I watched him as he punched 911 into the beige princess phone on Beth’s nightstand. After a moment he said into the phone, “Yeah. My girlfriend’s missing.” He paused, then said, “Three hours or so, maybe.” He shook his head at the dispatcher’s response, then said, “Yeah, but her dog’s leash had blood on it. See, she must have been out walking her dog, ‘cause the dog showed up at this—” he waved his hand in my direction, then continued “—stupid dog shrink’s office she’s been going to. Her name’s Beth Gleason.” He listened to the dispatcher’s response, then jerked his free hand into the air in frustration. “No! Not the dog shrink’s name! My girlfriend’s, you moron!”
Just in case Chet was only pretending to speak to a 911 dispatcher, I decided to pick up the other phone in the kitchen. I rushed through the house, and by the time I’d picked up the kitchen phone, I heard the woman dispatcher saying, “—normally wait twenty-four hours, but we’ll send an officer out to take a report. You say her name is Beth Gleason, and she lives at—”
Convinced this was an actual call, I hung up. Sage had once again followed me to the kitchen. A few seconds later, Chet stormed into the room.
“The police aren’t going to do jack shit!” he announced.
“They are sending somebody out to speak to you about this, though.”
“A shitload of good that’s going to do.”
Maybe Chet could use some time alone to come up with some new words. “There’s only one thing I can do to help in the meantime. Try to find her myself.”
“How?”
“Sage,” I answered simply.
“I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish that way. This is just a dumb mutt. We’re not talking a bloodhound or anything.”
“Sage is not stupid, and all dogs can track,” I answered sharply. The latter half of my statement was only partly true. My challenge would be to get Sage to understand what I wanted from him. Getting a dog to follow a new command is always difficult, even if the action itself—such as tracking—comes perfectly naturally to the dog.
“Just...wait here for the police, in case Beth comes back, all right?”
I hoped to make my instructions as clear as possible. I picked up a black sweater off the floor by the front door where it had fallen off the coat hook.
“Is this Beth’s?” I asked Chet.
He nodded. “She wears it all the time.”
I held the sweater up to Sage’s nose. “Beth,” I said. “Sage, find Beth.”
“This isn’t going to work, you know,” Chet said.
“Sage, find Beth.”
Sage looked at me, then trotted out the door, his nose to the ground. I breathed a sigh of relief. At least he acted as though he knew what he was supposed to do. Could Sage already know exactly where Beth was? If she’d had Sage on leash when someone confronted her, he’d likely lead me to that spot; that was fairly automatic dog behavior—to go to the place the sought-for object last was.
On the other hand, if he’d been with Beth when she’d been attacked or injured or something, why hadn’t Sage led me there directly? Why lead me to her house? Maybe, since he wasn’t a trained tracker, he was confused by the leash. I removed the leash, wanting Sage to concentrate on following Beth’s scent, not on his leash training.
Now my heart was really pounding hard. I had relinquished immediate control of a large dog, while sending him out to search for his possibly seriously wounded owner. He could well attack the next man in a hat he happened to see.
Sending up a quiet prayer, I quickly, folded the length of leash into my hand and followed the dog.
Sage was tracking, his nose pressed to the ground, trotting along as if he’d forgotten my presence. We were on Mapleton, passing the mushroom-shaped building that housed a children’s playhouse, when Sage stopped. He sniffed at the ground and circled.
He crossed die grounds behind the building, clearly tracking something now. He leapt a two-rail fence and ran across a yard, and I climbed over the fence in chase. If the homeowners called in a trespassing complaint, I’d have to explain this to the police.
A much bigger concern hit me: Why would Beth have climbed a fence? Maybe Sage had run away and she followed. That was plausible. I tried to tell myself that was all there was to this—that she hadn’t climbed a fence to get help or to escape.
Sage scrambled over a five-foot-high privacy fence that bordered this property. I started to look for a gate when something caught my eye. There was a dark stain on the cedar fence post near the section the collie had just leapt over. Please, dear God. Don’t let that be blood.
My heart pounded wildly as I stared at the stain. I couldn’t waste time rounding the property now. The flat railing at the top of the fence was just above eye level, but charged up by a mixture of fear and urgency, I hoisted myself easily over it.
Across the yard from me, Sage had stopped his search and was whining over Beth’s motionless body.
Chapter 8
Ahead of me, just a few feet from the back door of a small, white house, Beth Gleason lay on her side on the wet grass. Sage was whining and nudging her limp hand with his nose.
Only vaguely aware of myself dropping the leash on the ground, I staggered toward her and called, “Somebody, help me.” But help was already too late. I put a hand on her cheek. It felt as cold as the wintry blasts of wind that seemed to whip straight through me. Her eyes were closed, her lips were blue, and I deliberately refused to look at her blood-soaked T-shirt, sliced in at least three places. I pressed my fingers against her carotid artery. No pulse.
A woman’s voice called over the fence to me, “Oh, my God. Is she all right?”
I didn’t look up, but heard myself answer, “No. She’s dead. Call the police.” It felt as though my voice was coming from some distant tunnel—not really me speaking, not my words, none of this was really happening. I turned Beth over just in case there were signs of life, knowing full well this was senseless. So was everything that had happened to her since she’d gotten Sage.
Sage circled Beth and me as I knelt beside her. My mind was a torrent of thoughts and unanswerable questions, penetrated by Sage’s childlike whimpers. How, in a town of Boulder’s size, had someone managed to stab Beth Gleason in broad daylight with, apparently, no witnesses? Why hadn’t anybody been around to help her? Even now, a steady stream of traffic passed by. Though my view of cars was blocked by the fence, the hum of engines and tires on asphalt was ever present.
I deserted my pretense of attempting lifesaving measures. I took off my jacket, draped it over Beth’s face, and sat on the hard ground hugging my knees to my chest while I shivered uncontrollably. Sage came over to me and sat down beside me, pressing his body against mine. As I stroked his fur, I realized how hard I was fighting against breaking down.
Sirens in the distance grew louder. The police would soon be here. I would have to explain. How could I?
What did I even know about Beth? That she was too young to die and didn’t deserve this fate. That she was supported by a trust fund, and that she seemingly had little common sense and atrocious taste in men. Yet she was wise enough to recognize the soul of a truly fine dog when she met him.
And what of Sage? My heart ached for him. I felt sure he’d been a voiceless witness to two violent deaths. Worse, both victims had been his owners. Could this dog identify the killer? How could I find out?
Police cars pulled up, their shapes visible through the slits in the fence. Sage rose, watching the approaching officers on the other side of the fence, then turned and looked at me in a plea for protection. I hugged him and whispered, “We’ll get the bastard who did this. I don’t know how, but we’ll get him.”
I heard the footfalls of the officers heading up the front walk of the house and called, “She’s back here.” I noticed the gate for the first time, which was within ten yards of where Beth had fallen. “She’s been stabbed.”
The officers entered through the gate, eyeing the col
lie and me as if primed to aim their guns at us if we moved. Sage barked wildly at them. The first officer said, “Do you live here, ma’am?”
“No, I—”
“The paramedics are on their way,” the second officer told me. He gestured for me to come toward him. “Let’s give my partner some room, okay?”
“She’s already dead,” I murmured, but got up and did as I was told. “The leash.” I glanced back and saw where it lay on the lawn, equidistant between me and the fence. I started to head back to grab it.
“Stop right there,” the officer commanded.
I looked up at him in confusion and realized both officers were poised to pull their guns at me. “The dog needs to be on a leash,” I explained. “I dropped it back there in the grass.”
“Just leave it where it is, ma’am, and step towards me.”
I did as I was told, realizing the policemen were afraid I was about to retrieve a weapon. The first officer pushed his cap back on his forehead as he knelt by Beth. He tossed my jacket aside and felt her carotid artery. Sage’s frantic barks turned to growls; he might go on the offensive to protect his owner from these strange men.
“Sage, come.” He followed my instruction, but continued to bark. Sage was almost as frantic as he’d been in the PetsMart parking lot. I had to get him out of here.
The officer, an average-looking, middle-aged man with a receding hairline, led us to the sidewalk in front of the house. I glanced back at Beth, just as the grim-faced officer beside her slowly shook his head at his partner.
The officer introduced himself, but the name left my brain even while he was saying it. He asked my name and address. To my embarrassment, I couldn’t remember my house number. I rambled about how I’d just moved back to Colorado after several years in Chicago, till enough of my mental faculties returned that I could remember my address. Two more patrol cars pulled up, along with a chartreuse-colored emergency fire department vehicle. One officer rang the doorbell of the white house, while another escorted the paramedics to Beth’s body.
By now, pedestrians and people from neighboring homes were gathering, and the question, “What’s going on?” kept being asked over and over by various voices. I had to steel myself against shouting, “Where were you when Beth Gleason was getting stabbed to death?” I tried to ignore the crowd and give the policeman as complete a picture as I could—what had happened in the last twenty-four hours or so since some stranger named Beth Gleason called into that damned Tracy Truett Show.
Behind us, mostly blocked from view by the cedar fence, the paramedics were working on Beth Gleason, which seemed macabre to me, since there was not a doubt in my mind she was already dead. In the meantime, the policeman with me asked more questions about what I was doing here and my “relationship to the victim.” I did my best to answer him, but I hadn’t felt this out of it since I’d been knocked unconscious by an elbow to the head during a high school basketball game. At once, things seemed to swirl around me in a flurry of motion and yet barely drag by.
A detective arrived and had me repeat my entire story. He was Hispanic with a trace of an accent and was soft-spoken, so much so that I had to ask him to repeat himself almost every time he said anything. I grew impatient to leave and check on Doppler, who was still alone in my office. Sage, too, was growing more restless as time passed, barking nonstop. Once again, I began to shiver uncontrollably.
The detective said, “Cold day to be outside without a coat.” At least, I think that’s what he said.
“I...covered Beth with my jacket. I don’t want it back.” I doubted I’d ever be able to look at my L.L.Bean without thinking of this day.
“Would you be more comfortable in my car?”
For once, I heard him the first time. I shook my head. “I’d really like to go back to my office. I need to get Beth’s collie to a quiet spot, and my own dog is locked up there and needs to be let out.”
The detective pocketed his small notepad. “Would you come to the police station and give a formal statement?”
I fought back a sigh. “Of course. I’ll do anything I can to help. But can I meet you there in a couple of hours?”
He nodded. “Matter of fact, I’ll be...” He looked over his shoulder toward Beth while mumbling. The next words I could make out were: “...hours yet. Can you meet me at the Boulder Police Station tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, I’ll be there.” That reminded me. My appointment with the golden retriever was fast approaching. I checked my watch. I was supposed to be at the client’s house in ten minutes. “There’s a guy named Chet...something-or-other who’s waiting for the police at Beth Gleason’s house. He called in about Beth being missing well over an hour ago. He...needs to be told.”
“We’ll take care of that, miss.”
“The collie’s leash is in the pocket of the jacket with Beth. It’s a green nylon leash. There was blood on it. There’s also a second leash back in the yard behind...It’s between Beth’s body and the fence. That’s my leash and I’ll need it to walk the collie back to my office.”
The detective knelt on one knee, talking softly to Sage as he examined Sage’s leather collar and ran his hands over his fur, in a tactile examination that apparently yielded nothing. “You’re going to take the victim’s dog with you?”
“Yes. He’s traumatized. He needs my help.”
The detective rose, staring at the dog. I worried he was going to tell me he’d have to take Sage for evidence. He finally nodded and muttered something indistinguishable, except for the word “wait.” He headed through the gate and soon emerged, inspecting my leash in his hands.
He handed me the leash, eyeing me as he did so. “Be sure you’re at the station house no later than noon tomorrow.” His words were quite forceful this time.
“I’ll be there,” I said, battling my emotions as I slipped the chain over the collie’s head. I hated being treated like this—as a possible suspect. Mustering as much confidence as I could, I said, “Sage, come,” and patted my thigh. He came with me in perfect heel position on my left side. To his further credit, he managed to maintain this all the way to my office, despite my brisk stride.
I trotted down the steps and unlocked the door to my office. Fortunately, I’d stashed the keys in my pants pocket and not in my jacket. Ignoring Doppler’s cheerful, bouncy greeting, I pulled off Sage’s leash then headed straight for the phone, and the dogs turned their attention to each other.
My remaining appointment was with a golden and his owner, George Haggerty. George answered, and I explained that I would have to postpone my appointment until the next day. “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” I went on, “but I just witnessed a terrible accident and couldn’t possibly give you and your dog the attention you deserve.”
“An accident?” he asked. “What happened?”
“Do you think I could possibly reschedule to one P.M. tomorrow?” I asked, ignoring his question.
“Uh, sure. That’d be fine. Rex and I will be waiting.”
I thanked him and hung up. According to statistics, Rex was one of those perennially popular dog names, but this was the first time I’d heard of a dog in Boulder with that name.
Doppler was making it clear that he needed to go outside—all but crossing his legs as the whites of his eyes turned yellow. I took both dogs out, wondering what to do with Sage. Taking him to my house was out of the question. Kaitlyn would never consider having such a large dog at the house, and more important, being around Kaitlyn and all her emotional storm patterns wouldn’t be healthy for Sage.
I did a double take at my car as we rounded the building toward the side lawn. Was it my imagination, or was my Subaru listing to the right? I bent over and inspected the tires, and sure enough, the right front was totally flat.
“Shit!” What next? And why now? The tire hadn’t been leaking. Maybe I’d run over a nail or something and hadn’t realized it. Was everything connected? Had someone let the air out of my tire after killin
g Beth? I glanced at the dogs, who were fine. I struggled to calm myself. I’d go crazy if I started to think every least little thing was linked to Beth Gleason.
We returned to my office. Doppler was in playful-dog mood while Sage was in such an anxious state that he might bite. Sage growled at Doppler and trotted into Russell’s office and, to my surprise, hopped onto the couch. My little dog followed, not taking the hint. I ushered Doppler back into my office with me, closing Russell’s door.
I grabbed my keys and went out to the car, letting Doppler come with me, only to put him in the backseat to keep him safe while I changed the tire. I’d just gotten the spare out of the trunk and was unloading the jack when a deep male voice said, “Hi, there. Can I help?”
Jumpy and out-of-sorts, I turned to face a nicely built, bearded young man, but my eyes were immediately drawn to his dog, a small mutt that appeared to be mostly terrier and toy poodle—a toodle. When I looked back up, the man was smiling at me. His dark, almost black hair was in need of a trim.
“No, thanks. I can handle it.”
Doppler and the toodle spotted each other and barked—his giving a shrill yipping song, mine enjoying his superior position up high in my car.
“I’m sure you can, but odds are, I could do it faster.”
That was tempting, as he was probably correct, and I would love to get Sage and Doppler out of here. Furthermore, it was probably a coincidence that my tire went flat around the time Beth Gleason was murdered, but I couldn’t know for certain that this man with his toodle hadn’t set me up. Just in case, I stared at him, memorizing the features beneath his dark beard.
“My name’s Joel,” he added. “Joel Meyer.”
I forced a smile—being in a decidedly bad mood—and shook my head. “Thanks for offering. Really. But I don’t mind taking aggression out on some lug nuts. Besides, you do something as macho as change my tire, and I’ll feel obligated to do some unmacho favor for you—” I pointed at the torn pocket of his flannel shirt “—such as stitch up that tear in your shirt, and I’m not much of a seamstress.”
Play Dead Page 8
