In Dog We Trust (Golden Retriever Mysteries)

by Neil S. Plakcy

  I heard the buzz of the coffee grinder, and then a percolating noise as the brown liquid dripped into the glass pot. Rochester came over and rested his big golden head on my leg, leaving behind a trail of drool and a fine coating of blonde hairs on my black jeans. He settled into a heap in the doorway that led back to the living room. Yet another reason to have a dog, I thought—to create an obstacle course in your own home.

  As we drank our coffee, we traded bits and pieces of background. I mentioned my divorce and relocation, but left out the part about meeting Santiago Santos at a nondescript office building in Doylestown and showing him the ways I was becoming a solid citizen. I learned she had relocated from New York to take a job in finance with a bank in Philadelphia, an easy commute from the train station in Yardley, the next town downriver.

  “There’s a guy I used to date who lives in New York, and I see him now and then, but it’s nothing serious,” she said. “But other than him, the guys I’ve met around here are total washouts. You know, sometimes I feel like behind my back someone has enrolled me in the Dork of the Month Club, and every few weeks, instead of books or CDs or baskets of fruit, I get some dufous standing at my door, wearing high-water pants, a pencil folder in his shirt pocket, and one of those ribbon things running around behind his head holding his glasses in place.”

  I laughed. Of course a guy like that couldn’t match up to a man who wore a gold baht bracelet, knew how to shoot a semi-automatic weapon and how to perform first aid on a sucking chest wound. Could I? Or would I end up another on Caroline’s list of losers, the computer geek who was too dumb to avoid prison?

  While we talked, Rochester remained sprawled on the white tile floor in the doorway, snoring softly. At one point his body began to twitch and he made some whimpering noises. “He’s probably chasing ducks in his dreams,” Caroline said. “There’s a dog park in Leighville, and I’ve taken him there a couple of times, but I spend the whole time making sure he doesn’t try to hump every other dog.”

  The way she looked at him was so sweet and loving; I could tell she and the big golden had a strong bond, and I envied that a little. Some people like dogs, I figured, and some didn’t. I was one of the ones who didn’t. And I wasn’t willing to accept the chaos that a dog would bring into my life. I was still enjoying my solitude, the way I didn’t have to answer to anyone but Santiago Santos.

  “I guess I should get home,” I said then. “I’ve got a stack of freshman comp essays to grade on ‘a food that has a personal meaning to me.’ I figure I’ll be reading a lot about pizza and burgers, while correcting dangling modifiers, unyoking fused sentences, and introducing my students to the concept of punctuation and its place in the grammatically correct sentence.”

  Remembering Caroline, I felt a few long-ignored stirrings. Just my luck; I find a smart, pretty woman who’s single and maybe interested in me, and she gets killed before I can even think of making a move.

  The next time I ran into Caroline it was at The Chocolate Ear, on a Saturday morning. The usual suspects were there—the people who always seemed to be hanging around the café when I stopped by. My childhood piano teacher, Edith Passis; Gail, the café owner; and her grandmother Irene.

  I stepped up in line behind Caroline, noting the Oriental simplicity of her white blouse, black jacket, and black slacks. With her hair pulled up into a knot, she looked fresh and pretty, and I wondered again if she’d go out with me, if I asked, and if the parole would be a deal-killer.

  We started to chat while we waited, and then sat down across from each other at one of the white wire tables. “I’m still finding my way around,” she said, breaking a biscotti and dipping it in her coffee. “The other day I got lost trying to find my way to Newtown on the back road.”

  Her fingers were long and delicate, with a French manicure on the nails. I’ve always been a sucker for a woman with beautiful hands. “If you need to know how to find anything, just ask,” I offered. “I know my way around.”

  “But you’ve lived here less than I have.”

  “I grew up here. I was born in Trenton, but my parents relocated to Stewart’s Crossing when I was two.”

  “And you’ve been here ever since?”

  “College upriver in Leighville; New York for nine years; then Silicon Valley for ten. I’ve been back here a few months, but in many ways it seems like I never left.”

  “I wish I had a home town,” she said. She clasped her coffee cup in both hands. “I was an Army brat, and we moved around a lot. People say it must have been romantic to live overseas, but not when all you ever saw was a military base.”

  “Where do your parents live now?”

  “My dad was killed in the first Gulf War,” she said. “And my mom died last year. So it’s just me.” She smiled. “And Rochester, of course.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “My mom died about the time your dad did, and then my dad sold our house and bought the townhouse next to yours for his retirement. Did you know him? He didn’t get to spend much time there. He only lived in the townhouse for a few months before he passed away.”

  “I think I said hello to him a couple of times,” Caroline said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to his funeral. I know some of the other neighbors went.”

  How could I tell her that the State of California had prevented me from looking after him in his final illness, had even kept me from his funeral? “It was a busy time,” I said, trying for vagueness.

  Caroline left a few minutes later, and then Edith came over to sit with me. “Do I seem more confused to you lately, Steve?” she asked.

  “Confused? No, why?”

  “I feel so distracted. It’s been hard for me to concentrate on reading or playing the piano. And I’ve been losing track of my finances, too. I’m worried someone might be stealing from me, because checks have gone missing.”

  I contemplated Edith’s decline as I cupped the white china mug which held the remains of my raspberry mocha. She had been a friend of my parents, and I remembered her at parties at our house, her black hair teased into a beehive. She wore glasses that feathered up at the edges and thigh-high black leather boots.

  Edith had become a touchstone for me in the few months since I’d been back, and it worried me that she might not be around much longer. I had lost so many people who had mattered to me – both my parents, my ex-wife, many friends who hadn’t wanted to stand by me while my case made its way through the court system. I wasn’t ready to lose Edith, too.

  “Sometimes I think maybe it’s just that I’m getting confused,” she continued. “I don’t know what to think. And it’s all so disturbing, after Walter worked so hard to leave me well-fixed.”

  I’d heard about criminals who preyed on the elderly, scammers who needed help moving money into the country or who promised elaborate yet unnecessary home repairs, which evaporated once the money had been paid. But Edith Passis had always been so smart and confident. I couldn’t believe someone was taking advantage of her.

  I looked out through the mullioned windows at Main Street, thinking about what I could say. Edith must have been over eighty, and still lived in the same small bungalow where she’d spent a lifetime giving piano lessons to local kids. I remembered sitting at her upright piano, struggling to master the simplest of songs. For three years, my parents forced me to trudge to Mrs. Passis’s house once a week, until they gave me up as a lost cause. Back then, she’d had true Black Irish looks—coal-black hair, pale white skin and bright blue eyes. When I returned to Stewart’s Crossing, though, I discovered her hair had gone stark white, and a medication she took tinted her skin a salmon-pink. The blue eyes were still as fierce and blue, though. Though I’d never say it to her face, I thought she looked like a gerbil, as if she ate chopped lettuce at every meal and lived in a pile of shredded newspaper.

  Her fingers were arthritic now, so she could no longer keep up with her students, and she’d given up all but the most advanced pupils, those she could help by ear. In addition,
once a week she drove upriver to Eastern to tutor a couple of advanced piano students.

  She had always been so strong and vibrant, but that day, she seemed to have shrunk and faded. “I’m just finding it harder and harder to remember things,” she continued, shaking her head. “I saw you talking to Caroline earlier. Gail told me that she was a CPA. I was thinking of asking her to help me sort things out.”

  “That’s a great idea, Edith. She seems like a nice person.”

  “I can’t imagine who could do this to me,” Edith said. “I don’t have any children, you know, and none of my nieces or nephews live anywhere in the area. But I think Caroline could help me.”

  I was relieved. If anyone was cheating Edith, Caroline would be able to help her. She wasn’t my responsibility, of course, but my parents were dead and she had no children, and I felt a connection to her that went back many years, to dust motes dancing in the sunlight as I struggled to master Scott Joplin and “The Caisson Song.”

  Lying restlessly in bed, Rochester snoring lightly next to me, I worried about Edith, and wondered if Caroline had been able to figure out what was wrong before she died. I resolved to call Edith the next morning and let her know what had happened to Caroline, and see how she stood.

  Then I turned on my side and tried, once again, to fall asleep.

  Chapter 4 – The House Guest

  Just before I dozed off, Rochester jumped down and made himself comfortable on the tile floor in the master bathroom—choosing a spot where he could, by raising an eyebrow, keep tabs on me. In the morning, I woke around seven-thirty, stretching and rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Rochester’s head bobbed up next to me, his front paws planted on the mattress.

  I’d almost forgotten about the events of the night before. But seeing him there brought it all back. “I suppose you want to go for a walk,” I said, yawning.

  His head banged on the mattress a couple of times. I took that for a yes.

  But by the time I had pulled on a pair of sweat pants, an Eastern t-shirt, socks, sneakers and a fleece-lined jacket, Rochester had crawled under my bed and didn’t want to leave.

  I lay down on the floor next to him. A few of his golden hairs had already lodged in my carpet, and I sneezed. “Come on, boy, let’s go.” I reached a hand under the bed to stroke the top of his head. “I know, you had a rough day yesterday. I did, too. But you’ve got to go out for your walk.”

  I looked up at the clock on my bedside table. “And I have to get to class soon. So that means we have to go walk now.”

  He just lay there looking at me. I grabbed the metal chain around his neck and pulled. He splayed his front paws out to slow the motion, but I knocked them inward with my other hand and kept pulling. By the time I had his head out from under the bed he’d given up and was moving forward under his own steam.

  Before I could get up, he was climbing on top of me, trying to lick my face. “Get off of me, you big moose!” I said, laughing. “This is all some big game to you, isn’t it?”

  He took off down the hall while I was still getting up, one hand on his leash, and it was like a slapstick routine, me tumbling and stumbling as I struggled to get my footing while being dragged along by a big golden beast. It was no use being angry with Rochester; as soon as you got the steam going, he’d do something to make you laugh.

  We got out the front door, and stopped in the courtyard while I turned and locked up. The gate to the driveway was still closed, and Rochester and I were confined in a narrow area together. Without warning, he jumped on me, placing his front paws on my stomach and his big head just below my face. The move was enough to knock me back against the door.

  For a moment I thought he was begging me not to make him go out again, where the bad people had hurt his mommy—but then I realized it was just another game. “Get down, you big moose,” I said, and I pushed down on the top of his head. I’d swear he snickered at me as I opened the gate, and then he took off at Indy 500 pace for the end of the driveway.

  A walk with Rochester was a lot different from the walks I took myself. He powered down the street, at the end of the retractable leash, stopping frequently to sniff or pee. Just when I caught up, he took off again. I’d only brought one plastic bag with me, but he didn’t care, and left samples of his handiwork in three separate spots. After the first, I’d tossed the bag, so for the second and third drops I had to stand around looking guilty and hoping we could escape unnoticed.

  The sun had just risen, and there was frost on the lawns, sparkling in the early light. All around us, I heard River Bend awakening—courtyard gates opening and closing, mothers calling kids, car doors slamming and engines starting up. It was shaping up to be a cool, cloudless day; a bluebird swooped into an oak tree ahead of us, and a squirrel chattered as he jumped from tree to tree.

  I was struck with a terrible sadness. Caroline would not see this day. She would never walk Rochester again on a crisp morning like this, filled with the promise of spring. She would never drive down to the station in Yardley for her train to Philadelphia, or come home in the gathering twilight to the welcome of her dog.

  It was amazing how fast a life could come apart. Within a year, I’d turned forty, then lost my father, my job, my freedom, my marriage and, as part of the divorce, my home in Silicon Valley. I’d struggled to put my life back together—but Caroline wouldn’t have that chance. There were some body blows you couldn’t recover from.

  We saw a few neighbors, and waved, but everyone seemed to be in a hurry to leave for work. It wasn’t the same as in the evening, when people stopped to say hello or share information. Rochester and I did a big circuit of the neighborhood, staying away from the area where Caroline had been shot, and returned to my driveway, where I picked up the newspaper.

  Rochester sprawled on the kitchen floor, panting, and I refilled his water bowl. He jumped up, lapping the water and spilling half of it on the tile floor, then settled down again to watch me.

  While I waited for the water to boil for my morning oatmeal, I scanned the pages for news of Caroline’s murder. I found a tiny report in the “Crossing Connections” section that a woman had been shot and killed along the perimeter of the park. Police were investigating and were waiting to release her identity pending notification of relatives.

  I poured a half cup of food into Rochester’s bowl and replenished his water supply, then showered and dressed for work. It was a Wednesday, which meant that I taught technical writing from 9:30 to 10:45, and freshman comp from 11:00 – 12:15. I usually hung around for while after that, chatting with colleagues and making myself available in case one of my students had the uncharacteristic desire to discuss his or her lack of course progress with me. “You be a good boy, Rochester,” I said, as I was leaving. “Take a nice long nap and I’ll walk you when I get home.”

  Rochester had taken up a position under my dining room table, and from there he watched me leave. From the car, I used my cell phone to call Rick and see if he knew where Rochester was going, but all I could do was leave a message.

  I called technical writing my alphabet class, because the students ran from Alyssa Applebaum to Layton Zee—who insisted on the first day, “Call me Lay. All my buds do.”

  I wasn’t Layton’s bud, but I refrained from saying so. He was an interesting case; he came to class every day, did the in-class work, and joined in the discussions. But he never handed in any papers. He reminded me of a kid I knew when I was at Eastern, who supplied half the campus with a variety of recreational drugs and who was his own biggest customer. He had gone on to run his own cosmetics business, so perhaps there was hope for Lay Zee.

  All through class I kept thinking about Caroline Kelly and wondering what could have caused someone to kill her. I love to read mysteries, and quite often the solution is right there under the detective’s nose, but the author drags out the discovery just to fill up two hundred pages. In those cases I figured out who did it long before the detective did, and often gave up on the book whe
n it seemed like I was looking over the shoulder of an idiot.

  But it wasn’t so easy in real life. All morning I was distracted, lecturing from rote and answering questions with half my brain. Could it have been something as simple as an angry ex-boyfriend? I hadn’t lived next door to Caroline long enough to know much about her life beyond the dog and the guy with the Porsche Cayenne who’d come to stay one weekend.

  She was a creature of habit, as dog owners often are—walking Rochester every day and night at the same time—which Rick seemed to think had made it easy for someone to find the right time and place to shoot her. But why? What hidden secrets lay behind the ordinary façade she presented to the world?

  Years of reading mysteries had taught me that even the blandest-seeming person can have hidden traumas, long-dormant issues that percolate to the top and cause horrific actions. I knew, for example, that Caroline was a military brat, and that she’d spent time in Korea as a teenager. Had something from her past come back to haunt her? Had her Southeast Asian connections influenced more than just her furniture and jewelry? What if a high school classmate had become a high-level drug dealer and she’d been laundering money for him through her bank?

  I shook my head to clear it. I was being ridiculous. The chances that my quiet next-door-neighbor was an accountant by day and a drug smuggler by night were about as good as the chances that Mary and I would get back together and live happily ever after—which is to say so small that it could only be seen with an electron microscope.

  Freshman comp passed in the same sort of fog, and after class I went up to the faculty lounge, where I saw Jackie Devere, a full-time professor I’d become friends with, making herself a cappuccino. “You’re lucky you didn’t get shot, too,” she said, when I told her what had happened. “If you’d been a few minutes later it might have been you.”