Free Dogs Don't Lie by Clea Simon Page B

chair, all plywood and tubing, for me. I had a flash thought that it would be easy to kick out from under someone. The smile got stiffer, but I nodded as if he’d offered me a gracious invitation and sat down.
    “Why shouldn’t I be happy? It’s a lovely morning.” The scent drew me to a stained mug on his desk. I forced my eyes away. I’d had my morning dose. If his game was not to offer, I’d be damned if I’d ask.
    “You want some coffee?” He’d seen me, but I tried to turn it around.
    “Thank you, yes.” I worked at keeping it natural. Leaned back in the flimsy chair and crossed my legs. “Black’s fine.”
    Without comment, he left the room. But before I could read any of the papers on his desk he was back, a Beauville Chamber of Commerce mug slopping over with joe that smelled as rancid as the room. I accepted it with a smile, as gracious as a duchess, and waited for him to begin. And waited. That was another of Tom’s tricks. Silence. Hold it long enough and most people start to talk. If that was this guy’s idea, he’d ruined it with the coffee. It might taste like the pot it had been burned in, but simply cradling the hot china made me as mellow as Wallis in the sun. I pretended to take a sip and smiled some more, trying to remember just which flower had that same shade of blue. Finally he broke.
    “Charles Harris.” He pulled a folder out of one of the desk drawers and opened it. “You were his dog trainer?”
    “In effect, yes. I’m not yet certified, but I’ve trained as an animal behaviorist, and so, yes, I was working with Charles and his dog.” Watch it, I warned myself. Keep it short and factual.
    “And you were the first on the scene Wednesday morning.” I nodded. He knew all this. “Why don’t you walk me through the events of that morning.”
    I tried to resist the urge to sigh. This was all in the report, already typed up in that folder on his desk. I didn’t know if he thought I’d change my story. Despite the sweater, I didn’t think he’d choose my company. So I kept it sweet and brief: Weekly routine. Doorbell, lock, greeting. My slight confusion at Lily’s barking—I wasn’t going to say her panic—and then the shock of seeing Charles, his throat torn open, in his own living room.
    The young cop was silent through all this, and despite myself I found my thoughts going back to that room, to that morning. Something had been very off. The crate being open, that was part of it. The dead body on the floor, for sure. And something else.
    “Did you get a sense of anyone else in the house?”
    I looked up, startled, unaware that I’d spoken out loud. But any fears I had about Creighton’s clairvoyance faded as he continued with what sounded like routine questions.
    “Was Charles in the habit of having guests over during your lessons?”
    “No.” My mind jumped back to the night before. Someone else had a set of keys, but there was no way I could tell this cop that. Not without explaining why I’d been there in the first place. Meanwhile, he was watching me. Waiting. “We had our sessions alone.”
    He raised his eyebrows, waiting for me to continue. With a small sigh, I complied. “We were working on trust issues.” Before Creighton could say anything, I filled in the blanks. “The dog had been badly abused before Charles rescued her. It’s important to establish a strong bond between the owner and animal before anything else. We were working on that.” Too late, I realized that what I’d said could sound bad for Lily. “She was working on trusting other people, but she loved Charles. She owed him her life.”
    Creighton remained silent, but his face said it all. He thought I was anthropomorphizing, crediting Lily with gratitude I thought she should feel. Now I wish I had pushed the socializing, introduced some other people into her training. Gotten another witness to her devotion. Unless…
    “Was Charles’ girlfriend saying she was there Tuesday