Canine Christmas (5 page)

Joan was a nice enough woman but a bit hyperactive for my taste. She reminded me of a nervous Chihuahua. She had a pixielike hairstyle, freckles, and was always crossing or uncrossing her legs as we spoke and fidgeting with her dark bangs.

“This has been just the … the darnedest thing, Allie,” she said, immediately opting to use my nickname. “I just don't know what's gotten into Patch. He used to be so well behaved. Now he's been sneaking out one particular present and trying to bury it.”

“Patch has been doing that, too?”

“What do you mean,
too
? None of the rest of the family is into burying things in the yard.”

“I was under the impression that Kudos, your neigh-bor's dog, had tried to run off with a present.”

“Oh, that's right. That has been the darnedest thing. I'd forgotten. Both dogs have a thing for the same present.”

The darnedest thing, all right
, I thought to myself, beginning to wish that I could just work with dogs and not their accompanying humans. I took the box with the earrings out of my pocket and showed it to Joan. “Was that particular present in this kind of wrapping paper?”

She glanced at it, smiled, and said, “Yes, as a matter of fact. And I recognize the signature wrapping paper. Jarrod got me a gift from Richards Jewelry Store.”

“Do you know where it is now?”

She rose and said, “I've had to hide it in a cupboard out of Patch's reach. I'll go show it to you. It's pretty chewed up, frankly.”

While Joan was out of the room, I called Patch to me and showed him my nearly identical box. He showed no interest.

“Take it, Patch,” I said quietly.

He didn't respond at all. I tried setting it on the floor in front of him and urging him to take it. Again, no reaction.

“What are you doing?” Joan asked as she returned to the room.

“I was just testing.”

“He doesn't seem nearly as enamored with your box as he is with mine,” Joan said, showing me her second, longer box. “He's got his teeth marks all over it.”

She held it out for me. In the blink of an eye, Patch raced over and snatched the box out of Joan's hand. “See what I mean, Allie?”

“He's acting as if there's something edible in the box,” I said, thinking aloud. I retrieved my own jewelry box, which Patch had completely deserted. During the brief pause in which I did so, the dog had started tearing at the wrapping on Joan's necklace.

“Allie, for heaven's sake, stop him from doing that! He's going to ruin my present!”

The instant I'd retrieved the now-soggy box from Patch, Joan snatched it from me and said, “I just hope there's no damage to the …”

She had snapped open the velveteen-covered container and was staring at its contents. I rushed over to stand beside her and shared in her surprise.

“Rawhide? A signature Richards Jewelry box contains rawhide chew treats?”

“That would explain why the dog was drawn to it. But not back when we were at my office and your husband showed me the necklace.”

Jarrod rushed in through the back door and paled at the sight of the jewelry box and its contents in his wife's hands. “What's that? Where's the necklace I bought you?”

His surprise struck me as miles short of genuine. That made me realize I needed to collect the shreds of wrapping paper, which, having lost the rawhide strips, Patch was now attempting to ingest. I stuck the paper shreds in my pocket.

“Ben Richards!” Jarrod said derisively in the meantime as he took the rawhide strips from his wife. “I'll bet he did this! Him and his mutt! He must have trained that dog of his to come in here and … and get the box, then he swapped the contents!”

Joan was shaking her head and sobbing.

“I'm gonna get that bastard on the phone,” Jarrod continued, maintaining his act. “Then I'm going to call the police and—”

“What did you put on the wrapping paper, Jarrod?” I asked.

He stared at me, his mouth agape, looking the soul of confusion, except for the slightest hint of desperation in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“If you're trying to pull off an insurance fraud, I'll turn the wrapping paper in to the police. They can analyze it. I would bet you scented it with hamburger, or something similar, before you came to my office a couple of days ago. There would have been no other reason for Patch to show such interest in the box, which, at that time, contained an expensive necklace. And I have a hunch that you've been using yellow food dye to fool your family into believing that you had an excuse to contact a dog psychologist. You set me up, didn't you?”

Joan had stopped crying and was now looking at her husband intently.

“I … did no such thing. It must have been … Ben could have put something on his wrapping paper when I wasn't looking. Something that attracted his dog to the box.”

“That would have been possible, except you told me you got the box back before Kudos could escape with it. And your wife has had it hidden in a cabinet. If the box never left your house, only someone in the house could have swapped the necklace for the rawhide.”

Jarrod's cheeks were now beet red, matching his hair, and he looked from me to his wife and back in desperation. Joan walked away from him and slumped down onto the couch.

He blinked a few times as if running new lines of defense through his head, then finally sat beside his wife, who refused to look at him. “I'm sorry, Joan. She's right. I did exactly what she said. I couldn't afford the necklace. I was going to report it missing on Christmas Eve and use Allida to verify that the dog went after the jewelry and probably buried it somewhere.”

Joan was staring at him, aghast. “How could you do that!”

“We've … been losing some customers, and the business isn't doing too well right now. But I wanted you to have a nice Christmas and realize that I
did
get you that necklace you'd been eyeing; I just couldn't afford to give it to you right now, is all. I was hoping to‘find’ where Patch had‘buried’ it, once I could afford to give the money back to the insurance company. It's the thought that counts, after all.”

“And Kudos taking the gift and trying to run out the dog door? Did that ever happen?” I asked.

Jarrod shrugged. “Yeah. Once I snatched him out of Ben's yard and brought him over here. Couldn't even convince the stupid mutt to use the tunnel I dug. I just … used Kudos because the day after I bought that necklace, I went into Ben's store, and there was another identical one. The creep had been lying about his one-of-a-kind designs! I thought it'd serve him right if I could throw some suspicion his way.”

“Where's my necklace now?” Joan asked, crying softly once again.

“I … had to sell it at a secondhand store for less than I bought it for. But I was going to buy it back, just as soon as business picked up. And I figured by reporting it missing instead of stolen, the insurance company wouldn't call in the police.” He turned his gaze toward me. Suddenly he smiled and then laughed with relief. “I didn't do anything illegal, Allida. I didn't report the necklace as missing to our insurance company yet, so there's nothing you can do to me.”

“This is the last straw, Jarrod!” Joan rose, lifting her chin defiantly despite the tears running down her face. “Maybe there isn't anything she can do, but I'm suing for divorce. I'm taking the house, the kids, and every nickel you've got left!”

“Let me know if you need a witness,” I said to her. “I'd like to at least make sure you get custody of Patch.”

“Thank you, Allie.” She looked again at her soon-to-be ex-husband. “As for you, get out of my house. Now. Or I'm calling the police to escort you out.”

He spread his hands and opened his mouth as if to protest his innocence, muttered, “But … but …” Then sighed and headed out the door, shaking his head.

I touched Joan's shoulder. “Are you going to be all right?”

She nodded. “Eventually. I should have thrown the bum out years ago.”

We said our goodbyes, and I left. Snow had begun to fall. The first few soft flakes were whirling in the light breeze.

Jarrod was waiting for me beside my car. I steeled myself and grabbed my keys. I ignored him as I unlocked my car.

“Can't you say something to my wife on my behalf? I'm the one who hired you, not her!”

“You wouldn't want anyone to hear what I have to say about you.” I got into my car, with Jarrod glowering at me. As I shut the door, I met his eyes and said, “By the way, Jarrod. You were right about one thing. The thought
does
count.”

Yellow Snow

Jeffrey Marks

In addition to serving as editor of Canine Crimes, an earlier anthology of dog-related mysteries, JEFFREY MARKS is the author of numerous short stories that have won the Barnes and Noble Prize, Honorable Mention from DreamWeaver magazine, and a grant from Malice Domestic. His author profiles and scholarly essays on mystery authors have appeared in numerous national magazines. Mr. Marks wrote a biography of author Craig Rice (Who Was That Lady?) that to date has appeared only in French translation. Having been reared in the company of beagles and terriers (Bugular, Malady, Almanzo, and Busters 1–4), he now lives in Cincinnati with a Scottie named Ellery.

The adage to “beware of yellow snow” is never truer than when the dog demands an outside sojourn at five
A.M.
Norman had woken me from a wonderful dreamabout what I would find in my stocking in the morning. I'd donned a pair of plaid pajama bottoms as I stumbled to the entryway. Icicles nettled my chest before I'd even opened the door. Someone in a fur coat doesn't mind the cold as much as the naked apes.

A fine layer of powder had coated the front walk as my beagle slipped between my legs to sully the fresh snow. He sniffed around three separate bushes while I stared out over the landscape. Norman shuffled across the encrusted yard, occasionally breaking through the membrane into several inches of compacted snow and ice. Typically, Cincinnati has one bad snowstorm a year, enough to make the population glad they don't live farther north. The situation on the highways rapidly deteriorates from a winter wonderland to something from
Alice in Wonderland
: Tweedledum behind the steering wheel. This year's precipitation had paralyzed the city three days before Christmas. I'd closed the antique store for the duration and settled in for a long winter's break. Norman enjoyed the company and the opportunity to sniff his presents, the tree, the ornaments, and whatever else came in the path of his extended snout.

I rubbed my eyes twice, trying to comprehend the scene in my neighbor's yard. The Maxwells had selected a quasi-religious theme this year of angels heralding the arrival of Santa Claus. Sheep and oxen kept time with the eight tiny ice-covered reindeer. The delicate sleigh and Santa on their front lawn had an extra passenger. Drake Harrington slumped against jolly old plastic Saint Nick with a strand of Christmas lights wrapped around his neck. The man's dashing good looks had been abused by the weather. The wind had blown his ebony hair into his face; his normally rugged good looks had grown mottled. Though he was dressed in a shirt and jeans, he didn't look warm enough for a night like this.

Even from here, I could recognize death. The strand was pulled tight enough around his neck to have cut off the circulation of a dormouse, much less a full-grown man. The twinkle of red and green bulbs against his chalky skin made me certain that Drake wouldn't be home for Christmas.

I'm normally not the nosy neighbor type, but Jo-Ann Lemmen had stopped by on her annual fruitcake pilgrimage to deliver more than cement pastries. She spilled the entire story of the neighborhood doings. Apparently, Sarah Maxwell, my neighbor's daughter, had invited her longtime boyfriend, Ernie, to spend the holidays with her when they rendezvoused at Thanksgiving. That trivial detail hadn't stopped her from bringing Drake at Christmas after they started a rather torrid affair at Columbia University. Mrs. Lemmen had hinted at things that would have made Ken Starr blush. Ernie, usually as constant as gray skies on a Cincinnati December day, hadn't learned of this turn of events until he'd shown up yesterday. Granted that behind his tiny wire rims, Ernie wasn't much to look at: hair that looked like it hadn't been combed since the last holiday season, freckled face. But how attractive must you be in order to be treated with respect? Being a local boy, I'd expected Ernie to turn tail and run, but he'd decided to stand his ground against romantic Visigoths.

So the trio had trekked back to the Maxwell abode to celebrate the holidays in what could politely be defined as a tense atmosphere. I heard shouting from the house next door, mostly the two men jousting over Sarah. Frankly, I couldn't understand Sarah's fatal attraction. At best, I would have dubbed her cute; at worst, selfabsorbed. No Helen of Troy in the Cincinnati suburbs. She stood a head shorter than her suitors, with limp blonde hair and brown eyes that expressed a lack of interest in the outcome of this situation. I'd known many men to mistake indifference as hard-to-get and get hurt in the process. As I saw Drake's body, I wondered again what had possessed her to make such decisions.

The whole family had suffered the consequences. Ross Maxwell, Sarah's younger brother, had come home from college as well, but alone, without a menagerie of romance. Both Maxwell children attended the same school, showing some semblance of family despite their circumstances. Ross had the same blond hair as his sister, styled in what was politely called a bowl cut. Bangs hung down in front of his eyes, and wispy strands of gold collected behind his ears. He towered over his sister with a six-foot frame and upper torso that told he'd spent more time at the gym than the library since he'd been at school.

He had not been coming home until three or four in the morning. Norman was thoughtful enough to announce the neighbors' timetable with a plaintive wail. My beagle had deigned to share my bed for the duration of this cold snap. His love of showers (which he shared with his namesake, Mr. Bates) waned with the advent of icy tile. His sleeping rearrangements left me painfully aware of the Maxwell children's every move.