Canine Christmas (3 page)

He paused, smiled. “By a happy circumstance, he also happened to walk the dog during the night. I'm going to let him tell you what happened then.”

All eyes turned to me. Not that anyone knew the name Stanley Hastings, but they all knew the dog.

I didn't bother getting up. I sat on the couch, patted my dog. “Last night Zelda went to sleep early,” I said. “Which is not surprising. It's a new environment, it's new people, it's overstimulating, and she doesn't get her normal naps. At any rate, she went to sleep early and didn't get her usual last walk. Which is why she woke me in the night. She woke up and needed to go out. So I pulled on my clothes and hurried downstairs. I was not fully dressed. Because, frankly, I wasn't going to
take
her out, I was going to
send
her out. I was cold and half-asleep and didn't want to wake up any more than I had to. Anyway, I didn't have her leash on, since if I wasn't going out with her, there was no point. I brought her downstairs, let her out the back door.

“Only she didn't go right out. Instead, she trotted over and looked in the living room door.” I pointed. “Right over there. Stuck her head in, looked in the direction of the Christmas tree. I called her, and after a moment or two, she trotted over and went out the back door.”

“Uh-huh,” the policeman said. “And what do you conclude from this?”

“There was someone in the living room who attracted her attention. Most likely the decedent and his killer.”

“Did you hear sounds from the living room?”

“No, I didn't. Frankly, I didn't hear a thing.”

“And what makes you think they were there?”

“Zelda's actions.” I shrugged. “And the resultant corpse.”

The policeman held up his finger. “Aha. The corpse. How do you know
that
wasn't what attracted the dog's attention? The body could have been lying there, and the murder could have happened some time before.”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“Zelda's actions. This morning, when we found the body, she trotted right over to it, sniffed it. If it had been there last night, that's what she would have done. But she stopped in the doorway. Cautiously. Which is what she would have done if there had been two people in there not on the friendliest of terms. Dogs are very sensitive. They read body language well. It is my contention that Zelda got a look at the decedent and his killer very shortly before the deed.”

“Oh, that's ridiculous,” said the bearded man I thought was a sailor but who had turned out to be a life insurance salesman. “It means nothing of the kind.”

“Oh, you think not?” the policeman said. “Well, I think it might. Mr. Hastings has a theory, and a very interesting one.” He gestured to me. “Why don't you tell them what it is?”

“It's very simple,” I said. “Zelda is very smart. She saw two people arguing. Then she saw one of them dead. She can make the connection one person harmed the other.”

This time it was the middle-aged man who spoke. “I think that is a little much. Mr. Hastings, are you telling me the dog knows who committed the crime?”

“I wouldn't go that far,” I said. “She doesn't know she knows it. All she knows is two people didn't like each other and one is dead. She doesn't really know the other person killed him. That is a leap
we
have to make.
But she knows who that other person is.
”

“Oh, for goodness' sake,” Abercrombie said. “You expect us to believe that?”

“No, I don't,” I said. “But I can prove it.”

For once I silenced Abercrombie. He gaped at me, his mouth open.

I stood up and took a little metal clicker out of my pocket.

“Zelda,” I said, “go round.”

Zelda got up and circled me.

“Sit,” I said.

Zelda sat at my side.

“Down,” I said.

Zelda lay down.

“Stay,” I said.

I walked to the middle of the room, turned around. Zelda was still lying there.

“Zelda, come,” I said.

Zelda got up, trotted over to me.

“Sit,” I said.

Zelda sat and I clicked. I reached in my pocket and handed Zelda a puppy biscuit. She chomped it gratefully, looked up at me expectantly.

“Zelda,” I said. “Walk with me.”

Zelda walked at my left side back across the room.

I stopped, said, “Zelda, sit.”

Zelda sat at my side.

I said, “Zelda. Touch killer.”

There was a stunned silence in the room.

Zelda looked up at me expectantly.

Raising my voice slightly, in a high pitched tone dogs like, I repeated, “Zelda. Touch killer.”

Zelda's eyes traveled around the room. Then she got up, turned, trotted over to the love seat, and put her head in the young man's lap.

But it was the young woman who sprang up. “No! Stop it!” she cried. “Get her away from him! Danny didn't do it! It was an accident!”

I must say, Danny no longer looked like the all-American boy. From the expression on his face, and the daggers he was darting at the young girl, I got the impression if it weren't for the others in the room there might have been another “accident.”

Of course, it was just a trick. Zelda didn't see the young man arguing with the old one. Because I never took her out during the night. She slept straight through till six-fifteen. No, I must admit that was a slight fabrication for the purposes of trapping a killer. Which worked pretty well, I might add.

You're probably wondering how I knew Danny was the killer. Actually, I didn't. I didn't even know he was Danny.

But Alice told me. Alice is good that way. She told me and then refrained from telling the policeman, in order to make me look good.

Actually, she would have told the policeman, had he bothered to ask her. But he didn't, and Alice made up her mind if he was as obtuse as that, she wasn't going to volunteer it. She said she thought he would take it better coming from a private eye. But I know better. At any rate, that's what she did.

But how did Alice know? Well, her powers of observation are as acute as mine are virtually nonexistent. And while the policeman was telling us all about the crime, she was watching the people in the room.

Danny, to his credit, betrayed not a thing. Alice knew he was guilty from watching the girl. From the way the girl was watching him. Just the way she looked. Of course, there was nothing specific.

Which is another reason Alice didn't want to tell the policeman. She figured he'd put it down to women's intuition, vivid imagination, flight of fancy, what-have-you.

And as for the motive, we didn't have one. I made it up. Turned out it was right on the nose, but then even I can't be wrong all the time. I figured most likely the old man and the girl were related in some way the old man would never have dreamed to suspect. And that Danny and the girl had followed him here deliberately in the hope of making something out of the connection.

I don't believe murder was ever intended, at least not by her. But when the opportunity presented itself, Danny took it. Not being particularly smart. Not figuring the relationship, though tenuous, could be traced. Particularly if the young woman presented herself as an heir. Though, to be fair, had they survived questioning, gone home to New York, and months later accepted a behest, probably nothing would have come of it. Because the actual connection, grandniece twice removed, whatever that means, was not particularly likely to come out.

Except for Zelda.

And how did Zelda identify the murderer?

Clicker training, of course.

Alice and I spent a half hour with her alone in the living room training her what to do. Of course, we didn't teach her to touch the killer. She had no idea who the killer was. Or Danny, for that matter. No, we clicker trained her to touch the love seat. As soon as she learned it, we added the command, “Touch killer.” Which was fine with her, and she learned it well. Any time we want a love seat touched, that's all we have to say.

I doubt it will come up often.

But it certainly saved the day.

And it certainly made a big impression on the other guests.

Abercrombie was exuberant. “Would you believe it?” he said, triumphantly. “The poodle solved the crime!”

I didn't bother to correct him.

The Emerald Collar

Leslie O'Kane

LESLIE O'KANE is the creator of two mystery series. The longest going involves Molly Masters—full-time mother of two, part-time creator of faxable greeting cards, and occasional reluctant sleuth. (Molly's most recent criminal investigation is detailed in The Fax of Life.) Ms. O'Kane's newer series, beginning with Play Dead, features dog psychologist Allie Babcock, who lives in Boulder, Colorado—where the author also makes her home, along with her husband, two children, and a cocker spaniel.

Jarrod Miller, his face still flushed from his having come in from the cold, glanced up at the small window of my basement office in downtown Boulder. The already minimal view that the window afforded was blocked by the snow that had blown into the window well. Beside him, his scruffy little mixed breed dog, Patch, so named after the dark pattern of fur on half of his face, let out a sad whine.

“You've got to do something about my dog, Miss Babcock,” Jarrod began. “My wife insists I either solve this problem now, or she'll have Patch put in a kennel until after Christmas.”

“Have you had a lot of houseguests lately?” I asked, guessing at the likeliest cause of dog problems at this particular time of year. The onslaught of visitors often makes dogs anxious; they suddenly find themselves forced to share their territory and their human “pack.” Patch, however, was one of the calmer dogs I'd seen lately, and considerably more so than his owner, who was rocking slightly in his seat and tapping one foot. Patch's chin rested lazily on his owner's nontapping foot, and his eyes were half-closed.

“No, Miss Babcock, that's not it at all.”

“Please call me Allida.”

Jarrod nodded, then crossed his arms. “Patch … keeps lifting his leg on the Christmas tree. It upsets the wife and kids. We've already got presents under there, and they're getting so yellow and washed out that you can hardly read the tags. Plus, he's always shorting out the kids' model electric choo-choo.”

This was such an unexpected problem that I had to stifle a chuckle. Though I'd worked as a dog psychologist for less than a year now, it had been easy for me to surmise that laughing at a client's problems was no way to endear myself to them. “I'm assuming that this is a live evergreen?”

“I don't know if it's
still
alive. I think the water in its tree stand has wound up being too acidic, thanks to Patch. The thing's shedding needles like crazy.”

“I hope you've moved the presents.”

“Of course.”

“Jarrod, my first hunch would be that some other dog marked this particular tree when it was still in the lot. If so, Patch would be bound and determined to counter that with his own scent, especially since the tree is in his territory now.”

Jarrod leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. He was still wearing his unzipped parka and was casually dressed in dark thick corduroys and a pullover. “What do we do to get rid of this other dog's scent? Spray the trunk with perfume?”

“I'm honestly not sure. I've never tried to … de-scent a tree trunk.” By my way of thinking, there was no sense in trying to cure—or, more correctly, redirect—a dog's problem behavior if it could be easily circumvented. “Would you consider getting an artificial tree, or simply banishing Patch from that particular room?”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. So far, Jarrod struck me as an intense man, hands always in motion, unsure of where to focus his gray eyes. “I wouldn't have a problem with the first suggestion. I mean, this tree we've got now has … lost its luster anyway. I've only stuck with live trees because I like the scent of pine needles. But it's only a matter of time now till the thing smells more like an outhouse than the great out-of-doors.” He gave Patch a pat as he spoke, as if to reassure him, though Jarrod only succeeded in waking him from his slumber.

“He hasn't been doing any other marking of territory inside the house, has he?”

Jarrod sighed and dragged both his palms over his curly red hair. “No, fortunately, the tree seems to be it.”

“An artificial tree could do the trick then. Though I have to warn you that this is a first for me. I've worked with dogs that became so determined to take over their pack … their family, that is, that they peed on their masters' beds, but never a dog that did so exclusively on the Christmas tree.”

“Yeah? Well my neighbor said you were great. Apparently you worked with him and his Jack Russell terrier, Kudos.”

“Oh, yes. I remember Kudos. Smart dog.” His owner had hired me to help train him for special tricks. I rarely took strictly dog-training gigs but had grown so fond of Kudos that I made an exception. I suspected that the owner, whose name I'd since forgotten, had aspirations of earning millions by hiring Kudos out as the next TV trickster dog. “How's he doing?”

“Oh, business is booming. He owns that jewelry store down the street a ways, and with Christmas coming up, he's doing a brisk business.”

“Oh, good,” I murmured to be polite, but I'd actually meant to ask how Kudos was doing, not his owner. Jarrod had jogged my memory, though; Kudos's owner was Ben Richards, the proprietor of Richards Jewelry Store.

As if he could no longer contain his energy, Jarrod leapt to his feet, kicking his dog slightly in the process. “Hey! You're a woman. I should show you this. Get your opinion on it.” He pulled a small, nicely wrapped box out of the pocket of his forest green parka. Fully awake now, Patch jumped up to put his front paws on Jarrod's legs and started sniffing at the package. He even attempted to lick the wrapping paper. Jarrod, however, plopped back into his chair as abruptly as he'd risen. He kept having to push his now persistent dog away with one foot while scraping with his thumbnail at the tape on one end of the wrapping paper. He extracted a velveteen jewelry case, leaving a neat shell of the wrapping paper, which he returned to his pocket.