Play Dead (29 page)

He had a beard a month ago? Joel Meyer! “And
how old would you say he was?”

“Oh, twenties. Thirties.”

I glanced at Harry, who was shaking his
head. “I’d call him chunky. Almost fat. No way was he thin. Really wasn’t that
tall, either. And he wasn’t a day younger than forty. Plus, he was
clean-shaven. But she was right about the hair.”

My heart sank at the discrepancies. Harry had
seemed to have the better memory of the two. If the man was clean-shaven, Joel
had to be crossed off my list. “Was his hair curly, straight, wavy?”

“Hard to say. He always wore a fedora,
even when he was inside. Rude, I’d call it. Least it wasn’t a backward baseball
cap.”

This touched off quite an argument about
the way the man actually looked. I was now deeply regretting that I’d agreed to
come to the apartment before asking the other members and teachers of the
cooking class for a description.

“Did he say what type of dog he owned?” I
asked.

“A poodle,” they answered in unison.

“He said his poodle looked a lot like
Misty, but not quite of such obvious show quality,” Eudora added.

I nodded appreciatively at Misty, who had
that intelligent look in her eyes that I so appreciate in poodles. However,
Misty also had large white markings on her chest and stomach that would
disqualify her on sight from any professional dog show. The mention of Misty
being of “show quality” was such a line, I had a feeling that the slick
salesman owned a fictitious dog, which would morph into a slightly inferior
version of whatever breed his prospective customers happened to own.

“Did he say what his dog’s name was?”

“Goldie,” Harry said.

An interesting name for a black
poodle—though a common one for a golden retriever. Could this be the pet
name the salesman always gave, so as not to trip on the name and spoil his
sales pitch? If so, it might be a clue into the breed that the salesman
actually did own. Yet the only golden in my client base was George Haggerty’s
Rex, and George didn’t meet either of the Finches’ physical description of the
man.

Unable to elicit a name or a more thorough
description, I decided to wait till tomorrow and give Naomi Smith a call. She
should be able to give me both a name and a description of this one-time
student. I described the same procedure to deprogram Misty from her
food-aversion training that I’d used successfully on Sage. Eudora assured me
they would rather wait till morning to get new brands of dog food, as they were
“ready to turn in.” Which touched off yet another argument, as Harry insisted
this was nowhere near bedtime and he was hoping for a swim. Misty was in no
immediate risk, so I jotted down their number and said I’d check on Misty in the
morning, then left for home.

I struggled to fall asleep later that
night, questions tumbling mercilessly around in my brain. Could I at least be
on the right track with the murderer? Was he in fact this dog food
salesman-cum-scam artist?

To my mild surprise the next morning, I’d
apparently beaten Russell to work, as his parking space was empty. The moment I
reached the bottom step and peered through my glass door, my heart skipped a
beat. My office had been trashed. Both filing cabinets were knocked over,
papers were strewn all across the floor, and it appeared as though a full
carafe of coffee had been poured and splattered all across the room.

This had to be the work of Bill Wayne. He’d
heard about my input on the financial finaglings between him and Kaitlyn, and
he was seeking an outlet for his rage.

I righted a tipped over file cabinet. At
the noise, Russell rushed out of his office. I was completely surprised he was
here.

“I was just trying to reach you at your
mother’s house,” Russell said, holding his hand over his left eye. “She said
you’d already left.”

“Oh, my God, Russell!” I ran up to him and
pulled his hand away from his eye. It was red and starting to swell. It looked
painful and I winced in empathy, a gnawing feeling in my stomach. “What happened
to you?”

“Someone’s car was parked in my space this
morning, so I had to park around the block, and by the time I got here, the guy
was leaving. I tried to stop him, but he punched me in the eye and took off.”

“Who did this? It must have been Bill Wayne.
Was he thin and dark-haired, sunken eyes, and—”

Russell shook his head, gingerly covering
his injured eye again. “It was that big guy I argued with Saturday morning.”

He had to mean Beth Gleason’s boyfriend. “Chet
Adler?”

“If that was his name. You got any steak?
That’s supposed to help.”

I had some T-bone dog biscuits, but I
doubted that would do the trick. “Oh, Russell. That looks so painful.” I pulled
out my desk chair for him. “Here. Sit down. I’ll get you a compress.” He sat
down while I rushed into the bathroom. We didn’t have a washcloth, but I pulled
off several sheets of paper towels, folded them, and ran cold water on them.
Russell was leaning back in my chair, acting stoic, but the flesh surrounding
his left eye was swelling fast. I gently placed the makeshift compress on his
eye and found myself sorely tempted to caress his smooth-shaved cheek in the
process. I was so disconcerted by this impulse that I jerked away rather
abruptly and asked, “Have you called the police?”

“I didn’t get the chance. You really only
just missed him yourself by a minute or two.”

On the desk behind Russell, my computer
and printer were on. “I’ll bet he printed out my client file.”

“He had a couple sheets of paper that
might have come from your printer.”

“Dammit! Now he’s got the phone numbers
and addresses of my clients! He thinks one of them killed his girlfriend and
that he needs to avenge her. I should have
used some system security.” When I’d set up my software, I couldn’t
imagine why anyone other than me would want to look at files about dog owners.

I called the police station and reached
the soft-spoken detective. “Chet Adler broke into my office, stole my client
listing, and punched my officemate in the face.”

After a slight pause, the detective asked,
“Adler is Beth Gleason’s boyfriend, right?”

“Yes, and he told me he wanted to speak to
my clients because he’s sure one of them killed Beth.”

“Did he say what gave him that idea?”

“No, not really. I guess it’s just the
connection between me and Sage, Hannah Jones and then Beth Gleason’s dog.”

There was another pause. “I don’t follow.
Why would Mr. Adler think the dog was significant?”

I grimaced but resisted the urge to stomp
my foot. I’d been through all of this with the police before. Weren’t they
talking to one another? “Ever since I did that radio show, which talked about
the possibility that Sage could identify Hannah Jones’s killer, I’ve gotten
some new clients who may or may not be after the dog through me. Now Chefs a
loose cannon who’s going to harass all my clients. He already trashed my office
and punched Russell, and I want you to arrest him before he hurts someone else!”

“Calm down, miss.”

“I
was
perfectly calm till you
implied this breakin was just some isolated incident!”

“Let me assure you, we’ve got a lot of
first-rate officers working on this case. I’ll send someone out to take a
formal report, then we can put out an arrest warrant for Mr. Adler.”

He hung up before I could respond. My fear
was that Chet Adler was the least of my concerns. I’d felt threatened into
moving out of Kaitlyn’s house. Someone had
attempted to poison my dogs, and who knows what might have
happened had Mom let the “organic dog food” salesman into the house. How much
longer could this go on?

I dialed Naomi Smith’s number. Her recorder
kicked on after four rings. I left a message to call me, then went back to
ministering to Russell, who was now milking his injury for all it was worth.
But then, I really did feel indebted to him for trying to help me.

Half an hour later, Russell and I talked
to a uniformed female officer, then I left for my scheduled morning appointment
with Rex and George Haggerty. I was still wondering about the connection to
him—his being my one bald client and having a name so similar to that of
the door-to-door salesman wearing the toupee.

George greeted me with the statement, “Great
news, Miss Babcock! I took your advice and faked Rex into thinking I’d left,
and I caught Rex in the act of chewing on the furniture three times!”

“That
is
good news,” I told him sincerely,
though I knew how odd it was to be pleased that the dog was still gnawing away
at the furniture.

“Yes, and this morning, I tried the same
thing twice, for fifteen minutes the first time and over half an hour the
second, and he was good the whole time. So, I hate to tell you this, Ms.
Babcock, but after today, Rex no longer requires your services.”

“Oh?” This was one downside of this
job—there are few other professions in which one can be fired by a dog. “Isn’t
that just a tad optimistic on your part? I agree that Rex has responded to his
reconditioning very nicely, but he still hasn’t made it through an entire
workday alone, has he?”

“No, but he has stopped jumping on me and
now lets me lead on leash. And my wife agreed with your suggestion to build a
pen for him. We’ve hired a contractor and everything. In fact, we’re getting
all new furniture. I already tried to get Goodwill to take the stuff Rex chewed
on, but they said it was in too lousy shape. Makes me feel like quite the
schlep when my own living room furniture isn’t even good enough to give away to
a charity.”

The thought of a whole new living room set
under Rex’s domain made me nervous, and I tried to warn George that trying to
adjust a two-year-old dog who’d always stayed inside to life in a pen could be
a challenge. George was a true optimist, however, so we worked on more of the
basics of asserting oneself as the dog’s master. At the end of the hour, I
tested him by asking, “A salesman came to my door the other day who reminded me
of you.”

George showed no trace of nerves, but
rather smiled and asked, “Really? What was he selling?”

“Organic dog food.”

He chuckled. “I wonder what that
means—organic dog food.”

“That it’s made from various organs, I
guess.” I studied him at length, trying to imagine him with a black Presley-like
wig on, and concluded that my mother simply could not have mistaken him for a
muscular man in his thirties. The talk of “organic” dog food reminded me of
something. John O’Farrell had said he owned a health-food store. That could be
how he got to know Hannah Jones. Could he sell “organic” dog food at this
store?

“If you have any questions or concerns
about Rex, don’t hesitate to call.”

George smiled. “Oh, we won’t. You’re
number eight on our speed dialer on our phone.”

“I’m honored.” As long as numbers one
through seven weren’t dog psychologists, too.

When I came out, Chet Adler was seated on
the hood of my car. I hesitated, considering doubling back and having George
call the police, but reasoned that Chet was unlikely to do anything violent, or
he would have hidden from my view.

I marched up to Chet, who was regarding me
coolly. “I take it you got this address off my computer, right?”

“Maybe I just happened to be in the
neighborhood. Already checked him out, though. That wimp couldn’t possibly have
gotten Beth’s knife away from her. She was too strong and too tall for him.” He
spat, then dragged his sleeve across his mouth. “None of your other clients
were home this morning.”

“You broke the law, Chet. Both by breaking
into my office and trashing it, and by assaulting Russell. What do you think
you’re accomplishing? Are you trying to get yourself thrown in jail, along with
Beth’s killer?”

He stared at the ground. “Don’t have to
worry about that. They’re never going to get the guy who did this. Shit. I just
want to look the guy in the eye, one time. I want him to tell me why he did it.”

My heart was pounding. I found Chet
utterly intimidating, with his large frame and violent undertones, and he was
still seated on my car. “Then what? You’re going to beat him to a pulp, aren’t
you?”

Chet rose and pointed at me. “The
bastard’ll deserve every instant of it! He’s not worth one-tenth of what Beth’s
worth! She was the only one who ever treated me like a human being!”

“And then you’ll get arrested and
convicted. Even if you try to run, you won’t be able to avoid arrest for long.
To avenge the death of the one person who said you were worthwhile, you’ll make
your own life worthless. Do you really want to betray Beth’s faith in you this way?”

He shouted in my face, “You don’t get it,
do you? My life already is worthless. Whoever killed Beth Gleason saw to that.”
He shoved past me, got into his own car parked farther down the road, and drove
off. My hands were shaking as I started my engine. What was taking the police
so long to arrest Chet? I’d given them a printout of my clients’ addresses and
numbers. Yet here he’d been, biding his time at my very first appointment. I
drove back to the office, largely to check on Russell. My heart leapt to my
throat at the sight of a silver Mercedes convertible parked in my space. Bill
Wayne had come to call.