Play Dead (6 page)

“Did he leave me a note?” Kaitlyn raced
through the house, frantically searching.

Thinking this was a game, Doppler began to
bark, then trotted alongside her, hopping up at her, which he knew very well he
wasn’t supposed to do.

She looked devastated by the time she
returned. “There’s no note. Nothing. Why would he just come in here and not
leave me a note, or something?”

Because he’s just casing the place,
wanting half the proceeds from its sale, and he wants nothing to do with you.
I left my comment unspoken.

Kaitlyn whined, “What should I do?”

“I’m sorry. I try not to give advice to
people. My psychology’s only good for dogs.”

“Fine.” Kaitlyn sank into the nearest
chair and flicked a soggy tissue in my direction. “You just go. I’ll be all
right here by myself. Like always.” She turned her face to the window.

I gritted my teeth and stared at the back
of my housemate’s head, wondering what would happen if I told Kaitlyn how I
really felt; that she needed to get a grip on herself and start living for
herself instead of pining after some man like a lovesick puppy dog. At that
last thought, I gave my own loyal dog a pat, then said gently to Kaitlyn, “Maybe
it’s time you tried to meet somebody else.”

“Somebody else?” She scooted around in her
seat to face me. She looked stricken. “You mean, start dating again? How can
you even suggest that? I’m a married woman!”

I turned on my heel and grabbed the
leather leash that hung on a hook by the door. “Yes, well, this is why I work
with dogs. They don’t ask for my advice and then argue with me. I need to get
going.” I patted my thigh and said, “Doppler, heel,” not bothering to hook the
leash on my very obedient cocker spaniel. Doppler followed me out the door and
down the walk, then sat and waited for me to open the door to the backseat. I
pretended not to notice the curtains parting on the front windows, as a
chronically depressed Kaitlyn Wayne watched us drive away.

“Boy, Doppler. I wish I knew what to do
about that housemate of ours.” I knew full well that Doppler couldn’t
understand me, but I was appreciative of the fact that dog ownership is a nice
excuse to talk to oneself. “I know I should try to be more patient with her and
try to cheer her up, but she doesn’t want to be cheered. She just wants company
in her misery.”

At the light, I glanced back. Doppler,
whose front paws were pressed against the ledge of the closed passenger side
window of the backseat, seemed to smile and nod at me. It was a long drive to
my mother’s place, nearly an hour at this time of the evening. My thoughts kept
turning toward the shadowy images of a man in a trench coat shooting a
white-haired woman in the head, then drenching Sage’s dog food and treats in
Bitter Apple, while Sage barked helplessly.

My mother had gone back to work shortly
after my father’s death and still worked part-time as a flight instructor. She
lived in a blond brick ranch-style house in Berthoud, Colorado, a small town
northeast of Boulder. She had a fully fenced two-acre backyard, which had been
dog paradise to the half-dozen golden retrievers we’d owned over a thirty-year
period. Mom’s most beloved dog, Star, had passed away two years ago, and she’d
yet to feel up to another.

Pavlov, my two-year-old female German
shepherd, anticipated my Friday visits and was watching through the window.
Pavlov’s loud woofs greeted me through the doorway, causing Doppler to bark
back in excitement. Though redundant, I rang my mother’s doorbell.

“Doppler, sit,” I commanded. The little
dog was overstepping his bounds by standing in front of me, wagging his stubby
tail and whimpering in excitement. Doppler gave a sad whine, but took his
rightful place slightly behind me.

My mother opened the door. “Hi, dear,” she
said. I stepped in and Doppler scooted past our ankles. “How was your week?”
These were the exact same phrases she’d used to greet me for each of the last
three Fridays since I’d moved in with Kaitlyn. My mother is a great listener,
but her questions tend to be predictable. That was good, because right now, I
had to be cautious with my answers. If I started talking about Kaitlyn’s
problems, Mom would suggest I move back home, which wasn’t a good idea for
either of us.

“Things have been a bit trying, of late.
How was yours?” I patted Pavlov’s large head and rubbed her ears, which she
really loves. “Hi, Pavlov. How’s my big girl?”

“Judging by the Trudy Truttle show, I’d
say your week was worse than merely ‘trying.’”

“Tracy Truett,” I corrected, my arms
wrapped around Pavlov’s massive chest. My mother, on the other hand, was not
the hugging sort. “Wasn’t she a kick?”

“Yes,” she answered with a snort. “If you
like drunks.” She paused and studied me. She rarely saw me in a skirt and
heels, which were highly impractical for dog training. “You look nice. Why did
you get all dressed up for a radio show?”

“Thought my outfit would make me feel and
sound more professional.” Pavlov gave my face a lick—which was something
I’d trained her not to do but which had recently reappeared under my mother’s
care. Then the two dogs launched into their own circling, sniffing dance of
greeting. The two canines could pick up more information from smelling the
various scents on each other’s fur than I was likely to extract verbally from
my mom this entire visit.

Though I look like a younger version of my
mother in many ways, she was, at five-six, considerably taller. Her long braid
of once light-brown hair was streaked with gray, which she referred to as “natural
highlighting.” She led the way toward the kitchen. Judging by the aroma, she’d
made her fabulous lasagna. These free, Friday evening meals were a great
enticement for my visits, in addition to seeing Pavlov. And my mother.

“Did you recognize my voice on that
call-in show?” she asked.

“Yes, right away.”

“Darn. I was trying to disguise it. I
guess my sultry intonations didn’t work.”

“That’s ‘cause you always sound sultry,
Mom.”

She laughed heartily. The table was set
for two; the lasagna was already on a trivet on the table and two glasses of
burgundy were already poured. My mother always drank a glass of red wine with
her meals and could either never remember—or deliberately
ignored—the fact that I never drank more than a sip or two of wine. It
gives me headaches.

“You don’t have to make dinner for me
every time, you know. How about if I bring you dinner next week?”

“No, thanks. I’d rather cook than eat
McDonald’s take-out.”

“Actually, I was thinking KFC.”

I washed my hands in the kitchen sink,
then stepped out of my shoes, which were killing my feet. Much as it was nice
to be taller for a change, I’d sooner strap two-by-fours to my feet.

As I dried my hands on the dish towel, my
mother, watching from her seat at the table, said, “I can’t help but feel that
this whole business of starting up a dog psychologist practice is just ...such
a lot of work. Maybe you should think of a contingency plan if the whole thing
doesn’t fly. Speaking of which, have you given any more thought to getting your
pilot’s license? Just as a fall-back position. After all, your brother’s done
well by it.”

Drat!
Not the dreaded be-a-pilot-like-Kevin conversation. A decade
or so ago, Mother had given me flying lessons, which I’d greatly enjoyed till
an unanticipated downdraft during our lesson had left me permanently shaken.

Mom really
is
wonderful, and if we
weren’t mother and daughter, we’d be the best of friends. But, in addition to
her predictable questions, she has a couple of pet topics of conversation that
she periodically drags out, dusts off, and thrusts at me like an old scrapbook.
My choice of career had been embossed on those figurative pages ever since I not
only refused to fly, but deserted a relatively lucrative technical writing job
back in Chicago in favor of my one-time “moonlighting” job as a dog trainer.

I gave a glance at the photo of my
handsome younger brother in his United Airlines pilot’s uniform. My photograph
was there, too, hung on the same wall, but it was a smaller picture, the same
size as all of the photographs that she had of her late dogs.

“Kevin and I are very different people,” I
began, taking my seat, annoyed at myself for so easily falling into this
all-too-familiar verbal exchange.

“I realize that. I had enough time alone
with the two of you to know your personalities.”

Oh, great. Now she was spicing up her
Be-All-That-You-Can-Be-So-Long-As-You’re-A-Pilot speech with a pinch of guilt.
Though a pilot himself, my father had died in a car accident more than twenty
years ago.

I took my energy out on the lasagna as I
stabbed the spatula into it and shoveled a large portion, silently daring my
mother to say, “Are you sure you’re going to be able to eat all that?” My
mother’s lips were pursed and she was staring at my plate, no doubt biting her
tongue.

“The point is, Mother, as you seem to keep
forgetting,
I’m afraid of heights.
Airplane passengers tend not to feel
confident putting their lives into the hands of a pilot who’s afraid to look
out the window.”

“Oh, I wish you would just get over all of
that fear-of-heights nonsense. It’s all in your head.”

“So are brain tumors, but I wouldn’t want
to fly with a pilot with that problem, either. Mom, when I’m up high and look
down, I get vertigo. Everything starts spinning. How exactly do you expect me
to be able to steer when my vision’s going in circles?”

“Oh, gosh, dear, I don’t know. By looking
at a compass, perhaps? By going up with me a couple of times till the vertigo
goes away?” She dished up a portion half the size of mine. She sighed and
tapped her plate with her fork a couple of times while staring at my plate. Our
eyes met as I took a bite. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to eat all that?”

I chuckled, smiled affectionately at my
mother and lifted my wineglass. “Here’s to you, Mom. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” my mother said while we clinked
glasses. “Doesn’t wine give you a headache? I only poured you a glass because I
didn’t want to be rude.”

I laughed merrily, having to dab at my
eyes. Pavlov and Doppler now stood by the back door, Doppler scratching at the
glass. I smiled as I got up to let the dogs out into the yard. I wondered if
this wasn’t a major function of the family, in general—to allow its
members to be crazy within the sanctity of its walls, so that we can present
ourselves as normal to the world outside.

“I heard the rest of your broadcast this
afternoon,” Mom said. “Are you really working with Hannah Jones’s former dog?”

“Did you know her?” I asked hopefully,
quickly reclaiming my chair.

She nodded, taking a sip of burgundy. “She
took flying lessons from me.”

Yes!
Though a loner, my mother is an exceptional confidante,
and thereby had an uncanny ability to know a surprising amount about people
within a hundred-mile radius. During the course of flying lessons, my mother
managed to extract the entire personal histories of her students, without fail.
“Tell me everything you know about her.”

“She owned and operated a vegetarian
cooking school and a vegetarian restaurant. She amassed a huge fortune when she
sold her business, but she had no heirs. She’d been determined to spend the
bulk of her fortune before she died, and was doing a good job at that, which is
where my flying lessons came in. What a great tipper. Financially, that is. She
kept the wings fairly level.” Mom laughed, then noticed that I was not joining
her and added, under her breath, “Pilot humor.”

“I heard she was kind of eccentric,” I
prompted.

She shrugged. “That’s what all elderly
women with spunk get called. Unless they’re poor, that is. Then they’re termed ‘bag
ladies.’”

“Do you think Hannah Jones might have been
the sort to train her dog to dislike meat products?”

“What makes you ask?”

“Just a theory,” I said, not wanting to
allow Mom to turn this conversation around to make me the subject.

Mom looked thoughtful for a moment. “I
suppose that’s possible. She was a strict enough vegetarian that feeding her
dog meat might have been repulsive to her.”

Outside, both Pavlov and Doppler were
barking. I rose and looked out in time to see a white sedan drive away from the
street along the side of Mom’s property.

That’s when it hit me—the memory
that had been nagging at me for hours now.

I’d noticed a white car pull out from the
curb just as we left Beth’s house. I’d lost sight of it in the traffic on 28th
Street, and Pine was a busy road, so there had been no reason to think twice
about someone leaving at the same time we were.

Now that I thought about it, I was sure I’d
seen a very similar car enter the parking lot at PetsMart.

Kaitlyn had been asleep last night when
Doppler and I returned from my mother’s house. This morning Kaitlyn
had—watch me do my happy dance—given me the silent treatment.