Of Birds and Beagles

by Leslie O'Kane

  To my semi-pleasant surprise, Frank’s truck was parked outside our house, and Frank himself was parked on our sofa, drinking a glass of lemonade while Mom drank an iced mint tea, sitting on the opposite side of the sofa. She explained that they were leaving for dinner soon, but had gotten their reservation times confused.

  “Frank was interviewed by the police again,” my mother told me, with a quick darting arch of her eyebrows that meant she was concerned about Frank’s innocence.

  “I’m sure you heard about Kelsey,” Frank said. “It’s nonstop on the local news.”

  “Yeah. The police interviewed Tracy and Russell, too. I called the sergeant who’d interviewed me last week. I’m not even sure that their not interviewing me about it is a good thing. For all I know, they’re moving me up the list of suspects and making sure they’ve crossed their i’s and dotted their t’s.” I paused, realizing I’d misspoken. “I meant that in the reverse.”

  “I just wish they hadn’t found my prints on the refrigerator,” Frank said. “At both Shirley’s and Kelsey’s house.”

  “Why would you have touched Kelsey’s refrigerator?” I asked, getting anxious once again about his innocence.

  “I think I put my hand on it on my way out of her house. I’d leaned the rifle against a wall in her kitchen. She’d come after me and was yelling at me. I remember turning around to talk to her, right near the fridge.”

  “I didn’t realize you’d carried the rifle inside her house. The other day I’d gotten the impression that you handed it back to her when you were on the deck.”

  “No, her back door was open, and I put the thing inside.”

  I weighed mentioning that Kelsey specifically told me that she didn’t leave her doors ajar for fear of the squirrels getting inside. There was no sense in putting Frank on the defensive.

  “Surely those prints of yours had to have been discovered back when they were dusting when Shirley was killed,” Mom pointed out, just as I was about to make the same observation.

  “That’s why they noted that my prints were also on Shirley’s fridge. They suspect that I could have gotten the brownies from Shirley and put them in Kelsey’s freezer way back then.”

  I looked at him, confused.

  “Shirley had cancer. Marijuana helped her with the nausea from chemo. She used to have brownies in her fridge with pot in ‘em. She tried to give me one as a gift for fixing her telephone wire. Maybe it’s a good thing I said no.”

  “I wonder if that’s related,” I said, thinking out loud.

  “It couldn’t be,” Mom said.

  “It’s unlikely,” I replied, “but nobody knows for sure what Shirley was doing in Kelsey’s house the day she was killed. It’s possible that Shirley knew Kelsey kept edible-pot brownies in her freezer, just like her. Maybe she’d been so angry at Kelsey that she baked poisonous brownies and put it in Kelsey’s freezer. That would be ironic. If Kelsey killed Shirley, and then ate a brownie full of poison that Shirley had planted in her freezer in order to kill her.”

  “In which case, the murders might never be solved,” Frank said.

  Chapter 22

  The Dog Jog on Sunday afternoon was a nice, brief respite. The images of Kelsey and Pavlov advertising the event were plastered on every downtown pillar, and her untimely death was bringing local media coverage to the Dog Jog, as reporters noted that the major sponsor and a local athlete had both died tragically.

  Russ had called me that morning to say that he’d like to take part in the event as well, which surprised me. He asked if I thought he could sign up to run in Kelsey’s slot, and I told him honestly that I was sure Baxter would not have a problem with that.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if this was another case of his wanting to prove to himself, and to me, that he could be comfortable around dogs, after all. Frankly, though, our conversations of late were steeped in awkwardness. I didn’t want to broach the uncomfortable subject of his phobia, so I didn’t want to ask why he wanted to compete, and he didn’t volunteer the information. He volunteered to run with Doppler and suggested that I partner with Pavlov, and I happily agreed. For one thing, I wanted to run full-out. I could use a chance to run like I meant business—like I could outrun my worries and heartache.

  Russ was waiting for me at North Boulder Park’s southernmost border. He wanted to get ahold of Doppler and practice matching each other’s gaits on-leash. After several minutes of jogging back and forth, we all started heading toward the course, which was delineated with widely spaced temporary fence sections.

  Baxter spotted me so quickly that it seemed as if he was watching specifically for me. He gave me a big smile and started walking toward us. Beside me, Russ visibly bristled.

  “Hi, Allida, I’m glad you’re here. We’ve got a great turnout, don’t you think?”

  “The park is bustling,” I noted.

  “It is. We already sold out on Kelsey and Pavlov’s poster. And we’re getting lots of donations.”

  “I’m taking Kelsey’s slot,” Russ said. “Running with Doppler.”

  “Excellent.”

  Baxter was immediately called over to mediate some problem with a registration. Russ and I signed in, with Russ following the helper’s instruction to cross out Kelsey’s name and write in his own. A volunteer gave us our bibs. The dogs’ bibs were designed to be fastened onto the back of their collars, and the humans’ bibs to be safety-pinned onto our shirts. A second volunteer led us to the starting line.

  There was still a considerable crowd at the registration desk. Already, more than fifty dog-and-owner teams had registered and paid their $50 entrance fee. Eventually, all of us racers were standing in the same general area, behind the starting-line banner, keeping our dogs on short leash in hopes that they wouldn’t get tangled before we could even start. Russ seemed deliberately to choose to lead Doppler to the far end of the “start” banner from where Pavlov and I stood.

  Eager for a distraction, I was glad to spot Jana, enjoying seeing a familiar face—that wasn’t Russ’s or Baxter’s.

  We exchanged greetings to each other and our dogs. She was running with Jabber. We chatted about our mutual shock about Kelsey’s death. I said, “It’s a little creepy that photographs of Kelsey and my dog are all over the place.”

  “I’d have found it creepy if she was pictured with one of my dogs, even if she were still alive and standing here with us today. But on an even creepier note, guess who she left her parrot to in her will?”

  “Who?” I asked, then the only possible answer hit me. “Malcolm?”

  She nodded.

  “Does he at least like Magoo?”

  Jana shrugged. “They got used to each other when he was renting a room in her house, but he’s hardly thrilled. Those birds can live something like fifty years.” She looked around, scanning the crowd. “You haven’t happened to see him, have you? He said he’d be here.”

  “No, I—”

  “I saw Russell, though. He’s competing?”

  “Yes, with Doppler.”

  “So you two are working things out?”

  “Not really. He’s leaving. I’m staying.” Wanting to change subjects, I said, “I’ll bet Jabber will be terrific in a race like this. He’s probably really used to outracing other dogs. Off-leash, at least.”

  “I hope so.” She gave me a rather tight-lipped smile, but touched my arm to make up for it. “The race is about to begin. I’m going to stop talking now so I can get my game-face on.”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  She called, “Come,” and positioned herself and Jabber closer to the starting line. I tried to take some calming breaths, not because I was nervous about the race, but because the mere mention of my situation with Russ had put my stomach in knots once again.

  On the loudspeaker, Baxter gave a short speech thanking everybody, and asking the “local celebrities” to give a wave as our names were called. Although we’d agreed not to mention me, he not only gave my name, but introduced m
e as “one of the smartest, most knowledgeable experts in canine behavior that I’ve ever had the privilege to meet.” Then he gave a quick eulogy for Shirley Thorpe, acknowledging her generosity and work as an animal-rights activist, and a shorter mention of Kelsey Minerva, as one of the high-profile racers who should be with us right now.

  “We decided not to risk startling half of our competitors today by firing a starter’s pistol,” Baxter continued, “but we have the biggest local celebrity of all here to call out a ready-set-go. Tracy Truett!”

  Surprised, I turned toward the makeshift stage, but the crowd of runners was congested by now. I was barely taller than some of the kids in the race and only caught the briefest glimpse of Tracy, as Baxter handed her the microphone.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Let’s all give Baxter McClelland a big hand for the awesome job he’s done organizing this wonderful event.” After the applause died down, Tracy said, “I briefly considered entering this race myself with my little beagle, Bailey, as in Beagle Bailey. But like me, he has short legs and is not built for speed. But somewhere among you is my friend Allida Babcock, who has even shorter legs than me. We used to play softball together, and she is one fiery competitor, so look out for her.”

  My cheeks burned in embarrassment. I turned away from the podium and happened to look right at Russell, standing off from the main crowd of racers. He smiled at me and winked. I winked in return and gave him a thumbs up, but inwardly felt sad again. He was such a good person.

  “On your marks,” Tracy called. I patted my thigh, and Pavlov immediately stood at attention. “Get set..... Go!”

  Within thirty seconds, it was clear that there was going to be a group of ten of us in the front, whose dogs were trained to run with their handlers. The track was a zig-zagging oval that utilized so much of the grounds that it was just under a mile. Racers, however, could choose to run one or two laps, and the top three teams of two-lap runners would receive trophies.

  Jana was in that elite group with me. Pavlov and I quickly fit into our relaxed gait, which I felt would be an excellent pace that we could easily maintain for two miles. Pavlov was probably twice as fast as I was, but all of her training let her know to synchronize her pace with mine.

  I heard Russell yell, “No, Doppler. Come!” I slowed and looked over my shoulder. At least two thirds of the teams were being pulled off-course by their dogs who were heading toward a copse of trees. I had to laugh. Doppler, too, was more interested in leaving his I-was-here marker on the tree trunks than he was in leading the race.

  I spotted Jana and tried to catch her eye so that we could share a laugh. She had a focused expression that I recognized at once. She was in it to win it. At the sight of her determination, that little rumbling of competitive spirit in my own heart—or gut or whether such things reside—turned into a roar.

  In my college days, I’d been quite the speedster. At five feet on my good days, I was all about agility and ball-handling; I could outrace anybody as long as we were talking about a sprint in which I could kick it up a notch in bursts. I decided to mess with Jana’s head.

  I made a couple of clicking noises with my tongue to keep Pavlov’s focus. I called, “Race ya,” in Jana’s direction and broke into a full-out sprint that I knew neither Jana nor I could maintain. We were soon in front of the pack. When she urged Jabber to follow suit, I slowed into a lope. I kept up the pattern of speeding and slowing, knowing that this was everyday training for Pavlov but would wreak havoc on Jabber’s and Jana’s synchronization.

  As we galloped past Baxter on the dais, he hollered, “Allie, the speedster, on the final lap! Look alive, everyone!”

  I gave him a wave over my shoulder. Once again I felt a pang as I realized that I was going to lap Russ and Doppler in a few minutes. At least they weren’t last, but they were in the final quarter of the contestants.

  “Some people,” I heard a woman snort. “This is just for charity, you know,” she called. “It’s not the Olympics.”

  “It isn’t?” I called in mock horror. “Pavlov, we’ve been hoodwinked!”

  Pavlov looked at me. I realized only then that she appeared to be stressed. I knew that if I asked her to, she would run herself to death for me. There was a shady water station immediately up ahead, and I pulled off and slowed to a walk.

  “Hah!” I heard Jana declare.

  I gave her a cheerful wave, as I encouraged Pavlov to drink from the water dish. I glanced at the crowd while waiting for Pavlov, then did a double take at a man standing alone at the far end of the crowd. Malcolm. He couldn’t possibly be unaware that his girlfriend was winning the race. Yet he was watching me with a glare on his face, his muscled arms crossed against his chest. He looked so angry that it was almost as if he hated my guts.

  I scanned the pack of racers behind me and saw that Doppler was desperately trying to catch up to Pavlov and me. I couldn’t stand to disappoint the poor little fellow like this. I moved Pavlov into a fast walk and could tell from Doppler’s bearing that I’d helped with his self-confidence.

  “Hey, Allie,” Russ said, panting. “Thanks for waiting up for me.”

  “No problem,” I muttered, noncommittally.

  “I’m surprised. You seemed out for blood when you flew right past us back there.”

  “I have a problem with being a little too competitive, every now and then. Old habits, as they say.” Come to think of it, I couldn’t be sure if I could really blame my competitiveness as a bad habit. It was probably just a childish personality trait.

  “You’re my good doggie,” I said to Pavlov, giving her a quick hug. The reason everyone is better off owning a pet: they (especially dogs) love you with their heart and soul so unconditionally.

  Fifteen minutes or so later, teams Doppler and Pavlov crossed the finish line together. Russell and I high-fived each other. Baxter came up to us. “Congratulations, guys! Great job!” he said, grinning at both Russell and me. Russell glowered at him, but muttered, “Thanks.”

  Baxter winced, then looked away as if to pretend he hadn’t noticed. It hit me that Baxter could be just the man to help out a client of mine. “Hey, Baxter. You’re building those custom carriers. Do you ever take odd carpentry jobs?”

  “That depends. How ‘odd’ are we talking about?”

  “I have a new client—a German shepherd with such overwhelming separation anxiety that she keeps breaking out of the house, sometimes injuring herself in the process, whenever they leave home. We’ve decided to start by building an injury-proof kennel in the back yard, with a cement floor and a roof, and chain-link siding. Does that sound like the right degree of...oddness for you?”

  “Absolutely. It’s right up my alley. In fact, if it works out for your clients, I can get started on it immediately.”

  “That’s great. Thanks.” I grabbed my phone, and within a minute, I had forwarded him all the information he needed and exchanged texts with Zina, the female half of the empty-nester couple who owned the escape-artist dog.

  Although I’d said, “I’ll be done in a sec.” Russell had wandered off, handing me Doppler’s leash without a word. I spotted him heading to his car and called to him to wait. I gave the dogs a sit-stay command and trotted up to him. His features were stony, but at least he stayed put.

  “Are you ticked off at me that I was chatting with Baxter about a job?”

  “No, Allie. I’m in pain. Because you don’t love me as much I love you. And because you’ve got eyes for someone else.”

  “Baxter is a nice guy. I like him.”

  “Be straight with me, Allie, for heaven’s sake. You know how he looks at you. And you’re a free agent now. I just wish you’d given me this one day. You know? That’s all. Just this one day, to feel like I could be supportive of you and your love for dogs.”

  “Oh, Russell,” I muttered, feeling like the lowest person who’d ever been born. I just didn’t want to start sobbing in public.

  I looked back and saw Pavlov, Doppler, Mal
colm, and Baxter staring at me. Only Baxter turned away, sparing me a measure of embarrassment; Malcolm was still glowering at me. I called out, “Come,” and both dogs raced toward me, their leashes dangling from their necks, Pavlov arriving first.

  Wanting to end Malcolm’s staring session, I patted both dogs, collected their leashes, and headed toward him. He must have been standing here for quite a while; Fang had fallen asleep.

  “Hey, Allie.”

  “Malcolm. You keep staring at me.”

  “I’m trying to figure out if I should ask for your help. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

  “About?”

  “Unloading Magoo on somebody. I figured you know pet owners all over town. You gotta know one person who’d like an expensive parrot for free. Right?”

  “I can always ask around, I guess.”

  He snorted. “Kelsey trains the bird to say ‘Malcolm did it,’ to frame me for a murder she committed, and she winds up dead.”

  “You think she killed her neighbor?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Then who do you think killed her?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I think. About either murder. All I know is: Kelsey’s the one who deserved it.”

  Chapter 23

  After the trophies had been given out and the racers had collected their goodies and begun to disperse, I went up to congratulate Jana on her third-place finish. She had regained her normal breathing pattern, although she was certainly looking overheated. Jabber, too, was panting and drinking water, but was fine.

  “Nice race,” I said.

  “You, too. Too bad you hit the wall two-thirds along.”