Playing Dead

CHAPTER 1

Harlow hung her head out the back seat window, golden ears flapping and tongue lolling. The Saint Berdoodle nudged his way into the opening behind her. Drool broke free from the big dog’s flews. Though I loved Noodle, three months living with him hadn’t yet numbed me to his faucet-like slobbering. Hoping the stream of saliva hadn’t hit anyone, I signaled and turned the 4Runner onto a two-lane, following the instructions provided by my GPS.

Ten minutes later, I turned onto another narrow road. A sturdy windbreak rose on my right along with a string of phone poles. To my left, avocado groves alternated with orange trees. The air smelled of eucalyptus, citrus, and hay. I noticed a flyer was stapled to each phone pole I passed. Slowing, I read the posted message: $1,000 Reward for Information on Our Missing Golden, Freddy. Below the words, a photo of a smiling retriever along with a phone number. The flyer’s edges were curled, and the picture looked sun-bleached. How long had Freddy been missing? Or had he come home and no one bothered to pull down the flyers? Hoping it was answer number two, I sped up again.

Near the road’s end, the GPS voice said to turn right. I bumped onto the single dirt lane. Dust swirled around us, and I tapped the brake. Heads back inside, guys. I powered up the windows and turned on the AC. Another half mile along the driveway, Noodle began to bark.

Can you smell the other dogs already? This would be our first time at Playtime Academy for Dogs’ training facility. Members of my Tuesday agility class swore by this place and its staff. In addition to agility, they had scent work classes, rally, and barn hunt. Only Harlow did agility, but I was eager for Noodle to take part in his first barn hunt. Everything I read assured me the rats were kept safe. An animal-loving vegan in my agility class swore the rats looked like they were having a good time. Who was I to argue with that sort of testimony?

Noodle was a gentle giant. But having adopted him from a sociopath, I often worried how he’d interact with others. I’d spent the last three months introducing him to new people, animals, and experiences. So far, the Saint Berdoodle had done great.

I guided the 4Runner around a pothole. The slope turned steep. Slowing, I continued up the winding incline through the tawny, rolling hills. Though the day was warm, friends assured me it would feel like fall soon. I missed the autumn leaves of Massachusetts, but doubted I’d miss the snow and ice when winter rolled around.

A metal sign arching over the drive—and the GPS voice—told me I’d reached my destination. I pulled into the gravel parking lot on the right. About a dozen vehicles were already there. I chose a spot a few feet from a large SUV with an I Heart Boxers bumper sticker. When I cut the engine, Harlow woofed. That’s right, girl, we’re here.

I reopened the windows and climbed out. It was at least ten degrees warmer here than on the coast. I pulled off my hoodie and told the dogs to stay. A group of about twenty people were gathered near a fenced field. Beyond that sat a second grassy enclosure plus two sizable dirt arenas. Wow. The arenas even had lights for night classes. Though I’d assumed the name barn hunt was figurative, there was also a big red barn.

The closest grass field was set up for standard agility competition practice, the unoccupied field beyond it for jumpers. An angular woman dressed in a khaki shirtdress and running shoes stood inside the first field, her Akita already off leash. Instead of being dialed in on her person, the dog looked bored. An Akita on the course meant I’d timed my arrival well; the small dogs had already run. A cowboy-looking guy clutching a clipboard approached the woman, but they were too far away for me to overhear any pointers.

Instead of checking in, I walked to the field and leaned against the railing. I scanned my surroundings while waiting for their run to begin. The buildings looked freshly painted, and even from here, I could see that the agility equipment was rubberized. Playtime obviously ran a quality operation. Movement pulled my attention back to the ring as the woman took off.

Arriving late had its downside. Though I’d spend less time waiting, I’d missed the course walk-through. I watched the woman and her Akita carefully. Tight right after the first jump, already heading to the tunnel. Straight run to the third obstacle. A sharp left to jump number one in the reverse direction followed by a softer turn toward the next jump. Then, the elevated dog walk and a quick reverse for the second tunnel. Straight run to the tire jump. After the A-frame, the course became less complicated. The Akita narrowly cleared the long jump and trotted to the finish. She and her handler completed a flawless, if moderately paced, run. The cowboy approached and spoke with her again. He placed a hand on her shoulder before she departed the ring, head down.

An auburn-haired woman entered along with a fawn-colored boxer. I wondered if hers was the SUV with the bumper sticker. She had a brief exchange with the cowboy before beginning her run. The boxer soared through the course, looking joyful. Much faster than the previous pair and another fault-free run.

Watching was fun, but my dogs needed to stretch their legs. I spied the crating area on the far side of the parking lot and hurried back to my vehicle. Leaving the dogs in the back seat a moment longer, I loaded their supplies onto my cart and rolled everything to an empty patch. I assembled the crates and draped a tarp over each to shade them from the sun. Returning to the 4Runner, I opened the rear door. Harlow pranced with excitement while Noodle drooled onto the beach towel protecting the back seat.

I hooked on leashes and let them explore the area on the way to their crates. Once there, I pulled the water bottle from my knapsack and filled their bowls. When they’d lapped enough, we wandered to a small group of live oaks and the dogs decided which ones were worthy of their use. All set? They wagged their tails. Okay then.

After urging each into their crate, I walked to the check-in table located under a blue pop-up canopy. I smiled at the stunning woman staffing the table. Hi. Checking in.

She looked up. Her dark hair was gathered into a big puff, and the orange company polo gave her skin a warm glow. Name?

Molly Madison.

She ran her finger down a printout. You’re here with a golden retriever?

Yep.

You’ll be up after the standard poodle.

Thanks. I also brought along my Saint Berdoodle for the barn hunt later today. Speed isn’t his strong suit, but he’s got an amazing nose.

She flashed her dimples. See, this is how people should be. Recognize their dog’s strengths and lean in to them. Way too many folks can’t seem to see that. Holding out her hand, she said, Simone Beaulieu. I teach scent work.

We shook. Nice to meet you.

You know, barn hunt courses are designed with eighteen- or nineteen-inch tunnels. A couple of our tunnels are thirty-six by eighteen. Will your dog be able to fit?

Yep. He squeezes through Harlow’s agility tunnel just fine.

Perfect. If he’s got a good nose, you might also want to bring him to a scent class. We have one later in the week.

I’ll think about it.

Saint Berdoodle, you say?

Yep.

Smart to get a dog like that into nose work. The combination of those breeds . . . Have you done any nose work with him?

Yep. Haven’t been able to fool him yet.

For classes here, we work with the usual four target odors: birch, anise, clove, and cypress.

I’ve just been hiding treats.

That’s a good start. Looking forward to seeing you later at barn hunt, Molly Madison.

Me, too. I returned to the agility ring. Another woman stood inside. Short and stocky, she wore Capri pants and a shirt that matched the black and mahogany colors of the Rottweiler by her side. She unleashed the dog and spoke to the trainer. After a moment, she gave an emphatic nod and moved into position in front of her dog. When the cowboy signaled to her, the woman started running. The Rotty took the first half of the course in stride but missed the final contact point on the A-frame. Instant five-point penalty. But the handler held it together, and the rest of the course went smoothly. Releashing her dog, the woman had another word with the trainer before exiting the ring.

Didn’t any men take agility here?

An anxious-looking bottle blonde entered with a German shepherd. A brief conversation with the cowboy followed, then she got into position. It looked like she was talking to herself.

Almost as soon as she began, things went haywire. She mis-cued the dog on the way to the first jump. The shepherd hesitated, looking for guidance. Turning, the blonde urged him forward and he made it over. She darted toward the tunnel, and the dog plunged through like an otter in water. He soared over the next obstacle. An audible groan rippled through the crowd when she ran the dog the wrong way. Figuring it out before her shepherd back-jumped, she corrected their course. Obviously frazzled, she lost control of the dog at the following jump. She circled around to get him over it in the correct direction. After that she completely fell apart. When her dog balked at the seesaw, the woman froze and covered her face.

Yikes.

Yeah, Ashlee’s a train wreck on the course. The auburn-haired woman who had run the boxer joined me at the fence with her dog. Don’t get me wrong, Siegfried can do the work. And Ashlee’s athletic and smart. But when a run is timed, she falls apart. Maybe it’s a throwback to some sort of testing anxiety, but she absolutely loses it. The woman puffed out her cheeks, took a deep breath, then crouched to stroke her dog’s fawn coat. But not you. You did great. Yes, you did. You’re such a good boy. Yes, you are.

Straightening, she tossed her long braid over her shoulder. The dog sat on his haunches, tail swishing an arc in the dirt, gaze on his person. I haven’t seen you here before. First time?

Yep. I’ve heard a lot of good things.

She looked back at the crating area. The Saint Berdoodle here for barn hunt?

Yep. He has a great nose. I only adopted him three months ago, but he’s shown real promise.

And I’m guessing the Golden does agility?

You got it.

Terrific.

Her dismayed tone surprised me.

Sorry. I’m in a mood. Another large dog running agility won’t help me advance. Grimacing, she gestured at the field. You see my run?

Yep.

Forty-five point six seconds. Royal did great. And I ran my ass off on the home stretch, but I can’t seem to get under forty-five. To get to nationals, I need to get down to at least forty. Royal’s good enough to win. He deserves to. I can’t figure out what’s holding us back.

That why you’re here today?

Ben’s a great trainer.

The guy in the cowboy gear?

That’s him.

And you want to cut five to six seconds off your time?

She raised an eyebrow. Why? Think it’s impossible?

Not from what I saw.

What? You think you can help?

I don’t know about six seconds, but I saw how you can cut two or three.

Three seconds?

Yep.

How? Wait. She held out her hand. I’m Felicity Gaines. And, of course, this is Royal.

Molly Madison. We shook, then I held my hand out to her dog. The boxer sniffed and continued wagging his tail. Don’t see many boxers doing agility.

Well, if you go to county meets, you’ll see at least two of them.

You have another dog? I scanned the area.

Nah. Celeste liked Royal so much, she got a boxer of her own. She’s been doing agility two years less than I have and getting better times. Pisses me off.

I’ll bet. I didn’t recall seeing any boxers at the local trials I’d attended. What’s Celeste’s last name?

Simmons.

Never met her.

Lucky you. What makes it worse is I’m the one who suggested she try agility. I was new to the neighborhood and ran into her while walking Royal. She told me she owned a couple gyms but was looking for something to do in her spare time. If I’d only known what she was like, I never would’ve suggested agility. Now she’s got plenty to do. Of course, she still has no friends. But that’s on her.

Finished with her rant, Felicity took a deep breath. So how can you get me three seconds?

Two or three. It’s your hair.

My hair? She fingered her braid.

Not that. The loose hairs around your face.

Felicity ran her palm from her forehead to her plait. What about them?

I put my left hand up to my temple, then stroked it back. Twice during your run, you touched your hair like this. With the hand you weren’t using to guide Royal. It distracted him. Just a bit, but I’d say it added up to a two- or three-second delay over the course of your run.

No. When?

First time was when you were heading away from the seesaw. The dog didn’t go for full speed until you brought your hand down. Lost at least a second there.

And?

During the run to the final tunnel. When your back was to him—same thing. You seem to do it when you break eye contact with him.

Crap. Why hasn’t anyone told me this before?

You come here a lot?

Yeah. Why? Her brow furrowed.

I shrugged. They know you. They probably don’t see it. Like a tic they’ve grown used to. It stood out to me because I’ve never watched you run a course before. You’re doing it now.

Sweet fancy Moses. She tucked her left hand inside her front pocket. How do I stop if I don’t know I’m doing it?

Maybe wear a headband? It’ll feel different and hold your hair in place. Or wrap masking tape around your hand? Something like that might call enough attention to itself to keep you from unconsciously doing it.

Worth a shot. I think I’ll wear one of Royal’s bandannas during my next run. I should have a few extra in the car. Her jaw dropped open and she froze. What’s she doing here?

I followed her gaze to a petite woman sporting a white-blond bob with one side of her head shaved down to stubble. Dressed in designer jeans and a black tee bedazzled with rhinestones spelling out the letters KIP, she looked all bone and muscle. She led a brindle boxer from the crating area. The dog probably weighed only twenty-five pounds less than she did. Is that Celeste?

Yeah, and she’s supposed to be in Hawaii. For two weeks. Told me she’d miss the next regional competition.

Giving you and Royal a leg up in your category?

God, I’m transparent, but yes.

The blonde spied Felicity, gave a finger wave, and headed our way. When she drew near, she said, I was hoping I’d run into you here. Her boxer lunged toward Royal. Felicity pulled her dog back. Not to be completely thwarted, the blonde’s boxer lodged his nose in my crotch. The woman did nothing.

Bad manners all the way around. I nudged the dog back. Off.

Felicity moved Royal behind her. I thought you’d be on your way to paradise by now—or at least packing.

I couldn’t let Buster miss the upcoming meet. Celeste gave a smile that was all teeth, no heart.

You canceled your anniversary trip?

No. I convinced Del that joining him at the resort a couple days late would be good for him. My husband will get time to watch all the sports he can stand, and I’ll get a chance for Buster to win and earn us an invitation to the championships.

How? The entries are closed. Felicity looked at me. I checked for a friend.

Even though I’d just met her, I was sure Felicity was lying. If she’d checked, it wasn’t for a friend.

Celeste gave a carefree flutter of her hand. Oh, I entered over a month ago. Just in case. She bent to adjust Buster’s harness, then stepped closer to Felicity. Even Del couldn’t say no when I told him how that blue ribbon was calling me. And Buster’s been running like a god lately. It’d be a shame to deny him another win. She gave one more toothy smile and touched Felicity’s forearm. I’m sure the red ribbon will look good with all the others you’ve won. She turned and strode to the agility field.

Felicity glared after her.

Wow. She’s . . .

A bitch. A bitch who’s only been doing agility for a year. Felicity huffed out a noisy breath. Like everyone else, she made lots of mistakes at first. Spent maybe six months coming to meets and NQ-ing. Finally, she got frustrated and told me she was taking a month off to bond with Buster. Sounded strange to me. She and Buster should’ve already bonded by then. What the dog needed was more training. But when Celeste came back, she couldn’t lose. It was like some sort of magical transformation. It still pisses me off.

She looks athletic. I’m guessing she and her dog run well together.

Sort of. She still makes a lot of errors, but the dog does the right thing anyway.

If she’s doing well, why’s she so . . . snippy?

I think she’s using agility to make up for her Olympic dreams crashing and burning.

What do you mean?

She was a gymnastics champion in her teens. Blew out her knee, rehabbed, but was never as good. Several years back, she started a gymnastics program for girls—SimNastics. Huge success. She was able to open her own gym—first one, then another. Completely stopped offering her classes through other fitness centers. I’m not sure how many gyms she owns now. But however many it is, it’s not enough for her. The woman still needs more victories. Don’t get me wrong, I hear she’s got an amazing work ethic and inspires the athletes she trains. People in the gymnastics community respect her. But the agility crowd? I don’t know a single person who actually likes her.

I can see why.

A man in a tank top, showing off bony shoulders and several tattoos, approached the ring leading a standard poodle. Apparently at least one guy trained here. But the poodle’s arrival meant my turn was coming up. I excused myself and collected Harlow from the crating area. By the time we returned, the poodle was halfway through the course. He flew over the long jump and the last two hurdles. Then he balked at the panel jump. The audience groaned. Tank top man circled back to try again. Success. After a brief consultation with the cowboy, they left the ring.

When we entered, the familiar thrum of excitement ran through me. You ready, girl?

Harlow settled onto the ground, eyes focused on me. I unhooked her leash and tossed it aside. While we waited for the trainer’s okay, I reviewed the course. Once the cowboy nodded, I took a deep breath and locked eyes with Harlow. We took off.

The Golden flew over the first jump and we raced to the tunnel. She shot inside. Then she launched and landed the next three jumps perfectly. Tight turns, good speed. Next up: the weave poles. Harlow attacked them, smiling all the way. Another tight turn for the second tunnel, then she sailed through the tire like a dart. When she hit the contact point on the A-frame, I knew we had this. My heart soared as we ran the remaining obstacles.

The trainer walked over to me as I played tug-of-war with Harlow at the finish. Her favorite reward.

Great run. Your first time here, but not your first on a course.

No.

Great dog, too.

Yep. Harlow’s amazing. Aren’t you, girl? The Golden wagged her agreement.

So what are you hoping to get out of this today?

I let Harlow win our battle and straightened. I wanted to see how she performs in a new place. Around new people and dogs. And pick up any pointers I can.

The cowboy nodded. Your footwork is good. So is your anticipation and planning for the obstacles. But—he held up his index finger—if you arrive before we start and walk the course, I’m betting you could shave another two seconds off your time.

Thanks. I hooked on Harlow’s leash and led her from the ring.

Felicity and Royal were waiting for us. Nice run.

Thanks.

We’re going in for our second run in about five minutes.

Great. Let me take care of Harlow, then I’ll come back and watch.

When I returned to the railing, a deep frown marred Felicity’s face. I followed her gaze. Inside the arena, Celeste and Buster were crossing the finish line. Before talking to the trainer, Celeste made a point of smiling and waving at Felicity.

Felicity peeked at the timer on her phone. Thirty-nine seconds.

Wow.

Bitch loves to rub it in. She rolled her shoulders. Not my problem, right? Karma’s going to get her someday. The only thing I can control is myself. And hopefully Royal.

CHAPTER 2

During Felicity’s next run, she didn’t touch her hair once and shaved four seconds off her time. She left the ring with a huge grin spreading across her flushed face.

I clapped as she approached. Well done!

Thanks to you.

Huh-uh. I just pointed out the issue. I gestured toward the lime green bandanna covering her head. You made the necessary adjustments.

Oooh. Someone’s not happy about how well Royal and I did. Felicity chuckled.

On the opposite side of the arena, Celeste glowered.

Good.

Felicity clutched my arm. Let me get Royal settled in his crate, then we can watch the rest together.

Sure.

She turned away, then groaned.

What?

What’s Stacy doing here? With Thor? Her hand grazed her bandanna. Snatching it back, she pointed her chin at a tall, broad-shouldered woman leading a muddy border collie to the ring.

Why? Border collies are naturals at this.

Thor is amazing. It’s Stacy.

She’s not good with the dog?

Frankly, I’m amazed she even remembers to feed him. Not that anyone could blame her.

Really. What’s her story?

Inside the ring, Stacy unhooked Thor’s leash. The border collie lowered himself, a spring ready to erupt. Eager as he appeared, he held his position while the woman consulted with the trainer.

"Her daughter died a month ago. Cancer. Stacy’s been a