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  “‘Taken it like a man’?” I repeated. “He was eleven.”

  “Even still.”

  Mom said calmly, “I fail to understand why, if this has obviously upset you so much, you waited all this time to bring the matter to my attention. We’re talking about something that happened over twenty years ago.”

  “Twenty-two,” Betsy corrected.

  “Was that the worst thing that anyone’s ever done to you?” I asked.

  “No, just the catalyst for what was to follow. You see, Marilyn”—she shifted her gaze to my mother—”when your son insisted he had nothing to do with it, Harvey and I just couldn’t believe it was sweet little Allida. We accused our own daughters, and decided it was Susan. Things were never the same in our family after that. She was sixteen at the time, and she started to run with the wrong crowd, got herself into all kinds of trouble. Said her own parents wouldn’t believe her when she told the truth.” She looked back at me and lifted her wrinkled chin to peer down at me. “So, Miss Babcock, that may have just been a childish prank as far as you were concerned, but it destroyed our lives.”

  I couldn’t respond to that and looked at my mother helplessly.

  “Betsy, as one experienced mother to another, let’s be honest here. Teenage years are difficult for everyone. We parents have already had all of the preteen years to impart a value system and judgment as best we can, then as you’re forced to let go as they become adults, you hope for the best. But there’s never only one particular incident that determines your teenager’s entire future. It’s human nature to think back that if only I hadn’t done this one thing, all of my child’s pain later might have been spared. But Betsy, we’re talking about an argument over a pair of shoes glued to the porch. Do you really believe Susan made the wrong choices of friends and her grades slipped all because of that?”

  Betsy sat in silent contemplation for a good minute or two. Finally, she rose. “I see what you’re saying, Marilyn, but I think you’re wrong. There is a pivotal point in everyone’s life. Normally, it’s just not as clear-cut as this one was for Susan. But I can see how you want to support your daughter by taking her side.”

  My mother and I exchanged glances, then got to our feet. “I’d be happy to pay you for the shoes. That would be the least I can do.”

  “Fine. At today’s prices, they’d be worth a hundred dollars.”

  They were Keds, not Air Jordans, but at this point I wasn’t going to quibble. “I’ll bring a check over soon.”

  “Just leave it in the mailbox,” Betsy said, then left the room.

  Harvey, seeing everybody else was on their feet, got out of his seat as well. “It was good of you to visit. Be sure and say hello to Frederick for me.”

  I had no idea who Frederick was, but assumed Harvey meant my brother, so I merely said, “Thank you. I will.”

  We left. Mom put her arm around my shoulder and I said, “I’ll bet she thinks the Shoe Incident is responsible for global warming and the national deficit, too.”

  “You’re probably right. And it’s nice to have a fall guy for whatever ails the world. Now I know that it’s all your fault.”

  “I thought it was supposed to be a person’s mother that was the root of all evil, not the person’s daughter.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “I am.”

  We went back home. Shogun and our dogs joined us downstairs as we played with the puppies. Suds, however, roamed around upstairs and soon started howling at the back door.

  As I let her out, I happened to glance through the glass and saw that there was a white cloth or paper hanging on the fence behind our yard. From this distance, it looked like a man’s undershirt and did nothing to boost the appearance of our property.

  “Mom, how long has that been out there?”

  “What?”

  “There seems to be someone’s piece of clothing on the back fence.”

  Mom came up the stairs to see. “Must have gotten blown there at some point this afternoon. It certainly wasn’t there the last time I looked.”

  “I wonder if it belongs to Mr. Haywood. He might have hung it there. Maybe he’s taken to hanging his clothes on neighbors’ fences, in addition to roaming through their yards in the middle of the night.”

  “Could be.”

  We watched Suds, who barked frantically at the cloth, leaping at it and pacing back and forth inside the fence. Suds then rushed over to whine at the back gate and looked back at us, tail wagging slightly, a canine’s body language for “Come and let me out of the yard.”

  I slid open the door and called, “Suds, come!”

  She ignored me completely. I called for her a second time and then a third. She stayed put by the gate, dashing back and forth in front of it.

  “I think I’d better go check this out,” I told my mother, and went outside and crossed the yard.

  The cloth was indeed a white T-shirt and had been fastened somehow to the back of the fence. I couldn’t get it off from inside the fence.

  This felt like some sort of a weird setup to me. Suds was acting so frantic to get out of the fence area and at the shirt that I began to wonder if she recognized its scent.

  Just to be cautious, I grabbed her collar and pulled her back inside the house with me. Some of the puppies came outside in the process of my dragging Suds through the back door.

  “What’s going on?” Mom asked.

  “The shirt seems to be deliberately fastened onto the fence. I can’t shake the thought that it’s there to lure Suds over to it.”

  “Should I call Sergeant Millay?”

  “To report a shirt? Keep Suds inside. I’m going to take Pavlov behind the fence with me.” I called for Pavlov and put her leash on. There were few things as intimidating to people as a large dog.

  Feeling only slightly ridiculous, I led Pavlov through the back gate. She immediately started barking at the irrigation ditch, and I knew someone was back there.

  An instant later, Pavlov’s hackles raised, and she started growling. A man stepped out from behind a copse of Russian olive trees and came toward us. He could have been a young-looking fifty, but I suspected he was an old-looking forty-year old.

  He was wearing a faded denim jacket that matched his jeans, a dark black T-shirt, and work boots. He stood only about five-foot-eight or so and had a decidedly wiry frame, but his protruding cheekbones, week old beard, unwashed and greased-back hair hinted at his having led such a tough life that he had an advantage over me: This man had much less to lose than I did. To slam home the intimidation factor, he started trimming a hangnail on his dirty hand with an unusually large pocketknife.

  I don’t know how long he’d been outside, waiting for the perfect moment to let me know he was there. He smiled at the anxious facial expression that I couldn’t hide.

  Mom was inside and would be watching. She had perhaps already called the police, though I wasn’t sure she could see the man from her vantage point.

  “You Allida Babcock?” he asked in a voice that sounded prematurely aged by cigarettes and alcohol.

  “How did you know my name?”

  He stared into my eyes, not answering. His own were strangely hollow, as if there were something missing. He hadn’t made one menacing move toward me, and yet I felt terrified.

  “How did you know my name?” I asked again.

  “I come for my dog,” he said.

  Chapter 11

  Pavlov picked up on my fright. She quickly got in front of me, shielding me from the man. Though she didn’t rush up to him, she let out a low, rumbling growl and assumed an aggressive stance—slightly crouched, hackles raised, and ears back.

  He was an ugly man, pockmarked leathery skin, a nose that had been broken at least twice, a deep scar over his left eye. He pointed at Pavlov with his knife. “You better call off your dog.”

  “I will, just as soon as you put your knife away,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel.

  He grinned, reveali
ng crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. “You mean this little thing?” He folded the blade, but kept it in his palm. “I got a much bigger one in my belt.”

  Oh, shit. Why did I have to come out here? I wasn’t some macho crime crusader; I just wanted to live in peace with my dogs. The man was undressing me with his eyes. I needed to end this standoff as quickly and quietly as possible.

  “Pavlov, lie down.”

  She hesitated, but obeyed. She kept her legs tucked under her in such a manner that she could spring up in the blink of an eye, though.

  “Pretty dog you got there,” he muttered. “Reminds me of mine.”

  “You’re...the husky’s owner?” I didn’t want to give away Suds’s name, wanting to make sure he really was her owner and knew her name.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m just foster-adopting her, through the animal shelter.” I wanted to find out his name and hoped that I could trick him into giving it. “You must be Sam Grant, right?”

  He shook his head. “Carver. Craig Carver. Don’t know nobody named Grant.”

  “We have no intention of keeping your dog. You’re going to get her back in three weeks, at the latest.”

  He shook his head. “Can’t wait.” He was staring at something behind me. I followed his gaze. On the other side of the fence, one of the puppies was outside and making his way toward us.

  “The puppies are too young to be separated from their mother.”

  “Can’t help that. Timing’s just bad.” His large hand was in a tight fist around his knife. He and Pavlov locked eyes like prizefighters, each waiting for the other to make the first move. “I’m in a hurry.” He gestured in the direction of the house, causing Pavlov to bark in protest. “Take your dog back inside and get me my dog.”

  “Okay. I’ll just contact the kennel supervisor and tell him you needed to get the dog early.”

  “This is between me ‘n’ you. And Suds is my dog. Nobody else’s got nothing to say about this.”

  At least he knew her name. He probably was her owner. There would be no reason for anyone to fake that and try to steal the dog. “How about letting me keep her and her puppies just one more week? That will give me enough time to wean them properly, which will be much healthier for Suds, as well as for her puppies.”

  He laughed without humor. “Lady, you got no idea what’s gonna keep you healthy ‘n’ what ain’t. But I guarantee it’s got nothin’ to do with you keeping my dog from me. Now stop stalling and get me my dog.”

  If only Mom would call the police and get them here before anything bad happened. “I’ll be right back with her.”

  “You better be. Hate to have to go into your house and hassle the ol’ lady.”

  I bristled and glared at him. He grinned. “I seen her through the glass.” He stared through the chain-link fence at the puppy. “This one of Suds’s pups?”

  “Yes. That’s Fez.”

  He rounded the gate, grabbed the puppy, and held him up by the scruff of the neck, which made me wince, though I knew he wasn’t actually hurting the little dog. “Hello, Fez.”

  I didn’t want to go anywhere near him and stayed outside of the yard, keeping a tight leash on Pavlov, who’d risen and was again growling at Carver’s having violated her territorial boundaries.

  Carver eyed me and rocked on his heels, still holding Fez harshly as if to make certain I understood that he wouldn’t hesitate to injure the poor little puppy. “Well? You gonna get my dog for me, or do I gotta go in after her myself?”

  “I’ll bring her to you. She’s your dog, after all.” I held out my free hand for Fez and stepped toward him. “Let me take him back inside.”

  He shoved me away, causing Pavlov to voice three sharp warning barks. “You get the puppy jus’ as soon as I get my dog. You tell the old lady in the house to let Suds out back.” He glared at Pavlov and pointed at her with his chin. “That police dog of yours acts like a junkyard dog every time I get near. You keep her inside your house. Let me take Suds ‘n’ you won’t hear from me again.”

  With his free hand he plucked his shirt off of the fence. Then he grabbed a thin piece of white fiberglass rope six feet or so long that he must have lain by our fence when he’d first arrived.

  “That’s your leash?”

  “It’s Suds’s. Yeah.”

  He didn’t stop me from entering the gate, but still held the puppy in his one hand as if Fez were insignificant.

  “Pavlov, come.” I was too proud to break into a run, but I walked as fast as possible back into the house.

  My mother was standing back from the glass door, with Sage at her side and her largest knife in her hand. From the whines and scratching noises, it was obvious that she’d put the other dogs in the basement. Trying to keep my voice as unemotional as possible, I said, “Mom, Suds’s owner is back there demanding I give him his dog, and he’s scary. I’m calling nine-one-one.”

  “I already tried. He must’ve cut the phone line. I was going to dash out to a neighbor’s, but I couldn’t just leave you out there.” She lifted her knife. “I also didn’t want to run out there and provoke him. What do we do?”

  “It’s his dog. Let’s just let him take her. Meanwhile, you go next door and call the police. Tell them what’s happening. The man’s name is Craig Carver. I think he’s probably going to leave town once he’s got the dog.”

  All of the dogs rushed into the kitchen when I opened the basement door. I grabbed a decent leash and snapped it on Suds’s collar. The leash was the very least I could give her, at this point. I instructed the other grown dogs to stay, but the four remaining puppies tried desperately to follow as I led their mom out back. I slid the door shut on them, hating myself for my role in taking their mom from them before it was time.

  Five-year old Melanie lost her mother. Now the puppies were having theirs snatched from them. Was this the pattern of my life, all of a sudden, to watch young ones be separated from their mothers?

  Suds quickly picked up on the scent of her owner, who was still standing just inside the back gate. Tail wagging, Suds strained against her leash, anxious to greet Carver. This was the irony of dogs’ temperament; they love even the worst of owners. For my part, I felt humiliated and cowardly, but ultimately trapped.

  I released my grip on the leash, hoping against logic that Suds would lunge at his throat. Carver dropped the puppy on the ground and gave his dog a hug. She leapt up and began licking his face. “Hey, girl. That’s enough, now,” he said through his laughter. I looked away, not wanting to see anything remotely joyful in what Carver was doing.

  “Mr. Carver, I have to say that I’m opposed to you taking Suds like this. The puppies aren’t fully weaned. This isn’t going to be good for them or for Suds. Please. Let me keep her for another week.”

  He dragged his forearm across his face. “Got to leave the state. I hope the puppies’ll pull through all right.”

  “So do I.”

  Suds rolled over in the submissive position and he started to rub her tummy. “Shit! She’s still full of milk. What should I do with her?” He got to his feet and glared at me as if this were my fault.

  “Normally you gradually cut down on the dog’s food supply so that she’ll stop lactating. We’re still on a schedule to feed her the full amount till the end of the week, but you could get her to stop by not feeding her anything tomorrow, then over the next four days increasing her food by one-quarter amounts each day. She’ll be pretty uncomfortable for the next couple of days, but will be back to full meals on day five.”

  He started to unhook my leash.

  “Keep it.”

  He gave me a smirk but kept my leash on her. He ran his hand over her, shaking his head. “Isn’t there some medicine I can give her to make her stop producing milk?”

  To my knowledge, there wasn’t such a thing for animals, but it would be best for Suds’s sake not to tell him that. “Yeah, I think there is. You could bring her to a vet and ask for a prescription.”


  He shook his head. “You don’t seem to get it, do you? I got my truck around the corner, all packed up. Got myself a job in Wyoming that starts at eight a.m., and I’m making a clean start for myself. Can you write up a prescription to get me some of that medicine for her to take with me?”

  “I can’t. I’m not a veterinarian. If you give me a minute, though, I’ll call the animal shelter and—”

  “Never mind. I’ll get some from White on my way up north.”

  “John White? You know the kennel supervisor?”

  He gave me a wink. “The two of us go way back.” He started walking toward my front gate, with Suds in tow. I followed.

  “Is that how you got my name and address?”

  He merely kept walking without answering.

  “My phone line seems to be down. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  He chuckled and pointed at the gray-covered wire now lying on the ground. “Squirrel must have chewed through it.”

  I picked it up. The wire had been cut in a neat diagonal line. “Must have been a squirrel with a pocketknife.”

  He laughed and led Suds out the gate.

  Angry and humiliated, I couldn’t stop myself from calling after him, “If you had anything to do with my neighbor’s murder, you’ll be back behind bars in no time.”

  “I don’t know nothing about no murder. Never even met the woman.”

  He headed around the corner, where I assumed he’d parked his truck so that we wouldn’t spot it.

  From the safety of my house, I watched out the front window for my mother, the puppies whining at my feet. Moments later, she returned, slightly out of breath.

  “Sergeant Millay is on his way.”

  “Good. Maybe he can find out for us just how it was that this creep knew where Suds’s foster owners lived.”

  “Do you think the animal shelter told him?”

  “At first I assumed he heard it over the radio, but now I think he got the information straight from John White, the kennel supervisor.”

  “The man you had the date with last night?”

  “Yes.”

  She paled a little, then laid a hand on my arm. “Is this a good time for me to mention how very much I like Russell?”