Page 6 of Death on Gallows Path

Behind that woman, a man with a young goldendoodle followed, awkwardly avoiding the Berrie-and-Bostons blockade.

That man and woman circled well into the open area to meet up with the couple and dog from the right. As they did, the man from the right with the leash choke hold and the booted woman from the left exchanged a look.

If it had lasted longer, it might have set a loud, certain chord clanging in my spidey sense. As it was, it hit a solitary note of suspicion.

When I looked to my left, I found Clara looking at me, clearly having heard the same note.

“Oh!” came a squeak from across the space. The black-booted woman from the left seemed to stumble, reaching toward the man from the right — not the man she’d walked in with.

“Give me your hand,” she cooed.

“You’re fine,” he said shortly and moved on.

I sent another look toward Clara, but she was watching the two couples.

Past Clara, I saw the gray-haired man with his little dog, at the center of the short wall to the left. The dog stood in stiff alert, focused up at her owner. The man appeared frozen in contemplation of the tableau at the entryway.

The two couples and their dogs went to the left of the entryway, taking seats in the remaining gap that accommodated them while retaining an open space on either side of their group.

Leo gave a hard tug to Berrie’s coat, righting her. She complained, “Don’t drag my babies,” because the motion — combined with the Bostons lunging forward — tautened their leashes.

Securing his sainthood in my eyes, Leo said only, “Have a seat over there, Berrie, and let’s get started.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Leo walked to the center of the open area with a clipboard.

“Welcome to training. Let me make sure we’ve got you all registered and I have your dogs’ names correct.”

He started with the left-hand couple of the two who’d passed Berrie and the Bostons. The ones with the goldendoodle.

The woman said, “I’m Zoley Georger. Like Zoey—”

“With an ‘L’ in the middle,” inserted the other woman.

She smiled and the two men chuckled at what seemed to be an inside joke.

Zoley smiled, too, but it left doubt in my mind about whether she shared the amusement. On the other hand, her stiff expression might have been the result of injections.

If it hadn’t been for the look she’d exchanged with the other man — the one not her companion and presumably her husband — I probably wouldn’t have paid much attention to her.

I’m not drawn to her style.

She was overdressed and over made up in what Kit described as all gilt, no substance. Kit maintains she has never met a woman — or man, because they’re not immune to fillers, procedures, fake tans — displaying those externals who didn’t lack some or all of the vital internals for a trustworthy and admirable person.

I’ve yet to find an example that disproves Kit’s assessment, but that doesn’t mean there couldn’t possibly be one.

The male half of that left-hand couple wore khakis and a regulation shirt. Nothing flashy. He self-identified as Bryon Georger.

“And your dog?” Leo asked.

“Izzy,” the man said.

The female half of the couple — Zoley — jumped in, “Izolde, with a z. Not Izzy.”

Their goldendoodle excelled at cute.

On the other hand, Izolde wasn’t on the bed, which is where we’d been told to direct our dogs.