The Wrong Dog

by Carol Lea Benjamin

  Sophie had expunged all mention of Herbie from her calendar. She wouldn’t have kept his picture on her refrigerator, not unless she expected him to come back. And in that case, she wouldn’t have deleted his phone number. His birthday would still be noted on her PalmPilot. Their first date would have been in her calendar, perhaps some little notation there, too, indicating how special the night had been.

  The train arrived at Penn Station and once again, I was swept along by the crowd, moved onto the escalator, and then I rose up into the music. I took a deep breath that smelled of soft-baked pretzels, Dunkin’ Donuts, and coffee. I was back in New York. I was home.

  But I didn’t know anything more than I’d known before I’d left. Except that someone was playing games with me. Someone knew I was on the job.

  Was he trying to scare me away?

  Or did he have plans for me, like the plans he’d had for Sophie, plans that required great patience and included the thrill of the wait?

  CHAPTER 19

  One Thing Kept Coming Back

  Standing in the rotunda of Penn Station, travelers all around me, numbers rolling over on the huge board that displayed departures, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Chip’s pager. But I couldn’t get through. I was in a dead zone. When I got outside, I tried again. My phone rang as I was walking downtown on Ninth Avenue, passing the Italian specialty shops, the aroma of garlic coming at me like a sledgehammer. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  “Where are you?” Now I was one of those people talking on the phone in the street. What was the world coming to?

  “In the car, heading north on the Palisades, client in Sneden’s Landing with a biting Chow. So where are you? I hear heavy traffic. Doesn’t sound like the Village.”

  “I’m on Ninth Avenue, walking downtown from Penn Station and heading for the Village, but I have this awful feeling that when I get there, there’s going to be a big gate with a sign that says, Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, for starters, it seems that Bianca brought Sophie the medication, as she was trained to do, and that Sophie had time to take the pill she needed.”

  “But?”

  “But someone had removed the medication from the capsule, swabbed it clean, and filled it with a rodenticide called Vacor.”

  “Not a fun way to go,” he said.

  “I’ve never been able to figure out a way that was.”

  I thought about my father closing the book he was reading and turning off the bedside lamp.

  “She appeared…”

  But I stopped, thinking that it wasn’t really necessary to describe the grimace on her face or the convulsed state of her body. Chip didn’t need my help figuring out what Sophie had gone through after ingesting rat poison.

  “It seems the murderer is a very patient customer.”

  “How so?”

  “All the rest of the pills were unadulterated.”

  “You mean whoever did this was willing to wait until Sophie took the tainted pill, no matter how long that took? He was willing to leave the timing to chance?”

  “Apparently. Had she taken any one of the others, she’d still be alive. At least, for now.”

  “But eventually she would have taken that one.”

  “Yes. She would have. But the killer wasn’t in any kind of rush.” Nor was he with me, I thought. He’d prolong it, waiting until he was good and ready to strike. “Whoever did this,” I said, “didn’t act in the heat of the moment. This was entirely cold-blooded, something calculated. I bet that not knowing when was part of the thrill.”

  “Like Russian roulette.”

  “Except that in this case the other player didn’t consent to play.”

  “That’s a rather significant difference.”

  “It is.”

  “What were you doing at Penn Station, Rach?”

  “I went out to Jersey to talk to her ex-boyfriend.”

  “Was he any help?”

  “He wasn’t. That is to say, he wasn’t where I was told he’d be. Where he told me he’d be.”

  “You spoke?”

  “E-mailed. I’d gone to the dog run with this picture I found on Sophie’s refrigerator with the name of her boyfriend on the back of it, just in case I wasn’t bright enough to make that assumption.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This woman said she recognized him, that they were friends, she and ‘Herbie.’ She told me he’d moved out to Metuchen for work. Then she gave me his E-mail and I wrote and he wrote right back. Anyway, he said I could come. Only when I got to where he was supposed to be, the address he’d given me didn’t exist. I think someone’s orchestrating this whole thing, Chip, the way they orchestrated Sophie’s death, someone who gets a kick out of playing with people in the most elaborate way. Sophie didn’t leave a picture of her ex on her refrigerator. The fact that it was there bothered me from the moment I found it, but I was so greedy to succeed, I ignored my better judgment and allowed myself to believe it was what it appeared to be even though it made no sense. After all, she didn’t save his phone number, his birth date, love notes. There was nothing like that in the apartment. I think whoever killed her put that there for me to find.”

  “How do they know about you?”

  “It seems that Sophie had trouble keeping secrets. Who knows who she told that she was going to hire a private investigator? She went around telling everyone in sight that Bianca was a clone, even though she’d been told that this was top-secret information. She told the dog walker, her friend at school, her students, her veterinarian. For all I know, there isn’t a soul she ran into who doesn’t know everything about her life. Some people are like that.”

  “It sounds as if she was very lonely.”

  “That could explain it. It’s an isolating disease, epilepsy. And she’d had it for a long, long time. One of her students told me she told the class that she’d had a sister who was killed in a car accident and that she’d survived, but that’s how it started, probably from a head injury.”

  “What a strange thing to tell her class.”

  “I think she meant it to be inspirational, a ‘march on despite your disability’ story. The kids said she told them they’d feel better if they talked and wrote about their own disabilities. That was the reason she’d talked about her sister, you know, teacher’s doing it. You’re next.”

  “It’s still a heavy thing to hit them with. What are they, eight?”

  “But profoundly disabled. That makes them a lot older than eight in some ways. This kid, the one who told me, I had the impression he handled it okay. When it comes to tragedy, these are not innocents. I get the feeling that Sophie was a terrific teacher and I’m willing to trust that she knew what the kids could and couldn’t handle and what might help them open up. But she sure did talk a lot about personal things.”

  “Not someone I’d want to share a secret with.”

  “Too late for that anyway.”

  “Can I call you later, babe? I’m in my client’s driveway. I’m late, the front door just opened, and, you’ll never believe this, the biting Chow is out and she’s off leash.”

  “Be careful.”

  “That’s precisely what I was going to say to you. I’ll call you later.”

  I was down in the teens already, just a block from the Chelsea Market. I got in line at Amy’s Bread, ordered a rosemary round and three prosciutto twists, and began eating one of the twists on my way back out to Ninth Avenue.

  Outside, I began mulling over the things I’d learned, trying to see if I could make sense out of the little I had. But one thing kept coming back: Vacor. So instead of going home, I headed for Third Street, one hand in my jacket pocket, holding Sophie’s keys as if they were an amulet.

  CHAPTER 20

  I Could Hear the Patter of Little Feet

  I didn’t stop at th
e door to Sophie’s building. I passed it and went to the next building, ringing the bell that said Supt. This time a man answered.

  “Sergei?”

  “Who is it?”

  “I’m working for your boss. I need to talk to you,” I said, glad I hadn’t stopped to pick up the three dogs. Explaining them would have been a challenge.

  “I come up,” he said and the static disappeared.

  The Minetta Garage was across the street, a few small, brick multi-tenant dwellings next to it, a pizza place on the corner. Alongside the building where I waited was a Japanese restaurant, dark blue flags with Japanese lettering flying out front. Then the door opened and Sergei was there, his hair unnaturally black looking, his skin too old for that hair. He was short and wide, like his wife, but not as frightened looking as she had been.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m doing some shelves for the office,” I said, making it up as I went along, “and I was told I could use your tools. I’d like to see what you have?”

  Sergei looked dumbfounded.

  “What shelves? I make plenty shelves for office, do electrical work, fix plumbing, take care of all buildings.” He swirled his big callused hand around as if he was mixing potato salad without a spoon. “I do all. Why he ask you—”

  “It’s a trade,” I told him, as sincerely as I could. I sighed, letting him know that I, too, would rather he was building the damn shelves, but what’s a person to do?

  Sergei was unmoved. In fact, he was blocking the doorway with his short wide body, keeping me from where I needed to go. I had no choice but to try to be more convincing than I’d been thus far.

  “Barter,” I whispered, as if I was saying something I couldn’t afford to allow that couple leaving the Japanese restaurant to hear. “I owe him some money. Back rent. I don’t have it.”

  The frown changed to a look of concern. “From one of his other buildings?”

  I nodded. “So I’m making the shelves, instead of paying him cash.” I shrugged.

  He finally got it, stepping back and extending one arm, his big hand open, to show me the way.

  “Thanks. I really appreciate this,” I told him, already planning my next move. He passed me and I followed him to the door I’d used the other day and down the dark, narrow stairway to the cellar where Sergei and Mrs. Sergei lived, free from the oppression of Communism. We passed the door to his apartment and continued down to the end of the dimly lit hallway. When he opened the door to the cellar, I felt less celebratory about having cleverly left my dog at home.

  It was a dank room, low ceilinged and musty. When he stopped at his workbench, I stopped, too, but it wasn’t quite as quiet as it should have been. For just a moment, I could hear the patter of little feet from behind some old furniture.

  That aside, it was time for part two. I waited until my eyes adjusted better to the poor light. Sergei lifted a large tool box onto the workbench, opened it, and stepped back.

  “Take what you need,” he said. “Not having cash, this I understand.”

  I nodded but I didn’t move.

  “What happen to you, husband desert?”

  I nodded again. I love it when other people do my work for me.

  “Happens in Russia, too. Not enough money, too much love of vodka. Children?”

  “A boy and a girl.”

  “Make shelves. Everything will be okay soon. You need help, you call Sergei.”

  I nodded and wiped my eyes with the heels of my hands.

  “Do you think I might have a glass of water? I feel dizzy.”

  “Sit, sit,” he said, pulling out a stool from under the lip of the workbench. “I get you water.”

  “And, if you have one, an aspirin. Please.”

  “Don’t fall, hold table. I be right back.”

  The moment he was gone, I took the huge flashlight from the workbench and began to shine it around the cellar. Only once did something shine back at me, two small, very dark, very intelligent-looking eyes, here, perhaps, because what I was looking for wasn’t. And, when I thought about it, I wondered why I’d bothered to look.

  I could hear Sergei coming back, his work boots squeaking on the vinyl tiles of the short hallway. I sat on the stool and put my hands on the workbench, as if I was holding on for dear life.

  He handed me two aspirins, folded into a tissue, and a glass of water so cold, the glass was sweating almost as profusely as he was, and so full, water had spilled down one leg of his trousers.

  I took the aspirin, drank the water, and smiled weakly.

  “Carla make tea. You come,” he said, his English deteriorating as his concern increased. Perhaps I’d laid it on too thick. Sometimes when I should sprinkle, I use a trowel.

  He held my elbow as we walked back down the hall to his apartment, and Carla, in an apron, the very image that took the romance out of marriage for me, was waiting just inside the door. There was a round table in the combination living and dining room and she had covered it with what appeared to be her finest tablecloth, thick cream-colored linen. The napkins were linen, too, the silverware in place, the cups sat on matching saucers, and in the middle of the table there was a teapot on a trivet, a plate of plain cookies, and a little dish of raspberry-colored jam. I was awash in guilt.

  “This is beautiful, Carla. Thank you.”

  “Is nothing.”

  I handed her the bag with the rosemary bread and the last prosciutto roll, as if I’d known all along I’d be invited to tea and actually practiced the good manners my mother had tried so hard to instill in me. She looked inside.

  “Oh, this is wonderful. This is too much, much too much. Look, Sergei.” He did, probably expecting to see a standing rib roast from the fuss Carla was making. Then he smiled, showing me his missing teeth, and pulled out my chair.

  “You didn’t find right tools?” Carla poured the tea.

  I looked at Sergei, who was looking back at me.

  “I’ll come back when I feel a little better.”

  “Goot. You come anytime. If I not here, Carla show you tools.”

  “Okay.”

  I took a sip of the tea, rich as baker’s chocolate and nearly as bitter. Carla cut the bread, offering me the first slice.

  “Do you live nearby?” Carla asked.

  “Yes—I’m in one of the other buildings,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask me which one. “And a friend of mine lived next door in the garden apartment.”

  Carla’s hands shot to her mouth. “Miss Gordon?”

  I nodded.

  “No wonder you don’t feel well, to lose a friend, so young, such a fine person, a teacher.”

  I nodded again. “I’ve been staying at her place, taking care of the animals. In fact, I wanted to tell you, I got very scared the other night. The dogs started to bark and woke me and I saw a rat in the garden.”

  Sergei reached out and patted my hand. “I take care. Not to worry.”

  “Should I keep the dogs out of the garden?”

  “No. I dig holes near fence and around trees and bury poison. I use in cellar, too, not where dogs go. Miss Gordon, she worried all the time about dogs. I never leave poison where dogs can get.”

  “So you’ll do it today? Because I want to stay over again, tonight.”

  “Not today. Must call exterminator. I get poison for rodents from him.”

  “Okay, good. So I’ll keep the door to the garden closed tonight.”

  “Nothing will come in when the dogs are there. Sergei takes care of problem, but you don’t worry. It make you feel…” She twirled her hand in the air.

  “Dizzy,” I said.

  “Dizzy. Thank you. My English is…” Again she twirled her hand. “I’m still nervous. Makes me dizzy like you. Police come here, ask questions, take Vacor from cellar. Now Sergei has to buy more. But I don’t understand, all the questions, what it means.”

  “I guess they have to check out everything,” I said, taking a bite of bread as an excuse to stop explaining the
activities of the Sixth Precinct.

  “Two tenants complain, they hear mice in walls. This building is so old.”

  “Shush, Carla. We have home. I have job. We have freedom.”

  At the north end of the apartment, there were two windows high up on the wall, like the kind you’d see in a dungeon. They were openings where the ground had been dug out and shored up in the garden so some light and air came from above to this subterranean paradise Sergei and Carla gratefully called home.

  “What did the police ask?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Sergei said. “Not for you to worry about. They check everything.”

  “Did they take anything else, besides the Vacor?”

  “No, nothing else.”

  “Well, thank you for the tea.” I put my napkin on the table and stood. “I feel much better.”

  “You take pager number,” Sergei said. “When you need tools, you page me.”

  I took the slip of paper he’d written his pager number on and waited for him to open the door for me. Then I thanked them both and took the stairs back up to the entrance hall, feeling surprised that it was still daytime, the way you are when you come out of an afternoon movie.

  It was getting late and there was still so much I needed to do. I headed home to pick up the dogs and walk them back to Sophie’s. Unless the police insisted on keeping the apartment intact for a while longer, there wasn’t all that much time left for me to look through her things. Once her place was packed up, God knows what done with her stuff, it would be all the more difficult to try to find any family to take care of the animals or to find out who wanted Sophie dead, and why.

  CHAPTER 21

  Are You Staying Over, He Asked

  I unlocked Sophie’s door, stepped aside, and let the three dogs charge in ahead of me. The cool north light coming into the living room from the garden gave the room a solemn feeling, but it didn’t seem to dampen canine enthusiasm one bit, at least not for Dashiell and Bianca. But instead of heading for the garden door, so that they could continue the wrestling they’d done at home to celebrate my arrival, they were at the door to Sophie’s bedroom, whining and scratching, Dashiell turning back to look at me to see if he could open the door and see Leslie. Before I was able to remind him that the iguana had gone home, the door opened and there was Mel, looking almost as startled to see me as I was to see him.