Give the Dog a Bone (12 page)

“My God. That’s . . . terrible. But, again, I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know she was dead, till you told me.” Her shoulders sagged and she shook her head. “That woman was such a loser. Of course, so was Ken. But if someone killed Ken for his money, they had to have a different reason to kill Ruby. Any money that woman ever got her paws on, she drank up.”

Weary and shell-shocked, I dropped into my chair. “Hasn’t it occurred to you, Mary, that if this is all about getting Ken’s money, Maggie’s new owner could be the next target? Until this killer is in jail, no one should
want
guardianship of the dog.”

Her face fell as though she realized the truth in my statement. “They’ll catch the killer, though. He won’t get away with it.”

“You’re assuming that the police are going to solve this? Do you ever read the newspapers? Or watch the news on TV?”

She pursed her lips and repeated solemnly, “Whoever did this is not going to get away with two murders.”

“I hope not.” This wouldn’t attract national media attention, at least. Two deaths in a trailer park were not likely to raise eyebrows around the country, where only residents knew that we even had trailer parks in Boulder, Colorado.

Without another word, Mary left.

Why would someone murder Ruby? She must have seen something or known something that put Ken’s killer at risk of exposure. He or she had taken an enormous chance by walking into Ruby’s trailer in the middle of the day, right under Yolanda’s nose, and while Ruby was on the phone, no less.

Furthermore, I couldn’t tell from the recording how much of the conversation the killer had overheard. The killer could think that Ruby had immediately divulged his or her identity, and, after hanging up the phone, Ruby might well have said that she’d been speaking to my recorder.

My heart pounding, I rose from my chair and stared at my phone. My phone recorder was missing! “Shit!” The killer had to have taken it, had to have known Ruby’s final words had been intended for me.

I charged out the door and managed to stop Mary, who was just starting to pull out of my space. I waited impatiently as she rolled down the window.

“Mary, what time was it when you first got to my office?”

“I don’t know. It was sometime after one, for sure. Or maybe after two.”

“Nobody was here?”

“Just Maggie.”

“And then, did you stay in my office until Theodora arrived?”

“No, I went to see her in person.”

“So can you tell me what time it was when you came back?” She was already shaking her head, so I asked, “Or how long it was till I . . . interrupted you?”

“I don’t know. I guess we’d been there for twenty minutes or so. What’s all of this about? I told you already, we weren’t trespassing. Your door was unlocked, and I assumed if you minded others being there this much, you’d have locked it up before you left.”

“Somebody stole my recorder.”

“Huh?”

“My answering machine. It was on my desk. Right next to my phone. A little white thing that plugs into the wall and into the phone line. Did you see it the first time you were there?”

“No, but come on! Who cares about some silly little answering machine? You’re lucky they didn’t steal something more valuable.”

I wasn’t about to explain the significance of the recorder to her. She drove off.

The killer had broken into my office. I hugged myself against a chill that ran up my spine despite the warm weather.

Chapter 12

As I watched Mary drive away, I continued to shiver despite the heat. This was a “dog-day afternoon” if there ever was one. I wanted to be with my own dogs, who loved me unconditionally and considered a whine or a grunt articulate, which was all I felt I could muster at this point; however, a police officer drove up while I was still standing outside my office.

It was the sharp-nosed, efficient officer who’d arrived to take charge of the scene at Ken Culberson’s trailer when I’d first called. That seemed like weeks ago now, but I realized with a start that it had only been two days ago. The officer parked his black-and-white car and sauntered toward me. “Allida Babcock, isn’t it?”

“Yes. If you’re here for my answering machine, it’s been stolen.”

“ ’Scuse me?”

“My recorder was stolen. I’d left my office unlocked when I went to see if Ruby was all right. By the time I finished giving my report . . . or whatever you call it . . . at the police station, my answering machine had been stolen.”

“Why don’t you show me where it used to be?”

Though he’d phrased his reply as if this were a request, his tone of voice—stern with a hint of skepticism—made it clear that I did not have the option of saying, “No, thanks.” Yet this was pointless; it was not as though I had simply overlooked my answering machine or hallucinated about the fact that my phone jack was now minus the cord from said machine.

Maggie was whining as we came down the stairs, and she cowered a bit from the officer. Her bark was fearful.

“It’s okay, Maggie.” She backed farther away. I’d never seen her act this skittish. For the first time, I noticed that there was a welt on her muzzle. “Oh, my God! Someone hit the dog!”

I rushed over to examine her. I knelt and grabbed her head, taking care not to touch her too close to her injury. She shook her head as she struggled to keep her focus on the intruding officer and not on me, but I managed to get a good look. The welt was not large or bad, but the very thought of someone striking a dog—especially on the face, which is such a sensitive area—infuriated me.

“I don’t see any wounds on her,” the officer said, looking over my shoulder.

“Right across her muzzle. It looks as though someone whipped her with a strap of some kind.” I glanced around the room to see if a likely weapon had been available and muttered to myself, “Maybe a leather leash.” Though I struggled to keep my voice even, my inner turmoil was barely in control. I scratched her ear and stroked her back, then rose.

It could have been Mary, when she was here alone, that is; she would not have struck this dog in front of a witness. More likely this was done at the same time as when the recorder was taken. “The killer must have hit Maggie to make her quit barking and to let him get to my answering machine.”

“Is this the phone jack?” the officer asked as he looked at the wall behind my phone.

“Yes.”

“What kind of recorder was it?”

“I don’t know the brand name. It was just a little digital recorder, about the size of a hand.” I looked at my own hand. “Maybe five or six inches square, an inch or so thick. Small enough to be stashed in a pocket.”

“I’ll send someone out to dust the phone jack for prints. Maybe that’ll tell us something.”

“Why bother?”

“ ’Scuse me?”

Impatient at what seemed obvious to me, I flicked a wrist in the direction of the phone. “Whoever did this was careful enough to take the entire recorder instead of simply erasing the message . . . and risking that a technician could recover the message. It’s not like the person’s
then
going to turn around and leave fingerprints on the phone jack.”

“You’ve got a point there, I guess.” His tone of voice was innocuous, but he eyed me in a way that made me nervous. For all the world, I wanted to cry: I’m telling the truth! I’ve found two bodies in two days, and I just want to go home and cuddle my dogs!

The officer took a step toward the door, and I said, “My biggest concern is that if Ruby’s message posed enough of a threat for the killer to steal my machine, I’m afraid he’ll think my having listened to it made me a threat, as well.”

“You think the killer’s a man?”

I clicked my tongue. “He or she. All I know is that he
or she
seems to kill with abandon.”

“There’s a big difference between waltzing into someone’s unoccupied office and taking a machine and murdering someone.”

“True,” I replied, eyeing Maggie and thinking that the killer had to have gotten past her at one point to reach my desk and the phone. “But it would seem that this particular person is willing to both steal a machine
and
murder two people.”

The officer headed for the door. “We’ll put an extra patrol car in this area. And you might want to keep a low profile.”

“Thanks,” I murmured as he left, knowing full well that he, too, knew how futile an extra patrol car was. And, how exactly did one go about keeping a low profile while in charge of a dog whose inheritance was by far the most likely reason two people had died?

Come what may, I was not going to award guardianship of Maggie to anyone until it was safe to do so—until the police had the killer behind bars. Maggie nuzzled my hand, lobbying for me to pet her. I obliged, murmuring, “You are just the sweetest doggie, underneath your mass of insecurities. I am going to find you a loving owner if it’s the last thing I . . . no matter what.”

I plugged the phone into the jack and jumped a little when it instantly rang. I managed a tentative “Hello?” in place of my usual professional greeting.

“Hi, Allie. It’s me.”

I breathed a sigh of relief as I dropped into my chair. “Russell. It’s so good to hear your voice.”

“You, too. Did you know that there’s something wrong with your answering machine? Your phone must have rung ten times just now. I was about to hang up.”

It wouldn’t have been fair of me to dump my troubles on him when he was a thousand miles away and unable to help. So I merely said, “It’s not hooked up at the moment.”

There was a pause, but when I didn’t elaborate, Russell said, “I realized that I forgot to ask you for a favor before I left. Would you mind watering my plants and giving my goldfish a weekend pellet of fish food? That is, if you can fit it in to your schedule today or tomorrow.”

His voice sounded a little lifeless now. I said, “Sure. I’d be happy to.”

“Thanks.”

Neither of us spoke, and I finally broke the awkward silence and asked, “How are things going for you?”

He sighed. “I don’t know, Allie.” His voice had lowered even more than at the start of our conversation. “I’m out here in California and everything’s different. New faces. New scenery. I feel disconnected. I try to focus completely on my job and try not to think about you. I’m having a lousy time, wishing I were back there with you. You couldn’t know what it’s like to have to wonder . . .” He paused for a long moment. “Have you missed me?”

“Yes, of course I have, Russell,” I answered. If only I could tell him how much, but if I did, I’d start blathering about Ken’s and Ruby’s murders and my involvement. Then Russell would insist on dropping everything and running right home, his own business be damned. I couldn’t let him do that, while I myself was so up in the air about our relationship. But . . . how was I going to get through this? How was I going to chat with him now as if hell wasn’t breaking loose all around me? “You
do
know that I care about you, Russell, don’t you?”

“I know you care. I just don’t know how much. Except to know that it’s less intense than my feelings are for you.”

I rubbed my forehead in frustration mingled with despair. Maybe I was never going to be the kind of soulmate that Russell needed and deserved. “I’m not sure that there’s a measuring device for that. But if it’s any consolation, I’m quite certain that I’m having a much more miserable time than you are.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

I hesitated. Maybe I should tell him. A shadow outside caught my eye, and I turned to look out the window. Just a pedestrian passing by; I was getting paranoid.

“I’ve got . . . some complicated problems with a client.”

“Are you okay? When you say ‘some problems,’ you usually mean something pretty serious.”

I glanced at Maggie, who was looking at me with plaintive eyes. She clearly could not handle not being the center of my universe. Unfair of me or not, at the moment I couldn’t handle Russell’s veiled hints that he, too, wanted that same stature. “Yes, and it’s nothing that I feel like getting into over the phone. I’m sorry.”

“Okay. I’ll call you again later,” he said, his voice glum. “It’ll be a couple of days, probably.”

I wanted to say something to reassure him, and I knew exactly what he wanted that to be. Instead of those three magic words, I blurted, “Okay. Take care.”

He said, “You, too,” and hung up.

I rested my face in my hands for a moment. “I’m lousing things up with him,” I muttered to myself.

Maggie let out a little look-at-me yip. That served as a reminder—my skills were needed to train Maggie so that she would be suitable for adoption, which Ken had entrusted me to do. I stood no better chance at resolving my feelings for Russell under these circumstances than he did at riding in like some White Knight to rescue me. Aware that there was no way I could handle seeing clients after what I’d been through today, I rescheduled a problem-barker mixed-breed and a territorial terrier. A third appointment, unfortunately, canceled.

I needed to spend the afternoon helping Maggie learn that she could feel safe alone. Ironic that I needed to do so on the same day that she’d had someone smack her in the nose while I was gone. This was not going to be an easy fix in any case.

A seventy-pound dog, Maggie needed two pills for her initial dose. I checked my watch. Clomicalm takes up to half an hour to take effect and is best given a quarter hour before the owner leaves. She eagerly downed the soft doggie treats where I’d hidden two pills.

Next, I had to leave and return several times, for various durations, to inure Maggie to the terror of watching her owner—in this case her pseudo-owner—leave, and finding herself alone. The first time I went out, she tried battering through the door after me three times; I could hear her clonk her head against the door even from my post around the corner from the windows. After three five-minute sessions of my being outside and listening to her whine, the fourth time she assumed I would come right back.

The danger at this stage was that the dog can conclude that he or she was successful in bringing the owner back, such as by howling in the owner’s absence. It is important to dispel this connection by returning
before
the dog howls or after he’s quieted. This can make for a whole lot of trips and takes more patience than most owners—and most neighbors of the noisy dog—are willing to allocate.

By now we’d already built up to my getting my car from its space and driving around the block to get my space back, now that Mary and Theodora had relinquished our spaces. After partaking in a full hour of this counterconditioning with Maggie, it was time for me to leave for a lengthier period. This would be a good opportunity to get some groceries and a new recorder for my phone.

Just as I pulled into a parking space at the grocery store, I noticed a familiar-looking pickup truck. I got out to investigate, and sure enough, it was either Arlen Culberson’s truck or its exact double. Why would he be in Boulder in the middle of the day? Both his business and his home addresses were in Lafayette. Also, he was parked closer to PetsMart than he was to Albertson’s, yet he didn’t own a pet.

Out of curiosity—tainted with a bit of suspicion—I headed through the doors of PetsMart to make a quick check, grabbing a cart to make myself appear to be shopping there, and almost immediately spotted Arlen Culberson. He was browsing in the dog-book section.

“Arlen. Hello.”

He looked startled to see me. “Oh. Hey there,” he mumbled.

“This is a coincidence. What brings you out to a pet store?”

He shut the book and tried to hide its front cover from me, but I could see from the information on the back that it was on golden retrievers. He gave me a sheepish smile. “Just looking.”

“I see you’re reading up on goldens.” I glanced at his cart, which had a half dozen varieties of dog treats, ranging from pig ears to multicolored dog biscuits. “And getting dog treats.”

“Figured I should be seeing what I might be getting into before I go and volunteer to adopt Maggie.”

“That’s a little premature, I’m afraid. I have to tell you that the only decision I’ve made regarding Maggie is to wait until things settle before appointing a permanent guardian.”

He followed my gaze to his cart. “The, uh, dog treats? They’re for my neighbor’s dog. I mentioned I was heading over here, and she asked if I’d pick these up for her.”

“Your neighbor with the bichon frise, you mean?”

“Yeah. I guess that’s what those things are called. I’m . . . surprised you noticed.”

“I always notice dogs.” And therefore, I silently added, had also noticed that the rawhide chews that Arlen had picked out were for a large dog, not at all suitable for a little bichon frise.

He rocked on his heels a bit, clearly nervous. Reasoning that I could always use more dog food and wanting to continue our conversation, I asked, “If you’re not in a hurry, could you help me grab a sack of dog chow? It’s a bit heavy for me.”

“Be happy to, ma’am,” Arlen said with, I thought, relief.

Arlen gave me a surreptitious glance from under the wide brim of his cowboy hat. “Er, Allida, you probably heard there was another death in that trailer park this morning. It’s all over the news.”

Already?
I thought. “I did hear that, yes. Ken’s next-door neighbor.” It hit me that, during her phone message to me, Ruby had sounded as if she knew the person who entered her trailer . . . the killer, no doubt. Had Arlen been a familiar face? “Did you get to know your brother’s neighbors at all?”