I was amazed at how well Rob took Spike’s mono-maniacal urge to bite and channeled it into a really cute routine. Cute even to me, and I knew all too well how close Rob was to losing those fingers Spike found so irresistible. As the music built to its final crescendo of guitars and drums, Rob even went down briefly on one knee, leading me to cover my eyes and hope he was smart enough to be wearing a hockey protector.

“Bravo!” came a voice. A spry-looking older woman with a mop of unruly salt-and-pepper curls came into view, applauding vigorously. “You’ve worked wonders with him! You’re definitely ready for the contest.”

Rob grinned, and Spike stood graciously accepting her praise, as if he’d done something really clever instead of spending the last five minutes attempting mayhem.

I actually had to remind myself that I was spying and probably shouldn’t join in the ovation. Their performance was a tour de force. Rob must have been working on it all summer. No wonder Jack Ransom and the guys at the office had been so undisturbed.

But why all the secrecy? And why was the fake bird-watcher tailing Rob? And speaking of the fake bird-watcher—where was he?

I stepped away from the window and circled around a bit. Toward the back of the barn I heard smothered laughter.

The fake bird-watcher was standing outside another of the windows, with one hand over his mouth and the other clutched to his stomach, shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Bit off the beaten path for bird-watching,” I said.

He stopped laughing, and I suddenly found myself staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Don’t make a sound,” he said, suddenly serious. “And put your hands in the air. What are you doing here?”

I put my hands in the air. Inside the barn, the opening bars of Bruce Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark” began playing.

“I asked, what you were doing here,” he repeated.

“You also said don’t make a sound,” I said. “I was trying to figure out if you expected me to mime my answer. I’ll need to put my hands down to do that.”

He didn’t look amused. Over his shoulder, in the barn, I could see that the gray-haired woman was doing a spirited dance routine with two enormous gray poodles.

“I followed you to see why you were following my brother,” I said. “What are you, a rival canine choreographer?”

“Hmph.” He glanced over his shoulder at the canine acrobatics inside, shook his head slightly, and focused back on me. “You’ll have to come with me.”

“I don’t think so,” a voice said from behind me. “Drop the gun.”

I turned slightly to find Freddy Hamilton holding a gun of his own.

“I said drop it,” Freddy repeated. “And put your hands in the air.”

The fake bird-watcher dropped the gun and raised his hands. I wasn’t sure whether I’d been rescued or had only gone from frying pan to fire. I kept my hands up, just in case.