Tom wrapped his hand around mine and gave it a little squeeze, making me wonder, not for the first time, which came first, the astute people-watching skills or the anthropological training.
“She looks great.” I was startled by the whiny little edge in my voice.
“She does,” he agreed, and the sprig in my heart morphed into a sequoia of jealousy that I knew was stupid, and yet, there it was, until he said, “Then again, a bit young and skinny. And there’s not nearly enough dog hair on her duds.” He pulled me back from the door, pushed it shut, wrapped his arms around me, and kissed me silly. When all rational thoughts were cleared from my head, he slid his cheek along mine and said, “Maybe we should make ourselves comfortable.”
“Mmmmm.” We turned away from the door and stepped over the dogs, who had crawled closer for a better view. Drake slapped his tail against the cool vinyl and Jay waved a lazy white paw our way, then they both sighed and went back to dozing. Tom draped his arm over my shoulder and steered us to the living room couch, where we were beginning to get serious when a knock on the back door launched the dogs off the floor and turned our heads toward the kitchen. The door swung open and a plate of cookies barged through, followed by Goldie, her long braids like liquid silver against the fuschia caftan and her smile like the sunshine for which she had named herself. A pang of guilt hit me for having let my hormones keep me from asking Tom what he knew about her health, and now that would have to wait again.
“You have to come eat these,” she called from the kitchen, seemingly oblivious to the passion play underway in the living room. “I don’t know why I baked so many. If I eat them all myself I’ll be a blimp.”
Tom pulled himself off me and then pulled me off the couch. We both refastened and tucked in clothing as we followed our noses to the kitchen. Jay and Drake were already standing by the counter, muzzles aimed toward the plate of cookies that Goldie was uncovering. They were having an olfactory orgy this evening.
“I just heard from my source at the county building. That preacher, that Regal Moneypincher …”
Tom choked on his cookie and I said, “Regis Moneypenny.”
“That’s the one. He’s buying up land all around Cedar Canyons Road and plans to put up some kind of commune or something.” Goldie used the back of her wrist to wipe a stray curl from her forehead. “Not my kind of commune, you know. We worked and shared and had barely a pot to, well, cook in. No sir, he’s planning some kind of walled, gated, gotta-have-a-lotta-money place.”
“Sounds like most of the new developments around here,” said Tom, grabbing another cookie. “These are great. What are they?”
“What do you mean, …” I began.
“Lavender and white chocolate.”
“… your ‘source’ at the county …,” I stopped as Goldie’s words sank in. “Lavender and white chocolate?” I reached for one. “Really?”
“He’s going to ruin that beautiful land up there.”
Tom nodded and said something like “Rmftt” through a mouthful of cookie.
“What kind of source, Goldie?”
“Secret.”
I flashed on an image of Goldie meeting a guy in a trench coat in the shadowy concrete parking canyon of the City-County Building. “Who?”
Goldie looked over the top of her glasses at me. “What kind of secret would it be if I told you who?”
“She could,” Tom said, elbowing me and winking at Goldie, “ but then she’d have to kill you.”
Goldie pulled a chair out from the table and sat down with a huge sigh. “It’s no laughing matter. Those little lakes and the fallow fields up there are on the migratory flyways for birds and butterflies both, and besides, how could anyone want to bulldoze and pave that lovely part of the county?”
“We were just out there,” said Tom. “Didn’t see any new development going in.”
“No, he’s just applied for the permits. My secret source,” she stressed the word and looked at me, “said there were all kinds of things on the building list. Not just houses. Weird things.”
“It is a spiritual center of some sort. Maybe they need another church?” I envisioned the palatial building they had now and thought it seemed doubtful, if obvious.
“Ladies,” Tom said, “I’m going to call it a night. I have to work on a paper in the morning, and Janet, you’re out early, too, right?” He pulled a plastic bag out of a box on the counter and shoved several cookies into it. “So I shall gallantly protect you from these calories, and ride off with my faithful dog.” He gave me a quick kiss, whispered “I think she’s here for a while,” and left.
I tried to listen closely to Goldie, but couldn’t keep my thoughts from wandering. If Moneypenny was planning to develop the area around his spiritual center, there would be more people than Goldie eager to stop him. Especially if he was planning to build “weird things,” whatever that meant.
“What do you mean by ‘weird things,’ Goldie?” I asked.
“An aviary, for one. Big one.”
That didn’t seem too weird to me, although I wasn’t sure how it fit into a Spiritual Renewal Center. If there was something odd about his proposed buildings, though, could there be a connection between his plans and the bloody bag Drake had found? I didn’t care what anyone said, I was sure the stain on the bag was blood, and the thought of what that might mean made my stomach turn. I set my half-eaten cookie on a napkin and put the kettle back on. I could tell that Tom was right, Goldie did seem to be good for at least another hour. Still, it wasn’t even ten. I realized that I was disappointed that Tom had left, and a little angry at both Tom and Goldie. What were they hiding from me? And what in the world was going on at Twisted Lake and Treasures on Earth? I was suddenly determined to find out, with or without their help.
eight
The next morning I was out the door early despite the fog in my brain from lack of sleep. Goldie had stayed until nearly midnight. I tried several times to steer the conversation to her health, but she was on a roll about land-raping developers and crazy cult leaders, and she dismissed my concerns about her with a cheery, “Bah! I’m fine, Janet!” By the time she left and I’d showered, taken Jay out one last time, and locked up, it was nearly one a.m. Even then I tossed and turned for at least another hour, pondering the meaning of Drake’s bag and its contents, Goldie’s evasiveness, and the likelihood that I would oversleep.
I didn’t. I woke up about two minutes before my alarm was set to go off and dragged myself out of bed. A prominent women’s magazine had commissioned a photo essay on a day in the life of a woman veterinarian, and I was scheduled to spend every day that week traipsing around my vet’s clinic with my camera. It’s a two-vet office. Jay and Leo usually see Paul Douglas, but I would be shadowing his partner and, as it happens, his wife, Kerry Joiner. Dr. Kerry Joiner had officially linked up with Dr. Paul Douglas, in business and in life, a couple of years earlier. I knew her mostly from dog-training classes and dog shows. She was perfect for the magazine article—five years out of Purdue vet school, petite and perky as the Pomeranian she owned, strong enough to hoist a hundred pounds of dog onto an exam table, and lots of fun to be around.
The clinic was in turmoil when I arrived. The lobby, at any rate. One of the two veterinary technicians had called the week before from Key West and announced that she wasn’t coming back. The other called in sick half an hour before I arrived, and the second receptionist wasn’t due until nine o’clock. Peg, the office manager, was scurrying between the clamor of Monday-morning phones and the chaos of Monday-morning clients. This particular Monday morning was deafening, and as I walked by the front desk I heard Peg mutter something about sedatives.
I spotted my across-the-street neighbors, Mr. Hostetler and Paco, the Chihuahua, at the far end of the waiting room. Mr. Hostetler’s five-year-old grandson, Tyler, was leaning into his grandpa and gently stroking Paco. I waved as I asked Peg, “What can I do?”
Peg turned grateful eyes my way and slap
ped a file folder into my hand. “Any chance you could escort the Willards to exam room one?”
I had the oddest vision of rats, and realized the name made me think of that old movie about a kid named Willard who sicced his trained rodent on his enemies. Turned out in this case we were faced not with a rat but a brat. I missed out on having children, not by design, but I have learned a few things from my years as a dog and cat owner. One thing I know for sure is that young animals have to be trained. All kinds of young animals, including the human ones. Lacking direction, some young animals do everything in their power to discourage their mothers—and anyone else within earshot—from ever reproducing again. The Willard child was one of those.
The Willard puppy was named Hummer. Big name, whopping big puppy. His file showed that Hummer weighed sixteen pounds at his last visit, when he was seven weeks old. Now, a month later, he had more than doubled in weight and had a surplus of puppy energy. Not that I’d expect less of a Golden Retriever crossed with Something Really Big. The shape of his head made me suspect Newfoundland in his lineage, and I considered suggesting water dog training to channel his enthusiasm. Then I really looked at Mrs. Willard and decided that mud and wet dogs were probably not her thing.
When Hummer heard me call his name, he spun toward the sound and leaped at me, yanking Mrs. Willard out of her seat. If he’d had better traction on the vinyl floor, his owner might have found herself skidding face-first behind him. Luckily for her, the pup’s cartoon scramble over the slick surface gave her a chance to get her strappy Ferragamos under her, and she clattered toward me, her arm pulled taut along with the leash that was, apparently, purely decorative. The rest of the clients in the waiting room hugged their pets or pet carriers close.
“Hummer, stop that!” pleaded Mrs. Willard. Hummer planted his humongous feet against my waist and pasted a fist-sized glob of sticky drool to the smock I’d borrowed from the missing techs.
I was wondering how we might set up a photo of a slobbered-up vet for my photo essay when a high-pitched scalpel of a voice began to chant, “Hummer, stop that! Hummer, stop that! Hummer, stop that!” The owner of the voice jumped up and down on chubby pink-clad legs a couple of times, then grabbed the leash halfway between her mother and Hummer and pulled with all her four-year-old might.
Hummer spun away from me, circled the screeching kid, and wrapped his leash twice around her ribs before you could shout, “Down! Stay!”
“Tiffany dear, please be quiet.” Mrs. Willard was remarkably calm.
Tiffany dear was remarkably loud, and she raised the volume when Hummer gave her face a good slurp. “Aaaaaaa! Bad dog! Bad dog!”
Pandemonium broke out in the back room as a chorus of barking and howling mingled with Tiffany’s racket. A couple of dogs in the waiting room joined in. Paco started a staccato series of barks but was quickly stifled by Mr. Hostetler’s hand around his muzzle, a motion mirrored by Tyler, who had clapped his hand over his own mouth and widened his eyes. A dainty little Border Collie whined and strained against her leash, hot to organize the unruly mob. Hummer bounced up and down against the howling kid, woof-woofing and mouthing bits of clothing. Mrs. Willard reached for Hummer’s collar, then snatched her hand back with a gasp and looked at it.
“Did he bite you?” I asked. I didn’t think the big galoot would do it on purpose, but those needles they call baby teeth can cause some damage if you get in the way.
“I broke a nail! Awww, I just had them done!” She held her hand in front of her eyes, a pout wrinkling the otherwise perfect skin around her mouth. I never have any nails to break, so the apparent depth of the tragedy was lost on me.
I wanted to chime in with the screamers. Instead, I tossed the file folder onto the counter and said, “Let me help.” I got the back of Hummer’s collar in my left hand and put my right hand on Tiffany’s chubby little shoulder. “Quiet!” Child and dog both froze and stared at me. I unhooked the leash from Hummer’s collar and unwound it from Tiffany, then put it back on the dog. Tiffany burst into tears and resumed screaming, but at least the puppy was under a semblance of control. I told Mrs. Willard to bring the folder and follow me. As I led the unruly horde down the hall, applause broke out in the waiting room. My debut as a veterinary assistant was off to a rip-roaring start.
nine
As any experienced dog breeder will tell you, not all females are endowed with a full set of mothering instincts. Judging by Tiffany dear’s too-well-fed form and too-expensive-for-kids couture, I could see that Mrs. Willard was at the head of the line marked “Instincts for Feeding and Clothing the Young.” Judging by Tiffany’s exquisite brattiness, I assumed that Mrs. Willard had skipped the line marked “Managing Unruly Offspring.” Perhaps she relied on other people to do it for her.
I have no burning desire to manage anyone’s children, but Tiffany dear forced my hand. She leaned one dimpled hand of her own on the seat of the bench in the exam room and swung one pink-stockinged foot back and forth, peering at me from the corner of her eye. Each forward swing of her leg brought the toe of her shoe a little closer to Hummer’s head. The puppy was lying down and panting happily, and I wanted him to stay that way until Dr. Joiner arrived. A shoe to the ear wouldn’t help.
“Careful you don’t kick your puppy.” I forced myself to smile.
Tiffany dear stuck her tongue out at me. Her mom giggled and squirmed in her seat. She reached out to stroke her daughter’s curly brown hair, but the kid dodged her hand, so Mrs. Willard scratched Hummer’s head instead. A glint below her throat caught my eye, and I looked at the pendant hanging from a delicate chain. It looked like a cross with half a heart hanging from one side, and although I thought I had seen something like it before, I couldn’t think where.
My attempts to remember were cut short when Tiffany pointed at me and whined, “I don’t like that.” That? I thought. But the kid went on, “It looks like Polly and I hate Polly.” She stuck her lower lip out so far I thought she might trip over it.
“Well, that one is green, dear,” said Mrs. Willard, “and Polly is blue, so it doesn’t really look like Polly, does it?”
“I hate Polly!” Tiffany’s voice escalated in pitch and volume with every word. “I hate all the birds!”
I turned to see what in the world they were talking about. On the wall behind me was a painting of a green parrot of some sort. I turned back to Tiffany, smiled at her, and said, “I think that’s a very pretty bird. Why don’t you like it?”
Without a word, Tiffany popped off the seat and danced a pirouette. As she turned toward the wall behind her, the poster of “Cats of the World” caught her eye. She scrambled onto the bench and ripped a ragged triangle from the bottom third of the poster.
Mrs. Willard turned her head toward her daughter, and said, “Tiffany dear, please don’t do that. Be good and we’ll stop for ice cream on the way home.”
Just what this kid needs, I thought. Calories and sugar to reinforce her bad behavior.
Tiffany’s hand started to reach once more for the wounded poster, but Mrs. Willard didn’t move. I suppose she was in nail-preservation mode. With reflexes honed by years of handling unwilling and untrained animals, I took hold of the little dear just above her elbow and, with marvelous restraint, pulled her gently around and sat her down on the bench. “Please sit down, Tiffany.” I tried to keep the snarl out of my voice. “That bench is pretty slippery. You might fall off and hurt yourself.” She glared at me, glanced at her mother, and started to cry. The kid deserved an academy award. I kept the smile pasted to my face and left the room.
Dr. Joiner was squatting in front of a large cage watching a newborn tan-and-white Bulldog nestle against his mother’s warm belly. Agnes, the mama dog, didn’t seem to mind that her puppy’s shoulder was firmly planted against her stitched-up incision. She had taken to her new son immediately, not always the case with caesarian deliveries, and she looked immensely pleased with her offspring.
“Who or what was carrying on out the
re?”
“The Willard kid.”
Dr. Joiner stood, her face scrunching up with obvious dread. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me they’re here for me?” I nodded. She slumped against the door frame and whined, “Why can’t she see Paul instead?” She was still muttering as she stalked down the hall toward the room. I thought of retrieving my camera but decided to wait for more appealing subjects than the Willards for my photo shoot.
“They are really weird,” said Dr. Kerry.
“Who?”
“Willards.” She stopped, took my arm, and leaned in so I could hear her lowered voice. “Money out the yin yang, and apparently nothing to do with it except buy expensive stuff.” She released my arm. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be gossiping about clients.”
“Mum’s the word.”
“I love their pup. He’s such a big sweet galoot. She told me they paid $1,800 for him.”
“But he’s a mixed breed.”
“Right. But they were sold a bill of goods along with him. Golden by Newfie cross labeled ‘Goldenlander.’ Can you believe it? Even came with papers from some fly-by-night registry. No health clearances on the parents, of course.”
I understood her frustration, having spoken to many pet owners, and said, “People think if you cross different breeds you automatically get healthier dogs.”
Dr. Joiner shook her head and muttered, “So gullible.”
We rolled our eyes at one another and walked the last few yards to the exam room door.
Hummer had restarted his engine and was bouncing around as wildly as he could manage in the three feet between the bench and the examination table. Dr. Joiner bent to pet him and Mrs. Willard told him over and over again to sit. He didn’t mind any better than her kid, but he hadn’t destroyed anything. Everyone in the room focused on the puppy. Everyone except Tiffany. She was somewhere behind me, and I was just turning to see what the little dear was up to when the metallic protest of a drawer being yanked open filled the room.
The Money Bird (An Animals in Focus Mystery) Page 3