LITMIR.BIZ

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area. “The guy who brought her in.” She moved to the counter and picked up Fido’s registration form. “By what I saw from my office, he took one look at you and forgot he owned a dog.”

      Gwendolyn’s ruling passions were dogs and fix-ups. Trust her to slap a cutie-patootie label on any man who’s ambulatory, old enough to vote and bathes regularly.

      There was nothing above average about Jack McPhee. Medium height, medium build. His medium brown hair had an eleven-o’clock part and was blocked in back a half inch above his shirt collar. Even the car rolling down the driveway was midsize and as medium blue as his eyes.

      Dina couldn’t imagine why a funny feeling, like a hunger pang on spin cycle, had ziggled south of her rib cage when they made eye contact. And now, just thinking about it.

      She sloughed it off along with her part-time employer’s incurable matchmaking. “Forget it, Auntie Mame. Even if I was interested, which I’m not, Mr. McPhee isn’t my type.” She patted Fido’s pouffy head. “And I’m pretty sure I’m not his type.”

      Gwendolyn crossed her arms, as if fending off Cupid’s evil twin. “Then why was he flirting with you?”

      “I wouldn’t call it—”

      “All right, so that tie of his probably glows in the dark, but the suit was Brooks Brothers. My husband has one exactly like it—or did, until he gave up trying to lose thirty pounds and I took it to a resale shop.”

      “Will you—”

      “Jack McPhee lives on LakeShore Boulevard, Dina.” Gwendolyn tapped the registration form, emphasizing each syllable, as one might impress upon a small child a need to clean her room. “Starter homes in that development have four bathrooms.”

      Not much of an incentive, since Dina couldn’t keep two bathrooms clean. She held up the Maltese. “See the collar?”

      “Pink. So what? She’s female, it matches the leash and—”

      “Check out the pedicure.”

      Gwendolyn blanched a little, then flapped a hand. “You detest painting dogs’ toenails, but some groomers think it’s cute. And McPhee could have a daughter that thinks it’s cute, too.”

      “Doubtful, unless she’s adopted.” Dina set Fido on the counter. “Smell her head.”

      “What? Why?”

      “Humor me.”

      Gwendolyn leaned over, sniffed, recoiled, then sniffed again. “Well, hell.”

      That’s pretty much how Dina felt, too, though she’d never admit it. Mother McPhee’s recent demise might explain the lingering aroma of cold cream and perfume, except Fido had been shampooed and trimmed in the past week.

      “Life is so unfair,” Gwendolyn moaned. “Things were hard enough when all the good ones were either married or dead.”

      Dina chuckled and handed off the Maltese. “If you wouldn’t mind paging Laura to get Miss Fido settled in and give her a snack, I have to finish Claude’s comb-out.”

      The puli-Labrador mix snoozing on the grooming table was one strange-looking fellow. Claude’s owners spent a fortune keeping its ropy coat from matting into plaited scales, and it loved being fussed over. Using the table’s noose-like restraint on Claude was like tethering a dog-shaped topiary before clipping it. The trick was coaxing Claude down to the floor afterward.

      As Dina toed the milk crate back into position, Gwendolyn said, “How’s your mom doing with the oxygen therapy?”

      “Better.” Dina sighed. “When she stays hooked up to the machine, instead of using the portable tank in the living room like a rescue inhaler.”

      “Then it won’t be a problem if Mrs. Allenbaugh is running a little late for her appointment.”

      Gwendolyn’s tone entwined a question with a conclusion.

      Dina consulted the antique Seth Thomas above the office window. Mrs. Allenbaugh was always a little late. When, of course, she wasn’t a lot early. If the daffy old bat owned a Chihuahua, instead of a standard poodle, the timing wouldn’t matter as much.

      “How late is late?”

      “She promised to be here before noon.”

      Meaning eleven fifty-nine, but Dina couldn’t afford to kiss off her fee and a generous tip. She did some mental clockwork herself. “I’ll just have to race across town and give Mom her shot before Mrs. Allenbaugh gets here.”

      Gwendolyn smiled the smile of a dog caretaker with a six-person staff. She squeezed Dina’s shoulder. “Relax, okay? I know Betty Allenbaugh’s a pain, but now you have a whole hour between your nine-thirty and ten-thirty to check on Harriet.”

      Dina nodded and smiled back, as if a diabetic’s insulin injections were as mutable as a scatterbrained poodle owner’s watch.

      6

      “McPhee Investigations.”

      “Great news.” Gerry Abramson’s telephone voice belied the salutation. “I just heard the Calendar Burglar ripped off another of my insureds last Thursday night.”

      Jack sat back in the desk chair. Hell of a way to start a Saturday, even though he’d slept away most of the morning. “You’re sure it’s the same thief?”

      “He didn’t leave a calling card, but the cops think so. This time, along with the jewelry, he snatched an iPod and a laptop. Both brand-new, still in their boxes for donation to a charity auction.”

      The police had likely alerted retailers who sold that type of electronics in the event of a no-receipt return. A full-price refund versus a fence’s standard dime on the dollar made wonderful economic sense. Stupid wasn’t part of this burglar’s M.O. to date, but neither was boosting high-tech toys.

      Jack copied down the victim’s address—a mile from his stakeout last night on LakeShore Boulevard. He reminded himself that Gerry hadn’t hired him until Thursday afternoon. It still felt like a “Screw you, McPhee” to have been shuffling police reports and claim forms while the thief made another haul.

      A whimper at floor level could be interpreted as “Can we go now?” The sheltie doing it was Sweetie Pie Snug ’Ems’s replacement. Ms. Pearl reneged on her weekend loan, saying she couldn’t bear another night in an empty apartment.

      The sheltie’s owner, Angie Meadows, hadn’t been alone at hers, nor happy to be wakened at the crack of eleven by a P.I. needing a favor. The voluptuous server at Jack’s second-favorite bar was also a canine loan shark. They’d settled on a hundred dollars to rent a dog shedding enough hair on the carpet and Jack’s pants to cost three sheep their livelihoods.

      “Your burglary victims,” he said into the phone. “You wouldn’t happen to know if they have a dog, would you?”

      “A dog?” A pause, then, “Now that you mention it, yes. One of those huge, jowly things that slobbers all the time.” Another beat’s worth of dead air. “Why do you ask?”

      “No reason in particular.” Jack feigned a chuckle. “Just be glad you pay me by the day, instead of by every weird question I come up with.”

      “Answers,” Gerry shot back. “That’s what I’m paying you for.”

      The click and a dial tone weren’t surprising, given the insurance agent’s frustration. No doubt Abramson was kicking himself for not bringing in outside help sooner. He hadn’t expected results in under seventy-two hours. It didn’t stop him from wanting them like yesterday.

      So did Jack, though he wouldn’t have bet a plug nickel the trap would work on the first try. Common sense just never quite dashed the hope for a little dumb luck. If it did, the only snake eyes rolled in Vegas would be attached to actual snakes.

      The

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