“I didn’t know if you’d remember to mist her.” He had the spray bottle in his left hand. “Or if she was warm enough. They’re more delicate than they look and I know you’d feel awful if anything happened to her, Rachel.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Leslie. Where is she?”
“That was very thoughtful of you,” I said, the dogs busily sniffing his shoes and pants, “but why didn’t you just call? I would have told you that Lydia’s back. She came for Leslie early this morning.”
He shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood anyway.”
I opened the door to the garden so that the dogs could go out if they so chose, then went into Sophie’s small kitchen and began to take vegetables out of the refrigerator for their dinner. I didn’t see Mel move and when I had everything ready and turned to look, he was still standing in front of the door to Sophie’s bedroom.
“Can I help?”
“I can manage.”
Bianca had lured Dashiell out. Blanche was sitting in the entrance to the kitchen, her big head tilted up, her small eyes focused on the counter, where the food was. I gave her a carrot to eat while she waited and she slid down right where she was, holding it between her front paws as if it were a bone.
“I only thought, you have so much to do and all.”
He was still holding the spray bottle. He seemed to notice it then. He raised it up, gave me a lopsided grin, and disappeared into the bedroom, Blanche leaving her carrot and trailing after him. He closed the door behind him but I could still hear him talking to Blanche. Then there was silence. A few moments later, he was talking again, the words so muffled I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Perhaps he was telling her that dinner would be ready soon. He seemed to talk to the dogs a lot, whispering his plans into their big ears. When he came out, Blanche was right behind him.
He was acting so strange, I wanted to go into the bedroom and check things out for myself. Instead, I kept chopping and grinding. I thought it would be better to act as if nothing was bothering me and wait until he was gone before I got to work.
He stood there watching. “Did you find out anything else?”
I shook my head. I didn’t mention Herbie. Or Vacor. I thought it would be better to get information, not to give any. At this point, now that I knew Sophie had been murdered, I had to view everyone as a possible enemy. But even though Mel seemed more tense than he’d been previously, I couldn’t imagine him as the killer. Even thinking creatively, it was hard to come up with a motive that would inspire him to kill his client.
He asked me if I’d found any relatives. I shook my head again. Then he said if I didn’t, he’d take Bianca. He seemed enthusiastic about it. Almost anxious. He shuffled his feet around, looked out into the garden, then asked if he should come by the next day and take Bianca to the run. I told him no, I’d do it, no problem. He said he wouldn’t mind and he didn’t care about the money. I still declined, anxious for him to leave. But he didn’t. He hung around, leaning against one wall, then moving to another, as if he needed something outside himself to prop him up. After a long silence, he thought of another reason to stay. He asked if I wanted pizza. I bet you’re not eating, he said. He told me he thought I’d lost some weight and that he’d get the pizza if I wanted it. It was no trouble, he said, the pizza place across the street was terrific. He always got a couple of slices, he told me, after walking Bianca, sometimes even on the way to the run, even though you’re not supposed to bring food in there because it’s inflammatory for some dogs. I shook my head, no, I didn’t want pizza, thank you very much. How about Japanese? he wanted to know. It’s only two doors away. Or did I want a sandwich? He knew a good place for sandwiches he said, and he didn’t mind going there. He’d take Bianca with him, he said. He said he missed walking her.
I told him I wasn’t hungry, that what I wanted was the chance to look through Sophie’s papers one more time, while I still had the chance. I told him I didn’t think the apartment would be kept intact much longer. He asked me why. I just shrugged. When he asked a second time, I told him I thought the landlord would be anxious to rent it again. He nodded.
“Are you staying over?” he asked.
I hadn’t decided what I’d do. I had my notes with me, and the tapes I’d made when I talked to Sophie, but I told him I was going home and wished he would, too, so that I could get to work.
He shrugged and shuffled his feet some more. I took his arm and walked him to the door. I thanked him for being so helpful. I said I couldn’t possibly get through all this without him. At that, he gave me a big smile. I promised I’d let him know what was going on, looking as sincere as I could but not meaning what I said. Finally, though I was beginning to think he never would, he left. I waited until I thought he was out of the building, then went back to the kitchen to finish preparing the dogs’ food.
While the dogs were eating, I went into Sophie’s room. Everything looked the same. I wondered why Mel had been acting so peculiar, not that I’d ever seen him act any other way. But I didn’t have time to worry about it. I pulled out my cell phone and tried the doctor’s office again, surprised when I got a person instead of a machine.
I explained what had happened and asked for the name and address of Sophie’s next of kin, trying to sound as official as I could. But the nurse told me that the doctor’s policy forbade giving out personal information unless the patient had signed a release or if I was a relative.
“But that’s the whole point,” I said. “If I was a relative, I’d know the other relatives. I wouldn’t need you at all. But since I’m not, I don’t, and Sophie’s dead, so she can’t sign a release.”
“You don’t seem to understand,” she said, much more patient than I had been. But then, she wasn’t racing the clock.
“No,” I said, “you don’t seem to understand. I’m taking care of Sophie’s dogs—”
“You have Blanche?”
“Yes. And the puppy, Bianca. I need to find Sophie’s next of kin to see if they’ll take—”
“Hold on.”
I did. She was back in a minute.
“She did give us a name, just in case. Some people don’t like to, but with epilepsy, doctor insists. It’s Preston Wexford. He’s a cousin.”
She gave me two numbers with an area code I didn’t recognize, and I thanked her profusely. Then I hit reset and dialed the first one, getting an answering machine. The message said I’d reached Wexford Realty and that my call was extremely important to them. I was urged to leave my name and number so that my call could be returned promptly. I did, leaving Sophie’s number as well as my own. A machine picked up when I called the second number, too.
I began to pull files out of the desk drawer, the dog file first. I took my wallet out of my pocket and pulled out the picture of Herbie. Then I had half a dozen photos on the desk, all facedown. I knew exactly what to expect. The same person had not written all the names. Sophie’s printing was small and neat. She had been a teacher, after all. There was a uniformity to her letters, no confusing a t and an l. The printing on the back of the photo of the young man was different. For instance, the first e and the second e were different. If a teacher did that, the kids would only get confused. And the h was capitalized, but so was the b. I’d been so happy to find the photo, I hadn’t examined the writing. Instead, I’d wasted a morning and let whoever my opponent was think I was dumb as a brick.
Which might work to my advantage.
At least, that was the thought I chose to soothe myself with.
I looked through the dog file again, determined to be thorough this time because I had the feeling that, one way or another, I’d be losing access to the apartment soon. If Burke and Burns didn’t decide to come back and have another look-see, surely the landlord would want to have the place emptied, painted, and ready to rent.
This time I looked at each page of the medical files, hoping to find something that would tell me where to go with this case. I sto
pped when I got to a pamphlet about the BAER test and that’s when I realized that one of the notations on the slip of paper Sophie had gotten from Lorna West did not refer to an inoculation. I fished in my wallet for that paper and lay it down on the desk. Bianca had had a six-in-one shot to protect her against distemper, parvovirus, leptospirosis, hepatitis, adenovirus, and parainfluenza. The usual suspects. Next to that was the date the shot had been given and when the boosters were due. Bianca had been too young for a rabies shot, so that wasn’t listed. But at the bottom of the page, it said “B test, normal.” Side by Side had had Bianca’s hearing tested. White dogs, like the bullies, have a higher percentage of deafness than the rest of the dog population. Someone wanted to be certain that they weren’t giving a handicapped dog to a handicapped owner.
I held the piece of paper in my hand, thinking about that. I could see Bianca out in the garden, playing with Dashiell. She was bright and energetic, a really terrific dog. When I whistled softly, she and Dashiell both turned and looked at me. Bianca’s hearing was perfect. Watching Bianca twirling around like a dervish, I couldn’t find any fault with her. Sometimes when you fool around with Mother Nature, you end up with a specimen that can’t reproduce. But so far, that didn’t seem to be the case with cloning; Dolly the sheep had just given birth to three lambs.
Wherever we ended up, Dash and Bianca would sleep well. They’d been racing since dinner and showed no signs of quitting. Blanche was behind me, asleep on Sophie’s bed, her head on the pillow, her feet twitching. She was sleeping most of the time now, especially when she was home.
I thought about taking her to see Sophie’s class. I wondered if that would cheer her up or, since she’d only been to school with Sophie, if it would depress her all the more.
Thinking about what the boys had said, I turned on the laptop, went on-line, and, before doing a search, checked Sophie’s list of favorite web sites, then clicked on exactly what I was looking for, VetGen, the lab that had tested Blanche and Bianca’s DNA. There I found instructions for collecting DNA samples. There was nothing about contamination from mother’s milk, but it did suggest that in order to avoid contamination from dog food, the samples should be collected at least two hours after the dog’s last meal or snack. It said the dog could have access to water at any time, which reminded me of something I’d read elsewhere, suggesting the dog be given water before DNA collection to make sure there weren’t “foreign” particles in the mouth. Sophie must have been told about the mother’s milk contamination by someone else, Lorna or the vet she’d gone to.
VetGen only gave instructions for using their kit and collecting cheek swabs, but I also knew blood samples could be used for DNA testing. It had been all over the news for years.
As long as I had the computer on, I checked all the PalmPilot files one more time for any mention of Herbie, but found nothing. He’d been expunged. Then I looked for Rhoda references and also came up blank. I checked the desk drawers again to see if there was a file with old photos. Zip. So I went out into the living room to check the bookcase. On the second shelf, stuck between the cookbooks and the bull terrier books, there was a loose-leaf binder. I slipped it out and took it back to Sophie’s desk. And there she was, Rhoda, standing next to Sophie, right on the second page. Only I couldn’t tell which was which.
I closed the notebook and carried it out into the garden. The lights had come on already, but still the dogs were playing. They’d collapsed in the far corner of the garden, near the ivy-covered brick wall, and they were chewing earnestly on each other’s faces. For a moment, I wondered how Dashiell would react when I found a home for Bianca.
I heard my cell phone ringing, looked over at Dashiell, then changed my mind and went for it myself, flipping it open as I walked back out to the garden.
“I saw you from my window,” Lydia said. “I remembered something. Sophie had a cousin. I don’t know how I could have forgotten except that…”
“Yes?”
“She never saw him. Not since they were kids. He’s her mother’s brother’s kid. Well, he’s not a kid anymore. Lives in upstate New York. She said they used to talk on the phone, you know, his birthday, her birthday, Christmas. His name is Preston. She referred to him as Pres. Stupid name, don’t you think?”
“Where did you say he lives?” I was already wondering how far I’d have to take the dogs.
“Cambridge. It’s a little town not far from Albany. Sophie showed it to me on a map once. She said he was always asking her to come up, but she was afraid to travel, in case she got sick. She didn’t want to be that far from her doctor. But she thought about it. He’s in real estate and she used to say she wished she could ask him to find her a little place with some land for the dogs, but she never did.”
“Because she loved her job?”
“Because she couldn’t drive. How could you exist in a one-horse town like that without a car? It’s not like there’s a subway. And work, too. Where could she find a job in a place like that? Naw. It never would have worked. It was just a dream of hers. She had lots of dreams, that girl.”
“Thank you, Lydia. Keep thinking.”
Sitting on the backless stone bench, I opened the notebook again. There were pictures of Sophie’s parents on the first page, first together, then one of her mom holding the twin baby girls. I looked at Rhoda and Sophie again, on the next page, dressed identically for some occasion in coats with matching leggings, holding hands, smiling. And then I began turning pages and found pictures of Sophie with someone else, not her parents but a grim-looking older woman, a grandmother or a great-aunt. As I turned the pages, Sophie the little girl, then Sophie the adolescent became sadder and sadder. Finally, there were only pictures of dogs—like the ones in the other album, Blanche, then Blanche and Bianca; no Herbie, no Sophie, nothing more. I went through the book twice, but there were no pictures of Preston Wexford either, unless he was the little boy in the family shot taken a year or two before the accident.
Sophie hadn’t told her kids the whole story. No wonder. It was just too damn sad to tell, that her parents had died in the crash, too, that she had been the only survivor to be raised afterward by a sour-faced old woman, and as if that hadn’t been enough, to grow up knowing that she faced a lifetime of epileptic seizures to make good and sure she never forgot the day that had so changed her life.
CHAPTER 22
Better Safe Than Sorry
It must have been close to two in the morning when I realized I couldn’t do anymore. I turned on the shower and adjusted the water so that it was as hot as I could stand it, something to get the kinks out of my shoulders. My arm was hurting, too. Maybe it was going to rain. Or maybe it was because I’d ignored the advice of my doctor. I’d been chopping food, hauling three exuberant dogs around, not resting at all, and not elevating my arm, as I was told I should.
I put on the kettle before getting into the shower, thinking how nice it would be to sit on the couch for a few minutes, dogs all around me and a cup of tea warming my hands, then my insides. It was too late and I was too tired to take the dogs around the block. Instead, I shooed them out into the quiet garden and, remembering the visitor of the other night, I closed the door. With three dogs in the yard, I didn’t think he’d show up again, but with city rats I couldn’t be sure. They were as bold as politicians, and just as appealing. And if our friend did show, the dogs would chase him. They were terriers, after all. I just wanted to be sure they didn’t chase him in. Better safe than sorry.
I must have had some energy left, maybe just the nervous kind, or maybe I sang show tunes while I let the hot water beat down on me because I had done all the thinking I could stand for one day. My head ached. My legs felt wooden. My eyelids were as heavy as anvils. I stood there singing my heart out, my voice echoing off the tile.
There was a blue terry robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I slipped it on, tied the belt, and opened the bathroom door.
I didn’t see him immediately. I was to
wel drying my hair, heading for the kitchen, thinking about that cup of tea. But then I heard him, the same raspy voice I’d heard the other night.
“Turn around,” he said. “Face the garden.”
Heart pounding, I did, seeing the dogs I’d locked out all staring in, staring at the man who was behind me.
“So it’s the super again,” I said. “What is it this time? Here to fix the plumbing?”
“I’ve been asked to tell you it’s time to go back to your own house and mind your own business.”
“Yeah? By whom?”
“What?”
“Who the fuck asked you to remind me to mind my own business?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“But it is my business. It’s what I get paid to do. But you and whoever sent you already know that, don’t you?”
“We know everything we have to know,” he said. “You’d be surprised by what we know.”
“Perhaps I would,” I said, taking a small step to the side so that I could see his reflection in the glass, stopping when he began to shout.
“Don’t turn around. If you see me, I’m not going to have a choice anymore. I’m going to have to kill you. I have a gun.”
“A gun? You mean you’re going to shoot me? I thought poison was your specialty.”
Dashiell began to bark.
I could see Joe’s right arm, hanging down at his side, the weapon in his hand. He wasn’t brandishing it. He was subtle. You had to give him that.
He took a step toward me and that put him directly beneath the hall light, giving me a better look at him. And at what he was packing.
The Wrong Dog Page 15