Free Dog Helps Those (Golden Retriever Mysteries) by Neil S. Plakcy Page A

that dorm I maintained a friendship through all four years, which meant I saw a lot of football games as an undergraduate. I remembered those fall Saturdays well—the crisp autumn afternoons, the cheers I knew by heart, the camaraderie of my fellow students.
    A soccer field stood next to the stadium, bracketed on two sides by bleachers like the ones at my high school. Beyond it was a big grassy lot where students played pickup games of football, baseball and volleyball, and right next to that was one of the big student parking lots.
    I wandered around for a while, then returned to my office, where I sent an email to President Babson updating him on the status of the investigation into Rita Gaines’s death—I didn’t have much to report, but at least the papers hadn’t figured out it was a murder, or that Felae Popescu was a suspect. I was considering what else I had to do that day when Lou Segusi rapped on the door jamb of my office. Rochester woofed once in greeting, but didn’t get up.
    “Hey, Prof, got a minute?”
    “Sure, Lou, come on in.”
    He wore an Eastern hoodie and jeans, and slouched in the spindle-backed chair across from my desk. “What’s the problem you wanted to talk about yesterday?” I asked.
    “Well, it’s not my problem, really. It’s this other guy’s.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “No, really, it’s his. He works for the help desk.”
    “Oh, God. Not with Verri M. Parshall. That must be a nightmare.”
    “Yeah, that’s kind of his problem.”
    I remembered dealing with Lou earlier in the term, when he was having his own troubles, and how difficult it was to pull information out of him. “And?”
    “It’s really stressing him out, and he’s falling behind in his assignments, which is why he came to the Writing Lab,” Lou said. “It’s not that he can’t write, he just can’t focus with all this crap going on.”
    “I’m not following you, Lou. And it’s getting late, and I’ve got a meeting tonight.”
    “Oh, like AA or something?”
    I cocked my head and looked at him. “Are you completely nuts? Whatever meeting I have is none of your business.” I flashed on big-mouthed Lou telling all his friends that his Prof was in Alcoholics Anonymous and hurried to add, “Although to be clear I don’t belong to any twelve-step program.”
    “Sorry, my bad. Anyway, this guy Dustin. He doesn’t know what to do. But I told him you were cool and totally tuned in to the administration, and you had helped me.”
    “Lou, I still don’t understand what Dustin’s problem is.”
    “I’ll let him explain it. Can I have him come by here tomorrow?”
    I looked at my watch. It was time for me to leave for Rita’s farm so I had to get Lou out of my office. “Sure. I’ll be here.”
    “Very cool. Thanks, Prof!”
    He jumped up and hurried out, showing more animation than I’d seen in a while. I shook my head. I had no idea what Dustin’s problem was, but hopefully he’d be easier to talk to than Lou.
    I loaded Rochester into my old BMW sedan, but instead of driving down to the Delaware and taking River Road south, I headed out a long, winding road I knew would take us close to Rita’s farm. He leaned out the window, sniffing the fresh air and occasionally woofing at something we passed.
    When I was in high school, I was active in a lot of clubs—the newspaper, the literary magazine, and the miniature golf team. At least a couple of days a week I had to take the late bus home.
    Our regular school bus made the trip from Stewart’s Crossing to the high school in about twenty minutes. Our driver picked up kids from our neighborhood, The Lakes, then got on the highway that went to Levittown. But the late bus ranged a lot farther, taking curving country lanes lined with farms and fields. By the time I got my driver’s license I knew most of the back roads and where they went.
    When I returned to Stewart’s Crossing after nearly twenty years away, I found the landscape had changed a lot.