Three Dogs in a Row

by Neil S. Plakcy

  I slid into the chair across from Jim’s desk. When Oscar finished, he pushed the chair back. Before he could stand up, Jim said, “Steve and I are both on the graduation committee and we’ve been hearing lots of bad things about software problems with the Registrar’s office. You think those are coming from Freezer Burn?”

  “Don’t have to think,” Oscar said. “I know what the problems are.”

  “So you can fix them?”

  He shook his head. “That’s too much of a hack. Mrs. Parshall would find out and she’d have a cow.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Doesn’t she want the computer systems to work properly?”

  He stood up. “I’ve really got to go. I have a lot of work back in the office.”

  “There’s something strange going on, isn’t there, Oscar?” I asked. “Something about Verri M. Parshall and Freezer Burn?”

  “Mrs. Parshall is my boss. You’d have to ask her if you have any questions.”

  “Or we could go to President Babson,” I said. “And then when he fires Verri, she’ll probably take the department down with her.”

  “I don’t have anything to do with Freezer Burn. It was her decision to buy the product in the first place, even though I recommended against it. She talks to them directly, too, whenever there’s any problem.”

  He lowered his head and hurried out of the office.

  “He’s scared,” Jim said.

  “I would be, too, in his position. Verri’s a powerful woman around here. She could fire him in a heartbeat if he challenged her.”

  “So what can we do?”

  “Not sure right now. But at least we have some independent verification that Freezer Burn is the problem, and that Verri’s in deep with the company.” I told him what I’d discovered in my research about Freezer Burn—the newness of the software, and the range of complaints I’d found online about it, both from Eastern and from students at other colleges that used it.

  “We have to get this fixed before graduation,” Jim said. “I spoke to Dot Sneiss this morning and her office is still in chaos.”

  His phone buzzed. “It doesn’t help that this is final exam week. I’m up to my ass in alligators as it is.”

  “I’ll keep thinking,” I said, as he picked up his phone.

  I walked back to my office. We had a week before graduation, and I had the feeling that removing Freezer Burn from every computer on campus, installing a replacement program, and troubleshooting the process, would overwhelm even an efficient department. And we couldn’t even start that process until we proved that there was something wrong with Freezer Burn, and that Verri M. Parshall was behind the problem.

  Back in my office, Rochester had gotten into the pile of dog show paperwork I had left on my desk, and when I tried to clean up I discovered he had the list of trainers under his right paw, with a big splat of drool over Jerry Fujimoto’s name.

  I tugged the paper out from under his foot, and he rolled onto his side. I scratched his belly for a minute, then sat up. I did want to talk to Fujimoto, so I looked up his website and found his phone number.

  “I saw some of the dogs you trained at the agility show in Bethlehem on Saturday,” I said, when he picked up. “I have a golden retriever I’m interested in showing. You think I could bring him over for an evaluation?” His kennel was in Doylestown, about a half-hour inland from Stewart’s Crossing, so a pretty easy trip.

  “Some goldens are pretty dumb,” he said. “Yours have enough sense for training?”

  As if Rochester knew I was talking about him, he looked up. “I think so,” I said. I wasn’t about to gush about his crime-solving abilities, though.

  “Bring him over late this afternoon, and I’ll let you know what I think,” he said. “Five o’clock?”

  I agreed, and hung up. I thought about scooting out of work early and taking Rochester for some practice on Rascal’s course, but as I looked at him, I figured he’d do fine without the prep work. Besides, I wasn’t really interested in training him—I just wanted to talk to Fujimoto about Rita.

  I ran through the suspects I’d already looked into. I doubted that Pippin Forrest or his parents had killed Rita because she’d been rude. Paula Madden had walked out on Rita and it was doubtful, given what I knew of Rita’s personality, that Paula would have been able to get close enough to Rita’s iced tea to dose it with the Rohypnol. Sal Piedramonte was angry at Rita, but again, I didn’t think he could get in to see her.

  That left Mark Figueroa. If I eliminated him, I’d have to start on the list of Rita’s current clients.

  A Hardy Boy’s work is never done.

  21 – Student Records

  As I was finishing a salad I’d brought from home for lunch, an email came through reminding all faculty, full-time and adjunct, that our grades were due in the computer by Wednesday at 3 pm, so I took the opportunity to log in to the mainframe to enter mine while I thought of it. Most of the grades were As, with a couple of Bs and a single F, for a student who’d dropped out right after spring break.

  As Jim Shelton had predicted, I ran into trouble. The first time through, I only got a couple recorded before the system generated an error message and kicked me out. My second and third attempts wouldn’t even let me into the mainframe. Fortunately, the fourth time I was able to get in, enter all the grades, and log out before the system crashed. To be sure, I logged back in and checked, and they were all recorded.

  I used the last few minutes of my lunch hour to check out Pip Forrest’s parents, on the off chance that one of them had a criminal record for homicide—or anything else that might convince me to leave them on the suspect list. His father was a high school guidance counselor, and his mother taught social studies in middle school. They didn’t fit my internal profile of people who could dope up a woman then shoot cobra venom into her veins.

  Dot Sneiss called as I was finishing. “Is there any chance you could help us out over here?” she asked. “I wouldn’t even think of asking, but we’re desperate. The students are lined up all the way out the front door of Fields Hall, and I need a couple of bodies with computer access I can recruit to run graduation audits.”

  “If you show me what to do, I can help.”

  “I’ll come right over to your office with the instructions.”

  She arrived a few minutes later, and waved a hand distractedly at Rochester, who remained against the french doors. “I’ll get you logged into the student database. Then you follow these steps to retrieve and print the students’ transcripts. You compare them against these degree requirements. If they’ve met everything, you go into the database and check this field. Then you save everything, and move on to the next student.”

  “Sounds simple. I used to be a computer guy so I think I can handle it.”

  “You’re a lifesaver. Everyone else I’ve called is busy with final exams and their own messes.” She stood up. “I’ll be back with a couple of students, and we’ll keep sending them down your way for the rest of the afternoon. If you have to stop just let me know.”

  The first senior arrived a couple of minutes later. She was African-American, with her shoulder-length dark hair in elaborate dreads.

  “This is my first go-round with this system, so it may take some figuring,” I said, as she sat down across from my desk. Rochester sat up and barked once, and I saw there was already a line of other students waiting outside.

  She was getting a bachelor of science in biology, and she thought she had satisfied all her requirements. I printed her transcript and we went over it together, and it looked good to me. I checked the box on her record and set her receipt to print.

  “Thank you so much!” she said. “I’ve been waiting since seven o’clock this morning.”

  The next four students were fine. Rochester got accustomed to the in and out traffic, and I got comfortable with the clunky, DOS-based student records system. Then it crashed.

  “Oh, my god,” the student I was working with said. “Does this
mean there’s something wrong with my record?”

  “I doubt it. Just the crappy program.” I rebooted my computer, and while we waited, Rochester got up and walked over to the boy, who was fidgeting. Rochester stuck his head under the boy’s hand, and he started rubbing his hand down Rochester’s back. By the time my computer came back up, the kid was calmer, and I signed off on him for graduation.

  The parade of students continued. My back ached from sitting hunched over the computer for so long, and I itched to get up and stretch or take Rochester for a walk.

  While the next student walked in I called Dot Sneiss. My call went to her voice mail, and I asked, probably more plaintively than I meant to, how long she needed me to work that afternoon. It was almost four and I had an appointment in Doylestown at five with Jerry Fujimoto.

  I helped another four students before Dot called back. “Sorry, things are still crazy here,” she said. “Though they’re getting better. I’ll stop directing students your way, so if you can finish up with those you have, that would be great.”

  I told her that was no problem—until I ran into Harryette Caffey.

  She had to spell her name twice for me before I got it. “My dad’s name is Harry,” she said. “But my friends call me Yeti.”

  “You mean like the…” I couldn’t think for the moment. I knew a yeti wasn’t a monster, but… Then I remembered. “The abominable snowman?”

  She looked at me. “I spell it Yetty. Not the other way.”

  “Okay.” I pulled up her file and found she was missing one of her requirements, a computer proficiency class. “How come you didn’t take it when you were a freshman?”

  “They told me I didn’t need to because I had taken computer courses in high school.” She pushed her chest out a bit, and I wondered if that was a strategy she often used with male faculty.

  “You remember who told you that?”

  She looked at me like I was crazy. “It was four years ago.”

  I called Dot again, and once more I got her voice mail. I left the message with my question. “Sorry, but can you wait while I get through the rest of these kids? As soon as Mrs. Sneiss calls me back I’ll be able to finish up with you.”

  “I’ve been waiting all day,” she said.

  “Let’s recap,” I said. “You haven’t taken a required course so I can’t certify you for graduation. If you wait around until I get a call back, I’ll see what I can do for you. If you want to leave, you can take the computer course this summer and graduate in August.”

  Yetty leaned forward in her chair. “I can’t do that. I’m going to Europe next week.”

  “Then you don’t have much choice, do you? Wait out in the hall.”

  Maybe I was abrupt, but I had three more students before I could leave for Doylestown, and I was tired after spending the afternoon with this crappy program and a series of nervous kids.

  She went to the end of the line, and I got through the rest of the students. Dot still hadn’t called me back, and Rochester was getting antsy. I didn’t know what to do.

  “Have a seat,” I told Yetty. I went online and looked at the course outcomes for the computer class. Students had to be able to use a keyboard and a mouse, exhibit basic familiarity with the Microsoft Office suite of programs, and be able to use an Internet browser to search for information and visit websites.

  I closed down the student database program, then stood up and stretched. I turned the keyboard so Yetty could access it. “I’m going to give you a quick proficiency exam. If you pass, I’ll certify you.”

  I made her go through a series of steps, and she managed them all easily. “That’s all?” she asked.

  “Yup. Whoever you spoke to back then probably didn’t mark down that the class had been waived for you.”

  I took the keyboard back from her, logged into the database, and certified her to graduate. “Have a good time in Europe,” I said.

  Then I grabbed my dog and got the hell out of the office before any other crisis could come up.

  * * *

  I was a half hour late to Jerry Fujimoto’s spread—a low-slung ranch house with a series of wire cages along one side. Just as at Rita’s place, the yipping and yelping was deafening. Rochester didn’t even want to get out of the car, and I had to grab his collar and manhandle him out.

  The air smelled like cedar chips, mixed with the fragrance of blossoming lilacs from a hedge along one side of the property. Jerry stepped out of the front door as Rochester and I walked up the flagstone path. “I was about to feed the dogs,” he said. “I can give you ten minutes. Follow me.”

  He’d ditched the perfectly pressed clothes I saw him wearing at the agility show for jeans and an Armani Exchange T-shirt. He had the lithe build of a martial arts star, but that was probably just stereotyping on my part.

  He led us over to a practice ring like the one at Rita’s. Rochester knew what to do, tugging me toward the starting line. I tried half-heartedly to rein him in but he was too excited. Or maybe he just wanted to get this visit over with and get away from the yappy little dogs, whose barking was nearly constant. It seemed like when one took a breath, another one chimed in to create a canine cacophony.

  I put Rochester through his paces, hurrying around the course with him the way I’d seen Rick do. He still had some trouble with the weave poles, but he did the rest of the course like a champ.

  Not in Fujimoto’s eyes, though. He went back over what we’d done, pointing out mistake after mistake—half of them mine, half Rochester’s. “I can see he’s got some talent,” he said finally. “But he’s undisciplined. It’s clear that he thinks he’s the boss.”

  “I’ve been working on that. I’m waiting to feed him until after I eat.”

  “That’s only part of it. If you’re going to train with me, you’ve got to be strict.”

  “I can do that. At least you think he’s got potential. Rita Gaines thought he was a waste.”

  “Rita was a waste herself,” he said. We began to walk back toward the driveway. “Not to speak ill of the dead, you understand, but the woman was a bitch with a capital B. And I’ve forgotten more about training dogs than she ever knew.”

  “You didn’t get along with her?”

  “The dog show world’s a small one. You’ve got to play nice, even when other people are assholes. Rita and I used to argue all the time, and it gave me a lot of pleasure to pick up clients who couldn’t work with her, and then beat her in the ring.”

  “You ever go over to her place?”

  He shook his head. “She probably had an alarm set to notify her if my truck got within ten miles of her farm. And I wouldn’t set foot there unless I had a sick dog and she had the only medicine.”

  Spoken like a true dog person, I thought, as Fujimoto left us and I ushered Rochester back to the car.

  22 – A Woman’s Weapon

  It was after six, and I didn’t feel like rushing home and making dinner. I tried to get hold of Rick to see if he wanted to meet up or share a pizza, but he wasn’t answering his cell. Instead I drove to The Chocolate Ear.

  Gail had a couple of biscuits for Rochester, as always, and she was able to rustle up a homemade croissant loaded with chicken salad, with a green salad on the side. Things were slow, so she came outside to sit with me as I ate. She did all the baking for the café while her grandmother, Irene, ran the front with the help of a part-time waitress, and I could see she was tired. Wisps of blonde hair escaped from her ponytail, and she had a smudge of dried flour high on one cheek.

  “Has Mark Figueroa been around lately?” I asked. “I need to ask him about his dog.”

  “It’s not his, it’s his ex’s,” she said. “I don’t think Mark liked it very much.”

  “I didn’t like dogs at all before I got Rochester.”

  Gail looked at her watch. “His store is open until eight and it’s around the corner. If you want to take a run over there Rochester can stay here with me.”

  “He doesn�
��t let dogs in the store?”

  “Think about it, Steve. Rochester. Antique store. You want to go there?”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” I reached down and scratched behind Rochester’s ears. “I’m going away for a few minutes. You stay here with Aunt Gail and behave, all right?”

  He yawned, showing rows of white teeth and exhaling a doggy breath.

  “And when we get home I’ll brush your teeth.” I finished the last bite of my croissant, then stood up. “I’ll be back for dessert.”

  Traffic was backed up on Main Street as I approached the corner of Ferry, the only red light in the downtown area. The light was green, but no one was moving. Cars began honking, but there was no activity until it turned yellow.

  Looking ahead, I saw the problem. A white-haired woman in a housecoat was moving slowly through the intersection on foot. She had to be at least three hundred pounds, and she moved as slowly as a snail. The lead car at the light was politely waiting for her to cross before moving on.

  By the time I walked up to the corner, the light had cycled back to green again, and I was astonished to see the woman step back into the crosswalk. A Land Rover SUV zigged around her and sped through the intersection, but the next car, a Toyota sedan, came to a stop and waited for her to cross. Only two cars made it through on that light, and there was another cacophony of horns.

  I turned down toward the river, and walked the half block to Mark Figueroa’s antique store. A bell over the door jingled as I walked in. Mark, looking even taller and skinnier than I remembered, came out from behind the counter.

  “Hey, Steve. Long time no see. You looking for something special?”

  “I’m shopping for information.”

  I saw a bit of disappointment on his face, but he covered it. “How can I help?”

  “You know a woman named Rita Gaines?”

  “Yuk. Nasty bitch.”

  “Yeah, that’s what most people say. You have a dog?”

  He shook his head. “I was dating a guy who did. Awful little dachshund with the worst name ever.”