Cut to the Bone by Joan Boswell Read Free Book Online Page A

people.”
    He leaned even farther forward, overwhelming her with his aftershave. “Oh, I’d like to help the police. Just let me know.”
    When he’d gone, she checked how many were waiting and rendezvoused with Ian, whose most recent interviewee had walked down the hall.
    â€œHow’s it going?” she said.
    â€œIt’ll take us a while to sift through this mob and find out who might have had cause. Nobody so far lit up the red buttons. How about you?”
    â€œTwo residents who are up at night. One, Agnes Johnson, sits at her window and doesn’t seem to miss anything. The other didn’t offer any information. Also spoke to one angry man who admitted using our murder victim’s services. Not bad for starters.”
    â€œNext I’m talking to the construction workers repairing the balconies. Ms. Trepanier’s window was open, and scaling the scaffolding the extra few feet to reach it would have been a cinch for any of those guys.”
    That could be promising.

NINE
    Chaos reigned in the hangar-like room where ten dog owners, supporters, and puppies awaited their lesson. Hollis, Jay, and Crystal fought to control the overexcited Barlow, who lunged forward, barking and whining to be allowed to socialize with each and every dog.
    Previously, Hollis had taken him to young puppy training, where his one claim to fame was being the only puppy not to pee on the floor. Hollis had spent hours trying to train him to walk on a loose leash, rather than hauling her along in his wake. She’d become a devotee of Cesar Millan, the National Geographic channel’s dog guru, and adopted his ideas of dog psychology. Most of the time Barlow accepted her as the alpha dog and, except on occasions like this, even eleven-year-old Jay could control him.
    Waves of ammonia-laden air forced Hollis to breathe shallowly, but she’d signed what she suspected was a legal agreement with the breeder committing her to enroll Barlow in dog training classes. She’d vowed to herself that she’d turn the willful, headstrong puppy into a well-behaved dog.
    Chris, the rotund instructor, who wore a too-small purple T-shirt with “City Dog” blazoned across her ample chest, bellowed over the cacophony of barking. “Please take a seat and listen.”
    Metal folding chairs scraped on the concrete floor as dogs and owners settled down. It wasn’t quiet, but the decibel level had dropped. Hollis, anchoring Barlow close to her with a short leash and an iron grip, invited Crystal and Jay to sit on either side, knowing their barricading presence would prevent Barlow from launching himself at any dog parked next to him. Sitting in the third and last row of chairs, she observed the crowd.
    Mabel, the adorable low-energy St. Bernard, leaned on her owner, a pretty, petite blonde woman. MiMi, the impossibly tiny teacup Chihuahua, was huddled under her owner’s chair, tail tucked between her legs. Hollis thought that if she was that small in a surging mass of half-grown dogs, she’d hide too. Three rescue dogs of indeterminate parentage along with a chocolate Lab, a labradoodle, a Wheaton, and a Jack Russell that bounced with the elasticity of an Indian rubber ball completed the roll. It was a diverse group of dogs, and the owners or handlers were equally varied.
    â€œI see that a number of dogs have brought several people with them,” Chris said. “You will remember from previous classes that we have only one person with a dog. You may take turns, as we will do each exercise at least three times.” She smiled toothily, with little warmth. “Take positions around the room. We will do a long down and stay,” she instructed.
    Chairs scraped.
    â€œI’ll go first, then Jay and then Crystal,” Hollis said, tightening her grip on Barlow.
    Despite his afternoon failure to obey this command, when there was an audience he could do it pretty well, and she’d