Dog Helps Those (Golden Retriever Mysteries) by Neil S. Plakcy Read Free Book Online Page B

golden retriever.

6 – The Drunken Hessian
     
    Once Rochester had been emptied and refilled, I left to meet Rick at the Drunken Hessian, a bar in the center of Stewart’s Crossing. It had the oldest continuous liquor license in the county, and looked like it hadn’t been redecorated since Lucius Stewart started his ferry crossing business in the late 1700s. At least they kept up to date with their beer selection; they had the best range of microbrews in Bucks County.
    “Did you get hold of Felae?” I asked when we were seated at a booth in the back.
    Rick shook his head. “College has an address for him in an old house at the far end of Leighville, but the housemates say he moved out a year ago. Nobody liked him, so no one kept in touch with him. He doesn’t have an account with PECO for gas or electric, he doesn’t own property, and the address listed with Verizon for his cell phone service is a post office box.”
    I picked up my Dogfish Head Midas Touch ale and sampled it. I knew that it was made from ingredients found in King Midas’s tomb, and had a sweet, yet dry flavor that was halfway between beer and mead. “Students move around a lot.”
    “Especially students with an FBI file.” Rick was drinking the 90 Minute IPA, and I had to wait until he’d taken a healthy swig to hear more. “Seems like Mr. Popescu has been very active with animal rights groups. He’s been arrested for protesting outside animal shelters, and he’s a suspect in a break-in at a pharmaceutical lab that tests products on rabbits.”
    “And the FBI is involved in that?”
    “They consider it domestic terrorism,” Rick said. “They’ve got a whole task force keeping tabs on people just like your student.”
    “Former student. Hey, you know, he used to work at the Hungry Horse in Leighville as a server, but I haven’t seen him there in a while. Maybe they have an address for him.”
     He pulled out a spiral notepad and wrote the restaurant’s name down. “Remember when that was?”
    “Sometime during the winter. Not that long ago.”
    I drank some more beer. “What’s going to happen to all Rita’s dogs?”
    “She had an arrangement with another breeder,” he said. “Guy from the horse country in North Jersey. He’s coming down to pack up the dogs. In the meantime her neighbor is taking care of them.”
    I sat back and looked around me. The ceiling lights advertising various beers glowed dimly, and the wooden booths were scarred with centuries of names, hearts and epithets. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a George © Martha somewhere.
    Our burgers arrived. I got mine with ham and cheese, accompanied by curly fries. Rick was a purist; he ordered the quarter-pound burger with no garnish at all, and a trough of onion rings. “You can’t taste the beef if you cover it up with all that crap,” he said.
    “Who says I want to taste the beef here?”
    “Hey, I’ve been eating these burgers since high school and I’m still here.”
    “You used to come here in high school?” I asked. “Even though the drinking age was twenty-one?”
    “With my parents. My dad loved the burgers. And when my mom wasn’t looking he’d let me have some of his beer.”
    Rick looked over at my burger. “How can you eat it so bloody?”
    “It’s medium,” I said. “Pink. Not bloody. Yours is burned beyond recognition.”
    “At least I know it’s dead. And speaking of blood, we got the autopsy results back on Rita Gaines late this afternoon,” he said. “Very strange.”
    “That’s gross. You talk about my burger and then you go right into autopsy results.”
    He laughed. “You know you want to hear all about it. Your junior investigator badge is glowing right now.”
    Rick had teased me in the past about my interest in investigating murders. But honestly, I grew up reading mystery novels, from Freddy the Detective to the Hardy Boys to the classic British authors like Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers.
    I feigned