of the conversation, then I realized in a town this size we could keep running into that couple, and I didn’t want to be limiting my diet.”
“Actually, we should stop eating red meat. It’s bad for the earth’s ecology. To say nothing of the inhumane treatment of animals.”
Baxter sighed, and I chastised myself. We were under enough stress without undertaking a self-improvement project. I looked at Flint, who perked up at the sight of a couple of men turning the corner. He sagged again when they continued on their way, and Flint realized that neither of them was his owner.
Chapter 19
Several hours later, Baxter and I left the dogs in our hotel room and kept our plan to watch a special Wednesday-night showing of Boomtown—Creede’s comedic improvisation show. The show was staged right after the avant garde play at the Ruth Theater, which was a short walk from our hotel.
We both pretended we were going there merely to kick back and be entertained, but I think Baxter was every bit as curious as I was to see the full troupe of repertory actors here. To our surprise, as Valerie introduced the show, she announced they were going to be joined by a four-legged cast member, Pippa. Ironically, now that Pippa was on stage, she was not in costume. “I wonder if they’re going to try Pippa’s ‘dance’ trick,” I whispered to Baxter. “She can turn in circles on her hind legs.”
“That could be cute. Maybe they can do some break dancing numbers,” Baxter replied. “I read in the program that one of the actors in the avant-garde play is quite good at hip-hop. He can spin on his shoulder while Pippa’s spinning on her back paws.”
A pair of young, enthusiastic actors in the group asked the audience to shout out some nouns and verbs that would allow them to formulate ideas for the show. They settled on grandma, pig, and kindergarten for nouns, and teach, curling, and smelting for verbs. They started the routine, and the actors did indeed use Pippa as their foil, pretending that their blind grandma had won her by coming in third at a Canadian curling contest, believing that Pippa was a pig, rather than a dog. They had brought “the dog that was not a pig” with them to their Kindergarten class to teach their class how to smelt—which became more of a play on words than the actual process of getting metal from ore. Pippa would respond to the actors’ hand signals to lie down and roll over. Pippa also did a wonderful job executing a walk-backward hand signal that led to an actor pulling off a pratfall when the dog and he were both walking backwards and the actor tripped over her.
“Pippa’s surprisingly well-trained,” I said quietly to Baxter afterwards, as the actors were taking their bows.
“That just what I was thinking. Did you work with her on any of the tricks today?”
“On the dancing, at least, but I don’t really deserve any credit for her acting today. She’s clearly been doing stage work since she was a puppy. It’s almost as surprising that Pippa bombed at playing Blue as that Flint bombed.”
“Which probably just means that they both got rattled by the whistle.”
I held my tongue, rather than point out that the dog whistle had been lodged in that seat last night, when Flint had managed to ignore it, as well as on Sunday night, when Pavlov had managed the same feat. The only possible explanation to my mind was that John was giving both dogs the wrong cues. And that Baxter was in a denial about his friend’s true character.
For the second skit, a pair of cast members brought handheld microphones into the seats and would ask audience members questions about their lives. From the answers, they created a composite biographical story of two people’s lives, and how a Pug named Pippa brought them together.
Sally, Karen, and Hammond were taking part in the proceedings, but Greg was not. Even those three were clearly taking a backseat to the other seven or eight actors. In the first skit that they performed, she and another young man appeared to be the ringleaders, figuring out when they needed to shift the direction of the skit and call in different characters. The one time Sally was in a comedic scene, she once again shone.
Hammond, Karen, and Sally were never interacting on the stage at the same time. That was surely by design. Although they had some truly funny, enjoyable moments, I failed at shutting out my negative thoughts. After seeing that Pippa could hold her own well on stage, I was all the more certain I’d been set up by John. At intermission, I told Baxter that I’d like to leave, and he said he did too.
Surprisingly, the trio of actors from John’s play were also leaving the theater, albeit through the back exit. It was mildly embarrassing to bump into them. Hammond immediately blurted out, “Fancy meeting you here.”
“You’re not performing in the second half of the show?” I asked.
“No, it’s actually not a contractual obligation,” Sally said. “We just all volunteered because we enjoy it. We’re essentially guest performers.”
“Greg doesn’t enjoy it?”
Hammond snorted, but made no comment.
“He’s follows the beat of a different drummer,” Karen said.
“Because the guy’s mentally ill,” Hammond grumbled.
“Hammie,” Sally snarled, “that’s untrue and unkind.”
“I guess you would know,” Hammond replied under his breath.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
Hammond turned his attention to Baxter and me. “If you ever want to spend an hour or two listening to someone prattle endlessly about ghosts, ask Greg Gulliver about Annabelle Dancer.”
“Who?” Baxter asked.
“That’s Greg’s name for the ghost that haunts the theater,” Karen explained, “and also the restaurant next door.” She touched Hammond’s arm. “Greg’s hardly the only one who’s encountered the ghost. The entire staff at the restaurant has seen her.”
“Which just means they’re doing drugs in the kitchen,” Hammond retorted. “Have a good night,” he then said, flashing a toothy smile at Baxter and me. “I’m going to quit thinking about the dead, and turn my thoughts to merry diversions. Such as booze and loose women.”
The three of them headed across the street toward the theater’s housing. I grabbed Baxter’s arm as we continued toward our hotel room. “I’m suddenly thinking I could use a nightcap.”
> He chuckled. “You mean at the restaurant next to the main stage? To see if Annabelle Dancer has ever been known to tamper with actors’ costumes? Or to distract the dogs on the stage next door?”
Only half joking, I gave his hand a squeeze. “Maybe it was the combination of a squeaker toy and Annabelle Dancer’s ghost.” We reversed our direction. We were now heading toward the restaurant and inn next to the main theater.
“Flint did great yesterday,” Baxter replied. “The only problem was when the actors were taking their bows. And Flint his bow wow.”
“You’ve been listening to the puns in John’s play for too long.”
“And you’ve been letting all of this theatrical havoc get to you. A ghost? Seriously?”
“You never know, Baxter. Dogs are more perceptive than us mere humans. And besides, I’m a fan of ghost stories. They’re fun. Don’t you think?”
“Not compared to booze and loose women.”
“In that case, it’s your lucky night! You’re about to hear a ghost story from a waiter serving you booze, as you sit next to your own personal loose woman.”
“Now you’re talking,” Baxter said.
***
I ordered a glass of port. Baxter ordered a Guinness ale. We were the only customers, although the crowd at the Ruth Theater would likely bring them more customers in another hour or so when Boomtown ended. The waitress asked if she could bring us anything else.
“No, thanks,” I answered. “I was just hearing from a couple of the actors that the theater is haunted. Is that true?”
“Totally,” she said with no trace of deceit.
“Was it a woman named Annabelle Dancer?” Baxter asked.
She smiled a little. She was in her late thirties or so, with her long black hair in a braid on one shoulder, wearing a flowery-pattern dress that was shabby-chic. “Some say they’ve seen Annabelle do a pirouette, so that’s probably where the last name came from. She’s been here for ten years or so. Although, there are also those who say her name is Suzette, and she’s been haunting the building for more like forty years.”
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