Canine Christmas (2 page)

“Oh, lots of things,” Alice said. “Though I don't teach Zelda tricks so much as general obedience.”

The middle-aged woman smiled and said, “Zelda?”

“Yes,” Alice said. “After F. Scott Fitzgerald's wife.”

I smiled and said nothing. Alice might think that, and we would never disillusion her, but my son Tommie and I both know she was actually named after a Nintendo game.

“Zelda,” Alice called in a high lilting voice.

Zelda, who had been curled up happily in front of the fireplace, raised her head at the sound of Alice's voice. She certainly looked intelligent, though maybe I'm biased. Zelda is a black dog with white markings on her paws and chest, and long curly hair. Portuguese water dogs don't shed, they have to be groomed like poodles— though they are
not
poodles, thank you very much, Mr. Abercrombie—and Zelda was overdue for a haircut, which meant she had a luxurious coat of loose curls and looked positively gorgeous. It also meant you couldn't see her eyes, but, trust me, the dog was very bright.

Alice stood up, said, “Zelda, come.”

Zelda trotted over to Alice.

Alice said, “Go round.”

Zelda walked around behind Alice's back.

“Sit,” Alice said.

Zelda sat at her side.

“Down,” Alice said.

Zelda lay down.

“Stay.”

Alice walked across the room, turned, and faced the dog.

“You haven't clicked,” the elderly man said. It came out as a wheeze, but confirmed the fact he was still alive.

“Because the sequence isn't over,” Alice said. “After the dog learns, you chain behaviors. Zelda will follow a whole sequence of commands in order to hear a click. Zelda, come.”

Zelda trotted over to Alice and sat in front of her.

Alice clicked and reached in her pocket for a treat.

“You didn't ask her to sit,” the young woman pointed out.

“Yes, I did,” Alice said. “I gave her a hand signal.”

“Can you teach her a new behavior?” the young man asked. It was the first time he'd spoken, and he sounded young.

“Sure thing,”

Alice said. Alice looked around the room. In the far corner was a Christmas tree, with strings of lights and colored balls and tinsel. It had presents underneath and a star on top. So far Zelda had given it a wide berth.

“See the Christmas tree?” Alice said. “Zelda's afraid of it because she's never seen one. It's only her second Christmas, and last year she couldn't go because we went to Stanley's mother's, and his mother has cats. So she's cautious about it, because she's not entirely sure what it is. From her experience, trees do not grow indoors or have lights.”

“So?” the young man said.

“So, I can use clicker training to teach her something to overcome the fear.”

Alice walked over to the Christmas tree.

“Zelda, come.”

Zelda trotted over.

Alice pointed to a Styrofoam ball hanging from a lower branch. “Touch.”

Zelda looked up at Alice.

Alice pointed again. “Touch.”

Zelda took two steps, reached out, touched the Styrofoam ball with her nose.

Alice clicked. “Good girl,” she said, and gave Zelda a puppy biscuit. As soon as Zelda had eaten it, Alice pointed to the ball and said, “Touch.”

Zelda touched it again, much quicker this time.

Alice clicked, gave her a treat.

This time, when Zelda finished the biscuit, Alice said nothing. She stood there, arms folded.

Zelda looked at her for a moment, then turned, took two steps, reached out, and touched the ball with her nose.

Alice clicked and gave her a treat, while the people in the living room laughed and applauded.

“That's a smart poodle,” Abercrombie said.

I gnashed my teeth.

Later that morning, we took Zelda out in the snow. She loved it. She ran, she jumped, she rolled. She had a wonderful time. The only thing missing was another dog to play with.

That problem was solved right after lunch. Alice and I got back from the local soup and sandwich shop downtown to find a Labrador retriever had checked in. Of course, the Lab had not checked in by himself—his mommy and daddy were with him. Which is how we dog people refer to the owners of other people's dogs. And, yes, our own, too. Alice is Zelda's mommy, and I am Zelda's daddy. And we know it's silly, but only to an extent. When Alice says to Zelda, “You wanna go for a walk with daddy?” I hardly even notice.

Anyway, the Lab's mommy and daddy were a nice young couple, who laughed affectionately as their dog catapulted from the backseat of their Subaru, bounded up to Zelda, and took off with her across the lawn. They whirled and rolled and frolicked and frisked, biting at each other's ears and tail in a playful friendly way, then raced down the hill over the frozen pond.

I must say, that gave me a turn. But as if he read my mind, my gracious host, Mr. Stone Inn himself, was at my side, grunting away in a thick Austrian accent through which I could barely discern enough words to determine that what he was attempting to assure me was that the pond had been frozen for weeks, and the dogs were in no danger.

Unfortunately, while he was outside calming my fears, Mrs. Stone Inn, his ill-cooking wife, was inside rejecting our new arrivals. Evidently there was no room at the inn—a common Christmas theme—and Zelda and I barely had time to learn the golden Lab's name was Sandy before he was gone.

Heartbreak.

Do dogs get depressed? In a word, yes. Zelda missed Sandy, not enough not to eat, but enough to mope around the inn and give everyone a good idea where the word
hangdog
came from.

“Can't you clicker train her to be happy?” the bald, middle-aged man asked when I ran into him after dinner on my way to take Zelda for a walk.

“That's the one thing that doesn't work,” I told him.

And it didn't. Zelda was decidedly moody the rest of the evening, went to sleep early, and did not even go out for her eleven o'clock walk.

Which is why she was up at the crack of dawn.

She woke me with a woof, as is her custom. Not a loud bark, but just a low, squeaking woof, as if to say, Excuse me, I don't want to wake the neighbors, but if it's not too much trouble, do you suppose we could go out?

I raised my head from the foam rubber pillow of the rickety four-poster bed with the broken box springs and lumpy mattress, all of which Alice had commented on at great length the night before. By what little light was coming in the window, I grabbed my watch from the night table and determined it to be six-fifteen. I sighed, swung my legs out from underneath the covers, set my feet down on the cold, uneven, wood floor, and reminded myself, as I always do on such occasions, how much I really enjoy having a dog.

I put on my pants and shirt, socks and shoes, sweater, coat, mittens and hat, and took Zelda downstairs to find the body of the elderly man stretched out under the Christmas tree with a bloody length of pipe next to his left ear.

He was clearly dead. He was lying facedown, with his head bashed in, his arms and legs at grotesque angles, and a Christmas tree ornament on his back.

I am utterly ashamed to admit the first thing that occurred to me was now there would be room for the people with the golden Lab.

The policeman did not look happy. Evidently murders during the holiday season cut into his family time. A little man with shrewd eyes, a jutting jaw, and a thin mustache, he stood in front of the Christmas tree where the body had lain and told the assembled suspects, the Hastings included, what he intended to do. We had already had a preview of how he intended to do it. He had spent the morning striding around the Stone Inn as if he owned it, barking orders at the state troopers, emergency medical technicians, newspaper reporters (whose exit had been speedy), and employees and guests alike. As a result, the medical examiner had been summoned, the body had been inspected and removed, the crime scene had been processed and photographed, and the living room was once again open to the guests, just as it had been the day before, with the exception of the chalk outline on the floor.

The policeman pointed to the outline and stated unnecessarily, “A man has been killed.” He paused, as if for dramatic effect, and went on, “The man is Vincent Lars of New York City. He was eighty-two years of age. He was retired, lived alone, was up here to the best I can determine to spend Christmas in front of a roaring fire.” He snuffled his nose, which crinkled his mustache. “That will not happen. It is up to me to determine why. We know how. He was struck from behind with a piece of pipe. The pipe was discovered next to the body and processed for fingerprints. There were none. It is yet to be determined where this pipe came from, though the cellar and the toolshed are likely sources. The toolshed is somewhat less likely, as there appear to be no footprints leading to it in the snow.”

The policeman paused, shook his head. “Don't you hate a crime where snowy footprints are a clue? I certainly do. So far, the only snowy footprints belong to Mr. Stanley Hastings, who, after finding the dead body, saw fit to walk his dog.”

Here the policeman fixed me with a steely gaze, which I thought was undeserved. I had called the police first, and Zelda had needed to go.

“At any rate, we are not going to rely on snowy footprints. We are going to determine the truth the old-fashioned way, by interrogation. I am going to question each and every one of you, and I am going to take you one at a time.”

I went last, which hardly seemed fair, seeing as how I'd been the one to find the body, but it did have two advantages. It meant by the time he got to me he'd already heard everyone else's story. And it gave me time to talk to Alice.

“So,” the policeman said. “You're a private investigator?”

I smiled, in my best self-deprecating way. “Not so you could notice. I'm actually an actor and a writer. I don't get much work, so I support myself chasing ambulances for a negligence lawyer. I interview accident victims and photograph cracks in the sidewalk. It's mostly trip and falls.”

He frowned. “I thought it was
slip
and falls.”

“It is. I say
trip and fall
by force of habit.”

“What habit?”

I blinked. I couldn't believe he'd asked that. “The habit of being wrong,” I said. “I'm frankly a poor detective, the last one on earth I would personally hire.”

“Yet your wife says you've assisted the police on occasion.”

“I wish she hadn't. I wish you'd treat me like any other witness.”

“Or any other suspect?”

“If you prefer.”

“All right. Would you care to tell me how you came to find the body?”

“You already know that. I got up to walk the dog.”

“This was standard practice?”

“What do you mean?”

“For you to walk the dog and not your wife.”

“I very seldom walk my wife.”

He blinked.

I put up my hand. “Sorry. I know this is serious. We share the duty of walking the dog. This morning it was my turn.”

“Why?”

“Because Zelda woke me.”

“Zelda is the dog?”

“That's right.”

“What time did she wake you?”

“Six-fifteen.”

“Was that earlier than usual?”

“I'll say.”

“Why do you suppose she woke up?”

“I don't know. I suppose it was being in new surroundings. Oh, I see. You mean did she hear something? It's a possibility. Did you pin down the time of death?”

“Not with any accuracy. But I doubt if it was sixfifteen.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“You shouldn't be. If you were here in the house just like everybody else, you could have killed him at any time. In point of fact, I would find it very unlikely you killed him in the presence of your dog.”

“Thank goodness for small favors.”

“Again, that doesn't let you out.”

“No, but common sense should. Why would I drive here all the way from New York with my wife and dog to kill a man I never met?”

He shrugged. “Why would anyone?”

“They wouldn't,” I said. “Obviously the killer has some connection. You have only to find it.”

“That's what I'm trying to do.”

“Really? How you doing so far?”

He frowned. “Mr. Hastings, I find your manner insolent.”

“You're right,” I said. “I'm sorry. I've had no sleep, and a considerable shock. But that's no reason to take it out on you. I'm just getting impatient with your preliminary questions which I happen to know have no bearing on the crime.”

“Oh? And how do you know that?”

“Because they're all tangential, and they don't relate to the actual killing.”

“You want me to ask you questions about the actual killing?”

“I thought that was the point of your investigation.”

“It is. And you are a key factor in that investigation, having found the body.”

I winced. “I wish I hadn't found it.”

“Because of the shock?”

“No. Like I say, because it clouds the issue. All you want to ask me about is finding the body.”

“Oh, is that right?” he said, ironically. “And what is it you'd like me to ask you about?”

“I told you. The killing.”

“I see. You feel you could shed some light on the matter?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Very well then, Mr. Hastings. What do you know about the murder?”

“I know who did it.”

We were once again assembled in the living room, just as we had been the day before when Alice had given the demonstration with the dog. With a few exceptions. Alice and I shared a couch with Abercrombie this time, our chairs having been taken by Mr. and Mrs. Stone Inn, who had been invited to join the proceedings. Zelda lay curled up at our feet.

Aside from that, everything was pretty much the same. The young couple were on their love seat. The middleaged couple were on a couch. The bearded man sat in an overstuffed chair.

The elderly gentleman wasn't there, of course, but the policeman was. He stood on the chalk outline in front of the Christmas tree and addressed our little group.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have talked to you all. And I am happy to say I have made some progress. That has been largely due to one man, Mr. Stanley Hastings, who, as you know, found the body because he happened to walk his dog.” Here he bowed to Zelda. “That was at six-fifteen this morning when the alarm was raised.”