Dog Helps Those (Golden Retriever Mysteries) (22 page)

I closed down the student database program, then stood up and stretched. I turned the keyboard so Yetty could access it. “I’m going to give you a quick proficiency exam. If you pass, I’ll certify you.”

I made her go through a series of steps, and she managed them all easily. “That’s all?” she asked.

“Yup. Whoever you spoke to back then probably didn’t mark down that the class had been waived for you.”

I took the keyboard back from her, logged into the database, and certified her to graduate. “Have a good time in Europe,” I said.

Then I grabbed my dog and got the hell out of the office before any other crisis could come up.

* * *

I was a half hour late to Jerry Fujimoto’s spread—a low-slung ranch house with a series of wire cages along one side. Just as at Rita’s place, the yipping and yelping was deafening. Rochester didn’t even want to get out of the car, and I had to grab his collar and manhandle him out.

The air smelled like cedar chips, mixed with the fragrance of blossoming lilacs from a hedge along one side of the property. Jerry stepped out of the front door as Rochester and I walked up the flagstone path. “I was about to feed the dogs,” he said. “I can give you ten minutes. Follow me.”

He’d ditched the perfectly pressed clothes I saw him wearing at the agility show for jeans and an Armani Exchange T-shirt. He had the lithe build of a martial arts star, but that was probably just stereotyping on my part.

He led us over to a practice ring like the one at Rita’s. Rochester knew what to do, tugging me toward the starting line. I tried half-heartedly to rein him in but he was too excited. Or maybe he just wanted to get this visit over with and get away from the yappy little dogs, whose barking was nearly constant. It seemed like when one took a breath, another one chimed in to create a canine cacophony.

I put Rochester through his paces, hurrying around the course with him the way I’d seen Rick do. He still had some trouble with the weave poles, but he did the rest of the course like a champ.

Not in Fujimoto’s eyes, though. He went back over what we’d done, pointing out mistake after mistake—half of them mine, half Rochester’s. “I can see he’s got some talent,” he said finally. “But he’s undisciplined. It’s clear that he thinks he’s the boss.”

“I’ve been working on that. I’m waiting to feed him until after I eat.”

“That’s only part of it. If you’re going to train with me, you’ve got to be strict.”

“I can do that. At least you think he’s got potential. Rita Gaines thought he was a waste.”

“Rita was a waste herself,” he said. We began to walk back toward the driveway. “Not to speak ill of the dead, you understand, but the woman was a bitch with a capital B. And I’ve forgotten more about training dogs than she ever knew.”

“You didn’t get along with her?”

“The dog show world’s a small one. You’ve got to play nice, even when other people are assholes. Rita and I used to argue all the time, and it gave me a lot of pleasure to pick up clients who couldn’t work with her, and then beat her in the ring.”

“You ever go over to her place?”

He shook his head. “She probably had an alarm set to notify her if my truck got within ten miles of her farm. And I wouldn’t set foot there unless I had a sick dog and she had the only medicine.”

Spoken like a true dog person, I thought, as Fujimoto left us and I ushered Rochester back to the car.

It was after six, and I didn’t feel like rushing home and making dinner. I tried to get hold of Rick to see if he wanted to meet up or share a pizza, but he wasn’t answering his cell. Instead I drove to The Chocolate Ear.

Gail had a couple of biscuits for Rochester, as always, and she was able to rustle up a homemade croissant loaded with chicken salad, with a green salad on the side. Things were slow, so she came outside to sit with me as I ate. She did all the baking for the café while her grandmother, Irene, ran the front with the help of a part-time waitress, and I could see she was tired. Wisps of blonde hair escaped from her ponytail, and she had a smudge of dried flour high on one cheek.

“Has Mark Figueroa been around lately?” I asked. “I need to ask him about his dog.”

“It’s not his, it’s his ex’s,” she said. “I don’t think Mark liked it very much.”

“I didn’t like dogs at all before I got Rochester.”

Gail looked at her watch. “His store is open until eight and it’s around the corner. If you want to take a run over there Rochester can stay here with me.”

“He doesn’t let dogs in the store?”

“Think about it, Steve. Rochester. Antique store?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I reached down and scratched behind Rochester’s ears. “I’m going away for a few minutes. You stay here with Aunt Gail and behave, all right?”

He yawned, showing rows of white teeth and exhaling a doggy breath.

“And when we get home I’ll brush your teeth.” I finished the last bite of my croissant, then stood up. “I’ll be back for dessert.”

Traffic was backed up on Main Street as I approached the corner of Ferry, the only red light in the downtown area. The light was green, but no one was moving. Cars began honking, but nothing moved until it turned yellow.

Looking ahead, I saw the problem. A white-haired woman in a housecoat was moving slowly through the intersection on foot. She had to be at least three hundred pounds, and she moved as slowly as a snail. The lead car at the light was politely waiting for her to cross before moving on.

By the time I walked up to the corner, the light had cycled back to green again, and I was astonished to see the woman step back into the crosswalk. A Land Rover SUV zigged around her and sped through the intersection, but the next car, a Toyota sedan, came to a stop and waited for her to cross. Only two cars made it through on that light, and there was another cacophony of horns.

I turned down toward the river, and walked the half block to Mark Figueroa’s antique store. A bell over the door jingled as I walked in. Mark, looking even taller and skinnier than I remembered, came out from behind the counter.

“Hey, Steve. Long time no see. You looking for something special?”

“I’m shopping for information.”

I saw a bit of disappointment on his face, but he covered it. “How can I help?”

“You know a woman named Rita Gaines?”

“Yuk. Nasty bitch.”

“Yeah, that’s what most people say. You have a dog?”

He shook his head. “I was dating a guy who did. Awful little dachshund with the worst name ever.”

I tried to remember but couldn’t. “What was it?”

“Judy’s Last Song. You can’t get gayer than that. A dachshund, and Judy Garland.” He shook his head. “It’s a wonder we lasted as long as we did.”

“So how did you meet Rita? Through this guy and his dog?”

“Yeah. Judy hated me, and every time I came over she peed. He thought it would be good for the two of us to bond—me and Judy, I mean, not me and Rita. We went to the farm a couple of times for training lessons, but I couldn’t stand her, and I couldn’t stand the dog. Eventually I couldn’t stand the guy either.”

“You know somebody killed her, right?”

“We didn’t stay in touch. But I’m not surprised. I hope someone sicced a Rottweiler on her, or a pit bull.”

“Poison,” I said.

“Ooh, a woman’s weapon. I always wondered if she was a dyke. Maybe some disgruntled lover. I know I might have poisoned the guy I was seeing if I hadn’t broken up with him.”

That was an interesting idea. Had Rita had any romantic connections, either male or female? I made a note to ask Rick.

It didn’t appear that Mark had much of a motive to kill Rita Gaines. At least he was one more suspect knocked off my list. I thanked him, and started walking toward the door. As I went, I noticed a framed photograph leaning up against an old table, of a couple in the rain standing on a street in what looked like Paris. I stopped to look at it.

“The photographer’s name is Francois Regaud,” Mark said. “He was a French photojournalist of the same era as Cartier-Bresson. Nowhere near as well known, though.”

I liked it and thought Lili might, too. “How much?”

He leaned the picture forward and looked at the back. “I have $250 on it, but I’ll give it to you for $200.”

I gulped. “You think it’s too expensive for a first real gift?” I asked. “We’ve only been dating a couple of months.”

“I think it’s perfect. She likes photography?”

“She’s a photojournalist herself.”

“Then this is just right for her. It’s romantic, it’s beautiful, and she’ll connect to the photographer. I’ll even knock off another ten percent because I know it’s going to a good home.”

I paid for the picture and walked back out to Ferry Street, carrying it under my arm. Traffic was still backed up, and up ahead I saw the flashing red and blue lights of a squad car parked in the Drunken Hessian’s lot. My first thought was that someone had sped through the intersection after waiting too long, and caused an accident.

A young officer, probably no older than my Eastern students, was on the sidewalk talking to the heavyset woman who’d been lumbering across the street. As I approached I heard him saying, “Bethea, I’ve told you this before. You need a different hobby. You can’t just walk back and forth across the street, stopping traffic.”

“I got rights,” the woman said. “I can cross the street. There ain’t no law against it.”

“Get in the car, Bethea. I’m taking you home.”

Traffic was finally moving smoothly through the intersection as I walked up to the curb. A couple of cars honked at Bethea as the cop forced her into his back seat, and she waved at them.

When I got to the café, Gail was sitting out front with Rochester, with a big piece of carrot cake on the table in front of her. “You bought that for Lili, didn’t you?” she asked, as I rested the photo against the wall of the café.

“Yeah. You think she’ll like it?”

“How can she resist? Paris, lovers, the rain? I wish I had a boyfriend who bought me pictures like that.” She petted Rochester once more, then stood up and went back into the café. I ate the carrot cake she’d left for me and paid my bill, then took Rochester and the photograph home. When I was settled, I called Rick again, and this time I reached him.

“I’ve been doing my Joe Hardy routine, like you asked,” I said. “Pip Forrest’s parents are school teachers, and I think any parent who names his kid after a hobbit doesn’t sound homicidal to me.”

“You’d be surprised. But go on.”

I told him about visiting Madd About Shoes with Lili, and then about my trip to Doylestown to meet with Jerry Fujimoto. “We can knock both of them off the list. I don’t think either of them could get close enough to Rita to poison her. Paula left Rita on very bad terms, and Jerry told me Rita wouldn’t let him on her property.”

“Yeah, I’m hearing a lot of that.”

“Then on my way home, I stopped by Mark Figueroa’s store. The dog he was training wasn’t even his, and he broke up with the guy anyway.”

“So nothing you did panned out.”

I guess I got defensive. “Mark asked a good question -- did Rita have any disgruntled lovers?”

“Not that I’ve heard. I’ve talked to a couple of her friends, and some cousins in New York, and none of them mentioned any romance in her life.”

“Oh, one more thing. Lili dragged me out yesterday to meet this ex-boyfriend of hers, an investigative reporter for the
Wall Street Journal
. He’s looking into Rita’s death.”

“The
Wall Street Journal
? What the hell for?”

“He said there are some problems cropping up with her investment funds. You know anything about that?”

“Not at all. He give you any clues?”

“Not a one. Except he mentioned that he knew the college had invested some money with her.”

“I can’t see any connection,” Rick said. He paused for a minute. “So. An old boyfriend, huh?”

“Yeah. Not my favorite way to spend a Sunday morning, I can tell you.”

“How was she with him?”

“Not very happy,” I said. “Which made me happy.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“What do you want me to do now?” I asked. “Keep going with more of the people who bought dogs from Rita?”

“Hold off on that,” Rick said. “I’m going back full tilt on Rita first thing tomorrow morning.”

“What happened? You nabbed the orchid thief?”

“Not exactly. I reached out to this national organization of orchid breeders, and they put out some feelers for me. Turns out there’s an epidemic of orchid theft up and down the East Coast, and the FBI is on the case. I turned over my files to an agent from the Philly office.”

“Wow, look at you. Consorting with the FBI.”

“At least I’m on the right side of them,” Rick said.

That stopped me. Of course Rick knew everything about my rap sheet—what I hadn’t told him, he’d figured out on his own.

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything,” Rick said. “Just tossing shit. You know.”