Ruff Way to Go Read online

  When I got to my office, the phone was ringing. I answered.

  “Allida,” my mother said excitedly, “guess who just called me.”

  “Uh, Michael Jordan?”

  “No,” she said testily. “Your friend Tracy Truett.”

  “That’s nice. What’s she up to?”

  “Well, the new owners of KBXD are reviving her show.”

  “Great. I’m glad to hear that.” I’d met Tracy when she’d hosted me once on her talk show. She was the sort of person who enjoyed stirring up trouble, but she was basically a good—albeit loud—person with a great sense of humor, and I enjoyed her company. At least, in short doses.

  “She wants you to be on her show. She thought she might be able to generate a little extra business for you if you’d be her first guest.”

  “Really? I’m honored. When is she on the air?”

  “Today. Right now, in fact. She said you could just pop your head in there anytime.”

  Today? This began to strike me as suspicious. It sounded as though Tracy was awfully eager to have me on the show, given that she merely wanted me to talk about general dog behavior tips. “I wonder why she didn’t call me at my office.”

  “She said she already tried and couldn’t reach you there. Oh, and she also wants to recruit both you and Russell for the softball team that the station is sponsoring.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the message. Listen, Mom, maybe you can do me a favor. I got some odd vibrations from Susan Nelson, the Haywoods’ daughter. She got really flustered when I told her about Harvey’s behavior last night, and I suspect she’s going to confront him. I wonder if you can watch for her car and tell me if she shows up there soon.”

  “A beat-up Galaxy 500? She just arrived a moment ago in such a hurry that she got the dogs barking.”

  “Already? She must have been doing eighty miles an hour. You haven’t had any more incidents from the Haywoods since I’ve been gone, have you?”

  “No. As far as I know they’re sleeping late, as usual.”

  “I wish I knew what was going on with that family.”

  “Me, too. I called Sergeant Millay and told him about our confrontation last night. He said he’d talk to him.”

  “Did the sergeant give you any signals as to whether or not he still considered me a suspect?”

  There was a pause. “Allie, you’ve got to trust me when I say that Sergeant Millay is both intelligent and diligent. If he seriously thought you were a murderer, he’d be hounding you mercilessly.”

  “‘Hounding’ me? He’s a cat lover,” I muttered. More likely he was the type to keep watch from a distance and pounce on me.

  We said our goodbyes, then hung up. My telling Susan about her father’s attempted breakin had obviously upset her. The incident hadn’t done much for my spirits, either, and I had a feeling we’d never learn what he’d been up to.

  I turned my thoughts to Tracy Truett and pictured her strong, broad face beneath her short dyed-blond hair in its typical wet-looking kinky spikes. The thought of joining her softball team was appealing. Despite my lack of height, I’d played point guard on my college basketball team and enjoyed team sports. I’d never discussed softball with Russell, but maybe this would prove to be a common interest.

  What hit me as odd was that this was a Thursday, yet now Tracy wanted me as a “first guest.” The show had to have started on a Monday, and Tracy had not been so anxious to get me on the show as to have invited me then. She knew I lived in Berthoud, and she would have read the articles in this morning’s papers about the murder. Was Tracy’s sudden interest in me related to the murder?

  I had three messages on my machine and pressed the button to listen. The first recording was in Tracy’s deep, melodious voice:

  “Hey, Allie. It’s Tracy. Is it true that you found the body of that woman out in Berthoud? Call me. I’ve got something important to discuss. I think we can generate a lot of business for—”

  I knew it. She wanted me on her show to talk about the murder. I pressed the forward button. The next two messages were from Tracy as well. Each was urging me to call her at the station right away, that she had a great idea for something that would generate interest in both her new show and my business. This was trouble.

  My agitation already rising, I flipped channels on the portable radio I keep in my office and found KBXD. Tracy Truett was saying, “...got the fright of her lifetime yesterday when she not only found her neighbor dead in a grisly murder scene, but discovered paw prints in the blood that might allow the police to help solve this murder.”

  Paw prints? How the hell had she found out about that? Seething, I dialed her number at the station. Her producer patched me through. After a short wait, Tracy got on the line and said, “That you, Allida?”

  “Yes, and you’ve—”

  “Hang on.” I heard a click on the phone, then she said, “We’re on the air with Allida Babcock, who’s consented to do a phone interview with me. Ms. Babcock is the dog psychologist who discovered the victim in the gruesome murder in Berthoud two days ago. Have you recovered from the shock yet, Allida?”

  “I did not consent to a phone interview, Tracy. Now please take me off the air.”

  “Our listeners would like to know how it felt to suddenly find a dead body in the yard right across the street from your home.”

  “Tracy, take me off the air,” I said, using the calm-but-firm voice that works wonders with unruly dogs.

  “Sure, but could you just tell us how it was that you came to discover the body?”

  The voice might work wonders with unruly dogs, but wasn’t sinking through to Tracy. I’d have to resort to threats. “Off the air, now. Otherwise, I’ll let loose with ear-splitting whistles into the phone till all your listeners change channels.”

  “Sounds as though our show’s guest has woken up on the wrong side of the doghouse this morning. I’ll see if I can do something to get rid of her bark. We’ll be back after this break.”

  A moment later, the slight cavernous background sounds were gone as Tracy switched the phone back to a direct line and said, “Hey, Allie. Hear the one about why deejays have small hands?” Without giving me time to respond, she answered with a chuckle, “Wee paws for station identification.”

  “Heard it. Tracy, what are you doing to me?”

  “Doing to you? I’m advertising your business. You should be thrilled.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I got that impression, but—”

  “Tracy, listen to me for a moment. The police don’t have anyone in custody. Nobody but me and the police knew about those paw prints. Furthermore, you’ve just announced my identity over the air. Till then, the media had only disclosed that ‘a neighbor’ discovered the body.”

  There was a pause. “Your mom’s the one that blabbed to me. You should be mad at her, not me.”

  “She’s not the one with the radio show that broadcast the word to half the state of Colorado.”

  “Half the state? I wish. More like ten people in the Denver-Metro area, but I get your drift. This could put you in a bit of jeopardy, hey?”

  “Yes,” I said, not bothering to cover my exasperation.

  “Holy crow. Wish I’d gotten the chance to talk to you first. You should get yourself a beeper. Well, no problem. I’ll get back on and correct this. Commercial’s ending. Gotta go.” She hung up.

  I turned the volume back up on my radio. Tracy came back on and said, “Seems I was mistaken. Ms. Babcock, our dog shrink friend, doesn’t know anything about the bloody paw prints at the murder scene. I stand corrected. Let’s go to another caller.”

  I hollered at the radio, “That’s the best you can do, Tracy?”

  “You’re on the Tracy Truett show.”

  “Hey,” said a man’s voice. “I was wondering how come that last caller wouldn’t talk to you on the air. Is she hiding something, or what?”

  “She’s shy. Spends a lot of time with dogs. Isn’t used to talk
ing much.”

  Too annoyed to listen, I switched the radio off and paced. This was going to be trouble. Sergeant Millay had specifically asked me not to reveal the information about the paw marks.

  Rather than wait for the police to hear from someone else, I called the sergeant and told him what had happened—that my mother had talked to a talk-show host, who leaked the news about the paw prints over the air. He sounded annoyed, but no more so than I was.

  While we were still on the phone, I heard the characteristic footfalls as Russell came down the front steps to our shared front door. My heart fluttered in response, which was ridiculous. I saw him constantly, after all. We shared an office. It wasn’t as though it made any sense to get nervous whenever he was near. I thanked the officer, hung up, then turned to face Russell.

  He was neatly dressed, as usual—khakis and a short-sleeved blue shirt—but wore no tie today. He must not have any client meetings on the day’s agenda.

  “Morning, Russell. How was the concert last night?”

  “Oh, it was great. From what I hear. I sold my tickets to a friend at the last minute.”

  “You did? Why?”

  He shrugged. “Just wasn’t in the mood to go. And I got another rush job, so I wound up working instead.” He smoothed his mustache, then asked shyly, “How was your evening?”

  “Dull, actually.”

  “Really?” He brightened.

  “Yeah. In fact, I spent most of the time—” I stopped, realizing what a huge risk I was about to take if I admitted to him how much I’d thought about him during my date with someone else. “Worrying about the murder.” Coward! “As far as I know, there’re no new leads, and—”

  The phone rang. “Bet I know who this is,” I muttered.

  “How was that, Allie?”

  I recognized Tracy’s husky voice immediately. “Wretched.” I held up my index finger to indicate to Russell to wait for me to get off the line, still determined to salvage our conversation.

  “Well, hey, don’t pull any punches.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’ll make this up to you. How ‘bout you meet me at the parking lot of Centennial Middle School next Wednesday at six p.m., and we’ll discuss what I can do?”

  “You want us to meet in a parking lot?”

  At this, Russell raised an eyebrow.

  “And bring your softball glove. Oh. And ask that guy that shares your office to come, too. Russell.”

  I grinned at him. “Shouldn’t I find out first whether or not he has any interest in playing softball?”

  “Sure. That’d be great. Ask him what position he wants to play.”

  “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Yeah. Bring a blank check. I’m not sure how much the entry fee to the league is.” She hung up.

  I found myself shaking my head in wonder. If the woman were a dog, she’d be a pit bull. With rabies.

  “Russell, would you have any interest in joining a co-ed softball team with me?”

  “Sure. I love to play softball. When do we start?”

  “Next Wednesday’s the first practice. Six p.m. At Centennial Middle School.”

  “See you there. Though...we’ll probably see each other before then, too.” His cheeks colored a bit, and I realized with a start that he was acting just as nervous around me as I felt around him. “We do have things in common. I...need to get to work.”

  “You might want to close your door. I have an office appointment with a miniature schnauzer mourning the loss of his life’s mate.”

  “What are you going to do for him?”

  I shrugged. “Try to distract him. The vet’s opposed to doggie-uppers. Unfortunately, it’s all too common for the surviving dog to lose his will to live. Other times dogs just have to be allowed to go through a grieving period, the same way people do.”

  “I’m sure he’s in the right hands.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you later.”

  I watched him and we exchanged a little wave as he closed the door, my heart still fluttering idiotically.

  A few minutes later, the owner and his lethargic miniature schnauzer arrived. Before coming to me for my services, the owner had rushed right out and purchased another female schnauzer puppy to keep his dog company. Depending upon the dog’s temperament, this is not always advisable, and I felt strongly that the older dog should meet the puppy prior to making the decision. Indeed, it had backfired in this case and the owner had to return the new would-be mate to the breeder.

  What I advised was that the owner gradually change the daily patterns for the dog. Dogs love routine, but in this case, the dog was refusing to participate. I advised the owner to take him to different parks, making sure to keep his dog food exactly the same, which otherwise could add physical digestive upset to his broken heart.

  I was finished for the day by seven p.m. and drove home, feeling that this had been at least a moderately successful day. My mixed-breed client with the fear of separation was making good progress, as was the fear-of-cars springer spaniel. However, as soon as I reached my street, I started remembering how Mom had blabbed everything to Tracy Truett. For once, it was my turn to take her to task for something she’d done, and I was going to make the most of it.

  Mom’s pickup was in the garage. I was mulling over my opening line—”Mom, how could you be so stupid?” versus “Do the words ‘talk show host’ mean nothing to you?”

  She was standing fifth in line to greet me, behind our three dogs plus Shogun. Suds had rushed upstairs, too, but was darting around the kitchen as if she were a wild animal in a cage.

  Mom held up her hands the moment we made eye contact. “Before you say anything, I’m sorry. I just didn’t think. I can’t believe how stupid I was not to realize that Tracy Truett was just pumping me for information to use on her talk show. I guess I was just so excited at the thought of my being able to help you get some exposure for your new business venture that I didn’t use my brain.”

  Well, that was no fun whatsoever. “That’s all right, Mom. I already called the sergeant’s office and let them know what happened.”

  “I listened to the entire show, by the way—after hanging up with you, that is. If only I’d been listening from the beginning, I could have warned you.”

  “It’s all right. Really.”

  “Did you listen to what went on after your phone call?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Tracy not only spilled the beans about the bloody paw prints, but the fact that the victim had been taking care of a convicted felon’s dog and her puppies.”

  “Oh, good Lord. She didn’t say anything about the dogs still being in the neighborhood, did she?”

  “No.”

  “It’s probably fine, then.” I wasn’t sure if that was true, though.

  “I tried to speak to the Haywoods today, by the way. They looked out their front window, saw it was me ringing their doorbell, and wouldn’t answer.”

  “This is insane,” I said, having surpassed my threshold for strained relationships. “Let’s go over there now. Maybe if I apologize for the stupid Shoe Incident, they’ll lighten up. Maybe we’ll even find out what Harvey was up to last night.”

  There was no guarantee that they’d answer their door now, either, but they eventually did. They grudgingly invited us inside. This was my first time in their house and I looked around in curiosity. Every square inch of the furniture was covered with either a lace doily or a blanket. The lampshades still had the clear plastic coverings from the store, and plastic runners crisscrossed the green wall-to-wall carpeting.

  “Hello, Betsy, Harvey,” my mother said with a great deal of warmth. “My daughter and I wanted to come over and clear the air.”

  “Air looks pretty darned clear to me,” Betsy grumbled.

  “Not from our side of the street,” Mom said with a sigh.

  Betsy cleared her throat, looked at her husband, then said, “Harvey told me to apologize to you for his sleepwal
king.” Harvey merely blinked, but Betsy continued, “Didn’t you, Harvey?”

  “Oh. Eh, sorry if I scared you. Sometimes in my sleep, I get to remembering a time when I lost my keys and locked myself out of the house. Ever since that time, I hide a screwdriver in the bushes so I can get back inside. I must’ve gotten that screwdriver, but wandered over to your place.”

  “Which bushes do you mean?” I asked. “The ones nearest Edith Cunningham’s house?”

  He shifted his glance to his wife, but answered, “Uh, yeah. That’s right.”

  “That’s where I was looking for the note from Edith’s house.” All I’d seen back there were the paw prints, not a screwdriver, though perhaps this was insignificant. In any case, I didn’t believe a word he’d said.

  Mom said, “I understand you were quite upset by a prank one of my children played on you several years ago, involving a pair of shoes and some Super Glue.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Betsy said, the frown lines on her face deepening.

  I was thoroughly baffled that they not only expected us to believe that Mr. Haywood had been sleepwalking last night, but that glued shoes were a feasible cause for upset decades later. However, when you’re in someone’s doghouse, the best-tasting selection on the menu is probably crow. “I apologize for my immaturity,” I interjected. “I was only ten at the time. It was a nasty thing to do, though, and I assure you I won’t do anything remotely like that ever again.” Twenty-two years later, I silently added.

  “Well, all I can say is it’s about time you owned up to your actions and took responsibility for it. That’s more than I can say for your brother.”

  I had to keep myself from laughing. “Mrs. Haywood, my brother David didn’t apologize or ‘own up to it’ because he was innocent. He had nothing to do with it.”

  “Huh. Well. Yes, but he was your brother. He should have stood up on your behalf and taken your punishment like a man.”