The Ghost Goes to the Dogs, page 8
“Well, obviously. What I meant was, now we know who left the dog.”
“We do? So what’s your theory?”
I kicked off my heels and sat down next to him. “The very young blonde that Big Donny and I both saw must have read Timothy Brennan’s tabloid article about you and decided to hire you. But for some reason she wanted to remain anonymous.”
“Then why didn’t she leave the dog at my office? Brennan published my office address, not this one.”
“Good question,” I said, sipping the whisky. It was strong, but I liked it. “Isn’t your home address listed publicly?”
“Nope. I don’t even get mail here.”
“Then either someone followed you from your office, which is an awful lot of trouble, or they already knew your home address . . .” I reminded Jack of his penchant for inviting dames up here for nightcaps. “Could that blonde have been one of your previous . . . uh-hem, guests?”
Jack smirked. “First of all, I don’t touch jailbait. Second, sunny blondes aren’t my type. I prefer sharp redheads with curious minds—” He tossed me another wink. “On the other hand, I don’t turn down sultry brunettes when they . . . like the look of me, if you get my drift.”
“Like a tsunami. Let me see that letter again, the one that came with the hundred-dollar bill . . .”
I reread the note, more closely this time—
Dear Jack Shepard,
I want you to find me some answers.
First off, don’t get hot under the collar!
You’re looking for a dog.
The key is the key.
Follow the key and get the dog.
(You have an Ace in the hole.)
When you find the dog, break its legs, and the mystery’s solved.
I now understood the warning about not getting hot under the collar. Since I had literally found that key hidden under the dog’s collar, it was obviously a clue. But the rest made no sense. There was nothing that revealed an identity, just terse instructions. Puzzling ones. And the final command for Jack was shocking.
“This last step is brutal, Jack. How can someone ask you to do such a terrible thing to an innocent animal?” I shuddered at the very idea. “You would never hurt a dog, would you?” I whispered.
“Of course not.”
“Then what did you do?”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “You want me to say it again?”
“I know, I know—it’s for you to know and me to find out.”
Rising from the couch, I set my mind to the puzzle and began to pace back and forth in my stocking feet. The little dog must have thought it was playtime, because she suddenly got up to follow me—or else she was trained so well that she was trying to heel behind me.
Her behavior reminded me of that Pekingese show dog from Jack’s case files—the one that Timothy Brennan had used to create his sensational tabloid story.
“That’s it!” I whipped around to face Jack.
Ruff-ruff-ruff!
The detective’s eyebrows lifted. “Sounds like you and Toto got an idea. One of you gonna tell me?”
I bent down to pet the pooch. “Brennan himself could be playing some kind of prank on you. You have to admit, this letter is bizarre, especially that last step of the instructions—”
I shuddered again at the thought of the violent act that it directed Jack to perform.
“I’ll bet this is some scheme on Brennan’s part to create a brand-new tabloid story. Seems to me he got a big reaction to the Pekingese piece. You said your secretary took messages all afternoon asking for your, uh—shall we say, doggy business?”
“You’re a riot.”
“But am I right? Did you confront Timothy Brennan about this alleged prank? Because, as next steps go, that’s exactly what I would have done.”
Jack didn’t answer, but his little smile of approval made my knees go weak, which was suddenly more than a figure of speech. Feeling woozy, I sat back down on the sofa.
“Jack, I’m feeling light-headed, and it’s not the whisky . . .”
“Easy, honey. Take a breath.”
As I did, I realized that something was wrong with my eyesight. The detective’s face, the dog, the entire room began to blur—as if I suddenly needed my glasses.
“Jack, what’s happening?”
“You’ll be okay, Penny.” The detective put a firm hand on my shoulder. “Just remember what you learned tonight; neighbors can be a big help in the detection game. They sometimes see things, know things, and even do things that can crack a case wide open, or at least get you to your next good lead . . .”
Jack’s lips kept moving, but all I could hear was the sound of the rain pounding on the window. It grew louder and louder, as loud a freight train.
“What are you saying, Jack?! I can’t hear you . . . and I can hardly see you . . .”
Paralyzed on the sofa, I watched in helpless alarm as Jack’s face faded away.
“Wait!” I cried. “Don’t leave me! Please don’t go!”
The only answer was the rumbling of rolling thunder, which quickly changed in tone and pitch until it became a strange vibration that shook the floor. Bzzz . . . Bzzz . . . Bzzz . . .
The incessant buzzing refused to stop!
Then the sheets of cold rain beating on the window broke through the glass. The noir Niagara streamed into the room in a frigid flow until a rising flood enveloped me. The water became a whirlpool, and I felt myself going round and round, then down and down, until a black abyss blotted everything out.
Chapter 18
Comings and Goings
I’m fine . . . Just fine. I’m going to have me a short nap now.
—Raymond Chandler, “The Man Who Liked Dogs”
Bzzz . . . Bzzz . . . Bzzz . . .
I opened my eyes to weak light coming through the curtains. My bedroom curtains. Disoriented, I fumbled for my glasses and heard them tumble to the floor, along with my vibrating phone.
I grabbed the digital alarm clock instead.
“Jack, who could be calling me at six thirty in the morning?”
Jack didn’t reply. He couldn’t. My ghost always disappeared after one of his dream adventures. I didn’t know where he went, or how long he’d be gone, but showing me his past cost him a tremendous amount of energy, and whenever those nights were over, it was his turn to sleep.
Jack’s absence left me with a hollow feeling—an acute sense of loss that made me want to stay in bed all day—until my phone buzzed again, and I realized it could be Dr. Rubino calling me back with a status report on Jane Cunningham. I picked my phone up off the floorwith such urgency, I didn’t bother glancing at the caller ID.
“Dr. Rubino? How is—”
“Sorry, Pen. This isn’t ‘Randy’ Randall Rubino. It’s not Jonas Salk or Dr. Demento, either. Just your friendly neighborhood mail carrier.”
“Seymour? Why are you calling me at this hour? What’s the emergency?”
“No emergency. I came to work early to get that information you wanted.”
“What information?”
“Jane Cunningham’s address on Larchmont Avenue. You and Sadie made such a fuss yesterday, I figured you wanted to know.”
“Yes . . . Of course!” I sat up in bed, excited.
As Jack’s dream reminded me, questioning neighbors was a logical early step in any investigation; and with this address information, I could actually do something to help Jane. I could have a talk with her neighbors. Or in this case, one particular neighbor. If Sparky really had destroyed that angry man’s garden, then he probably lived close by, possibly right next door.
I grabbed a pen and quickly scribbled down the address—on my forearm since I didn’t have a pad handy. That’s when I recalled something Bonnie mentioned last night. The shirt that nasty man was wearing.
“Seymour, do you remember that big farmers market and souvenir shop that used to be up on the highway back when we were kids?”
“The one with the three-dimensional sign with a wheelbarrow full of fruits and vegetables? Sure, Pen. You’re talking about Slattery’s General Store. I used to love their homemade goat’s milk fudge.”
“Do you know what happened to it?”
“The store burned down while you were living in New York City. I guess they decided not to rebuild.”
“Could you tell me, by any chance, is there anyone with the name Slattery living near Jane’s address on Larchmont?”
“Let me check . . . Yep, one Robert J. Slattery.”
I added the second address to my forearm directory.
“Got to go,” Seymour declared.
“Wait! I have one last question. Why in the world did you refer to Dr. Rubino as ‘Randy’ Randall?”
“It’s the talk of the town, Pen.”
“What talk? Who’s talking? I never heard any talk. He’s always been a perfect gentleman to me—and to all the women in this town, as far as I know.”
“Oh, sure, when he’s in Quindicott, he’s the perfect family doc. Wears the halo of Saint Augustine. But scuttlebutt has it that our doctor of grace has a secret life.”
“Scuttlebutt? You mean plain old gossip, don’t you?”
“Gossip, scuttlebutt, or simple observation. Call it what you will. But Doc Rubino stopped his mail no less than three times in the past twelve months so he could go on different singles cruises—one south to the Bahamas, another north to Iceland. The big reveal was last month when he sailed to the Bay of Naples, the site of Caligula’s pleasure palace in ancient times.”
“I’m sure the Bay of Naples has more charm than some emperor’s ruins.”
“Yeah,” Seymour replied slyly. “Feminine charms.”
“Don’t be silly,” I countered. “Rubino is Italian. His family may come from that region. He was probably visiting relatives or sightseeing. Or maybe you and your gossipy friends are half right. Perhaps Dr. Rubino is looking for wife number two. The pool of single women of an appropriate age is small in Quindicott—”
“Tell me about it—”
“And I can see why Rubino would be reluctant to use a dating app. Can’t you?”
Seymour snorted. “Yeah, I suppose it would be disturbing to see your daughter or sister swiping right on the Tinder profile of your trusted physician.”
“I’m sure he’s traveling single in a perfectly respectable bid to find someone special.”
“Yet all he ever he comes home with is a really great tan. Nope, Pen. Mark my words. When Quindicott’s own bronzed and toned Hippocrates is off our grid, he’s a toga-party animal.”
On that gossipy note (with classical references only a Jeopardy! champ would make), the mailman ended his call. I picked my glasses up off the floor and began my day—which started much sooner than expected. I’d hardly finished brewing my morning tea when the night bell rang downstairs.
“Pen, I just heard the bell,” Sadie called from her room.
“I’ve got it,” I cried over my shoulder as I hit the stairs.
What this could be I didn’t know. We never got deliveries before business hours—then, in a heart-stopping moment, I remembered the security alarm had not been set.
Was it the QPD notifying us of a break-in?
I hurried into the bookstore—and felt a rush of relief.
At the front door, I spied a grinning woman with iron-gray hair in a single long braid flowing down her broad back. A huge knit bag hung over one arm, and a macramé cape was casually tossed over her shoulders to fend off the autumn chill.
Ms. Amber Breen, beloved author of the Kennel Club Mysteries, had arrived much earlier than expected. I unlocked the door, and the mistress of pet mysteries greeted me with a hearty bear hug.
“Penelope, it’s wonderful to see you again! I don’t think we’ve met face-to-face since the Boston Book Fair two years ago.”
I ushered her into the shop.
“The Finch Inn looks delightful, but their email said I couldn’t check in until noon, so I came here instead. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, our mailman already did that.”
Sadie arrived, and the pair began to chat like old friends. I went upstairs and grabbed the tea to serve everyone. My yawning son followed me down with Jane Cunningham’s dog romping beside him.
“Sparky needs to go for a walk,” Spencer declared as he tried to leash the rambunctious canine.
“What a sweet creature!” Amber exclaimed, her face lighting up. “And Sparky is the perfect name for him. He seems so . . . electric.”
Sparky loved the new attention. Tongue lolling, he rolled on his back.
“What a good dog,” Amber cooed as she rubbed his tummy.
I introduced my son to Amber and explained her expertise. Now his face lit up.
“Do you know what kind of dog he is, Ms. Breen?” he asked.
Amber gave Sparky the once-over. “A Labrador is in there for certain. Those ears say a cocker spaniel mix, but Sparky is big, so he’s probably part Labrador and part collie, which would make him a Lab collie.”
“Lab collie? That’s a funny name,” Spencer said.
“That’s how they name mixed-breed Labs. They just combine the breeds. It’s not so odd, really. The German language combines words in the same sort of way.”
Amber gave Sparky a peck on his forehead.
“And this guy’s personality is friendly, and he’s smart, too. Lab collies are the perfect mix for a family dog, though this one appears especially exuberant. Where did you find such a handsome fellow?”
“It’s quite a story,” I said, “and not a happy one, I’m afraid.”
Amber gently took Sparky’s leash from Spencer and easily linked it to the collar. “Well, Penelope, why don’t we take this bright-eyed boy out for a walk, and you can tell me all about it?”
“What do you think, Spencer?”
“For sure. Let’s go.”
Amber handed the leash back to Spencer. “I’m not that familiar with your quaint little town. Where should we take our stroll?”
Spencer grinned. “That’s easy! There’s a dog walk in the town square!”
Arf-arf! Arf-arf!
Whether Sparky understood the words dog walk or simply reacted to Spencer’s excited voice, Jane’s Lab collie instantly bolted for the door. My son clung to the end of the dog’s leash like an astronaut being towed by a rocket ship.
“Whoa, boy. Wait up!”
Amber tipped a glance my way. “Well, that’s settled, isn’t it?”
“Apparently so.”
“Then off we go!”
Chapter 19
A Dog Walk in the Park
Without my dog my wallet would be full, my house would be clean, but my heart would be empty.
—Anonymous
While Sadie stayed behind to open the shop, Spencer, Amber Breen, and I took Sparky on a stroll to Quindicott’s premier green space. Along the way, I told Amber how we ended up taking care of someone else’s dog.
When I finished the sad tale of finding Mrs. Cunningham in distress—thanks entirely to her dog—Amber Breen nodded knowingly.
“Sparky’s heroics don’t surprise me. Collies and labs are loyal, friendly, and smart. What Sparky did also speaks to his relationship with his mistress.”
I considered her words as Amber and I watched my son romp with the dog.
“Sparky’s a hero. Absolutely,” I conceded. “But he’s also a handful . . .” I told Amber about the battle with Bookmark inside our shop and noted, “Apparently it’s not the first time he’s caused trouble . . .”
Amber was shocked when I told her one of Jane Cunningham’s neighbors had threatened to shoot Sparky for wrecking his garden.
“That’s a monstrous threat!” she declared. “And I seriously doubt the veracity of the charge in the first place. No responsible dog owner would let their animal run loose and destroy property.”
“I suppose Sparky could have escaped the house or slipped his leash.”
“And what did he do the last time that happened?” Amber asked. “The dog ran to find help for his stricken mistress. And he couldn’t have done better than finding you and your boy. No, I’m betting Sparky learned manners from Mrs. Cunningham.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Let’s find out!”
She slapped her knees and rose. With a wave, Amber summoned both boy and dog.
“Spencer, I want you to tell Sparky to sit.”
My son seemed puzzled but shrugged and knelt down at Sparky’s side.
“Sit down, boy. Come on, sit.” He gently pushed on the dog’s rump, but Sparky just slithered out from under his hand.
“He won’t listen,” Spencer said, frowning.
“Let’s try it my way,” Amber replied. “Stand right beside the dog, say his name in a firm voice—and for goodness’ sakes, don’t plead. Command! After you get his attention by saying his name, I want you to gently but firmly order him to sit.”
Spencer tried it Amber’s way. To my surprise, the dog reacted to my son’s new, commanding tone and sat.
“Now, Spencer, tell Sparky he’s a good boy. Give him some positive reinforcement, and then we’ll try some other commands.”
For the next thirty minutes, the author introduced us to basic dog training—though, in this case, it was Spencer and I who were being schooled. Sparky (smart dog that he was) already knew most of the commands, and executed them perfectly.
Too soon the lessons were interrupted by the noisy bickering of a couple seated at the next bench. Both had pale skin and dark hair; the woman’s was dead straight, while the man boasted an expert salon cut with a shock of brown curls on top and precise razor buzzing around the sides and back.
