Play Dead

by Leslie O'Kane

  He was clean-shaven.

  “What happened to your beard?”

  “I’m contemplating making a career change and thought the beard might not be projecting the right corporate image.” He held his chin high and turned his head slowly from side to side. “What do you think?”

  What I thought was that he was now number one on my list of suspects. The whole strange thing about insisting on changing my tire and being in the neighborhood when Beth had been stabbed—and now his shaving right when my mother had gotten a bizarre visit from a clean shaven man who later may have tried to poison my dogs. A thought pattern best kept unsaid.

  “Personally, I like beards, but you might be right about having better luck in the corporate world without one.” He opened the door, and I noticed a distinct absence of yipping little dog. “Where’s Suzanne?”

  Joel looked puzzled. “Gee. I really don’t know.” He turned and called for her, to no avail. “Wait here,” he told me and strode off in search of her. Moments later there came a loud, “Oh, jeez!” from the kitchen. “Suzanne! You miserable little rug rat!”

  Out of curiosity, I followed Joel into the kitchen. He was just slamming a closet door, Suzanne barking her protest from his arms. He blushed at the sight of me. “I forgot to close the pantry door and she got into the cereal.”

  I nodded, but scanned the floor in surprise. “Where’s her dog bowl?”

  “Oh, it’s, uh, in the dishwasher right now.”

  He acted so disconcerted at this that I grew extremely suspicious. “What kind of dog food do you use?”

  “I, uh, gee. Can’t remember the brand name. It’s that kind with the paw prints all over it.”

  Iam’s, I silently realized, but, to test him, asked, “Ion’s?”

  “That’s it.” He swept up a leash that was lying on the kitchen counter and clicked it on to the dog’s collar. “Off to the park, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, needing time to think. I was now ninety—five percent certain that Suzanne wasn’t even Joel’s dog. And I had a pretty good idea to whom the dog truly belonged. However, I didn’t want to show my cards too early.

  “You and Tracy Truett met at the radio station, right?” I asked by way of wanting to explore their ties and surmise what was going on with Joel’s having conveniently shaved.

  “That’s right. I used to be a tech at the station, till I got a higher-paying job.”

  “How long did you work there?”

  “Couple of years.”

  So the two of them could know each other quite well, I thought. My belief that Tracy was totally innocent was all that was keeping me from running from him. There were only three possible explanations for why Joel and Tracy Truett had set me up like this. One: I had just found the killer; two: Tracy was using Joel to find out if I was on the trail of the killer in some bizarre attempt to save her radio career, or three: Tracy and Joel had paired up in some equally bizarre attempt to encourage me to go out with him.

  We started by walking the dog around the block and doing basic leash training, which Suzanne was sorely lacking. She was also showing the fascination for sights, sounds, and smells a dog has in a relatively unexplored neighborhood.

  I immediately discarded the thought of using any kind of aversion techniques to discourage Suzanne’s barking— such as spritzing her with water—because this is something I would only want to do after first discussing it with the dog’s owner. A block from Joel’s house, we encountered a Boston terrier in a fenced yard. Both dogs barked wildly at each other, and we stuck to the basic positive reinforcement training.

  We made some progress during the hour-long session— probably all wasted effort on my part, considering Suzanne was not in the presence of her owner, and how well any dog will behave for a trainer is irrelevant if the lessons aren’t reinforced at home.

  Joel praised me lavishly and asked me out again, which I declined. I left, got into my car, drove around the block, then parked just beyond the view from Joel’s windows.

  Not even fifteen minutes later, a sporty two-door that looked like a Corvette came zipping around the corner and pulled into Joel’s driveway. Tracy Truett emerged. Leaving the engine running, she trekked to Joel’s door and let herself in.

  I got out of my car and peered into hers, just to see if I could verify my suspicions. Dog hair was all over the passenger seat.

  Tracy came back down the steps a minute later, with Suzanne under her arm. Her jaw dropped at the sight of me standing by her bumper.

  “Hi, Tracy. Can we have a little talk about you and your dog?”

  Chapter 17

  “I knew you’d figure this out, sooner or later.” With Suzanne balanced on a hip under her arm, she marched past me. She was wearing a bright, solid yellow outfit that all but screamed “Big Bird” to me. “I have no idea how I wound up letting Joel convince me to lend him Suzanne in the first place.” She unlocked the passenger door and held it open for me. “Get in.”

  I shook my head and gestured at my vehicle parked at the far end of the block. “I’ve got my car—”

  “My feet are killing me. We either sit down in my car to talk, or we can head back inside and yak with Joel for a while. I figure you probably want to hear this from me first, or you wouldn’t have ambushed me here in the first place.”

  I toyed with the notion of pointing out to her that she was in no position to accuse me of ambushing her, but it struck me as wasted breath. I sighed and got into the little car, Suzanne eagerly hopping onto my lap.

  “See, it’s like this,” Tracy said as soon as she plopped into her own seat. “My God but these new shoes are killing me.” She pulled them off as she spoke and chucked them onto the rear window ledge. “Why on earth I had to go out and spend my savings on shoes when I don’t even have a job and—”

  “Tracy, could you just explain why Joel wanted to pretend Suzanne was his dog?”

  “You probably already figured this out for yourself, but it was so he could have an excuse to see you.”

  “And, if we had started dating, what? Didn’t he think I was going to notice the absence of his dog?”

  “He planned to tell you that now that you’d done such a great job improving his dog’s demeanor, he felt he could give her to someone who had a more flexible schedule. Someone who could be with her more and who really wanted her.”

  “That would be you?”

  She threw up her hands. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. This was all Joel’s idea. I told him way back you’d never fall for it, but did he listen?”

  Her story was plausible, but did nothing to allay my concerns about Joel’s having shaved at such an inopportune moment. “Why did Joel shave his beard?”

  She let out a guffaw. “Hate to disappoint you, honey, but that he didn’t do for your love. He’s willing to pretend he’s a disobedient-dog owner...or whatever I meant to say. But he didn’t shave to impress you. He’s been working the night shift on some production-line hoozy-fradgit place, and he’s trying to clean up his image to impress the head muckamucks. He wants a promotion so he can join the white collar, silk tie wearers of the world.”

  If only I could find out that he hadn’t shaved till after four P.M. or so yesterday, when the suspicious, clean shaven dog food salesman came to Mother’s door. “Do you know what time he shaved it off? I saw him yesterday morning, and he still had it then.”

  She shrugged. “He’s been talking about taking it off for a while now, but I didn’t see him yesterday, except to drop off and pick up Suzanne in the morning. Why?”

  “I just...I’m afraid he might be involved in all of this mess with Beth Gleason’s murder.”

  “Joel? “ she shrieked. “Hah! He wouldn’t hurt a fly. I mean, yeah, he tried to pull the fur over your eyes to get you to be interested in him, but that’s just Joel. Every week, he falls in love with a different strange woman he happens to pass in the street. Which is not to say that you’re strange, or a streetwalker, or anything. Just t
hat...well, you know what I mean. Then he concocts these elaborate schemes to run into her again. They never work, but they don’t harm anyone, either.”

  If this was the whole story, I hadn’t been “harmed” by his subterfuge, either. Not so long as I got paid for my work with Suzanne.

  “So how do you like my dog? She’s extremely intelligent, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” I said with sincerity, though that was one question I never said “no” to; admitting a client’s dog was not the brightest thing you’d seen on four paws was the fastest way to lose a client. “And that’s all the more reason to train her well. Intelligent dogs are much happier when they know what their owner expects from them and can be challenged accordingly.”

  “Well, then. That settles it.” She patted my arm. “Let’s just keep this little meeting to ourselves, shall we? The least we deserve out of all of this is for him to pay you, and for me to get a well trained dog out of the deal.”

  “Except that much of my work is with the owner, not just the dog, so I need you—”

  “Aah, we can work that out. I’ll just insist on joining the two of you on all your training sessions. Joel’s in no position to object. Hate to boot you out, but I gotta jam.”

  “Jam?” Was that radio lingo?

  “I gotta find a job.” She grinned and leaned toward me, her wide, square-jawed face just inches from mine. “Say. I’ve been meaning to tell you. I worked for a couple of years as a dog groomer. I was pretty good, too.” She poofed up her own wet poodle-like hair spikes as she spoke. “Want to hire me as a combination receptionist-slash-groomer?”

  “I can’t afford to hire a receptionist, and I don’t include dog grooming in my services.”

  “You’ve got to expand your vision, Al. Think about it. You could call your new business ‘A Whole New Woof.’ I could clean up their fur; you could clean up their behavior. It can’t miss. And, it’ll make your work a whole lot easier. See, if the dog looks better, the owners will enjoy being around their dogs more, so they’ll naturally think the dog behaves better, too.”

  “I’ll give the matter some thought,” I grumbled as I got out of the car.

  “Hmm. Well, sounds as though I’d better not hold my breath.” She gave me a wave out the window as she took off.

  Tracy was nothing if not energetic. And, in this case, perceptive. Much as I admired her humor and spunk, a little of her went a long way. The thought of working every day in the same room with that woman made me shudder.

  I drove back to my office. Much to my consternation, there was a silver Mercedes convertible in my parking space. I continued up the hill and found a space on the street, then marched toward my building wondering what kind of ignoramus could miss the reserved-parking sign.

  When I arrived, a man was seated in one of the two chairs I’d placed by the entrance. He’d rotated the chair to face away from the glass. Judging by his dark hair and gangly frame, I thought it was Chet Adler. He turned and rose as I opened the door. Bill Wayne, Kaitlyn’s husband.

  He gave me an uneven—and unappealing—smile. My day was complete. And here it was, not even noon.

  “Hello, there,” he said. “I found your office.”

  “So did I. Is that your car in my parking space?”

  “Next to the green Volvo?” he asked. To my nod, he replied, “Sorry, but it was the only off-street parking I could find.”

  As if owning an expensive vehicle necessitates special parking privileges. “What brings you here?”

  He chuckled. “Dog troubles. Seems as though I’m still married to one.”

  I made no comment and held his gaze.

  “I see that you’ve moved out. You told Kaitlyn about my fixing her up on that date, didn’t you?”

  “You’ve spoken with her?”

  He shook his head. “Her new ‘boyfriend’ called her to ask her out again last night. He got quite an earful. I wish you hadn’t spilled the beans. I told you she’d just be hurt.”

  This conversation was more than a little annoying. Did he think I had nothing better to do than to worry about his relationship with my ex-housemate? “You got what you wanted from me. I moved out. Why are you here?”

  “I drove by my house this morning. Kaitlyn’s pretending to be sick so that she can keep guard on the place. Noticed she had cardboard up in one of the windows. Did the two of you have a fight?”

  “Mr. Wayne, I’m busy. Please tell me what you want, then leave.”

  “All right. Here’s the deal. Kaitlyn’s got some new hiding place for her important papers. I need to know where that is. Before I left town a couple years ago, I had over sixty thousand dollars in a savings account. We’d agreed we wouldn’t touch that money. First thing this morning, I went over to the bank to check the balance, and I found out she’s been taking two thousand out of the account every month. It’s now down to nothing.”

  He paused and studied me as if to assess the effect his words had had on me. If so, I hoped he could tell that I didn’t care. This was Kaitlyn’s and his divorce and was of no concern to me.

  “I’ve already served papers on her, and whether she wants to attend or not, the divorce hearing’s coming up next week. If I can’t find some legal documents to prove she’s still got that money, I’m going to lose all of it. Even if I find it, the judge’ll split it down the middle, and I’ll lose half. But that’s better than nothing. I’ll pay you a hundred dollars if you can get me the bank statement that can show what she did with my money.”

  “What makes you so sure she has the money in another account? Maybe she spent it.”

  “No way. I checked the closet. She hasn’t bought so much as a new sweater or done anything to fix up the house since I left.”

  “Maybe she went on a cruise or two, though. In any case, Mr. Wayne, I am not going to get involved. This is between you and her. She’s no longer my roommate. I returned my key, and I have no desire to see her again.”

  “Five hundred dollars. That’s my top offer. I’ve looked every place I can think of. If I have to go in there again, I’ll have no choice but to completely trash the place.” He pulled out his key chain while he spoke and removed a brass-colored door key. “Tell you what. I’ll give you this, my only copy of the key to the dead bolt.”

  “I’m not going to help you, regardless of how large you make the fee.”

  He gave me that smart aleck smile of his that I so detested. “Don’t get involved, then. Let her get away with stealing all of my savings.” While he spoke, he pulled a business card out of his pocket. “But, by not helping me, you are helping a woman who once beat an eight-week-old puppy to death for peeing on her bedspread.”

  While I stared at him in revulsion, he slammed the key and his business card onto the top of my filing cabinet, pivoted on a heel, and strode out the door. In the meantime, alerted by Bill’s raised voice, Russell opened the door to his office and stood in the doorway. He looked at me. “Jeez, Allida. Is he telling the truth?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.” The image of her throwing that can at my head last night made me shudder. It was possible she’d killed a puppy. Damn Bill Wayne to hell, but now I had to know the truth.

  But how? If the puppy had been only eight weeks old, they could only have owned the puppy for a few days at least three years ago. I could talk to the neighbors and see if they remembered the Waynes’ owning a puppy, but if they said no, that was no guarantee. Bill had said he’d installed the dog door. I might be able to find out if that part was true.

  I was not about to accept blood money from him, but if I could find out that Kaitlyn had lied about the puppy, I would gladly turn over to the authorities whatever documentation they needed to make her pay financially. Besides, finding out whether any of his story was true could go a long way toward allaying my fear that he was somehow tied to Beth Gleason’s murder. If there really was a ton of money missing from his account, I’d be more inclined to believe that his searching my room the other day had b
een unrelated to Beth’s murder.

  The more I thought about it, the more I was certain I knew where Kaitlyn’s important documents were hidden. That meant I had to get her out of the house, somehow, while I searched. I looked at Russell. “You’ve never met my ex-housemate, Kaitlyn Wayne, have you?”

  He shook his head. “No, why?”

  “Have you made any plans for lunch?”

  Somewhat to my surprise, Kaitlyn’s blue Plymouth was not out in front of her house. She might have parked a distance away to lure Bill here though, as she’d done the other day. I slid down in Russell’s car so she wouldn’t see me and said, “If we’re lucky, she’s gone in to work. If she’s home, tell her Bill Wayne said to meet him at the Food Court in Crossroads Mall.”

  “Got it, chief,” Russell said as he left the car. He rang the doorbell. There was no answer. After waiting a suitable length of time, I came out. Russell, hands cupped over his brow, was peering through the window closest to the door. “Nobody’s home,” he said as I neared.

  I used Bill’s key. Russell followed me inside. I went straight to the kitchen and slid the table away from the wall. I’d once noticed that the three-by-six foot section of paneling on this wall was almost falling off. When I’d mentioned it to Kaitlyn, she’d blushed. Russell helped me pull the nails out, which we could manage with just our fingertips, then we removed the section of paneling. As I’d suspected, a section of the Sheetrock behind the paneling had been cut out, forming a sizable—if inelegant— cubbyhole between the studs. I grabbed a brown, manila file folder stashed there.

  “Your roommate used to have to move this section of paneling every time she wanted to access her papers?”

  “Like I told you on the way here, she’s a bit odd.” I spread the contents of the folder on the kitchen table. I soon located what I was looking for: the closing papers from the sale of the house.

  “I’m in luck. The names of the former owners are Stuart and Linda Perlyon.” I’d been worried the former owners would turn out to have the last name of Smith. “If they’re still in the area, which is probably a pretty big ‘if,’ there won’t be many Perlyons for me to call.”