Free Let Sleeping Dogs Lie by Suzann Ledbetter

measured five-ten in leather lace-ups to feel like John Wayne bellying up to the bar in a Deadwood saloon. If Jack had a cowboy hat to doff, he'd have drawled, "Well, hello there, li'l lady."
     
     
"Cute dog." She scratched the Maltese's wispy goatee. Not even a suggestion of a wedding band blemished the appropriate ring finger. "What's her name?"
     
     
For the life of him, Jack couldn't remember. Then he did, and wished the amnesia were permanent. "Fido." He swallowed a groan. "Yep, good ol' Fido. No middle name or anything. Just…you know…Fido."
     
     
"Uh-huh." She chuffed. "Sure."
     
     
"No, no, really. It is." Jack stopped himself before swearing to it, but his tone dripped with sincerity—although it was a bit soprano for any kinship to the Duke. A deeper, manlier chuckle preceded, "You've been around dozens of dogs, right? Hundreds, maybe. But I'll bet this is the first, the only one you've ever met that was actually named Fido."
     
     
On closer inspection, her velvet brown eyes were older, wiser and sadder than a thirty-something woman's should be. It aroused Jack's curiosity and an inner Don Quixote he thought was deader than Cervantes.
     
     
"Okay," she said, "no bet. I've never met anybody who named his dog Fido." Her expression implied she still hadn't. "Do you have a reservation?"
     
     
"Uh, no." Dogs needed reservations?
     
     
"It's a good thing she's small. We're full up on medium and large boarders."
     
     
The groomer reached for a clipboard, paged through several sheets, then frowned. "Except if she needs to stay past the weekend…"
     
     
"Just overnight." Jack McPhee, private investigator, finally nudged aside Jack McPhee the lovelorn nonromantic. "I'm a sales rep for LeFleur & Francois Jewelers in Chicago." His shrug expressed a redundancy akin to specifying New York in reference to Harry Winston's. "See, uh, our chief designer had an eleventh-hour brainstorm. The sales team's flying in to decide if the piece will be included in the fall line, or held for next spring."
     
     
His original cover bio would have been smoother without the impromptu embellishments. Then again, a bumbled inside-the-park homer still counted on the scoreboard.
     
     
"So, you travel a lot?" she asked.
     
     
"Constantly." A gem—pun intended—of a detail clicked into place. "Normally I lug around a sample case." He sighed. "Thank heaven for small favors, I can leave the case at home for once."
     
     
The groomer regarded Fido née Sweetie Pie Snug 'Ems, then her presumed owner. "It's none of my business, but if she hasn't boarded at TLC before, what do you usually do with her when you're out of town?"
     
     
An excellent question. Jack scrambled for an answer. "Ah, uh, um, well, Swe—er, Fido—was my mother's dog, then she died. My mother, I mean. I sort of inherited her—the dog—but I do most of my traveling by car, so from now on she can go along and keep me company."
     
     
A pause ensued, lengthy enough for Jack to reinflate his lungs and silently ask his perfectly healthy mother's forgiveness. The explanation must not have sounded patently absurd, let alone bullshitic to the groomer, for she expressed condolences, then removed a blank registration form from a drawer.
     
     
At her prompting, he supplied his name and an emergency phone number. The given address was a vacant house furnished by the listing Realtor. Its chi-chi neighborhood hadn't yet been scathed by the Calendar Burglar.
     
     
"How old is Fido?" the groomer inquired.
     
     
"Six" was Jack's wild-hare guess.
     
     
"Any food allergies you're aware of?"
     
     
A rash with minor welt action would be fair payback for the tie the Maltese was gnawing holes in. Having observed the teeth marks in Ms. Pearl's furniture, throw pillows, shoes and handbag, Jack figured the dog's tummy wasn't particularly sensitive.
     
     
"Her shots are up-to-date?"
     
     
No doubt about that one. Ms. Pearl wasn't the type to deny or delay her little