Never Tease a Siamese: A Leigh Koslow Mystery (2 page)

She smiled with resignation. "I'll be happy to talk to my father for you," she offered. "But I can’t make any promises. You know how stubborn he can be."

Adith Rhodis grinned, displaying a full complement of crooked, tea-stained teeth. "Not as stubborn as you, I'll wager."

Leigh grinned back.

***

For a Saturday morning, the Koslow Animal Clinic wasn't terribly busy. The tiny parking lot was full to capacity as always, but Leigh had managed to find on-street parking only half a block away, which was a real coup. Planning to steal a word with her father over his theoretical lunch hour, she trooped down the steep, wet cobblestone street to the clinic, catching a glimpse of the muddy Ohio River as it churned far below at the base of the bluff. It was turning into a gorgeous spring day, but she couldn't shake a dull sense of foreboding. She had hoped that Adith Rhodis could further enlighten her as to her grandson's "good, non-drug" motives for breaking into the building, but the older woman didn't seem to have a clue herself, aside from the enigmatic "he said he was returning something that belonged to somebody else."

Randall Koslow, DVM, was a wise and tolerant soul in general, but he didn't take kindly to trespassers, and he had even less sympathy for drug traffickers, whatever their pedigree. Leigh knew well that if her father was convinced Ricky Rhodis had broken the law, he'd insist on the boy paying the price—for his own good, of course. And no tearful grandmother's pleas were likely to sway his opinion.

Unfortunately, neither were hers, unless she could find another angle.

She opted to use the clinic's front door, it being closer than her usual back entrance, and was delighted to see the reception area temporarily client-free. Nancy Johnson, her father's office manager and right hand, threw her a wave and a smile. Though Leigh hadn't actually worked at the clinic since she was a teenager, she still dropped by often, and the staff knew her well.

"Your dad's got two more waiting on him in the exam rooms, then he'll have a minute," Nancy said pleasantly. Her attractive, cocoa-brown face was still smiling, but Leigh detected an unusual tightness to it, perhaps relating to the last night's events. Though being burglarized was never enjoyable, her father was at least used to it. The clinic had been broken into four other times that she could remember—not counting the myriad of less ambitious assaults on the outdoor trash bin.

She smiled back encouragingly. Nancy was in her mid twenties and had only been working for Leigh's father for a few years, but he already couldn’t imagine life without her. Randall, who had both a generous spirit and a tendency to live in the present, was so poor with finances that if not for Leigh’s budget-conscious mother, the business would probably be eligible for nonprofit status. But within a year of Nancy’s rolling up her sleeves, the books had improved so much she looked like a reverse embezzler.

Leigh walked to the desk and leaned casually against the counter while the incurable workaholic pounded away at her keyboard. As business manager, Nancy wasn’t even supposed to be at the clinic on Saturdays. But whenever the regular receptionist had car trouble—which seemed to happen exclusively on mornings after Pittsburgh Penguin games—Nancy would arrive with a smile on her face, ready to give flea lectures over the headset, run credit card authorizations, and make change simultaneously.

"I heard there was a little bit of trouble here last night," Leigh began conversationally. Multitasking Nancy, she realized, could be the perfect source of unbiased information regarding one Ricky Rhodis.

Nancy paused a moment from her keyboard and cast her dark eyes downward, her face now openly stressed. "Yes. I feel really bad about it."

"It wasn't your fault, I'm sure," Leigh said with empathy. The workaholism monkey had never cared for her back, but an overactive conscience she could relate to.

The younger woman shook her head uncertainly. "The boy came in late yesterday afternoon and sat down, and when I asked him if I could help him, he said he was waiting for somebody. We were very busy right up until closing time, and when he disappeared I didn't think anything about it."

"Why should you? He could have left with any of the clients."

"That's what I figured. But the police say he must have sneaked past me and hid somewhere. After we locked up he came out and tripped off the motion detectors. The police were here within minutes; they caught him red-handed."

Leigh considered. There were worse plans. It would be tough to break through the clinic's newest security system from the outside, but if one was already inside there were plenty of places to hide. Going out later would spring the alarms, of course, but then the burglar would have a head start. Thank goodness for the motion detectors—even if they did annoy the Avalon police by going off every time a clever cat lifted its cage latch with a paw and decided to take a stroll.

"Did he take anything?"

Nancy shook her head. "Not that we know of. There was forty dollars in the petty-cash box—untouched. The police think he intended to steal drugs and syringes, but didn't get the chance."

Her voice held only the slightest hint of skepticism, but Leigh seized on it immediately. "And what do you think?"

Nancy looked surprised. "Oh, I don't know," she said guiltily. "I'm sure your father's right about him wanting the ketamine or the Valium. He just seemed like such a nice kid." She paused for a few seconds, nibbling unconsciously on the end of an already well-chewed pen. "He's been here before, you know."

"He has?"

She nodded. "I didn't recognize him yesterday, but I looked up his records this morning. He brought in a stray cat one time—a tom with a cat-bite abscess. He paid to have it fixed up and neutered and then gave it to a neighbor. Said he couldn't keep it himself. He was only fifteen then." She replaced the mangled pen behind an ear. "It's sad how drugs can mess up a teen, isn't it?"

Leigh looked at the younger woman thoughtfully. Mrs. Rhodis had insisted that her grandson had a heart of gold. Could he actually have been telling the truth?

Before she could get in another question, a stooped older man emerged from the first exam room, dragging an immense shaggy hound behind him. Nancy went back to work, and Leigh decided to try her luck with the rest of the staff.

She quickly ruled out Jeanine, Dr. Koslow's senior tech and self-proclaimed dental hygienist, who was busily working on an anesthetized greyhound in the treatment room. Jeanine was a devoted worker and a competent technician, but she was also a smug, brown-nosing snitch, and Leigh didn't care to have a transcript of their conversation relayed to Dr. Koslow later. When a quick search of the back revealed that the other veterinary assistants were all working in the exam rooms, Leigh headed down the narrow basement stairs.

Her arrival in the kennels was greeted by the broad smile of Jared Loomis, who spoke as always without a moment's interruption to his current task. "Hello, Leigh Koslow! How are you doing, Leigh Koslow? Did you hear about the guy who was arrested, Leigh Koslow?"

Leigh smiled back. She adored Jared, who, though he was born with Down Syndrome, was nobody’s charity case. At six foot three and two-hundred fifty pounds, his shuffling gait and odd speech patterns might have made another young man seem threatening. But with his amiable manner, fluffy head of pale blond hair, and immense blue eyes, Jared was more akin to a giant cherub. More importantly to Dr. Koslow, he had a wonderful way with animals and a work ethic second only to God.

"Hello, Jared," Leigh said pleasantly. "I'm doing fine. And yes, I did hear about the arrest. But I don't know much. What more can you tell me?" She took hold of the stainless-steel water dish Jared had removed from a cage and went to fill it up for him.

"Thank you, Leigh Koslow. A guy hid in here 'cause he was stealing drugs, Dr. Koslow says. A guy was stealing drugs and the alarm went off and the police came."

"Where do you think he hid?"

The big young man grinned at her as he took the full water pail and placed it in the cage he had just coated with fresh newspaper. "I don't know, Leigh Koslow. I think he hid in the paper cage. What do you think, Leigh Koslow?"

Leigh grinned back. Jared was modest, but not without insight. She walked over to the corner kennel, which had not been used for a dog in years, both because its chain-link gate was hopelessly off its hinges and because the floor drain had a tendency to back up in the spring. It had long since been designated the "paper cage," and was used to store the reams of used newspapers the staff collected for the cage bottoms.

"Papers were messed up, Leigh Koslow," Jared called to her as he looped a leash over the head of a dachshund and led it out for a few moments of freedom. She pressed farther into the kennel and could see that the wooden pallets on which the newspapers were stacked had been pushed askew, leaving a narrow crawl space behind that no casual glance would have noticed. She considered, then stepped out. "Did you see anything else unusual when you came in this morning?"

He nodded, then dropped to his hands and knees, pushing his head and massive shoulders into the Dachshund's cage to wipe it clean. "There was stuff on the floor,  Leigh Koslow," he said, his voice a tinny echo. "Cat carrier on the floor. Bag on the floor. I never leave stuff on the floor. Dr. Koslow says it's not safe to leave stuff on the floor."

She distracted the dachshund, who had begun to nip playfully at the young man's heels as he worked. "A cat carrier, you said?"

Jared's head emerged and he pointed to a spot near the large metal trash can in the middle of the room. "Cat carrier on the floor there." He then pointed to a spot by his feet. "Trash bag on the floor here. I cleaned them up. Dr. Koslow said to clean them up."

Leigh's walked over to the stairs and sat down to think as Jared filled the dog's cage with clean paper, fresh dishes, and a bedraggled yellow towel. As soon as the dachshund's kibble was visible, it scooted back into its cage and dove in with relish. Jared was certainly a conscientious kennel cleaner, she mulled, so if he hadn't left the things out, who did?

Randall always kept a spare cardboard cat carrier sitting on top of the basement refrigerator, primarily to avoid puncture wounds on those naive new cat owners who thought they could hold Snowball in their lap while sitting next to a rottweiler. But why would Ricky Rhodis need one? A bulky cardboard box would hardly be Leigh's choice for carrying around a stash of drug bottles, needles, and syringes—particularly if one planned on making an inconspicuous getaway.
Point one: Ricky.

"Jared," she began again. "That trash bag you said you found on the floor. Was it empty?"

"Cat poop, Leigh Koslow," he answered matter of factly. "Nothing but litter and cat poop. Isn't that funny, Leigh Koslow?"

She frowned. For a person who made their living coming up with catchy ways to sell everything from baby food to industrial solvents, she was shamefully lacking in ideas as to why either the police or Ricky Rhodis would have deigned to empty the clinic's litter pans. Might her father have gotten bored while the police were investigating and picked up a scoop? Not likely. Even then, he would have thrown the bag away.

Heavy footsteps started down the stairs, and she looked around behind her. "Hello, Leigh," Jeanine greeted brusquely, her tight, patronizing smile in full form. "You heard about what happened last night, I guess. It was bound to happen, if you ask me, as crazy as that waiting room gets."

Leigh smiled tolerantly. It was no secret that Jeanine was more than a little jealous of Nancy's unparalleled rise through the staff hierarchy—never mind that one of the business manager's first actions had been to suggest offering the technicians full benefits. "Could you tell Jared to bring up Meno, the other greyhound? Briar's Joy will be ready to come down in five."

"I'll get her," Leigh offered, grabbing a spare lead from a hook on the wall and looking around at the cage tags. She noticed that there weren't many sick animals in the kennels—just a few boarders and the dental patients who came in every Friday for a spot on Jeanine's Saturday-morning cleaning roster. Spying a red brindle greyhound, she checked the cage tag for any aspersions to its good nature and opened the door. As she was looping the lead over the dog's narrow snout, Mrs. Rhodis' words floated back to her.

He said he was returning something that belonged to someone else.

She led the willing greyhound up the stairs for the handoff, then pounded quickly back down. "Jared," she asked hopefully. "Are these all the same animals that were here last night?"

"Doberman went home this morning, Leigh Koslow," he answered automatically, as if reciting from a roster. "Doberman went home this morning. He was here. Siamese and greyhounds here for Jeanine. Black cat sick, sick—he’s been here. Dachshund, sheltie, they’ve been here."

She looked around at the assembled furry guests, her heartbeat quickening. A cat carrier, eh? Clearly, the Doberman and the greyhounds were off the hook. So was the sheltie, and the dachshund was on the large side, too. That left the cats.

She peered in for a closer look at the "sick, sick" black cat, which lay limply against the far wall of his cage, an IV line trailing from his forearm. His glittering green eyes watched Leigh with distrust, and his upper lip drew back over his teeth with a faint hiss.
Jones, Midnight: Kidney failure
, the cage card read. She narrowed her eyes in concentration, trying to think up a good reason why Ricky Rhodis would steal an old, sick cat from a veterinary clinic.