Play Dead (18 page)

During the bulk of my initial hour-long
treatment, we focused on having George stand up then sit down, Rex repeatedly
rising and trying to lead the way. We gradually wore the dog down to the point
that he would allow George to leave the room briefly and then return.

As I was about to leave, I assured George
that he needed to continue to work on this and not to make such a big fuss out
of leaving and returning. I thanked him for being such a good sport, as I was
certain his knees had to have been killing him by then.

He gave me a weary nod. “I was thinking,
wouldn’t it be easier if I just bought another dog to be Rex’s companion?”

“You want to get a second dog?”

He scanned my face as he accompanied me to
the door. Rex, to my—frankly—considerable credit, stayed put.
George half shrugged, half nodded. “What about the collie that belonged to that
woman who was killed yesterday? Could I just borrow that dog, do you think?”

“Sage?” I gaped at him, completely taken
aback by the suggestion.

“I figured Beth Gleason had to be the ‘accident’
you told me you witnessed yesterday. Her death was all over the news this
morning. I figured her collie probably needs a temporary home, right?”

“Um, the collie’s fine. And while it might
well help Rex if he had a canine playmate, we need to work with him first. I
suspect Rex would have jealousy issues if you were to get a second dog at this
time. However, if you’re thinking about preventive measures for his house wrecking,
you may want to consider building a high-quality pen and doghouse in your yard.”

He nodded and combed his ringers through
what was left of his hair. “See you tomorrow evening. We’re meeting out front
on the sidewalk, and you’re going in my house
with
me, right?”

“Yes, and I’ll show you how to reprimand
him when he jumps up.”

George furrowed his brow, but nodded.

I drove to my appointment with Mugsy,
feeling horribly uneasy. George’s question about Sage had been an unwanted
reminder that all of my new clients knew about Beth Gleason and Sage. There was
no way I could guarantee that I wasn’t being set up—their dogs’ problems
a convenient method for getting to Sage through me.

John O’Farrell answered the door. He
reached out to me on the porch, took my small hand in his beefy one and shook
vigorously. “Thanks a lot for coming on such short notice.” He held the door
open for me. The shrill din of screaming children, barking dog, and squeaking
wheels inside was sonic-ear-shattering.

Though his wife, Sarah, greeted me with
more enthusiasm than she’d shown upon our initial meeting, her red hair
appeared to be standing on end. The tufted hair combined with her thin, beak-like
nose made me think of a cardinal. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she all but
shouted. “We’re having a hard time with Mugsy’s barking.”

The source of Mugsy’s nervousness was
abundantly clear. The children were racing in circles from room to room.
Someone had fashioned a wagon out of roller skates and twine, on which little
Emmy sat, giggling away as her brother, Ben, pulled her across the hardwood
floors at a dead run, Mugsy chasing after them.

“Hold it right there, partner,” John said
during one of the revolutions, stepping in front of his son and laying his hand
atop the boy’s red hair. Ben giggled and tried to squeeze past, but John
grabbed him good-naturedly and flipped him over one shoulder. Ben squealed, and
Emmy immediately hopped up and held up her arms, crying,
“Me,
too,” while Mugsy maintained her relentless high-pitched bark.

Though Sarah wore a bit of a frazzled
expression, she had an amazing tolerance for noise and commotion, far
surpassing my own. Over the background noise I asked her, “Has Mugsy nipped at
anyone since yesterday?”

“No, though she’s been barking like this
ever since we got up this morning. It’s d-r-i-v-i-n-g me c-r-a-z-y.”

I wasn’t sure why she spelled this. It
wasn’t as if Mugsy could have understood the reference to her behavior. Maybe
Sarah was overly conditioned to spell as a means of parental communication.

To my immense gratitude, John shooed the
kids into the TV room, while Sarah and I took seats on the sectional couch. Our
brief time alone was spent on my declining her offers of various beverages.
John returned, took a seat next to his wife, and said to me, “What’s happening
with Beth Gleason’s murder? Are you the one who found the body?”

“How did you know that?” I asked, giving
away my answer.

“There was a mention in the papers that
the woman who found the body was an acquaintance who trained dogs.”

“Yes, that was me.” I watched for his
reaction, wondering whether this was typical human curiosity, or something
more.

“What happened to her dog? Did a family
member adopt him?”

I sat there in silence, mulling my answer
on the one hand and alerted to the fact that he’d just leapt with suspicious
quickness onto the issue of the collie that could potentially identify the
killer.

“John,” Sarah said, giving a bit of a forced giggle, “we
are paying this woman by the hour to work with our dog, aren’t we?”

“Yeah. But that doesn’t mean we can’t chat
with her, does it?”

“No,” she said through her smile, “but we
can chat with lots of people without having to pay them for it.”

I cleared my throat to cover a smile at
her comment. John, however, shot a surprisingly hostile glare at his wife when
she wasn’t looking. Not married myself and having grown up in an essentially
single-parent home, I couldn’t begin to guess at the depths of emotion that might
run under their still waters. However, I happened to agree with his wife. My
meter was running, and besides, Beth Gleason and Sage were none of John’s
business. I’d had nothing but admiration and pleasant feelings for John, but
was beginning to wonder if I needed to reassess my opinion.

“All right. You’ve decided to keep Mugsy,
so we need to work on her understanding and accepting her relatively new role
as a family dog, rather than just John’s loyal canine companion.”

“Yes,” said Sarah.

“Which of you feeds her?”

“I do,” John said, which I’d expected.

“I’d recommend you alternate those duties
between the two of you and that you consider allowing Ben to set the bowl down
and call Mugsy to dinner. This brings up another point we need to address
immediately. Ben and Emmy need to be taught the basics of how to approach and
handle dogs safely. You can hire me to do this, or you can save some money by
letting me recommend a video or two on dog safety, which you can rent. You can
watch it with your children and go over the lessons with them afterwards.”

I paused. John gave the briefest of
glances to his wife, then said, “Let’s have you work with the kids. Money’s no
object.”

Money’s no object! Yippee! My favorite
phrase!
“Fine,” I said
somberly. “That’s what we’ll begin with, then. Even though much of what I’ll be
teaching them will be common sense to the two of you, it’ll be best to have you
listen in, so that you can reinforce my instructions after I’ve gone. Okay?”

They nodded in unison, and John said to
Sarah, “Well, honey, you go get our hellions in here, and we’ll let Allida here
show ‘em what to do and what not to do.”

We both watched her leave the room, and
John promptly turned to me and asked, “Where is Sage now, Allida?”

I gritted my teeth. What was it with this
question? Just last night Dennis Corning had asked me the very same thing! He
and George Haggerty had inquired about adopting Sage. I could see maybe
one
dog
lover immediately wondering about the whereabouts of a deceased stranger’s
dog—but
three!
“Why do you ask?”

“He’s a fine dog, that one,” John said
with a shrug. “I’d just like to know that he’s being taken care of.”

“He is. How did you meet Sage?”

The kids came galloping into the
room—though Emmy stopped just inside the doorway. “Through his original
owner.” John turned his attention to Ben and cried, “Come here, sport.” Mugsy
hopped up on all fours and started barking as Ben did a flying leap toward his
stepdad, trusting that he’d be caught. Fortunately, John was well-coordinated
and strong enough that he caught the six-year-old with ease. Then John rose and
started doing airplane-like swoops, with Ben providing sputtering—and
spitty—propeller noises.

“You knew Hannah Jones?” I asked.

“We’re not on that subject
again,
are
we?” Sarah asked as she neared. Her daughter grabbed hold of her leg, forcing
Sarah into a Frankenstein’s-monster limp till she reclaimed her seat.

“Nope,” John answered mid-flight pattern. “We’re
onto the subject of how to treat Mugsy right so she won’t bite us no more.”

“Anymore,”
Ben corrected.

John set him down on the floor. “Why, by
gosh, you’re right! It
is
‘anymore,’ ain’t it?”

“Isn’t
it!” Ben said, giggling infectiously.

Sarah was watching her husband and son
with such obvious pride and love that it was touching to witness. What was
going on with this family? Why the constant tension before and the lovey-dovey
attitude now? Sarah looked my way, and I felt my cheeks grow warm. I felt
guilty about my suspicions regarding John. Much as I wished that being a dog
lover and a good family man exonerated a person from all possibility of having
committed a heinous crime, they didn’t. Otherwise, our judicial system would
have undergone some radical adjustments long ago.

I’d taught dog safety classes to large
groups of children back in Chicago. Having just one family in a class was a
pleasure. It took me twenty minutes to get through the basics, then we worked
at changing some behavioral patterns on John and Sarah’s part. This is often
the fun part of this job—getting people to change their own habits while
they think you’re adjusting only the dog’s behavior.

As I was leaving, I said my goodbyes, then
John came running out of the house toward me.

“Thank you for helping us, Allida.”

“My pleasure.” Not to mention that it was
my job and I was charging him. Once again, I was leery at his ditching his
family to stage this conversation, and hoped that he wasn’t yet again about to
harp on Sage.

“As one fellow dog lover to another, I’m
sure you understand why I’m concerned about that unfortunate girl’s dog.”

“Believe me, John,” I said, maintaining my
smile, despite my unease and disappointment, “Sage is in good hands and
is doing fine.”

“Did you see to that yourself?”

“Pardon?”

“Did you place the dog somewhere?”

I studied his face, honestly not sure if I
was being paranoid, or if the question truly was out of line. “I’m really not
at liberty to discuss any details about the case.”

He nodded. “Of course. I understand.”

“How well did you know Hannah Jones?”

“Hardly at all. Ate at her restaurant a lot,
years ago. I’m a vegetarian.”

“Really?” I instantly felt a touch of
chagrin at my surprise. He was a solidly built man, and I’d rarely met a
non-thin vegetarian—yet to make the assumption that he couldn’t be a
vegetarian was every bit as silly as assuming I couldn’t play basketball. “But
how did you meet Sage? Surely she couldn’t bring him to her restaurant, right?”

“Oh. No, that’s true. Not at the
restaurant, but on other occasions.” He took a step back and held up a palm. “Gotta
get back to my monsters. See you next time.” He pivoted and went back inside,
leaving me in the same state of mild discomfiture as before.

As I drove off, I decided that the past
couple of days had taught me two important life lessons I hoped I’d never
forget: 1) Check out your prospective housemate thoroughly before you agree to
move in. 2) Never find a dead body. The ramifications of number two were
all-encompassing.

Next on my agenda was a visit to Dennis
Coming’s house. He lived in west Boulder, next door to Hannah Jones’s house.
Sage’s old residence. My office was somewhat on the way, so I planned to have
lunch with Doppler there first. Too bad I’d forgotten to clear out my half of
the groceries from the house. Funny that I’d remembered Doppler’s food, but not
my own. Though I never publicly admitted it, I like the taste of Milk Bone—but
not as the main course. I couldn’t bring myself to try kibble, though, and
Doppler probably wouldn’t want me sharing his food anyway.

I grabbed a sandwich from the deli section
of a grocery store and then headed to my office. Russell’s car wasn’t there,
which was not surprising on a Sunday. But lately, I wouldn’t have put it past
him to be waiting with Doppler for my return.

There was an envelope on my desk, which I
now remembered spotting when I’d first arrived last night, but I’d had so many
things on my mind then, I didn’t open it. Besides, I’d suspected it was a note
from Russell, and I still wasn’t in a mood to be flirted with. “Allida” was
printed on the envelope in neat block lettering.