Let Sleeping Dogs Lie by Suzann Ledbetter Page A

joists. The loaner sheltie spun on its leash like a hairy Baryshnikov, its answering yelps absorbed in the skull-crushing racket.
     
     
Jack grabbed the dog, poked the slouchmeister in the back and signaled an about-face. Shoving open the office door, he collided with someone rushing out as he was rushing in.
     
     
Their mutual apologies trailed away in unison at "So sorry, I…" Recognition prompted coinciding "What are you doing here?" Before either could respond, the tour guide snarled, "It's about fuckin' time you showed up. I told that cocker spaniel's owner two hours, an hour and a half ago."
     
     
"Hey, sport," Jack warned. "Watch your mouth."
     
     
By her expression, the diminutive groomer he'd almost trampled appreciated the gesture, but could fend off the assholes of the world herself. And had.
     
     
Jack said, "I thought you worked at TLC."
     
     
"Part-time." She squinted at the sheltie in his arms. "What happened to Fido?"
     
     
He died, was Jack's initial thought. Thankfully, it didn't make the verbal leap. "He's fine. Couldn't be better. In fact, he's going with me to a sales meeting in St. Louis." He patted the present loaner. "Butch here belongs to a friend."
     
     
The groomer's eyebrow arched.
     
     
Whew boy. First Fido, now Butch. Excellent. Jack scraped back a bushel of hair at the sheltie's neck. "I swear that's his name. See? It's engraved on his collar."
     
     
As was A. D. Meadows and Angie's home phone number. Even barmaids who gave private lap dances on the side use initials for telephone listings, mailbox ID and their dogs' collars.
     
     
Jack sensed the foul-mouthed slouchmeister picking up on the groomer's wariness. "A.D. was in a car wreck last night. Poor guy was banged up pretty good and the doc wants him to stay another night in the hospital for observation."
     
     
The groomer nodded, as if that seemed reasonable. Then she said, "So you weren't happy with TLC and brought Butch here, instead."
     
     
"No, no problems at TLC at all." Jack grinned, as though competing for a most-satisfied-customer award, waiting for a plausible excuse to coalesce. "It's just that…well, Home Away is closer to A.D.'s house, and since he'll have to take a taxi tomorrow from the hospital, it'll be easier for him to swing by here."
     
     
Slouchmeister said, "You told me the dog was yours."
     
     
"For the next twenty-four hours, he is," Jack replied, truthfully for once.
     
     
"Fine, but I need the owner's name for the records." He jabbed an index finger at the groomer. "And you'd best start deskunking that cocker, Dina. If the owner comes back before it's dry, you can forget your part of the service charge."
     
     
She bristled, then her lips flattened to a grim line. "Excuse me, Mr. McPhee," she mumbled, and reached for the door to the kennel runs.
     
     
Dina, Jack repeated to himself. Well, half a name was better than none. And she'd remembered his. Repressing a smile wasn't easy, but he managed.
     
     
When the door closed behind her, he said to Slouchmeister, "I guess she's not what you'd call dependable, huh?"
     
     
"Dina's okay, except on short notice." He chuffed at his own lame joke. Stationed again behind the counter, he added, "Like my dad says, if you don't manage the help, the help'll manage to get paid for sloughing off."
     
     
Jack assumed the kid inherited his charm from his old man. "Your dad owns Home Away?"
     
     
"He took it over when my grandma died." He circled Jack's name on the registration form and noted his temporary custody. "Thank God I only have to work here during the summer."
     
     
"College student?"
     
     
Nodding, he offered the pencil to amend the ownership line. "Yale. Class of whatthefu—" A gestured "oops," then, "Class of whenever Dad gets sick of paying tuition."
     
     
Interesting, Jack thought. And wouldn't it be a coincidence if those Ivy League halls of higher learning emptied right around Memorial Day and refilled Labor Day