That Doggy in the Window

by Jaye Watson

  "Not at all. It's perfectly normal." Emaline bent down to pet Archibald, who was bouncing around her feet. "Yes, you're a nice doggie," she told him. "And I'll bet you miss your brother too,"

  "Oh, he does. Poor little thing. He clings, just like a baby, now. I may have to adopt a little brother or sister for him."

  "That might be-- Mrs. I, do you still have the rest of that package of treats?"

  "Well, yes, I hated to throw them away. They aren't cheap you know."

  "Have you fed them to Archibald?"

  Mrs. I shook herb head, frowning. "No, I've been afraid to. I mean, what if--"

  "Exactly. You don't want to take a chance." She bent again and ruffled the topknot on Archibald's head. "The reason I stopped by--"

  "Oh, yes, that reminds me. You got a package today. Let me get it." Mrs. I bustled into the hall that led to the back of her house. She returned carrying a small package in a FedEx box. "I had to sign for it, because you weren't home. I hope that's all right. I mean... Well, I don't want you to think..."

  "It's perfectly all right," Emaline said, taking the package. It was light, almost as if it was empty. The return address was strange to her. Bostain & Farsome, Ltd., in Seattle. "Probably one of those advertising gimmicks, where they send you something you didn't order and hope you'll pay for it."

  "They're never worth anything," Mrs. I said. "I don't know why they waste their money."

  "No, neither do I." She shook the package and felt a slight shifting of the contents. What in the world?

  She tucked it into her tote. "Would you let me take the treats? I'd like to do my own analysis. The people at the clinic aren't being very forthcoming about their results."

  "Oh, that's what else I was going to tell you. They called today. I could hardly understand what the man said. He had an accent. A really thick one. And he spoke really fast. He read me all these words that made no sense. Percentages, I think, but like it was a foreign language.

  "He did say that they could mail a printed copy. I told him yes. Oh yes, and he said he didn't think it was the treats that...that poor little Scooter ate."

  "Yes well, you know me. I'm a bit obsessive. I'd really like to double check their results. Give me a call when the printout arrives. I'll come over and get it."

  "Well, of course dear. It's not like I'm ever going to feed those treats to poor Archibald. Just in case, you understand."

  "I do." After a few more soothing words, and a promise to stop by again in a few days, Emaline managed to pull herself free and go home.

  Once there, she set the package and the bag of doggie treats in the middle of the kitchen table. "What's in you?" she mused. "Was it a good analysis, or is there something really deadly there?"

  Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would do some research on what might cause symptoms of heart attack in dogs. She knew of several easily obtained compounds that would so affect humans. Most were important drugs in the treatment of heart disease, but also deadly poisons in higher doses.

  But dogs often reacted differently to foods than humans. All animals did. She'd never forget the time she saw the mountain goats eagerly licking up antifreeze from the road in Glacier National Park. A small portion of what they'd ingested would have killed a dog or cat, but from all she had read, it had absolutely no effect on mountain goats.

  And chocolate. An aphrodisiac to humans, toxic to dogs.

  Just another reason why she found biochemistry fascinating.

  Too tired to bother with cooking, she pulled a frozen meal from the fridge and stuck it into the microwave. While it was cooking, she picked up the FedEx package. It had one of those tear-strips, so opening it was easy. A bubble-wrap encased item fell out, along with a small gift card. Inside the card was written Happy Valentine's Day. Wish I could be with you. I hope you'll think of me when you wear this. The signature was a scrawled HJ.

  The bubble wrap was securely taped, and she finally had to resort to scissors to open it. What fell into her hand took her breath away. A golden heart, just the outline, set with red stones. A sparkling white stone sat where the two halves dipped at the top. The delicate chain on which it dangled was tiny double links, less than a millimeter across. Oh, Harry, you shouldn't have.

  She loved it, but at the same time she wasn't sure what he was saying. They hadn't made any promises, had deliberately avoided doing so, in fact.

  Her eyes stung. Oh, damn. How long had it been since anyone had given her a valentine? So long that she hadn't even thought about what day it was.

  I don't even know how to get hold of him. Can't even thank him. I didn't get him anything.

  The microwave dinged. Automatically she removed the dinner she no longer had appetite for and set it on the counter. An hour later she tossed the congealed mess into the trash without even recycling the plastic tray.

  * * * *

  Emaline wore the necklace to work the next day, but hid it under a turtleneck shirt. She wasn't sure exactly how she felt about it. Thrilled, yes. Astonished, of course. Embarrassed? Possibly.

  The last time a man had given her jewelry had to be... Good grief, Arnold. So long ago. She'd been in graduate school. He'd bought her a ring, certain she'd marry him.

  What a mistake that would have been.

  On the bus going home, she couldn't concentrate on her book--a new one she'd preordered and just that morning had received and downloaded onto her iPhone. Her hand kept going to touch the heart, hidden but never out of her consciousness.

  Why had the package come from a lawyer's office? She'd Googled Bostain & Farsome, Ltd. as soon as she'd arrived at work. A legal firm, just off Pioneer Square in Seattle. Specializing in estate work, according to their website.

  But why--

  Oh. Harry's ex-wife. Bizarre as it seemed, was there a possibility that he was still her executor?

  And why did it matter anyhow? Perhaps one of the firm's associates was an old school friend, and that's why he'd had them send it.

  Had he even seen what he'd sent her? He might not be within a thousand miles of Seattle.

  "Pick up something pretty for my girlfriend," he might have told a secretary. "Something impressive. Don't spend over a thousand dollars."

  Yeah, right.

  But maybe that wasn't so far-fetched. While she was no expert on precious gems, she'd bet the red stones in her heart pendant were rubies and the white was a diamond. There was just something about Harry that said he'd go for the real thing.

  What difference does it make? It's the thought that counts.

  For the better part of a week she fretted, stewed, and worried over her valentine. They'd agreed that they would talk about the next step in their relationship after the anniversary of his wife's death. Did a few dinners together, half a dozen kisses, and a murder investigation constitute a relationship?

  The next thing she knew, he'd disappeared.

  Nothing. Not a word, for over a month. And then a quick phone call, cut short, followed by a way-too-expensive valentine.

  I know I never did entirely figure out the dating game, but surely it hasn't changed that much. Besides, Harry's close to my age, so we learned the same rules.

  At work she had plenty of interesting, challenging tasks to occupy her mind. Once she walked out the door of BioLogic in the evenings, her valentine--or rather, its source--captured her thoughts. Held them for ransom.

  She had President's Day off, but she went to the office anyway, just so she'd have something else to think about. Glad for the opportunity to get some reports finished without interruption, she closed her office door, stuck earbuds in, and set her MP3 player to loud. Two hours later, she'd printed out and signed everything that was pending.

  On the way home, she found herself thinking about the dog treats again. Two dogs had gotten sick, and one--an old dog--had died. A veterinarian had mentioned that she'd seen a couple of other dogs exhibiting the same symptoms. Emaline had absolutely no reason to suspect foul play.

  But sti
ll...

  You've let your successes go to your head. Just because you solved a mystery, you think you're a detective.

  Of course, it hadn't hurt that Harry had been enormously impressed when she'd figured out what had killed Mary O'Neill, when the police hadn't had a clue.

  Harry. Yes, well, he's another problem. How am I going to decide how I feel about him when I never see him, when he never calls?

  How can he leave me hanging like this?

  On Friday night she met her girlfriends for their weekly date. They were trying a new restaurant, a Thai place on SE 82nd. Amy had eaten there with her current sweetie a couple of weeks ago and had convinced them they should try it. Since Emaline and Martha both lived on the East Side, it hadn't been a hard sell.

  "...and then the idiot said I'd have to deliver the damned report because he was too busy. I told him to stuff it." Martha stretched across the table and grabbed the platter of green curry. As she helped herself, she said, "He thinks because he's been there longer than I have, he's got seniority. That's bullshit."

  "If he makes trouble for you, let me know." Amy had recently won a workplace harassment case and admitted wanting to take on another.

  "Naw. He's just throwing his weight around. Besides, Rachel overheard him and gently reminded him that it was his fault the report was late." She smiled widely. "Warmed my heart, let me tell you."

  "I wonder if they'd give me the recipe for that soup. I really liked it," Jerri said. "It's kind of sweet, but not."

  "Coconut milk, I'll bet," Emaline said. "Here, finish off these noodles. I'm going to take the rest of the shrimp stuff. Yum." She scraped the food onto her plate. "How's Jeffrey doing, Jerri?"

  "Oh, he's fine. His cast comes off Tuesday, and he's already talking about going skiing. Little does he know."

  "Six weeks of PT, minimum," Martha said with a chuckle. She sobered almost immediately. "Speaking of kids..."

  They all turned to her, for her voice had broken, as if on a choked-off sob. "What is it? Marcie's all right, isn't she?"

  "She's fine. It's Perky. He...he died last Sunday. It was--" She buried her face in her hands.

  Everyone sat, stunned. Perky was her darling, the one bright spot in her life now that Marcie, her twenty-something daughter, was off living her own life. "He was fine, then... The vet said it was a heart attack." This time she really did sob. "I didn't even know dogs could have heart attacks."

  They clustered around her, the last of their dinner forgotten. Even as she hugged her friend, Emaline was hearing an echo of her neighbor's cry of pain. That's five, at least. Two dead, three sick. Quite a coincidence.

  The following Monday afternoon she called Martha. After the usual greetings, she said, "I know this is not the sort of question you want to answer, but can you tell me exactly what the veterinarian said about Perky's heart attack?"

  "Nothing, really. Just that he was overweight and that predisposed him to it. He made me feel like I'd abused my baby."

  "Nonsense. You took excellent care of him." So what if the middle-aged Basenji had been a bit chubby. He'd gotten regular exercise and had been fed expensive, nutritious dog food. In Emaline's opinion, that dog had eaten better than most people. "Did he offer any other possibilities. Besides a heart attack, I mean?"

  "No. he seemed really sure of it. I wondered, because poor little Perky was already really sick when we got to the clinic. He was barely breathing."

  "Did he do an autopsy?"

  "Oh, gosh, Em, I couldn't have afforded that. You know how cranky Walt gets about how I spoil...spoiled Perky."

  "Of course. I understand. It's just that... Martha, did the veterinarian ask about what he'd eaten in the last twelve hours?"

  "Well, no, but I'd already told him. Perky had his usual supper."

  "That's all?" With a peculiar sense of disappointment, Emaline twisted the phone cord around her forefinger. "No treats?"

  "Well, sure. He always had treats after his supper. Just three, because they're higher calorie than his healthy food. But he loved them so." Her quick inhalation came clearly over the phone. "Em, do you think there might have been something wrong with his food?"

  "Oh, you know me. I'm always looking for interesting stuff. It's probably nothing, but I'd like to know more about Perky's treats. What brand were they? And do you still have the package?"

  "I tossed it. I couldn't bear to look at anything of his." A sniff punctuated the quavery words.

  "Oh, well, then, it wasn't really important, anyhow. Just curiosity."

  "Yeah, I know. You're worse than a cat. Oops, here comes Rachel. Gotta go." She hung up without giving Emaline a chance to say goodbye.

  I'm probably imagining things. It's just coincidence. But all the rest of the day, she found herself wishing Martha hadn't tossed the remainder of Perky's treats. I'd really like to see an analysis.

  One of these days she'd get Scooter's treats analyzed and that would prove that she was truly imagining things.

  * * * *

  Her phone didn't ring all week. At least not with the right caller on the line. The only interesting event was when Martha brought by a plastic bag containing a smelly, damp package of dog treats. "They were still in the garbage. You know we only have it picked up once a month. Walt's adamant about composting everything we can, and recycling the rest."

  Emaline waved goodbye as Martha got back into her car, because her husband expected her right back. She'd be better off recycling her husband. What an ass. Every time she thought about Martha's miserable marriage, she was grateful for her single state.

  But Harry would never treat a woman the way Walt treats Martha. Never.

  And where, exactly, had that thought come from?

  When she did her grocery shopping Wednesday evening, she found herself irresistibly drawn to the pet food aisle. After a few seconds' search, she located the dog treats. The variety astonished her. So did the packaging. It looked like as much creativity went into the design of pet food packages as into people food.

  She spend a good quarter hour reading labels. The lists of ingredients were similar. All contained cereal grains, usually rice, lecithin, cellulose, and assorted sweeteners. Some had meat products, most contained assorted preservatives, and one contained, of all things, natural spearmint flavor. Good grief. Do dogs like mint flavor? Do they even care?

  After due consideration, she bought three different packages, three different brands. On impulse, she took a detour on her way home and stopped at a different supermarket. There she bought three more packages, again three different brands. Not a statistical sample, but it wasn't like she was doing an exhaustive study.

  She found a black marking pen when she got home and marked each package with the store name and the date. Tomorrow, she decided, she'd drive to work so she could stop at the big market nearby--a different chain yet--and pick up three more. In fact, that store had a large natural foods section. Perhaps she'd find different brands there.

  There was a message on her answering machine. Probably one of her girlfriends. A nasty cold was going 'round and she half expected to hear that someone wouldn't be able to make their regular Friday night get-together. She ignored it while she tossed together a stir-fry for supper. Then she forgot about it until she walked through the kitchen on her way to check the back door.

  "Em, this is Harry. I've only got a minute. It looks like I may get away this weekend. I'll call you Friday evening. If you don't hear from me, you'll know I won't be there." A voice sounded in the background. "Yeah, yeah. I'm coming. Em, I hope I'll see you Saturday."

  Even though it was late, she wasted no time calling Martha, Jerri and Amy, to tell them she wouldn't see them Friday night.

  Sleep came only reluctantly that night. Each time she came close to dropping off, she'd wonder again what sort of undercover job Harry was on that kept him busy twenty-four hours a day. Those ruminations led to the two questions that had plagued her ever since Christmas.

  Did she want more t
han a casual relationship with Harry? And did she want any kind of a relationship with a cop?

  They were really two sides of the same question, but she felt she had to consider them separately.

  Everyone knew cops were not easy people to live with. Or even date. Read any mystery. They all agreed cops were poor bets for happy ever after. And yet... How many mysteries had she read that were romances? Lots. Maybe the whole cop as a lousy lover notion was simply a gimmick writers used to set up the romance. A rookie cop didn't make for a dashing hero, and darned few men of thirty-odd were still unattached, unless they were divorced. So give them unhappy memories of bad relationships and let them meet the one and only perfect partner. There you go. Romance with a soupçon of mystery. Or vice versa.

  She pounded her pillow, seeking a spot that wasn't filled with boulders.

  Harry was divorced. And considered himself widowed since his ex-wife's death. He was not bitter about his marriage, not like the storybook cops. In fact, he struck her as one of the more well-adjusted men she'd met in a long time.

  But did she want to be more than his occasional date?

  She was pretty sure she did.

  If she ever saw him again.

  The phone stayed stubbornly silent Friday night.

  She went to the lab on Saturday, tired of the non-responsive phone. Once there, she cleared up some reports that had piled up late on Friday, answered half a dozen non-critical emails, and watered her plants. Finding herself unable to concentrate on the journals she should be reading, she went online and started looking for information on common substances that were toxic to dogs.

  "What the hell are you dong here on such a beautiful, rainy weekend?" Roger Stanton was leaning in the doorway. "Don't you know you're supposed to take a day off now and then?"

  "I'm not working." She entered the final three letters of her query in the Google taskbar and hit return. "I could ask you the same thing."

  "I just came in to pick up my sweater. I snagged it Friday--broke a thread in the sleeve and it started coming undone--and I forgot to take it home. My sister-in-law said she thought she could fix it." He held up an attractive tweed sweater, one she'd admired when he'd worn it last week.