Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

At this, Arch launched into more Dog-Speak: Don’t worry, buddy, your new brother is going to love you, yeah, buddy, Jake’s a big old bloodhound who shares everything , et cetera, et cetera. I disconnected from Arch’s reassuring chatter and Late’s crying, and studied Barry’s chalet-style house next door. Two sheriff’s department cars were parked in the driveway. The red police tape that I knew was printed with the word Evidence had been strung around the house and yard. Hmm.

Barry’s house stood out in this neighborhood because he’d taken great care to make it look handsome. While Darlene had continued to paint her home an opaque lime green—hip some decades ago in Aspen Meadow, like everything else about Darlene—Barry had painted the gingerbread trim of his dark brown wooden house a bright red. Now, the outside lights illuminated not only the Swiss-style abode, but the fresh fall of snow in the front yard. The curtains were pulled, but a lit interior told me the detectives were working.

Without thinking, I released the brake and allowed the van to roll down to Barry’s driveway. Arch, preoccupied with calming the dog, did not notice. Nor, apparently, did anyone inside. I powered down my window and stared at the house. Why did you leave me your dog, Barry? I heard no answer to my question but puppy whining and the frigid night wind sweeping through the pines.

“Mom!” Arch whispered. “You’re freezing me out! Late’s shivering! Close the window, would you?” The dog threw back his head and began to howl. “ Mom! What are you waiting for?”

We took off. Tom was not at home, which puzzled me, but Arch helped me get the separate “pet housing area,” as we called it, ready for our latest guest. Because of the catering business, I had to be extra careful about keeping the animals out of the kitchen. I tried not to think of the unsuccessful box barricade Darlene had built for Late.

Late, meanwhile, was getting to know Jake out in our fenced backyard. Like Barry’s yard, ours was blanketed with snow. Howls, yips, and growling let us know the two canines hadn’t quite decided to be friends. When Arch opened the back door, Jake began to lumber in, but was impeded by Late streaking through his legs. Arch said he’d calm Jake if I could get hold of Late. I quick-stepped into the living room, where Late was avidly sniffing one of Tom’s Oriental rugs.

“No you don’t, buster.” I scooped him up and hugged him to me, then lowered myself into one of the wingback chairs. To my surprise, Late turned, perused my face, and began to sniff my chin. My heart melted at the sight of those droopy brown eyes with their pink rims. The dog appeared worried. You , he seemed to be thinking, definitely aren’t Barry.

“Why did your master leave you to me?” I asked him. “From the sound of it, he had two girlfriends. Why didn’t he leave you with one of them? The only thing recommending me was that we already had a hound. Different kind, though.”

In my lap, Late panted, but said nothing.

“Was it because of the truck accident?” I asked Late. “Barry was scared because that truck nearly killed him as well as me? So he called his neighbor and said, ‘If I die before I get home, give my dog to the caterer’?”

Late still wasn’t in a talkative mood, so I just patted him. Arch appeared, carrying a tray of homemade dog biscuits. Apparently, Late’s olfactory glands worked as superbly as Jake’s, because he whirled, jumped off my lap, and tore toward Arch. Arch, delighted to be once more the center of the basset’s universe, started feeding him goodies from the plate. When the phone rang, I headed for it, mostly to prevent myself from mentioning crumbs and dog-mess to Arch.

“I had to finish up something at work,” Tom reported from his cellular. “Apparently my delegating didn’t work out as well as I’d hoped. Anyway, I didn’t want you to worry. Did you get the dog?”

“Yeah, thanks for asking. Arch is spoiling him rotten even as we speak.”

“Is he cute?”

“He’s black streaked with gold and white, and he has a face frozen in the ‘sad’ setting.”

Tom snorted. “Did Barry ever mention to you that he wanted you to take care of his hound? The detectives are still working at his house.”

“Nope. I saw them there, by the way. Do you happen to know who’s going to inherit the place? I don’t think Barry has any kin.”

“I don’t know about kin. One of the guys mentioned that Barry had left his goods to the ASPCA. It’ll be a while before they can get the transfer worked out, though. Why?”

I couldn’t tell my husband Because I’d like to be able to snoop around in my old friend’s house, and figure out why somebody stuck a knife in his gut. So I just said, “Oh, I need to know what kind of food he was giving the dog, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh.”

I always wondered why I bothered to lie to Tom, since he could invariably tell when I was skirting the truth. A fierce crackle broke our connection before I could protest, or even ask when he would be home.

Arch appeared in the hall holding the puppy in his arms. Could that be a smile on Late’s face?

“I’m going up to finish the last bit of homework I’ve got,” my son announced. “I’ll take care of Late. What kind of dumb name is that for a dog, anyway?”

“I have no more idea about that than I do why Barry left him to me.”

Arch turned and started up the staircase, his usual clomping replaced by gentle steps. Snug in Arch’s arms, Late wagged his tail like a metronome.

In the kitchen, I started some milk heating for hot chocolate. While I stirred heavy cream and sugar into best-quality cocoa, I listened to the answering machine. There was only one message, and it was from Heather, the weeping mall office secretary. Westside was in limbo over the lunch event I was supposed to be catering on Thursday. She just wanted to give me a heads-up. Super.

I whisked the steaming milk into the cocoa mixture and considered. I had not heard back from Ellie McNeely. The kitchen clock said it was almost nine. Ellie was a friend, so I sipped the cocoa and punched in her number. No answer. Either she wasn’t at home or she wasn’t picking up.

Arch appeared in the doorway and said he thought Late, who was whining again, might need to go out. Hearing Arch’s voice and the whining puppy, Jake started scratching at the door to the pet area. I released Jake while Arch held on to the puppy with one hand and opened the back door with the other. Snuffling wildly at Late while giving me occasional confused looks, Jake seemed both curious about, and disheartened by, our canine orphan. Finally Jake loped through the back door. Late, howling, streaked after the bloodhound. I sensed imminent canine combat, although I was confident Jake could fend for himself. For the first time since we’d arrived home, I caught a glimpse of Scout. The cat’s green eyes peered down at the dogs from his perch in a small pine tree.

I sipped more hot chocolate and tried to think. Since the previous night, I hadn’t made it through a single hour without worrying about Julian. This hour was no exception, I thought, as I finished the chocolate. Just before ten, I washed my cup, let the dogs in, and settled them into their little room. A moment later, Scout scratched at the door, and I carefully placed him into his feline bed on a shelf above the hounds. Then I punched in the numbers for the St. Luke’s recorded prayer list and added Julian’s name.

I was starting up to bed when the dogs began to wail. I sighed. Was this what we were going to have to listen to all night, every night? Outside, someone killed a car engine. Oh good , I thought, my spirits rising. Tom’s back.