Dognapping For Beginners: Dogwalker Mystery Series, #1

By Rene Roberts

Stumbling in...

My name is Nikki Lawry. I'm not much of a joiner—more of a dog person, but that suits me just fine. I have my reasons. All I dream about these days is my own animal rescue centre, and I'm saving every penny I earn to purchase the land I need—one dog walking gig after another.

That's why I live in a tiny house in my mom's backyard, hooked up with a garden hose and an extension cord. Fancy. Like I said, minding my own business, saving every penny.

When my favorite customer, Miss K, told me about the abused black Lab chained up next door, we immediately plan a midnight rescue. Just when it seems we might pull off our clandestine mission, it's discovered there was a death in the neighborhood.

When? Why, exactly when I was skulking around with my trusty bolt cutters, of course.

I'm no detective, but even I can guess who the #1 Suspect is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pajama Therapy Books
• Release date: Jan 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781989850220

Book preview

1

THE DOG NEXT DOOR

Tank Kowalski, Pamela Kowalski’s steady little Yorkshire Terrier and my last drop-off of the day, eagerly led me along the fragrant lilac-bordered path on the west side of Pamela’s house to the backyard. It had been a tough week, and barring today’s late-day sunshine, almost all my dog team walks had happened in the driving Oregon rain.

My raincoat needed a raincoat.

I just wanted to go home, forget the world and crash for fifteen hours.

But this was Friday and as always Pamela was waiting for me in the garden at the café-style table with iced tea and scones, surrounded by a tall cedar privacy fence and lovely shade trees.

I pulled up and made an effort to let go of my exhaustion. I’d been stomping through my day like I was in aisle six at the grocery store grabbing a box of cereal. Tank looked up at me inquiringly, his bright little eyes expectant. Who could stay grumpy with that little face looking up at you? Nobody, that’s who. I took a moment to center myself, to remember who had invited me here, was waiting to spend time with me here.

Pamela was a retired schoolteacher from my old elementary school here in Poet—everyone called her Miss K back then—though she was never my teacher. She’d been a widow for almost three years. She lived a quiet life now that her arthritic knees were paining her, gently pouring her energy into keeping up the gardens she and her husband Ken had built into this beautiful sanctuary. Since we were in April again, her little fountain was gently burbling, a welcoming, soothing sound amid sprays of spring flowers.

Pam had kind of slipped under my radar. She kept asking me to stay for tea; I kept politely declining, claiming I had somewhere to go or something to do, which was a lie of course. With my brother Cody gone, it was just me and Mom and my golden Labrador, Leo now.

In the end, Pamela just wore me down. Over time, we fell into the habit of Friday night teas together, after my last dog team walk and yes, I’ll admit it, I do look forward to them. Who knew I’d like tea with a sweet old lady so much?

We never talked politics or religion or gossiped. We certainly never talked about why she was never my teacher—she was very kind about that. My case had been infamous here in Poet and not something I liked to revisit, no matter how sympathetic the person asking appeared to be.

My trauma, my business, no one else’s.

Pamela and I talked about her garden, or students she remembered, or her backpacking travels through Europe on her summer breaks. Pamela had lived a fascinating life. I loved listening to her stories, and she loved telling them. We were a perfect match.

I didn’t like to tell my stories unless it was about one of my dogs because—well, my stories weren’t fun like hers were. Plus, that’s not who I am anymore. I don’t blab about my past—I barely acknowledge it. Life should be lived facing forward, not looking back is my motto.

I have a plan and I’m working that plan for all it’s worth every single day.

But back to Pamela and our tea. It’s almost dusk and now that I’ve taken a moment to pull my damp, raggedy self together, I could use some tea and a visit with my favorite client. The perfect ending to a tough week. Some days I think maybe I should be paying Pamela instead of Pamela paying me to walk Tank. The little guy was a treat, and despite his size, could handle himself very well with my afternoon walk team, which was mostly made up of larger dogs. I think maybe the reason Tank fit in so well was he was completely convinced he was a big dog too, so convinced, in fact, the other dogs all immediately caved and agreed.

As dogs dropped off the team and new dogs joined, they quickly saw Tank as a respected member and readily fell in with Tank’s deception. I got a lot of arched eyebrows and admiring glances from dog owners down at the dog park when they saw my afternoon team playing together, Tank in there with the rest, the bigger dogs playful and always gentle with him. The people at the park seem to think I had something to do with it—not a bad image for a dog walker always looking for business—but I didn’t. It was all Tank and his larger-than-life personality. I loved it.

Hey Pamela! I stepped out of the shadows and called out cheerfully, Tank’s still feeling frisky. Maybe we— I stopped at seeing Pamela’s expression when she turned to face me. Her usually tidy white hair was mussed, and she’d been crying, her face red and splotchy, a shocking change from her open smile. I dropped Tank’s lead and rushed toward her with my hands out but… we’re not that kind of friend to one another. I pulled back and stuttered, I… I mean… What’s happened? What can I do to help?

Pamela half stood, winced and stilled in an almost defensive crouch for a moment, then changed her mind and sank back down, wiping at her face with shaking hands.

I sat in the chair beside her. Something’s happened. Let me help.

When her eyes met mine, they were desperate. Traumatized.

A ball of anger began growing in my belly. Did someone come here and hurt you?

She shook her head, unable to speak it appeared, and motioned to the side fence, tears spilling afresh down her cheeks.

It’s that awful neighbor?

She nodded and scrubbed at her face with one of the linen napkins she liked to lay out for our tea visits. This made me even more upset. Pamela was very thoughtful about every little detail, pressing the napkins carefully so the embroidered daisies were centered perfectly for our regular Friday teas. It was more than I deserved.

What did he do this time?

She swallowed and just shook her head.

I gave her time to gather herself together. She hadn’t poured the iced tea yet, so I poured, handing her a glass, which she accepted and drank thirstily. I followed suit, abruptly dry, draining the glass. Once done, we looked at one another.

Pamela whispered, I heard Gerard hurting that pup he got a few weeks ago. But… the dog’s so quiet, maybe he’s been there much longer, and I just never knew it.

The burning ball in my gut surged, hatred for a man I’ve never seen flaring white hot.

It was horrifying, Nikki. That poor animal. My heart is broken.

Why are you whispering?

He might hear me.

So what? It’s a free world. What are you afraid of? Did you call anyone? I’d already pulled out my cellphone and punched in a number.

He’s got a gun and he likes to flash it around.

My jaw dropped. I knew she was intimidated by Gerard Tremblay but had never guessed this. Are you serious?

He had a big fight with his downstairs renter this afternoon. Everyone in the neighborhood had to have heard it. When he came out to see the dog, he was in a foul mood.

This guy sounds like a laugh a minute.

She nodded in jerking motions, her eyes straying over to the fence on the west side of her property—the fence she’d financed entirely on her own, no help from Tremblay, though he was apparently a wealthy man, his rundown house notwithstanding. Last year, he’d reneged on their agreement and never ponied up his share of the expense. Now she was glad that solid, nine-foot-tall fence was up, and she didn’t have to see into Gerard Tremblay’s yard or see his face ever again. Poor Pamela. What she’d heard had shattered her.

Where’s the dog now? Oh—just a sec. I held up my hand for her to wait and answered my phone, then stopped. It was only voicemail. Animal control was closed for the day, the weekend, actually. I ended the call and tried another, the local SPCA, knowing already they were closed, but I could maybe get lucky someone had lagged behind. I ended that call when it also went straight to voicemail. Where’s the dog?

Still outside, I think. He’s a very quiet dog. After the... Gerard got tired and went back inside. I’m certain the dog took what Gerard couldn’t do to the renter.

I shook my head.

She nudged her chin toward the farthest back corner of the yard. After he left, I leaned a ladder up against the fence and climbed up to take a look. The dog’s still there, curled up in a ball. He has a huge clunky red collar and chain around his neck. When her eyes filled with tears again, she looked away so her cotton-candy hair hid her flushed face, her hand straying down to stroke Tank’s silky coat. She whispered, "He’s so skinny. And half his hair is missing. He’s… He’s covered in horrible wounds. I didn’t know what to do, so I waited for you to come back with Tank."

I was across the garden, up the ladder, and peering over the fence into Tremblay’s chaotic yard. What? This guy didn’t know there was a weekly garbage pickup here in Poet? What a dump.

Leaning over farther, I searched the heaps of bulging refuge bags for evidence of a dog. Yup. There in the back corner was a leggy black dog, skinny as sin, with patches of white skin showing, and open and partly healed wounds. I could count every bump along his thin, curved spine. He was curled into a tight ball, shivering in stops and starts. Oh, how I wanted to gather him up in my arms and make his nightmare go away.

His shelter was an old washtub laid on its side, with the surrounding grass worn down to hard-packed dirt everywhere his chain extended, demonstrating his limited range of barely ten feet. A torn bag of dried kibble lay just beyond his reach. So cruel. A dirty hose trickled water across the dirt and out into the back lane. Gerard was a monster who should never be allowed to keep animals. Ever.

I looked over my shoulder toward Pamela, saw she’d followed me from the table and was gazing up at me, trusting me to do the right thing. Like anyone could stop me.

I whispered, We’re busting him out tonight, after dark. I’ll take him to the vet tomorrow and deal with the consequences. We don’t leave this poor guy here with Gerard. Not another night. No way.

Pamela nodded up at me eagerly. I’m in.

I climbed back down, my mind racing. I need to get bolt cutters to free him, not something I carry in my van.

What should I do?

Stay out here, record anything you hear on your cellphone till I’m back.

Her expression blossomed. I’m way ahead of you. I recorded some of what happened on my phone earlier. I… I thought I could use it against him. No more ‘my word against his’. He likes to say he’s got friends down at city hall and he’s… Well. He has deep pockets.

Hey. Good idea. I shot back up the ladder, pulled out my phone and took several pictures of the dog and his living conditions, a plan forming in my head.

When I was back on the grass, I impulsively hugged her, something I never do. As far as I was concerned, we’d just crossed over into hugging friends territory. Thankfully Pamela hugged me back. I released her and whispered, "Okay. I’ll come back after dark, we’ll use your ladder, break into his yard from the laneway, not through your place so you’re not implicated. I’ll take more pictures from the laneway, pictures the city can use in a legal action if it comes to that, for the same reason—to protect you. It can’t appear they were taken from your yard.

Then I’ll cut the chain, grab him up and book it as fast as I can. You grab the ladder and stash it away and act like nothing happened. I won’t bring my van anywhere near here—I’ll park a few blocks away. We want to be a bit of a mystery until we have the dog in a safe place, our facts straight, and can go to the authorities.

But I’m not doing enough, she protested.

You raised the alarm. You alerted me about the dog. You’ll cover my tracks tonight. You’ll be doing plenty. But we can’t have Gerard even suspecting you had anything to do with this.

Together we hurried through the yard toward her house. Pamela cautioned, Remember, Gerard has a gun.

Oh, I’m very aware, thank you very much, but that dog is not spending another night with that monster.

Can you get someone else to help us?

How I wished I could. The only person I knew for sure who would help me was my mom and she’d been struggling lately. Something was going on with her and I just wasn’t going to risk it. Not until we’d kept that follow-up appointment with the heart specialist. I shoved away the anxiety this thought always brought. Mom not in my life? I shook my head, grimaced and answered, No. It’s just me. I’m doing everything myself, saving every penny to buy land for my rescue center. Paying a helper just pushes that dream further away. I’d never shared this much about myself with her before—with anyone beyond Mom, really.

Pamela pressed her lips together. I wish I could help. You’re so good with the dogs.

"You’re one of my best clients. You’ve never stiffed me. Tank is the poster dog for a dog walker’s resume, trust me. Having Tank on my team has gotten me more than a few clients. I should be paying you commission."

Pamela gave a strangled little laugh. You make me sound good.

I reached for her hand and squeezed. "You are good. Truly good. I’m heading out now. It should be dark soon and I want to do this right. I’ll set up a bed for him at my place, buy salve for his wounds, grab some meat for him. Real food, not that cheap stuff. Tomorrow morning, he’s going straight to the vet, where we’ll document his condition to defend me dognapping him. No one will fight me once they learn about his situation."

Us, you mean.

Nope. I mean me. We’ve got to keep you safe from Tremblay. I’ll say I was walking on by and heard it all myself. Your name won’t even come up, I promise.

But… I feel— She stopped, her face falling. "You’re right—he does scare me."

Honor those feelings. You have them for a reason. Trust your gut.

Pamela’s expression cleared. Yes. Call me when you’re almost here and I’ll meet you at the back gate with the ladder.

You’re sure? How are your knees?

She flushed. They’re okay today. I took my meds and the surgery’s just around the corner. Soon I’ll be dancing a jig.

With one leg, at least. I grinned.

Two legs, soon enough.

That’s the spirit, Pam. I stopped. Now we’re hugging and I’m calling her Pam? Had I just been hit on the head? Is it okay I call you Pam?

We’re planning a crime together. What’s a little shorthand between felons? Pamela’s voice trembled with nerves.

I barked a laugh and quickly cut it off. It’s not a felon to rescue an abused animal.

Oh, I’m up for it. Pamela swallowed and shrugged. I just don’t know what category dognapping falls under.

If we do this right, we’ll never have to find out.

From your lips to God’s ear.

I’m thinking God is on our side on this one.

When I got back, it was dark, the air was warm and moving gently, carrying with it the sweet fragrance of Pamela’s lilacs. I had everything I needed in a backpack, and I’d changed into dark clothes. There wasn’t much of a moon, but there was a streetlight out front between Pamela’s and Gerard’s houses that trailed enough weak light toward the back I could just make out where I was going. I’d studied the pictures I’d taken earlier and figured if the dog didn’t resist me, I could be in and out in under five minutes. If he resisted… Well, I’d deal with that if it happened. No matter what, I was leaving with that dog tonight.

Pamela was waiting in her backyard beside the gate with her ladder. She’d thought of dark clothes as well, including a knitted cap over her lustrous white hair. I was impressed.

I said, You come outfitted. You do this kind of thing before?

She didn’t crack a smile. These are Ken’s old clothes. My pants, his fisherman knit sweater, his cap. It feels like he’s here with us.

I bet he is. I grabbed one end of the ladder and led the way out the back gate and turned gingerly to the right, easing the ladder out and toward the Tremblay place. There was a gate into his yard here but no way to open it from the laneway.

We stopped and listened before we began.

Instead of silence, or maybe telling evidence Tremblay was somewhere out in the junk-strewn yard, we heard angry voices coming from inside the house. Pamela brought out her phone and pressed record. Just in case, she whispered.

She was definitely the lady to pull clandestine missions with.

I said, At least he’s too busy to pay attention to the dog. Carefully we brought the ladder to an upright position and leaned it against the fence with only a snick of sound. Once done, we stopped and listened again. No interruption of the voices inside. They were still going at it, full bore. Belatedly I asked, Will the dog bark?

He never does. At least I’ve never heard him bark. I didn’t even know he was there until a few weeks ago. She hesitated. Since—you know…

I shifted my backpack to more comfortable, put one sneakered foot on the bottom rung, and muttered, Dogs should bark, and began climbing. Pamela held the ladder secure.

At the top, I scanned the house and yard. There were four windows facing back from the house, all ablaze with yellowish light, sending four illuminating shafts into the yard. The window closest to the back door was open and now that I was high on the fence, I could better hear what the dispute was about. Sort of. I heard a snatch of —years of putting up with your— Which was answered with —something, something—ungrateful—something, something—never get— This was abruptly cut off by a sharp slap and a thump. Ouch! That sounded painful.

I’m not gonna lie, I hoped it was Gerard’s face that just got slapped. He deserved it and so much more.

Pamela stage whispered, Do it, Nikki! Before they come out here! Please!

Galvanized by her fright I scrambled up and over and after hanging by my fingers from the top of the fence while my heart banged inside my chest for far too long, I made myself let go, hoping the drop would work out for me. I landed in a heap with a muffled, unladylike grunt, but none the worse for wear. Please, nobody hear me.

I lay still for a moment, holding my breath, listening for sounds of Gerard or whoever he was fighting with bursting out from the house to grab the intruder in their midst. Nothing. No arguing either. Was the fight over? Would someone come storming out and see me?

Get up! Get going!

I scrambled to my feet and felt along the side of the gate, locating the latch, struggling to keep my breathing calm. I opened the gate and Pamela and I stared at one another with big eyes.

She broke the spell, motioning to my backpack. Bolt cutters?

I jerked into action. Right. First, we get the ladder back to your place. I won’t have you exposed.

Pamela echoed, Right.

We scurried into Pamela’s yard with the ladder and stowed it beside the garage then hustled back to the open gate into the Tremblay yard. So far, no more arguing and not a peep from the dog. If this were my place and my golden lab Leo was here, we’d all know someone was up to no good on our property. How scared was this dog?

We crept toward the old washtub, me crouched down and crab walking, Pamela as crouched as her old knees would allow. Here at ground level, the piled refuge bags provided some cover. Pamela hissed, This place is ten times worse than before I built the fence. This is horrible—anything could be leaching into the soil from these bags. Someone should report Gerard to the city!

No kidding!

Drawing closer, we saw a tight dark bundle jammed into the tub, two frightened eyes staring out at us.

Shhh. It’s okay. We’re here to rescue you, I murmured, swinging my backpack forward and quietly extracting the bolt cutters and a leash. Not that I’d be leading this guy anywhere. It was a just-in-case leash. Tentatively I reached out one hand and let him catch my scent. He didn’t even budge. Zero curiosity. This guy was sick, I realized. Really sick.

Oh, you poor dear, Pamela fretted. Maybe some food?

I cut up some wieners. They’re in a zip lock bag in my pack.

Pamela fumbled for the wieners while I tentatively touched the dog’s head. He flinched but didn’t resist. My heart broke to find his spirit so crushed. Pamela extended a bit of wiener. The dog struggled to his feet—his three feet; the fourth leg dragged useless behind—and looked from Pam to the wiener, to me, then back to the wiener.

I didn’t like the