Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

by Suzann Ledbetter

  "All right, so that tie of his probably glows in the dark, but the suit was Brooks Brothers. My husband has one exactly like it—or did, until he gave up trying to lose thirty pounds and I took it to a resale shop."

  "Will you—"

  "Jack McPhee lives on LakeShore Boulevard, Dina." Gwendolyn tapped the registration form, emphasizing each syllable, as one might impress upon a small child a need to clean her room. "Starter homes in that development have four bathrooms."

  Not much of an incentive, since Dina couldn't keep two bathrooms clean. She held up the Maltese. "See the collar?"

  "Pink. So what? She's female, it matches the leash and—"

  "Check out the pedicure."

  Gwendolyn blanched a little, then flapped a hand. "You detest painting dogs' toenails, but some groomers think it's cute. And McPhee could have a daughter that thinks it's cute, too."

  "Doubtful, unless she's adopted." Dina set Fido on the counter. "Smell her head."

  "What? Why?"

  "Humor me."

  Gwendolyn leaned over, sniffed, recoiled, then sniffed again. "Well, hell."

  That's pretty much how Dina felt, too, though she'd never admit it. Mother McPhee's recent demise might explain the lingering aroma of cold cream and perfume, except Fido had been shampooed and trimmed in the past week.

  "Life is so unfair," Gwendolyn moaned. "Things were hard enough when all the good ones were either married or dead."

  Dina chuckled and handed off the Maltese. "If you wouldn't mind paging Laura to get Miss Fido settled in and give her a snack, I have to finish Claude's comb-out."

  The puli-Labrador mix snoozing on the grooming table was one strange-looking fellow. Claude's owners spent a fortune keeping its ropy coat from matting into plaited scales, and it loved being fussed over. Using the table's noose-like restraint on Claude was like tethering a dog-shaped topiary before clipping it. The trick was coaxing Claude down to the floor afterward.

  As Dina toed the milk crate back into position, Gwendolyn said, "How's your mom doing with the oxygen therapy?"

  "Better." Dina sighed. "When she stays hooked up to the machine, instead of using the portable tank in the living room like a rescue inhaler."

  "Then it won't be a problem if Mrs. Allenbaugh is running a little late for her appointment."

  Gwendolyn's tone entwined a question with a conclusion.

  Dina consulted the antique Seth Thomas above the office window. Mrs. Allenbaugh was always a little late. When, of course, she wasn't a lot early. If the daffy old bat owned a Chihuahua, instead of a standard poodle, the timing wouldn't matter as much.

  "How late is late?"

  "She promised to be here before noon."

  Meaning eleven fifty-nine, but Dina couldn't afford to kiss off her fee and a generous tip. She did some mental clockwork herself. "I'll just have to race across town and give Mom her shot before Mrs. Allenbaugh gets here."

  Gwendolyn smiled the smile of a dog caretaker with a six-person staff. She squeezed Dina's shoulder. "Relax, okay? I know Betty Allenbaugh's a pain, but now you have a whole hour between your nine-thirty and ten-thirty to check on Harriet."

  Dina nodded and smiled back, as if a diabetic's insulin injections were as mutable as a scatterbrained poodle owner's watch.

  6

  "McPhee Investigations."

  "Great news." Gerry Abramson's telephone voice belied the salutation. "I just heard the Calendar Burglar ripped off another of my insureds last Thursday night."

  Jack sat back in the desk chair. Hell of a way to start a Saturday, even though he'd slept away most of the morning. "You're sure it's the same thief?"

  "He didn't leave a calling card, but the cops think so. This time, along with the jewelry, he snatched an iPod and a laptop. Both brand-new, still in their boxes for donation to a charity auction."

  The police had likely alerted retailers who sold that type of electronics in the event of a no-receipt return. A full-price refund versus a fence's standard dime on the dollar made wonderful economic sense. Stupid wasn't part of this burglar's M.O. to date, but neither was boosting high-tech toys.

  Jack copied down the victim's address—a mile from his stakeout last night on LakeShore Boulevard. He reminded himself that Gerry hadn't hired him until Thursday afternoon. It still felt like a "Screw you, McPhee" to have been shuffling police reports and claim forms while the thief made another haul.

  A whimper at floor level could be interpreted as "Can we go now?" The sheltie doing it was Sweetie Pie Snug 'Ems's replacement. Ms. Pearl reneged on her weekend loan, saying she couldn't bear another night in an empty apartment.

  The sheltie's owner, Angie Meadows, hadn't been alone at hers, nor happy to be wakened at the crack of eleven by a P.I. needing a favor. The voluptuous server at Jack's second-favorite bar was also a canine loan shark. They'd settled on a hundred dollars to rent a dog shedding enough hair on the carpet and Jack's pants to cost three sheep their livelihoods.

  "Your burglary victims," he said into the phone. "You wouldn't happen to know if they have a dog, would you?"

  "A dog?" A pause, then, "Now that you mention it, yes. One of those huge, jowly things that slobbers all the time." Another beat's worth of dead air. "Why do you ask?"

  "No reason in particular." Jack feigned a chuckle. "Just be glad you pay me by the day, instead of by every weird question I come up with."

  "Answers," Gerry shot back. "That's what I'm paying you for."

  The click and a dial tone weren't surprising, given the insurance agent's frustration. No doubt Abramson was kicking himself for not bringing in outside help sooner. He hadn't expected results in under seventy-two hours. It didn't stop him from wanting them like yesterday.

  So did Jack, though he wouldn't have bet a plug nickel the trap would work on the first try. Common sense just never quite dashed the hope for a little dumb luck. If it did, the only snake eyes rolled in Vegas would be attached to actual snakes.

  The sheltie barked. Jack yelped and jolted backward in his chair. Obviously pleased with itself, the dog twirled and bounced on its front paws, like a demented fox subjected to way too many Rogaine treatments. And not nearly enough Ritalin.

  Jack's heart gradually defibrillated. "Okay, all right already. One phone call, then we're outa here."

  Skeptical it would keep its yap shut, he ripped a page from a legal pad, wadded it and threw it across the room. Forty-three fetches later, Abramson's latest claimant haughtily affirmed the impossibility of a noise complaint the previous Thursday night at her address. As she put it, her English bull mastiff was "off premises."

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I need specifics to quash this complaint. Was your dog staying with a relative, a friend ?"

  "Certainly not. Winston was kenneled, until early this morning."

  Jack swallowed to drown any hint of elation. "And the name of the kennel, please?"

  "Well, if you must know, it's—" A brief silence segued to murky muffles, as though she'd dunked the receiver in a bucket of oil. Gibberish, then, "He says he's—" A louder summons to "Officer Garble-garble" provided excellent cues for Jack to deep-six the call.

  The sheltie gnashed the soggy sheet of paper into molecular confetti, while Jack plundered a desk drawer for the cubic zirconia jewelry he bought for a previous investigation.

  Rubbing the fake diamonds on his pants leg restored their sparkly, pimplike luster. A gaudy, similarly encrusted watch replaced his faithful Casio. "Talking the talk isn't enough," he told the dog. "Gotta walk the walk, loud and clear."

  The bling aglitter on Jack's pinkies and ring fingers wasn't overlooked by the employee presiding over the counter at Home Away. "Whoa, dude," he said. "Do you have to wear all that for your job? Or do you just, you know, like it?"

  "The job." Jack lasered the clerks's grubby T-shirt. "Kinda like, you know, all the hair and puppy puke you're wearing for yours."

  After the intake information was complete, Jack insisted on a tour of the facility. A potent
ial flaw in his jewelry-salesman spiel had presented itself in about the fourth hour of surveilling the decoy house. Contact with one kennel employee and reliance on an upscale address might not be enough to pique the Calendar Burglar's interest.

  Jack followed his slouching tour guide, waving and flashing his bejeweled knuckles like a prom queen at various kennel workers. A fog of dog smell slapped his sinuses the instant he stepped into a wide, concrete-floored exercise area flanked by gated pens. Individually, the aromas might be pleasant. Collectively, not so much.

  Breeds of every size and description lunged against the chain-link gates, barking and yipping so loud, the roof should have separated from the ceiling joists. The loaner sheltie spun on its leash like a hairy Baryshnikov, its answering yelps absorbed in the skull-crushing racket.

  Jack grabbed the dog, poked the slouchmeister in the back and signaled an about-face. Shoving open the office door, he collided with someone rushing out as he was rushing in.

  Their mutual apologies trailed away in unison at "So sorry, I " Recognition prompted coinciding "What are you doing here?" Before either could respond, the tour guide snarled, "It's about fuckin' time you showed up. I told that cocker spaniel's owner two hours, an hour and a half ago."

  "Hey, sport," Jack warned. "Watch your mouth."

  By her expression, the diminutive groomer he'd almost trampled appreciated the gesture, but could fend off the assholes of the world herself. And had.

  Jack said, "I thought you worked at TLC."

  "Part-time." She squinted at the sheltie in his arms. "What happened to Fido?"

  He died, was Jack's initial thought. Thankfully, it didn't make the verbal leap. "He's fine. Couldn't be better. In fact, he's going with me to a sales meeting in St. Louis." He patted the present loaner. "Butch here belongs to a friend."

  The groomer's eyebrow arched.

  Whew boy. First Fido, now Butch. Excellent. Jack scraped back a bushel of hair at the sheltie's neck. "I swear that's his name. See? It's engraved on his collar."

  As was A. D. Meadows and Angie's home phone number. Even barmaids who gave private lap dances on the side use initials for telephone listings, mailbox ID and their dogs' collars.

  Jack sensed the foul-mouthed slouchmeister picking up on the groomer's wariness. "A.D. was in a car wreck last night. Poor guy was banged up pretty good and the doc wants him to stay another night in the hospital for observation."

  The groomer nodded, as if that seemed reasonable. Then she said, "So you weren't happy with TLC and brought Butch here, instead."

  "No, no problems at TLC at all." Jack grinned, as though competing for a most-satisfied-customer award, waiting for a plausible excuse to coalesce. "It's just that well, Home Away is closer to A.D.'s house, and since he'll have to take a taxi tomorrow from the hospital, it'll be easier for him to swing by here."

  Slouchmeister said, "You told me the dog was yours."

  "For the next twenty-four hours, he is," Jack replied, truthfully for once.

  "Fine, but I need the owner's name for the records." He jabbed an index finger at the groomer. "And you'd best start deskunking that cocker, Dina. If the owner comes back before it's dry, you can forget your part of the service charge."

  She bristled, then her lips flattened to a grim line. "Excuse me, Mr. McPhee," she mumbled, and reached for the door to the kennel runs.

  Dina, Jack repeated to himself. Well, half a name was better than none. And she'd remembered his. Repressing a smile wasn't easy, but he managed.

  When the door closed behind her, he said to Slouchmeister, "I guess she's not what you'd call dependable, huh?"

  "Dina's okay, except on short notice." He chuffed at his own lame joke. Stationed again behind the counter, he added, "Like my dad says, if you don't manage the help, the help'll manage to get paid for sloughing off."

  Jack assumed the kid inherited his charm from his old man. "Your dad owns Home Away?"

  "He took it over when my grandma died." He circled Jack's name on the registration form and noted his temporary custody. "Thank God I only have to work here during the summer."

  "College student?"

  Nodding, he offered the pencil to amend the ownership line. "Yale. Class of whatthefu—" A gestured "oops," then, "Class of whenever Dad gets sick of paying tuition."

  Interesting, Jack thought. And wouldn't it be a coincidence if those Ivy League halls of higher learning emptied right around Memorial Day and refilled Labor Day weekend.

  Consideration was given a two-birds-with-one-stone idea. Evidently, Dina the groomer was called in to remedy a dog unfamiliar with a skunk's defense mechanism, not for a full day's work. Waiting around in the parking lot, then buying her a cup of coffee could be edifying in more ways than one.

  All in good time, he decided. A casual remark afterward in the wrong ear about her delightful, spur-of-the-moment repartee with Butch's temporary custodian could be a tip-off. Jack using his real name wasn't particularly risky, unless the Calendar Burglar walked his fingers through the phone directory.

  "Business before pleasure," he said, with a sigh. "Damn it."

  * * *

  There wasn't enough scotch in Scotland—neat, on the rocks, sucked out a barrel's bung hole with a straw—to blot out the lowlights of the next twenty-four hours.

  Not once, but twice during Jack's overnight campout in his car, a minuscule Chevy with a cretin at the wheel rolled by the cul-de-sac's entrance. Moby Dickhead had burned the decoy house's address for future reference as effectively as gasoline and a match. Jack stayed put, though, entertaining himself with fantasies of felony assault and battery.

  Then just after dawn, while his head was burrowed under the pillow and his mind was deeply involved in an entirely different fantasy and costar, Home Away called to inform him that Butch had jumped a pit bull in the outdoor exercise yard.

  The pit bull emerged unscathed, naturally. The idiot sheltie's emergency animal clinic's bill was $422.73. Luckily, Angie Meadows's hobby was hooking, not wind sprints. When he dropped off the bandaged sheltie, she did chase Jack for two blocks, screaming explicit details about the amputations she'd perform if she caught him.

  The bar where Angie worked was off-limits for the forseeable future. Finding another second-favorite watering hole wasn't a fraction as worrisome as Gerry Abramson's retainer dissolving in record time.

  Provided the Calendar Burglar was identified and stopped, the insurance agent wouldn't freak about Jack's expenses—apart from maybe the veterinary clinic bill for Butch. And if, of course, it was Jack's hunch that led to the thief's apprehension.

  And then there was the increasing possibility that he was loonier than Brett Dean Blankenship. Being wrong about the kennel connection wasn't the issue. He had, however, speculated that the burglar might be a customer, not an employee. TLC's and Home Away's log sheets were both kept in plain view. The thief dropping off his dog just as Jack was dropping off loaners failed to amuse him.

  Merry Hills was next and the last on the list. Jack refused to quit two-thirds through the rotation. Come up empty again, and he'd contact kennel owners for a confidential look at their files. As if they'd allow it then, any more than they would have at the outset. Therefore, Jack McPhee, state animal facility inspector—or something equally official sounding—would make unannounced visits.

  In the meantime, a new decoy address was a must. A new dog to allegedly reside at that address was crucial. The first grin in recent memory broke across Jack's face. "Belle has a dog."

  He sobered immediately. "She also has a husband who thinks you're a bottom-feeder and he's probably at home on a Sunday morning."

  Flipping through the Rolodex, Jack called ex-girlfriends, friends, acquaintances and bar buddies he had to describe himself to. Realizing he was visually fitting a dog suit on the one-eared tomcat that roamed the apartment complex, he gave up and dialed his ex-wife's number.

  "You want to borrow my dog," Belle repeated. Her tone was normally associated with unsecure
d loans of large sums of cash.

  "Just overnight. You know I wouldn't ask, if I really didn't need your help."

  "Everybody else you've asked turned you down flat, huh?" She laughed. "Two problems, hon. I'm packing for a flight down to Little Rock to meet Carleton."

  Jack pumped a fist. "He's already in Arkansas?"

  "He drove down Friday. He's the keynote for another financial seminar. I bowed out of two days of godawful wives' activities, but I'll make an appearance tonight. Then we'll drive on to Hot Springs for a couple of days' R&R."

  "If you're leaving town," Jack said, "you need a dog-sitter for what's his name."