I pulled out my cell phone and hit re-dial.
“Ruth, it’s Rachel again. Do you by any chance know of anyone else who might need a seizure-alert dog?”
“I, well, no, not offhand. But my doctor would. Why?”
“There are two more clones I’d like to place and they might as well go where they can do some good. It would seem a shame to let talent like this go to waste.”
Wasn’t that how it all started, Madison feeling that way about his own talent?
“I’ll call him. I’ll find two people who need the dogs. I promise.”
I told Dashiell I’d be right back and, leaving him in the garden, once again I hoisted myself up over the ivy-covered wall.
The door to the cottage was open this time so I just walked in, without knocking. The lab was there, undisturbed, the man who’d worked there at the precinct now, telling stories. The cottage was dead quiet, but I went upstairs anyway, to see what was there, finding a small bedroom with a pale blue blanket on the bed, a tiny bathroom next to it with a tiled shower, a smaller than usual sink, everything blue. The dog bed was blue, too, one of those denim-covered round ones from L.L. Bean. Her name was on it, so I had the answer to one more question now. It had been Smitty who I’d heard on the stairs, not a person. Had she been the surrogate? I wondered. And where was she now?
I heard that sound again, the creaking of the stairs, and whipped around to see who it was. It wasn’t Smitty this time. It was a dog far more clever and way more agile.
He cocked his head and wagged his tail.
“Great,” I told him. “We’ll be even more unobtrusive than I planned.”
I bent and kissed the top of his head. Then together we headed out of the cottage and across the garden to the main house to rescue Sugar and her sister the way I’d once liberated Dashiell from people who didn’t deserve to have him.
Dashiell was looking up at me. What difference did it make if he came along? There were only dogs in the main house. Everyone else was either dead or in jail.
The French doors were latched but opened easily when I shook them back and forth to loosen the lock. When we stepped into the open living room, I heard the sound again, that whining noise. Sugar and her sister were in the living room to greet us and neither one was whining. Their tails wagged rapidly from side to side. So what was that sound? Was there another litter of clones?
I climbed the stairs, the two bullies running on ahead to lead the way, Dashiell sticking with me. We continued on up, past a floor with a study and a small bedroom, to the next floor where there was a master bedroom suite. The sound got louder, and then I heard something else. A woman speaking. Well, crooning. After a moment, the whining sound stopped. I heard a dog bark. Then the whining started all over again.
I climbed the last staircase to see what it was, and there she was, the woman from the dog run, the one who’d told me the story about Herbie and sent me running off to New Jersey to try to find him. She’d just tiptoed out into the hall and looked startled to see me, but instead of acting frightened or indignant and asking why I was there—perhaps she knew—she lifted one finger to her lips, to stop me from speaking. But it was no use. The noise started up again, louder than ever.
I passed her and opened the door she’d just pulled closed, stopping in the doorway, Sugar and her sister at my right, Dashiell at my left, heads up, noses going. Smitty stood when the door opened but she didn’t come toward us. She seemed not to know what to do, and so she did nothing. Would that human beings could be so wise.
He was in his crib, his face red, his small arms pumping, his legs, too. When I bent over the side, he reached for me, but I didn’t pick him up. He was a cute baby, I’d give him that. Only time would tell what he’d become. I hoped like hell, in this case, nurture would win out over nature.
Without saying a word—what was there to say?—I turned and left, going back to Sophie’s the way I’d come, the bullies pausing for only a moment before following Dashiell and me over the wall.
CHAPTER 35
He Tried to Pull Me Closer
On a crisp fall day at the end of September, two days after visiting Sophie’s class and getting petted and hugged by all her kids, Blanche kissed me good morning, ate her breakfast, and walked slowly out into the garden, lying down in a sunny patch of grass between the cottage and the main house. After a moment, I heard her cough once. When I got to where she was and knelt to stroke her head, she sighed deeply. I told her I loved her and felt her let go and disappear, as peacefully as my father must have, his blanket as smooth in the morning as it had been when he’d shut off the light.
We buried her in that very spot and that weekend we invited Ruth, the young boy who had Sugar, the freelance editor who had her sister Snow, and Sophie’s class to come. Some of the kids read poems they’d written for her. One sang a song. Everett, the tall boy who carried a purple backpack, had brought a flat stone to mark the grave. Chip had gotten a white dogwood tree to plant there and the boys helped him dig the hole and set the tree. After that, we ordered pizza for the kids and watched them play with each other and the dogs until it was time for them to go.
That night, the bed seemed much too big with just the two of us and Dash and Betty.
“She waited until the case was resolved,” I said into the dark room, “and until she could say good-bye to the kids.”
“Rach?”
“Mmm?”
“Do you think the baby is really a clone?”
“I don’t know. Agoudian thinks it was a scam. He thinks Philips and that woman made the kid the old-fashioned way. I told him that was ridiculous, that Madison was crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d have the baby tested.”
“What did Agoudian say about that?”
“That they’d get a court order and do exactly that.”
“Test the baby’s DNA?”
“And Madison’s.”
“And?”
“Look, Chip, whether the kid’s a clone or not, it’s inevitable, like no-iron cotton, the tangelo, the Doberman pinscher, the H-bomb—one day, it’ll happen. Man is a tinkerer.”
He tried to pull me closer but someone’s rump was in the way and someone else’s foreleg was pushing hard against my back. I closed my eyes and pictured the flat, white blossoms that would appear next spring, white like Blanche, and the words Everett had painted on that flat stone we’d pressed into the earth at the base of the tree.
“Here lies one good dog.”
Then, despite myself, I pictured the baby’s fat little fingers, reaching up to me as I bent over the crib.
They’d have the results any day now, but I’d told Agoudian not to call me. This was one answer I didn’t want.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For the generous sharing of information, my gratitude to Urs Giger, D.V.M., and Sheldon A. Steinberg, D.V.M., of the University of Pennsylvania Veterinary College; Bonnie Wilcox, D.V.M.; Joel Davis and his seizure-alert dog, Alex; Deborah Dalziel of the University of Florida Seizure-Alert Dog study; Scott Redstone; Liz Palika; and Conan the iguana.
I am grateful to Helma Weeks, director of communications, the University of Pennsylvania Veterinary College; to Beth Adelman; Stephen Solomita; and Marshall Mintz, good buddy to this writer and her dogs.
For the loving care every book needs to make the journey from idea to the hands of readers, I thank George Gibson, Michael Seidman, Cassie Dendurent, Chris Carey, and Krystyna Skalski at Walker & Company; and at Brandt and Brandt, Gail Hochman, Marianne Merola, and Meg Giles.
And, as always, I take the occasion of a new book to send written notice of my love to Stephen Lennard, my sweetheart; and to my daughter, Victoria; her husband, Stephen; and my grandson, Zachary.
About the Author
A former detective and noted dog trainer, CAROL LEA BENJAMIN is the author of several books on canine behavior and training, as well as eight Rachel Alexander and Dash novels. She was recently honored by the International Association of Canine Profe
ssionals with her election to their Hall of Fame. Ms. Benjamin lives in Greenwich Village with her husband, Stephen Lennard, and their dogs, Dexter, Flash, and Peep. You can visit her website at www.CarolLeaBenjamin.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Resounding praise for
CAROL LEA BENJAMIN’S
RACHEL ALEXANDER and DASH
and
THE WRONG DOG
“All the best ingredients for an excellent mystery…The Wrong Dog is the right book for pet mystery lovers…I read this book in one sitting…Carol Lea Benjamin has come of age as a writer…This was a really fun book to read…Two paws up—way up.”
Portland Oregonian
“Anyone who enjoys dogs and their winsome, wily ways will appreciate Benjamin’s work; other fans will want to read her for the excellent plotting and development of human characters.”
Washington Times
“One of the series’ best…The story’s pace is as quick and sure as a sled drawn by Samoyeds…The mystery itself is edgy…Don’t hesitate to recommend this series to those who would usually dismiss crime novels with dogs in starring roles.”
Booklist
“Benjamin’s work [is] first-rate.”
Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Vivid prose, breakneck plotting…A crackling good story even non-dog lovers will enjoy.”
Publishers Weekly
“One of America’s most talented and versatile dog writers…Benjamin’s passion for realism is everywhere…The adventures of private detective Rachel Alexander and her pit bull partner, Dashiell, hooked me.”
Seattle Times
“Carol Lea Benjamin combines expert storytelling, wry humor, and a flair for bringing unusual characters to life.”
Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“Her high quality of prose and convincing way with dialogue may surprise and delight first-time readers.”
Chicago Sun-Times
“Another treat.”
Library Journal
“[A] first-rate murder-mystery series…Benjamin gets the dog details right.”
Orlando Sentinel
“Benjamin’s precise and compelling writing will attract both dog enthusiasts and fans of mystery.”
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Indispensable for readers who love man’s best friend.”
Kirkus Reviews
“Carol Lea Benjamin is as good at writing mysteries as she is about writing about dogs. [Her] writing is…gritty and edgy…with a good dollop of humor thrown in.”
Laurien Berenson, author of Jingle Bell Bark
“Mystery lovers, watch for this name: Carol Lea Benjamin.”
Knoxville News-Sentinel
Books by Carol Lea Benjamin
FALL GUY
THE LONG GOOD BOY
THIS DOG FOR HIRE
THE DOG WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
A HELL OF A DOG
LADY VANISHES
THE WRONG DOG
And coming soon in hardcover
WITHOUT A WORD
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE WRONG DOG. Copyright © 2000 by Carol Lea Benjamin. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition May 2007 ISBN 9780061758850
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Contents
Epigraph
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Jane Buckingham
Copyright
About the Publisher
The Wrong Dog Page 23