Dina took a second, deeper whiff. Pond's cold cream and Estée Lauder perfume?
"What a cutie patootie." Gwendolyn Ellicot swung open the gate between the hallway and the grooming station. "What's his name?"
"Hers," Dina corrected. "And it's Fido, if you can believe that."
"Not the dog's." The kennel's owner grinned and pointed toward the parking area. "The guy who brought her in." She moved to the counter and picked up Fido's registration form. "By what I saw from my office, he took one look at you and forgot he owned a dog."
Gwendolyn's ruling passions were dogs and fix-ups. Trust her to slap a cutie-patootie label on any man who's ambulatory, old enough to vote and bathes regularly.
There was nothing above average about Jack McPhee. Medium height, medium build. His medium brown hair had an eleven-o'clock part and was blocked in back a half inch above his shirt collar. Even the car rolling down the driveway was midsize and as medium blue as his eyes.
Dina couldn't imagine why a funny feeling, like a hunger pang on spin cycle, had ziggled south of her rib cage when they made eye contact. And now, just thinking about it.
She sloughed it off along with her part-time employer's incurable matchmaking. "Forget it, Auntie Mame. Even if I was interested, which I'm not, Mr. McPhee isn't my type." She patted Fido's pouffy head. "And I'm pretty sure I'm not his type."
Gwendolyn crossed her arms, as if fending off Cupid's evil twin. "Then why was he flirting with you?"
"I wouldn't call it"
"All right, so that tie of his probably glows in the dark, but the suit was Brooks Brothers. My husband has one exactly like itor did, until he gave up trying to lose thirty pounds and I took it to a resale shop."
"Will you"
"Jack McPhee lives on LakeShore Boulevard, Dina." Gwendolyn tapped the registration form, emphasizing each syllable, as one might impress upon a small child a need to clean her room. "Starter homes in that development have four bathrooms."
Not much of an incentive, since Dina couldn't keep two bathrooms clean. She held up the Maltese. "See the collar?"
"Pink. So what? She's female, it matches the leash and"
"Check out the pedicure."
Gwendolyn blanched a little, then flapped a hand. "You detest painting dogs' toenails, but some groomers think it's cute. And McPhee could have a daughter that thinks it's cute, too."
"Doubtful, unless she's adopted." Dina set Fido on the counter. "Smell her head."
"What? Why?"
"Humor me."
Gwendolyn leaned over, sniffed, recoiled, then sniffed again. "Well, hell."
That's pretty much how Dina felt, too, though she'd never admit it. Mother McPhee's recent demise might explain the lingering aroma of cold cream and perfume, except Fido had been shampooed and trimmed in the past week.
"Life is so unfair," Gwendolyn moaned. "Things were hard enough when all the good ones were either married or dead."
Dina chuckled and handed off the Maltese. "If you wouldn't mind paging Laura to get Miss Fido settled in and give her a snack, I have to finish Claude's comb-out."
The puli-Labrador mix snoozing on the grooming table was one strange-looking fellow. Claude's owners spent a fortune keeping its ropy coat from matting into plaited scales, and it loved being fussed over. Using the table's noose-like restraint on Claude was like tethering a dog-shaped topiary before clipping it. The trick was coaxing Claude down to the floor afterward.
As Dina toed the milk crate back into position, Gwendolyn said, "How's your mom doing with the oxygen therapy?"
"Better." Dina sighed. "When she stays hooked up to the machine, instead of using the portable tank in the living room like a rescue inhaler."
"Then it won't be a problem if Mrs. Allenbaugh is running a little late for her appointment."
Gwendolyn's tone entwined a question with a conclusion.
Dina consulted the antique Seth Thomas above the office window. Mrs. Allenbaugh was always a little late. When, of course, she wasn't a lot early. If the daffy old bat owned a Chihuahua, instead of a standard poodle, the timing wouldn't matter as much.
"How late is late?"
"She promised to be here before noon."
Meaning eleven fifty-nine, but Dina couldn't afford to kiss off her fee and a generous tip. She did some mental clockwork herself. "I'll just have to race across town and give Mom her shot before Mrs. Allenbaugh gets here."
Gwendolyn smiled the smile of a dog caretaker with a six-person staff. She squeezed Dina's shoulder. "Relax, okay? I know Betty Allenbaugh's a pain, but now you have a whole hour between your nine-thirty and ten-thirty to check on Harriet."
Dina nodded and smiled back, as if a diabetic's insulin injections were as mutable as a scatterbrained poodle owner's watch.
6
"M
cPhee Investigations."
"Great news." Gerry Abramson's telephone voice belied the salutation. "I just heard the Calendar Burglar ripped off another of my insureds last Thursday night."
Jack sat back in the desk chair. Hell of a way to start a Saturday, even though he'd slept away most of the morning. "You're sure it's the same thief?"
"He didn't leave a calling card, but the cops think so. This time, along with the jewelry, he snatched an iPod and a laptop. Both brand-new, still in their boxes for donation to a charity auction."
The police had likely alerted retailers who sold that type of electronics in the event of a no-receipt return. A full-price refund versus a fence's standard dime on the dollar made wonderful economic sense. Stupid wasn't part of this burglar's M.O. to date, but neither was boosting high-tech toys.
Jack copied down the victim's addressa mile from his stakeout last night on LakeShore Boulevard. He reminded himself that Gerry hadn't hired him until Thursday afternoon. It still felt like a "Screw you, McPhee" to have been shuffling police reports and claim forms while the thief made another haul.
A whimper at floor level could be interpreted as "Can we go now?" The sheltie doing it was Sweetie Pie Snug 'Ems's replacement. Ms. Pearl reneged on her weekend loan, saying she couldn't bear another night in an empty apartment.
The sheltie's owner, Angie Meadows, hadn't been alone at hers, nor happy to be wakened at the crack of eleven by a P.I. needing a favor. The voluptuous server at Jack's second-favorite bar was also a canine loan shark. They'd settled on a hundred dollars to rent a dog shedding enough hair on the carpet and Jack's pants to cost three sheep their livelihoods.
"Your burglary victims," he said into the phone. "You wouldn't happen to know if they have a dog, would you?"
"A dog?" A pause, then, "Now that you mention it, yes. One of those huge, jowly things that slobbers all the time." Another beat's worth of dead air. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason in particular." Jack feigned a chuckle. "Just be glad you pay me by the day, instead of by every weird question I come up with."
"Answers," Gerry shot back. "That's what I'm paying you for."
The click and a dial tone weren't surprising, given the insurance agent's frustration. No doubt Abramson was kicking himself for not bringing in outside help sooner. He hadn't expected results in under seventy-two hours. It didn't stop him from wanting them like yesterday.
So did Jack, though he wouldn't have bet a plug nickel the trap would work on the first try. Common sense just never quite dashed the hope for a little dumb luck. If it did, the only snake eyes rolled in Vegas would be attached to actual snakes.
The sheltie barked. Jack yelped and jolted backward in his chair. Obviously pleased with itself, the dog twirled and bounced on its front paws, like a demented fox subjected to way too many Rogaine treatments. And not nearly enough Ritalin.
Jack's heart gradually defibrillated. "Okay, all right already. One phone call, then we're outa here."
Skeptical it would keep its yap shut, he ripped a page from a legal pad, wadded it and threw it across the room. Forty-three fetches later, Abramson's latest claimant haughtily affirmed the impossibility of a noise complaint the previous Thursday night at her address. As she put it, her English bull mastiff was "off premises."
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I need specifics to quash this complaint. Was your dog staying with a relative, a friend
?"
"Certainly not. Winston was kenneled, until early this morning."
Jack swallowed to drown any hint of elation. "And the name of the kennel, please?"
"Well, if you must know, it's" A brief silence segued to murky muffles, as though she'd dunked the receiver in a bucket of oil. Gibberish, then, "He says he's" A louder summons to "Officer Garble-garble" provided excellent cues for Jack to deep-six the call.
The sheltie gnashed the soggy sheet of paper into molecular confetti, while Jack plundered a desk drawer for the cubic zirconia jewelry he bought for a previous investigation.
Rubbing the fake diamonds on his pants leg restored their sparkly, pimplike luster. A gaudy, similarly encrusted watch replaced his faithful Casio. "Talking the talk isn't enough," he told the dog. "Gotta walk the walk, loud and clear."
The bling aglitter on Jack's pinkies and ring fingers wasn't overlooked by the employee presiding over the counter at Home Away. "Whoa, dude," he said. "Do you have to wear all that for your job? Or do you just, you know,
like
it?"
"The job." Jack lasered the clerks's grubby T-shirt. "Kinda like, you know, all the hair and puppy puke you're wearing for yours."
After the intake information was complete, Jack insisted on a tour of the facility. A potential flaw in his jewelry-salesman spiel had presented itself in about the fourth hour of surveilling the decoy house. Contact with one kennel employee and reliance on an upscale address might not be enough to pique the Calendar Burglar's interest.
Jack followed his slouching tour guide, waving and flashing his bejeweled knuckles like a prom queen at various kennel workers. A fog of dog smell slapped his sinuses the instant he stepped into a wide, concrete-floored exercise area flanked by gated pens. Individually, the aromas might be pleasant. Collectively, not so much.
Breeds of every size and description lunged against the chain-link gates, barking and yipping so loud, the roof should have separated from the ceiling joists. The loaner sheltie spun on its leash like a hairy Baryshnikov, its answering yelps absorbed in the skull-crushing racket.
Jack grabbed the dog, poked the slouchmeister in the back and signaled an about-face. Shoving open the office door, he collided with someone rushing out as he was rushing in.
Their mutual apologies trailed away in unison at "So sorry, I
" Recognition prompted coinciding "What are
you
doing here?" Before either could respond, the tour guide snarled, "It's about fuckin' time you showed up. I told that cocker spaniel's owner two hours, an hour and a half ago."
"Hey, sport," Jack warned. "Watch your mouth."
By her expression, the diminutive groomer he'd almost trampled appreciated the gesture, but could fend off the assholes of the world herself. And had.
Jack said, "I thought you worked at TLC."
"Part-time." She squinted at the sheltie in his arms. "What happened to Fido?"
He died, was Jack's initial thought. Thankfully, it didn't make the verbal leap. "He's fine. Couldn't be better. In fact, he's going with me to a sales meeting in St. Louis." He patted the present loaner. "Butch here belongs to a friend."
The groomer's eyebrow arched.
Whew boy. First Fido, now Butch.
Excellent.
Jack scraped back a bushel of hair at the sheltie's neck. "I swear that's his name. See? It's engraved on his collar."
As was A. D. Meadows and Angie's home phone number. Even barmaids who gave private lap dances on the side use initials for telephone listings, mailbox ID and their dogs' collars.
Jack sensed the foul-mouthed slouchmeister picking up on the groomer's wariness. "A.D. was in a car wreck last night. Poor guy was banged up pretty good and the doc wants him to stay another night in the hospital for observation."
The groomer nodded, as if that seemed reasonable. Then she said, "So you weren't happy with TLC and brought Butch here, instead."
"No, no problems at TLC at all." Jack grinned, as though competing for a most-satisfied-customer award, waiting for a plausible excuse to coalesce. "It's just that
well, Home Away is closer to A.D.'s house, and since he'll have to take a taxi tomorrow from the hospital, it'll be easier for him to swing by here."
Slouchmeister said, "You told me the dog was yours."
"For the next twenty-four hours, he is," Jack replied, truthfully for once.
