Dog Helps Those (Golden Retriever Mysteries) (18 page)

As I scanned through the channels with one hand and scratched behind Rochester’s ears with the other, I felt very righteous about completing my grades, since they weren’t even due for a few more days.
That freed me up for investigating over the weekend with Rick. I thought about entering them into the college’s mainframe computer, but that’s always more of a pain to do from home than from school, even without the interference of Freezer Burn, so I thought I’d wait until Monday.

Saturday morning, Rick picked Rochester and me up in his truck, and we drove up route 611 through Doylestown and Quakertown to get to Bethlehem. Dogwoods were blooming in pink and white and maples were rich with green buds. We passed at least three spring-cleaning yard sales, rickety card tables piled with chipped dishes, out-of-date textbooks, and other useless junk its owners hoped would put a few bucks in their pockets.

We parked in front of the college’s Technology Center, in view of a series of white tents where the show was being held. Around us were dozens of cars, trucks and RVs, and almost every one sported some sort of dog bumper sticker, from “My Labrador Retriever is smarter than your honor student” to “It’s the Golden Rule: Goldens Rule” to “Proud Parent of a Bichon Frise.”

“Dog people,” Rick said, shaking his head.

“And what are we? You spoil Rascal more than I do Rochester.”

“Don’t remind me.”

From the parking lot, we heard the loudspeaker announcing the walk-through for the standard class for novices. “Shit, that’s us,” Rick said. “We’ve got to hustle.”

“What do you mean? Are you competing?”

Rick tugged Rascal’s leash and hurried forward. “It’s Rascal’s first time,” he said over his shoulder.

I shook my head and followed with Rochester. He had already prepaid his admission and Rascal’s entry fees, so he sailed past the elderly woman at the registration table. By the time I had paid our admission and picked up a program, then walked into the broad lawn where the tents had been set up, Rick and Rascal were already in line next to one of the rings.

Ring seemed the wrong word, even though that’s the way they were labeled. It was more like a rectangle, with all the equipment set up inside. I’d seen all the stuff at Rita’s, but somehow it looked more impressive under the sprawling white canvas tent, with dozens of dogs around. As I watched, a woman led her whippet up a ramp, across a flat plank, then down. Ahead of her, a borzoi was climbing the A-frame while a Sheltie was on the teeter-totter.

I checked out the program. The events were divided into four classes by height; Rascal was in the third category. The loudspeakers competed with the barking of dogs and the whir of portable fans that cooled the area. I couldn’t see how the dogs could concentrate on what they were supposed to do. I kept Rochester on a short leash by my side, and sometimes I had to hold him back if he wanted to sniff another dog or take off in search of Rascal.

We skirted the main performance ring and walked between two rows of vendor tables. Fortunately most of the merchandise on display was for little dogs—pink plastic carriers with mesh windows, rhinestones collars and tiny leather jackets with upturned cuffs—or I’d have ended up buying Rochester something I’d regret later, like a pair of felt moose antlers or a big rubber clown nose. I did like the harnesses at one booth, and if Rochester didn’t already have a couple of beds I’d have been tempted to buy him another from a vendor with wide variety of beds, cushions and dog blankets. There was even a booth selling clothes for the humans accompanying their dogs around the course.

All around us were dogs on platforms being groomed, dogs practicing their jumps, dogs on leather leashes and plastic cords. The biggest seemed to be the giant Schnauzer, down to a couple of teacup Chihuahuas that I could hold in the palm of my hand.

I spotted Carissa, the elegant Latina who had trained her dog at Rita’s. She wore a pair of cream-colored pedal pushers and a sleek V-necked athletic shirt made of some kind of expensive microfiber. It clung to her in all the right places, and it was decorated with tiny rhinestones which matched the ones on the collar worn by her Chihuahua, Tia Juana. I introduced myself to Carissa.

“Oh, Rita,” she said. “How terrible. When I heard the news I was so upset. So was Tia. Sadly in my country we are too familiar with violent death.”

That was interesting. How did she know Rita had been murdered? As far as I knew the papers had only reported her death, not the crime behind it. “Did you know Rita well?”

“I bought Tia from her and she convinced me to start training her. I wouldn’t say I was her friend, but I’ve been investing with her for years.”

Rochester leaned down to sniff Tia Juana. “She didn’t seem like the type to make friends,” I said.

“Well, you won’t find many people here who liked her,” Carissa said.

“Really? Why not?”

“She was a very fierce competitor and she had no self-control when it came to telling people what she thought of them and their dogs. As if she was the only reputable breeder around.”

“That must have made a lot of people angry.”

Carissa nodded toward a forty-something Asian man in pressed khaki slacks and a military-style shirt festooned with pockets and epaulets. As I watched he pulled a treat out of one of those pockets and fed it to the fluffy white bichon he had on a bright blue leash. The dog’s haircut made his face look round as a dinner plate.

“That’s Jerry Fujimoto,” Carissa said. “He raises bichon frises and trains them for his owners. Rita was always bad-mouthing him and his methods. I heard he lost a number of clients because of it.”

“But she didn’t raise bichons herself, did she?”

“No, only doxies and Chihuahuas. But she definitely had her own way of doing things, and if you didn’t agree with her she’d let you have it.”

Tia Juana yelped as Rochester’s nose got too invasive, and I jerked back on his leash. “Sorry. He still has a lot of puppy in him.”

She looked at her diamond Rolex and said, “We need to get ready anyway. I want Tia to get some practice at the long jumps.”

“She does long jumps? But her legs are so tiny.”

“They adjust the distance for the size of the dog,” she said. “And you’d be surprised at what my Tia can do.”

They trotted off, Tia Juana leading the way, and Rochester and I meandered toward Jerry Fujimoto. He was a whirlwind of activity, chatting up owners and dogs alike, and I knew I’d never get a word in with him as long as the show was on. As I waited, a boy of about eight with a bichon on a jeweled red leash said, “Can I pet your dog?”

“Sure. Rochester, sit.”

The boy tentatively placed his palm in front of Rochester’s mouth so he could sniff, then patted him on the head. The boy’s hair was a golden red similar to Rochester’s, and he was missing his two front teeth. “Is your dog competing?” he asked.

“Today we’re watching. How about you?”

“We already did. Puffball came in second in his height class.”

Puffball. What a name for a boy dog, I thought. Then I remembered that name from the list of Rita’s ex-clients. “I’m Steve,” I said, sticking out my hand to him. “Do you train with Mr. Fujimoto?”

He shook my hand limply and nodded. “My name is Pippin but people call me Pip.”

“From the Broadway show? Or
The Lord of the Rings
?” I asked. Puffball was completely disinterested in Rochester, instead straining toward another bichon, probably a female.

“I’m a hobbit. Yeah, my parents are big geeks. My sister’s name is Meriadoc.”

I laughed. I guess Puffball wasn’t too bad then. And that explained why I hadn’t been able to find anything about Pippin Forrest online. “He a nice guy, Mr. Fujimoto?”

“Not really. He yells at the dogs a lot and he scares me sometimes. But we used to train with this other lady named Mrs. Rita and she was even meaner. When my dad said we were switching she called him a really bad word. At the last show, Mr. Jerry and Mrs. Rita were yelling at each other. He told her he hoped she died and went straight to – a bad place I’m not supposed to say out loud.”

Interesting. But did Fujimoto mean that enough to kill her? I couldn’t ask Pip that question, but it rolled around in my head.

Pip petted Rochester some more and said, “Your dog is really sweet. I wanted a big dog but my parents said no.”

I leaned down to his level. “I’ll tell you a secret,” I said. “It’s not the size of the dog’s body that matters, but the size of his heart. And I’ll bet Puffball has a really big heart.”

Hearing his name, the dog turned around and returned to Pip’s side, sprawling on his back and waving his little legs in the air. Pip stroked his stomach and said, “Yeah, he’s a good boy.”

I heard the announcement of Rick’s class and said goodbye to Pip and Puffball. Rochester and I found a place along the side of the ring. I stood, and Rochester sat beside me as if he was observing and taking notes. It was quite comical to watch the owners scurrying alongside, waving their hands, whistling and making clicking noises as if it was an event for sufferers of some obscure mental syndrome.

Some of the dogs ran right through the course like pros; others were more tentative, and a couple disregarded some of the obstacles. “That’s a weave fault,” the announcer said, as a border collie entered the weave poles from the wrong side. He called a refusal when the Sheltie stopped short in front of the tire and wouldn’t jump through it, and a time fault when a Viszla took too long to complete the course.

Finally it was Rick and Rascal’s turn. I couldn’t help snickering as Rick, normally the tough cop, babied Rascal up the A-frame, through the tunnel, then over the jump. He ran next to the dog like a crazy person, and I thought I’d get a lot of teasing out of it.

Though Rick looked nervous, Rascal performed like a champ, and he ended the event in third place, winning a yellow ribbon for his trouble.

The four of us strolled past the vendors again. “Late yesterday I heard about a woman who wasn’t on the spreadsheets,” Rick said. “Cora Straw. Apparently she left her dog with Rita when she went on vacation, and when she came back the dog was dead.”

I stopped in front of a display of walking sticks with dog heads. “That’s terrible. What happened?”

“Rita gave her some story about the dog having a heart attack on the course. But she had already disposed of the body before Cora came home.”

“That would drive me crazy,” I said. “Oh, look at the golden retriever bookends!”

A pair of resin dogs looking a lot like Rochester sat on their haunches with their backs against imitation books. “And those yard stakes with little dogs on them!”

“Step away from the display,” he said, in his most stern voice. “I’m doing this for your own good.”

I cast a glance back at the kitchen towels and garden flags as Rick grabbed my arm and moved me along. We bought some rubber toys and rawhide chews for the dogs, then headed back toward the parking lot.

“When I checked in, I picked up a list of all the breeders who were showing,” I said, pulling the paper out of my pocket. “I thought maybe you could call them and ask about Rita.”

“You forget who’s the detective around here,” Rick said, pulling an identical list from his pocket. “I do have a few skills, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rascal and Rochester jumped eagerly into the back of the truck, then sprawled out next to each other and went right to sleep.

“Remember that list you emailed me yesterday?” I asked Rick, as we pulled out of the campus. “The people who trained with Rita? While you were competing, I met one of the ones who dropped her today.”

“Which one?”

“Pippin Forrest. But he’s only a kid. I think we can knock him off the list, because I doubt an eight-year-old can get his hands on Rohypnol.”

“Parents?”

“What do you mean? Does he have parents? I guess so.”

“And one of them could have been pissed off at the way little Pippin was treated, right? After all, we’re going on the assumption that someone didn’t like the way Rita handled a dog. A kid just ups the ante.”

“I didn’t get that vibe from Pip,” I said. “He said that Mrs. Rita yelled a lot, but it seemed like he accepted that from adults. He did say he’s training with a new guy, named Jerry Fujimoto, who Carissa told me had a beef with Rita.”

“Didn’t everyone?” Rick said. He handed me his copy of the trainers’ list. “Make a note on the sheet for me, will you?”

I did. “I didn’t see any of the other three people who stopped training with Rita, but we both know one of them—Mark Figueroa. From the antique store in the center of town.”

“Hmm,” Rick said. “How about the others?”

“Just did a quick search. Paula Madden owns a shoe store at the mall. I thought I’d get Lili to go over there with me and scope it out. And Sal Piedramonte lives in River Bend. Rochester and I met him and his dachshund last night. He was pretty angry about the way Rita dissed his dog when she found out Blue was deaf. Wanted to give him a different one and put Blue to sleep.”

“That seems pretty hard,” Rick said. “I mean, being deaf isn’t something fatal.”

“He said Rita treated her dogs like merchandise.”

“It’s an attitude. But is it a motive?”