Not knowing what else to do, I nodded and rose, and switched on a light to search for my keys. How did she know I was here? I told her I’d be at my mom’s. “I’m in hell!” I muttered to myself. “This is the worst day anybody has ever had since the dawn of time!”
Doppler stepped out of his carrier and cocked his head at me. The sight of my beloved dog answered for me that my laments weren’t accurate. Somebody I knew had had a decidedly worse day than mine—Beth Gleason.
I eventually found the keys, told Doppler to get back to bed and shut Russell’s door behind me to encourage my dog to sleep. I stumbled through my office and to the front door, and unlocked it.
Kaitlyn appeared to be hyperventilating. She gasped for air, sobbing, shaking. Despite this, she managed to step inside and shove the door closed behind her. “Oh, Allida.” She took a couple of deep breaths, unable to continue. I knew I should offer her a drink of water to help her calm herself. But I also knew that I’d be far too tempted to throw it in her face.
She finally collected herself enough to speak. “You’ve... got...to help me! I can’t take this...not again! I saw it! The white car. There’s this man...in a white car. He’s following me!”
Chapter 11
“What do you mean?” I asked, immediately on edge and yet thoroughly confused.
Kaitlyn merely gasped for air, still sobbing.
How on earth could she have been “followed” at this hour, when here she was in her slippers and nightgown? “Kaitlyn, please. What did you mean when you said, ‘I can’t take this again?’ Was somebody following you before?”
She shook her head and buried her face in her hands, leaning back against the door. This was like dealing with a histrionic teenager—and I wasn’t up to the task. I’d had only ten minutes of sleep and had to work in the morning. If only she were a dog, I might be able to teach her to bark once for yes and twice for no.
I grabbed both of her upper arms and guided her toward my desk chair. “Kaitlyn, sit.” She obeyed. I managed not to say, “Good girl.” In the absence of a paper bag for her to hyperventilate into, I ran off to get her some water, remembering too late that I also didn’t have a cup for her.
The moment I opened the door to Russell’s office, Doppler leapt at me, his claws reaching only mid thigh, but since I was wearing only a T-shirt, this was decidedly uncomfortable. “Not now,” I snapped. My feet were freezing from padding around on the office linoleum. Judging by the volume of my ex-roommate’s sobbing, she wasn’t going anywhere soon, so I yanked on some socks.
Doppler had picked up on my anxiety and was underfoot as I entered the bathroom—but then, I’m sure child psychologists’ children aren’t always perfect little angels either. I grabbed my coffee cup out from under the leaking pipe, rinsed and filled it. What Kaitlyn didn’t know about where my cup had been wasn’t going to kill her.
I juggled, pushing Doppler back with one foot while passing through the doorway and balancing the water, then thrust the cup into Kaitlyn’s hands. “Drink this.”
With trembling hands, she took a couple of dainty sips. Her auburn hair was unkempt and her eyes so red and swollen from this latest crying jag that—with facial fur and some floppy ears—she could have been a poster puppy for the ASPCA.
The moment she settled into a normal breathing pattern, I said, “It’s after one A.M. Why would anyone have the opportunity to follow you any place at this hour?”
“After you left, I remembered what you said about a white car. I happened to look outside, and I saw a car with a male driver slowly driving past our house not just once, but twice.”
“Can you describe him?”
She shook her head. “It was too dark.”
“Then how could you be sure the driver was male?”
“I could tell from his silhouette. He wore one of those old-fashioned hats. A fedora.”
My interest piqued. “What time was this?”
“About a half past midnight, the first time. Then he drove by again fifteen minutes later. I got really scared, being home all alone with someone watching the place, so I tried to call you at your mother’s house. She suggested I try–”
“You called my mother at one A.M.?” I grabbed my hair in frustration. “Why? If you were scared by this car driving by, why didn’t you call the police? Even if you had reached me at my mom’s house and I’d had some means of helping you, I would’ve been an hour away.”
Kaitlyn whimpered and rotated her chair around so that her back was toward me, but this was the final straw to an emotional, havoc-wreaking day. “You must have scared my mother horribly. I’m just surprised she hasn’t—”
The phone rang, right on cue. I picked it up and said, “Mom? Is that you?”
After a pause, my mother said, “Would you believe me if I said ‘no’?”
“Not really.”
“Allie, what on earth is going on? First you and now your roommate are going bananas over sightings of white cars. Two women are dead who owned the collie now sitting next to me, which my daughter is currently training. Do you have any idea what it’s like having your phone ring at one A.M. under these circumstances?”
“I’m sure it was very unpleasant. By the way, did Sage eat his dinner tonight?”
“Yes! Never mind that! I’m so upset I may not be able to keep mine down, but both dogs are fine!”
“Sorry, Mom. If there’s any way I can make this up to you...”
“Not unless you’d consider getting your pilot’s license. All this goes to show that you’ve chosen the wrong occupation.”
“That’s something to think about,” I answered, rolling my eyes.
“Meaning, ‘Mind your own business, Mom.’ Well, all I can say is I’m glad you’re still alive. And I’ll make up the guest room for you.”
“Thanks.” I hung up quickly, because Kaitlyn had risen and was now heading toward the door. I didn’t want her to leave without giving me some answers. “Kaitlyn, did you see the car at all when you drove here?”
She shook her head, sniffling, her back still toward me.
“Have you been followed before? You said something about not wanting to go through this again.”
She nodded and turned to face me. “Three years ago. Just before Bill left me, I was sure I was being followed. I told him about it, and he acted so weird, I asked him if he’d hired a private investigator. He denied it, but from then on, the guy quit following me. But this time it couldn’t be someone Bill hired. Otherwise, he’d be following me, not you, and Bill doesn’t have any reason to hire a P.I. this time.”
“This time? Meaning he did have cause the last time?”
She clicked her tongue. “Jeez, I don’t know. Why do you have to take every little thing I say so literally?”
My first reaction was to growl at her, but that wouldn’t be to either of our benefits. “Are you going to call the police?”
She shook her head. “They’d think I was nuts!”
I managed to hold my tongue.
She stared out the glass door. “You can’t see the street from down here. He could be out there right now and we’d never know it.” She clenched her hands and whirled on a fuzzy-slippered heel to face me. “Allida, you’ve got to move back in! You can’t just have people you work with get murdered and then leave me all alone and defenseless!”
Nonplussed, I stared at her. One thing this experience had taught me was to be far more discriminating about my choice of housemates. “Kaitlyn, is there any chance that the driver of this white car you saw was Bill?”
“No!” she snapped, then she furrowed her brow. “At least, I don’t think it was...” Her voice trailed off thoughtfully. She gave a small shrug. “Maybe.” She spun back toward the door and unlocked it with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. “I’m going home now. I’ll see you later.”
Oh, great. Now she was so hopeful that the white car was being driven by her husband, she was set to dash out onto the streets of downtown Boulder. Never m
ind that it was one A.M. and all she was wearing was a flimsy nightgown. “Wait! I’ll walk you to your car. I just need to put something on.”
Not having expected a wee hour visitor, I had done a lousy job of unpacking the necessities. I grabbed Russell’s khaki-colored cardigan from his desk chair. While I was putting my sneakers on, I saw a pair of slippered feet run past the window. She was so energized at the possibility she could see her husband again, she hadn’t been willing to wait one minute for me. “Kaitlyn!” I called.
With visions of her running in front of the next white sedan she saw in the hope that her husband was its driver, I cried, “Please be careful,” though I knew she couldn’t hear me. “Blast it all!”
My choice of actions regarding Kaitlyn was either to stay put or to try and outrace her to her car and convince her not to do anything rash. I opted for the former. My body aching with exhaustion but my mind wide awake, I dragged myself back to Russell’s couch and slumped down. Doppler rushed over to me and put his paws on my knees, hoping I’d invite him to hop onto my lap. Lost in thought, I petted him.
The man following me was wearing the type of hat that Russell had worn and which caused Sage to bark at him. That same man could have killed both Hannah Jones and Beth Gleason. Or it could be coincidental that the driver happened to own a fedora. Russell owned one, and I certainly didn’t suspect him.
The fact that Bill Wayne had broken into my bedroom tonight to look for information about me could have nothing—or everything—to do with the man in the white car. Was there any chance this was all connected? That Bill Wayne was the killer? That would make me the victim of an enormous coincidence—that I’d happened to rent from his ex after he’d killed Hannah Jones. Unless Hannah’s death really was a suicide, and Beth’s conversation with me on the radio had triggered some homicidal maniac who started to trail us. Which meant Bill Wayne could be as likely a suspect as anyone else I’d met in the last couple of days. Enough! I was scaring myself.
I ordered Doppler to return to his own bed, though I sorely wanted his companionship. Dogs thrive on consistency in matters such as their sleeping quarters, and it’s unfair to confuse them by cuddling up in bed with your dog only when you feel insecure. Then again, the way my life was going, I could be in for a long spell of insecurity.
If I was lucky, that is.
The police interview first thing that morning was a depressing experience. I gave every iota of information about my last two days that the police could possibly want, and probably much that they didn’t. I told about the white sedan, as well as my unsubstantiated theory that Bill Wayne was the driver.
If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought that I was their number one suspect. For one thing, after I’d told them what Chet had said about having instructed Beth to carry her switchblade wherever she went—advice so terrible it might have led to her having been stabbed to death with her own knife—the policeman asked me if I had any idea where the murder weapon might be. My answer was, “No. I never saw the killer nor the weapon. Why do you ask?”
The officer’s response had been, “You’d be surprised the things people forget to mention till we ask them directly.”
Afterwards, I headed off to meet my new client, George Haggerty, and his golden retriever, Rex.
Mr. Haggerty and Rex lived in east Boulder. Many of the lawns in his development had been recently sodded, and the trees were all just saplings. George was a slender man in his late fifties to early sixties. He wore thick glasses and had gray hair with a lousy comb-over that disguised his hair impairment from no one. When he opened the door for me, his dog nearly barreled over him. I stepped back to the edge of the porch. Rex was perhaps the largest golden retriever I’d seen.
“No, Rex! Down!” George cried as he tried to unplaster himself from the doorjamb. Despite his words, I noted that he’d lifted his hands over his head, which was inadvertently signaling “up” to the dog.
In the meantime, anticipating what was coming, I reached into the compartment of my purse where I keep a noisemaker. Sure enough, Rex tried to goose me, and I pushed the button on my noisemaker, an inexpensive electronic toy that let out a shrill beep. Rex backed away immediately and looked at me quizzically. “Good dog,” I said, stroking him.
“What was that?” George asked, looking around as he stepped out onto the porch beside his dog and me.
“An aversion-training technique,” I answered, showing him the device in my palm.
He glanced at Rex, who was still looking as though he didn’t know what had hit him. “Sure seems to work fast.”
“When possible, I prefer to use positive reinforcement, but this has its uses, too. In my line of work, you meet a lot of large dogs. I won’t tolerate their getting overly personal or jumping up on me.”
Slipping his hands in the back pockets of his baggy brown pants, George smiled and said with enthusiasm, “Say. I’ve got a coach’s whistle you can hear a mile off. Should I just blow that whenever I catch Rex acting up?”
“Probably not. Blowing a loud whistle near Rex’s head could affect his hearing. Besides, if your major problem is that Rex tears up your house when you’re gone, you’re not going to be there to blow your whistle. Instead of learning to avoid his bad behavior, Rex will learn to avoid you and your whistle.”
“Maybe so,” George said, “but when I come home, he gets so excited he nearly bowls me over. I could use it then, couldn’t I?”
I was a little surprised that George seemed to find the thought of coming home at the end of the day with a whistle in his mouth so appealing. Maybe he was a former basketball coach.
I answered patiently, “There are other ways to get at the root of Rex’s problem more effectively. Also, one reason this handheld noisemaker works so well is the dog doesn’t see me operate it, such as he would if I were to blow on a whistle. If every time Rex were to sniff me or a visitor, a buzzer he can’t even see goes off, he thinks his action caused the noise. He quickly learns not to do it, and he blames the unpleasant noise on his own inappropriate action, not on me or my noisemaker. Nor does he get the opportunity to check for my whistle and act up whenever he doesn’t see me with it.”
George’s eyes were getting the glazed-over look that warned me I was giving too much information too fast. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Allida Babcock, though I’m sure you figured that out.”
He chuckled pleasantly and held the door for me. Rex nearly knocked me off my feet as he raced past me. The two led me into a room with the standard newer home appointments—white walls and tan wall-to-wall carpeting. I’d seen dog-wrought destruction before, but this was impressive. Of the sparse furnishings in the room, there was not a single cushion or pillow with no tears in it or woodwork that was free from teeth or claw marks. The fabric on the arms and base of the couch was also torn through so that the wood framing was revealed. It was also badly gnawed.
George gestured at a cushion-less rocker. “Have a seat. I’d offer you a seat on the couch, but as you can see, the cushions are rather lumpy now.”
“This couch was relatively intact when he started to rip it up?”
“That was the nice one, believe it or not. We have our junker in the basement.”
“The ‘junker’ must really be something to behold.”
I winced at my comment, which was too forward, considering I’d just met the man, but he laughed. “‘Fraid you’re right. He’s been tearing that one up for more than a year now—ever since he got to be eight months old.”
So Rex was twenty months old—the adolescent stage for a dog in which so many behavioral problems emerge—though in this case, Rex had been at it awhile. George sat on the former couch, and I sat kitty-corner to him on the rocker, mentally reminding myself not to lean too far, as much of its base had been gnawed away. “Is your family here?”
“Kids are grown and scattered. My wife is too freaked out about what Rex has done to our house to want to talk a
bout it.”
“Is she here?”
“No, she’s out of town for the week. I hope that doesn’t make your job harder.”
“It could lengthen the treatment phase a little,” I told him honestly. “You and your wife are going to have to do the lion’s share of redirecting Rex’s behavior. Otherwise, you’ll see him revert to his old patterns very quickly whenever I’m not around.”
Rex leapt onto the couch and draped himself across George’s lap. With his flawless, shiny yellow coat, Rex was a beautiful dog, yet this had all the makings of a textbook case of the dog mastering his owner.
We chatted pleasantly while I gleaned the necessary background information. During my note-taking, I slipped in the question, “What models and colors of cars do you and your wife drive?” Understandably, George asked what that had to do with his dog, but he accepted my bogus reply that “It gives me an indication of your dog’s lifestyle outside the home.” His wife drove a silver Toyota and he drove a white Jeep Cherokee.
To my chagrin, I had to struggle to concentrate. My thoughts kept wanting to return to Sage and my mother. I wished I could convince myself that there was little cause for worry. For one thing, Pavlov was a first rate watchdog.
George paused, and I asked, “He hasn’t started chewing on himself, has he? Some dogs move into self-mutilation, I’m sorry to say.”
“No.” George’s eyes widened in alarm, and he stroked the dog faster. “Do you mean he might start chewing on his own leg or something?”
I wanted to move away from this topic before I alarmed him unduly. “I need to observe your dog’s behavior when you leave. Let’s start by having you go into another room, shutting the door behind you.”
George winced a little and murmured, “This is going to be embarrassing.” He tried to push Rex off his lap, saying, “Down! Down, Rex!” The dog half slid, half hopped to the floor as George rose. With a wide, four-paw stance primed at preparing himself for his owner’s next movement, Rex stood in front of George, watching over his shoulder so that he could lead the way in whatever direction his owner chose to take. “Rex, stay. Stay.”
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