Canine Christmas (30 page)

“I don't think I have the stomach for it.”

“You can kill a gorgeous girl like that,” the big man said with a laugh, “but you can't do a fucking dog?”

“I told you, her death was …”

“Okay. Okay. I'll take care of old Jack for you tomorrow. How's that?” The door slammed behind them. My man said something, but most of it was too muffled behind the door to make out.

Since there was nothing I could do about any of it right then, I trotted out to the potting shed and nosed myself inside. I had only been able to imagine what they were doing and wanted to smell for myself. The stench of death and blood and bone was fog-thick in the humid little building and I recoiled, instinctively backing away from it. My rump rammed the door. The latch clicked before I could turn. I was locked in.

I started to bark my locked-in bark but thought better of it. I didn't want to be yanked again. Or kicked. Or yelled at. So, I lay down by the door and put my nose close to the damp dirt floor where the odor of death was thinner.

I was confused. Why was my man so angry with me? It seemed as though he had been getting less and less patient with me over the past several months. And he hadn't been feeding me. Not every day anyway, like usual. He had been fine for a while after the father died. Let me ride in the Mercedes. Even took me to the country once … He didn't let me out of the car, but it smelled nice though the crack in the back window. But then, he started to change. He fired the gardener and cook. Yelled at them like he was now yelling at me. He was on the phone a lot. He stayed up late. Drank from a bottle. He would still be in the study—sometimes on the floor—in the morning when I went to look for him to put me out. And then the girl began coming to the house. She was nice to me. Always brought a dog biscuit in her purse and didn't mind when I sniffed at her crotch. And my man was nicer. And now this. I sighed. Who was the big man with red hair? He didn't like me and was making my man angry at me again. If only I knew what I was doing wrong, I thought. If only I could find a way to make my man like he was before. If only …

I heard the back door open and the two of them come out. I decided not to bark, remembering how angry my man had been when he let me out of the bedroom. And I could only imagine how angry the red haired man would be. So I lay there and listened to them go to the driveway.

“Just follow me,” the big man said. “Once I ditch her car in Burly Town, we've got all night to get rid of the rest.”

“Where?”

“Where what?”

“Where are we going to get rid of the rest?”

“A little here.” The big man laughed. “A little there. A little everywhere.”

I listened to the car doors slam, the engines start and then they were gone. A cricket began chirping in the far corner of the shed. Ordinarily I would have hunted it down—I liked their crunchy, sweet taste—but tonight I was too tired.

I closed my eyes and dozed and dreamed of my days with the father. Our trips to the hunting camp. The cold, misty mornings and the distant honking of migrating Canada geese. The smells of the woodsmoke, the coffee, the bacon, the guns, and wet wool. I felt the icy water, my feet swimming, the soft, warm, feathered bulk held lightly in my mouth. And I dreamed about the words of praise. The hugs and long rides home perched high and proud in the front seat. The special treats when the big tree went up in the house.

I heard the Mercedes return several hours later and only my man got out. After he entered the house and clicked the door shut I fell asleep again, this time dreaming of last summer and chasing that musty smelling woodchuck across the yard. I remembered how he had managed to escape me by diving though a hole in the back wall of the potting shed. How I had followed—it was tight—and by the time I had wriggled myself inside, he was long gone down the burrow hole he had behind the bags of peat moss. Over the next several days I had tried to dig him out and might have succeeded but the gardener caught him cockily sunning himself by the rhododendrons, shot him in the eye with his twenty-two pistol, and dumped the big brown rodent in the garbage can with the locking lid. I could barely smell its pungent fur through the thick plastic.

I awoke. Sunlight pressed yellow against the closed window shade. Flies buzzed at the back of the shed. Sparrows squabbled and scratched along the tin roof. Old Charlie barked on his chain in the backyard three over. I stood and stretched. The smell was worse. Hugging the dark along the wall under the shelf, I went to where I remembered the woodchuck burrow hole to be and nosed behind the peat moss bags. The gardener must have filled it in before leaving, but the jagged opening in the shed wall was still there. I pushed my head through but my shoulders wouldn't fit. It was tighter than I remembered. I backed out and took a few steps away from it. Maybe if I ran at it like I'd done with the woodchuck, I'd fit. I took another couple steps back into the shed—I wanted to get a good running start—and my back left paw stepped on something soft and cold that grabbed at my foot. I yelped and jumped, spinning to attack whatever it was.

It was a hand. Tentatively, I sniffed it. It was her hand. The same one that had dragged on the floor in the kitchen—lying there palm up in the dim morning light. My weight in its center had caused it to clench.

I picked it up by the thumb, carried it to the hole in the wall, and dropped it out into the yard. Then I backed up again and charged. The opening was tight and the jagged sides hurt, but I was free. I turned, scooped the cold hand into my mouth, and ran for the house.

The back door, of course, was closed. Normally I would have barked and pawed at the screen until my man came and let me in, but my mission was to improve his mood and his opinion of me, not irritate him further.

I ran around the house and tried at the front door, but it, too, was closed. Sometimes one of the cellar windows was left ajar in the summer to let in fresh air, so with the hand still clamped in my jaws, I began a slow inspection of the narrow windows along the foundation. As I passed under the long windows to the study, I heard my man's voice through the wall. I sat, pricked my ears, and listened. He was talking on the telephone. “Of course, I'm upset, Dinkletter,” he said. “I waited most of the day for her.”

There was a pause while he listened to Dinkletter on the other end. Then he said, “Well, I wish you'd listened to your messages before you called the police. Now I have to endure another inconvenience because of your negligence. The New Year is only a few days away.”

Another pause and then, “Yes, you do that, Dinkletter. Call them and tell them how unhappy I'm going to be to see them. Of course, a lot of good it's going to do if they're already on their way.”

Pause.

“Yes, I'm sure you are, Dinkletter, but it's really too late, isn't it?”

Pause.

“I don't really care, Dinkletter. And make sure you pass on my sentiments to Miss Darrel also. When she shows up.” My man slammed down the phone receiver and laughed.

I started for the next basement window when I heard him dialing. I went back to my place under the study window. The hand in my mouth wasn't cold anymore. “It's me,” my man said. “I just got off the phone with Dinkletter. He called the cops first thing. Evidently she was living with her sister and the sister called Dinkletter before he had a chance to hear my message.” He paused, listening. Then he said, “Any minute now, I guess.” He sighed. “I'm ready as I'll ever be.” Another pause. “No I haven't seen him this morning. But he'll be around groveling for his kibble. I'll lock him in.” Another pause. “Fine. I'll call you when they leave. You can come get him then if it's so important to you.” He hung up, and I heard his footsteps cross the room and enter the hallway beyond. “Here, Jack,” he yelled. “Here, Jack. Time for breakfast, old buddy.”

My stomach growled. Food can wait, I thought, mouthing the hand. I have more important things to do.

Two more basement windows and I found what I was looking for. After that, it was simple: shoulder it open, leap through to the basement floor, cross over to the back stairs, up to the servants' door—that had a latch not a knob—nose it open, and head for the study via the dining room. I could hear my man calling me as I stood on my hind legs and deposited the hand beside the telephone on the cherry desk. Right next to the big tree he'd put up last week.

Now things will get back to the way they used to be, I thought as I trotted toward the kitchen and the sound of the electric can opener. My man will be happy when he sees the hand—he was so worried about losing it last night. He'll know I found it for him, and it will prove how helpful and loyal I can be. He'll see it and know I would never tell what I know about the dead woman. And he'll scratch my belly and throw sticks for me to catch and maybe even take me to the hunting camp like the father did. But, mostly, he'll never let the big, red haired man take me away, because we'll be friends again.

He fed me a big bowl of canned mixed with dry and sat at the table smoking while he watched me gobble it down. Then he locked me in the bathroom like I knew he would. I didn't mind. He would be letting me out as soon as he discovered what I did for him. I drank from the toilet and then lay down by the door to wait.

The front doorbell rang an hour later. A man's voice introduced himself as police lieutenant Grabel Smolowitz. “And this here is Sergeant Rita Sanchez,” he added.

My man invited them inside. “I hope you've found her,” he said.

“Her?” Sergeant Sanchez said. “You mean, Miss Darrel?”

“Yes. Of course I mean Miss Darrel. She's missing, isn't she? I talked to her boss, Mr. Dinkletter, this morning. She was supposed to be here yesterday but didn't show up. My company pays Dinkletter …”

Lieutenant Smolowitz interrupted my man. “When was the last time you saw Miss Darrel?”

“Day before yesterday.”

“Did she seem normal to you?” Sanchez asked.

“Normal?” my man said. “I guess. I'm not sure what you mean.”

“Sergeant Sanchez means, did Miss Darrel seem preoccupied or anxious or actin' strange somehow?”

“She was auditing our books, officer,” my man said. “I let her do her job. I didn't sit and look at her all day.”

“And what is it you do exactly, Mr. Wadsworth?”

“I manage the family's estate.”

Sanchez said, “Uh-huh, I see.”

It was silent for a few seconds and then my man said, “I'd like to offer you some coffee or something, but I really have several phone calls to make before our offices in Europe close for the day, so …”

“Speaking of telephones,” Smolowitz said, “would you mind if Sanchez here used yours? Our squad car radio seems to be on the fritz this mornin' and we shoulda checked in to the precinct half an hour ago.”

“Not at all,” my man said. “There's one right in the study.”

I was on my feet and barking before it was all the way out of his mouth.

“What's up with the dog?” Sanchez said.

“He's probably locked himself in the bathroom again,” my man said. “Study's that door right there, Sergeant Sanchez. Go on in. Use line one.”

I barked louder. Faster. I leapt at the door.

“Had a dog did that,” Smolowitz said. “Drank from the toilet, I mean. Never could understand why he liked that over his water bowl.”

“I read in a magazine where it's the height,” Sanchez said, her voice now coming from the study. “Dog doesn't have to bend over for the toilet. Easier to drink that way, the article said.”

I howled and whined and barked.

“I was you, Mr. Wadsworth,” Smolowitz said, “I'd go check on that dog of yours. Reminds me of Lassie, you know? The way he use to sound when he was tryin' to warn little Timmy of somethin'.”

If you enjoyed the stories in
CANINE CHRISTMAS,
we invite you to investigate further:

THE PUZZLED HEART

by
AMANDA CROSS

Kate Fansler's husband, Reed, has been kidnapped—and will be killed unless Kate obeys the carefully delineated directives of a ransom note.

Tormented by her own puzzled heart, Kate seeks solace and wise counsel from friends both old and new. But who precisely is the enemy? Is he or she a vengeful colleague? A hostile student? A political terrorist?

The questions mount as Kate searches for Reed—accompanied by her trusty new companion, a Saint Bernard puppy named Bancroft. Hovering near Kate and Bancroft are rampant cruelties and calculated menace. The moment is ripe for murder….

Published by Ballantine Books. Available at your local bookstore.

CANINE CRIMES

15 canine crimes committed by
a kennel of top writers:

Deborah Adams

Laurien Berenson

Melissa Geary

Amanda Cross

Brendan DuBois

Jonnie Jacobs

Dean James

Taylor McCafferty

Jeffrey Marks

Anne Perry

Lillian M. Roberts

S. J. Rozan

Polly Whitney

Valerie Wolzien

Steven Womack

Published by Ballantine Books.
available at your local bookstore.