Three More Dogs in a Row

by Neil Plakcy

  Eastern had recently completed the purchase of a nineteenth-century monastery a few miles from the campus. Officially called Our Lady of the Waters, it included a hilltop chapel and dormitory, several outbuildings and about fifty acres of woodland. At the base of the hill was a small body of water known as Friar Lake. Mendicant friars, those religious men who spent their lives among the poor, retired to a house at the water’s edge to lives of country peace and quiet, the soothing sound of lake water lapping, the rhythms of nature around them.

  The church had decided to consolidate facilities, so the monks and the friars moved to western Pennsylvania and Eastern bought the property. Babson had given me the opportunity to create a conference center for the college on the grounds. Though I had little background in the skills required, he had faith in me, and I had been scrambling to learn as much as I could since I got the assignment.

  Part of my responsibility was overseeing the choice of materials for the interiors, and since my idea of decorating is a comfortable sofa and a big-screen TV, I recruited my friend Mark Figueroa to help me. He had a degree in interior design and ran an antique store in downtown Stewart’s Crossing jammed with an eclectic mix of antique furniture, fifties dinnerware, and the kind of kitschy crap I’d seen at the Harvest Festival.

  He’d been reluctant to help me out at first, because he had his own business to manage, but he had warmed up to the work, and I was eager to see the paint and carpet samples he’d put together.

  While Rochester and I walked, I tried to focus on getting through the meeting with Santiago Santos. Until I had that certificate of final release, I was still a parolee, and the state of California, through Santos, had control over me.

  I had done some foolish things since leaving prison—almost all of them involving the very crime I had done the time for. I had continued to think I was the smartest guy in the room, that I could break into websites and find the information I wanted without worrying about the consequences. Suppose Santos discovered the way I had hacked into the Quaker State Bank system while investigating Caroline’s murder? Or the many other small hacks I had committed in search of the truth about other crimes?

  He never knew that I’d kept my hacking software on Caroline’s laptop, hidden in my attic. In addition to it, I had used computers at Eastern College to do research I didn’t want Santos to know about. Hell, I’d even had a handgun in my possession, an inheritance from my dad, and hadn’t reported it until one of my students was shot with a similar weapon and I had to surrender it for forensics evaluation. Since it was against the terms of my parole, Rick had held it for me after the ballistics didn’t match the weapon used.

  If Santiago Santos wanted to turn me in for parole violations, there were plenty of ways he could do it.

  I wished I could take Rochester with me, for the comfort of his company, but I was sure dogs wouldn’t be allowed in the Bucks County Courthouse in Doylestown, where the regional office of the Parole Board was located. I left him on the first floor of the townhouse, with the gate up blocking the stairway to the second floor. The tile was strewn with his toys—his squeaky blue plastic ball, the frayed rope we played tug-of-war with, a miniature piano keyboard that played different squeaks depending on where the dog bit down.

  I have no idea how Doylestown became our county seat. It’s a medium-sized town in the center of the county, in the middle of an ocean of waving stalks of corn. It has no distinguishing features, and it’s far from any highway. I negotiated a series of two-lane roads to the outskirts of the city, then found the round glassy rotunda of the courthouse.

  I parked and took the elevator to the seventh floor. My heart raced as I opened the door to the Parole Board’s office. I checked in with the receptionist, ten minutes early for my nine o’clock appointment, and took a seat on a hard wooden bench in the waiting room.

  As the time ticked away without any summons from Santos, my tension level rose, as I imagined all the reasons why he was keeping me waiting. He couldn’t be on the phone to someone in California; it was too early in the morning for that. But suppose he was reviewing my records, picking away at details?

  The walls were painted institutional green, and the only decorations were mounted posters explaining parole board rules. Other parolees came and went around me, from young men with tattoos up and down their arms to a cheerful woman in her forties, to a heavyset man in his sixties with a grizzled beard and a VFW ball cap. I couldn’t help wondering what their offenses had been. Drugs? Theft? Assault? I knew from Rick that those were the most common crimes, after DUI violations. Bucks County was not exactly a hotbed of crime, though our proximity to Philadelphia, and to Trenton across the river in New Jersey, put us somewhat at risk.

  At nine-forty-five I called Mark Figueroa to reschedule our eleven a.m. appointment at Friar Lake. “Can you make one o’clock?” I asked.

  “Sure. The store’s closed on Mondays so I’ve got the whole day free.”

  “Thanks, Mark. I appreciate it.”

  I hung up and debated going up to the receptionist to ask when Santos would be able to see me. But I held back, unwilling to make a fuss.

  By the time I was called, at ten, my tension level was through the roof. I was worried about what Santos might say, irritated about rescheduling the session with Mark, and nervous that I’d accidentally say something that might compromise me.

  “Steve! Sorry to keep you waiting, but you know how it is in government. Come on back.”

  Santos was a stocky Puerto Rican guy a few years younger than I was, and I’d always felt he was fair and truly interested in helping me. But at the same time, he’d been very strict whenever I’d come close to a violation, and sometimes I found his attitude patronizing, as if I was some kind of common criminal. Which I guessed I was.

  “No problem,” I said, trying to calm down, as he led me into a warren of cubicles, and motioned me to sit in the visitor’s chair across from his desk.

  “You had an attitude problem when we started working together,” he said, as he sat down. “I’m not sure you’ve overcome it, but you’ve managed to stay under my radar for two years, and the state says I have to set you loose.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I said nothing.

  He sat back in his chair and picked up a yellow rubber squeeze ball emblazoned with the Doylestown Hospital logo, a series of piggybacked triangles. “I have a feeling you’ve been flying loose with some of the conditions of your parole, but I could never catch you.” Santos gripped the squeeze ball. “That doesn’t mean you won’t get caught again, though.”

  I was about to protest, but he pushed his chair back abruptly and stood up. “Let’s get this over with.” He dropped the squeeze ball to his desk, where it bounced a couple of times then fell to the floor.

  I followed him to an office with a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Court Street. A middle-aged black woman sat behind a cluttered desk, wearing a navy business suit with a scarf around her neck. She had a stack of file folders in front of her.

  “Steve Levitan, this is Barbara Aurum, my supervisor,” Santos said. “Mrs. Aurum has to sign off on all our parole completions.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said. As I shook her hand. I got a closer look at her scarf. “Is that the Paris metro system?”

  She smiled. “I admit, I’m an absolute Francophile. If I could, I’d live in Paris.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said. At least she was pleasant, I thought. If Santos wanted to make trouble for me, would she let him?

  She picked through the pile of folders and found mine, then opened it. We were all quiet for a moment or two as she scanned the contents.

  “All your paperwork looks to be in order,” she said, when she finished. “Santiago says you’ve landed a long-term position at Eastern College. Congratulations.”

  “I’ve been very fortunate. I went to school there myself, and many people there, up to the college president, have supported me.”

  “Exc
ellent. That’s the kind of result we’re looking for.” She looked at Santos. “Santiago? Anything else to add?”

  My heart skipped a beat.

  “Steve’s made a solid transition back home from prison,” he said. “He’s put down roots, made friends, and rejoined the work force.”

  I waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t.

  “Then I guess we’re ready to move on,” Aurum said. She picked up a cheap ballpoint pen emblazoned with the Quaker State Bank logo and signed the form. Then she looked at me. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope our paths never cross again.”

  It felt like I let go of a breath I’d been holding for months. I was going to be free. I could finally put my past behind me. I smiled and looked at Barbara Aurum. “At least not professionally,” I said. “I’m a bit of a Francophile myself. You never know, we might meet up at the Eiffel Tower one day.”

  “That would be very nice.” She stood and we shook hands, and Santos led me back toward the front.

  As we reached the door, he stopped. “You may be a smart guy, Steve, but remember, there’s always somebody smarter than you are. If you let your ego get ahead of you in the future, you’ll end up in the same trouble you were in back in California, and I know you don’t want that.”

  I was too happy to argue or complain, so even though I didn’t want another lecture, I just said, “I’ll do my best.”

  We shook hands, and I walked out of the office without the leash that had been holding me back.

  9 – The Real World

  “Lili? It’s me. I’m free!”

  I’d waited until I was out of the courthouse building, standing in the shade of a maple tree that was beginning to turn golden, to call Lili.

  “Congratulations!” she said. “But I had no doubt you’d do fine.”

  “I had a couple of nervous moments. I’m glad it’s all over.” I looked at my watch. “I wish I had time to swing by the college and celebrate in person with you, but I’ve got an appointment at Friar Lake with Mark Figueroa, and I’ve already pushed it back once.”

  “No problem. I have a class soon anyway. I’ll talk to you tonight.”

  We hung up, amid mutual endearments. Traffic moved past me on Court Street and attorneys and clients eddied in and out of the courthouse, but I felt removed from it all.

  I looked at my watch, and realized that with the meeting with Mark postponed, I had time to head home and pick up Rochester, who usually went to work with me.

  I didn’t often leave him home alone. At two years old, he was still a big puppy, and puppies are destructive when they’re bored. I had given up on dragging Rochester into the metal crate I had used when he was younger; he hated it, and he used to bark and rattle the bars like a prisoner in a black-and-white movie. Only when I’d been behind bars I’d never protested, just kept my head down and took each day as it came.

  When I opened the front door, I braced myself for disaster. But he had been a good boy, only shredding one of his tug ropes, resulting in red and white strands all over the tile floor. Within seconds, seventy pounds of Golden Retriever hurled at me, huge front paws aimed at my midsection. “Easy boy.” I ruffled his head. “I missed you too.”

  He backed away and romped around the downstairs. “Yes, I know, you need a walk.” I grabbed his leash and tried to get him to sit so I could hook it up.

  No matter how strict I made my voice, Rochester was too intent on playing to obey. I finally had to grab the fur behind his neck and immobilize him with my body. As soon as I let him go he raced for the front door, dragging me behind him.

  He dashed for my next-door-neighbor’s oak tree and peed copiously. Then he darted ahead, continuing to pull me along. When I finally got him back home, he was eager to jump in the car. I loaded him into the front seat and he stuck his head out the window all the way up along the River Road to the turn off to Friar Lake.

  My office was in a small stone building that had once been the abbey gatehouse. The college’s director of physical plant, Joe Capodilupo, was in charge of the renovations to the buildings and grounds, and his first project had been renovating the gatehouse to serve not only as a construction field office, but eventually as the office for the conference center.

  The architects had designed a warm, welcoming lobby with a desk and comfortable chairs. Hunter green walls, dark brown leather sofas, crown molding and pointed arches over the windows completed the look, which was masculine, academic, and ecclesiastical. A scale model of the project was on the low table by the front door, along with a stack of glossy brochures. Lili had taken the photos and I’d written the text.

  There were two offices off the lobby and a large conference room where we kept the full-sized plans of the property. As Rochester and I walked in, Joe stepped out of his office. He was a gruff, heavyset guy with white hair and a white beard, and he looked like he’d have been at home with the Benedictines if you slapped one of those black robes on him. He was accompanied by a tall, good-looking guy in his early thirties. Though he was nearly a head taller than Joe and his hair was dark, I spotted a family resemblance immediately.

  “Morning, Steve. Let me introduce you to my boy, Joe Junior. He just started as the superintendent of the construction crew here.”

  “Call me Joey,” he said, as I reached out to shake his hand, which was large and calloused. He had a faint tracing of five o’clock shadow, hipster sideburns, and a diamond stud in one ear.

  “Good to meet you.” I introduced Rochester, who slobbered all over the knee of Joey’s faded but neatly pressed jeans. He reached down to ruffle the dog’s ears, and Rochester had a new friend.

  “When the decorator fella gets here, we’ll take a walk around,” Joe said. “In the meantime, Joey’s got a lot to learn.”

  “My dad’s been saying that since I was about five,” Joey said. “See you later.”

  I went into my office, put down my messenger bag, and turned on my computer. The office was a change from the one I’d had at Fields Hall on campus, with its high ceilings, ornate moldings, and French doors out to a garden where I could take Rochester for quick walks. At Friar Lake, I had a picture window view of the abbey chapel, a Gothic pile that needed serious rehabbing. The property sat atop a low tree-covered mountain, and there were plenty of places where I could let Rochester off his leash to run.

  I began to go through my emails, deleting all those that had no importance to me, including what was probably the fifteenth message from a textbook rep inviting me to sign up for the digital lab for freshman comp. I’d tried writing back to let her know that I wasn’t teaching that term, but the message came from one of those “do not reply” addresses, and I’d long since lost her business card.

  I’d just finished when Mark walked in. He was in his mid-thirties, exceedingly tall and skinny, wearing a tight black T-shirt and close-fitting black jeans.

  “Sorry I had to push things back,” I said, standing up to shake his hand. “I hope it didn’t wreck your schedule.”

  “No problem.” Rochester lunged for him, but Mark intercepted. “Black pants, puppy! I don’t want blond hairs all over them.”

  I grabbed the dog’s collar and tugged him back as Mark stepped into my office. “If you like the samples I’ve brought we’re ready to place some orders,” he said. “I can get a good deal on the dormitory carpets from the manufacturer.”

  “Sounds good.” We sat down and went over the samples, then looked at the delivery schedule for some of the other finishes.

  When we were done, Mark sat back in his chair and asked, “So, did you hear about the fuss at the Meeting House during Harvest Days?”

  “I was part of it,” I said. “Or at least Rochester was. He’s the one who spotted the dead man’s foot.”

  Rochester perked up at the sound of his name, but when there were no treats forthcoming, he went back to sleep.

  “Creepy,” Mark said. “Do the police know whose body it is?”

  “I sa
w Rick Stemper yesterday, and he doesn’t have much to go on yet. He’s pretty sure it’s a guy, but he doesn’t know how old he was, when he died, how he died, or even how he got stuck in the building.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The body was between a false wall and the exterior clapboard,” I said.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of false walls in other Quaker buildings.”

  I looked at him. “How would you hear that?”

  “I did an independent study paper in college on colonial architecture, and one of the building types I focused on was the meeting house. I’ll bet that wall was built to hide runaway slaves,” he said. “Back in the 1850s, the Quakers got involved in the anti-slavery movement, and there have been rumors that their Meeting Houses were used in the Underground Railroad.”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember Rick saying something about that.”

  “You think this body could be that old?”

  “Nah. The foot Rochester found was wearing a sneaker. Converse, like the ones we wore as kids.”

  Joe stuck his head in my office, and asked, “You guys ready for a walk around the property?”

  I shelved any further thoughts of Quakers and slaves as Mark and I followed him out to the lobby, where Joey was lounging by the front door.

  “I’m Joey. You must be the decorator,” Joey said, reaching out to shake Mark’s hand.

  “Mark. But I’m not really a decorator. I just have better taste than Steve has.”

  Joey looked at him and smiled. “I can see that.”

  I was about to protest when Joe said, “All right, enough flirting, you two. We’ve got work to do.”

  Flirting? A dozen thoughts rushed through my head. Joey was gay? His father knew and was comfortable enough about it to make an offhand comment? Or was that some kind of construction site trash-talk?