Play Dead Read Free Page A

to vent, I decided, was throttle
that ignoramus Russell Greene for asking me for a date during a live broadcast.
    Despite trying to focus on my officemate
and not to draw conclusions before meeting Sage and his owner, I found myself
mulling Sage’s possible status. Depression in dogs over the loss of a beloved
owner has been well documented. I’d recently heard of a dog in London who,
every day for seven years, returned of his own volition to wait on the steps of
the hospital in which his owner had died.
    On the other hand, I wondered if Beth’s
conclusions about “a man in a raincoat” were an example of what I liked to call
“The Lassie Syndrome.” It was all too easy to read a human response and thought
process into each little dog-like action of a beloved pet.
    I pulled into my reserved space next to
Russell’s avocado-colored Volvo on the formidable hill by my building. I got
out, descended the concrete steps where my office entrance was cut into the
hill, and marched straight through my office and into Russell’s. Empty. Probably
ran for cover, I thought. The coward.
    The light on my answering machine was
flashing. Four calls in my brief absence. That was a personal record, but then,
they might all be sympathy calls from friends and relatives who’d heard the
broadcast. I pressed the playback button. I had a pair of quick hang ups, but
also messages from two prospective clients: a fox terrier too rough with the
children, and a golden retriever destroying the house whenever the family was
away. I grinned. Ironic that bad news for others meant good news for me. If I
was really lucky, half of the dog population in Boulder would run amok
and make their owners’ lives truly miserable.
    Before I could return my first call, the
door creaked, and I whirled around, hoping to see Beth and her collie. Instead,
it was a very humble-looking Russell Greene. His dark hair and mustache were as
neat as ever. Today he wore newly pressed jeans and a white shirt with a
striped tie.
    My high heels negated the six inches he
had on me. I strode toward him, doing my best to sound like a growling pit bull
as I said, “Russell—”
    He took a step back, but held up a colorful
bouquet of spring flowers as if it were a shield. “Before you say anything,
Allie, I just—”
    The flowers only caused a momentary
distraction to my instantly accessible anger. “It’s Allida,” I snapped. “In
fact, it’s Miss Babcock for you, from now on.”
    “Sorry, uh, Miss Babcock.”
    Now that I heard him call me that, I felt
a little silly and had to resist a smile.
    Russell cleared his throat. “What I’m
trying to say is that I’m really sorry. Believe it or not, I just wanted
to impress you by demonstrating how...er...spontaneous and fun I could be.
Rumor has it that we electrical engineers are not known for our spontaneous
wit. I thought you’d...be charmed.”
    “You thought it was charming to
call into the live radio show I was only doing to advertise my profession and
ask me for a date?”
    He gave me a sheepish grin, which, framed
by the bouquet in his arms, was rather charming—though I was not about to
admit that to him. “Yes, but then I listened to some more of the show, and I
realized you weren’t enjoying yourself and I probably embarrassed you.” His
cheeks growing redder by the second, he offered me the bouquet, already in a
jar full of water. I recognized from the wrinkled mayonnaise label that this
was the jar that had been catching drips underneath the sink in our bathroom.
    I decided not to make a wisecrack about
the makeshift vase. He handed me the flowers. His eyes were sparkling, and he
truly was an attractive man.
    “Thank you. They’re lovely.” I took a deep
breath of the sweet fragrance, then set the jar and contents on the corner of
my desk—a “slightly used” oak set I’d gotten from a bankruptcy sale,
along with the other sparse furnishings—two gray two-door file cabinets,
a pair of hard-backed