“Great. See you . . .” Lara trailed off. “Well, I guess I won’t see you.”
“Okay.” Evan sounded distracted. “Bye.”
And with that, she was dismissed. She pressed the phone to her ear, furious at him for being able to detach so quickly and furious at herself for not being able to do the same. As she tried to pull herself together, she realized that Evan hadn’t hung up the phone. She could hear rustling and what sounded like splashing in a pool on the other end of the line.
For a moment she thought he might be having second thoughts, too. Second thoughts and regrets and reluctance to let go. She parted her lips to confess, “I miss you.”
Then she heard Evan’s voice, distant but perfectly clear: “All right, honey, that’s taken care of. Let’s go get some dinner.”
Chapter 16
Lara took the dogs on an extra-long walk, and, after a fitful night of tossing and turning and seething, took Eskie on another challenging climb the next morning.
“I will kill him,” she snapped into her cell phone. “Kill him.”
“Don’t kill him.” Kerry tried to make her see reason. “I’m in no condition to be a star witness in your homicide trial. Tell you what—you can kill him after I lose the baby weight and Cynthia starts sleeping through the night. Deal?”
“Dumping all my stuff on the front porch instead of dealing with me face-to-face? And making a big point of telling me he changed the locks? Like I’m stalking him? Ha! He wishes I were stalking him.” As she headed back toward Cherie’s house, Lara stomped right past Ivory without even saying hello. Ivory tossed her head and yipped indignantly. “Forget the engagement ring—I should have flushed his precious Swiss watch. Hit him where it hurts. I should have flushed his Wrath of Khan poster signed by William Shatner.”
Kerry gasped. “His what?”
“Oh yes. He was a major Trekkie in high school. Used to go to the conventions and everything. And you know what? I loved him anyway! I accepted him for who he is!” Lara stopped to stretch her calf muscles and pour Eskie a drink from her water bottle. “Honestly, I’m gone for two weeks and he’s calling somebody else ‘honey’?”
“It’s just a rebound,” Kerry said.
“Whatever. I don’t care. In fact, I hope the two of them are very happy together. I hope they get married. I hope he re-gifts the toilet ring to her and she wears it for the next fifty years.”
“I’m so glad you’re not bitter.”
“I’m too busy to be bitter.” Lara tipped her head back, inhaled the fresh mountain air, and went over her schedule. “I’m squeezing in a quick training session with Eskie right now, and then I have to drop by to check on Roo—”
“Roo?”
“The flabrador.”
“Oh, right. Your personal training client.”
“Down half a pound from last week, thank you very much.”
“I think you’re on to something with this dog diet plan,” Kerry said. “You seriously could make millions on a late-night infomercial for canine fitness.”
“Then I have to meet a new potential client, and then I have lunch with a vet clinic manager from my real job. But I’ll drop by your place with dinner, if you want. Shall we say seven?”
“No, no. I’m good. Richard’s back in town today and all the mothers are departing.”
“Thank God. So you guys finally get to settle into a normal family routine?”
“Yeah, for about forty-eight hours. Richard’s leaving for Atlanta on Wednesday.” Lara could hear the strain in Kerry’s voice.
“Well, don’t worry. Auntie Lara will come by to babysit so you can get a shower and a dog walk.”
“You’re terrified of this baby,” Kerry pointed out.
“So are you.”
“Good point,” Kerry agreed. “See you Wednesday.”
* * *
For the rest of the morning, in between working with Eskie, congratulating Kayla on Roo’s progress, and driving the five blocks to the home of her potential client, Lara exchanged a flurry of Scrabble moves with her mother.
CARMINES
FEZ
ZING
QI
The speed of Justine’s responses confirmed Lara’s suspicions that her mother was still holed up in her bedroom, probably with the shades drawn. After thirty years of racing ahead at top speed, Justine had finally hit the wall. Lara knew that this behavior was unhealthy, that it was the tipping point for a long, dark slide into deeper depression. But she also knew that Justine wouldn’t come out until she was good and ready, and no amount of coaxing, guilt, or “tough love” could change that. No matter how tough Lara might be, Justine would always be tougher.
Depressed or not, Justine was currently dominating the Scrabble game. Lara trailed by almost seventy-five points.
She rearranged her letter tiles on the little screen of her smartphone and tried to rally with the highest-scoring word she could muster: GRIFTER.
* * *
At first glance, the house on Collingsworth Circle seemed to blend in with all the other spacious Spanish-style mansions. The front lawn was well maintained, the stucco and paving stones spotless. But Lara sensed something unusual—she couldn’t put her finger on it until she noticed the ornate brass door knocker in the shape of a Sphinx head.
When she rang the bell, a chorus of unearthly howls emanated from within. It sounded like a pack of werewolves were having an ultimate fighting competition in there.
The howling stopped as suddenly as it had started, and the door swung inward to reveal a middle-aged matron with unruly brown curls and kind hazel eyes.
Lara offered up a handshake as she introduced herself.
“The Dog Doyenne. We’ve heard so much about you.” The woman beckoned her inside. “Welcome. I’m Helen Years.”
As she stepped into the foyer, Lara nodded at the door knocker. “That’s lovely. Is it an antique?”
“Indeed it is. Dates back to Regency-era London.” Helen looked delighted to share this information. “A bit of a splurge, I admit, but I just adore it. I’ve never understood the feminine obsession with shoes or handbags, but I can’t resist Regency artifacts. Everybody has her vice, I suppose.”
Though Mrs. Years was dressed stylishly in a cranberry blouse and black pants, her interior decorating tastes seemed to run more toward petticoats and pelisses. Looking around the living room, Lara felt as though she’d been transported back in time. Oil paintings hung next to brocade draperies, and small urns and statues crowded every available shelf. A large harp rested in one corner, and a small wooden instrument with ivory keys held a place of honor by the front window.
“Is that a piano?” Lara asked.
“Pianoforte,” Helen replied.
“Wow, it’s beautiful. Is that also an antique?”
“Technically, yes, but of course it’s been restored. Some of the woodwork is very recent. My husband and I are Jane Austen enthusiasts. Jane-ites, if you will.” Helen looked a tad defensive. “I know that seems odd to many people.”
Lara shrugged. “Hey, I spent my entire paycheck last month on eye surgery for a dog named Mullet who hates my guts. I’m in no position to judge anybody else’s hobbies.”
“Well, not everyone shares your tolerance. My husband and I don’t run in the same social circles as most of our neighbors—the country club circuit just isn’t our cup of tea—and we’ve gotten a few cutting remarks over the years. This home was custom-built to our precise specifications. The exterior, of course, had to comply with the homeowner association standards. But the interior was mine to do with as I pleased, and I may have gotten a bit carried away. I wanted to capture the essence of a stately manor, like Pemberley or Delaford.”
Lara nodded, trying to keep up.
“Those are the country estates of Mr. Darcy of Pride and Prejudice and Colonel Brandon of Sense and Sensibility,” explained the tall, lanky man walking up behind Helen. He offered a slight bow, then a hearty handshake. “Frank Years.
”
Lara returned his smile. Everyone jumped as another series of loud howls erupted down the halls.
“And that would be the dogs,” Helen said with a sigh. “Frank, release the hounds.”
Frank headed back down the hall, and a moment later Lara heard the snick of a door latch and the scrabble of claws against marble as two perfectly matched dogs hurtled toward her.
She braced for impact as the pair leapt and slobbered with pure, unadulterated joy.
“Off!” Helen cried, her tone high and pleading. “Off, off, off!”
The dogs ignored her and continued to accost Lara, nudging her hand for pats and banging their tails against her legs.
“Frederic, Elfrida,” Frank said, his voice low and firm. Both dogs backed off slightly, still beaming up at Lara with wagging tails and glistening tongues. “We named them after two of the characters in Jane Austen’s juvenilia,” he explained. “Elizabeth and Darcy seemed too obvious.”
“They’re gorgeous,” Lara said, admiring their playful brown eyes, well-muscled haunches, and glossy black, white, and tan coats. “And very sweet.”
“They’re”—Helen cleared her throat—“exuberant. Their energy simply knows no bounds.”
“How old are they?”
“Thirteen months.”
Lara nodded. “Well, they’ll mellow with age.”
“When?” Helen pressed.
“Um, in about six or seven years.” Lara had to laugh at Helen’s horrified expression. “I assume they’re purebreds?”
“Oh yes,” Frank assured her. “Fine English hounds, just like Sir John Middleton’s pack of hunting dogs.”
“Sense and Sensibility again,” Helen whispered.
“Sherry and sport, that’s what makes a man.” Frank planted his hands on his hips, as though about to don a scarlet coat and saddle his steed for a hunting party.
“Well.” Lara’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m not sure that I would consider foxhunting a sport, but it certainly required great stamina on the part of the dogs.”
Helen reached over and patted Lara’s arm reassuringly. “He doesn’t actually hunt, dear. Though I’m sure if the homeowner association allowed it, he’d build stables in the backyard and bring in a team of Royal Hanoverian horses.”
“Don’t you start with me, Helen.” Frank’s voice held a note of warning.
Lara broke in. “Here’s the deal: foxhounds are very persistent and high-energy dogs, and while that’s a big asset in the field, it can be a bit of a problem if they’re indoors all day.”
“I told him.” Helen threw up her hands. “I tried to make him see reason. ‘We live in the suburbs,’ I said. ‘Get a pug,’ I said.”
“A pug!” Frank recoiled in disgust. “Like Lady Bertram in Mansfield Park! What kind of sissified fop do you take me for?”
“Pugs were very popular in Jane’s day.” Helen referred to the author as though she were a frequent dinner guest. “Pugs, Dalmatians, bulldogs. But no. He had to spend thousands of dollars on not one but two ungovernable English foxhound puppies, all in the name of masculine puffery.”
“A few thousand dollars is a drop in the bucket compared to what you’ve spent on historically accurate dresses and jewelry,” her husband retorted. “How many wide-brimmed bonnets have you specially commissioned? How many butterfly brooches and amber crosses and even diamond and emerald earbobs, when we both know that they were considered vulgar among the gentry?”
“My diamond and emerald earbobs have never gotten a complaint letter from the Mayfair Estates HOA,” Helen shot back.
Lara was trying to figure out how to politely excuse herself when Frederic and Elfrida began to bay. The howls echoed off the high ceilings and the polished floor. Lara could have sworn she felt her bones actually vibrating.
The bickering ceased as Helen clapped her hands over her ears. Lara reached over, grabbed the dogs’ collars, and gave each a swift sideways tug. The dogs stopped baying and resumed panting and wagging their tails.
“Why must they do that?” Helen’s face remained twisted into a wince.
“What seems to set them off?” Lara asked. “Tension? Arguments?”
“Everything.” Frank shook his head in despair. “The doorbell ringing. The clatter of their food bowls. The recycling truck passing by. The phone ringing.”
“The TV,” Helen added. “The alarm clock. The sound of the bathroom fan.”
“So it’s probably just stress relief,” Lara concluded. “It’s self-rewarding for them to howl.”
“And it’s going to get them banished from the neighborhood.” Frank’s face slackened into a weary frown. “I know it was folly to buy them. I wasn’t thinking of their happiness; I was thinking of my own. Jane certainly would not approve.”
“But they’re still young,” Helen said. “I’m sure they’ll be very happy roaming a ranch somewhere.” She turned to Lara, hopeful. “Perhaps you know someone with a lot of acreage?”
Lara considered her response very carefully. She looked at Helen, then looked at Frank, and said, “Let me ask you something. Do you like your dogs?”
Frank didn’t hesitate. “Very much. I know they have their faults, but they’re loyal and they wouldn’t harm a fly.”
She turned to Helen, who grumbled, “I’d like them a great deal more if they’d stop driving me deaf and insane. I’m trying to launch my own Jane Austen newsletter, and I need uninterrupted time to work.”
Lara gave up on Helen and focused on Frank. “We can absolutely work with Frederic and Elfrida, but they need a job. You and I need to find a way to fulfill their instinct to work the field.”
Frank’s face lit up. “You’re suggesting I go ahead with the stables and the horses?”
“No! I’m suggesting that the Regency era is about to collide with the real world. One of the vets I know was just telling me about a new urban sport: scent work. The dogs learn to identify certain smells and track them through buildings or cars. But one of you”—she shot Frank a pointed look—“will have to sign on as handler and complete the training with them.”
“Urban scent work.” Frank looked excited. “Does that involve explosives, narcotics, and cadavers?”
Lara laughed. “More like birch and sage oils.” She smiled down at the hounds, who were busy sniffing her purse. They had obviously scented the crumbs of dog biscuits buried in the interior pockets. “I think your problem children are about to become prodigies.”
Chapter 17
BRUNG finally lured Justine out of hiding. Lara knew, when she spelled out the word with her Scrabble tiles, that she was baiting the bear. But she hit the PLAY button anyway, chuckling to herself as she spooned up a bite of cereal at the kitchen table.
Exactly one second later, she heard an outraged howl that put Frederic and Elfrida to shame.
Then a door slammed as Justine burst out of the bedroom, clad in a navy cashmere robe and slippers and carrying her open laptop in both hands.
“Brung?” She slammed the computer down on the counter and pointed an accusatory finger at Lara. “Sixty-five points for brung? That’s bullshit!”
Lara froze, her mouth wide-open and her spoon loaded with soggy shredded wheat.
“Well?” Justine stalked closer, her nostrils flared. “Explain yourself.”
“I had sucky letters?” Lara tried. “And I wanted to build off knob and tier?”
“Brung is not a word!”
“According to the computer, it is,” Lara said. “And with the double-word score and all the overlapping letters—”
“You cheated!”
“I did not.” Lara found this amusing rather than offensive. “You’re just mad because I might actually beat you for once.”
A little vein popped out in Justine’s forehead. “You’re only beating me because you cheated!”
“Breathe, Mom. Breathe. Listen, brung may not be proper grammar, but it is a word. Don’t hate the player; hate the game.” Then Lara noticed the bulk
y bits of fabric visible below her mother’s robe. “Are you wearing sweatpants?”
“Don’t try to change the subject. I demand you retract brung.”
“I didn’t know you even owned sweatpants. Are they, like, Gucci sweatpants? Made with platinum thread and unicorn hair?”
Justine squinted in the full morning light like a disoriented woodland creature stumbling out into sunshine after months of hibernation. “Who did this to you?”
Lara glanced around, bewildered. “What?”
“Your highlights.” Her mother strode across the room, took Lara’s head in both her hands, and tilted her face forward to examine her hairline. “The glaze is so saturated, it’s almost purple near the roots.”
“Does this mean you’re not going to cut me for playing brung?”
It was like Justine didn’t even hear her. “This is unacceptable. Unforgivable.”
Lara tried to regain control of her head, but Justine maintained her viselike grip. “Relax. It’s just hair.”
Justine finally released Lara’s skull and narrowed her eyes. “I want a name. Who did your color that day after the TV interview?”
“I don’t remember,” Lara lied. “I swear.”
“You realize I can easily call the salon and get answers.”
“Then call.” Lara jerked her chin toward the phone. “I’m not going to be an accomplice to some poor hairstylist’s murder.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Justine sniffed. “I’m not going to murder anybody.” She smiled, her lips thin. “I’m just going to maim her. Slowly.”
Lara went back to her cereal. “I’m hiding your car keys the next time you take one of your naps.”
Justine pounced. “Aha! So you admit that your stylist was a ‘her.’”
Lara choked on shredded wheat. “I admit nothing. Now will you please sit down and eat something?”
Her mother remained right where she was, but conceded, “I suppose I could make coffee.”
“Mom, no. You need actual nutrition. Name your poison. Eggs? Bagel? Quiche?”
Justine perked up. “We have quiche?”
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