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

New developments had taken the place of farms, and wooded fields had been replaced by shopping centers. The 18 th -century stone farmhouses had been renovated and locked behind high, wrought-iron gates, and many of the stop signs had been replaced by traffic lights.
    But the old country roads still existed, though many had been upgraded and expanded, and I found my way to Rita’s farm with only a single wrong turn. Rochester and I arrived a few minutes early, and instead of seeing Rick’s cruiser I noted that a beat-up pickup was pulled up next to the barn.
    As I stepped out of the car, I heard a cacophony of barking. Then a grizzled older man with a smashed-in nose stepped out of the barn with a rifle over his shoulder.
    “This is private property,” he said. “Get out now before I shoot your ass.”

9 – Roofing
     
    Rochester started jumping around and barking inside the car. I held my hands up in front of me. “Hold on. I’m meeting Sergeant Stemper from the Stewart’s Crossing police. He should be here any minute.”
    “For what purpose?”
    “He’s investigating Rita Gaines’ death. I brought up my dog to help him look around.”
    I pointed to the car, where Rochester had stopped barking, but had his front paws up on the dashboard and was watching us closely.
    “That’s all right then,” the old man said. “Don Kashane.”
    For a minute I thought he had switched to German, but then I realized that was his name.
    “I live down the road. I stopped by to make sure the dogs were all fed and exercised, and hose down the barn.”
    He looked like he’d stepped out of Green Acres or some other parody of farm life, wearing a pair of denim overalls and a plaid, long-sleeved shirt, with a white undershirt poking out at the neck.
    “Steve Levitan.” I shook his hand, then nodded toward the car. “Mind if I let my dog off his leash to run around?”
    “Go right ahead. Long as he won’t run down the driveway to the street.”
    “No, he’s pretty smart about cars.” I unhooked Rochester’s leash and he took off toward a tall maple next to Rita’s garage.
    “I’ve still got to feed the older pups,” Don said. “You can come with me if you want.”
    No wonder the dogs were barking; they were hungry. I hoped Rochester wouldn’t decide to chow down on whatever Don was putting out.
    Don started toward the barn and I followed. “You known Rita a long time?”
    “Ten years. When she bought this place it was a real shit hole. She fixed it up nice. Hope the next people take as good care of the land.”
    “She get along with most of the neighbors?”
    He laughed hoarsely as we reached the barn door. Rochester was nosing around under the big maple, intent on some scent. “Rita pissed off most everybody she ever met,” he said. “I have the same effect on people, so we hit it off fine.”
    I wondered who he’d pissed off to smash his nose in but didn’t ask.
    “Neighbors over that way are city people,” he said, motioning down a slight rise to an impressive stone mansion a few hundred yards away. “Always complaining about the smell and the noise from the dogs.”
    The yipping and yelping from the tiny dogs reached a new crescendo as Don and I walked into the barn. I could only imagine how it would be to live nearby. I’d have a perpetual migraine.
    I was struck once again by the strong doggy smell, even though I could see the place was clean. In the first of the converted horse stalls, four tiny dachshund puppies, who couldn’t have been more than a week or two old, sucked at their mother’s teats. Their eyes were squeezed shut and they looked like little piglets.
    “Then there’s Hugo Furst,” Don said, pulling a big bag of dog chow down from a shelf. He carried it to a double-wide stall where the older and more independent puppies had been placed. “He’s got the property between me and Rita. A little bitty stream runs between them, and he says she polluted it with runoff from the dog shit