4 Woof at the Door Read online

  Apology number four, I thought.

  My next appointment waddled in. It was a very overweight woman followed by her equally overweight cocker spaniel. The woman looked up at Beverly, who’d risen, and asked, “Are you Allida Babcock?”

  “No, that’s me,” I said. The woman’s face fell as she dropped her vision to my eye level.

  “I’m nobody,” Beverly said as soon as the woman’s eyes returned to her impressive height and attractive features. “Just a friend of Ms. Babcock’s. Thanks for listening, Allida.”

  “Just a moment and I’ll walk you out.” Something had been puzzling me that I hoped Beverly could help me clear up. I turned to my client and said, “Please excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

  She nodded and sat down gingerly on the chair Beverly had recently deserted. “That’s okay. Take your time,” she said in puffs, as if out of breath.

  We let the glass door shut behind us. Beverly chuckled and said under her breath, “I’ll bet I can take a wild guess as to what that dog’s problem is. Just be firm with her. Tell her to put herself and her mutt on a diet.”

  I ignored her unwanted advice. Another question had occurred to me that I needed her to answer. “Beverly, you must have seen Ty with his shirt off, right?”

  “Sure, two years ago. Not since then, though. Why?”

  “Did he have a lot of scars on his chest and arms?”

  “No, just on his back. He said it was from Paige’s fingernails. Gotta tell you, that was a real turn off. When you’re about to have sex with a guy, the last thing you want to hear about is how his wife does it, you know?”

  “Not firsthand, no. I’ve got to get back to my client. Take care.”

  She pulled me into another hug, and then trotted up my concrete stairs. I wondered what was really going on with her. I felt a pang of frustration and emptiness while watching her leave and realized I felt the same way about my conversations with Beverly now as I had years ago—that she’d played a verbal game of dodgeball with me.

  I returned to my office and reclaimed my chair.

  My client reminded me of her name and that her dog’s name was Rufus, then said, “As I told you over the phone, my vet recommended you. He’s advised me to put Rufus on a diet, but you should see how Rufus begs for food.”

  I watched Rufus beside his owner’s feet. The poor little dog was so overweight, he couldn’t begin to get comfortable on my linoleum floor, yet it was a strain for him to keep rising and readjusting his position.

  “I can’t bring myself to deprive him of the one thing he loves most in this world.”

  “Meaning food?” I asked. This was one of those tricky areas where I have to work extra hard not to offend the owner. My therapy work here had to be geared toward the dog owner, not the dog.

  “Yes. It brings him so much joy.”

  “It’s also brought him poor health and a shortened life-expectancy.”

  She pursed her lips and raised her chins.

  “It is only natural to want to please your pet and give him treats,” I continued. “But a dog depends on his master to protect him, as well as to love him. If Rufus loved to dash through a four-lane highway, you wouldn’t let him, would you?”

  In clipped tones, she answered, “I hardly compare serving my dog prime rib with letting him run loose through traffic.”

  Prime rib? Yum. I’d curl up at the woman’s feet for that myself, but it was hardly a healthy diet for a dog.

  We needed to back up and get the dog’s background information. In the process, I learned that she did, indeed, feed three-year-old Rufus as she might a carnivorous visiting dignitary—sirloin, rib, veal—because “Rufus just likes those foods so much better than dog chow.”

  I annotated a calendar for her complete with dietary guidelines on how to wean Rufus back into a healthier dog-like diet and exercise plan. A strange offshoot of my work as a dog behaviorist had me working as a dog dietician as well; some veterinarians around town had recommended me when they ran into brick walls with their patients’ owners, such as this one.

  The biggest problem was changing the owner’s mindset to fully realize that the words “love” and “food” are not interchangeable. Toward that end, I dusted off my standard your-dog-does-not-love-you-solely-because-you-feed-him lecture, combined with there-are-other-rewards-besides-food.

  We worked on changing her reward system for the dog from treats to hugs and pats, discussed the dog’s exercise regime, which at this point largely consisted of running to the food dish. I espoused the virtue of playing fetch and walking the dog and how much Rufus would enjoy the exercise, as well as the chance to investigate. I also told her that cockers were bred as hunting dogs, not lap dogs; they need exercise. She left, and we made arrangements to have bi-weekly appointments.

  I watched them leave and had the suspicion that she was going to be feeding Rufus beef jerky in the car on the way home.

  My thoughts immediately returned to Beverly and her predicament. My instincts were telling me that the whole key to Ty’s murder lay in the dog-fighting ring. That would help clear Beverly of charges, since she would have had no involvement whatsoever in such a thing.

  I called the police station and asked to speak with Detective Rodriguez, one of the detectives who’d interviewed me yesterday. Once he was on the line, I reiterated my suspicions about Ty’s use of Doobie as a fighter and said that, because of his connection to the wolves, Larry Cunriff was almost certain to be the one witness who could identify the killer. The detective’s tones were polite, but condescending.

  I had to find Larry Cunriff. It was a silly notion to think that I could find him if the police couldn’t, but I had nothing better to do at the moment. I called Damian Hesk’s number. He wasn’t there. I didn’t leave a message, feeling foolish for not having spoken to him more about this when I’d had the chance. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t leap into trusting him. I’d believed that he was uninvolved in the under-the-table dealings with Larry and his wolf, yet I’d only just met the man. He might simply be using Larry as a convenient foil for his money-making schemes.

  I used the only other connection I had to Larry and headed off to visit Business Images, where Damian’s ex-wife worked. The receptionist there was a startlingly pretty woman with a flawless olive complexion, black hair, and green eyes.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Janine Hesk.”

  “You found her. What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Allida Babcock. I ran into trouble yesterday with one of your ex-husband’s wolves.”

  “Oh, yeah. I heard about that on the news. You were the wolf-bait woman, hey?” She scanned me at length from her seat behind her receptionist’s desk.

  “Yes, that was me. Do you know Larry Cunriff?”

  “He works for Damian, my ex. Why?”

  “I have a theory that the victim, Ty Bellingham, was actually trying to set up a fight between his dog and the wolf. I just wondered whether you thought it might be possible that Larry could have assisted.”

  “Yeah. It’s possible. He’s a bit of a sleaze.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “Larry?” She shook her head and scoffed at the suggestion. “No, but believe me, you’re better off not finding him. He’s not one the world’s most engaging creatures, and once he latches onto you, he’s hard to shake.”

  “Would Damian have been involved himself in a dog fight?”

  “No. Damian loves his animals more than he loves anything. He wouldn’t have subjected them to that.” She crossed her arms, leaned back, and gave her hair a haughty toss. “So, are you romantically involved with Damian?”

  “No,” I answered immediately, caught off-guard at the question. “I’m just looking for his employee because I’m concerned about dogs. I don’t want to see anyone get away with this kind of cruelty to them.”

  “Hmm.” She visually appraised me. “Let me give you a friendly warning. Damian’s and my marriage may be technically o
ver, but we’re still very much together emotionally.”

  What was I supposed to reply: I’m happy for you? Unable to come up with an alternative response, I merely held her gaze and felt a small triumph that she was the first to avert her eyes. She was wearing a sleeveless dress, and I saw no marks on either arm. That was strange. She was supposed to have been so badly bitten by Kaia that she wanted the wolf to be put to sleep.

  “Is there anything else?” she asked, in what was obviously intended as a polite version of “scram.”

  “No, but thank you.” I continued to study her arms. “I’m kind of concerned about what my scar from the wolf bite is going to look like, but I guess I needn’t worry.”

  She pulled her elbows off the desk and dropped them below my line of vision. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.” She rose and started to walk away from the desk. The backs of her arms bore no noticeable scars, either. She said over her shoulder, “If you know what’s good for you, stay away from Damian,” then disappeared into a back room.

  Her belligerence was interesting. Now that she’d made it clear she still had an ongoing relationship with Damian, I wondered if that meant she still had access to the animals. Maybe Larry Cunriff wasn’t the only person who could have brought Atla to Ty after all.

  I had another house call to make—a recently adopted mixed breed with separation anxiety. Panic attacks when the adoptive owner leaves the house is a common problem, and the damage the dog does to house and home can be very upsetting. We were making some progress, though, with my reconditioning therapy.

  Afterward, I decided to swing by Ty Bellingham’s neighborhood before returning to my office. Either Beverly or Paige might be home. I wanted to ask some of those people who’d attended the field trip to Damian’s ranch if they’d seen a certain dark-haired, green-eyed woman there.

  I drove slowly down the Bellinghams’ street, checking for signs that either of the Atkinsons was home. Their front door was shut and there were no outward appearances to let me know either way. Remembering the man at the store, I located a yellow house on the opposite side of the street and saw that its garage door was wide open. It wouldn’t hurt for me to introduce myself to Seth Melhuniak and see if he might be willing to answer some questions about Ty Bellingham and his missing pit bull.

  I pulled over and parked the car on the street in front of the driveway. The angry elderly man from Cheshire’s store was in the open garage. I called to him, “Hello, Mr. Melhuniak? Can I speak to you for a minute?”

  He turned around, jaw agape, stuck something in his pocket, then fixed a hateful glare on me and punched the button to shut the garage door.

  Yet another neighbor who, not knowing a thing about me, was willing to treat me like a viral infection. I’d had enough of this type of reception and stepped directly underneath the door, reached up and gave the door a push. My shove triggered the return mechanism, and the door reversed directions. “Wait, please. I just want to ask you a question.”

  He shook a finger at me. “I saw you at that store. You’re a spy for the Bellinghams’ Way Cool Collectibles! You people stole enough from me at the garage sale! You don’t get to take the garage itself!” He punched the button again, and the door started to descend on me.

  “No, I—”

  For some reason, he punched the button a second time, and the door started rising again. “The last guy Bellingham hired already cheated me out of the only thing that was actually worth something to you people. I threw him out of my garage. Did he tell you that? Did he tell you how I wouldn’t sell anything to him, so he went and paid somebody else to buy the stuff for him? You can go right back to the store and tell that silly little widow of his that I was onto you. And you can also tell her she got the only set I had!”

  I heard him out, largely because it was interesting to learn that he wouldn’t deal with the Bellinghams face to face. “Listen, Mr. Melhuniak, I heard about your losing your Beatle statues.” He pushed the button and the door started to descend on me yet again. I paused, having to physically stop myself from shouting, “And I don’t give a damn about them! Get a life!” Instead, I mustered my sympathetic voice. “I assure you, I had nothing to do with that.” Once again, the door was just overhead, and I pushed it. “I don’t work for Way Cool Collectibles and I really know nothing about it. That’s between you and Cheshire Bellingham. I just wanted to talk to you about the Bellinghams’ dog.”

  “About their dog?” he shrieked at me. “Now you want to talk to me about their dog! What are you, some kind of a sadist?”

  “No.” Sheesh! I think I liked it better when he was calling me a spy. “Ty Bellingham hired me to work with his dog, and—”

  “Don’t ever let me see your face again, young lady. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  He got into his car, slamming the door, and threw the engine into reverse. I had to jump out onto the sidewalk to keep him from running over me. He pressed his garage button one last time, watched me to make sure I wasn’t going to bolt inside his garage, then drove off.

  I stared after his car long after he’d already disappeared around the corner.

  There was only one scenario I could concoct that might begin to explain his actions. Even then, it was quite a stretch. I had to go over to Beverly’s and ask what she could tell me about Mr. Melhuniak—specifically, whether or not he once owned a dog. Perhaps one that had fallen victim to Doobie.

  I left my car where it was and walked across the street. As I neared, I could hear Beagle Boy barking inside. The barks were unnerving—repetitive and shrill.

  I tried to shake off my worries as I rang the bell. I’d only been with Beagle Boy a half dozen times. I didn’t know him well enough to gauge his emotional state from his barking. At the sound of the doorbell, the barking grew even more persistent.

  Beverly had been at my office less than three hours ago. Surely nothing horrible could have happened in the meanwhile.

  I rang the doorbell a second time and followed it up by knocking on the door. No answer.

  Finally I tried the knob. It turned. The house was unlocked. Now I was scared. Beverly was not the sort to leave her front door unlocked if she were away.

  “Beverly?” I called as I pushed it open.

  No answer.

  The house was completely still. Then I heard a whining and Beagle Boy’s claws clicking across the hardwood flooring.

  Beagle Boy came running to the foyer. His paws were covered in blood.

  Chapter 12

  My heart was pounding. As I made my way through the house and toward Beverly’s enormous kitchen, my mind refused to grasp what I was seeing. There were red smudges and paw prints on the hardwood flooring. Beagle Boy danced in front of me in crazed, darting circles, barking incessantly as I walked.

  In the kitchen, blood was everywhere. This can’t be happening. I must be losing my mind. Feeling as if my legs were under their own control, I continued further into the kitchen.

  On the other side of the kitchen isle, I found Beverly. There were no signs of injuries from a wolf or dog, but the slash across her neck was all too apparent.

  “No!” I’d arrive too late to help her. She was dead.

  My ears were ringing, my heart pounding so hard I felt faint. I stumbled toward the phone to call 911, but found only the cradle; the portable phone was missing.

  I heard a metallic sound from the living room. Someone, my sluggish brain finally realized, was turning the knob on the front door.

  The door creaked open. Beagle Boy dashed away from me and toward the sound. He was barking at the intruder, who maintained a slow but steady pace. Somebody wearing hard-soled shoes was nearing.

  The killer! He’d come back! I had to get out of here!

  I lunged toward the back door and fumbled with the lock.

  “Allida?” The female voice was a near whisper. I turned. It was Rebecca, Beverly’s partner. The color had drained from her face. “What’s happened? Did you cut yours
elf?”

  I couldn’t find my voice.

  “Where’s Beverly? She was supposed to meet me over an….” Her voice faded as she caught sight of the body on the floor.

  She came toward Beverly and dropped to her knees. She moaned in despair, then started to cry, pulling Beverly’s body onto her lap and rocking her. Without taking her eyes away from the body, she cried, “Who did this! Who did this to my friend?” Rebecca looked at me, her face a picture of despair and outrage. “Was it you?! Did you kill Beverly?!”

  Seeing Rebecca in an even deeper state of shock than mine helped me to think more clearly. “It wasn’t me. I got here just a few seconds before you did. We need to call the police. My cell is in the car. Do you have yours with you?”

  She was sobbing so hard she couldn’t speak. This was too convincing to be an act.

  Rather than search through the house for the second phone, I pressed the page button. A beeper sounded from a cabinet nearby. I opened it and found the handset in a back corner behind some plates. I grabbed it with my good hand. My gaze fell upon the object on the counter. It was a butcher-block style of knife holder. One slot was empty.

  My return trip to the police station was horrid. The detectives were having more than a little trouble accepting the fact that I was innocent and yet had twice been the person who discovered the body. Afterward I went straight home. I had another couple of appointments, but I couldn’t go. My shock at discovering Ty Bellingham’s body was tripled at finding a murdered friend.

  Part of me wanted to go into a blind rage. Yet, these murders were the acts of just one individual. I was determined to do anything in my power to help the police find whoever it was and put a stop to this.