Free The Kingdom of Dog by Neil S. Plakcy Page A

too. Joe thought the capital campaign was too big, too wasteful, and doomed to fail. He tried to stonewall Mike whenever he could, arguing over every detail of the campaign. Could Mike have finally had too much of Joe’s interference?
    Another person Joe interfered with was President Babson. He and Joe often clashed over policies, and though Babson was in charge, Joe was so entrenched he couldn’t be fired easily. I knew Babson was a megalomaniac, and easily conflated himself with Eastern. But could he be off the charts enough to commit murder?
    â€œThere are still so many suspects,” I said to Rochester. “I don’t understand how Hercule Poirot does it.”
    He didn’t respond. Finally I dragged myself up from the table, took him out for a quick walk, then went up to bed.
    Exhausted from my lack of sleep the night before, I dozed off to the sounds of the house settling, the rattles and creaks and pinging pipes that I had come to associate with my feelings of home ownership.
    The next day was cold and clear, and Rochester took way too long on our morning walk around River Bend. “Come on, dog, I’ve got stuff to do,” I said. But he wouldn’t pick up the pace, preferring to mosey along with his nose to the ground like a bloodhound.
    I pulled out my cell phone and called Tony Rinaldi. “I’ve got some stuff for you,” I said. “Can you come by my office sometime?”
    â€œHow about around lunchtime? We can eat at one of those phenomenal lunch trucks you’ve got up at the college.” A flotilla of lunch trucks were usually parked out on Main Street just beyond the college gates. When I was an undergrad, they had specialized in the kind of greasy foods college kids love to eat-- under-cheesed pizza that melts through thin paper plates, overcooked hamburgers disintegrating day-old buns, French fries encrusted with salt, and hot dogs made with every variety of meat substitute known to man.
    Nowadays there was a kebab truck as well as a vegan offering. But the quality was pretty much the same as it always had been.
    â€œI’m sensing some sarcasm in your voice,” I said. “Sadly, the lunch trucks go on vacation whenever the students do. Neither the trucks nor the students will be back until Monday.”
    â€œFine, I’ll meet you at the Hungry Horse at noon.”
    I hung up. The Hungry Horse was only one step up from the lunch trucks, a venerable institution that hadn’t changed its menu (except to update prices) or its décor since I was a student.
    Rochester’s bladder was finally empty and we returned home. Within a half hour we were back up at the college. I spent the a couple of hours sending out press kits, answering phone calls and trying to tell people that Joe’s murder had nothing to do with Eastern.
    Then I went over each newspaper article about the past evening’s events, highlighting the good things that were said about the college. And then, because I couldn’t resist, I went over my own movements again and again, and tried to reconstruct Joe’s. I even drew a diagram of Fields Hall and tracked my movements against his.
    Around eleven o’clock Sally came into my office. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “What do you think Joe was doing outside? He might have gone out there to meet someone. But I know he also got claustrophobic sometimes, and he might have gone outside just to get some fresh air.”
    â€œAnd the killer followed him.” I pulled out the guest list. “I was thinking we could cross-reference this list to the rejected applicants.” Sally read the names we had found off to me – but there wasn’t a single match.
    â€œSo much for that idea,” she said. She looked at me. “Do think we could have done anything at the party to protect Joe? Put a guard in the garden? Made people walk through a metal detector?”
    â€œI don’t think