An Allie Babcock Mystery
OF BIRDS AND BEAGLES
by
Leslie O’Kane
Book Five in the Series
Copyright 2015 by Leslie O’Kane
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to people living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Dedication
To my dear friend, Claudia Mills.
Thank you so much for all of your encouragement and editing!
Also by Leslie O'Kane
Allie Babcock Mysteries
Give the Dog a Bone
Woof at the Door
Of Birds and Beagles
Dog Drama
Life's Second Chances
Going to Graceland
Women's Night Out
Finding Gregory Peck
By the Light of the Moon
Molly Masters Mysteries
Death Comes eCalling
Death Comes to Suburbia
Death of a Gardener
Death Comes to a Retreat
Death on a School Board
Death at a Talent Show
Death Comes to the PTA
Short Story Featuring Allie Babcock
A Dog-Gone Christmas
The Body Shifters Trilogy
The Body Shifters Begins: Jake Greyland: A Short Story
Standalone
A Dog-Gone Christmas
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Leslie O'Kane
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Note from Allie Babcock
P.S.
Acknowledgments
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Also By Leslie O'Kane
Chapter 1
One look at my boyfriend’s face confirmed my worst fears. Russell was ashen, his forehead dotted with perspiration. Our eyes met, and he gave me a smile that was so forced-looking, it was mostly a panic-stricken grimace. Despite being extremely phobic around dogs, he had insisted on coming with me and Pavlov—my German Shepherd—to my presentation at a pet exposition in Denver. Attendees were encouraged to bring their pets, which meant that we were currently in a crowded enclosure, surrounded by dogs.
“You were right, Allie,” he said. “Too much, too soon. I’m ready to climb the walls.”
Russ is a rock climber, so I could picture him tossing a rope over the exposed beams and literally climbing the cinderblock walls of this enormous retail space. In an ironic and unfortunate trade-off of phobias, I have a severe fear of heights.
Hoping to get him out of the dogs-and-owners traffic, I scanned our surroundings. A grid of aisles allowed attendees to wend their way through the booths for dozens of vendors with their canine accessories or services. I ushered Russ toward a booth wall where we would be out of the immediate pathway. When we reached the wall, Pavlov promptly sat beside me. I couldn’t help but notice that Russell stepped around me in order to stand on the opposite side from Pavlov. He then bent over to put his hands on his knees and gasped for air.
“This doesn’t give me much confidence in your new therapist,” I told him. “She should have suggested you try something easier. A stroll through the dog park on Valmont, for example.”
“She did warn me. I just didn’t want to listen. I figured I could shorten the aversion therapy by acting as if it was swimming lessons...leaping into the deep end.”
“I can see your logic, but this Pets! Pets! Pets! Expo is more like jumping into an ocean during a typhoon.”
Russell straightened. He’d restored his normal breathing pattern, but he still looked pale. “They misled us neophytes by calling it ‘pets,’ not ‘dogs.’ I was expecting to see more cats and guinea pigs.”
“Well, cats don’t eagerly hop into cars like dogs, who want to be wherever their owners are. Plus, cat and guinea pig owners are undoubtedly reluctant to bring them places where they’ll be surrounded by dogs.”
“That didn’t stop the iguana owner.” He pointed with his chin at an obese, bald man who was pushing his pet in a baby stroller. His lizard wore a harness and a leash, which was fasted to the strap between the two leg holes. The iguana seemed to be enjoying himself—or maybe herself—with its forefeet on the front bar of the stroller, turning its head from side to side as it scanned the surroundings. The sight gave me a big smile. I’m sure, as iguanas go, this one was perfectly attractive, but a lizard made for an exceptionally ugly baby.
“Well, that particular owner and his pet are already heading toward the exit,” I pointed out, “and the dogs that they’re passing are all barking at the iguana...not counting Pavlov.” I gave her a couple of appreciative pats. She was likely to be the hit of this expo when I delivered my dog-training presentation. Pavlov and I both loved to demonstrate her skills to an audience.
I glanced down the aisle. According to my map, one of the vendors a few booths away sold massage tables for dogs, which had piqued my curiosity. My mind’s eye pictured a hole cut out of the table for the snout when the dog lay on its tummy during shoulder rubs.
The din was growing oppressive. A woman’s voice was now blaring from the sound-system speaker over our heads. I could only imagine how intense this noisy environment was for dogs, with their superior hearing. Returning my focus to my boyfriend, I said, “You gave this a good try, Russ. You—”
“What?” he asked me at a near shout.
“You’ve made progress just by coming in this far. Why don’t you skip my presentation and go on your hike? I can ask Jana Bock to give me a ride back to Boulder.”
Looking sad, Russell shook his head, determined to conquer his fear despite his misery. When I gave his hand a squeeze, he simply sighed, having no part of my attempts to cheer him up. “I’m never going to get comfortable even being around Pavlov. It’s hard enough for me to handle being in the same room with Doppler.”
I sighed, too, suspecting he was right. In spite of my best efforts, I couldn’t train Russell into behaving like my co-leader of the pack; he was simply too ill at ease around my dogs. As a young boy, Russell had witnessed his brother being bit in the face by a German shepherd. His phobia was a major hurdle for our deepening relationship. Dogs are my passion and my life’s work.
As superbly trained as my dogs were, the best I could do was to get them to mask their ranking of Russ as the runt of their virtual litter. For now, it was fine that they merely exhibited slow, grudging obedience to his commands. Russ and I split time between his condo in Boulder and my mom’s house in Berthoud, where her collie, Sage, was the third canine member of our pack. However, Russ and I were currently trying to buy a house together. Once my dogs considered us a permanent pack of four, cracks in
their behavior were all but certain to appear. Unless Russ could be more assertive and less fearful, I would never be confident about leaving him in charge when I was out of town. Due to a Cocker spaniel’s basic temperament, Doppler, especially, would begin to break every rule, including an adult dog’s strongest statement of discontent with a home’s hierarchy: pooping in the house.
I realized that the voice blaring over the sound system was Jana Bock’s. “Jana must be on stage now,” I told Russ. He looked puzzled, even though I’d already mentioned her twice. “She breeds and trains hunting dogs. Jana and I recently agreed to skill-share. I’m happy to leave hunting-dog training to her alone, but I’m intrigued by the electronic collars she uses to enforce the ‘Whoa’ command...to prevent dogs from running after a target long after the owner wants him to.”
“Ah,” Russell replied, feigning interest.
We’d begun to make our way slowly down the crowded main aisle toward the stage, but Russell stopped again, looking from side to side with an expression barely shy of agony on his handsome features. Although I would never tell Russell this, he was something of a pint-sized Adonis, not unlike a standard versus a miniature schnauzer (albeit without such a stark difference in size). His perfect proportions would be jaw-dropping if he had been enlarged by ten percent. At five-six, he was still considerably taller than I am (just a titch under five feet), but there are far fewer societal stigmas when women were petite; in fact, a short man is never even described as “petite.”
“If it weren’t for me, you’d already be opening a kennel by now,” he said.
“That’s not true. I haven’t opened a kennel because of the high prices of real estate. Along with my lack of funds.”
A chocolate lab that was leading a young girl—instead of vice versa—rushed toward us, heading straight toward Russell’s crotch. “Gah!” Russell cried, jumping back to plaster himself against the carrel wall.
“Don’t worry. He’s friendly,” the mother of the girl called over the girl’s shoulder as she trotted behind dog and daughter.
“Too friendly, actually,” I told her. “Come to my training session in fifteen minutes, and I’ll show you how to teach your dog to unlearn that behavior.”
Belatedly, she grabbed the leash from her daughter and managed to drag the dog a few inches away from Russ. “No, thanks,” she said in an affected, wealthy-woman tone, “We like Cocoa exactly as he is. It’s really not a problem.”
“It is for your dog’s sniff-ees,” Russell countered.
The woman widened her eyes as if offended that Russell was offended by her dog’s bad behavior. She put a protective hand on the girl’s shoulder and yanked on the lab’s leash, “Come on.” As they moved away she fired a glare at Russell. “You really shouldn’t come to a dog event when you obviously hate dogs.”
“I don’t hate them, except when they’re invading my private space.” When she was out of earshot, he added, “It’s inept dog owners I detest.”
“Which is a problem that I have vowed to resolve one owner at a time,” I said grinning at him in another attempt at shoring up his spirits.
He returned my smile and gave me a hug. As nice as that was, I suspected he needed the embrace for reassurance from his phobia in these environs.
In truth, my own spirits were flagging. With his wonderful heart and quiet strength of conviction, Russell had finally won me over, despite my legitimate concerns for our future based on our lack of key commonalities. When Russell went rock climbing, I could simply stay home. Whereas I wanted to expand my business as a dog therapist and turn part of my home into a full-service kennel.
My bright (hopefully) idea for my kennel was that I would train the dogs during their stay; the owners could go on a vacation—or to their places of work with my doggy-daycare option—and return to better-trained and better-adjusted pets.
Not counting the lack of a place, lack of funding, and a hopelessly phobic potential lifelong mate, the major problem with my business plan was that training the dogs themselves is actually the easier part of my job, whereas my most-challenging students—the owners—would be off vacationing in Tahiti, or wherever. My solution, however, was that I could conduct sessions with the owners as an add-on expense—without which, the dogs would show little improvement. Ergo, my “major problem” could also be viewed as potential job security.
I laced my fingers in Russell’s hand, silently assuring myself that love conquers all. He gave me a sincere smile and said, “Let me see if I can stick it out long enough to listen to your talk.”
“Okay. Let’s head over to the main stage.”
Russ gave me a nod, but crinkled his nose. “Does it smell like urine to you?”
“Not really. More like human perspiration.”
“Hmm. Maybe that’s me. I think I’m breaking into a for-the-love-of-God-get-me-out-of-here sweat.”
Chapter 2
“Allida,” a deep voice called. I turned around. Baxter McClelland, the event manager, was heading toward us. “I’ve been looking for you.” He was a tall, thin, athletic-looking man in his mid to late thirties.
“She just got here,” Russell promptly interjected, rising a little on his toes. Russell, I’d noticed, tended to stand especially straight whenever an attractive, taller man seemed to be focused on me. Baxter was not only sexy as hell, but a dog lover. Still. If only Russell weren’t quite so terrified of dogs, I doubt I’d even think twice about Baxter’s attractiveness. I’d happily settle for Russ having a mild case of ambivalence or even jumpiness.
I introduced the two men and they shook hands. “What kind of dog do you own?” Baxter immediately asked.
“None.”
“Really? I just assumed.”
“Allie has two dogs, so we’re still fulfilling our quota of one dog each in our home,” Russell said.
I was a little surprised at the “home” singular. To say nothing of the “our” that proceeded it. Clearly, within this stressful setting, Russell was feeling insecure about our relationship and was trying to give Baxter an “Allida’s mine” signal. (I tried to push my thoughts away from a mental comparison to the canine version of his attempt at territorial marking, which would put me in the role of the fire hydrant.)
“Have you seen the exercise area yet?” Baxter asked me.
“No, but my presentation starts in ten minutes, and I thought I’d catch the tail end of Jana’s presentation on hunting dogs.”
“You’re fine, Allida. Jana started late. We’re already ten minutes behind schedule. The dog nutritionist this morning had her samples eaten by a badly trained Doberman pinscher. The nutritionist needed time to regroup.” Baxter chuckled and glanced at Russ, apparently expecting him to share some amusement, but Russ merely nodded. “Anyway,” he continued, losing his smile, “I’d really like your opinion on the setup. We’re talking five minutes, tops. Let me take you there. It’s this way.”
I hesitated for a moment. Russ really shouldn’t have to force himself to endure an extra ten minutes here. Before I could ask Russ his opinion, he stepped between Baxter and Pavlov, as if determined not to leave Pavlov and me alone with Baxter—and we both knew that Pavlov could take care of herself.
We headed toward the northeast corner of the enormous room, until Russ suddenly stopped dead in his tracks and stared at a beautiful woman. She was roughly our age—in her early thirties. At first I thought he was startled by the large blue-and-yellow macaw on her shoulder. She was just starting to turn away, but when she caught sight of Russell, she did a double take.
She gasped and hopped up and down, the parrot’s head bouncing like a bobble-head toy. Russell rushed toward her, and they embraced.
“Does your boyfriend like birds better than dogs?” Baxter asked me with a big grin.
Annoyed at the pointed question, I ignored him.
They ended their embrace, Russ turning toward me. His smile looked rather sheepish. “This is my girlfriend, Allida Babcock. This is Kelsey Minerva. W
e’re old friends.”
“Oh, we’re more like great young friends,” Kelsey countered, nudging him a little in what appeared to me to be an excuse to feel his bicep.
Well. Suddenly I was standing in Russell’s shoes, only worse. This strikingly attractive woman was drinking in Russell with her eyes, much more blatantly flirtatious than Baxter had been, by a factor of ten. Personally, I don’t find having a parrot on one’s shoulder to be at all alluring. Plus she was probably getting teased to death with pirate jokes. But maybe that was wishful thinking on my part.
Russell was still grinning from ear to ear and took only the slightest step away from her. She was three or four inches taller than he was. She looked me over from head to foot. “Hi, Allie,” Kelsey said with a smile, apparently at ease with calling me by my nickname.
“Hi,” I returned.
“And this colorful fellow on my shoulder is Magoo,” Kelsey said.
“My dog’s name is Pavlov.”
I tried to catch Russell’s eye and signaled with my chin that he hadn’t introduced Baxter. He didn’t appear to get my drift and merely stood there next to his ex, rocking nervously on his heels.
“Russell is such a dear man,” Kelsey said. “If only I’d had the good sense to see how rare a commodity he was, back when he was mine. Instead, I stupidly went ahead and hooked up with a loser.” She glanced rather lovingly at Russ and explained: “I recently had to deep-six the complete turkey I’ve been living with.”
“So you were living with a parrot and a turkey,” I said. “No wonder your life went afoul.”
Baxter laughed heartily. Neither Russ nor Kelsey appeared to notice that I’d spoken.
She reached over and gave Russ’s arm a squeeze. “Rusty was the one that got away.”
“And yet here he is,” I replied, feeling out of sorts.
She gave me a wry smile, while Russell left her side and put his arm around my shoulder. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Kelsey said to me.
My first impulse was to ask when, but I held my tongue. Russell’s cheeks reddened, and he averted his eyes.
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