Dog Dish of Doom, page 14
Louise and Mike ambled their way down to the apron of the stage, where I expected her to try to engage with Les, probably about Bruno’s demand to have all the small Milk Bones taken out of the candy dish in the dressing room he wasn’t going to have. Instead, Louise beckoned toward the opposite wing, and Akra appeared, clipboard in hand, headset on, to have a quick conversation with Bruno’s owner—and the wife of the man she’d known in school so many years before. For someone who hadn’t been in touch with Trent, Akra seemed to know his wife fairly well.
I stood up, intending to grab Bruno’s leash and try to make it downstairs in time to find a water dish of some sort before the audience was given access to the house. But once I was on my feet, I stopped and stared down into the orchestra pit.
Just inside, talking to the conductor, was Taylor Cassidy. She was dressed in a low-cut top that was drawing a decent amount of attention from the man with the baton, and a pair of capris that she must have been born in because that was the only way they’d made it onto her that tightly. And she didn’t even have the decency to look uncomfortable.
As soon as I noticed Taylor, she nodded to the conductor, climbed the steps out of the pit, and walked onto the stage as if she held the lease to the Palace herself, which I thought was just a little cheeky for the replacement mutt’s dog walker. But I didn’t get to see where she went or who she was talking to because the curtain was lowered at that moment. They were about to let the paying customers in.
What the heck was going on here? Of all the people I’d seen milling about the stage before a routine performance for tourists and suburban families, the only one who had any real business being in the building was Akra, and even her presence was questionable. She was supposed to be Les’s assistant, but I couldn’t figure out why Les was necessary to tonight’s show, so why should he need someone to assist him?
My first thought was to send a text to Rodriguez. But as I was mentally composing the message, I realized that all I’d be telling the detective was how people she could see for herself were in the theater. She probably hadn’t met Taylor or Mike before (well, Mike anyway—she’d seemed to know about Taylor when I’d mentioned the name), but she knew Louise, Les, Gwen, and Akra from previous interviews. What would I be alerting her to that she didn’t already know?
I could take Bruno down with me to the stage to ask around, but the idea was supposed to be that he get a view of the experience from the auditorium to see his reaction. He couldn’t be on the stage, which would be the closest experience to his actual performance, and it was now too close to curtain for me to let him wander about, even on a leash. Especially if Horatio had come out of his dressing room (was he changing his fur?) and would be in Bruno’s line of sight.
Hey, I was just Rodriguez’s snitch. She was in the building. I could relax and let her annoy people professionally. I sat back and stroked Bruno a few times. And then I remembered I still hadn’t found a water dish for him, and his tongue seemed to be getting longer as I watched.
Taking him to stage level was not an option, and taking him to the ladies’ room was probably a health-code violation. Besides, I didn’t have anything out of which he could drink, so the water there would be fairly useless.
All I needed, I decided, was one of the cups in which they served severely overpriced drinks at the bar. That was on this level and wouldn’t be at all a long walk. If I asked the bartender nicely, he might even just put water in it himself.
I looked over at Bruno, who was sitting as quietly as a lightly panting dog could on his theater seat. The ushers hadn’t taken their stations yet, so there wasn’t anyone scowling at his sitting there and leaving dog hair behind.
“Just stay right here,” I said. “I’ll be right back, Bruno. I’ll bring you some water.”
He looked grateful for that, so I got up and climbed up the stairs—that’s how these boxes work—to the corridor, making it to the bar in about thirty seconds. The guy behind the bar, who didn’t have any customers yet, looked bored.
“Can I get some water in the widest cup you have?” I asked. Nicely.
“Sure,” he said. “But they’re all the same size.”
“Not a problem.”
He turned to the task, which wasn’t much. “Ice?” he asked.
It would take up too much room, although melting would be good for later. “No, thanks,” I said. Then it occurred to me that theater staff see and hear everything. “Did you hear about the guy who got killed night before last?” I asked him.
He turned back toward me holding a cup of water. With ice in it. “What guy?” he asked.
“There’s this guy who owns the dog who’s going to be the new Sandy in the show,” I said. “And he got a knife in his back just two nights ago. The police are trying to figure it out.”
The bartender shook his head at what a crazy world this is. “All that because he owns some dog,” he said.
Okay, so the bartender didn’t have any juicy info. “Yeah,” I said. “What can I tell you?”
Real paying patrons started finding their way from the stairwell to the bar, so I nodded my thanks to the young man and walked, gingerly carrying the water cup which he had filled just a little too high to the brim, back toward the box where Bruno and I were seated.
“See?” I said as soon as I got through. I watched the level of water on the cup carefully, not wanting to spill anything on the rug. Wouldn’t want anyone to think that was Bruno and not some nice harmless water. Dogs have somewhat unwarranted reputations. “I wasn’t gone that long.”
The steps going down to our seats were tricky, but I had almost navigated them when my father’s voice came back to me. “I wasn’t that worried,” he said.
It caught me by surprise. I looked up from the water and started to ask, “What are you doing…” But I stopped short.
Dad, looking down at my feet, also seemed stunned. “Kay,” he said.
We asked the same question in unison.
“Where’s Bruno?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“The dog is missing?” Detective Rodriguez wasn’t asking so much about the fact as she was questioning the judgment of a woman who would leave a dog alone in a Broadway theater seat. “Nobody saw where he went?”
“I had to go get him some water,” I said. Again. “I knew I shouldn’t leave him there but he was really thirsty.”
“You realize I’m going to have to inform the dog’s owner that he is missing, right?” Rodriguez added. “I believe she’s here tonight.”
We were standing backstage as the performance was about two minutes from beginning. The mikes were getting turned on, so our voices were lowered. The last thing either Rodriguez or I needed was the audience at a family musical finding out that the upcoming dog performer everyone was going to love had left the premises without warning.
“Everybody’s here tonight,” I told the detective. “I swear, it’s like they’re having a reunion of everyone who might have killed Trent Barclay. Have you seen them all?”
“Bruno,” my father reminded me. He stood to my right and touched my arm gently. “That’s what we’re talking about right now.”
He was right, and I was mortified. How could I have been so stupid? Knowing someone was probably trying to dognap Bruno for some purpose I couldn’t begin to imagine, I’d left him sitting unattended in a public place while all the shady characters involved in Trent’s murder were in the same building. I should be drummed out of the animal agenting business.
“Please, Detective,” I said. “There’s got to be something you can do.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You want me to put out a BOLO on a dog who’s been missing for ten minutes? Be On the Lookout for a big hairy walking leg rest? Look around the theater. He’s got to be here somewhere.”
“You don’t understand,” I pleaded. “I think Bruno’s been abducted.”
Rodriguez closed her eyes tightly as if trying to squeeze out what had just happened. “What?”
“There have been threats. I told you. Where’s Taylor Cassidy? She was the one so hot to get Bruno yesterday. I’ll bet she took him. Do you know where she is?”
Rodriguez looked at my father. “Has she always been like this?” she asked.
Dad regarded her carefully. “Reasonable?” he said.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you here, again?”
“My daughter had comp seats to a hit Broadway musical. Her mother wanted some alone time, so I showed up here. What’s your excuse?”
The detective coughed by way of an answer. “Ms. Cassidy,” she said, ignoring Dad and looking at me, “is in a seat in the third row center of the orchestra.” She pointed.
Sure enough, Taylor and her cleavage were taking up a prominent seat, which I was willing to bet had also been comped by management. I wondered what connection she’d used to get that.
“Why is she even here?” I said. “Did you ask?”
“She’s here as a guest of Akra Levy,” Rodriguez said. “Apparently she knew Ms. Levy based on her friendship with the deceased Mr. Barclay.”
“And you don’t find that suspicious?” Dad wanted to know.
“I find the whole thing suspicious,” the detective shot back. “But that doesn’t make her a killer and it doesn’t make her a dognapper. See? There she is. There’s no dog. I’m telling you, he’s running around this theater somewhere and you’re wasting time talking to me.”
The house lights dimmed and the audience settled down. In a few seconds the orchestra would begin playing the overture and then the performance would begin.
I had to get the hell out of here.
“Come on, Dad,” I whispered. “We can find him on our own.”
Dad nodded and we left through the wings, dodging actors and dancers getting in place. We did our best to be unobtrusive, and finally took an emergency exit (which was thankfully not connected to an alarm) out onto the street.
“We’ll swing around to the front of the theater and go back in through the lobby,” I told Dad. “Maybe we can find Bruno upstairs somewhere if he really did run off.”
“He didn’t, and you know it,” my father told me. “There’s no point in searching the theater.”
And that’s when it all came crashing down on my head. The one thing I absolutely had to do was protect my client, poor Bruno, who wouldn’t hurt a fly in his angriest moment, and I’d left him to some evil person who wanted him for unknown reasons that I couldn’t convince myself would be pleasant. I’d be out of business once word of this got around, and I wouldn’t be able to blame the people who fired me or talked about me behind my back.
I sat down, leaning on the wall of the theater. I didn’t cry. I wanted to, but I didn’t. The more I thought about that friendly, innocent dog being taken away, the more it ate at my insides, but …
“It’s okay, sweetie,” my father said.
And for some reason that set me off. I mean, you always have a short fuse with your parents even after you’re sixteen years old, because you know they have to love you no matter how idiotically you treat them. But for Dad to look at me now, knowing what all this meant and how I loved animals, and say that, was just too much.
“It’s not okay!” I yelled at him. “I had responsibility for Bruno and he got taken. He’s probably scared and worried and sad and that’s all my fault, don’t you understand? This isn’t a show, Dad. It’s not something you can fix up in a rewrite. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to find Bruno again and that’s going to bother me for the rest of my life. So don’t tell me it’s okay. It’s not okay. Okay?” Strong emotion doesn’t bring out my most eloquent side.
Dad squatted down next to me; sitting on the pavement in Manhattan was something he would never do. He spoke gently, just like he did when I used to skin my knee or get upset because I’d gone up on my lines onstage. “It is okay, honey. I promise you. Everything is absolutely fine.”
Mentally I rolled my eyes. He just wasn’t getting this. “Really? Everything’s fine?” I asked. “Do you know where Bruno is?”
Dad smiled just a little. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he said.
* * *
“I don’t believe it,” I said. And that was only because I really didn’t believe it.
“Believe it,” Dad said.
We were standing in a parking garage on West Forty-Sixth Street just off Seventh Avenue. Parked in a space thankfully not by one of the concrete pillars that held the building up was my parents’ ancient Oldsmobile Toronado, a car so large you could land aircraft on its hood. Sitting in the passenger seat with the window open was my mother. In the backseat were Steve and Eydie.
And Bruno.
“You dognapped Bruno,” I said incredulously.
“We most certainly did not,” Mom protested. “We protected him. We saved him from being dognapped, if anything.” She got out of the car and stood next to it, checking on the dogs but then folding her arms and looking up at me with an expression that would be kindly on other women but on my mother was defiant.
“He was with me,” I said. “Did you think I was going to abduct Bruno?”
“Of course not, sweetie.” My father put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed a little. “But we got a fax in your home office about three hours ago threatening the dog. I figured the best thing to do was get him out of there fast.”
“You could have texted me,” I said. “You could have called. You just stole him when I was away for one minute.” My parents are lovely people, but they tend—okay, Dad tends—to act impulsively and worry about the toll it takes on other people … later.
“The idea was to convince the person or people threatening Bruno that someone else had taken him,” Dad said. “That might force a move that brings them out into the open, and either way, it gets Bruno out of the line of fire.”
“How did you … how did … how?” I was relieved that Bruno was safe, yes, but I was upset and angry and drained and confused and probably a couple of other things I hadn’t really isolated and cataloged just yet. So my power of speech was just a teeny bit impaired.
“I waited outside the theater,” Mom said. “Dad went up and got Bruno when you were away and brought him down to me. I took him to the car. It’s really very simple, dear.”
Simple? My parents’ best plan was to steal one of my clients and make me think that I’d been responsible for his abduction, and she thought that was simple?
“It’s not simple, Mom,” I said. I looked into the backseat of the ocean liner my father insisted on driving because it “holds both of us and some trunks, and we’re not on top of each other.” “It’s far from simple.”
Bruno, for all his trauma, was lying on the backseat, probably asleep. Steve sat up next to him, watching his pal and occasionally scratching behind his left ear. Eydie, in her usual state of disapproval, lay on the floor behind the console, appalled at her drop in status. Imagine, having to lie on the floor of an Oldsmobile.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I said without looking at Dad. “Why did you let me think something horrible had happened and it was my fault?”
“Aw, Kay.” Dad sounded positively mournful. “I didn’t want to hurt you, baby. Never. And—you’re a terrific performer onstage. You can make an audience laugh and you can make them love you. But let’s face it: You’re not that great an actress.”
Not that I didn’t know that already, but on top of everything else that had gone on tonight, the last thing I needed was to be told that I was the third best at the family business in a three-person family. “Dad,” I said. I wanted to say more, but nothing came out.
“I needed to convince Detective Rodriguez that Bruno had been taken,” Dad went on. He didn’t say anything about the words he knew must have hurt me, but his voice conveyed his regret and having had to say them. “If you believed it, you’d sell it to her. And I was going to tell you. I figured when I got to the theater, you’d be there sitting next to Bruno and we’d work it out. When you weren’t there, I figured I had an opportunity.”
Dad always could improvise.
So I decided I’d let him keep improvising. “So what’s the plan?” I asked.
I knew there was no chance he’d say he didn’t know. “We go home,” he said. “Nobody is looking for Bruno there because you were the one who was distraught about him being missing. We can relax a little and plot our next move.”
“Besides, you’re tired,” Mom piped up. “It’s been a really tough couple of days for you. Let’s go home and you can put your feet up.”
“What do I do about Bruno’s rehearsals?” I asked Dad. “He’s supposed to start as Sandy a week from Tuesday.”
“Tell the director he’s still missing,” Dad suggested. “He’ll understand.”
“He won’t understand,” I said. “He’s already cranky about losing a straight play he wanted to direct. He’ll recast the part and Bruno will lose his chance. My reputation will be destroyed and I’ll have to do real-estate closings to make the mortgage payments. I don’t know anything about real estate, Dad. I can’t tell Les I don’t know where Bruno is when I clearly do.”
Dad reached into his jacket pocket and presented me with a piece of paper he found there. “Open it.”
I unfolded the paper, which showed the fax that had come through to my home machine sending my parents on this bizarre errand. It read: We know you have the dog. We will be coming for him. Offer no resistance and there will be no trouble.
That sent a shiver up my spine, all right. But it did something the senders probably didn’t want to accomplish—it brought out my vindictive side.
“How do we find these people?” I said, thinking out loud.
Dad actually hesitated, not having thought that element through. But he was lucky because that was the moment my cell phone chose to ring, and the incoming caller was shown to be Louise Barclay.
