Play Dead (23 page)

I instructed Pavlov to lie down in the
corner, then tapped on Russell’s door. He called for me to come in, and I
leaned through the doorway. “I’m taking Pavlov home to my mom’s. I don’t have
another client for a couple of hours, so I’ll be a while.”

“You’re not just taking her for my sake,
are you?”

“No. Not at all,” I lied. “She’s happier
out in my mom’s big backyard where she’s got room to roam around. That’s one of
the reasons I had to settle for this arrangement in the first place.”

“I need to explain something to you.” He
searched my eyes. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.” I shut the door on Pavlov, who
seemed fine.

Russell took a seat on his couch, and I
sat down at the far end. He sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at his
fists instead of meeting my gaze. At length, he said, “When I was three and my
brother was five, we were playing out in the backyard. The neighbor’s German
shepherd attacked him—bit his face. That’s my earliest memory.”

“Oh, my God! Russell, why didn’t you tell
me this when I first told you what my type of business was?”

He shrugged, but looked at me with a
longing in his eyes that spoke volumes. “I didn’t realize then that it’d be
this difficult for me. I’ve just always kind of avoided dogs. It hasn’t been
much of a problem as an adult.”

“Was your brother all right?”

“Yeah. He had to have a batch of stitches,
but he’s fine now. Lives in Michigan. Works for IBM. You can barely even see
the scars.”

“Still, though—”

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

I stiffened. “No, Russell, I don’t.”

He scooted toward me. “Don’t you believe
it’s at least possible that there was a reason you walked in my door, needing
an office just as I was needing a new officemate?”

“Sure. It’s called classified ads.” My
fight-or-flight warning flags were going berserk. An insidious realization
popped of its own volition into my head—that if Russell had been a dog
lover, I’d be every bit as much attracted to him as he was to me.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he said
quietly, searching my eyes.

“Well, if you mean, do you think our
meeting each other was fated, I’d have to say no. Dogs are my life. You’re
afraid of dogs. I personally don’t believe The Fates have that perverse a sense
of humor.”

He leaned over and kissed me.

I cut the kiss short, then shot to my
feet, my heart beating rapidly for more reason than simple surprise. This was
the last thing I needed in my life—finding myself more and more attracted
to a man who was pathologically afraid of my beloved German shepherd.

Deliberately keeping my back turned so my
resolve wouldn’t weaken, I said, “Russell, there is no sense in starting
something between us that can’t possibly work out.”

“You don’t know that. If I can get over my
lifelong fear of dogs, we might be perfect for each other.”

That was a very large “if.” My emotions
seemed to be in an utter state of confusion, and I honestly wasn’t sure what I
felt anymore. I’d been wildly attracted to Keith, until he turned out to be
Alex. I had Joel Meyer hanging on my every word, and I’d yet to decide if I
even liked him. There was something compelling and decent about Russell. He was
so “cute”—though I hated that word—and his obvious affection for me
was flattering. The truth was, I didn’t want to have feelings for Russell
Greene just now. I was too busy trying to sort through the shambles my
day-to-day existence had become.

“Russell, the thing is, even if I weren’t
under as much stress as I am right now, I own a German shepherd. That isn’t
going to change.”

“I’ll get therapy for my phobia.”

“That’s sweet. Nobody’s ever offered to
get therapy on my behalf before.” Pavlov let out a warning woof to signal that
someone had entered my office. I headed to the door and said, “Let’s just...forget
this ever happened, okay?”

I left before he could reply, but caught a
glimpse of his disheartened features as I closed the door behind me.

A man I’d never met before stood in the
center of the room, holding a green vase full of red roses. He and Pavlov were
regarding each other with interest. His large, crooked nose reminded me of a
human version of Sage’s. He wore a bomber’s jacket and gray slacks with brown
wingtips peeking out from below his cuffs. He appeared to be in his
mid-thirties.

He gave me a half smile. “I’m Keith
Terrington. The real one.”

As opposed to the handsome actor who
played the part during our date,
I thought. “Hello, Keith. Nice to meet you, finally.” I was
unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. For the sake of his friendship
with my mother, though, I felt obliged to be at least somewhat civil. “I can’t
believe you stood me up for a Nuggets’ game. They’re terrible this year.”

“I know. The game was just an excuse.” He
sighed. “After what I did, nothing short of a face-to-face apology seemed
appropriate. Truth is, Marilyn showed me a picture of you she kept in her
wallet. Ever since my wife left me, I haven’t had much luck with
dates—certainly not with ones who haven’t met me yet. I...can’t stand to
see the expression of disappointment on blind dates’ faces when they first see
me.”

The self put-down struck me as sincere,
yet a martyr-ish overstatement. He was not especially good-looking, but the
sight of his face wasn’t guaranteed to disappoint a prospective date, either. “I
wish you’d given both yourself and me more credit than that.”

He frowned and nodded. “You’re right. But
Alex was so anxious to go out with you after hearing you speak on some radio
show or something that it seemed like the best solution.” He held out the
flowers to me, which I accepted. “I brought you these, by way of an apology.”

His words had highlighted a concern that
now gnawed at me—Alex was yet another man interested in me only after he’d
learned about my connection to Sage. “Thank you. Apology accepted. And flowers
certainly weren’t necessary, but I appreciate them.”

Again, he nodded and seemed to be on the
verge of weighing his next words. “It was nice meeting you, Allida,” Keith
said, then turned toward the exit. “Again, I’m really sorry. I’ll do my best to
apologize to your mother, as well.”

He left, trotting up the cement stairs
without hesitation. This might just be a sign that this odd little wave of men
attracted to me was about to enter ebb tide and return me to my usual long
stretches between dates. I set his roses alongside Russell’s in their pathetic
mayonnaise jar and felt my heart lurch. Whatever happened to those
pseudo-statistics that had me—in my thirties—more likely to be
taken hostage than to find an eligible man? The way my life was going, the
terrorist would ask me out—then shoot me when I declined.

All of these guys
had—coincidentally, I could only hope—entered my life at the same
time as Sage. At least I’d met Russell weeks before Beth Gleason had turned my
life upside down. Russell had let his attraction to me be known from the very
first.

I stared at his door and entertained the
notion of bursting in and returning his kiss. Then good sense took over, and I collected
my things to return Pavlov to Mom’s. I’d planned to keep her with me all
day—but that was before I knew about my officemate’s justifiable fear of
shepherds.

Before we could get out the door, the
phone rang. The deep voice on the other end identified himself as Dennis
Corning. “Listen,” he said. “I know this is unexpected, but we need to hire you
to work with Shakespeare. Right away.”

“Shakespeare?” Warning signals went off in
my brain. The Comings’ dog had seemed quite well-behaved yesterday. His parting
words to me had been that if he were Sage’s caretaker, he “wouldn’t let that
dog out of sight.” This from someone who’d taken Sage to the Humane Society.
Perhaps he was trying to get to Sage through me. “What’s your dog doing?”

“He’s got garbage-itis again. This is the
second time. Yesterday, after you left, he got real sick, and we took him to
the vet. He’d eaten a batch of Brian’s crayons. He’s much better today, but he’s
leaving multicolored presents all over our yard, if you get my drift.”

I breathed a sigh of relief for my own
sake, but was immediately worried for the dog. “Garbage-itis” was not the sort
of problem that could be easily faked. Nor was it easy to cure. “I take it,
then, you want me to train him not to eat nonfood items?”

“To stop being a garbage disposal, yeah.”

This was an interesting connection.
Shakespeare had eaten bad “food” at the household that had possessed and then
passed along Sage’s tainted food. Maybe, while treating Shakespeare, I could
learn the cause for Sage’s troubles. My instincts were telling me that the
tainted food was somehow the key to both Beth’s and Hannah’s murders. Until
those crimes were solved, I’d be unable to put my life in order. “I’ll work
with him. How soon did you have in mind?”

“As close to
now
as you can swing.
I don’t want Shakespeare to put himself through this sh— this junk again.”

I glanced at my watch, then at Pavlov, who
was pacing as if she were a caged animal. I needed to get her back to my mom’s,
where she could roam around the fully fenced acre. “I could be there in two
hours. Can you meet us at your place?”

“Me? I didn’t think I’d need to be there.
I’m at work. Susan and Brian and, of course, Shakespeare are going to be there,
though.”

“If you can’t make it, that’s fine, but it’d
be best if the entire family was there at once.”

“This is really Susan’s problem. She’s the
one who hasn’t trained Brian not to leave his toys around. Nor the dog not to
eat them. But, whatever. I’ll come home and meet you on my lunch break.”

Big of you,
I thought sourly, disliking his reference
to his wife being solely responsible for “training” their son and dog.
Nonetheless, I managed a pleasant, “See you then,” and hung up.

I made good time driving to Berthoud
during this off-hour. All three dogs were happy to see one another. I let them
into the yard, indulging myself by watching them romp outside and stage their
top-dog battles.

This was nice,
I thought, leaning against the cool glass
of the back door. Much better than living in my little house with my little
maniacal roommate. If I stayed here, the dogs could be together. Then again,
there was now that dreadful drive ahead of me...which would grow truly tedious
by winter. After fourteen years of independence, was I seriously considering
living in Mom’s house again? No. I had to find a place of my own in Boulder
soon. Within the next few months, at any rate. I made myself a sandwich,
grabbed a can of soda, and headed back to Boulder to eat while behind the
wheel.

*
* *

Susan Corning ushered me into her elegant
living room. Even with no makeup, barefoot, and in jeans and a pale blue angora
sweater, she fit in this room with all its pricey appointments. As opposed to
how out of place I felt here, despite my reasonably nice black slacks and beige
blouse. Brian was on the floor at his mother’s feet, hammering pegs into a
block. The process had the little two-year-old thoroughly mesmerized.

“Let me ask you this,” I said to Susan,
once I’d collected the rest of the pertinent background information about the
gray-and-white shin tzu. “If your son were to, say, spill some of his...” What
did wealthy people feed their children? Escargot? Caviar? “...macaroni and
cheese on the kitchen floor, do you allow Shakespeare to eat it?”

Susan chuckled. “Sounds as though you’ve
been eating supper with us. That happens all the time. Is that bad?”

“I wouldn’t necessarily call it ‘bad,’ but
it can lead Shakespeare to think that he’s
supposed
to eat whatever
Brian drops, including crayons.”

“Oh, I see. But I simply can’t collect every
last item that Brian drops. The thing is, Allida, I’m just not sure how much
more of this garbage his little system can take.”

It took me a moment to sort the pronouns
in her statement and realize she was referring to the dog’s literally eating
garbage. “There are two ways I should be able quickly to break Shakespeare of
the habit of eating off the floor. The fastest method is to use a long, light
lead and a choke collar, which one of us would tug whenever Shakespeare tried
to eat something off the floor.”

Susan shook her head. “I don’t want to
hurt him.”

“Of course not. But bear in mind that a
brief pressure on Shakespeare’s trachea is considerably less painful than the
indigestion he’s been causing himself.”

She furrowed her brow. “What’s the second
choice?”

“Sound aversion therapy.”

“Which is?”

I explained that I would press the button
on my noisemaker every time Shakespeare tried to eat a treat off the floor and
praise him each time he’d eat something I offered to him. This was the method
she chose, and Shakespeare proved to be a quick study. Then I expanded the
lesson to include food offered by the family, and especially to avoid inedible
items that Brian dropped.