by Sue Grafton
The receptionist at the desk looked up at me as I came in. She was in her sixties. Her salt-and-pepper hair was heavy on the salt, shoulder length, and blunt cut. Her bifocals had beveled edges, with thin wire stems. The tops of the lenses were tinted blue and the bottoms tinted pink. I wondered how the world looked from her perspective. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m hoping you can give me some information.”
“I’ll try,” she said. Her smock was patterned with cats, every conceivable color combination, with real cat hair matted here and there. She looked like someone who’d carry a cat around while the office was closed for lunch. Belatedly, I noticed a small gray cat lying on her desk, curled in sleep like a hairy paperweight.
“I’m looking for the vet who used to own this facility.”
“Dr. McNally?”
“Exactly. Did you work for him, by chance?”
“No, but he cared for all my animals over the years. Two dogs and I can’t even tell you how many cats.”
“Do you have any idea how I can reach him?”
She hesitated. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I’ve got an odd little problem and this is what it is.” I recited my strange request without a hitch. I glossed over the surrounding circumstances, not wanting to raise a red flag with regard to Mary Claire Fitzhugh. I did explain Ulf, the buried dog, the tag, and the former owner, who knew nothing of the dog’s interment in Horton Ravine. “I’m hoping Dr. McNally can fill in the blanks.”
“It’s very possible and I’m sure he’d enjoy a visit. He’s at Valley Oaks. Number 17 Juniper Lane. Hang on a second and I’ll look up his phone number.” She opened the bottommost drawer on her right and took out a leather-bound address book that looked like it was meant for her personal use. “Do you want me to call and let him know you’ll be stopping by?”
“I’m not sure what my schedule is for the rest of the week, so it’s probably better not to call in advance. I don’t want him sitting around, thinking he’ll have company if I can’t get there for a day or two.”
“Understood,” she said. She made a note of his phone number and address, and passed it across the desk.
“Thank you so much. I really appreciate this.” I tucked the note in my bag.
Hesitantly, she said, “I don’t suppose you’re in the market for a cat. We have so many strays dropped at our door. Some are older and harder to place, but you have no idea how loving they are.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The Valley Oaks Senior Settlement had been established on an old estate in Montebello. I liked the word “settlement.” It suggested an encampment on the far reaches of life, where aging pioneers could find shelter and companionship. At the entrance a painted map-board showed a layout of the units, and I took a minute to locate Number 17 Juniper Lane. I drove through the gate at a crawl, obeying the sign that warned about the speed bumps that appeared every fifteen feet. The landscaping was beautifully maintained. Many of the old oaks had been left in place. Splitting off from the main thoroughfare, a series of winding roads disappeared in all directions, each marked with a discreet sign, indicating the name of the road and the unit numbers thereon. A few of the units I spotted had ramps to accommodate wheelchair users. Through the trees I could see an imposing structure, which I imagined was the original mansion converted now to public rooms where residents could visit, dine, or entertain.
Number 17 Juniper Lane was a cottage Hansel and Gretel would have liked, a snug stucco structure with a roof that looked like thatch. The front door was dark green, the shutters painted to match. A cluster of flowerpots took up one corner of the porch, all of them empty at the moment. On the drive over, as I rehearsed my approach, I’d decided not to mention my sketchy acquaintance with his son. I assumed Dr. McNally was aware of Walker’s legal problems and it wasn’t a topic that would be productive. Walker’s accident had nothing to do with my quest. I parked in a four-car inset between cottages.
I knocked and after a moment the door was opened by a man in his eighties. His hair was a thick gray, cropped short, and his bifocals had metal frames. I didn’t see any particular likeness to Walker, but then again, I hadn’t seen Walker in years, so the two might appear more similar than I knew. He had on a navy blue sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up and shorts that were creased across the lap. He wore slippers instead of shoes and socks, and his shins looked like soup bones sparsely dotted with hair.
“Dr. McNally?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry for the intrusion, but I’m hoping to pick up information about a dog you euthanized some years ago.”
He looked at me, waiting to see if I’d say more. “With what in mind? I don’t understand your purpose.”
“The dog was found buried on a property in Horton Ravine. This came to light last week and it’s been puzzling me. I used the dog’s tag to track down his owner in Puerto and he was as puzzled as I was. I realize it’s a long shot, but I’m hoping you can tell me how he ended up in Horton Ravine.”
“I see.” He thought about it briefly and then seemed to make up his mind. “Why don’t you come in? I’ve got a good head for animals, but I don’t remember much else. How many years ago was this?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Oh, my.”
He stepped back and I crossed the threshold into a foyer tiled in slate. He closed the door behind me and then led the way down a short hall toward the rear. I caught glimpses of a bedroom to my right and a book-lined study to my left. At the back of the cottage there was a great room with a seating area on one side and a kitchenette on the other. A small dining room table and two chairs were arranged against an oversized mullioned window that looked out on a patch of lawn. Everything was tidy. There was no sign of Mrs. McNally. I don’t know how women can complain about the lack of single guys in this world.
He sat in a plump upholstered chair and I took one end of the matching sofa. He put his hands on his knees and said, “Tell me more about what you need. I’m not entirely clear how to help.”
“This is the deal,” I said. “In the summer of 1967, a fellow brought his dog into your office. This was a wolfdog, named Ulf. I’m told you sedated him and took X-rays that showed an osteosarcoma. You recommended putting the dog down.”
Walter was nodding. “I remember. Young dog, maybe four or five years old.”
“Really? You remember him?”
“I couldn’t have told you his name, but I know the animal you’re referring to. He was the only wolfdog I ever had occasion to treat. You see more of the mix these days, but back then it was rare. As I recall, the fellow called a number of pet hospitals in the area and none of the other vets would agree to see him. Beautiful beast, absolutely magnificent. He had so much wolf in him, he looked like he’d just come loping out of the woods. He’d apparently been experiencing episodes of lameness that seemed to be getting worse.
“I thought about osteosarcoma the minute his owner mentioned the joint being so extremely tender. An X-ray confirmed my suspicions. A tumor of that sort doesn’t cross the joint space and invade other bones. It’s a gradual expansion in the joint where it’s found, destroying the bone from the inside out and causing excruciating pain. On the views I took, it looked like the bone had been eaten away. The dog couldn’t be saved. That’s the long and short of it. I knew the fellow was upset, but I gave him my best advice and that was to spare the animal further suffering.”
“The man’s name was P. F. Sanchez. The dog belonged to his deceased son.”
“I see. Well, that’s a sad situation that could pile misery upon misery. It’s hard enough having to put an animal down, regardless of the circumstances, but when the dog belongs to a child you’ve lost …” He let the sentence trail off.
“What would have happened to the dog after he was put down?”
“County animal control picked up the remains and disposed of them. We’d place the body in a canvas bag that we left in a storage she
d out back. This was a wooden contraption that could be opened from either side. I don’t know how things are handled these days. I believe with recent budget cuts, the county has discontinued the pickup service and it’s up to the individual veterinarian to deliver the remains to the animal control facility. Whatever the procedure, the animals are incinerated. That much is the same. I would have assumed that was Ulf’s fate until you told me otherwise.”
“Did the county make daily sweeps?”
He shook his head. “We called when we had a pickup and they’d be there by the end of the business day.”
“Did you ever have reason to bury the remains yourself?”
“No. I understand the desire to bury a pet in the backyard, but I wouldn’t have taken it upon myself. The animal wasn’t mine.”
“Would you know if the county kept a record of pickups?”
“There wouldn’t have been any reason to. We had a form the pet owner signed, giving permission for an animal to be euthanized. Sometimes the owner would ask us to return the ashes and sometimes animal control was asked to dispose of them. I can’t imagine why that would be subject to dispute.”
“No, no. There’s no dispute,” I said. “Sanchez told me he gave you authorization by phone.”
“I don’t remember his doing so, but that sounds right.”
“What about your records?”
“Those are gone. When I retired, some charts were forwarded to other vets on request and the rest I put in storage. I held everything ten years and then boxed up the lot and called a shredding company. It probably wasn’t necessary, but I didn’t like the idea of personal information going into the trash.”
“Can you think of any reason why Ulf wouldn’t have been picked up and cremated? Some special circumstance?”
McNally shook his head again. “That was the protocol.”
“Most people keep the ashes?”
“Some do and some don’t. What makes you ask?”
“I was just curious. I don’t own a pet so I have no idea how these things are done.”
“People get attached. Sometimes a dog or cat means more to you than your own flesh and blood.”
“I understand,” I said. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time.” I reached for my shoulder bag and found a business card before I got to my feet. “I’ll leave you this in case something else occurs to you.”
He rose at the same time, still talking as he walked me to the door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
“You gave me more than I expected. It’s frustrating, but I guess I’ll have to live with it.”
“What hangs in the balance? That’s what you ought to ask yourself.”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe nothing.”
“Don’t let it keep you awake nights. It’s bad for your health.”
“What about you? Do you sleep well?”
He smiled. “I do. I’ve been blessed. I had a wonderful family and work that I loved. I’m in excellent health and I have all my faculties about me, as far as I know,” he added wryly. “I managed to set aside enough money to enjoy my dotage so it’s a matter now of staying active. Some people aren’t as fortunate.”
“You’re a lucky man.”
“That I am.”
Getting in my car again, I wondered how lucky he’d feel when he heard about the trouble his son Walker was in. If he’d been informed, he gave no indication of it.
On my way back to the office I made a second trip to Mid-City Cat Clinic, this time turning into the alleyway behind the place. The name of each business was stenciled on the back door so it was easy to spot the shed Dr. McNally’d mentioned. I parked and got out, inspecting it at close range. It was smaller than the housing used for garbage cans, mounted on the wall to the right of the door. The wood construction was straightforward, with a simple metal hook that fit into a small metal eye. There was no other locking mechanism visible and no evidence there’d ever been one. There wasn’t even a hasp where a padlock or combination lock could have been inserted and secured. I pulled the wooden knob and the door opened with scarcely a sound. Except for dried leaves and spiderwebs, the interior was empty and didn’t appear to be in use. At the back of the shed, the door that had opened into the clinic in Dr. McNally’s day had been boarded over.
I studied the alley in both directions. Across the way I could see a series of private garages, with gated walkways leading into backyards, most of which were separated by fencing. This was a public thoroughfare, utilitarian in nature but accessible from either end. Anybody could have known about the pickups—pet hospital staff and clientele, animal control officers, neighbors, adjacent businesses, trash collectors, vagrants. Cleverly, I’d narrowed the field of corpse-napping suspects to a couple of hundred unknown individuals. The question still remained: why would someone steal a dead dog and transport it to Horton Ravine for burial?
Unless, as Sutton had suggested, the two men felt compelled to substitute Ulf’s remains for whatever, or whomever, they were in the process of burying when the six-year-old Sutton stumbled onto the scene. I’d dismissed the notion when he’d mentioned it, but now I reconsidered. An adult male wolfdog would have been far bigger than a four-year-old child, but since I didn’t have a way to determine what had actually happened, maybe it was time to approach the question from another point of view: not the motive for the dog’s removal and subsequent burial, but the choice of the spot. Why there and not somewhere else?
17
After lunch I drove to Horton Ravine, taking Via Juliana as far as the Y where Alita Lane branched off. I parked in front of Felix Holderman’s house, locked the car, and ambled up his driveway. To my right, at the far end of the house, the overhead doors were open on his three-car garage. A late-model sedan sat in the first bay and the other two had been converted into a workshop. Felix had his back to me but he sensed my presence. He looked up and lifted a hand to signal that he’d be with me momentarily, and then returned to the task in front of him. He wore dark blue denim overalls, a long-sleeve shirt, gloves, and goggles. In an open cabinet to one side, sheets of colored glass were stored vertically.
As I approached I could see that he was creating a stained-glass panel. On the workbench he’d laid out a design, a stylized pattern of trees, leaves, and branches against a white background. He’d cut paper templates for each section of the design, and these he’d glued to various pieces of glass. As I watched he ran a wheel glass cutter along the edge of one template. He’d already cut a number of sections, and I waited while he completed the straight line he was tracing. When he finished he tapped the glass and it broke neatly.
He lifted his goggles and pushed them up on his head.
I said, “Hi, Mr. Holderman. Sorry to interrupt your work.”
He peeled off his gloves and laid them on the work surface with a shake of his head. “Don’t worry about it. I was ready for a break. I get lost in this stuff and it’s good to come up for air now and then. You were the one who knocked on my door and asked to walk the hill. You should have told me what you were up to.”
“Sorry for the omission, but I didn’t think I’d succeed. I should have laid it out for you regardless.”
“I’ve blanked on your name.”
“Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Did the officers bring you up to speed?”
“After the fact. They seemed to think you were onto something.”
“I did, too, but I’ve been wrong before and such is life.” I peered at the section of stained glass he was working on. “You made the panels in your front door?”
“I did. This one’s a bit more complex, but I’m having a good time.”
“That’s the lead?”
He nodded. “It’s called came. These are U-shaped cross sections for the circumference and H-shaped for the middle of the design. Lead came is meant for two-dimensional panes. You want to do three dimensions, you use a copper foil technique.”
“What will you do with the window when it’s don
e?”
“Give it away. Just about everybody in my family’s had a window foisted off on ’em at some point. My daughter’s house looks like a church.” He smiled, showing dimples I hadn’t seen before. “What brings you back to the neighborhood?”
“I’m curious about the people who owned the property where the dog was buried. You mentioned the house changed hands twice. Did you know the previous owners?”
“Oh, sure. Patrick and Deborah Unruh. Nice folks. The dog wasn’t theirs, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I know. I’ve talked to the real owner and he has no idea how the dog ended up in someone else’s backyard. There’s probably a simple explanation.”
“That whole section of the hill was overgrown back then. Maybe whoever buried the dog didn’t realize it was private property.”
“Could be,” I said. “When did the Unruhs sell the house?”
“You got me there. It’s been at least fifteen years. I’d say closer to twenty.”
“Did they buy another house in the area?”
“No. They moved to a gated community in Los Angeles. He owned a manufacturing plant, making uniforms, sports gear, and outerwear. He worked down there through the week and drove up here weekends.”
“You think he wanted a place closer to his business?”
“That’d be my guess. The move was abrupt, which I thought was odd. They were here one day, gone the next. I remember chatting with them at a barbecue a few days before and neither said a word about plans to relocate. Next thing I know there’s a moving van in the drive and guys are loading up the household goods.”
“Do you remember when this was?”
“Not a clue. One of the other neighbors might know. The gal next door, Avis Jent, kept in touch for a while. She could tell you more.”
“What about you? No exchange of Christmas cards?”
“We weren’t close friends, more like social acquaintances. Patrick was killed in a plane crash a couple of years ago. After that, I heard Deborah moved back here, but I’ve never had it confirmed. A town this size, you’d think you’d run into people all the time, but you don’t.”