A Spinning Wheel of Murder (PAPERBACK) Frankie Chandler #8

“Look. He’s doing it again. No-no-NO! Stop him!”

Miss Ginny Holmes, owner of a small, wiry dog of undetermined parentage, had booked an appointment with me to get her pup to stop peeing on . . . everything.

She found me the way most of my clients do. She’d heard through the Wolf Creek gossip mill that I can communicate with animals. Usually. If they felt like it.

The odor of cleaning solution overpowered her small ranch home. Prints of beach scenes peppered her salmon
-colored walls, probably so she could remember what large bodies of water looked like. We have little of that in Wolf Creek, Arizona. The namesake creek ran dry a century ago.

I considered my client. The dog. The owners simply pay for the appointment. He had the long-haired ears of a Papillon, though the fur stuck out instead of making a smooth sweep; his snout had a burst of chin hairs like a Brussels Griffon, and his body had both medium and long fur—a mix of brown, white, and steel gray. Like the result if
several dogs jumped into a blender and come out as one.

“How long has he been doing this?”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s big on peeing. It’s like it’s his favorite thing to do.”

“I mean inside the house.”

Her finger tapped against her chin as she tried to nail down an exact answer. I’m not a patient person, but today I had a reason. I had errands to run and dinner to make
before Bowers got home.

“A week? A month? A year?” I struggled to keep impatience out of my tone.

“About a week.”

A week. Not long. It shouldn’t take long to find a solution.
“Have you had any canine guests?”

“My brother moved back to town. When he dropped by, he brought Milo with him.”

“Milo?”

“His German shepherd. They get along great. Thumper
knows Milo. They’ve played together since they were puppies.”

Unless Milo tinkled in the house and the two were swapping information, it didn’t sound like Thumper had a reason to mark his territory. Covering my bases, I asked if the shepherd had exhibited the same behavior.

“Milo? Pee in the house? Never.” She glared at her dog. “Milo has manners.”

“You’re sure?”

“I would have noticed a giant shepherd taking a wee on my china cabinet.”

The seashell clock perched on the teak end table announced the half hour with a single seagull shriek. Three-thirty. I had to wrap this up.

The noise attracted Thumper, and he headed that way. As he lifted his leg, prepared to let loose, Ginny summoned a yell of frustration. “Stop it, you little beast!”

If she had paid closer attention, she would have noticed that, most of the time, Thumper wasn’t releasing his reserves.

My first approach with any client is to find a reasonable explanation based on animal behavior, but air peeing went beyond my knowledge base. Time for the second
option.

I took a deep breath and created an imaginary highway between my mind and the dog’s noggin. That was how I sent and received messages from animals. It sounds
ridiculous, but it works.

When I connected, Thumper froze in his position, leg half lifted. My right leg lifted off the ground until I forced it back to the floor.

At a sudden pain in my abdomen, my hand went to my side, and I doubled over.

When I’m connected, I sometimes feel what the animal feels. It’s made for some awkward moments, and I thought I’d gotten past the embarrassment of making animal
motions in front of my clients, but when I passed a long stream of gas, I disconnected from Thumper and buried my face in my hands.

Back when I faked my pet psychic appointments, before Sandy, the golden retriever, had broken through with images of a murder and invited his pals to enter my
mental doorway, I never suffered these humiliating moments because I was in control.

I cleared my throat and lowered my hands. “It wasn’t me. It was the dog.”

Ginny casually side-stepped to put distance between us.

“What do you feed him?”

“Only the best. I just switched to homemade.”

“That’s great, but what ingredients do you use?”

“Chicken. Sometimes turkey or beef. Then I add vegetables—”

“What kind?”

“Carrots or peas or green beans, usually.”

“Do you cook them into mush? Canines traditionally get their veggies from the stomachs of their prey. They’re not made to digest raw veggies.”

“Thanks for that image. I cook them and grind them up.”

“Is that all?”

“I sprinkle in some flax seed. Oh. And I add some brewer’s yeast. It’s good protein for him and includes amino acids and B vitamins.”

Bingo. I could finally end this appointment. “Skip the yeast.”

With her nose raised in a haughty expression, she informed me a professional had given her the recipe.

I sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with milk, yet lactose intolerant people can’t drink it. Some digestive systems are more sensitive than others are. You’re inflating your
dog like a Macy’s parade balloon. He’s got to release the valve somehow. Raising his leg seems to do that for Thumper. Hadn’t you noticed he’s not spraying?”

“Sometimes he does. I just figured he’d run dry.”

“When he does tinkle, he’s taking advantage of the moment. From his point of view, why not?” To convince her this was a serious problem, I added, “I felt his pain.”

“Oh, sweetheart!” She scooped the dog into her arms. The motion released another round of stinkers. Or, as my father called them, silent-but-deadlies.

“Make another batch without the yeast,” I advised, waving my hand under my nose. “That should take care of it.”

When she set him down, the little rascal, finally relieved of pressure, curled up in his bed and dropped into an exhausted sleep.

Ginny handed me fifty bucks with a grin. “I never would have figured it out. Who would have associated a tinkle monster with a poor, gassy pooch?”

Eager to leave, I tossed out a glib answer, one that would come back and bite me in a few days. “You can’t guess a person’s motives by what they do. How they act. Why
wouldn’t it be the same for a dog?”

“I guess.”

I grabbed my purse and light jacket from the chair in the entryway. Right before she closed the door behind me, she gave me a thumbs up. “You’re so clever. It’s worth
every penny to get the smell out of my house.”

A glance at my watch wiped the smug grin from my face.
I had dinner to make in less than two hours. After my embarrassing display in front of my client, I thanked heaven I hadn’t promised Bowers chili and hit the grocery store.