Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog by Carol Lea Benjamin Read Free Book Online

was straight and black, and obviously she had a substance abuse problem. Who can say if that was or wasn’t genetic? I heard that when she lectured, she sometimes wore Native American garb. It ought to be a hoot, I thought, infinitely easier to take than watching Cooper electrocute his dog trying to convince us how quick and easy electronic training is.
    After dessert, there was brandy. The men started lighting up cigars, and the women all headed for the ladies’ room. I didn’t plan on trailing after them like Mary’s little lamb, but thinking about how women instantly bond and chat in the john, I changed my mind. Just as Sam lit her cigar, I reminded Dashiell he was on a stay and followed the crowd.
    Tracy and Audrey were at the big gilt-framed mirror, reapplying war paint. I apologized to Audrey for my little joke and went into the cubicle, figuring out of sight, out of mind.
    “I’m not sure,” Audrey was saying. “I mean, I was with him both nights in Phoenix, but I don’t like his method.”
    In any other circumstances, you’d think she was talking about someone’s method of lovemaking. But here, they could only be talking about training methods.
    For a moment they stopped talking. I heard a compact close. I smelled perfume.
    “He’s married, isn’t he?” Tracy asked.
    “He never said.”
    “But I heard—”
    “What if he is? He never brings her. How great could it be? ”
    “Maybe she has money,” Tracy said.
    “That would explain it.”
    I heard giggling that reminded me of the bathroom in junior high. Or what happened after lights-out in camp.
    “Am I okay?” Audrey asked.
    Since she was a psychic, I would have thought she would have known.
    Tracy must have nodded. I heard a purse click shut. And then a door.
    I left the cubicle and went over to the mirror, letting my hair loose so that it would dry. That’s when I noticed the shoes in the cubicle to the left, so I waited.
    I heard the flush. I could see the door opening. And there was Beryl.
    “Lively little things, aren’t they?” she said, fishing around in her pocket for something. “When the cat’s away,” she said, pulling out a big handkerchief and blowing her nose, “the cat will play, won’t he?”
    But before I got the chance to comment, the door opened. “There you two are,” Sam said. “You’re missing a whale of a discussion out there.”
    She was grinning, so I knew it wasn’t an emergency, just the usual. She went into one of the booths. I had the feeling it wouldn’t stop her from carrying on a conversation. Beryl had the same idea. A finger to her lips, she grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the door.
    “Woody started it,” Sam was saying. “He just couldn’t—” Beryl led me out and inched the door closed.
    “There. That’s better,” she said. “I do love Americans,” she said, “but you all talk too much.”
    So, of course, on the walk back to the Truman Salon, I didn’t utter a word.
    Bucky was gesturing at Woody with his cigar. “Give me the dog that air-scents every time. You’re talking life and death here, people, not Stupid Pet Tricks. If the victim goes in circles for an hour, then the—”
    “I have no argument with that, Bucky,” Woody said softly, but not so softly that everyone didn’t turn to listen to what he had to say. “But you can’t make a blanket statement that one method is best in all situations. In the search for evidence, for example, the dog has to track. He has to make those circles. He has to go precisely where—”
    “Sometimes it’s not up to the trainer,” Chip said, clearly annoyed. “Sometimes the dog’s method is the dog’s method. What you need to do is—”
    “What you need is this,” Alan said. He’d slipped the remote from the holster on his belt and was pointing it at Chip as if he were an errant dog in need of a correction. Or a TV whose channel needed changing. “This is what makes all the difference, gets the dog to keep his mind on his