Last But Not Leashed, page 30
When I questioned Rainbow, she equivocated.
“I don’t know if he killed her,” Rainbow told us. “I did see him up on the catwalk just before midnight with Posey.” She admitted trying to keep an eye on him so they could hook up for a New Year’s kiss.
On the floor, Colin slammed his legs on the ground, in a futile attempt to silence the girl. Looming over him, Desi growled a warning.
Eyes blank once again, Rainbow said, “I’ll probably never get to Helsinki.”
Pinky used his cell and called 911.
I was certain Colin would deny everything to the police and then lawyer up—with or without poor Rainbow.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The media jumped on the story breaking in Upstate New York. Two gruesome murders, millions of dollars in stolen Bitcoins—and in police custody, a photogenic artist who’d had affairs with both of the victims. The interest fired up into a frenzy when someone revealed the stolen Bitcoins belonged to Chloe Ramboulle, the beautiful young French actress, and her husband, tech billionaire Arthur Gambino. Oak Falls became number one in the news for four days. The tabloids descended, eager to film Colin’s studio, the Hay Barn Gallery’s catwalk, and the community center parking lot. Released from jail, Glenn Overmann gave interviews to anyone who asked, basking in the attention. Chloe Ramboulle issued a statement through her publicity team, deploring violence and plugging her upcoming Broadway debut—tickets available at the box office or through Ticketmaster.
Judy’s kitchen did a whopping business from all the hungry reporters, cameramen, and gawkers flocking into town. A New York Times food critic wrote her a glowing review, and the Food Network pitched her a spot on one of its shows.
A safe deposit key was found by Babykins’s new owner, much to the joy of Glenn and his boyfriend, Wyatt. Sookie had stashed it inside the shocking-pink pillow of her beloved kitty’s cat bed.
Cindy turned down any and all requests to interview me. The police minimized the role Pinky and I played in the capture, but the basic facts soon became common knowledge. Pinky posted a NO TRESPASSING sign at the top of his driveway and didn’t open his door for anyone he didn’t know.
Luke texted me asking if I wanted him to come by. Twice. I texted back “No.”
A ghostwriter turned Posey’s book, now titled Aliens, Vampires, and the Servant Girl, into a screenplay. Netflix quickly optioned it as a limited five-part series. Rainbow’s mother, Linda, was listed as an associate producer.
Rainbow shut down from all the attention. A famous tech celebrity, public about his own Asperger’s diagnosis, sent a slew of high-powered lawyers to her aid. A week later, tabloids published pictures of them holding hands on a secluded beach.
With all the publicity centered on the town, Cindy and the shelter doubled up on trying to find Mr. Pitt’s owner. Success hit soon after the crowds began to disperse, and the media moved on to the next big story. After a Zoom call confirmed the silver dog had been stolen from a loving home, his anxious family piled into their SUV to pick him up.
Mr. Pitt was going home.
Mari, Cindy, and I waited in the reception area of the hospital. I clicked a leash on Mr. Pitt, who sat quietly by my side. His coat shone and he’d put on fifteen pounds of muscle. Such a change from the first time I’d laid eyes on him wrapped in an old blanket, shivering by the dumpster.
His wounds had healed, but his chewed-up ears gave testament to what he’d lived through. The ever-present scruffy moose toy hung from his mouth.
“Do you think he’ll recognize them?” Cindy asked.
“Of course,” I said. “He’ll recognize their love.”
***
A dark blue SUV pulled into the parking lot and a youngish couple emerged, the woman six or seven months pregnant. Steadying her as they walked down our sidewalk, the husband held his wife close. They rang the doorbell and peered through the door before coming inside.
Mr. Pitt looked up.
“Mouse!” the woman cried out. “Mousie, is that you?”
I’m not sure what I expected. Jumping, twirling, even slobbering. Instead, he walked over to her, tail wagging furiously, and leaned his big head against her belly. Protective. His mommy was here.
The husband knelt down and rubbed the big dog’s face, tears in his eyes. When his fingers felt the scar tissue above his eye, he frowned and looked at me.
“He’ll be fine,” I told him. “He’ll be fine now.”
Tears flowed, and we heard all about our pit bull’s past. The couple stayed for almost an hour, showing us photos of Mr. Pitt/Mouse as a puppy. He’d been their baby for two years before he’d been stolen out of their backyard the day they moved. Despite posters and postings on social media about their dog’s disappearance, he remained lost. When they moved again eight months later, they’d forgotten to update the microchip information.
During our reunion meeting, Mr. Pitt stayed close to his family, even sitting on his dad’s foot. When they were ready to go, the woman dug into her large purse and retrieved a frayed toy mouse. “Here’s Squeaky,” she said. “Want to play with Squeaky?”
The big dog looked over at us, the brown moose firmly in his mouth.
“Go ahead,” I said to him. “It’s okay.”
He dropped the moose on the reception floor and delicately plucked his mouse toy from her fingers.
“Guess we’ll be going,” the husband said. “We can’t thank you enough for all you did for him.”
Cindy, Mari, and I knelt down on the floor to say our goodbyes. Mr. Pitt’s light green eyes appeared happy and calm. I gave him a kiss on his forehead and stood up.
After final farewells, the husband picked up Mr. Pitt/Mouse’s leash. The big pit bull swiveled his head back toward me, then stopped to pick the brown moose up from the floor. His mouth now full of toys, he looked back for the final time, then followed his family out to their car.
“I love a happy ending,” said Mari, blotting her eye with a tissue.
“Me, too. Do you have another one of those?” I asked.
The three of us stood and watched the SUV leave our parking lot and turn onto the main road.
“Well, that’s that,” Mari commented. She swiped a ChapStick across her lips.
Staring out at the window, I reviewed in my mind the events of the last month. So much had happened since we’d found Mr. Pitt and said goodbye today to Mighty Mouse. “Back to normal life,” I told my friends.
“Don’t remind me,” Cindy said.
Another dog was also being reunited with his owner, with little or no fanfare at all. Daffy had returned from Florida exhausted, suffering from jet lag. Since Little Man’s surgical site had healed well, and we expected no problems for our brave little dog, Mari and I volunteered to drop the Chihuahua off at her place that afternoon.
“Where’s Little Man?” Mari asked me. “He’s not in any of the hospital cages.”
“Oh, he’s at my place,” I casually noted, “saying goodbye to Buddy.”
“Do you want me to get him?” she asked, grabbing her coat.
“No, that’s okay. Why don’t you go warm up the truck?” I suggested. “I’ll bring him right out.”
Little Man lounged on my bed, half-covered in a soft blue blanket. He lifted his bald head then stretched out his stick-like legs. The skin of his bat ears was so translucent you could read through them.
We’d cuddled together in bed the night before.
He’d eaten shredded rotisserie chicken and only the tops off the broccoli.
No beer to settle his stomach.
No coffee this morning—just a few licks of vanilla ice cream.
I stroked the thin fur above his bulging brown eyes as I prepared to pick him up.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I said to the Chihuahua.
Little Man smiled at me and growled.
THE END
If you enjoyed Last But Not Leashed, don’t miss the following excerpt from Saddled with Murder, another Dr. Kate Vet Mystery available from Poisoned Pen Press.
Prologue
A wish can be many things: optimistic, greedy, or a simple request for a favor from the vast unknown. We look up to the heavens when we wish.
Some of us look down.
Three wishes made in jest might bring three presents to Dr. Kate Turner, a bit of cheer during the holiday season. Of course, you can’t wrap dead bodies in red and gold Christmas paper and shove them under the tree—but it’s the thought that counts.
A simple card would have to do.
Gossip will run rampant if the wishes come true. So easy to drop a hint here, a confusing lie there—sprinkling suspicion in the streets of Oak Falls like dirty snowflakes.
Always show the world a normal face, but under the surface something dark lurked, tightly tied and bound by societal expectations. Kept in check.
Time to set it free.
Chapter One
“Who wants a slice of litter box cake?”
With that provocative question the Oak Falls Animal Hospital Christmas party shifted into overdrive. It was Friday afternoon, the weekend awaited, and bonuses were being given out along with presents from a Secret Santa. The staff laughed and noisily lined up for a taste of this ever-popular veterinary and/or Halloween treat.
Only weeks before Christmas, and outside the Hudson Valley glimmered with a soft layer of snow. The blue-gray mountains, their dark green pine trees dusted in white, resembled greeting cards, and the village of Oak Falls took advantage of it. Lushly festive decorations evoked a storybook feeling meant to entice tourists to enter the stores and buy buy buy. It was impossible to escape the relentless cheeriness.
This time of the year I morphed from Dr. Kate Turner, friendly veterinarian, to grumpy Dr. Kate Scrooge. The music, the decorations brought back difficult memories. Just before Christmas, the year I turned fifteen, my mom and brother, Jimmy, were killed in a hit-and-run accident. My father and I didn’t deal well with our tragedy. I embraced anger, and he embraced another woman. The Christmas tree stayed in the house, all the presents wrapped but untouched, until February, the following year, when Gramps came and took it down.
“Come on, Dr. Kate,” my cheery office manager/receptionist Cindy said, waving a red paper plate. “Dig in. You know you’re dying to try it.”
Putting away my own thoughts and knowing that tasting this mess was inevitable, I plastered a smile on my face and stood up. The treatment room, the hub of the animal hospital, glittered and glowed with twinkling Christmas lights shaped like dogs and cats. A silver garland composed of hundreds of tiny reindeers draped over the IV stands and hung pushpinned around the windows. Jolly holly Christmas music poured out of the hospital sound system inviting all to sing along.
The infamous litter box cake rested on a Santa-and-his-elves-themed tablecloth, which covered our stainless-steel table, making it as festive as stainless steel can be. The baker, my technician, Mari, had strived for realism—succeeding beyond her wildest nightmares. Tootsie Rolls and Baby Ruth bars starred as the cat poop, while some kind of granular sugar/graham cracker mix stood in for the litter. A partially melted piece of chocolate artistically draped over the side of the litter box represented the kitty that—“oops”—had missed the mark.
And, yes, she had transferred the “cake” into a real litter box, complete with plastic liner, uncomfortably close to the ones we actually used.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” I told Mari. “Now, if only you had buried a tiny Santa Claus surprise in the middle of this…masterpiece.”
Cindy raised a carefully enhanced eyebrow while she thought about that comment but proceeded to cut the cake to the delight of the group and present me with the first piece. “To your first Christmas in Oak Falls, Dr. Kate. Ice cream?”
“Why not?” I slid the red paper plate with my generous portion toward her. “What flavors do you have?”
“Only one. I made it myself in our ice cream machine.”
When she paused I knew something was up.
Wondering how you top a litter box cake, I asked, “What flavor did you make?”
“Reindeer Crunch.”
Score one for Cindy. Medical humor across the board is pretty strange to outsiders, but it helps defuse what can often be a stressful job. “I hope no reindeer were injured in the making of this ice cream.”
Mari, busy capturing the fun with her phone, said, “All reindeer are present and accounted for. It’s a blend of milk chocolate, which stands for their coats, with vanilla-and-dark-chocolate-covered wafers mixed in to resemble their hooves. Oh, and a couple of Red Hots. They help blast you to the North Pole.”
“They sure do,” chimed in our kennel helper Tony, always ready with a comment.
“Are the Red Hots an homage to Rudolph’s nose?”
“You’ve got it, Doc.”
As soon as I returned to my seat, I tasted an overloaded forkful of litter box cake topped with melted Tootsie Rolls and Reindeer Crunch.
It was delicious.
***
Thirty minutes later with everyone well fed, the party started winding down. Cindy updated me on two angry clients, one of whom refused to pay his bill. Mari and Greta, the shy intern, were comparing notes while Tony explained something, complete with hand gestures, to the new kennel worker. At the back of the room next to a bank of cages sat our next-door neighbor and snowplow guy, Pinky Anderson. Pinky had brought his senior citizen dog Princess in to see me several times, but today he’d come in to talk about the holiday plowing schedule. Cindy insisted he stay for the party. Our hospital cat, Mr. Cat, meanwhile, managed to dislodge the red bow scotch-taped to his collar. No attempt to dress him up withstood the power of his claws. Terribly annoyed, he parked himself under an IV stand festooned with a loop of sparkly garland and vigorously began to groom his fluffy tail.
I jumped up and stashed the bow in my pocket just as Cindy announced it was Secret Santa time.
Blond-haired, blue-eyed Cindy had been a cheerleader in high school, and you could tell. Her genuine upbeat attitude made her popular with both clients and staff. Today she wore what she called her traditional ugly Christmas sweater, an explosion of badly knit reindeer and lumpy trees with an unintentionally evil-looking Santa suggestively nestled over her chest.
Almost all the staff were here, including our perennial student, Tony Papadapolis, along with a new part-time kennel helper, Aaron Keenan, and college intern, Greta Weber.
Mari scrambled up to the front to help clear the empty pizza boxes, jingling as she walked, thanks to the two dog collars she’d woven around her neck. She shot an evil eye at her personal nemesis, Tony, who merely turned his back.
I’d forgotten what they were feuding about at the moment.
Before exchanging the presents, Cindy insisted on playing a holiday game. “Well, it’s not exactly a game,” she said, qualifying her statement. “There’s no prize.” She clapped her hands to get our attention. “Everyone has to reveal their secret selfish holiday wish.” Mari raised her hand with the inevitable question that went ignored.
“And no peace on earth or anything like that. Your wish has to be down and dirty, and it has to involve the animal hospital.”
“What if you don’t have one?” asked the somewhat shy Greta, sounding worried she might offend someone.
Cindy smoothed down the front of her sweater, inadvertently rubbing Santa the wrong way. “Just try. It will be fun.”
“We all have selfish wishes,” good-looking Tony piped up. “I’ll go first if you want.”
Dead silence confirmed that no one else wanted to start.
“Okay. I wish that all the dogs in the kennel,” he paused dramatically, confident in front of the group, “took self-cleaning poops that smelled like roses.”
A round of cheers greeted his statement, since everyone knew how often he complained about his cleaning duties.
“Good one,” acknowledged Mari. “Next? Cindy? Come on, you started this.”
Cindy immediately accepted the challenge. “I know it’s selfish, but I wish the parking space next to the front door had my name on it.” With that she covered her face with her hands, embarrassed.
“Maybe we can arrange that,” I announced and stood up. “Presto.” I waved a pretend magic wand. “The first space to the left along the sidewalk will be reserved for Cindy.”
Everyone clapped.
“What about you, Dr. Turner?” our pre-vet student asked.
“Yeah,” seconded Tony.
“Wait a minute. Let me record this for posterity.” My assistant stood up and began to scan the room with her phone.
“Well,” I began, definitely feeling on a sugar high, between the cake and the ice cream. “Since I have my magic wand out already,” I lifted my finger in the air, “I wish that two dissatisfied clients of mine…who will remain anonymous…”
Mari loudly interrupted by shouting out, “Frank Martindale and Eloise Rieven.”
“And Raeleen Lassitor,” added a voice from the back of the room.
I should have stopped there, but I didn’t. Instead, with arm raised and magic index finger pointed, I continued. “I wish that my Secret Selfish Santa would make them all…disappear.” With that I drew a few circles in the air and cried, “Abracadabra, poof. They’re gone.”
Cindy clapped her hands, and Mari called out loud to me, “Well, we can all dream, can’t we?”
***
Party over, Mari and I stayed to clean up and do treatments on Goober, a diabetic dog, and Fluffernutter, a rabbit whose nails and teeth we’d trimmed. Both were being discharged in the next half hour, leaving me with an empty hospital. After checking Goober’s blood sugar, we fed him an early dinner, then administered his adjusted insulin dose.
