Sharon Henegar - Sleeping Dogs Lie

Further along the hall I found a small bedroom furnished with a twin bed in the corner, neatly made up with white sheets and a brown wool blanket. A faded depiction of Little Bo Peep and her peripatetic sheep decorated the pillowcase. A small brown student type desk stood in front of the window, but no computer graced its bare surface. I pulled open the single drawer. Inside was a pad of steno paper, a box of envelopes and a couple of pencils. The small closet was completely empty, not even a wire hanger dangling from the rod.

The other bedroom was equally neat and impersonal, except for a rather nice old quilt in a flying geese pattern spread over the double bed. Four pillows in plain white cotton covers rested on top of the quilt. A couple of library books—the latest by Dean Koontz and an early Dick Francis—inhabited the bedside table. I opened the closet door, and had to lean against the door frame as I took in Bob’s scent from his collected clothing. Jack touched the back of my leg with his nose.

“I'm scared, Jack,” I told him. “Do you think I was right to follow Kay’s advice last night and not call anyone else?” Another thought struck me. “Maybe Bob wouldn’t have wanted me to call the police. He could have all kinds of reasons to go off with that woman. He said he’s a writer. Maybe she’s part of a story. Or maybe he’s done something awful.” I shook my head. This was as hard for me to believe as a kidnapping.

A shelf over the closet rod was slightly too high for me to see. I gave as much of a hop as my age and body type would allow. It wasn’t much of a look but unless Bob had a computer as thin as a piece of typing paper, nothing was up there.

I turned to the mahogany chest of drawers between the room’s two windows. One drawer was occupied by boxers and tee shirts, another with a couple of sweaters, and the rest were empty. On its well polished top a white milk glass dish held forty-seven cents in change and a folded Kleenex. A little carved wooden box boasted several miscellaneous items—two collar stays, some stray keys, three English coins, a couple of two-cent stamps, a watch band with no watch, and a folded piece of paper that turned out to be the instructions for his phone machine.

“Too bad I didn’t find this last night before I called Officer Ed,” I said to Jack, who panted in agreement. “Doesn’t Bob have a computer?” I asked the dog. “How can he write? If he has a laptop, it certainly wasn’t with him last night when he drove off with that women. And it's not in his car. Come on, maybe it's in the kitchen.”

Two Weeks Earlier

Bob and the dogs and I turned the corner from First onto Maple. “This is nice,” Bob said looking around. “I used to hear about this place when I lived in High Cross.”

The autumn sun mellowed the facades of restored two-story buildings, most built in the late nineteenth century of brick and native stone. A variety of upscale shops and restaurants, including my cousin’s antique store, attracted clusters of well-dressed women and an occasional man, even on a weekday morning in October.

“You haven’t been here before?” I asked. He shook his head. “It used to be pretty depressing, back in the Sixties and Seventies.”

Bob paused in front of the store that specializes in vintage radios. His gaze lingered on a beautiful floor model from the Forties, with rounded edges and Bakelite knobs. “I remember seeing an article in—was it Newsweek ? I guess I thought anything this popular would be tacky.” He laughed. “I'm putting my foot in my mouth, I'd better be quiet.”

We moved on. Emily Ann and Jack walked side by side in front of us, getting smiles from almost everyone we passed.

“I thought so too,” I said. “I have deeply rooted notions about anything touristy. But when I moved back here I found it’s…maybe homey is the word.”

We crossed Second and passed the toy store with the old Lionel train in the window, then Bob paused once more to study the yarn shop display, a tangle of silks artfully arranged around a toy tiger kitten.

That’s when I heard a voice calling my name. “Louisa! Oh, LEW-EEEE-SA! Is that you?”

I froze, unable to believe my ears. Moving two thousand miles to a small Midwestern town had not been enough. I looked over my shoulder and saw a tall, broad shouldered woman crossing the street, carefully highlighted and tousled hair gleaming in the morning sun. Her brown slacks and matching shirt looked expensive, and a dramatic ankle length duster of heavy cream silk flapped around her.

“Oh. My. God.” I muttered. As she drew near, I bared my teeth in what the charitable might mistake for a smile. Bob looked back and forth between us with an interested expression.

The woman stopped in front of us, giving Bob a thorough inspection before focusing on me. She ignored the dogs. “I thought that was you.” Her voice was nearly as loud as when she was shouting across the street. “So this is where you ended up, or are you visiting too? And , I see, not alone. Have you remarried already ?” She cocked her head and raised her brows at Bob.

As the dogs sat down side-by-side and peered up at our faces, I pried my stiff jaws apart to make some sort of answer. But Bob was ahead of me.

“No, no,” he said in bluff and reassuring tones, “Louisa and I are just old friends. She grew up here, you know. I'm Bob Richardson.” He stuck out his hand and pumped hers up and down.

“Um, Bob, this is Doris Carter,” I managed, “who used to work with my husband.”

“Yes, poor Roger,” she sighed. She slowly shook her head and closed her eyes, the picture of sadness. “Such a tragic loss, though given the circumstances I don’t suppose you felt it as much as the rest of us.” She pressed her right hand against her chest where her heart would be if she had one.

My cheeks flamed as I tried to find something to say, something I could say aloud, since “you vicious harridan, I wish you would spontaneously combust” didn’t seem quite tactful. But again, Bob stepped in.

“You know, one of the things I have always admired about Louisa is her ability to keep her private feelings private,” he said, a friendly smile relentlessly in place. Before Doris could react, he went on, “And are you staying in the area? It's a great time of year for a visit, isn’t it?”

“Why, yes, I got a chance to combine business and pleasure,” she told him, and everyone else within a block who was not stone deaf. “I have a conference in St. Louis on Thursday, so I decided to spend a few days checking out the shopping here. I've heard so much about it. I bought a little vacation home on Whidbey Island recently and it needs just everything.”

“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place,” he told her confidently. “Don’t miss the shop with the antique linens, and OKay Antiques is rather special too. Now, if you’ll excuse us, these dogs are getting restless.” He continued to smile pleasantly, took me by the elbow to get me moving, and shook his obviously placid dog’s leash. “Come on, Jack, let’s get that cookie we promised you.” And we moved down the street away from Doris.

When we were far enough away not to be overheard, Bob looked down at me with a rueful expression. “I'm sorry,” he said, “that was really pushy of me, but bullies annoy me. She is a bully, isn’t she? I hope I didn’t read her wrong. Tell me she’s not your oldest friend.”

A little laugh forced its way out of me. “She’s absolutely a bully, and no friend at all. I always think next time I'll stand up to her, but I'm so amazed at what she’s willing to say that I stand gaping like an idiot.”