Ruff Way to Go by Leslie O'Kane Page A

I’d been that Shogun had gotten killed in yesterday’s tragedy. “What
a good boy Shogun is. Thank goodness you’re all right!”
    Luellen was
staring in unabashed horror at us, her face pale. “That is not Shogun, Allida.
That’s his brother, Krumpet.”
    I studied
her features. “Then why does Krumpet know me and respond to the name Shogun?”
    “He’s just a
friendly dog, that’s all. Krumpet, come.” She slapped her thigh as she called
him. After a moment’s hesitation, the terrier headed toward her.
    “I stand
corrected. What an embarrassing mistake. I guess I was just so relieved to
think that I’d found him that my imagination got the best of me.”
    “No harm
done. I’m just going to put all the dogs...outside now. They need their
exercise.” She gave me a pained expression, then carried “Krumpet” out of the
room, patting her thigh to signal all of the dogs to come. The remaining eight
dogs trotted obediently after her.
    What a
perfect place to hide a silky terrier. Not unlike hiding one particular needle
in a packet of needles. But why would someone hide Shogun here? Or anyplace
else, for that matter?
    Luellen
returned empty-handed. Her cheeks were crimson by now, and she averted her
eyes. She knew I was on to her.
    There had to
be an explanation for her trying to hide Shogun, and if it had anything to do
with Cassandra’s murder, I wasn’t about to force her hand.
    At least,
not until I was relatively certain it wasn’t holding a dagger.
    I said goodbye,
got into my car at what I hoped was a casual enough pace, drove a few blocks,
then pulled over to consider my options. My hunch was that Trevor was trying to
pull one over on Edith by helping to hide the dog at his sister’s. And yet I’d
told Trevor that, if he was Shogun’s main caregiver, he was likely going to
retain custody.
    So why would
either Luellen or Trevor hide Shogun, unless their doing so was related to
Cassandra’s murder? The dog was almost certainly at the murder scene, at least
until the killer opened the gate, likely during the murder itself. How, then,
could the dog have wound up at Luellen’s, if not on his own four feet or having
been brought here by the killer?
    I needed to
cross my name off the police’s list of suspects. Maybe the best way to go about
doing so was to enlist their help now. I could tell Sergeant Millay that Shogun
was in the home of the sister of the man who owned the property where Cassandra
Randon was killed. Getting the officer to believe that this was
Shogun—and, therefore, could have been brought here by the
killer—was going to be a challenge. Despite my best efforts, the sergeant
had remained convinced that Shogun was likely to have simply run off, never to
return, the moment the gate was left open.
    I could
picture Sergeant Millay, his hooded, emotionless gray eyes staring at me as I
explained that, yes, this really was Shogun, in spite of what Luellen might say
to the contrary. It would be more effective to have him witness Shogun running
up to Edith or Trevor, but that meant convincing the sergeant to insist that
they accompany us to Luellen’s home. Plus I wasn’t sure that either Edith or
Trevor should be entrusted with the dog until all of this could be sorted out.
    I drove to
the nearest public phone, outside of a gas station on Highway 287, and called
the Berthoud police, asking for the sergeant. He was out, and the dispatcher
asked if I wished to speak to another officer instead. Not really. Hard as it
was to imagine Sergeant Millay believing me—or caring about the
dog—it was even less likely that some policeman I’d barely met would act
on such an odd request. I gave my name and said I’d call back.
    Time was of
the essence. Luellen had not bought my act of pretending to realize that my
identification of Shogun had been a mistake. She would call her brother and
have him hide the dog someplace else.
    How could I
prevent Luellen from secreting the dog away a second time?