Authors: Laurien Berenson

Doggie Day Care Murder (3 page)

BOOK: Doggie Day Care Murder

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“And the ones that are?”

“They call in advance and make an appointment with Steve or Candy.”

The teen sounded triumphant. As if clearly the entire problem we were having had been my fault for not knowing the correct procedure and calling ahead.

Duly noted, but I was already there now. And a lone teenager guarding the front desk wasn't enough of a deterrent to keep me from accomplishing what I'd come to do.

“Who are Steve and Candy?” I asked.

“Steve and Candy Pine. They're the owners. If you had read the brochure or seen the advertising, you'd know that.”

“Or presumably if I'd heard the word of mouth.”

She stared at me blankly.

Right. I'd forgotten. Sarcasm didn't work.

At least she wasn't blinking.

“How about this?” I said. “Are the Pines here?”

“Of course. They're always here. This is their business.”

“Could one of them give me a tour?”

She glanced down at a calendar on the desk. As if she really needed to check. “You don't have an appointment.”

“I'm pretty sure we've established that. But just for the heck of it, let's try calling them and asking, okay?”

“I guess I could do that.”

She picked up the phone reluctantly, then turned her back and shielded her mouth for the duration of a brief phone call, as if she was afraid I might listen in.

Which, of course, I would have.

“Why don't you take a seat,” she said at the end. “Steve will be right in.”

“Thank you.” I gave her a perky smile of my own. “Now, was that so hard?”

Apparently so, judging by the look I got in return.

So far, I hadn't made any friends at Pine Ridge Canine Care Center. I could only hope things went better with the owner.

S
teve Pine was cute. Like seriously cute.

Okay, I know. I'm married and a new mother. I'm not supposed to be noticing things like that. But right now, I'm taking no responsibility for my wayward hormones.

So let me tell you again in case you missed it the first time. This guy was a doll.

He came striding through a door in the back wall of the room, his walk easy and confident, his smile self-assured. His eyes were so blue that I wondered for a moment if the color could possibly be real. Steve wore his dark hair long, and a narrow leather strip gathered it into a ponytail at his nape.

Like the receptionist, he was dressed in a crisp white polo shirt and creased khakis. The outfit looked better on him.

He didn't spare the teenager a glance as he crossed the reception area. Instead, those blue eyes found mine and held them, never wavering as he drew near. This was a man who knew how to focus.

I think the temperature in the room rose ten degrees in the time it took him to reach me. I was tempted to lift a hand and fan my face like an old-fashioned Southern belle.

Thankfully, before I could move he held out his hand, and said, “I'm Steve Pine. Nice to meet you. I hope you haven't been waiting long.”

“Not at all.”

I was so dazzled, the words didn't even feel like a lie. I gave myself a mental kick.

“I'm Melanie Travis,” I replied. “And it's a pleasure to meet you too.”

Steve nodded as though he were confirming my response. Which he probably was. No doubt women often felt that making his acquaintance was a pleasure.

“I hear you're looking for a daytime situation for your dog.”

“For a friend's dog, actually. She has a Golden Retriever named Berkley, and she's about to start working again for the first time in years. Naturally, she doesn't want to leave him alone all day.”

“That's why we're here,” Steve replied heartily. “It's our job to allay dog owners' fears about their pets' quality of life. We want every single one of our clients to know that their dogs are in the best possible hands.”

Well, at least he wasn't lacking in enthusiasm. This guy would have made a great professional cheerleader. Or maybe a team mascot.

“I'm sure you must have questions for me,” Steve said. “Go ahead and fire away.”

“What I'd really like is to take a tour of your facilities, if that's possible. Then maybe we can talk along the way?”

“Perfect!” Steve agreed.

He turned to the teen. She was now sitting behind the desk, hands neatly folded on the counter and looking rather angelic. I've worked with kids for too many years to trust a pose like that, but her easy acquiesence didn't seem to bother Steve.

“Madison, you have everything under control here?”

“I do.”

“Excellent. Then we're on our way.”

We exited through the door in the back of the room, which led to a short hallway with offices opening up on either side.

“This is where Candy and I do the drudge work,” said Steve. “Accounting, working out the schedules, ordering supplies. Nothing interesting to see here, but it's the quickest way to get back to the compound.”

“Compound?” I repeated, peering into each of the rooms as we passed by. “How much land do you have here?”

Both offices looked more functional than luxurious. One had masses of paperwork scattered across every flat surface, an empty dog crate sitting in one corner, and a dead plant hanging by the window. The other office was much smaller and held only a desk whose top was pristine and a comfy-looking chair by the back wall that was covered in pet hair.

“We have three acres, which is terrific,” Steve said. “Especially since the price of real estate around here keeps going up and up. We were lucky to buy in when we did.”

“How long ago was that?”

Steve passed through a door at the end of the hall and I followed. We exited the clapboard building and went down two steps to a gravel path that branched out in several directions. Steve paused and looked out over the facility with pride.

“Two years. I can't believe we've accomplished as much as we have in such a short amount of time. There was definitely a huge, untapped market for the services we provide to the community. We like to think of ourselves as a full-care facility. Anything your dog needs or wants, we'll find a way to make it happen.”

In front of us was another building, this one much larger than the one we'd just left. Off to the right were a number of fenced paddocks, most containing a variety of durable outdoor toys. I saw everything from big, bright rubber balls to open canvas tunnels.

Several of the pens were occupied. In one, a Dalmatian was chasing an Irish Setter carrying a large, hemp-colored chew toy in his mouth. In another, two Vizslas and a Scottish Deerhound were resting side by side in the shade. Their heads were up, their gazes intent, and I realized that the three of them were watching a man who was working in an adjoining paddock, making repairs to a wooden climbing set.

He, too, was wearing the Pine Ridge uniform. In his case, however, the polo shirt he wore was grimy and untucked, and the spread of his stomach strained the seams of his rumpled khakis. As I watched, the man paused in what he was doing, pulled a kerchief out of a back pocket, and ran it up over his balding head. Noticing us standing across the way, he lifted his hand in a desultory wave.

Steve returned the gesture with a brief wave of his own before turning back to me. “That's Larry. He does maintenance for us. Of course, it's vitally important to us that all our equipment be kept in perfect working order.”

“Of course,” I echoed under my breath. While I appreciated Steve's enthusiasm, the nonstop hyperbole of his sales pitch was beginning to wear a little thin.

“These are the outdoor play areas,” he explained, as though I couldn't have figured that out for myself. “We have indoor playrooms as well, but weather permitting we like all of the dogs that are physically able to spend at least part of the day outside. Many go out in groups of two or three, according to their owners' preference, and of course they're always supervised.”

“What do you mean physically able?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, some of the dogs that come here are with us because they require special care and it's impossible for their owners to be there for them during the day. Some have chronic illnesses and require medicine, others are simply geriatric. Nathan, for example, who's one of our regulars. He's everyone's favorite.”

Steve started walking again. He was heading toward the second building and I hurried to catch up.

“Nathan?” I said.

“An eighteen-year-old Wirehaired Dachshund. Still spry for his age and as endearing as he can possibly be. He's been here with us from the very beginning. All the staff have grown so attached to him, he feels like a member of the family.”

“That's a great age,” I said.

“Nathan's a great dog. And of course his owner is wonderful too. She wants nothing but the best for him. This business . . .” Steve paused for a moment before continuing, “Well, it
is
a business, but let's just say it doesn't always feel that way. We become very fond of the dogs that come and stay with us. They're such a part of our everyday lives, how could we possibly help it? We've formed our own little community here. Everyone works in harmony with everyone else. It makes for a peaceful, low-stress environment, both for the dogs and for everyone else, and that's just the way we like it.”

“It sounds wonderful,” I said honestly.

Steve was quite the salesman, but that wasn't the reason that my impression of Pine Ridge was growing increasingly favorable. More important than what he had to say was the fact that all the dogs I'd seen thus far had appeared contented and well cared for. It wasn't hard to imagine that Berkley would be happy here.

“Let's go into the Dog House,” Steve said, heading toward the bigger building. “I'll show you the rest of the accommodations.”

I stopped myself just short of laughing.

“I know, I know.” He caught my eye and smiled. “The name does sound a little silly. But we didn't want to call it a kennel. That word seemed to convey such negative connotations about confinement and isolation. Which is the opposite of what we're aiming for.”

As we approached the entrance, I realized there was a square, cut-out seam in the door's lower panel. The Dog House had its own doggie door. Its presence seemed superfluous under the circumstances. Considering the amount of supervision I'd seen, it was hard to imagine that dogs might be allowed to come and go at will.

“Use that much?” I asked as Steve drew the door open.

“Not at all, unfortunately. As you can probably guess, its function is strictly decorative. Just another small attempt on our part to make the dogs feel more at home while they're here. Indeed, we like to think that our facility is more like a doggie spa than what you might picture as your typical boarding situation.”

If the term spa implied that the accommodations would be luxurious, then Steve's description wasn't far off the mark. Inside, the building didn't even remotely resemble any kennel I'd ever seen.

Instead of pens, the dogs were housed in individual rooms that were large enough for several compatible dogs to share comfortably. Most contained furniture, usually low chairs and couches that were easily accessible from the floor. Television sets were mounted on the walls.

Peeking in through the viewing windows as we walked past, I saw a Maltese watching
Animal Planet
and an Afghan who seemed fascinated by the flashing lights and screaming contestants on a game show.

“Who controls the remote?” I asked.

I'd been joking, but Steve took the question seriously.

“There are foot pedals on the floor beneath the screens,” he informed me. “It doesn't take most dogs long to learn that if they step on them, they can change the channel. There's also an on/off switch if they would prefer quiet.”

Speaking of quiet, in a building that housed such a multitude of dogs, it was somewhat surprising not to hear any barking. Either the walls of the individual compartments were soundproof, or else the occupants were too content to stand around making noise.

Score another point in Pine Ridge's favor.

“How many dogs do you have here on a usual day?” I asked.

“As you can imagine, it varies. The number is usually somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. Most of our business is made up of regulars, dogs whose owners live in the area and work full-time jobs, so we see those clients every weekday. But we also get the occasional drop-in. People are supposed to make reservations in advance, but if they show up and we have space available, we try to be accommodating.”

Steve and I were standing in a wide, brightly lit aisleway situated between two long rows of rooms: individual compartments on one side and multidog playrooms on the other. Abruptly, a door toward the end of the hall burst open and a woman came hurrying out.

She was small and dainty, and wearing the outfit I'd come to expect: a pristine white polo shirt and pressed khakis. Frizzy blond curls bobbed around her head like a halo. Her face was tipped downward; she was studying something written on a clipboard she held in her hand.

“Good news,” she said without looking up. “I finally got Bingo Johnson squared away, and I've just placed a second call to the Abernathys. When do you want me toâ”

“Candy.”

Steve's voice was low, his tone moderate. It stopped the woman in her tracks.

“Oh, hello,” she said, finally lifting her eyes and taking in the two of us. “I didn't realize you were busy.”

“Obviously not. This is Melanie Travis. She's taking a tour to see if she would like to become a client.” Steve lifted a hand to motion me forward. “Melanie, meet my sister, Candy.”

Steve and Candy Pine, the receptionist had said. I'd just assumed the owners were husband and wife. Really, you'd think I'd know better.

Candy's handshake was firm and brisk. My fingers throbbed a bit when she released them. Maybe she was compensating for her small size.

“So what have you already seen and how do you like the place so far?” she asked.

Steve shot her a look. “You don't have to answer that if you don't want to,” he said quickly. “My sister can be very direct. Some people find that off-putting.”

“I don't mind,” I said. “I think your place looks terrific.”

Candy smirked at her brother. I didn't have to be a relative to know she was saying,
I told you so
.

BOOK: Doggie Day Care Murder

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