Doggie Day Care Murder by Laurien Berenson Page B

we’re on the subject of when this was your house . . . Amber lived here when you did, right?”
    Amber Fine was Bob’s next door neighbor, formerly mine. For most of the time Davey and I had lived in the house, an elderly Italian woman had occupied the home next door. But shortly after Sam and I got married, Edna had gone to join her family in Seattle and Amber had moved in. I’d never had the opportunity to get to know her well.
    â€œFor a little while,” I said. “Really just a couple of months. She moved into the neighborhood right before Davey and I moved out.”
    â€œDid you ever think that maybe she was just the tiniest bit . . . odd?”
    â€œOdd?” I repeated sweetly. Truth be told, Amber and I hadn’t exactly hit it off. “You mean aside from the missing husband and the half-dozen cats?”
    â€œThank God,” Bob said on an exhale. “I thought maybe it was just me. What’s up with James, anyway?”
    James was Amber’s husband. Or at least that was what Sam and I had been told. Personally, I’d never even seen any evidence that the man actually existed.
    â€œHow should I know? You’re the one who’s been living here a year. I never even met the guy.”
    â€œMe either,” said Bob.
    â€œYou’re kidding. All this time and James still hasn’t shown up?”
    â€œNot that I’ve seen. But what do I know, it’s not like I’m keeping tabs on the place. Maybe he comes in late at night and leaves before dawn.”
    â€œLike a vampire?”
    â€œOr a confirmed workaholic. Amber says he travels a lot on business.”
    â€œI seem to remember her telling me that too. Something about importing or maybe exporting?”
    â€œNot that it’s any of my business,” said Bob. “But it just seems unusual that the guy is never around.”
    â€œMaybe they’re divorced and she doesn’t want to admit it.”
    â€œWho wouldn’t admit that? Everyone’s divorced these days, present company included. I was thinking along more sinister lines. Maybe Amber cut him up into little pieces and buried him in the basement.”
    â€œYou’ve been reading Edgar Allan Poe again, haven’t you?”
    â€œThomas Harris,” said Bob. “And that guy’s writing is keeping me up nights. But anyway, I was thinking you should ask her.”
    â€œWhat? Where her husband is?”
    â€œSomething like that. You know, just have a little chat. Woman to woman. And find out what the heck is going on over there.”
    Right, I thought. That would be the day.
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    Bob used to be an accountant and he’s very precise. He showed up that evening at six on the dot, bearing not only hamburgers, but also a dozen ears of corn and a bucket of cole slaw.
    â€œThe cookout was my idea,” he said. “The least I could do is bring the ingredients.”
    Most visitors to our house these days go directly to Kevin. A new baby is a source of fascination, a magnet for parents and wannabe parents alike. A bundle of joy that’s somebody else’s responsibility. What’s not to like?
    People ooh and aah over Kevin. They tickle his tiny feet and ask if they can hold him. They comment on how much his eyes or his nose looks like ours. They remark on how much he’s grown.
    But Bob’s arrival was different. He walked in the front door, handed the bags he was carrying to Sam, and yelled up the stairs to Davey to see if he wanted to have a catch.
    Davey had heard the doorbell ring and was already on his way down. He skidded around the newel post at the top of the staircase and came flying down the steps. At the speed he was moving, it was a wonder he didn’t kill himself. Ah, the joys of being nine.
    â€œSure thing!” he cried.
    His baseball and catcher’s mitt were in the mudroom off the kitchen. Davey went dashing in that direction, then abruptly