Ruff Way to Go

by Leslie O'Kane

  I turned my attention to the puppy in my lap and looped the circle of my thumb and index finger around Fez’s paw. This was just about the right paw size for the prints I’d seen. Holding the wiggly puppy, though, it occurred to me that puppies this young weren’t steady on their feet and tended to take frequent rests. The tracks I’d seen had appeared to have come from a surefooted canine.

  When I looked up from my study of the puppy’s paws, John was watching me, and I realized I wasn’t being much of a conversationalist. “How is Suds doing?”

  “She’s fine. Though she’d be a lot happier if we could get her into a homier environment.”

  “I can imagine,” I murmured, weighing the pros and cons of volunteering my own residence.

  He searched my eyes, that marvelous smile of his catching my attention again. “You...sound as though you’re personally familiar with her.”

  “Is she nearby?” I asked quickly, wanting to deflect further questions for the moment, until I’d had the chance to assess Suds’s status for myself.

  “Yes. We’re keeping her in the office for now, where it’s quieter, but we’re hoping to get her foster-adopted again very soon. Today, in fact.”

  He rose and held out his hands for me to return Fez to him. I stood up as well and reluctantly returned the little ball of fur to him. John was taller than I would have guessed him to be—an inch or two over six feet. Ah, well. Nobody’s perfect. “We need to return this little guy to his mom.”

  I followed as he rounded the corner in the L-shaped room. This part of the room was sectioned off, and there sat Suds and her other four puppies. Suds looked at me and got up on all fours long enough for me to give her a quick pat. She was panting and began to pace the moment I stopped petting her. This was too small a quarters for such an active breed as a husky. She needed to get out of here.

  The fifth puppy wiggled his way over to his brother and sisters. John showed me where the sink was, and we washed our hands with an antibacterial liquid at the sink in the office. Diseases such as kennel cough can spread so easily. He walked me back over toward his desk afterward.

  “Allida Babcock,” John said, again eyeing me at length. “That name sounds familiar to me.”

  “So does the name John White. Isn’t that some sort of a wild bird?”

  He chuckled. “No, that would be my brother, Bob White. Are you familiar with dog foster care programs?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Would you be willing to consider fostering Suds and family? We had a foster-adopt for them, but that didn’t work out. I should tell you right off, though, that the mother is not up for adoption, only the puppies.”

  “I’m at least partially aware of these dogs’ backgrounds. I live in Berthoud, directly across the street from Cassandra Randon.”

  He stiffened and lowered his gaze. “That was such a shock. Mr. Randon brought the dogs back yesterday. He told me about the circumstances.”

  “Did you know his wife?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a half-spirited shrug. “Met her briefly, is all. She was at one of the lectures I gave the volunteers. But still, it’s such a shock. This has never happened to us. Not since I’ve been here, anyway. To have a death in one of our adoptive families.”

  He was staring at me intently and looked away the moment I met his gaze. Just then I got the slightest sensation of something being wrong or off-kilter in his attitude. The feeling passed as quickly as it came, and I dismissed it as being the result of the subject matter. “Before I agree to foster the dogs myself, there are a couple of questions I’d like to ask.”

  “Fire away,” he said, gesturing at the chair behind me while he reclaimed his own.

  I pulled up a green upholstered desk chair on wheels that matched his own and sat down. Though this animal shelter was said to be better funded than others, this room, like the office at the Humane Society in Boulder, was furnished with secondhand furniture. The desks were old and scuffed, and the shelves that lined one wall had seen better days. The old metal file cabinets were open and in a state of some disarray. The computers, though, appeared to be in good shape.

  “Cassandra told me that Suds’s owner was currently in prison, and that’s why he couldn’t take care of her and the pups.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not true. I wonder where she got that idea.”

  So did I. Perhaps Paul Randon had deliberately lied to his wife.

  Chapter 7

  Cassandra had told me that she’d gotten her information secondhand, from her husband, Paul, but there was no reason for me to bring him up now. “You mean the owner isn ‘t in prison?”

  “Not anymore. He was. Now he’s at a halfway house. Mrs. Randon must have gotten the wrong impression. I thought I made it clear that he was in the process of getting reestablished after his release. His new landlord didn’t mind putting up with the one dog, but objected to the five puppies.”

  Maybe Paul had simply slanted the information so that Cassandra would feel safer in thinking that the man was behind bars. “What was he in for?” I asked, my choice of phrasing making me sound to my own ear like some character on a cop show.

  “Burglary, I think was the charge. Nothing...violent, if that’s what you’re thinking.” John gave me a sheepish smile. “Not to put thoughts in your head. You have no reason to worry about Suds’s owner ever coming into contact with you.”

  Now that he said that, I was worried. “What’s Suds’s owner’s name?”

  “I’m sorry, Allida, but we don’t give out that information. All of our adoptions are handled confidentially. Every now and then we get someone who changes his mind about a pet he’s put up for adoption after it’s too late. We can’t allow the new owner to have to risk getting harassed by the previous owner, or vice versa.”

  I studied John’s handsome features. Something was bothering me, but I couldn’t say what. Maybe it was John’s nervous mannerisms, the way he kept shifting his vision to the door behind me as if he expected some monster to burst in at any given moment. “You did tell the police about him, though, didn’t you? I mean, just in case he had anything to do with Cassandra Randon’s murder.”

  “Of course. I called them the moment Mr. Randon came back with the dogs yesterday and told us what happened.” He ran a hand over his tousled hair. “I have to admit that I was relieved when I spoke to the police again this morning and learned that Suds’s owner had an alibi. I’d have felt partly responsible if he’d been involved in the murder somehow, knowing we had to have let security slip for Suds’s owner to have been able to locate the Randons.”

  “The police told you that he had an alibi?” That was surprising to me. They seemed reluctant to tell me anything.

  John raised his eyebrows at the question. “Come to think of it, they might’ve just been telling me that to appease me so that I’d stop bugging them.” Again he was looking at the door as he spoke. He rose, and I started to get up myself, thinking he was leaving the room. He opened the door a crack, then sat back down. “Sorry. It’s getting a bit stuffy in here. The sergeant from Berthoud...Millay, isn’t it?” I nodded as he continued, “He assured me that the alibi was ironclad.”

  “And so you’re absolutely confident that there is no risk whatsoever in allowing Suds to be foster-adopted again?”

  “Absolutely. That the Randons happened to have recently gotten these dogs was nothing more than a horrible coincidence.”

  “Okay.”

  “So you’ll foster them?”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “That’s great, Allida. Thanks!” He gave me another of his wonderful smiles, his white teeth accentuating his even tan. “I’ll get the paperwork together.”

  He started to walk me to the front desk. “What do you do for a living, Allida, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I’m a dog behaviorist in Boulder. Though I’m not technically making a ‘living’ at it. More like scraping by till I’m established.”

 
His eyes lit up. “No wonder your name sounded so familiar. You do volunteer work for the shelter in Boulder, right?”

  I was flattered that he’d heard of me. “Yes, I just recently started there.”

  “I hear you’re excellent. How lucky for them.”

  He waited with me while I quickly filled out the forms and handed them to him. He scanned them for a moment then asked, “You say you live in Berthoud?”

  “Temporarily. I’m staying with my mother for a few weeks till I can find a rental in Boulder. In fact I’ll need to let my mother know we’re having canine company for a few weeks.”

  “Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Not with my mother. When I was growing up, she was every bit as likely to use the look-what-followed-me-home routine as I was.”

  He fidgeted with the papers in his hands, then smiled and said quietly, “Here’s a thought. How about if you discuss this with her, and if she’s game, I’ll drive the dogs out to your place myself after work? Then maybe after they’re settled in, you and I could go out for a drink or a late dinner. Are you interested?”

  Was it just paranoia on my part, or could he be asking me out because he wanted to learn how much I knew about the murder? If I went out with him, I was either going to spend time with a handsome man who’d dedicated his life to working with dogs, or perhaps learn how much he knew about the Randons and Suds’s ex-con owner.

  “Sure. That sounds nice.”

  “Let’s say I’ll swing by around...eight o’clock tonight?”

  “Okay. See you then.”

  He smiled, his brown eyes sparkling. “Super. I’m looking forward to it.”

  Something was dampening my spirits, though, as I drove away, and I found myself thinking of Russell. He and I had never discussed exclusivity, and our relationship was too new to even broach the subject. Still, he’d been such a doll last night, and here I was, not even twenty-four hours later, making a date with another man. Should I tell Russell about John?

  This is why I’m just not cut out for dating. I don’t enjoy it enough to warrant all of the baggage that comes with it.

  In case my next destination needed to be Luellen’s home in Campion, where I hoped to drag Sergeant Millay with me to help me retrieve Shogun, I pulled up to a public phone and called for my messages. I had one from Sergeant Millay, returning my call, and another from Russell, who said it was important, so I called him first.

  He sounded so happy to hear from me that I immediately felt guilty. He said, “Allida, I just scored two tickets for a concert tonight that’s been sold out for weeks. They’re for the—”

  “I’m not free tonight, Russell. I’m sorry. I’ve made plans.”

  “Plans?”

  I could feel my cheeks growing warm. “‘Fraid so.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “Probably not.”

  “That’s not quite the answer I wanted to hear. I was hoping you’d say it was a girl’s night out tonight.”

  “It’s not. Sorry. But you really have nothing to worry about.”

  After a pause, he said, his voice lower, “Let me ask you something. If I told you that, since you said no, I was going to ask someone my friends have been trying to fix me up with, would you be worried?”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t change my plans. I don’t let myself be that insecure.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I hope whoever she is turns out to be a...cat, since I’m too fond of dogs to use the word as an insult.”

  Russell chuckled. “Have a miserable time tonight, Allida.” He hung up.

  You, too, I thought, feeling inordinately sad. I didn’t want to hurt Russell and didn’t want to string him along. Perhaps it was just as well that he meet someone he had more in common with, someone who enjoyed rock climbing and...cats.

  Why was it that other people seemed to have such an easy time finding their life’s mate?

  I called Sergeant Millay, and this time I reached him. In tones as unapologetic as I could muster, I explained about locating Shogun at Luellen’s house.

  “You want me to come with you to a house in Campion just because you think the missing terrier is there?”

  “ Yes. I think that this dog might have left the paw prints at the murder scene.”

  “Even so, Miss Babcock, he’s not going to be what we’d call a reliable witness.”

  I gritted my teeth and felt like giving the phone a good whack just because I couldn’t do so to Sergeant Millay. “True, but you see, it’s possible that whoever brought Shogun to this house in Campion was Cassandra’s killer. Otherwise, why wouldn’t Luellen admit that the dog was Shogun?”

  After a pause, he said gruffly, “All right. But I’m only doing this because you’re Marilyn’s daughter and I realize you got some vested interest in finding this dog. There’s no need for you to come with me. If the dog’s there, I’ll bring him back with me.”

  “You won’t recognize him.”

  “Yeah, I will. Looks like a scrawny, hairy fox. I’ve got a picture. Mrs. Cunningham gave it to me.”

  “Luellen is a breeder. She’s got twenty-some-odd silky terriers at her place. To the casual observer, they all look virtually identical. It’d be like recognizing the original out of twenty copies.”

  “Okay,” he said somewhat curtly. “Meet you there in half an hour.” He hung up.

  The sergeant was in his car out front when I arrived, his head bent down as he hunched over his paperwork. I knocked on his window, and he slowly looked up. He got out of his car without a word and gave me a little you-first gesture. I rang the doorbell and noticed the sergeant’s frown at the canned rhythmic barking that resounded instead of a bell.

  Luellen opened the door. She was wearing the same casual outfit as before—slacks and a plaid blouse—including the wrist splints. She gave no indication of surprise at seeing me, nor at seeing Sergeant Millay, though he was in full uniform. A policeman at my door would have surprised me, had I been in her shoes.

  I could tell by the ease in her mannerisms when we explained what we wanted that this was going to be a waste of time—that she’d relocated Shogun. She led us through her house and out back where her heated dog pens were located.

  I studied each dog, looking for the same subtle variations in markings that Shogun boasted. There were a couple of dogs that were close, but not exact.

  “That’s all of my dogs. You’ve met every last one of them,” Luellen said as we circled back and returned to her living room, where the eight dogs that she kept in the house were located.

  “You were right about them all looking alike to me,” Sergeant Millay muttered under his breath. “Did you find this dog you say belongs to the Cunninghams?”

  I shook my head. “He’s not here now.”

  “That’s because he was never here in the first place,” said Luellen. “I’m telling you, I haven’t seen Shogun since I last visited Trevor, prior to their separation.”

  “Then where is Krumpet?”

  “Krumpet?” she asked, maintaining her smile.

  “That’s right. Where is he?”

  “He’s right over there.” She gestured at a dog sitting at the base of a brass floor lamp. “Krumpet, come,” she said sternly.

  The little dog ventured out hesitantly, then sat back down, clearly contused.

  “That’s not this dog’s name,” I said.

  “It most certainly is.”

  Sergeant Millay, appearing half asleep, looked from me to her and back. I clicked my tongue and told him, “He didn’t behave as though that was his name.”

  “He’s not particularly well trained,” Luellen countered.

  I narrowed my eyes at her and she averted her gaze. That was nonsense, and she and I knew it. Few things were easier to teach a dog than his name.

  “Watch this, Sergeant.” I turned my attention to the dog she’d claimed was Krumpet. “Bingo, come,” I called, hoping Sergeant Millay was paying close attention. “Krumpe
t” looked at me and cocked his head, dog-speak for “Huh?” Then he sat down, which was a sure sign that he didn’t understand my command; almost without exception, dogs revert to the first command they learned—sit—when they’re asked to do something they can’t interpret.

  “Okay, Sergeant, now contrast how this dog behaves with one who hears his real name being called.” I looked over at the group of dogs across the room from me. Using a name she’d thrown out earlier during her cursory introductions, I called, “Toto, come.” Though I hadn’t been paying enough attention earlier to focus on which dog had this name, one trotted up to me with confidence.

  “See, Sergeant? That’s how a dog acts when you call him by his name.” Just to drive the point home, I said, “Watch how he acts now.” I took a couple of steps back. “Soapflake, come.” He stayed put, looking at Luellen as if asking for her to translate for me. “That is how a dog behaves when summoned by a name other than his own.”

  “This is ridiculous, Sergeant. She’s wasting everyone’s time.”

  “Krumpet, come.”

  Still sitting on the floor, the dog made no move, but merely looked at me, then at his owner, in confusion.

  “Did you notice how this dog’s behavior emulated that of Toto’s when I called him by the name Soapflake?”

  Sergeant Millay rose. “Yeah, but Ms. Moore’s got a point about this wasting my time.” He pointed at the dog she’d claimed was named Krumpet and gazed at Luellen. “Is this dog Krumpet?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And that’s also the dog Miss Babcock here thought was Shogun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’re sorry to have taken your time, ma’am. We’ll be going now.” I hesitated a moment, allowing Sergeant Millay to leave ahead of me.

  “Where is Shogun now, Luellen?” I asked quietly, so that the sergeant couldn’t overhear.

  She fisted her hands and said through a tight jaw, “You bring a policeman to my house, accuse me of lying, hint at a connection to murder, then expect me to ‘fess up?’”

  “I’m just trying to do the job I was hired to do.”