by Jan Burke
Yes. A man. He was nice to me. He made me laugh. But she didn’t feel very happy thinking about him now. It made her feel unsettled.
After a brief hesitation, Carrie signed, Your father?
“I don’t know,” Genie said softly, frowning, as she filled a jar with soil. “That doesn’t seem right.” She signed, Brother or cousin, maybe.
Carrie made a motion toward the plants they were supposed to be transplanting. Genie made herself get back to work for a minute or two with her pots. If Edith came back and didn’t see much accomplished… But Edith would be kind, and merely think they’d been chatting with each other instead of working, and that would be okay with her. Edith was one of the oldest of the Fletcher children, and she had not been able to have kids of her own. She was sometimes a little rebellious, and muttered as she worked. More than once, sitting next to her at a family gathering, Genie had heard her say something about how plants grew best if they weren’t crowded, in moments when Genie knew she wasn’t talking about plants at all. It occurred to Genie that the relative privacy they enjoyed in the greenhouse was not accidental.
Did Edith like being alone? That was something else to think about.
Gradually, with whispers and signs exchanged between gardening work, Carrie told Genie about the conversation she had overheard between Mom and Dad this morning. Genie was as amazed as Carrie about their mom’s career in journalism.
“I have to find a way to get a copy of the newspaper article about missing kids,” Carrie said.
“That will be easy,” Genie said. “Leave it to me.”
“How?”
“Tomorrow is trash day, remember? It’s my turn to take the trash and recycling out to the curb.”
Carrie frowned. We don’t get the newspaper. How can that help?
The neighbors do. I’ve taken theirs before.
Carrie’s eyes widened.
“Honestly, Carrie. You aren’t the only person who has realized that things can come into the house from recycling.”
The color drained from Carrie’s face.
I know about the book, Genie signed. Don’t worry, I won’t tell.
Despite these reassurances, tears were gathering in Carrie’s eyes. Genie felt bad, even worse as Carrie looked down at the pot in front of her, obviously trying hard not to cry. Tears began to roll off the end of her nose and into the soil.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Genie whispered, then looked up and saw a woman crossing the lawn with purposeful strides. “Oh no. Mom.”
Carrie looked up, then looked at Genie a little desperately. She was scared.
Genie knew exactly what she feared, of course. “We’ll have to say why you’ve been crying. She’ll ask and ask about it.”
“I’ll say Cousin Sheila,” Carrie whispered.
“She’ll never believe it,” Genie said. “Tell her I was mean to you.”
“No way.”
An idea came to Genie. She hesitated only a few seconds, then knocked one of the jars against the edge of the table. It broke with what seemed an explosion of sound. She held one of the bigger shards toward her older sister. “Cut yourself. Just a little. Hurry!”
Carrie found the resolve to do this just as Aunt Edith called, “What happened?”
“Oh, Carrie! You’re hurt!” Genie said, not needing to fake her remorse. The cut was bleeding more than she had expected, and she had not missed Carrie’s wince of pain. Genie grabbed a paper towel and pressed it to Carrie’s hand. She looked up into Carrie’s face, worried.
“It isn’t so bad,” Carrie managed to say, and stopped holding back the rest of her tears.
CHAPTER 23
Tuesday, April 25
11:45 A.M.
LOBBY OF THE WRIGLEY BUILDING
LAS PIERNAS
ANNA STOVER didn’t look so hot. She was pale, had dark circles under her eyes, and it was easy to see she had been crying. I will own up to feeling a little smug about that. She had moved out of her house and broken it off with Ben with a damned note. This was supposed to be her big Independence Day, but life had just pissed on her sparklers.
She stared off into space, a picture of distraction. She hadn’t heard me or seen me come down the stairs, I guess, because I startled the hell out of her by saying, “What can I do for you, Anna?”
She shivered a little. Maybe from the chill I put into the question. She looked up into my face, studying it for a moment before glancing toward Geoff, the ancient security guard. I followed the glance and saw that Geoff was looking at her with tender sympathy. Geoff, who by some calculations is rising 130 (and by others, was Tutankhamen’s boyhood friend), enjoys the sight of a pretty face but is not one to be swayed by such. So when I saw that look, I felt a little ashamed of my own reaction to her.
“Have you eaten?” I asked her.
“No, but—”
“Then let’s have lunch,” I said.
I looked back at Geoff, who was beaming at me. “I’ll sign you out,” he said. That damned old man has controlled my behavior for years.
I took her outside before anyone else from the paper had an unspoken suggestion to make and came to a halt. There’s a burger place not far from the paper, but in just a few minutes it would be crowded with other reporters. I thought we might want a little more privacy. She needed to walk off some of that anxiety, anyway.
“There’s a place down the street called Rosie’s. Ever eaten there?”
“No. We can go wherever you like.”
THE walk was silent but did seem to make her a little less woebegone. The sky was blue, the air was crisp and clean, the whole city had washed its face. When we stepped into Rosie’s and found a booth, she revived enough to notice the decor of the bar and grill, which had been designed as a tribute to Rosie the Riveter. The proud daughter of a war worker had established the business, then willed it to an old coot named Johnny Smith, who gave me grief for not coming around more often. By the time Johnny and I were finished exchanging news of mutual friends and family, Anna said maybe she’d order something after all.
After we ordered, she said, “About Altair…,” but I held up a hand, giving her the palm-out stop sign.
“Until we’ve eaten lunch, I forbid discussion on three topics: Ben, Sheila, and Altair. After we’ve eaten, fine.”
She looked completely stymied.
“Tell me about your new place. Do your dogs like it?”
She left the description of the new place at “renting a small two-bedroom with a big yard,” and named an address very near the one where I had found Sheila Dolson’s body the night before. She didn’t seem to want to talk about the house, but it has never been hard to get Anna to talk about her dogs.
I wasn’t just trying to get Anna to relax, although it seemed she did. I needed to shake off some of my own initial hostility. Working on a story, I would have guarded against softening my attitude over anecdotes about pets, but this was not an interview. Talking about Rascal and Devil enlivened her; hearing her stories reminded me of all the reasons I liked her. She was strong and bright and dedicated to doing good work. She was an animal lover. And someone who could look beyond the superficial when dealing with other people.
We finished eating in a more companionable mood. Johnny Smith came by and cleared the plates and asked us if we wanted coffee; she did, I didn’t. Noticing that he was getting a crowd for lunch, when he came back with the coffee I asked if we were tying up his table, but he told us not to worry, a couple of other parties were leaving. He went off to help other customers.
Anna fiddled with the cream and sugar and stirring, then set the spoon aside. It was the starter’s gun, I guess, because the next words out of her mouth were, “You must think I’m the worst judge of character on earth.”
“Are you talking about Sheila or Ben or both?”
“I… I’d rather not talk about Ben. I’ve always hated spending time with a woman who whines about her lover or husband or ex — whatever the case may be. It’
s private. It’s like, ‘Hey, come over here and watch me wash my underwear!’ No thanks.”
I smiled. “I understand the sentiment, especially if you’re talking about the people Frank calls ‘town criers,’ because they’re crying about a breakup all over town.”
“Exactly.”
“Still, Anna — it can be tough to go through a breakup alone, whether you’re the one leaving or the one left. Blabbing to strangers is one thing, confiding in one or two trusted friends is another.” I paused. “That said, I guess I’d rather not be your confidante when it comes to Ben.”
“Agreed.” She traced the rim of the saucer again. “If you and Frank are angry with me, or don’t want to have anything more to do with me, I’ll understand.”
“No need to draw a treaty up over it, is there?”
“No,” she said softly. “No, it’s not a war.”
She gave a little shake of her head, took a sip of coffee, and said, “I misjudged Sheila. Ben suspected her of being a liar, and he was right. I admit that in some ways she was…”
“A fake?”
She flinched. “I don’t know. I guess so. When I saw the newspaper this morning, I called Ben, and he told me that Sheila probably planted the teeth she supposedly found yesterday.”
I didn’t say anything — I was distracted by the fact that she had called Ben. Maybe this breakup was only temporary.
“It was a horrible shock, reading the story,” she said absently, apparently caught up in her memories of seeing the front page. “It was a bad way to find out what had happened.”
“I found out in a bad way myself.”
She looked up at me, eyes widening. “I’m sorry — of course it was. I didn’t mean that as a criticism. I mean, I know Ben thought you owed us — him — a call, but that’s nonsense. You were probably exhausted by the time you got home.”
“Yes. It was a long night.”
“The article said it didn’t look like a robbery?”
I hesitated. Something in her manner struck me as being a little sly. Or maybe I simply trusted her less because she had dumped Ben. Still, I was uneasy. Not knowing where the conversation was headed, I answered cautiously. “No. At first I thought we might have interrupted one in progress, but the police seem to have ruled that out. She didn’t own much of value, and the dog would have deterred most prowlers.”
“Altair was crated, though.”
“I wanted to ask you about that — was he usually crated at night? There were a couple of dog beds in the house.”
“She told me she crated him in the evenings. Most of the time, whenever I was at the house, it was during the day and he was loose. She told me she also used the crate during the day when she had to leave him alone, which wasn’t often.”
“Why crate him, then?”
“Well… like a lot of energetic, smart dogs who begin to feel bored if they’re left alone too long, Altair can entertain himself in ways that are not appreciated by most humans.” She smiled. “Sheila told me he has a real knack when it comes to opening kitchen cabinets and refrigerator doors.”
I began to wonder if I should call home.
“She also used the crate for transport,” Anna went on. “Or for search situations when there were a lot of other dogs around.”
“In any case,” I said, “a robber wouldn’t know that Altair was in a crate until after he was in the house, right? Most wouldn’t take that chance.”
“No…”
“Look, Anna, do you know if Sheila had any enemies here in town?”
“Other than Ben?”
“Not being her blind follower doesn’t make him her enemy,” I said tightly.
“No, of course not. For God’s sake, I’m not suggesting he would have harmed her. That’s not even in Ben’s nature. She saw him as an enemy, though, I think.”
“Maybe so. Anyone else?”
“No, and even though I spent quite a bit of time around her, she never complained to me that anyone was mad at her.”
I found myself wondering if Sheila was capable of perceiving that someone was angry with her. She had always seemed self-absorbed. Even Altair was a way to get attention for herself.
“You said you spent a lot of time around her?”
“Well… not blaming him for it, but Ben has been gone a lot lately. Sheila was good company.”
I couldn’t imagine it. “What did you talk about?”
She hesitated. “I guess a lot of it was made up. Based in truth to some degree. Your story has made me face that today. She hadn’t been married, so it was her mom who was the battered woman, not her. And what she told me about losing her house in a fire — that was about her mom’s death, too. I don’t think she ever had a child who got lost — although maybe she felt as if she was the lost child.” She paused. “I guess the autopsy will show whether or not she had cancer.”
“Let me guess. She told stories, and you listened in amazement.”
“It’s true — she misled all of us.”
It occurred to me that I might not have been the first person to figure out that Sheila was a liar. Maybe Sheila had cheated someone out of money, or scammed someone in a more serious way. “Okay, let’s look at this another way — who were her friends?”
“She didn’t have that many. I think all her friends were in the SAR group. I never heard her talk about anyone else.” She frowned. “In retrospect, we kind of adopted her, and she seemed to have been very dependent on us, if you know what I mean. She wasn’t someone who liked to be alone. She got people in the group to help her with things all the time. One of our team members all but gave her that place to live. People invited her over for supper.”
“People became her neighbors.”
She dropped her gaze, but said, “Yes. And even knowing what I know now, I’ll miss her.” She took a shaky breath. “I… I don’t think it’s really hit me yet. I can’t really believe this has happened to her, that she’s gone.”
I didn’t say anything.
“She wasn’t a totally lost cause, you know. I think she was experimenting, trying to find her way. Maybe if she had been allowed to live out her life, she would have changed, become a better person.”
“Maybe,” I said, sincerely doubting it. On the other hand, I was certain nobody had the right to use a gun to end Sheila Dolson’s great experiment.
“It’s confusing to me,” Anna went on, “because she did have abilities, and she loved Altair, and I’ll never believe that someone who was that good to a dog was a total write-off!”
I declined to bring up historical examples. What the hell could I say? “She was lucky to have a friend like you.” There, that was honest.
She brooded in silence for a time. I was just about to make noises about getting back to the office when she said, “I understand you have Altair.”
“Yes,” I said warily.
“I’d be happy to take him.”
“You and any number of other handlers, from all I can tell.”
“You’ve been contacted?”
“No, just heard rumors from Illinois.”
She ran a finger along the edge of her saucer. “Did Ben ask?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but — no.”
She nodded once, as if she had just won a bet with herself. “So I’m offering to care for him until things are settled. Work with him.”
“Bond with him?”
“He knows me. I’ve already worked with him.”
“Sorry, Anna. No can do.”
“Why not?” I could hear a little anger, just held back.
“It’s not up to me.”
She made a face.
“I promised to take care of him until her family or heirs are located. Do you know if Sheila had a will or an attorney?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
We parted company not long after that. I knew she had parked near the Wrigley Building, but she didn’t walk back toward the paper with me. She said she wanted to
do a little window-shopping while she was downtown.
I wasn’t sorry that I made the walk back alone.
Not sorry that Altair wasn’t going to be walking with her anytime soon, either. It wasn’t unreasonable for a top trainer to want a dog that had performed so well, a dog she knew. Yet her petulance when I refused had surprised me, shown me a side of her personality I hadn’t noticed before.
The truth was, I probably didn’t know her as well as she knew Altair. All my previous contact with her had been in situations when Ben was with us, and often their dogs joined us as well. I had always found her easy to get along with, but I couldn’t say that she had revealed a lot about herself. And her friendship with Sheila truly puzzled me.
I sighed and told myself to let it go. In all likelihood, I’d never see her again.
CHAPTER 24
Tuesday, April 25
1:35 P.M.
NEWSROOM OF THE
LAS PIERNAS NEWS EXPRESS
BACK in the office, I continued calling phone numbers from Sheila’s notepad. I got lucky on the second call.
“Thank you for calling Big Smile Dental,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “This is Bobby.”
“Uh, hi, Bobby… I’m sorry, I’ve misplaced the name of the dentist I was supposed to ask for.”
“We have four dentists in our office,” he said.
Before he could name them, I said, “This is the one who specializes in children’s dentistry.”
“Well, that would probably be Dr. Arnold Fletcher.”
There are Fletchers all over Las Piernas, but I suppose my reading of so many stories on Caleb’s history the day before made me dumbly repeat, “Dr. Fletcher?”
“Dr. Arnold Fletcher. We have two other Dr. Fletchers here.”
“Oh, are they related to—” I stopped myself from saying Caleb’s name.
“To one another? Yes. Dr. Arnold Fletcher is the father of Dr. Diane Fletcher and Dr. Kent Fletcher. Would you like to make an appointment for your child?”
“Is Dr. Arnold Fletcher in?”
“Not at the moment. Is this an emergency?”