Double Dog Dare (26 page)

“I’m still working on it, Althea,” I told her. “I’m still hoping for a happy ending.”

“But not expecting it anymore?” she asked sadly and almost resignedly.

I almost blurted the truth, but instead simply said, “Who knows?”

BACK AT MY law office, the dogs lying on the floor at my feet, I used another obvious resource. Only with this one, I had to be even more cautious about what I said and how I said it.

“Hi, Tom,” I said to my formerly favorite vet when he answered the phone. Well, heck, he hadn’t really done anything wrong. He’d been over his relationship with Debby Payne—even if she hadn’t been over him—before he’d attempted to take up with me.

Hadn’t he?

“Kendra, hi.” His voice sounded exceedingly happy, as if he was glad to hear from me. Which made me feel somewhat guilty.

“Any chance of us getting together for dinner tonight?”

“For fun, or because you still have questions about The Clone Arranger?” He kept his tone light, yet there was an edge that said he’d seen through me. Not that it was especially difficult.

“A little of both,” I admitted.

Which caused him to laugh. And agree. But with this disclaimer at the end: “I’ll answer what questions I think are okay, Kendra. But even though I’m only a veterinarian and some of the Hippocratic and other oaths human doctors take don’t apply, there are things I just won’t talk about regarding my patients and their situations.”

Like, is The Clone Arranger a huge fraud?
I was almost certain now that it was, and this man could have the key.

I wasn’t exactly certain how I’d ask those critical questions for which I needed answers, but I was sure as hell going to try.

WE SAT OUTSIDE at a fast-food joint, of all places. Here, we could bring our dogs along. Tom hadn’t schlepped all five of the rescue animals he now kept at his home, but he had brought one big galoot of a German shepherd-Rottweiler mix he called Big Boy. For protection? From me? It certainly wouldn’t be from the leery Lexie. And even Odin appeared on his best, nonconfrontational behavior.

“It’s good to see you, Kendra,” Tom said as he handed me my hamburger from the bag of food he’d bought inside. Of course all three dogs sat at attention, enchanted by char-broiled beefy smells.

“Ditto.” And I meant it. I still found Tom’s looks charming, despite their not smacking of utter gorgeousness. Even more, I enjoyed his normally laid-back demeanor. Only now, I sensed a distance between us from both our perspectives. He knew I had ulterior motives for wanting to meet this evening. And I knew he knew more than he’d revealed so far about The Clone Arranger.

Ignoring comings and goings of other diners who occupied, then vacated, nearby tables, we chatted about all kinds of inconsequentials as I pondered how to lead into what I really wanted to discuss.

Eventually, I commenced with a kind of equivocation. “So how are things in the vet business?”

“Generally fine,” he said.

“Save any lives lately?”

“Yeah.” His features lit up as he recounted a tale of a cat hit by a car, and how he had helped to restore it so it could enjoy its remaining eight lives.

When he ended the story, I sat with moist eyes, enthralled and admiring. But I had to recall my purpose for seeing him this evening, keep it at the forefront of my unhappy mind.

“That’s amazing,” I said in all sincerity. I gave each pup a small piece of my hamburger bun, and they scarfed them up as if starved. And then I led into the topic I’d come to discuss. “What about at The Clone Arranger? What kinds of veterinary work have you done there lately?”

His half grin beneath that intriguing widow’s peak was absolutely wry. “So here we are at last, the real reason you wanted to get together. But, Kendra, there’s no more I’ll say about my relationship with Debby or The Clone Arranger. Debby’s part of my past. And as I said, I believe in veterinarian-patient confidentiality—to a point, at least. Here, it’s with the company that wants me to make sure the animals it’s about to clone are as healthy as possible. So, that’s it. But if you want to talk about our getting together again for a romantic relationship . . . well, I’m available.”

“And I might be, too, since my significant other has disappeared. ” And as far as the rest of the world knew, remained that way. Plus, I knew that the company to which Tom felt loyalty had been involved in what happened to Jeff. But I kept that to myself.

“I’m sorry in some respects, Kendra,” Tom said. “I’m sure it’s awful for you.”

“Sure is,” I said, and shoved another fry into my mouth as if to punctuate that I didn’t want to discuss Jeff further. Then I said, somewhat offhandedly, “So, Tom, do you have any reason to think that The Clone Arranger did something that caused Lois Terrone’s dog Flisa to die?”

“That’s the kind of question I’d expect from a lawyer,” he retorted, suddenly defensive. “Save it for when you’ve subpoenaed me to be a witness in whatever lawsuit your client Lois intends to bring against The Clone Arranger. Assuming she’s cleared of Earl’s murder.”

Uh-oh. This pseudo date was suddenly deteriorating into something potentially ugly. But I really desired to dig out what, and how much, Tom actually knew.

I’d been continuously contemplating what could be on Jeff’s purported thumb drive, assuming it even existed. Something that could exonerate Lois—despite its loss even before Earl Knox’s demise? That demonstrated The Clone Arranger’s foul misdeeds that resulted in Flisa’s fatality? For Lois’s sake, I hoped so. It would certainly explain Jeff’s resolution to retrieve it—and his claim I knew what was on it, however untrue that might be, since I clearly was conducting my own investigation into Flisa’s and Earl’s deaths.

Plus, focusing on some of Jeff’s flakiest comments, I was zeroing in on some additional suspicions—ones that could even mean Tom’s involvement.

“I don’t represent Lois in any civil action,” I said, “and certainly not regarding any criminal charges that may be brought against her. But I feel sorry for her. You know my background in helping people who are falsely accused. And I’ve no reason to think she was the one who killed Earl.”

“But she hated The Clone Arranger,” countered Tom. “And she’d mostly had contact with Earl, so she’s as likely a suspect as anyone.”

I wasn’t about to mention the little conversation Jeff had possibly overheard between that murder victim and his unidentified coconspirator. For one thing, it had occurred while Jeff was admittedly under the influence of a drug, so I still surmised it could have been at least partly his imagination.

And I still couldn’t help a small misgiving that that discussion could have been intentionally manufactured by Jeff to divert suspicion away from himself.

Even so, after treating the dogs to a few leftover fries, I said, “Okay, Tom. We’re obviously poles apart on this topic of conversation. Let’s drop the whole suspicion thing, shall we?”

“Fine.” He seemed visibly to relax, a good thing.

“But do you mind if I ask other questions about The Clone Arranger? Nothing controversial, honest. I’m just really curious about what they do.”

Wariness returned to Tom’s brown eyes, and rightly so, though I wasn’t about to let on the rationale for my upcoming inquiries. If he understood them . . . well, he’d probably refuse to answer, on the grounds that it could incriminate his sometime employer.

“Ask away, but I won’t necessarily answer.”

I started off entirely innocently, asking about how Mason Payne had decided to get into the business. The answers sounded like the stock stuff on their website: A scientist by background, an animal lover by nature, he’d seen people’s sadness after losing their beloved pets. And so forth.

“And the technology. I know they have expertise in analyzing DNA for people looking for answers to their dogs’ true genetic backgrounds and the accuracy of their pedigrees. ” That was on a separate page on their website. “But the cloning part—is it anything like cloning of livestock? What’s the science behind it?”

Tom shrugged beneath his snug blue T-shirt. “They’ve never shared the details with me. I gather they’ve developed their own means of doing things, maybe based on what else was out there and maybe not.”

I wouldn’t ask if the claims of Clark Weiss of CW Ultra Technologies that Earl Knox had stolen some secrets from him had any merit. Tom might not know, and could resent my asking.

Instead, I got to what I really wanted from Tom, as obliquely as I was able. “I know Beryl Leeds was thrilled about how her yellow Lab got cloned. And I saw some other successes on their website: standard poodles, Shih Tzus, pit bulls, and Chihuahuas. Even a Siamese cat, two Persians, a ferret, and a chinchilla. I found all that really exciting. Did you examine all the parents of those success stories? And were they healthier than Lois’s dog Flisa—an Akita mix?”

Mix
being the important word in that inquiry.

He looked at me closely for an instant, as if he knew exactly what I was asking. But I didn’t press it any further.

And all he said was, “They promised not to try the procedure on any pet I determined had any ongoing genetic issue that could be passed along to any resulting puppies. And none of the successes did. Flisa? If I’d seen anything in her that indicated she wouldn’t survive the cloning process—which I understand is fairly mild—I’d have told them. I care about my patients, Kendra. You know that. And I care about my own reputation. I wouldn’t do anything to harm any animal. And I’d take whatever action I thought was called for if I believed someone was intentionally hurting any of my patients.”

Including murder of a person?
I wanted to inquire. But I didn’t.

“What about the babies? Did you check them over after they were born?”

“Before they were handed off to their new owners, sure. But not while they were still subject to the cloning process. ”

Whatever that meant. Well, Tom hadn’t directly given me what I’d wanted to know. He hadn’t proclaimed that The Clone Arranger never harmed a hair on its subjects’ furry heads. He also hadn’t convinced me that their system was totally on the up-and-up.

But his response had boosted him, if only a little, toward the top of my suspect list.

Chapter Twenty-one

THE PUPS AND I headed to my home-sweet-garage after dinner with Tom. I felt exhausted after all our head games. Had I learned anything even an iota useful?

I hadn’t wanted to maintain Tom as a major suspect, but before bed I revised my latest list on the Earl Knox murder. And hoped to hear from Jeff—er, Juan the scooper. But I didn’t, not before or after my shower, or even when I got into bed.

I’d always felt a failure in the guy-choosing department. No more so than now. The fellow for whom I’d really fallen suspected me of being a thief and worse, for reasons I couldn’t fathom in the least. And that same man, as sexually appealing as ever despite his disgusting disguise, hadn’t trusted me enough to let me know he was alive after an astoundingly scary ordeal. All that hurt. A whole lot. Should I count him out?

Absolutely, at least till he regained some of his senses. If ever.

And the other man was involved with an outfit where someone was killed. Might he be keeping some of their secrets that could point to their involvement in fraud, if not felony murder?

That was how my mind remained occupied as I lay there, long into the night, with both dogs snoring soundly at my sides.

By morning I’d hatched a plot, a way to follow up on my expanding suspicions about The Clone Arranger. But I had some phone calls to make first.

But not before I got the dogs eating and romping, then bundled them into the rental car and headed to Darryl’s. I received his welcoming hug, then dropped the dogs with him. The pups seemed exceedingly happy with the setup. By the time I considered hitting the road, they’d already settled in their favorite Doggy Indulgence spots. Lexie leaped onto the sofa in the human furniture area, and Odin grabbed a large nylon bone and played keep away with a friendly pit bull. I almost felt lonesome, seeing them so happy to be away from me. But I had things to do, and they’d have more fun here.

“You okay, Kendra?” Darryl inquired as I said my goodbyes. He was always such a perceptive friend, and his caring nature brought tears once more to eyes that had become much too inclined to grow moist lately.
Make an appointment soon with a good ophthalmologist
, I noted in my melancholy mind.

“Hanging in,” I assured him.

“Any word on that reality show idea?” He grinned in anticipation, and I wasn’t about to puncture any hope— either for him or for my concerned clients.

“Not yet, but I’ll follow up shortly. I’ll let you know how things go.”

Note to my legally inclined mind
, I thought as I headed for the car.
Follow up, as promised, for everyone’s benefit
.

Which I would, soon.

As I engaged in my pet-sitting exercises, I evaluated each of my charges. Of the cats I checked in on, Abra, the Siamese, was most likely a prime candidate for The Clone Arranger’s slimy services. Her friend Cadabra, the equally arrogant tabby, might not be clonable, under that company’s possibly stringent and slick standards.

Interesting, I considered as I eventually ended my rounds. If I was right, Stromboli, the shepherd mix, and his next-door neighbor Meph, a wiry terrier, would not be cloning material at all. Piglet the pug would be. So would Lexie and Odin, if either Jeff or I were so inclined—which I certainly wasn’t now. So would Beggar, the Irish setter owned by my tenants and friends, the Preesingers. I’d no idea about Pansy, the potbellied pig.

Okay, I decided as I pulled my rental car into the law office lot.

Speaking of which car, I needed to figure out what next. My insurance funds for rental after an accident would run out soon. My Beamer was evidently a lost cause as far as repair and restoration.