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and
her collie dog, Sage, can identify the killer!”
    Incredulous, I stared at the show host.
The last thing this poor, starving dog needed was to be turned into a local
celebrity! Tracy folded her arms and leaned on the table, then gestured with a
sweep of her hand that it was my turn to speak.
    My heart pounding with pent-up
frustration, I wrapped my hands around the base of my microphone and said, “Beth,
there are many possible causes for Sage’s reaction to men in raincoats. The
very least likely cause is that Sage witnessed a murder by one.”
    “Yeah, but—” Beth began.
    “So you’re saying it is possible,”
Tracy Truett broke in.
    I glared at Tracy, angered that the show
host’s eagerness for a flashy story was interfering with my attempts to help a
seriously distressed dog. “What I’m saying is that it’s extremely unlikely.” I
focused on the phone, my only connection to Beth Gleason and her collie. “My
immediate concern is for Sage. Beth, from what you’ve said, it sounds as though
your collie is having extreme troubles adjusting to his new situation. Even so,
a grieving or depressed dog will usually eat at least enough to sustain
himself.”
    “Sage isn’t eating anything at all. He won’t
even go near his bowl, and if I try to hand feed him something, he backs away.”
    “We have to—”
    “Hey, Allida,” Tracy interrupted. “Here’s
an idea.”
    I automatically looked up. Tracy was
already nodding wide-eyed at me to gain my consent. “Have Beth bring the dog
here to KBXD. We’ll put his entire therapy procedure on the air. We’ll attach
wireless mikes to the three of you. Then we’ll—hey, Greg, you wouldn’t
mind putting on a raincoat for the sake of science, would ya? We’ll get ‘im a
plastic gun and test Beth’s theory. What do you think, Doc?”
    What I thought was that Tracy needed to
switch from whiskey to coffee. I ignored my host and asked calmly, “Beth, are
you still there?”
    “Yes. What should I do?”
    I rose, but leaned toward the mike. “Can
you and Sage possibly meet me at my office, 1197 Mapleton, at three pm?”
    “Wait! Inquiring minds want to hear this
therapy session!” Tracy gestured at the phone, where all five buttons were
flashing. As I pushed my chair under the table, Tracy’s voice switched into
genteel tones as she cooed into the mike, “Time for a brief commercial break.”
She flipped a switch, got to her feet while ripping off her earphones, and
pointed a finger at me. “Listen, honey, you don’t seem to understand that a
series on Hannah Jones’s canine witness could save KBXD from extinction. You’ve
got to stay on my show!”
    “I can’t do that! You’re talking
about bringing a traumatized dog who, from all indications, hasn’t eaten in days,
and turning attempts to help him into a circus act!”
    Tracy smiled and took a swig of whiskey.
She said in a throaty voice, “No, Missy Babcock. I’m talking about giving your
doggie’s shrink practice such a boost, you’ll be turning collies into shelties
on a regular basis.”
    “Thank you for having me on your show,
Miss Truett. I only wish I’d been on yesterday, instead of today.” I’d listened
to that broadcast. She’d been sober then and had done a good job. But no use
crying over guzzled whiskey. I walked out of the studio.
    “Hey, Greg,” I heard Tracy exclaim from
the speakers in the hallway. “Don’t just sit there! Stop her!”
    I hesitated in the lobby for just a
moment, thinking I wouldn’t mind giving Greg an earful, now that I was off the
air. He didn’t come after me. I crossed the parking lot, got into my cherry-red
Subaru wagon, started the engine, and heard the voice of Tracy saying over the
air, “—listeners’ poll on how many of us think Sage did indeed witness
the murder of—”
    I clicked off my radio and drove west
toward my downtown office and the Flatirons, craggy mountain faces that towered
over the town of Boulder. The least I could do