4 Woof at the Door (3 page)

“Are you sure she’s in heat?” I asked.

“Nah, but she will be any day now,” Hank said. “Thought I’d go ahead and have her meet her future mate. They don’t seem to take to one another. Was giving them a preliminary intro to each other a bad idea?”

“No, but ideally, this initial introduction and their future meetings should be in the male dog’s—” I paused and corrected myself— “in the wolf’s…home. By doing this in the reverse, you’ve put her in a defensive position toward Kaia. She’s compelled to defend her home from him, which isn’t conducive for mating.”

Hank’s guest guffawed. “That bitch doesn’t want to get into any position for Kaia, if you ask me.”

Hank shot a glare in the man’s direction and said, “‘Fraid it isn’t possible to do this at Kaia’s place.”

“You have discussed all of this with Sammy’s veterinarian, haven’t you?”

“Er, no. Maybe I’d better do that. I got to admit, I don’t have much experience with dogs. She’s my first. Owned her for less than two years. She’s been acting strange the last few weeks. Kind of stand-offish. Does she look all right to you?”

I took a step toward her, and she immediately let out a series of warning barks. She was clearly set to defend herself, if necessary. “I can’t examine her under these conditions. She might let me get closer, though, once Kaia’s gone.”

I glanced at the other man, who was apparently the wolf’s handler. For the dog’s sake, I needed to find out what was going on here, and that meant forcing myself to be pleasant to this rather disgusting person. I held out my hand to him. “I’m Allida Babcock.”

He took my hand, his palm rough and calloused. “Larry Cundriff. Pleased to meet you, miss.” He held my hand a little longer than necessary.

I resisted the urge to wipe my palm on my slacks. “Are you Kaia’s owner?”

“Me? No, no. I just…work for the owner, that’s all.” The question had put him ill at ease. Something wasn’t above-board here.

“Has he or she got a license for owning an exotic animal?” I asked, watching the wolf, which was making himself at home. He had leapt onto a small off-white sofa across the room from us.

“Sure, he does.”

“What’s the owner’s name?”

The man cleared his throat and ran his fingers along his whiskered chin. “No offense, miss, but uh, what’s it to you?”

“I’d be interested in speaking with him or her about purchasing a pup,” I lied.

He grinned. “Ah, well. In that case, you’d be better off making the arrangements through me. That Damian, he’s a real straight arrow. He won’t sell a wolf pup to anyone without first checking that you’ve got a suitable home and licenses and all that crap.”

“Nevertheless, could I get his number?”

Larry made a show of patting his pockets and shot a nervous look at Hank, still standing beside him. “‘Fraid I don’t have one of his cards. Not on me. Sorry.”

“What’s his last name?”

“So, Hank,” Larry said, pretending not to have heard my last question. “What do you think? Think it’s about time to, uh, pack it in?”

Hank nodded. “You might as well take Kaia home. I’ll be in touch when the time comes.”

Larry whistled and patted his thigh. The wolf gracefully leapt off the couch and allowed Larry to slip a choke collar around his neck. “Pleasure meetin’ you, miss. An’ like a said, if’n you want yourself a wolf pup, you talk to me. Hank here knows how to reach me.”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Larry had some insidious deal going, perhaps behind the back of the wolf’s owner. “Damian” likely didn’t even know that Larry was studding Kaia out. I needed to learn Damian’s last name, without raising Larry’s or Hank’s suspicions.

I decided I’d have a better chance of getting answers from Hank, who would likely suffer less ramifications if caught. I followed a step behind Hank, but remained silent as Larry took Kaia out through the kitchen and into Hank’s three-car garage, where a plain steel-gray van with tinted windows was parked. The two men loaded the very amiable wolf into a cage in the back of the van, then Larry took off, Hank shutting the garage door after him. Strange that Larry’s vehicle would be parked inside Hank’s garage. Apparently, they didn’t want to raise neighbors’ curiosity by leaving the van in the driveway.

Hank led me back through the kitchen. Despite Ty’s words to the contrary, Hank hadn’t been at all flirtatious toward me so far. He did walk with something of a swagger, though. His bearing hinted at his having considerable pride in his muscular, if somewhat compact, physique. “So, can you take a quick look at Sammy for me?”

“I’d be happy to.” The dog was still where we’d left her. I got a slightly better view of her, enough to see that she was surprisingly plump. She’d been lying down, but immediately sat up when we entered the room. I stopped in the center of the living room. “It’d be best for me to give Sammy the chance to get comfortable with my presence and come to me,” I explained.

He nodded and plopped down in the same spot on the couch that the wolf had recently abandoned. Hank splayed his legs and laced his fingers behind his head, taking up as much space as possible as he regarded me at length.

“Larry called Kaia a ’local celebrity.’ How come?”

He widened his eyes and stared at me. “Oh, now, surely you’ve seen my commercials, right?” He gave me a full-wattage smile, his perfect teeth contrasting with his tanned skin. “‘Safe and sound, thanks to Hank’s’?”

“Oh, right,” I said, playing along. I watched television only irregularly, and less often than ever, now that my temporary living quarters had put my mom in control of the remote. “So that must be the wolf in your commercials.”

He gave me a broad grin, his chest visibly puffing with pride. “That’s right. Kaia circles me during the commercial, and then sits next to me.”

“And Kaia’s owner? Is he there as you’re shooting the commercials?”

Hank’s smile faded a little. “Yeah, he’s usually just out of view of the camera, behind the couch or right next to the cameraman.”

“What’s Damian’s last name?”

He frowned and rose slowly. Though he wasn’t tall—five-eight or so—he strode toward me in a John-Wayne sidle, looped his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts, and rocked on his heels. “Look it, little girl, I’m not doing anything illegal here. It’s true that Damian doesn’t know about my arrangement with Larry to stud Kaia. Damian doesn’t treat his employee half as well as he treats his animals. The only way Larry can make ends meet is when someone like me slips him a hundred bucks or so. And, you’re sure not going to see Kaia complain.”

If I ever hoped to learn Damian’s last name from Hank, I needed to keep myself in check and not be baited into an argument. “That much is certain,” I murmured noncommittally. My thoughts raced. Maybe I didn’t have to learn the owner’s identity from Hank. I could ask around till I found a friend who’d seen these commercials and could tell me when they were broadcast. Then the television station might be able to give me the name of the commercial’s production studio, which would know who the wolf’s owner was.

Hank’s Samoyed finally felt secure enough to gingerly venture a couple of steps out from her post in the corner. I knelt and said softly, “Hello, Sammy. That’s a good dog.” She cautiously approached, sniffing at me. She walked with a stiff-legged gate and was panting. She lay down on her back in the submissive position the moment I was in reach of her. I obliged and rubbed her tummy, surprised to feel telltale bumps and swelling.

Talk about “inexperienced” dog owners. Couldn’t he even tell that his dog was pregnant? A veterinarian would likely be able to give a more accurate estimation than mine, but by my best guess, this dog could be as much as sixty days into her sixty-three day gestation period.

Admittedly, my dog skills are better than my people skills, especially when it comes to tactfulness, but I at least knew not to blurt out, “You idiot!” Plus, if the loudspeaker system on the fence was there because of Doobie’s jumping into Sammy’s yard, I had a feeling that the neighborhood discord was about to intensify. “Have you noticed changes in your dog’s physical appearance in the last few weeks?”

“You mean her weight gain?” Hank barely glanced at her. “She’s always been pretty plump, though. I just figured she’s getting her winter coat in a little early. She’s a good outdoors dog.” He frowned. “At least she was, till that worm, Bellingham next door, bought that mutt of his.”

“From a dog rescuer, right?”

He scoffed and shook his head. “Ty told me that he bought Doobie from a private party. But you can’t believe anything that jackass tells you.”

Ty might have lied about where he got his dog to explain Doobie’s scars, which might also mean he’d lied about his dog’s origins.

At the mention of Ty Bellingham, Hank’s demeanor was growing more hostile by the moment. “He sent you over here to check on me, right?”

“No, actually, I came over because his dog was barking at your house so persistently. He must have picked up on the wolf’s scent.”

“That’s not all that miserable mutt’s going to pick up on, if I have my way,” Hank said under his breath.

“What do you mean?” I tried to conceal my automatic bristling at his threat to a dog. It wasn’t Doobie’s fault that his owners hadn’t trained him to be a good suburbia dog.

“If you ask me, that menace should be put to sleep. And I mean Mr. Tie-dye, not the dog.”

“Did you hook the loudspeaker up to the fence because Doobie was jumping it?”

Hank spread his hands. “I have to do something. I don’t want that fleabag over here. Damned thing can actually jump over a six-foot privacy fence. Course, once it gets into my yard, it can’t get back out, so we’re stuck with the damned thing all day.”

Uh-oh.

He eyed me. “So, tell me, Miss Babcock. In your—” he rolled his eyes—”expert opinion, is Sammy sick?”

I gritted my teeth and rose. “No, she’s not sick. She’s—”

“Good. Listen, I hate to kick you out, but I’m a busy man. If you’ll excuse me…” he swung open the door and stood by it, gesturing that he wanted me on the other side.

Our relative positions—his standing by the doorway as I stood up— sparked a memory. Now I knew why he seemed so familiar to me. Softball. My co-rec team played in the same league as his. Last week, he’d rudely rushed in to take premature possession of the dugout after our game ended, bumping into me in the process. His lack of even a lip-service apology had won him instant membership in my mental AA—Arrogant Asshole—club.

The heck with mincing my words. I strolled past him and out the door, saying, “Sammy and Kaia won’t mate because she’s already pregnant.”

Hank followed me onto the porch. “What did you say?”

“Sammy is pregnant. In fact, my guess is that she’s expecting any day now.”

“But…But that isn’t possible! She’s supposed to be in heat this month!”

Though his having belittled my area of expertise made me feel more like spitting at him than speaking civilly, if I stormed off now, Hank might take his frustrations out on his dog. While counting to ten, I turned, then said calmly, “You miscalculated and missed that event by two months or so.”

“Oh, shit! Two months ago, I was in Dallas for…. But my wife was here. She never said anything about Sammy being in…” He called over his shoulder, “Paige? Paige?” He started to go back inside, then stopped, muttering, “Must be listening to her stupid self-awareness tapes. Damned things make her deaf to the outside world!” He leveled a finger at me. “You sure about this?”

I nodded. “With outside dogs like Sammy, you need to be somewhat vigilant. It’s not impossible for you and your wife to have missed the signs.” Though it did speak volumes about how inattentive Hank and his wife must be about their pet. A dog’s cycle lasts about three weeks, and the Atkinsons had decided to breed her, so they should have been watching. Were these people aware that there was a world outside their own front—and back—doors?

Hank pounded his palm with a fist, eyes darting as if he were making desperate mental calculations. “That bastard!” He brushed past me and marched down the sidewalk toward Ty Bellingham’s house.

Feeling somewhat responsible for Hank’s agitation, I followed, his long, athletic strides forcing me into a trot. “Mr. Atkinson, just because Doobie can jump your fence doesn’t necessarily mean he’s the sire.”

Hank pounded on the door, ignoring my lame attempts at distracting him. I joined him on the porch. Doobie was barking at a feverous pitch and had put his huge paws against the front window sill so that he could see us.

“It could have been another dog, even from an entirely different neighborhood. Some male dogs, once they pick up on a female’s scent, will literally jump through glass to—”

“Bellingham! Get out here and face me, you miserable chicken-livered piece of dog crap!”

“If Sammy was out in your yard while she was in heat, it’s possible that any dog could have—”

Hank shot me a furious glare, letting me know that the subject was closed, and pounded again. The vibrations rattled Ty’s windows. Meanwhile, Doobie maintained his fever pitch.

Ty opened the door and slipped out, leaving only the screen door shut on his massive dog.

“You…you…miserable—”

Despite Hank’s sputtering fury, Ty looked at me and said, “Thank you, Miss Babcock. You must be quite the skilled negotiator. Look at all the progress you’ve made at mending fences between me and my neighbor.”

Hank jabbed Ty with his finger. “That piece of crap, flea-hotel, ugly dirt-bag goon you call your dog knocked up my Sammy!”

Ty blinked a couple of times, then said calmly, “The powder puff on four paws is pregnant?”

“That’s right, jerk, and you better wipe that smile off your face!”

“Whoa,” Ty said, lifting his palms and taking a step back. “‘Fraid you got the wrong daddy dog. It couldn’t have been my Doobie.” To my horror, Ty surreptitiously snapped his fingers behind his back while he was speaking. “And even if Doobie was the sire, let’s keep this in perspective. We’re talking about a pair of dogs, not a knocked-up daughter.”

He now had a grip on the handle of the screen door. The otherwise untrained Doobie instantly went into a fighting stance, hackles raised, muscles primed to leap. He let out a rumbling growl.