Doggie Day Care Murder by Laurien Berenson

Kill two birds with one stone.”
    She glanced down at Berkley dubiously. The Golden looked up at her and grinned, his long pink tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.
    â€œYou don’t suppose they’re going to want to interview him, do you?”
    â€œI can’t imagine.”
    Well actually, once I stopped and thought about it, I could.
    Davey had gone to an interview for an upscale preschool at a point in his life when his entire vocabulary consisted of about two dozen words. I had watched through a window with the other mothers as the children under consideration engaged in “organized group play” under the supervision of the school’s headmistress. My son had been the only three-year-old boy in the group not wearing a suit and tie.
    After that experience, I supposed I’d believe almost anything.
    â€œBerkley will do just fine,” I said. “Just look at him. He’s like a big teddy bear. Who wouldn’t fall in love with him?”
    â€œYou’re a dog person. You have to feel that way.”
    â€œSteve and Candy are dog people too. Don’t worry, he’ll do fine.”
    â€œI hope you’re right,” said Alice. “But I’m not taking any chances. We’ll leave him home tomorrow. That way, they won’t even meet him until after they’ve already cashed the check for the first month’s board.”
    I would have laughed except for the fact that Alice had gone through the preschool experience too. In fact, she’d done it twice. So maybe she knew what she was talking about. Instead, I reached down and scratched behind the Golden Retriever’s ears.
    â€œBerrrkleey,” I crooned. “You’re such a good boy. Are you hearing these terrible things she’s saying about you?”
    Berkley lifted his head and added a little swagger to his step. He had no idea what the words meant, he just liked the fact that we were talking about him.
    Dogs really have it easy, you know?

6
    B y the time we’d finished circling the block, Alice and I had made a plan to meet at Pine Ridge the next morning. Then she and Berkley went home and I walked a couple doors down to see if Bob was around. His Ford Explorer was parked in the driveway, so I figured the chances were pretty good.
    Earlier in the spring, Bob had had the house painted. When Davey and I had lived there, the small Cape had been yellow. Now it was gray with white shutters. Bob had found a couple of large clay flowerpots and filled them with peonies. They flanked the front steps and added a nice touch of color.
    But despite the changes, walking up to this house where Davey and I had lived so happily for so long, still felt like coming home. I didn’t bother to ring the doorbell. Bob never bothers to lock his door, so I just opened it up and stuck my head in.
    â€œHello?” I called. “Anyone home?”
    This is the point where, at my house, unexpected visitors would be mobbed by a charging herd of Poodles. Until I assured them all was well, the noise would be pretty intense.
    Not here. A cream-colored Siamese cat with brown ears and a brown nose was asleep in a band of sun that fell across the couch in the living room. Bosco lifted his head briefly, glanced in my direction to assure himself that the interruption was nothing to be concerned about, then went back to sleep.
    Okay, that’s the part I don’t get. People always talk about how curious cats are but really, not so much. No self-respecting Poodle would have let an intruder enter the house without a challenge. But as long as the sun was warm and the cushion beneath him was soft, Bosco couldn’t have cared less.
    It looked to me like apathy was more likely to kill that cat than curiosity.
    â€œI’m in the kitchen,” Bob yelled in reply. “Come on back.”
    I did, and found that the room was in a state of siege. Bob had already ripped out the cabinets and countertops that