Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

Arch, however, brightened. “Sure! I can help. What kind of dog is it?”

“It’s a basset hound.”

“Miss G.?”

“OK, it’s Barry Dean’s basset hound. Barry left it to me.”

“He left it to you?” Tom echoed. “We’re just now getting his lawyer to talk about the will. How could you know about what he left and to whom?”

“His neighbor called. Darlene, the woman who owns that used-stuff store on Main Street. Apparently Barry called her yesterday before he died. Said if anything happened to him, I was supposed to take care of his dog, who is really a puppy. Darlene’s going to have a conniption fit if she has to have him another night.”

Somehow, my wonderful husband absorbed and translated this. “Miss G., why do you think Barry would ask you to take care of his dog? Are you saying he had a premonition that he was going to get killed, and called his neighbors to make provisions for his puppy?” he asked mildly.

Arch, his curiosity piqued now that he’d chowed down five enchiladas, raised his eyebrows. He’d wanted a second dog ever since we acquired Jake, a bloodhound who’d been mistreated before we took him in. Now Arch saw his chance coming. I did not want to ponder what Scout the cat would think of another dog adoption, however. Things could get ugly.

“I don’t know why Barry wanted me to have his puppy,” I told my family truthfully. “But I really think I should go get him.”

Tom mumbled something about letting the cops know what I was doing. Also, the department would need to find out if Barry had said anything else to Darlene. I told him the cops could talk all they wanted to Darlene, to me, and what the heck, to the dog.

We finished our meal thrashing out logistics for the week, who would be where when, how the driving would work, and so on. Such are the joys of contemporary domestic life. Arch and I thanked Tom for the fabulous dinner. Tom offered to do the dishes, and I accepted with gratitude.

“I’ll come with you, Mom,” Arch piped up unexpectedly as he finished loading the silverware into the dishwasher, a job he had done without being asked. “I got most of my homework done in school. While you’re driving, I’ll take care of the dog.”

“Why, thanks, Arch. I’d love your help.”

And so off we went.

“You’re late,” Darlene announced ungraciously as she swung open the door of her log cabin. Short, slender, and about sixty, Darlene wore an emerald green turtleneck and a fashionable-ten-years-ago black velvet skirt and vest. Her salon-dyed light orange hair was meticulously arranged in an Annette Funicello bubble, and her impeccable-but-heavy makeup glowed in the light from an overhead chandelier made from antlers. She looked like a perfectly preserved dried apricot.

“Very late,” she added, with the quirk of an arched, red-penciled eyebrow.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself to be pleasant. I smiled and said, “Let’s not use the dog’s name, OK? Darlene, you remember my son Arch? He loves dogs and will help me get Late home.” From inside the cabin, Barry’s hound howled so loudly I suspected he’d heard me.

O-woo! O-woo! Get me out of here!

“C’mon in, he’s waiting for you!” Darlene closed the door behind us. She added, “He’s in the kitchen. I had to pile some stuff by the door to keep him in.” A prolonged crash preceded a spill of cardboard boxes out the kitchen door. A streak of black, gold, and white hurtled toward us. “Late!” Darlene shrieked, in a voice that would have started an avalanche.

Late paid no attention whatsoever. Arch had dropped to his knees as the dog rushed us. The bassett bounded up, tongue extended, slathering Arch’s face with kisses. My son, overwhelmed, toppled back on his behind. Late howled with exultation. Darlene screeched a torrent of commands that the puppy ignored.

“Darlene!” I called over the general confusion. “Can you tell me exactly what Barry said? You know, when he called to tell you about his puppy?”

Darlene was headed toward the kitchen. I followed, and managed to trip over only one box upended by the puppy.

“Here’s his food dish, water dish, and vitamins,” she said, as she dumped mismatched plastic bowls and other canine paraphernalia into a grocery bag. “He was outa Puppy Chow.” She whacked the bag down beside me on the counter. “All’s Barry said to me was, ‘If I have to go on a business trip allova sudden, I want Goldy Schulz t’have my dog.’ Then he asked if I knew who you were, the caterer who helps her husband solve crimes, and I said yeah, and he asked me to go get the puppy right then. I said, ‘So yer goin’ on a business trip, then?’ And he says, ‘Maybe.’ So I went and got the puppy. That was yesterday. I’m tellin’ ya, I can’t go through another night listening to him howl and whine. I mean, I used to watch Barry’s house and the puppy when he had to be out of town for a coupla nights, but it’s not like he left me any cash to take care of the hound for the rest of his life. I am sorry Barry died, though. He was a nice neighbor, if a little—Well, you know. Overdosing on the social life.”

Out in the hallway, Late’s piercing yip was giving me a headache. Arch was egging him on in Boy’s Dog-Speak: Yeah, boy, c’mon boy, sit, yeah, roll over, yeah! OK, I’ll rub your tummy. Bet you’re hungry, right, boy?

Overdosing on the social life? “Did Barry have many girlfriends?” I ventured.

Darlene rolled her eyes, opened her refrigerator, and popped open a beer. She did not offer me one, which was probably just as well.

“Look, I already talked to that private dick—”

“John Rufus?”

Darlene slurped foam. “Yup, and I told him about the bra saleslady—”

“Pam?”

“Yup.” Darlene tried unsuccessfully to suppress a belch. “That’s what the cops called her when they showed me her picture. Blonde who wears her hair in sort of a pickaninny?”

“The very one.”

“Well, she’s been over there, too. Those two, Pam and Ellie. That’s all I know about Barry’s girlfriends. ’Cept he didn’t leave either one of ‘em his dog.”

“Thanks.”

Darlene put down the beer, picked up the grocery bag, and shoved it at me. Since she couldn’t find any puppy food, she added, she’d given Late some chili last night. He’d seemed to like it.

“Chili?” I repeated, nonplussed. No wonder you were up all night.

When Darlene raised that thin eyebrow again, I hustled back to the foyer. Arch had thoughtfully brought along a leash and was clipping it to Late’s collar. Late, panting, twisted his stubby, muscled neck to look me over. He was a hefty, short-haired black hound with a wide, white chest and magnificent gold streaks along his face. He did resemble Barry’s old hound, Honey, especially with his red-rimmed eyelids around large woeful eyes. I’m grieving , his countenance seemed to say, cheer me up.

“He’s just three months old,” Darlene explained from behind me. She couldn’t hide the joy in her voice at the prospect of ridding herself of the hound. “Oh, and he goes to High Country Vet, so you might want to check in over there, you know, see if he needs shots or worming or something.”

I thanked Darlene and headed out after Arch and the puppy to the van. Late’s enthusiasm for Arch did not extend to going in a car, however, and once we were all inside, the little dog started whining inconsolably. I started the engine. The dog wailed even louder.

“Let me try to calm him down, Mom, before you pull out. I brought him some smoked pigs’ ears.”

“Jake won’t be happy you snitched from his store of treats.”