Give the Dog a Bone (15 page)

“It’s mine, actually. Someone stole it from my office.”

“You’re pulling my leg!”

“No, I’m not.”

“Why would they do that?”

There was no reason to lie about this. “It used to contain a phone message from Ruby, which may have also held an important clue as to who killed her.”

“How would the killer know that? How would they know she was talking to your recorder? Or who you were?”

“The person must’ve overheard her end of the conversation. Or Ruby told whoever it was who she’d called.”

Yolanda let out a slow breath. “Two people dead already. The killer thinks you might’ve heard something you shouldn’t’ve heard.” She shook her head. “You could be in a mess of trouble.”

“Tell me about it.” Pulling a tissue from my pocket to keep myself from overlaying key fingerprints with my own, I retrieved the larger pieces to give to the police.

“Sure wish somebody would lock that woman up before she kills again.”

Meaning Rachel again, I thought. As much respect as I had for Yolanda’s street smarts, I was still more than a little skeptical when it came to her deadset determination that the killer was Rachel Taylor. To my knowledge, Yolanda suspected Rachel because she’d heard her drive past Ken’s house the night of the murder—which Rachel had explained—and a gut instinct.

Would Rachel have taken the inexplicable risk of returning to the open space next to the trailer park with my recorder and smashing it here? That seemed too unlikely. Maybe it was another trailer-park resident, whom I hadn’t met. Yolanda was surely not a good enough actress to have feigned her concern for T-Rex just now. Ruby was dead; they’d been the only two residents I’d met.

I saw Yolanda to her home. She insisted upon giving me some zucchini for my trouble. I didn’t bother to tell her that I’m equally as un-fond of zucchini as I am of cucumbers. This particular one was larger than a Scottish terrier.

I drove to the police station and the receptionist—if that’s what they’re called even in a police station—summoned the officer to whom I’d given my statement. I gave him the remains of the answering machine. He lectured me about “removing evidence.” I told him the fragments were still there if he wanted proof of its original location. Then I tried to offer him a terrier-sized zucchini as compensation for my muffing his evidence, but he refused.

In attempt to redirect his suspicions away from me and, I hoped,
toward the killer
, I asked, “Did you ever find out whose bones those were in Ken Culberson’s yard?” I already knew the answer was yes and figured that he would answer me, now that this had already been reported in the press.

Indeed, he nodded. “We matched dental records. ’Bout two months ago, somebody dug up a grave and stole some of the . . . remains.”

“Someone did that to try to push Ken over the edge, I think. To convince him that he killed his ex-wife . . . maybe drive him crazy so that he’d be declared mentally incompetent.”

“Who would do that?”

“His ex-wife, who wasn’t dead in the first place. If she’d gotten him locked up, maybe she thought she’d get control of his fortune.”

He eyed me, saying nothing.

“Look, I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job, but I feel like I’m the killer’s target. I’m the one with the dog who inherited all of Ken’s money.”

“Mary Culberson has an airtight alibi the night of the murder.”

“Airtight?” I repeated.

“She was at the police station in Longmont. For a DUI. Didn’t get out till eight A.M. the next morning.”

I muttered some exit line and left, driving back to my office. Back at my desk, I sat staring straight ahead for several minutes. The realization that the killer wasn’t Mary after all had stunned me. Mary might well be the only person I’d ever met who struck me as heartless enough to kill. After all, she was the one who had been so ruthless in her pursuit of Ken’s money. She’d faked her own coma and death. This was someone who, to my mind,
would
give a dog human bones simply to drive that dog’s owner insane. Yet someone
else
had murdered Ken?

I jumped at the sound of my door being opened and whirled around, prepared to launch into fight-then-flight mode. It was Tracy Truett, my disc-jockey friend, who was not usually prone to dropping in unannounced. She was wearing her typical thick makeup and a brightly colored pants suit.

She put her hands on her ample hips, glared at me, and said, “Do the words ‘softball game’ mean anything to you?”

They did, and I cringed. Tracy was captain of a co-rec softball team that both Russell and I played for, which was sponsored by Tracy’s radio station. “We had a game last night, didn’t we? I forgot all about it. I’m sorry. And Russell’s out of—”

“Town. I know. He called me from California two days ago to say he couldn’t make it. I had a feeling you might forget without him around to remind you, so I tried calling you all yesterday afternoon. What’s up with your recorder? It wasn’t working.”

“It . . . was unplugged yesterday. It’s all hooked up again now.” I glanced at my watch. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the air right about now?”

“My show just ended. Seven A.M. to ten A.M. The hot hours for morning commuters.”

My ignorance of her time slot probably made it all too obvious that I was not a regular listener, but if that bothered her she gave me no indication. She plopped down in a chair, ran her hand across her short, spiked hair, and said, “And speaking of my show, what do you know about this other murder? Some woman. Lived near that guy with the billionaire dog.”

“She’s not ‘some woman,’ ” I snapped. “Her name’s Ruby Benjamin. I didn’t really know her, but other people did, and now she’s dead. And the dog’s a millionaire, not a billionaire.”

Tracy held up her palms. “Mea culpa. Didn’t mean to be an insensitive hard-ass.”

I held Tracy’s eyes for a moment and sighed. I’d snapped at Tracy because she was guilty of portraying the same indifference to a person’s death that
I
was. “You’re just doing your job, the same way I’m doing mine. Business as usual. With all due respect to John Donne, the bell doesn’t toll very loudly ‘for thee,’ when it’s someone you’ve never met, or only spoke to a couple of times.” I sighed again. “Their dogs are orphaned now. Ken’s and Ruby’s. And I feel for them.”

“Sure you do,” she said softly. “That’s how you are.”

I clicked my tongue, not wanting to discuss my sympathies with Tracy. “To answer your question, I don’t know anything about the woman’s death. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you, because you’d put it on the air.”

She spread her hands. “Like you said yourself, that’s my job. It’s local talk radio.” She leaned directly into my vision so that I couldn’t help but meet her eyes. “Plus, you’re lying. You couldn’t fool a beagle with that acting job of yours. So what gives? Did this woman witness the first murder?”

“Tracy, I really don’t know.”

“Did you work with her dog?”

I hesitated for just a moment, which was enough of a reaction for Tracy to smile and snap her fingers in her small triumph.

“I
knew
you were involved. The moment a dog’s a big story in this town, you’re right in on it. So pardon the pun, but I’ve got to play newshound here. Tell me, Allie, is this a second dog that’s going to inherit something?”

“I’ve got a large zucchini in my back seat. Would you settle for that instead of a story? Because that’s all I’m going to give you, Tracy. That and my apology for missing last night’s game.”

She got to her feet. “Ah, don’t sweat it. We won without you. But, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll take the zucchini.” She looked at me, her expression softening. “Just be careful, Allie. You could be in the killer’s crosshairs.”

Chapter 15

The rest of the day passed peacefully; my client sessions went well. When I arrived home, Maggie even allowed me to greet her last, accepting her bottom rung in the canine hierarchy.

The weekend, as well, passed without a hitch. These being the easiest days for working clients to schedule house visits, I had a heavy schedule. I went to Russell’s condominium on Sunday and fed his fish, watered his plants, and left him a note in the top drawer of his dresser. I agonized over the wording so long that I went through half a note pad in the process, but finally was satisfied that I’d struck the right blend between chummy and romantic.

Monday was supposed to serve as my one day of rest for the week, but Ken’s funeral was that afternoon. There were more media members than mourners in attendance. This was bad news for me, because I’d hoped to discover a grieving, dog-loving mourner, but none seemed to be in attendance—not counting Yolanda, who was there, her eyes red and puffy. She still came the closest to filling the bill. I couldn’t help but notice that Rachel Taylor, who was also in attendance, was situated on the very opposite side of the funeral parlor as Yolanda.

There was a reception afterwards, with a table of cookies and sandwich fixings set up in the vestibule, though I had no appetite. I gave a quick word of sympathy to Arlen, whose eyes, like Yolanda’s, were red-rimmed. He looked ill at ease in his black suit, which reeked of cigarette smoke.

Dr. Thames, also in a black suit but looking perfectly natural in his, almost bumped into me as I stepped away from Arlen’s receiving line. He looked as displeased to see me as I did to see him, but he said, “Allida, I apologize for my bad manners when I called you at your office the other day. I was upset at Ken’s death and lashed out at you. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” I replied. He nodded, turned on a heel, and walked over to where Rachel Taylor was standing. He and I were indeed colleagues of a sort now—both of us suspected and disliked the other in equal measure because of a former client’s death.

I scanned the room, curious to see if Mary had been a late arrival at her ex-husband’s funeral, but there was no sign of her. Theodora—her long-haired, purple-clad psychic—was there, however, which
did
surprise me. Our eyes met, and she pursed her lips and shook her head. I managed to resist calling out: See? I’m psychic, too; you’re thinking that my aura is still a deep, funereal black.

While I was still glowering at Theodora, a voice behind me said, “Hello, Allida.” I turned to see Rachel Taylor had made her way over to me. She was wearing a dark blue dress that was plain but flattering to her tall frame. Her short blond hair was neatly combed, giving her a distinctly professional appearance.

“Hello, Rachel.”

“Depressingly small turnout for such a warm-hearted man,” she said with a sigh.

“No kidding,” I muttered. “I’d hoped to meet some nice, deserving relative of Ken’s here, but no such luck. Preferably someone covered in dog hair, sporting an ‘I heart-sign dogs’ bumper sticker.”

She frowned. “I don’t envy you. I think if Ken had asked me to find a home for Maggie, I’d just keep her myself.” She gave me a wink. “Maybe hire you to help my own dog learn to share her territory.”

Surprised at her statement and, having heard Yolanda Clay’s frequent accusations regarding Rachel, I was a bit suspicious. “You’d originally said I shouldn’t consider giving Maggie to you. Are you making yourself a candidate, after all?”

She widened her eyes a little and gave me a sheepish smile. “Well, actually, I haven’t given the idea much thought. What I meant was that’s what I’d do literally
if
I were in your shoes . . . that you should keep Maggie yourself. Ken had told me he was hoping you’d be—”

She broke off suddenly and looked past my shoulder where a straggler from the service had emerged from the main room behind us. It was Yolanda, her features stony in defiance of the dampness of her cheeks.

“Hello, Yolanda,” Rachel said.

Yolanda continued walking without acknowledging Rachel’s presence. She brushed past us and headed out of the building without a second glance.

Rachel stared after her and said quietly, “Poor woman. Both of her immediate neighbors murdered. Let’s hope the police make an arrest. Soon.”

When I awoke on Tuesday morning, I experienced the sinking feeling that this brief respite from turmoil had been the eye of the hurricane. For a little added security, I brought Pavlov, my beautiful—and exquisitely well-trained, if I do say so myself—German shepherd into work with me.

Before I’d had the opportunity to put away my keys, I got a phone call from Terry Thames, who said he needed to speak to me “right away.” My first impulse was to decline—not being in the mood to serve as a target for his hostile superiority, but I was curious.

I glanced at my watch. “I can manage a brief meeting, as long as you can come here. I have a client arriving in half an hour.”

“This shouldn’t take place at either of our offices,” he said. “For all we know, they could be bugged.”

“Bugged?” For a mental health professional, he was sounding certifiably paranoid.

“We can’t be too careful. Somebody has been leaking information to the media.”

Uh, oh. Tracy Truett could be at it again—digging up stories like the newshound that she was. Or rather, the sensationalist that she was. “What kind of information?”

“That Ken Culberson had been receiving therapy from me, and that I’d been using HypnoReiki.”

“What’s that?” It sounded like some sort of exotic African beast.

“Reiki is an ancient Japanese deep-relaxation technique, which can be combined with other therapies, such as hypnosis. Few people are even familiar enough to know the word ‘Reiki,’ yet somehow my use of it during Ken’s treatments has become fodder for a local radio talk show.”

I winced at the description “local radio talk show.” My friend Tracy was behind this, all right, and that made me immediately feel somewhat responsible for Terry’s predicament. “Where do you want to meet?”

“How about the park at Canyon and Broadway? Near the old train.”

“Okay.”

“When will you be free?”

“After my session. Ten-fifteen.”

“That will have to do.” He hung up.

I put Pavlov in Russell’s office, where she, unlike Maggie, waited so quietly that although my rambunctious little client was aware of her presence and sniffed at the door several times, his owner was not.

Afterward, Pavlov sat up the moment I opened Russell’s door. She’d been lying in front of his couch and picked up her head to await command, her beautiful brown eyes meeting mine. She deserved a nice walk in the park.

Terry Thames was pacing in front of the antique train engine in the small park at the intersection of Canyon and Broadway when we arrived several minutes later. Although the morning sun was bright and the air warm, his arms were wrapped tightly across his chest. Once again, he wore chinos and a sports shirt—yellow this time—but his white hair was tousled. His dark glasses masked his eyes, but he gave me a quick smile, then turned his attention to Pavlov. “He doesn’t bite, does he?”

I couldn’t resist saying, “Not unless I tell her to.”

He squared his shoulders. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem.” I instructed Pavlov to sit, but Terry seemed too agitated to sit down himself, so we remained standing on the concrete walkway by the train. “What’s going on?”

“I wish I knew. Someone’s trying to make trouble for me. I didn’t listen to the show myself, but an associate told me that some anonymous female caller to a radio show yesterday accused me of being the mastermind behind everything.”

“Behind what? The murders?”

He nodded. “That and Ken’s delusions. The caller knew more about my specific treatments with Ken than she should have. The worst part is, my associate said that the talk-show host asked
where
she got the information, and she said she got it straight from me, not from Ken. That’s nonsense, of course. I never divulge information about a client’s treatments. Never.”

“It could have been a crank caller. Someone who just wanted to hear herself on the radio.”

Terry was already shaking his head and said, “The caller had to know Ken well enough to know that he was somewhat delusional,
and
that he was getting treatment from me.”

“This caller accused you of trying to get at Ken’s fortune by driving Ken crazy?”

“Something like that.”

The suggestion made enough sense to bother me. I’d suspected that Mary had been doing this. If the intention was to have Ken declared mentally incompetent, as a therapist, Terry would know how to push his buttons. “What a bizarre accusation. I wonder who would have even thought of something like that.” Other than me, I silently added.

“No kidding. And even though it’s total bullshit, with all the competition for therapists in this town, I can kiss my practice good-bye. I listened to the show myself this morning, and several callers were talking about their own ignorant fears of therapy and hypnosis. My name came up more than once. I was going to call in myself, but I knew that would just make everything worse.” He massaged his forehead. “I could lose my license. Who knows what people are willing to believe?” He whipped his glasses off, then stared into my eyes. “So, I need to know. Was it you? Were you the anonymous caller?”

“Of course not! Why would I do such a thing?”

He stared at me for a moment. “Then it must have been Mary. She denied it, too, but you can’t believe anything that woman says. She’s the only other person who knew about the content of my therapy sessions with Ken.”

“Mary Culberson?”

“Yes.” He put his sunglasses back on.

“You know that she’s alive?”

He nodded, his expression grim. “Last week I found that out, yes. That’s why I didn’t want you to begin working with Maggie right away. Mary knew Ken was leaving his money to Maggie. I figured she’d come barging back into Ken’s life the moment she heard about his having hired a dog trainer. See, her ace in the hole was that no one
wanted
Maggie, because she was so untrained. I’d hoped to have the chance to prepare Ken for the eventual shock of his ex-wife returning from the grave.”

“I see.” This made sense to me, and I now felt bad about having had such a low opinion of him.

“Obviously Mary’s being alive wasn’t news to
you
, either. I gather she came to you and demanded you give Maggie to her.”

“The very same morning I discovered Ken’s body.”

“Mary stormed into my office, too, the day after that. Claimed that she was going to sue me for malpractice on her late
husband’s
behalf. She said she was going to sue you, too.”

I couldn’t help but smile a little, despite the grim circumstances. “She’s been threatening me with lawsuits, all right. But she’ll have a hard time getting a golden retriever to testify in court against me.”

He looked at me, his lips downturned. “I wouldn’t take it lightly, if I were you. Mary will have no trouble finding a lawyer willing to pursue her case against you. Even if it’s unwinnable, they’ll make your life miserable.”

“It’s already no great shakes,” I muttered. “The caller wasn’t necessarily Mary, you know. It could have been any friend of Ken’s whom he’d discussed his therapy with. Someone who wanted to show off on the air and got a big kick out of implying that you were violating doctor-patient privilege.”

“Do you have any ideas about who that might be?”

His voice was so adamant that I decided there was no way I would share my thoughts about the woman’s identity. Yolanda was a possibility. But she’d seemed so unaware of Ken’s financial standing. For Ken to have told this mystery woman about that plus his therapy treatments, it had to have been someone who knew him fairly well: Mary—as he already suspected. Theodora. Even Joanne Palmer, perhaps. “I’m afraid not.” I gave him a reassuring smile. “I have to get back to my office, Terry. These . . . accusations against you will blow over, just as soon as Ken’s killer is behind bars and all of this drops out of the news.”

“Blow over. Sure.” He sat down on the bench and made no move to rise.

“Don’t you have any patients this morning?”

He shook his head and raked his fingers through his white hair. “They canceled. They offered reasonable excuses, but I’m sure the real reason is that now they’re scared of undergoing HypnoReiki therapy with me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say. Terry Thames was still not my favorite person, but he deserved better than this. I patted my thigh, and Pavlov rose and got into perfect heel position as we headed back up Broadway.

Upon reaching my office, the first thing I did was call Tracy at the radio station. Judging from her “hello,” she was a bit harried. That made two of us. It was bad enough that I was involved in a murder investigation without having rumors broadcast on the radio by someone I considered a friend.

“Tracy, who was this anonymous caller on your show yesterday who supposedly knew about Ken’s therapy treatments?”

“I don’t know, Al.”

I furrowed my brow at “Al,” but decided I’d been called worse.

“It was some woman, calling from a pay phone,” Tracy explained. “She really
was
anonymous.”

“You’re serious? You actually put some anonymous caller on the air without checking her credentials or anything?”

“Sure. Why the hell not? It’s a talk show, not a witness stand.”

She had a point there, but I rolled my eyes in annoyance. “Describe her voice to me.”

“It was halfway between Minnie Mouse and Eleanor Roosevelt.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Well? Holy crow! It’s a zoo here. The phone rings off the hook all the time I’m on the air. I haven’t had a minute to myself, and I was trying to eat a bagel.” Her next words were all garbled as she added, “Which is delicious, by the way.”

“How was the woman’s grammar? Did she say ‘ain’t’ a lot and drop the G on I-N-G words?”