The Wedding Caper

by Janice Thompson

  Though the day felt half wasted, I had enough on my plate to keep me busy for the rest of it. Between now and tonight’s game, I had to edit an article for a new client and prepare enough food for an army of teens.

  First things first. I signed onto the Internet with great fervor, almost like an addict stumbling off the wagon. My stash of e-mails beckoned with the strongest intensity. Probably should’ve skipped them and gone on to my work. But somewhere in the mix of things, I came across Lesson Seven from www.investigativeskills.com: A GOOD INVESTIGATOR HAS A HIGH TOLERANCE FOR STRESS.

  Sure. Easy for them to say. Whoever wrote that particular lesson had apparently never had a day like I happened to be having today.

  I shut the crazy thing, refusing to read it. Perhaps another day.

  Following directly on its heels was an e-mail from Sheila. I expected it to be one of those goofy forwards she liked to send, but was surprised to find a personal note instead.

  “Dear Annie,” it read, “In praying for you this morning, the Lord laid a particular verse on my heart and prompted me to share it with you. It comes from Psalm 18. ‘In my distress I called to the Lord I cried to my God for help. From his temple he heard my voice; my cry came before him, into his ears.’ I’m not sure what you’re facing today, but God knows and already has a plan to see you through it. Hope this helps. Lots of love, Sheila.”

  Whoa.

  For a minute, it felt like all the wind had been knocked out of my sails. Had the God of heaven really just interrupted my up-to-now pitiful day to speak directly to me through my up-to-recently nutty friend? How in the world could she have known?

  Funny. Twice this week I’d seen Sheila in action, touching people’s lives with something directly from the Lord. Lord, I want to be like that. I want to touch lives, make a difference. Though I never thought I’d hear myself pray these words, I found myself asking, “Lord, make me more like Sheila.” And I meant it. She apparently had a direct line to Him and I wanted that, too. From now on, I’d have to take everything my best friend said far more seriously.

  I started to click the reply button, to let her know how much I appreciated her note, when something caught my eye. There, just below her name, I discovered a little tag-line. It read: If at first you don’t succeed, skydiving is not for you.

  I nearly fell out of my chair laughing. A prophet and a comedian. Sheila was truly the most well-rounded friend I’d ever had.

  Chapter Seventeen

  If dogs could raise red flags, I’d have to say Sasha raised one. She needed to visit the vet anyway, what with her booster shots being due and all. But the bizarre “episodes,” as I liked to call them, now had me wondering if she needed a bit of psychiatric help as well.

  Yep. My dog was going through bona fide “spells”—hyperactivity, combined with strange withdrawal symptoms whenever one of us would leave the house, even for a few minutes. Over the past couple of weeks, on top of the pillow incident and garden fiasco, she’d chewed up the legs on the coffee table and left scratch marks on the inside of the front door. Something was definitely up. So, on the morning after the game, off to the vet I went. Saturday or no Saturday, my puppy needed help.

  Dr. Andrews saw us right away. He swooped my baby into his arms, and she hid her face under his armpit.

  “I don’t have a clue,” I said with a shrug. “She’s been acting so weird.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  As he placed her on the table to begin the examination, I relayed her symptoms. Extreme mood swings. Temperamental. Whining. Bizarre behaviors.

  “Mm-hmm.” He continued to examine her. “Any change in her eating habits?”

  “Slight. I’ve noticed she’s not eating quite as much.”

  “Has she been a little clingy?”

  “Very.”

  “I see. And have you been gone from the house more than usual?”

  “Well—” I stumbled a bit across the words, thinking about my latest escapades related to the investigation. “Maybe a little. But other people leave their dogs at home alone for more than an hour or two and they don’t destroy the house.”

  Sasha looked up at me with imploring eyes as he took her temperature. I had to turn my head the other way. This was as tough as taking my kids to the pediatrician, but I would never have admitted it.

  “Have you tried crating her?”

  My heart sank right away. I couldn’t bear the thought of it, in all honesty. “She’s never been a problem till recently,” I explained. “Seriously. No accidents on the floor. No destructive behavior. Nothing. So we’ve never had a need to.”

  “So—” He continued on, checking her out. “She doesn’t even sleep in a crate? What is her bedding situation?”

  “Well, I—”

  “I thought so.” Dr. Andrews paused as he looked at me. “I think some changes might be in order. The sooner, the better.”

  “Changes? Why? What’s wrong with her?”

  He scribbled a few words into her chart before answering. “Sounds like your pup has a classic case of S.A.D. Separation anxiety disorder.”

  “Say what?”

  He went on to explain the diagnosis. “Dogs with this problem don’t like to be alone. And dachshunds are particularly susceptible because they’re prone to ‘shadow’ one person at a time. If that person goes away, even for a short period of time, the dog is liable to act up. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Sure. I guess so.” I swallowed hard.

  “Does Sasha follow you around the house?” When I nodded, he continued, “And how does she react when you reach for the keys or head for the door?”

  “She, um—” I scratched her behind the ears. “She cries, but I always reach down and play with her. Tell her I’ll be home soon, that sort of thing.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Just exactly what you shouldn’t do. If your goodbyes and hellos are exaggerated, she’s more prone to act up while you’re gone. Tell me how you greet her when you come in the door.”

  “Well—”

  Should I tell him that I always scoop her up in my arms and love all over her, telling her how much I missed her when I’m away?

  “Uh hum. Never mind.” He scribbled something in her chart.

  My heart raced. “What can we do?”

  “Call in a specialist,” he suggested. “Obedience schools usually have trained experts on staff who can come to your home to show you how to deal with this. Or—” Here he gave me an inquisitive look. “Get another dog. That way she won’t be alone, even if you have to leave.” He smiled, as if that settled the whole thing.

  “Heavens to Betsy.” I tried to imagine the look on Warren’s face. “Another dog?”

  Dr. Andrews shrugged. “These are just suggestions, of course, but you’ll go on seeing these behaviors until her situation changes.”

  He called in the technician, a perky girl named Angela. She entered the room, took one look at Sasha and let out a couple of oohs and aahs.

  “She’s so pretty.” Angela reached to scratch Sasha behind the ears. “Have you thought about showing her?”

  “Showing her? You mean, like, dog shows?” I let the idea mull around in my brain a minute before answering. “Nah. Never really thought about it.”

  “She’s a purebred, right?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Dr. Andrews threw in his two cents’ worth. “Might be good for her. Get her out around people and give her a sense of purpose.”

  A sense of purpose? What is she, Miss Canine America? Next thing you know, she’ll be campaigning for world peace.

  “She looks like a winner to me.” Angela’s face erupted in a smile.

  As I looked into Sasha’s eyes, they appeared to morph into dollar signs. “Really?”

  Angela led me out to the front office, where I reached for my debit card, praying it wouldn’t be rejected again. I swallowed hard when she gave me the total: $185.00. Yikes. Maybe I’d better put Sasha to work to pay the vet b
ills. As I contemplated this possibility, the little monster lay curled up in my arms, completely content. Puppy, you clingy little thing. What am I going to do with you?

  While waiting on the card to process, I glanced over at the corkboard on the wall. Nearly a dozen photos of puppies and kittens greeted me. My eye gravitated toward a photo of a male dachshund, a bit larger than Sasha. The note beneath it read, Male dachshund, one year old, reduced price.

  A thousand questions entered my mind at once. Why in the world would anyone reduce the price on a pedigreed dog? And why sell a one-year-old?

  I looked over the rest of the ads on the board, finding a few to be completely unrelated to animals at all. In fact, I felt a familiar catch in my throat when my gaze landed on the photo of a familiar sports car. That’s the car from the bank parking lot.

  “Excuse me.” Still juggling the dog in my arms, I took the photo to Angela and pointed at it. “Do you know who this car belongs to?”

  Her cheeks pinked over as she reached to grab the piece of paper. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was supposed to take that down a couple of weeks back. That was Dr. Andrews’s car. He sold it ages ago.”

  My heart rate increased immediately. “Do you have any idea who he sold it to?”

  “Hmm.” Her lips pursed as she thought it through. “Oh yes. I remember now. It was someone who works at the bank.”

  Bingo. “Yes, but do you know who?”

  Now the spot between her eyebrows crinkled. “Oh, I do remember. It was a woman—that new security guard from out-of-town. Nikki something or another.”

  “Nikki Rogers?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Angela tore up the paper and tossed it in the trash. “She came into the office to pay him. In cash, no less. Now there’s a girl with some money to spend.”

  My heart felt as if it would explode in my chest. “Do you. . .do you have any idea how much?”

  Angela shrugged. “I know he was asking just under $20,000 for the car. Blue Book value was a bit more, but the car had a lot of miles on it. I do seem to remember him saying he got his asking price. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason.” I excused myself and backed out of the office, suddenly feeling dizzy.

  Nikki Rogers. In the crazy mix of things, I’d almost forgotten all about her. An ocean of possibilities swam through my mind. With $25,000 cash in hand, she would’ve had enough money to pay for both the car and the tuition for her daughter’s school.

  How ridiculous I now felt. How completely, utterly ridiculous. Nikki Rogers had access. She had motive. What else did I need to pin-point her as the thief?

  Sure, she’d played that I’m-just-a-single-mom-caring-for-my-daughter bit to the hilt. But her acting skills had raised my antennae from the beginning, hadn’t they? And all of that business about Guards on Call—had I forgotten all of that?

  I struggled with a host of thoughts and ideas as I drove home. Sasha made the drive a bit complicated, what with insisting on sitting on my lap and all. Mental note: Perhaps a crate wouldn’t be such a bad idea, particularly in the car.

  Then again, the little darling enjoyed sticking her head out of the window to catch the wind in her face. Wouldn’t want to steal that from her. And, if Nikki Rogers turned out to be the Clark County Savings and Loan perpetrator, Sasha would be a local hero, after all. Had she not required a trip to the vet’s office, I would never have pieced together this latest bit of information.

  Still…

  I couldn’t get a settled feeling about Nikki’s guilt. Every time I thought about her in a negative light, my sympathies kicked in and I saw her innocent face lit with joy as she talked about her daughter.

  Oh well. Enough of this.

  I deliberately switched my thinking to the dog, tried to figure out how to go about telling Warren about her “condition.” How would he take that news that his wife wasn’t the only one in the family with issues? Only one way to know for sure.

  I found in him the kitchen, rooting around in the refrigerator.

  “Hey, baby.” I reached to give him a peck on the cheek and he responded with a grunt.

  “Bad mood?”

  “No.” He continued his search through the fridge. “Just trying to figure out what to make for lunch.”

  And no doubt having trouble, what with all of the leftovers from Devin’s celebration party last night. They swallowed up most of the eye-catching space in the refrigerator.

  “Let me take care of that for you.”

  He stepped out of the way and I took over the process of pulling out the lunchmeats and cheeses to make our usual Saturday afternoon sandwiches. Moments later, we settled down at the table and I started to tell him about Sasha. Note started to. But something in Warren’s eyes led me a completely different direction. He looked. . .lonely. A bit lost, even.

  “Honey, are you okay?”

  He shrugged. “I guess.” Which being interpreted meant no.

  “What’s going on?”

  He bit into his turkey sandwich and gave another little shrug. “Things just seem kind of weird lately. You’re usually so. . .talkative.”

  “And I haven’t been lately?”

  Another shrug.

  “I’m sorry, Warren. I’m trying to be there for the girls and be there for my clients. And this thing with the dog—” Nope, I wouldn’t go there. I wouldn’t usurp my husband’s needs for that of a dachshund. “I’m just overwhelmed.”

  “I miss you, Annie.”

  Whoa. Huge red flag, waving right in my face.

  “I–I know.”

  Man, is this ever weird. For years, I’ve been the one initiating these kinds of conversations. Feels kind of odd for the shoe to be on the other foot.

  “We should plan a date night,” I offered. “At least one night a week. No television. No computer. Just some one on one time—either here or in a restaurant or something.”

  He reached to take my hand. “Okay. I think you could use the distraction.”

  After that, he dove into a story about something that had happened at work the other day, which sent my thoughts soaring back to Nikki and the money. No, no, no. Not going there. Focus on the man sitting in front of you. He needs you.

  In that very moment I came to realize the truth. My puppy wasn’t the only one in the household with separation anxiety disorder.

  Apparently my husband had a pretty severe case of it, too.

  Chapter Eighteen

  You hear about those wives who dig through their husband’s pockets in search of evidence of wrong-doing? Well, I’m not one of them. Never have been. The only thing of value I ever pulled from Warren’s pockets was a stick of gum he’d left there weeks before. That’s why, when I first saw the little folded note in his slacks pocket while doing the laundry that same Saturday afternoon, no alarm bells went off. Probably just a don’t-forget-to-pick-up-the-dry-cleaning reminder to himself.

  Wrong.

  For whatever reason, I felt compelled to open the silly thing before throwing it out. Just in case it turned out to be something important, you understand. The words inside, written on bank stationary, completely floored me.

  We pulled it off without a hitch. Easy money, my friend.

  The tiny piece of paper slipped out of my hand and floated down to the floor. Pulled it off? Easy money? And what’s up with this “we” business?

  A host of ideas raced through my imagination. Did Warren and Nikki work together to steal the money, then split the proceeds? Nah. How could she have paid for the car? Maybe Warren and Richard plotted this whole ugly thing. Maybe they… Nah. Nothing made any sense, especially the part where Warren played a role in the burglary—at all.

  I picked up the paper and stared at the handwriting in an attempt to analyze it. Scribbles and scratches. A child could’ve written it, for all I knew. Didn’t really look like Warren’s, but how could I be sure?

  Ask him.

  Just two simple words, but they terrified me.

  I mulled them over as I worked
on Brandi’s silk wedding bouquets. I dissected them as I cleaned up the mess in the kitchen Devin and his friends had left behind the night before. I pondered them as I started a second load of laundry.

  And I agonized over the awful truth as it stared me down. My husband, innocent as he looked, could very well have pulled the wool over my eyes from the get-go. Maybe that’s why he’d seemed so distant lately. Perhaps that was the real reason he looked so. . .lost. Maybe he was wracked with guilt, filled with remorse.

  I’d promised the Lord I wouldn’t entertain these thoughts. And I really tried to dismiss them and think of something positive, uplifting. But my brain simply wouldn’t cooperate. I sent a plea for help heavenward.

  A familiar case of nerves kicked in. I let myself get completely wound up inside, and my stomach turned to knots. Maybe I needed that Internet lesson on handling stress more than I thought.

  While Warren clipped the hedges outside—safely out of sight—I slipped into the computer chair and signed online, determined to read the lesson through, even if it killed me.

  It almost did. On and on it went, about not letting the ups and downs of the investigation steer you from dead-center. “Getting pulled to the right and left will cause undue stresses,” it read. Well, no kidding. But what else could I do? According to the lesson, keeping my eyes on the goal would prove most valuable when it came to de-stressing. Hmm. Sounded almost. . .biblical.

  I shut down the Internet and paced the office. Sheila’s cryptic e-mail message flooded my mind once again. In my distress I called to the Lord; I cried to my God for help. From his temple he heard my voice; my cry came before him, into his ears.

  What was it she had said? Ah yes. The Lord already saw my situation and had an answer for me. He could handle all of this, surely. I lit into a heartfelt prayer, completely assured of the fact that God wasn’t stressing. And I would remain focused. More so than ever. I would ask for the Lord’s help every step of the way.