♫Why do we never get an answer♫
♫When we're knocking at the door♫
♫A thousand million questions♫
♫About bad guys, food and more♫

♫It's not the way that you say it♫
♫When you do those things to me.♫
♫It's more the way that you mean it♫
♫When you tell me what will be♫

High Stakes

Chapter 3

    The blonde started in on her tale, which, to my credit, did sound vaguely familiar in parts. With my eyes closed, I was doing a much better job of absorbing facts and details. I’d have to remember that little trick. Morgan was busy scribbling down the pertinent facts, which were basically these: Miss Matches was a waitress at a respectable local restaurant. She and one of her fellow waitresses suspected that the establishment was on the fast track to becoming somewhat less respectable. Apparently the coworker, a friend named Samantha, had stumbled onto some suspicious documents in the office of the restaurant’s owner.
    “Tell me about your friend Samantha,” I interrupted. I like to get a mental picture of all of the parties involved in any investigation. It helps me with questioning later on: dogs tend to trust you more quickly if you already know a little something about them. I prefer to know more than a little. “What is she like?”
    “Um…well, she’s a good friend of mine,” Miss Matches looked perplexed by my line of questioning. “She couldn’t possibly be involved in a bad way.”
    “Not at all what I was insinuating,” I assured her. “Go on.”
    “She’s been a waitress longer than I have. Maybe three or four years. I’ve only been working there for a year, and it’s my first job. Samantha’s really good at it; she taught me all the tricks for getting good tips.”
    “What does she look like?” I asked. I thought I heard a small snort from the side of the room where Morgan was still busy writing notes. I glanced in her direction but she never stopped writing.
    “She’s a Cocker Spaniel,” Miss Matches replied.
    I sat up in my chair. “Really? Very interesting,” I said, taking a long moment to chew thoughtfully on my rawhide stick.
    “It is? Why?” Miss Matches now appeared to be thoroughly confused, looking back and forth at Morgan and me as though she were watching a ping pong game. Morgan resolutely continued writing.
    “A little idea of mine,” I answered vaguely. “Tell me about her ears.”
    This time there was a distinct cough from Morgan’s side of the room. I looked at her sharply, but she avoided my gaze and appeared to be inspecting her manicure. Morgan, in spite of her many useful talents, was often suspicious of my questioning methods. No more so than one might expect from any untrained observer, although perhaps more vocal about it than was strictly necessary. “Can I get you a drink of water?” I asked icily. She shook her head and I asked again, “What are her ears like?”
    “Well, they’re quite long, with wavy light brown fur,” Miss Matches offered, looking no less confused.
    “I see,” I said, and closed my eyes again, gnawing my rawhide.
    After several moments of silence, Morgan asked, “What kind of documents did she find?” I have never known Morgan to be subtle with her questioning. I sighed and waited for the response. It could potentially prove useful.
    “Newspaper clippings, mostly, and some orders for supplies. Nothing much by itself, but when I saw the owner talking to those suspicious-looking dogs, Samantha and I started to worry.”
    “Did you hear any of their conversation?” I asked.
    “Not the first few times I saw them. But they’ve met several times since then and I’m sure I heard them making plans for something. They always get quiet when I come around, so I only get bits and pieces.”
    “Tell us what you heard,” I encouraged her.
    “The newspaper clippings were about that big festival coming up. The restaurant is a sponsor, so we’ve been working really hard to prepare. At first I thought maybe the meetings were with the festival planning committee or something. But these guys didn’t look very professional. Pretty scruffy, if you don’t mind me saying so.” She paused, and seemed to be undecided about something. Finally she said, “Do you want to know what their ears look like?”
    Morgan let out a convulsive noise that nearly unseated her. She regained her composure and resumed her note-taking. “No,” I said. “We can get to that later.”
    “Okay,” Miss Matches seemed more at ease. “I’m just sure they’re up to no good. I heard them say that they could intercept something, and I heard them laughing about how much money they could make. Mr. Lyle, I don’t want to lose my job. And I don’t want anything bad to happen at the restaurant. My boyfriend is a chef and I don’t want him to get hurt.”
    “Not to worry, Miss Matches. Lyle P. is on your case.”