Rachel Alexander 02 - The Dog who knew too much

that beer,” I said. “I think we need to continue this.”
    But Stewie just turned, and he and the locksmith headed inside.
    “Catch you later,” I said. But the door had already closed, and at that point, I didn’t know if Stewie Fleck would have heard me if it hadn’t.

33

Better Safe Than Sorry

    BACK AT MY cottage, sitting on the steps that led upstairs, just staring at the front door, I decided to add another lock or two. Better safe than sorry, as the condom ads say.
    Not wanting to move, or unable to, I took the names and numbers I needed from my pocket and sent Dashiell for the cordless phone.
    “Barb? Hi. This is Michelle, from the gym? Fine. Just great. Okay, I’m wondering if you can help me out here,” I said, lowering my voice to a hoarse whisper. “Yeah. I spilled my Coke. . . . Right. She told me exactly the same thing. And I’m trying like hell to get off it, drink Water Joe instead, yeah, springwater with caffeine in it. Right. She told me that very same thing. Carrot juice. And make sure the carrots were grown without pesticides. So, Barb, here’s the thing, I spilled my Coke on the appointment book, and we can’t do Janet’s check, so I’m calling to verify, it looks like your name here in the book, but I can’t see if it’s checked off or what, so did you make that training session with Janet last Friday? Four? Great. Thanks a bunch.”
    I dialed the next number.
    “ Sandy ? Hi. This is Michelle from the gym. How are you? Yeah, me, too. Listen, Sandy, I wonder if you could help me out here. There’s been a little mix-up at the gym. Well, the truth is, I spilled my coffee on the appointment book. Yeah. That’s what my mother used to say, too. Anyway, we’re doing payroll, you know, and I need to verify if you were in for your five o’clock with Janet on Friday, because the place where she’d check it off is like rotted out from the coffee. You were? Great. Oh? Oh? No, of course she’ll still get paid. Twenty minutes late? Because she had to what? Oh, right. Take her puppy out. Tell me about it. Half the time she sends me. So was she like all sweaty when she came back? She likes to run with Pola , get her tired fast so she can get back to work. Yeah, right,” I said. “No, no problem. We don’t dock the trainers for lateness. Yeah, she is the best, isn’t she?”
    But, of course, she could have run home to walk the dog. Just because she had the opportunity to do the killing didn’t mean she did it.
    Did it?
    And just because Howie had tickets to Cats, that didn’t mean he bought them on Friday afternoon.
    And just because Stewie Fleck was stalking Lisa—Jesus, and now me—that didn’t mean he had killed Lisa and Paul.
    Did it?
    After all, hadn’t O. J. Simpson stalked his wife? Yet at his first trial, he got off. Apparently those jurors didn’t think there was much of a connection between stalking and murder. Even though lots of other people did.
    And when push came to shove—and I had every intention of pushing and shoving Stewie Fleck again—wouldn’t he vehemently claim that what he’d done had been perfectly harmless? Whom, after all, had he hurt, taking pictures and sending presents?
    But just the thought of that revolting little creep watching me, photographing me, following me, made me feel sick.
    When I checked my watch, I saw it was almost time to go. Sword class was at seven, and I had to get there before any of the others arrived.
    Climbing the stairs, I couldn’t see light coming out into the hall from an open door, nor could I hear anyone talking. There were no jackets hanging on the hooks in the hall, no street shoes in the little cubbies that, except during class, held people’s t’ai chi shoes.
    The door was locked. So far, so good. I opened it, turned on the lights, and, out of habit by now, changed to Lisa’s black shoes. I went to see if Avi was in the office, because sometimes he’d be holed up in there with the door locked and the rest of the lights off. But not this evening.
    I dropped Stewie’s keys next to the couch where he had tossed his jacket before the lunchtime class and pushed them with my foot so that they were half under the couch and half sticking out. Then I sat on the floor against the wall with Dashiell at my side, wondering how a nice girl like Lisa got herself mixed up with so many people who had the motive, means, and opportunity to do her in, wondering which one had, wondering whether—no, not wondering, fairly