How to Talk to Your Dog About Murder: A Mystery

Chapter One

I sat in the car outside Mrs. Van Meer’s mansion, trying to psych myself up to go in. I’d love to say my hesitation came from a sense of foreboding, a premonition that someone would die in this house, and soon. But I had no idea about any of that.

Mrs. Van Meer was a dog owner, just like any other dog owner, I reminded myself. I could talk to dog owners. They were good people. Dog owners in big houses were just good people in big houses, right?

I pulled out my phone to check the address again. It’s not that the oversized house looked any different from the picture I’d seen checking directions earlier that morning, but I was stalling. The front lawn looked greener than it had any right to in mid-November. A formal circle drive cut across the front of the property, lined with evergreen topiaries in stone planters, and a long, winding driveway led around to the back of the house. I didn’t know the etiquette dictating which one I should have pulled onto, so I’d settled for parking my old Corolla on the street.

The house somehow managed to fit in with the air of soullessness that marked the entire subdivision, and yet be uglier than its neighbors. Built of beige stone, it sprawled in all directions, more like a corporate campus than a personal residence, although I’d never seen a corporate building with turrets. Unless … had I heard somewhere that Cinderella’s castle at Disneyland housed the administrative offices for the park? I rolled the question around in my mind, focusing on it as I hiked to the mansion’s front door, which was dark green with a seasonal wreath of golden leaves and red berries and perfectly formed pinecones. Dredging up tidbits of real or imagined Disney trivia worked to distract me from my mission and kept me from chickening out.

A white woman in late middle age answered the door after a few seconds. If I described her outfit, you might get the wrong idea about her. She wore a pink sweatshirt, very pale blue jeans, and white sneakers, and had a white windbreaker tied around her waist. An outfit so dowdy that, on a teenager, it would have been recognizable as a Halloween costume of a certain type of older woman. But something about the absolute spotlessness of her clothes, the subtlety of her make-up, and her air of complete command meant she gave off an intimidatingly well-put-together impression. Like an elementary-school principal all the kids are scared of, but out walking her dog on a Sunday.

Good morning, the woman greeted me without any enthusiasm. She gave me a quick once-over glance and craned around to get a look at my shabby Corolla. You must be here for the dog.

Well. She didn’t have to put quite so much disrespect on it. It’s possible that this woman was trying to neutrally convey that the reason for my visit was known to her, but I don’t think I was being a complete snowflake to bristle at her words. Sure, expressed simply, I was there for the dog, but she could have phrased it differently. I was the one showing up to save the day after all.

And actually, was I there for the dog? They were the ones unable to communicate with a member of their family. They were the ones who needed help. They were the ones who couldn’t cope. When people get to the point of calling me in, they usually have huge stress cracks in their lives. Their dogs’ misbehavior is more often than not a reaction to the family’s problems, not the cause of their problems.

Not that I said any of this out loud. I don’t think I even let it show on my face. I barely had time to nod before the woman spun around and headed for the back of the house, calling over her shoulder for me to follow her.

I plunged into the marble foyer, trying to make up some of the lead Pink Sweatshirt Woman had already gotten. Before resolving not to look around like a slack-jawed tourist, I couldn’t help noticing they literally had a sweeping front staircase. As in, their front staircase literally swept. Or figuratively, I guess. Like in Gone with the Wind or something.

After speed walking through a hallway wider than my living room, I caught up with Pink Sweatshirt Woman as the hallway widened out to what they probably referred to as a great room. One end was a kitchen that looked like something straight out of a lifestyle magazine, with ornate whitewashed cabinetry, glossy white subway tiles, a stone-topped island the size of one-and-a-half regulation ping-pong tables, and a hammered-copper vent hood the manufacture of which had clearly been the primary driving force behind the skyrocketing cost of copper.

The rest of the room had plenty to catch the eye, too. Especially the patterned stone fireplace on the opposite end, the sparkling crystal chandelier suspended over a gathering of leather sofas, and the combination of floor-to-ceiling windows and French doors that seemed to make up the entirety of the back side of the house, and which made the whole space feel big and light and airy.

But I had no doubt as to why the kitchen end of the room made a stronger first impression. First was the smell. The most comforting combination of smells that could greet you when you entered a house on a dreary morning—fresh pancakes coming off the griddle, hot coffee, and I think, judging by the potency of the smell, they had even warmed up their maple syrup. I always got a warm fuzzy feeling when I smelled pancakes cooking. My husband, Jai, was a pancake fiend. He loved my just-add-water buttermilk pancakes, the fancy French crepes from our favorite brunch place, and especially the coconutty appam his grandmother makes. Jai would eat pancakes three meals a day, every day, if left to his own devices.

I stuck in that nice romantic bit about a warm and fuzzy feeling because of Jai and his love of pancakes, to maybe soften the blow if he ever reads this. The other reason the kitchen caught my attention was the incredibly hot guy doing the cooking. He was Black, about my age, so late twenties or early thirties, with a red ball cap and a gray T-shirt that fit him very well. At our entrance, he turned around to look, a coffee mug in one hand and a spatula in the other, and I caught my breath. Like in a soap opera. Of course, I had been speed walking, so maybe I was out of breath.

For just a second, we looked at each other, the incredibly hot man and I, and I thought, maybe we’re having a moment. Maybe there’s a small frisson of sexually charged energy in this giant, immaculate room.

Then I noticed the woman sitting at the kitchen island, a half-eaten plate of pancakes in front of her. She also had on a red ball cap, with a long, chestnut ponytail streaming out of the back of it. She wore a black crop-top-sports-bra thing, like it wasn’t thirty-one degrees outside, and she was somehow tan. Not tanned like orange and leathery, but like she had just wrapped up her daily game of beach volleyball and was now enjoying a well-earned plate of pancakes before going jet skiing.

Because the beautiful man was making pancakes for her. He would eat some, too, but he was standing over the stove with a spatula in his hand in order to provide her with pancakes. They fit together, these two. I could tell.

They both smiled at me, and I pictured how I must look to them. I had on a green and blue puffy jacket, probably designed with an eleven-year-old boy in mind. But it was perfect for its warmth, and the fact that I could easily wipe off dog hair and muddy paw prints. Completing the ensemble were an orange pompom hat and my multi-colored Doctor Who-inspired scarf. Like I said, thirty-one degrees outside. But I was certain when the beautiful man and the beautiful woman went out, they would wear long, sleek, wool coats in black or gray or navy or camel, with perhaps matching plaid scarves for a sophisticated pop of color. Their coats probably had to be dry cleaned.

I pulled off the hat and unwound the scarf, thankful I couldn’t see what the hat had done to my hair, which tends to defy the laws of gravity, even without interference from staticky hats. I turned away from the kitchen and the beautiful breakfasters, and toward the fireplace end of the room, where Pink Sweatshirt Woman approached an older woman on one of the leather sofas.

This end of the room looked as elegant as the kitchen. The leather sofas and armchairs. The fireplace, made of whitewashed stones arranged in interwoven arches. Over the mantle hung a mirror that concealed a TV. Even on this overcast day, the chandelier fractured the sunlight into rainbows across the room. On a bright, sunny day, the effect must be dazzling. Nothing you could call clutter, but every surface held a decorative element or two—a vase, a candle, a small statue of a bull I would call a doodad or a knickknack, but that had probably been called an objet d’art in whatever classy catalog it had come from.

Pink Sweatshirt Woman stood behind the sofa as the older woman rose unsteadily to her feet. I crossed and shook her thin hand.

Good morning, she said. Her blue eyes were watery, but her voice proved surprisingly strong. I’m Ruth Van Meer. Thank you so much for agreeing to help us.

Of course! I’m Nikki. I took a seat on the sofa opposite, piling my winter gear beside me, then took a deep breath I hoped no one noticed.

I forced a smile, telling myself this was the same as any other consultation I’d been on when meeting a new client. Sure, this time the house was big enough that I’d need a map to find the bathroom. Sure, I was getting weird vibes from Pink Sweatshirt Lady, who still hadn’t taken her eyes off me. Sure, these were the only clients I’d ever gotten who weren’t directly referred by friends or family. Sure, before showing up, I’d decided that the success or failure of this particular job would determine whether I could make it long term as a pet behaviorist.

But hey, they’d called me, right? Out of the blue. If I could pull this off, there’d be no turning back.

Chapter Two

As soon as I sat on the sofa, the dog, curled into a plaid dog bed, became the focus of my attention. The humans around us faded into the background. He watched me, with no signs of being on high alert or feeling threatened in any way. So, a safe place for him. He seemed to be a mix of several different types of hound dog, with swinging tan ears and a long snout. He looked healthy at first glance, with graying hair around his muzzle and a hint of cloudiness in the eyes suggesting advanced age.

Forget about Mrs. Van Meer. This was my client. I slid to the floor and patted the ground next to me.

Hello, old man! What’s your name? I looked away from the dog as Mrs. Van Meer introduced him as Reginald but kept my open hand lying invitingly beside me. Sure enough, Reginald got to his feet and plodded across to me, sniffing my hand before flopping down on the rug and laying his chin on my thigh. I scratched behind his ears in abject gratitude. Imagine if he’d been a Rottweiler whose problem was being overly aggressive to pet behaviorists! Whatever this little guy had going on, we were going to be OK.

Can you tell me a little bit about why you called me in? I asked Mrs. Van Meer. There’d been a change in her posture since Reginald had accepted me, a slight release of tension in her face. Pink Sweatshirt Woman, who still hadn’t been introduced to me, left her post behind Mrs. Van Meer’s sofa and drifted toward the kitchen, reminding me of a guard dog who’s been waved off. I breathed more easily with her gone.

The younger man and woman joined us in the living room, bringing their plates of pancakes with them. When the woman approached, a domed belly protruded from her front. I bet people had been telling her she glowed, but I suspected she had glowed before getting pregnant and would continue to glow after the baby was born. She seemed like a natural glower.

Mrs. Van Meer didn’t answer my question but waved to the two who had joined us. My granddaughter, Ali. And her fiancé, Will.

I nodded politely at them, still scratching Reginald with one hand. They’d been so relaxed in the kitchen, alone in their own little world. Now there was a hardness around Ali’s mouth, and she held her shoulders a little up and forward. She looked like a turtle who knew she might have to retreat into her shell at any moment. Will’s expression hadn’t changed, except for something in his eyes. Where before there had only been welcoming openness, a gate had clanged shut.

They don’t think I should have contacted you, continued Mrs. Van Meer. They think this is a mistake.

Ali protested. Grandma! That’s not fair. She turned to me. I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t know what good it could do. She looked back to Mrs. Van Meer. That’s not the same thing at all!

Before Mrs. Van Meer could reply, another man and woman entered the room, about the same age as Ali and Will, but dressed for a boardroom, instead of a gym. The woman’s dark hair was cut short, for a slightly more daring look than her conservative suit would have suggested. A heavy silver watch peeked out from one of her cuffs. Like everything else in this house, it was probably worth more than my monthly income. The woman stood a little taller than Ali. She would have been a little shorter than me, but I was sitting on the floor with a dog, so disadvantage me. The man was about her height, with a round face that made him look approachable, even though he wasn’t smiling.

And this is my other granddaughter, Teri. How was your run, dear?

Fine. My pace is up, Teri answered her grandmother without appearing to notice me.

How nice. And Brett is our family’s attorney. He grew up with the girls. Come meet Nikki, you two.

Teri made a big show of checking her watch before looking at me. Oh, right. The dog whisperer. I can’t believe you’re going through with this.

Brett’s eyebrows rose. The dog whisperer?

I sighed. The tiny surge of optimism I’d felt when Reginald dropped his head in my lap disappeared. Animal behavior is one thing. That’s plain, easy to read, explicable. At least for me.

But now I was faced with a room full of people. To some degree or another, they were all on edge, for reasons that were totally hidden from me. Some were openly hostile to me, or at least snide.

And worst of all? They were family.

People are strange and unpredictable enough on their own. Get them around their family and everything is heightened to a ridiculous degree. Ali’s comment to her grandmother could have been perfectly mild or even affectionate bantering. Or it could be a tiny wisp of smoke from an underground fire that’s been smoldering for decades and could burst out at any moment. Teri’s derision toward me could be par for the course, dismissed by the others as just how she is, or it could be the deciding vote that would ultimately lead to me being run out of the house, tarred and feathered for some unknown transgression.

Put somebody around their family, and you can no long take any of their words at face value. Too many swirling undercurrents and emotional morasses. As far as I know, there’s no good way to navigate family dynamics. Could be the reason I haven’t seen most of my extended family for years.

If I hadn’t thought I could actually help Reginald get past whatever he had going on, this is the moment I would have tucked my tail between my legs and run. But however unpleasant these people were, Reginald didn’t deserve to suffer for it. Mrs. Van Meer had called in a pet behaviorist. In my experience, that’s not something people do on a whim, at the first sign of trouble. If she was calling in outside help, something was at a breaking point. Reginald I could manage. But handling things with the human members of his family was a different story.

It was a daunting prospect. In a perfect world, I could have taken Reginald into the backyard, had a long talk about his life, his worries, and his anxieties, worked through whatever was going on with him, brought him back in fully cured, and gotten the hell out of Dodge.

In the real world, I was stuck dealing with these people. One, good behavior for a pet is subjective and is based on human expectations. Two, pet behavior is often a reflection of the animal’s relationships with the humans in its life. Oh, and three, I guess, is that I can’t actually talk to dogs.

Teri had opened her mouth to tell Brett all about the crazy pet whisperer hired by her crazy grandmother, then appeared to think better of it.

I’ll tell you about it later, she said instead. She rolled her eyes, dismissing me. Sorry, Grandma. We’ve got a closing this morning. Ali, Will, keep an eye on … all of this … for me. Her hand gesture was the one you’d use to indicate a particularly foul mess that needed to be cleaned up. She tugged on Brett’s arm. He had spotted me on the floor and looked at me with friendly interest but followed her out of the room like an obedient puppy.

After they left, I let the silence stretch for a few moments. Reginald’s relaxed breathing filled the room, a small drool spot developing on the leg of my jeans. He really was a very good boy.

Mrs. Van Meer? I asked again. Could you tell me what it is you and Reginald need help with?

The older woman gazed behind me, toward the wall of windows at the back of the house. I lost my husband about a month ago, she said after a few seconds.

Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss. I didn’t know what else I could say, so I waited.

Reginald is grieving. That is, we’re all grieving, and Reginald is no exception. He was my husband’s dog. But I’m not sure he understands what has happened. He just mopes around. No life or spirit. Not like when Frank was alive. I was hoping you could … fix that, in a way I can’t—to put his mind at ease. A little, at least.

Well, shit. I was way out of my depth.

Not with Reginald’s behavior. Of course his behavior had changed since his beloved owner had passed away. I understood why Mrs. Van Meer was concerned, but it was really no biggie. Hopefully whatever was going with Reginald would have a straightforward solution.

But how was I supposed to have a rational discussion about dog behavior modification tactics with a grieving widow? One who was asking for a dog grief counseling session? While I am widely known within my friend group as one of St. Louis’s premiere pet behaviorists, I am not equally renowned for my tact. What if I said the wrong thing and Mrs. Van Meer dissolved into tears?

I patted Reginald’s soft head, to cover while I drew a deep, calming breath.

Dogs do feel grief very deeply, I told her. The words sounded inane, banal, but she wiped an eye. Could you … If it’s not too painful, could you tell me a little about his passing?

Mrs. Van Meer looked a little taken aback, and I felt my cheeks get hot. She probably thought I was trying to satisfy my morbid curiosity. Or worse, that I was overstepping and thought I was in a position to give her grief counseling.

I mean—no, I’m sorry. I don’t mean like a play-by-play, or anything like that. I’m sorry. I mean, does Reginald even know that he’s dead? That deep calming breath hadn’t helped for long. I tried another. I’m sorry. I’m having trouble expressing myself right now. Dogs can understand death, but only as a thing they observe. Did your husband pass away at home? Was it sudden? Was he in the hospital for a long time? Home on hospice? That’s all I was trying to ask.

Mrs. Van Meer nodded. I understand. It was cancer. Fast. Once they found it, I mean. He hadn’t been right for months, but Frank hated doctors. Hospitals. Got to a point where he couldn’t ignore it any longer. I think he knew. She looked at her hands. It was too late. Too aggressive. He was admitted that same week. He wanted to be at home, but it was too fast. He never … he didn’t come home again after that.

Ali moved over to sit beside her grandmother and put an arm around her. Like she said, we’re all grieving, she told me. It’s only been a month since he died.

How has Reginald’s behavior changed since then? How is his grief manifesting itself?

Neither woman answered, so after a moment Will spoke up in a reassuring, steady baritone. He wanders around sometimes, looking for Mr. Van Meer. His appetite’s not as good as it was, and he’s a little more listless.

Don’t forget about the howling! Mrs. Van Meer prompted him.

Will nodded but took a sip of coffee before continuing. I’m sure his deliberate pace was calming for Ali and Mrs. Van Meer, but I could have done with a fast-forward button. That was new. Two nights ago, in the middle of the night, he started howling at nothing. It’s not like he’d never howled before—he’s a hound dog—but this was eerie, mournful. Like he could sense something we couldn’t. Like a presence. The sound of it set everyone on edge.

I could imagine the sound. In the right atmosphere, pretty spooky. Even now, with the sun streaming through the wall of windows that formed the back of the house, I felt goosebumps rise on my arms. Something about Will’s calm recitation of the facts was creeping me out more than if he’d had a melodramatic reaction. He sounded like the audience-proxy character at the start of a horror movie, who explains why we shouldn’t get too worked up about all the strange happenings in town, but you know he’s going to get proven wrong, because he’s a character in a horror movie.

It was exactly one month since my husband’s passing. Exactly one month to the day. I was in a dead sleep, and Reginald started this horrific howl out of nowhere. It went on and on, and he wouldn’t stop for anything. Mrs. Van Meer shivered and pulled an afghan off the back of the sofa and onto her lap. I finally took him to Frank’s study and sat with him there, until we both fell asleep. She shook again, but this time like a dog shaking itself dry. Her voice, which had taken on a hint of a dream-like quality, was firm and matter-of-fact again. That was Sunday night. The very next day, yesterday, I called you.

I nodded to her, trying my best to look like I was up to the task. I focused on Reginald, whose eyes had almost closed. My heart broke for him. Well, old man. You heard what they told me. What do you have to say for yourself? You like the study? I bet it smells like Frank—makes you remember when he was here. I don’t blame you for wanting to spend time in there.

The next question was obvious. Ninety-nine percent of the time, when there’s a change in a pet’s behavior, they’re responding to some other change. It’s either something physical going on inside their bodies, or a disruption of their routine. A simple question most pet owners could answer with a little bit of reflection. But I couldn’t make it sound like I was accusing them of neglect. Who knows what family dynamics were swirling around the question of Reginald’s care?

I assume Reginald’s daily routine has changed quite a bit in the past month.

Mrs. Van Meer flushed. He was Frank’s dog. We’ve been doing our best, but …

She showed no sign of continuing. I let my hand trail down to massage one of Reginald’s front paws. The nails felt longer than they should. Was it your husband who used to take him on walks?

Reginald, who I would not describe as terribly alert, had noticed my use of the word walk. His eyebrows rose, and without moving his head, he watched me for further promising signs. Dogs are so easy to read. If more people would just pay attention to their animals, they wouldn’t have to bring in pet behaviorists in the first place.

My human client hadn’t noticed Reginald’s reaction. Yes, Frank walked him every morning. All around the neighborhood. But he has free range of the grounds! She pointed at the dog door set into a pane of the French doors, and I noted the defensiveness in her voice.

That’s good! But if there’s any way to get back to regular walks, that would be better. He must feel like his territory has shrunk.

We were interrupted by the doorbell ringing. I’d forgotten about Pink Sweatshirt Woman, who must have been in the kitchen this whole time, just out of my line of sight. Now she crossed the room and headed for the front of the house. None of the others watched her go, but we all fell silent until she returned with the new arrival.

Mrs. Van Meer? I’m Patty Reubens? Debbie Schluester told you I was coming by? To consult about the staging? Ten-thirty this morning? She pulled a phone from her pocket and checked the time, seeing the blank look on Mrs. Van Meer’s face.

"Oh, Debbie? Yes, of course. I’d forgotten. I’m