A Shot in the Bark: A Dog Park Mystery

Friday, July 22

Note: Please view the above video after finishing this chapter.

The canvas of rich corals and greens was propped inside his screen door. The note read, "Dinner at 8? My place?" Peter smiled. The painting of the cactus flower reminded him of Lia, her guarded attitude and her vulnerability. Did she realize she'd given him a self-portrait? He carried it in and punched her number one-handed on his phone while Viola danced around him.

"Peter!"

"I got your very attractive invitation," he said as he held the painting against the wall, visualizing how it would look over the sofa. He rejected the spot, wanting a place where he would see it while he was sitting around.

"And?"

"Must I wait until eight?" He walked over to the opposite wall and propped it up on the book case, then bent down, ruffling Viola's fur. She licked his nose.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Depends. What are you going to feed me?"

"Liver."

"Ugh. Make it ten. Better yet, let me send over Viola instead. She loves liver."

"It would serve you right. It's a surprise."

"Promise it's not liver."

"I'm not making any promises, but you can bring dessert."

He followed a familiar, pulsing music and the scent of wood smoke to her backyard. Lia stood over the grill, poking at coals. Honey and Chewy were stationed nearby, tracking Lia's every move and drooling like Pavlov's dogs. Peter took a moment to enjoy Lia's fluid movements as she arranged a pair of baking potatoes and lowered the hood of the grill. Viola whimpered, straining at her leash. Lia turned at the sound.

"Hey, Detective Peter. Come in and have a beer."

"Hey, yourself." He opened the gate and unclipped Viola so she could join the other dogs, then set a bakery box down on the table. He grabbed a Grolsch swing-top from the ice chest and took a long pull while he studied Lia. He was feeling wary, but hopeful. She looked subdued and a bit tired. He noticed that instead of her usual T-shirt and paint smeared cut-offs, she wore a lavender tank top and purple paisley Bermuda shorts. Her hair was loose, and it curtained her face as she turned. "How have you been?"

"I'm doing better. This whole summer has been one bombshell after another. That business with Bailey was the worst, worse than finding Luthor, even."

"You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

She gave a wan smile, "Grilling's easy as it gets. Anyway, cooking is therapeutic. Hang on a minute while I pull some things out of the fridge."

"Need a hand? I've got two."

"Sure, why not?"

He followed her into the kitchen, which was warm and smelled of yeast. "Fresh bread?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Punching dough is very satisfying." She handed him a bowl of Romaine and tomato wedges topped with a blackish paste. Peter looked at it and wondered if this was a bad sign. "My therapist thinks baking bread is a good outlet for my aggressions. Almost as good as working clay, but I'm not set up for that."

"I didn't know you had a therapist."

She's new. Like I said, it's been a rough summer." She pulled a plate out of the fridge and gestured to the door. "Shall we have some eats?"

He eyed the bowl suspiciously. "I'm not one to look a gift meal in the mouth, but what is this stuff?"

"What it is, is delicious. That's tapenade. It's a puree of olives and spices. If you don't like it, you can give all of yours to me. But I never took you for a culinary coward."