Hot Dog (6 page)

“Davey had a great day. Pam said the kid's a natural rider. I'll let him tell you all about it. We'll be there in ten minutes, okay?”

“Great.” I hung up the phone, got Eve her biscuit, filled her bowl with fresh, cold water.

And all while, my thoughts were spinning. I'd had power outages before; power surges, too. They'd never turned on all the lights. But if that didn't explain what had happened, what did?

H
aving followed Aunt Peg's example and happily devoted the majority of my free time to the sport of dogs, I've often wished there was a way to turn my avocation into a career. Unfortunately, unlike my new sister-in-law, Bertie, I lack the talent to be a professional handler. And though I'm now a pretty decent groomer, I've only worked on Poodles. Give me a Cocker, a terrier, or a Maltese and I wouldn't have a clue. As for dog training . . . well, let's just say, Poodles are easy.

Fortunately for the state of my bank account, however, I don't lack for gainful employment. I'm a former special ed. teacher, currently working as a special needs tutor at Howard Academy, a prestigious private school in Greenwich, Connecticut.

There are many things I love about my job. Among them is the fact that most of the school's classrooms are housed in a turn-of-the-century mansion that once belonged to robber baron, Joshua Howard. Another is that my students are a lively, intelligent, and highly sophisticated bunch who challenge me every day. But the thing I like best is Howard Academy's lenient policy toward certain aspects of my life—namely the Poodles. Faith has been coming with me to school for more than a year, and now that Eve is old enough to have basic manners, she's been accorded the same privilege.

My students love having the dogs in their classroom. They're also not above using the Poodles as an excuse to try to avoid work. I figure their antics are a small price to pay for the luxury of not having to leave my dogs home alone all day.

On Monday, the school day flew by. With temperatures nearing sixty and spring vacation due to start at the end of the week, nobody's mind was on work. I could hardly blame my students for their inattention. Spring fever was infecting me, too.

When the last bell rang, I was already packed and ready to go. The Poodles scampered ahead of me, down the corridor and out to the back parking lot. By the time I reached the Volvo, Faith had her front paws up on the side door and was gazing in the window. If I'd have given her the keys, she probably could have unlocked the doors and warmed up the car for me.

I know what you're thinking, but Poodles are like that.

I stopped at home long enough to drop off the dogs and make sure Bob had met Davey's school bus. The two of them were due at the pony farm for Davey's second riding lesson. Armed with a list from Pam, Bob and Davey had gone shopping the day before while I'd been in Rhode Island. Upon my return Davey had shown off his new outfit, which included a helmet, paddock boots, and leather chaps.

He spun around the living room, modeling the ensemble like a runway veteran. Bear in mind, this is my child we're talking about, the one who thinks it's okay to wear dirty clothes he finds on the floor if his mother doesn't get them into the hamper fast enough. Davey is not what you would call fashion forward.

“Chaps?” I whispered to Bob out of the side of my mouth. “He looks like a cowboy. I don't know much about horses, but I do know that was an English saddle Willow was wearing the other day.”

Having secured our approval of his finery, Davey was chasing Faith and Eve around the room. The Poodles seemed mostly unimpressed—they're not fashion forward either—and Davey's running was severely compromised by the new outfit.

“He's supposed to look like that,” Bob whispered back as the trio of ruffians skidded around our legs. “Trust me. Pam's instructions were very explicit. I didn't dare improvise a thing.”

Much as I would have liked to watch Davey's riding lesson, I had a prior commitment. A few months earlier, I'd gotten to know a friend of Bertie's who was running a pet-sitting business. When Sarah moved away over the winter, I'd been reluctantly persuaded to cover several of her clients until they could make other arrangements. In time, all but one had.

Phil Dutton lived and worked in Old Greenwich, but his job required him to commute to the city twice a week. Mondays and Thursdays his elderly dogs, Mutt and Maisie, were alone in the house for hours. My job was simply to go and break up the monotony of their long day. I let them out and played with them, tuned the TV to a channel they liked, and checked their water and food supplies.

I'd told Phil several times that he'd be better off with a pet-sitting service that could send someone over earlier in the afternoon. I'd even called around and gotten him some names. But Phil hated to make changes; and he'd decided that Mutt and Maisie were used to me. Since both were sweet old dogs, I couldn't bear to disappoint them.

A note on my kitchen counter confirmed that Bob and Davey had come and gone. I let Eve and Faith in from their run in the backyard, refilled their water bowl, handed out biscuits, and headed out.

My station wagon was sitting in the driveway. A light blue Mazda was parked in front of the house. Rich gave me a cheery wave from the driver's side. Jill smiled her perky smile. I growled under my breath.

I started to get into the Volvo, then changed my mind and strolled down to the street.

“Hey,” Rich said as Jill rolled down her window. “Find any dead bodies yet?”

“If I had, I'm sure you'd have heard about it.”

Jill made shooing motions with her hands. “Don't mind us. Just go on about your business. We're not going to get in your way.”

They were in my way
now
, I thought. Sitting there, watching my house. Watching me. I wondered whether they'd been at school earlier when I'd been too busy to notice. I wondered whether I should alert school security.

Taking such action would probably involve a conversation with Russell Hanover II, the school's headmaster, the kind of conversation I tried to avoid at all costs. Howard Academy was very well known in the right circles, but when it came to the media, the school kept a deliberately low profile. And when it came to Russell Hanover, I tried to keep a low profile as well.

“Have you been following me?” I asked.

I could have sworn Rich started to nod, but when Jill shook her head, he followed her cue. “Not following you,” she said firmly. “Just checking in every now and then, and picking up some background shots. You know, for when the story takes off.”

“There isn't going to be a story. Nothing's going to take off.” Abruptly I frowned. “After the dog show ended yesterday, where did you go?”

“Home,” Jill answered. “Just like you.”

Right. If they hadn't followed me, how did they know I'd come straight home? And what if, rather than following, they'd been leading the way? Was there a possibility they'd beaten me back and . . .

And what? I wondered. Gotten inside my house and turned on all the lights? What would have been the point? Even to me, the idea sounded pretty far-fetched.

I turned and stalked back to my car. As I backed the Volvo out of my driveway, Rich had the nerve to wave again. As if he wanted me to know he was ready. As if we were friends coordinating our efforts. Deliberately I kept both hands on the steering wheel and stifled the gesture I wanted to give him.

When I started down the street, the Mazda pulled out and fell into place behind me.

 

 

Phil Dutton lived in a small, older home on a crowded street near the railroad tracks in Old Greenwich. His was a bachelor's house, a commuter's house; comfortably, if sparsely, furnished and often a little messy. As far as Mutt and Maisie were concerned, however, I'm sure it was heaven on earth.

The two dogs were littermates of an indeterminate breed—Shih Tzu/terrier mix was my best guess—that Phil had rescued from the Stamford pound when they were puppies. Some miserable, coldhearted person had left the pair, small and shivering, in a box by the side of the Post Road. Rescued before they could freeze or starve, they'd been transported to the pound where Phil had found them. Now, eleven years later, Mutt and Maisie ruled Phil's house as if it was their own private kingdom, which, of course, it was.

Over my protests, Phil had given me a key to his house. “If anything ever happens to me,” he'd said, “I want to know that someone will be able to get in and take care of my babies.” And, having seen pictures of Faith and Eve, he'd offered to take my key and safeguard the Poodles for me. Luckily I knew I could count on Aunt Peg should the need arise. Though I was sure that Phil meant well, his offer wasn't anything I wanted to accept. I was hoping to find a way to sever our relationship, not enhance it.

As I unlocked the front door, I could hear the scramble of eager feet. Two leather leashes hung on a hook by the door. I grabbed them before dropping to my knees to greet the little dogs.

Though they were littermates, Maisie and Mutt didn't have much in common when it came to looks. Mutt had reddish hair that was long and curly, and a tail that flipped up over his back. Maisie's blond coat was shorter and wiry. Her ears stood up on the top of her head, and there was a devilish gleam in her dark eyes.

As always, Maisie greeted me by throwing herself into my arms. Her smooth pink tongue licked my neck, my ears, my face. Mutt was the shyer of the two, hanging back for just a second before allowing me to reach out and scratch under his chin.

“Time to go out,” I said. Two tails, one short, one long, whipped back and forth with delight. “Who wants to go for a walk?”

Our routine seldom varied. Mutt had to stop and sniff every bush in his tiny front yard on the way to the street. Maisie, accustomed to the delays, used the time to rub up against my legs like a cat and enjoy the warmth of the sun on her face. Finally we reached the sidewalk and were off, the dogs running at a sprightly gait that belied their age, toward a baseball field at the end of the road.

Forty minutes later, the two hairy monsters dragged me home with as much enthusiasm as they'd pulled me away earlier. If they'd been my dogs, I would have taught them how to walk on a leash properly. But since Phil didn't seem to mind their lack of manners, I simply wrapped one lead around each wrist and jogged along behind.

Back inside the house, both dogs headed purposefully for the kitchen. As I placed the leashes back on their hook, I could hear Mutt and Maisie slurping at the water bowl. I'd fill it again before I left, but in the meantime I needed to do a quick tour of the downstairs and make sure neither dog had had any accidents before my arrival.

Many of the homes along Phil's road had been remodeled in the last decade to take advantage of soaring real estate values in the area. Not this one. Its small windows and cramped, dark rooms still reflected its 1950s origins. Even the living room, with drapes open and TV on—tuned to
Animal Planet
for Mutt and Maisie's viewing enjoyment—caught little afternoon light. I was staring hard at the patterned rug, trying to pick out any abnormalities in the design when the hair on the back of my neck rose.

Someone was watching me.

Involuntarily, I whipped around. The room behind me was empty. Even Mutt and Maisie, who usually stuck like shadows during my visits, were nowhere to be seen. Frowning, I expelled a shaky breath. My gaze slid to the front window. There was no sign of the blue Mazda.

“Mutt? Maisie?” I lifted a hand and massaged the back of my neck. “Where are you guys?”

Hiding with guilty consciences, no doubt. They knew what I was doing.

I gave myself a mental shake and got back to work. The living room rug looked in need of a good vacuuming but was otherwise fine. On to the dining room, where I headed first for the table. One of the dogs persisted in thinking that if the evidence of a misdeed was hidden I'd never find it.

This room was as dimly lit as the one I'd just left. A light switch on the wall didn't help much, turning on a dusty chandelier over the table but most of the bulbs were out. Muttering under my breath, I pulled out a chair and hunkered down to have a look.

A flashlight would have helped. Failing that, I gave the area the sniff test. Nothing. Mutt and Maisie were in the clear.

“You can come out now,” I called, my voice muffled as I backed out from beneath the table. I braced my hands on my knees, rose to my feet, turned in place . . . and screamed.

It took a moment for the face, only inches from mine, to swim into focus. “Oh,” I said, heart still fluttering. “It's you.”

“Of course it's me,” Phil Dutton replied. “This is my house. Who were you expecting?”

“Nobody.” I tried to back up. The table, right behind me, prevented a retreat. “I wasn't expecting anybody. That's why you startled me.”

“Sorry about that.” Phil's thin lips lifted in a smile. “I didn't mean to scare you.” He was an unremarkable-looking man, perhaps a decade older than I. The kind of man you'd never pick out of a crowd, or remember the day after a party. He reached out a hand to steady me. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Absolutely fine.”

I hated that my voice was shaking. I'm not a jumpy person, I don't scare easily. My reaction felt all out of proportion.

All I could think was that this had to be Jill and Rich's doing. I wasn't accustomed to being followed, much less spied upon. Knowing they were out there somewhere must have set my nerves on edge.

It wasn't Phil's fault that I was behaving like an idiot. Nevertheless, I wanted his hand off me. I slipped out from between his body and the table and headed for the kitchen.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Isn't this one of your New York days?”

“Meetings got cancelled. I came home early. I've been working in my office in the basement. I guess that's why I didn't hear you come in.”

I paused in the doorway to the kitchen. Mutt and Maisie's water bowl was empty, the linoleum floor around it wet. The dogs were sacked out on a rumpled blanket close by. No wonder they hadn't been as desperate for diversion as they usually were.