Suzann Ledbetter - Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

A pause ensued, lengthy enough for Jack to reinflate his lungs and silently ask his perfectly healthy mother’s forgiveness. The explanation must not have sounded patently absurd, let alone bullshitic to the groomer, for she expressed condolences, then removed a blank registration form from a drawer.

At her prompting, he supplied his name and an emergency phone number. The given address was a vacant house furnished by the listing Realtor. Its chi-chi neighborhood hadn’t yet been scathed by the Calendar Burglar.

“How old is Fido?” the groomer inquired.

“Six” was Jack’s wild-hare guess.

“Any food allergies you’re aware of?”

A rash with minor welt action would be fair payback for the tie the Maltese was gnawing holes in. Having observed the teeth marks in Ms. Pearl’s furniture, throw pillows, shoes and handbag, Jack figured the dog’s tummy wasn’t particularly sensitive.

“Her shots are up-to-date?”

No doubt about that one. Ms. Pearl wasn’t the type to deny or delay her little darling’s wellness care.

“Veterinarian’s name?”

Aw, for crying out loud. The furball wasn’t applying for a seat on the next space shuttle. To Jack’s enormous relief, the groomer snagged the rabies tag dangling on Sweetie Pie Snug ’Ems’s collar and copied the vet’s name and office number.

A few minutes later, he walked to his car happily dogless and thoroughly edified in boarding-kennel protocol. Also bereft of TLC’s pretty, very short groomer’s name and home phone number.

An opportunity to pop those questions hadn’t presented itself. Such as her referring to Jack by name, so he could coolly, casually reply, “And yours?”

“Tomorrow, pilgrim.” He buckled the seat belt. “First you have to catch the bad guy. Then you get the girl.”

Dina cuddled the Maltese. Its button eyes goggled and darted, much like Harriet’s when waking in her chair, uncertain whether she’d nodded off or was kidnapped by Martians and returned in the blink of a tractor beam.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, sweetie,” Dina murmured.

The dog’s head swiveled upward. It looked at her, still a bit perplexed, yet oddly reassured.

She kissed the crown of its silky head, breathing in—

Dina took a second, deeper whiff. Pond’s cold cream and Estée Lauder perfume?

“What a cutie patootie.” Gwendolyn Ellicot swung open the gate between the hallway and the grooming station. “What’s his name?”

“Hers,” Dina corrected. “And it’s Fido, if you can believe that.”

“Not the dog’s.” The kennel’s owner grinned and pointed toward the parking area. “The guy who brought her in.” She moved to the counter and picked up Fido’s registration form. “By what I saw from my office, he took one look at you and forgot he owned a dog.”

Gwendolyn’s ruling passions were dogs and fix-ups. Trust her to slap a cutie-patootie label on any man who’s ambulatory, old enough to vote and bathes regularly.

There was nothing above average about Jack McPhee. Medium height, medium build. His medium brown hair had an eleven-o’clock part and was blocked in back a half inch above his shirt collar. Even the car rolling down the driveway was midsize and as medium blue as his eyes.

Dina couldn’t imagine why a funny feeling, like a hunger pang on spin cycle, had ziggled south of her rib cage when they made eye contact. And now, just thinking about it.

She sloughed it off along with her part-time employer’s incurable matchmaking. “Forget it, Auntie Mame. Even if I was interested, which I’m not, Mr. McPhee isn’t my type.” She patted Fido’s pouffy head. “And I’m pretty sure I’m not his type.”

Gwendolyn crossed her arms, as if fending off Cupid’s evil twin. “Then why was he flirting with you?”

“I wouldn’t call it—”

“All right, so that tie of his probably glows in the dark, but the suit was Brooks Brothers. My husband has one exactly like it—or did, until he gave up trying to lose thirty pounds and I took it to a resale shop.”

“Will you—”

“Jack McPhee lives on LakeShore Boulevard, Dina.” Gwendolyn tapped the registration form, emphasizing each syllable, as one might impress upon a small child a need to clean her room. “Starter homes in that development have four bathrooms.”

Not much of an incentive, since Dina couldn’t keep two bathrooms clean. She held up the Maltese. “See the collar?”

“Pink. So what? She’s female, it matches the leash and—”

“Check out the pedicure.”

Gwendolyn blanched a little, then flapped a hand. “You detest painting dogs’ toenails, but some groomers think it’s cute. And McPhee could have a daughter that thinks it’s cute, too.”

“Doubtful, unless she’s adopted.” Dina set Fido on the counter. “Smell her head.”

“What? Why?”

“Humor me.”

Gwendolyn leaned over, sniffed, recoiled, then sniffed again. “Well, hell.”

That’s pretty much how Dina felt, too, though she’d never admit it. Mother McPhee’s recent demise might explain the lingering aroma of cold cream and perfume, except Fido had been shampooed and trimmed in the past week.

“Life is so unfair,” Gwendolyn moaned. “Things were hard enough when all the good ones were either married or dead.”

Dina chuckled and handed off the Maltese. “If you wouldn’t mind paging Laura to get Miss Fido settled in and give her a snack, I have to finish Claude’s comb-out.”

The puli-Labrador mix snoozing on the grooming table was one strange-looking fellow. Claude’s owners spent a fortune keeping its ropy coat from matting into plaited scales, and it loved being fussed over. Using the table’s noose-like restraint on Claude was like tethering a dog-shaped topiary before clipping it. The trick was coaxing Claude down to the floor afterward.

As Dina toed the milk crate back into position, Gwendolyn said, “How’s your mom doing with the oxygen therapy?”

“Better.” Dina sighed. “When she stays hooked up to the machine, instead of using the portable tank in the living room like a rescue inhaler.”

“Then it won’t be a problem if Mrs. Allenbaugh is running a little late for her appointment.”

Gwendolyn’s tone entwined a question with a conclusion.

Dina consulted the antique Seth Thomas above the office window. Mrs. Allenbaugh was always a little late. When, of course, she wasn’t a lot early. If the daffy old bat owned a Chihuahua, instead of a standard poodle, the timing wouldn’t matter as much.

“How late is late?”

“She promised to be here before noon.”

Meaning eleven fifty-nine, but Dina couldn’t afford to kiss off her fee and a generous tip. She did some mental clockwork herself. “I’ll just have to race across town and give Mom her shot before Mrs. Allenbaugh gets here.”

Gwendolyn smiled the smile of a dog caretaker with a six-person staff. She squeezed Dina’s shoulder. “Relax, okay? I know Betty Allenbaugh’s a pain, but now you have a whole hour between your nine-thirty and ten-thirty to check on Harriet.”

Dina nodded and smiled back, as if a diabetic’s insulin injections were as mutable as a scatterbrained poodle owner’s watch.

“McPhee Investigations.”

“Great news.” Gerry Abramson’s telephone voice belied the salutation. “I just heard the Calendar Burglar ripped off another of my insureds last Thursday night.”

Jack sat back in the desk chair. Hell of a way to start a Saturday, even though he’d slept away most of the morning. “You’re sure it’s the same thief?”

“He didn’t leave a calling card, but the cops think so. This time, along with the jewelry, he snatched an iPod and a laptop. Both brand-new, still in their boxes for donation to a charity auction.”