Deprivation House by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

front paws. Right now he didn’t look like he could hurt a squeaky toy.
    â€œI don’t know what they did to the dogs before they got here to get them so dirty,” I answered. “But what I did to Captain was start to give him a bath. I got him wet with the hose, and—”
    â€œHe loves that. He loves getting wet,” Captain’s trainer interrupted. “If he can’t find anything better,he’ll stick his paws in his water dish.”
    â€œI put a little shampoo on his back. Not near his eyes or anything,” I explained. “Then he was growling and snarling and barking, so I decided to back away slowly. I only got a few steps, and he was on me.”
    â€œI don’t understand,” Captain’s trainer said. “I really don’t. My poor baby.”
    â€œSorry I had to pepper spray him.” I really was. He sounded like a great dog.
    â€œA dog as big and strong as Captain would have been impossible for you to fight off. It’s okay,” she answered. “I’m going to take him home now. I’ll get him all fixed up.”
    I watched her walk Captain off the field. He stuck right to her heel. He didn’t bark once, not at a single person or dog. Weird.
    I decided to do a little investigation. I headed over to the scene of the crime. Towel. Shampoo. Hitching post. Toothbrush. Chunks of whatever. Puke.
    Actually, puke can be a good source of info. It can help you determine time of death, for example. Of course, it’s not a fun source of info to examine.
    I picked up the towel and used one end to spread the vomit out. One weird thing I noticed was a couple of seeds. They were kind of kidney shaped. Unless Captain ate some super-crunchy-granoladog chow, I didn’t think seeds would be in his puke.
    â€œYou’re studying vomit? You always get to do the fun stuff,” Frank said as he crouched down next to me.
    â€œDon’t you have to wash a dog?” I asked.
    â€œI got a dachshund. I’m done,” he said.
    â€œWhat do you think of those seeds?” I pointed one out to him.
    Frank picked it up and crushed it between his fingers. Then he raised his hand to his nose and took a deep breath. “Smell,” he told me. I leaned away from him. “Just do it.”
    I took a sniff. “Foul,” I muttered.
    â€œRight. Remember the day we went over poisons at ATAC training?” Frank said. “Foul odor was one of the main characteristics of jimsonweed.”
    I automatically began reciting parts of the rhyme our instructor had taught us to help us learn the effects of the plant. “Mad as a hatter, dry as a bone, red as a beet.”
    â€œIt would be hard to tell if a dog was red as a beet.” Frank threw the crushed seed onto the grass. “But mad as a hatter?”
    â€œI talked to his trainer, and she said he’d never acted that way before,” I said. “And the dry as a bone—I noticed Captain wasn’t slobbering. I thought it wasstrange, because I think of Newfies as big, slobbery dogs. Dogs who should practically wear bibs.”
    â€œI’m glad he vomited this up. He should be okay with it out of his system,” Frank said. “We should have his trainer get him checked out by a vet to be sure.”
    I nodded. “So since I’ve had two attempts on my life, how does that change the percentages?” I asked. “It’s still four out of fourteen of us who have done the near-death thing. But I don’t think that really reflects the situation.”
    â€œAll I know is, things worked out well for two of our suspects this afternoon,” Frank told me.
    â€œRipley got to be a hero again. She’s already expecting TV time. Who else?” I asked.
    â€œI’m sure Bobby T will find a way to make your near death almost as exciting for his readers as one of his own,” Frank answered.
    â€œJoe, you’ve got to check your e-mail,”