Heir of the Dog

by Judi McCoy

  Pushing away from the machine, she commandeered three of the six washers, poured in detergent, fed quarters into the slots, and added her clothes. The machines started filling as she rested her bottom against a folding table and glanced around.

  Spooky, she thought, gazing at the crumbling cinder block walls covered in what might be moss, mold, or possibly one-hundred-year-old vomit. As far as she was concerned, the entire area smelled like the inside of a Dumpster in August. She couldn’t pinpoint which particular spot was bad, the way Rudy could, but a dog’s nose was more sensitive than that of a human. Staring at the beams overhead, she took note of the cobwebs, hanging low with the weight of insect husks. The building was ancient, as were many in the city. There were other rooms down here. Rooms used for storage, but storage of what?

  She’d read horror stories about people finding skeletons, mummified bodies, even hidden treasure in the walls or deserted hidey-holes of aged structures. Did this building have a sordid past? Could it have housed mobsters and murderers bent on destruction? Or maybe crazed psychos intent on dismembering relatives for their fortunes?

  The door creaked inward, and Ellie put her hand on her heart, ready to scream. A moment later, a man walked in carrying a plastic laundry basket in his arms.

  “Morning.” His wrinkled cheeks were covered in a three-day growth of beard, and he wore a short-sleeved white T-shirt and baggy chinos. “Any of these free?”

  “Uh, free?” She took in his head of brown hair streaked with gray. “I guess so.”

  The man dropped his basket on the table and met her gaze with hooded brown eyes. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  Hoping to calm her pounding heart, she inhaled a breath. She’d attended the last tenant association meeting and thought she’d met every person in the building, but she’d never seen this guy before. On the short side, with a paunch and a shuffle to his step, he fit Veridot’s description all too well.

  He picked through his clothes and hefted an armful, and that’s when she saw the red-pointed tip of a tattoo on his right bicep. Sidling to the nearest washer, she watched his arm as he dropped the clothes, added soap, and slid quarters into the slot. Though the red tattoo was still covered and she knew it could be anything, the shape and color screamed heart.

  Swallowing hard, she did her best not to run. “I’m Ellie. I live in 3-A,” she told him, hoping he’d offer a clue to his identity.

  He rested a hip on the washer. “I’m staying in 4-D, visiting my sister.” He moved to the next machine. “Name’s Thompson. Verne Thompson.”

  Thompson? Veri—er—Verne Thompson? Her stomach churned. “I’m not familiar with the tenants in that apartment. What did you say your sister’s name was?”

  He loaded a second machine, and when he added soap the shirtsleeve rode up an inch. “I didn’t.”

  Uh-oh.

  Yep, that was definitely a heart tattoo, with writing in the center, but she couldn’t make out the word. Inching closer, she gave him another sidelong glance.

  “ ’ Scuse me,” he muttered, reaching to open the washer she now stood in front of.

  “Oh, uh, sorry.” She took a step of retreat, figuring she had two choices. She could stay here and strike up a more intimate conversation or she could run to her apartment like a coward and call Sam.

  Before she decided her next move, he turned. “Do you know the tenant in 2-B? The gorgeous brunette? The name above her mailbox just says V. McCready. Is she Virginia? Valerie? Vanessa?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “She’s a looker is all.”

  “Her name is Vivian.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  Ellie gave herself a mental slap. Great. She’d just given a strange man her best friend’s name. Before she could think of a way to erase her stupidity, Thompson cleared his throat.

  “You the gal that walks dogs?”

  Her insides quivered. “I am. Why, do you have one that needs to be taken care of?”

  “Nope. But my sister and I got to talking and she told me a tall redhead living in the building was a dog walker, and you fit the description. Seems Adrianne wants a little dog, but she works all day and can’t get home to take it out. She’ll be happy to know I asked you about it.”

  “What’s your sister’s last name?” she asked.

  Finished loading the washers, he said, “Think it’s safe to leave the stuff here and go back to the apartment?”

  “Um, sure. It’s what I do.” She ran a shaky hand through her curls. Either he hadn’t heard the question, or he wasn’t answering on purpose. “I don’t remember anyone in the building named Thompson or Adrianne,” she said, smiling.

  “She’s married to a guy named Burns, and they’re subletting the place.” He walked around the table and nodded a good-bye. “So long. Maybe I’ll see you again some time.”

  Ellie waited until the door closed and the elevator clanged its ascent before she took a breath. Then she shoved her hamper under the table and charged out the door and up the stairs. She had to take another look at that picture the warden had sent. Then she’d call Sam—no—she’d call Viv and ask her what she knew about the residents of 4-D. After that, she’d pour a shot of something with a higher alcohol content than a Bud Light and down it in one long swallow.

  Then maybe she’d think about phoning Sam.

  Ellie spent the rest of Sunday afternoon deep in thought. She didn’t call Sam or Gruning or any other male trying to control her life, but she did phone Viv and, after listening to her rave about the night she’d spent with Dr. Dave, told her about the man in the laundry room. Then she’d taken a long, hot bubble bath, dressed in comfy clothes, and walked Rudy to the PETCO, where she bought a bag of gourmet dog food and a package of his favorite chew bones.

  Now seven p.m., she and Viv had just finished eating Chinese takeout in Viv’s apartment, where they’d again dissected Ellie’s meeting with the man named Thompson and gone over what Viv discovered when she’d done a bit of snooping. The couple in 4-D was Adrianne and Stefan Burns, and they’d only lived in the building for three months, renting the furnished condo from the owner. No one Viv talked to knew much about them, and no one realized the woman’s brother was visiting.

  Feeling only marginally relieved at the info, Ellie convinced Viv to hook a lead to Mr. T and join her and Rudy in the promised walk to Carl Schurz Park.

  “Oops, I almost forgot to tell you. Blackman’s called and left a message on my machine while I went to the pet store,” she said, vowing to drop all conversation about the mystery man for the remainder of the evening. “Gary’s ready for retrieval.”

  “And you plan to pick him up in what? A coffee can?”

  “Uh, I didn’t think that far ahead. I figured Blackman’s would supply something.”

  “Hah, I doubt it. They’ll expect you to buy a container—maybe an urn—before they let you leave with the ashes. The urns are decorative and usually come in brass, pewter, even sterling silver. And the ginger jar containers can be stark as sand or painted in charming scenes or flowers. Then again, a plain wooden box . . .”

  Viv’s advice on storing a body’s remains brought Ellie’s mind around to the wooden box sitting on the highest shelf in her guest room closet, a box that held old Rudy’s ashes. It had been on her fireplace mantel until the day she brought new Rudy home from the ASPCA, when she’d . . .

  “Hey. Pay attention.” Viv gave her a poke. “Especially when I’m offering free advice on a final resting place for a dearly departed friend.”

  “Ow! Okay, okay.” Ellie rubbed her forearm. “I was just thinking about the day I brought the first Rudy home.”

  “That was over ten years ago, and Rudy the second is alive and well, so can the morose thoughts. This is about Gary and his estate, which you are supposed to be caring for. You say he was your friend, yet you’d let him blow in the wind until there’s nothing left to remember him by?”

  “You think I should do something e
lse?”

  “Of course.”

  Ellie scrunched her forehead. This executor business was fast becoming a pain in the butt. “Like buy a container and bury it, ashes and all?”

  “You could, but I bet another homeless person is already living there for real. What if you arrive at the site and meet them? If they say, ‘Yes, you can bury the container, ’ they’ll probably dig it up the second you leave, scrap the ashes, and take the empty to the nearest pawn-shop. Unless you plan on a twenty-four-hour guard, Gary will be gone and the money you spent wasted.”

  “That sounds so—so—depressing.” Ellie waited while Rudy lifted his leg on a fire hydrant. “Besides, how would they get the container open? I thought they were sealed.”

  “I’m not sure about the urns, but it’s easy to open the wooden boxes.”

  When they stopped at a light, she gave Viv a look. “Sounds to me like you know a lot about this whole cremation thing.”

  “Just about the containers. I remember my mother talking about it after my grandmother died.”

  “And she was the one who worried about the safety of the different receptacles?”

  Viv’s face colored pink. “Not really.”

  “The idea that you’ve had a close encounter with human remains boggles the mind. What did you do, steal someone’s ashes when you were a kid?”

  They turned left on York Avenue before Viv confessed. “No. But Grandma O’Shea was cremated when I was eleven. My cousin Faith stayed overnight at our condo after the funeral.”

  “And Faith opened the box?”

  “I was with her—but it was her idea.”

  “What did you do, exactly?”

  “My mom was in charge of Gram. That night, after the memorial service, Faith and I sneaked into the par lor and took the box off the mantel to get a closer look. My cousin just happened to have a screwdriver in the pocket of her robe and . . . well . . .”

  “You took a peek at Grandma?” Ellie shook her head. “That was so disrespectful.”

  “Yeah, but at that age it was more like creepy. We were into Ouija boards and other spooky stuff, and we’d just watched a movie about zombies. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, Faith and I were tiptoeing down the stairs and walking into the living room.”

  “What would you have done if Granny had been in one of those fancy jars?”

  “Nothing, I guess. But she was in an inlaid wooden box with shiny brass screws at each corner. Swear to God, I’ve never seen a woman so fast with a tool. Before I knew it, my cousin opened the box and we were staring at the remains.”

  They headed east on Eighty-sixth, which put them in front of Beth Israel North and about a block from their destination. “Which resembled . . .”

  “It looked like the dust you find in a vacuum cleaner bag, but all I remember for certain is we heard a strange noise, slapped the lid back on, and Faith worked that screwdriver as if it was motorized. We shoved the box on the mantel and ran for the bedroom like we were on fire.”

  “And no one ever found out?”

  “Nobody said a word. Then again, we had a cleaning woman. She probably straightened up the next day, righted the box, and kept on dusting.” Viv stopped walking and waited for Mr. T, who had decided this was the place to do big business. “I have an idea. Why don’t you keep Gary on your fireplace mantel? That way, you could talk to him the way you do Rudy.”

  “Very funny.” Ellie scowled. She did her best to convince her pal, convince everyone, that talking to her dog was nothing more than a quirk. Putting it the way Viv just did irritated the Yorkiepoo, but, hey, if word got out that she thought she could actually converse with him . . . “Besides, I wouldn’t have much to say to Gary. I hardly knew him.”

  “You’d think of something, I’m sure,” Viv teased. “So, what are you going to do about a final resting place?”

  “Discuss it with the people at the crematorium. They might have an area where they store the containers. I could pay a yearly fee, and Gary could rest in peace, like he deserves.”

  “I have a better idea. Find out where his parents and his grandmother are interred. If there’s a family crypt, you could put him there.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re probably right. I guess I need to do more research on the Veridots.”

  “Find their attorney. He’d know what happened to Gary’s relatives.” They walked through the park gate, let the dogs off leash in the run, and sat on a bench. “What was the grandmother’s name?”

  Ellie leaned back on the bench. “I don’t remember, but it shouldn’t take a lot of digging to find out. The bank guy would know, or her name and their attorney’s name might be listed in those old newspaper clippings.”

  “I thought you read them already.”

  Sam had gone over the brittle pages on Saturday, right before he’d stomped out of the apartment, and they were still stacked on her kitchen table. “Ryder read them while I took care of the old mail, so I guess I’d better look them over myself.”

  The two dogs raced side by side in the run, chasing fireflies and whatever other night insects flitted about. After a couple of minutes, they slowed to a trot, gave a round of sniffs and leg lifts, and began wandering back to the bench.

  Suddenly, Rudy veered off and fixed his gaze on a near corner surrounded by bushes. Moving slowly, he stopped and gave a low growl.

  “What’s got him so riled?” Ellie stood and, with Viv hot on her heels, hurried inside the gate. “Hey, guys. What’s going on?”

  “Rudy says somebody’s spying from the bushes.” Mr. T sat at Viv’s feet. “But I ain’t about to find out who.”

  “Maybe he sees something . . . or someone,” Viv offered.

  “You think so?” Ellie stepped nearer. “Rudy! Come!” Instead of doing as told, the Yorkiepoo skulked closer to the corner.

  “Do you think I should go after him?”

  “Long as I don’t have to follow you, be my guest,” T responded with a growl of his own.

  “I was talking to Vivian,” Ellie said, frowning.

  “I know you were talking to me. I’m just not sure what you should do.”

  With her heart pounding, Ellie moved closer. Rudy’s short, curly coat, a cohesive blend of gray and white, barely showed in the darkness. “Rudy! I said come!”

  When he continued to stare at the corner, Ellie walked in his direction, squatted, and pulled him near. “What’s the matter? Is something going on?”

  “Someone’s been watching us, Triple E. He’s gone now, but I smelled him on the breeze. I could hear him breathing, too. It really creeped me out.”

  “Did you recognize who it was?”

  “A man, for sure. But the air here is filled with stink. The junk from the river, animals, bugs . . .”

  “What do you think got him so hot and bothered?” asked Viv, joining them.

  Ellie rose to her feet and snapped Rudy’s lead to his collar. “He’s not—I mean, I’m not sure, but just to be on the safe side, I think this should be our last trip to the park at night until they find Gary’s killer.”

  “It’s about time you started listening to Sam.” Viv hooked Mr. T to his leash and the foursome headed toward the exit. “The man knows what he’s talking about.”

  Sam again, thought Ellie. Just what she didn’t want to hear. “I’m not coming here at night because I don’t want to, not because of Ryder’s orders. I put in enough miles each day without this long of a hike in the dark.”

  “What are you going to do about the guy you met in the basement?”

  She shrugged. “There isn’t much I can do. There’s a very slim chance he got into the building without a key, so he must be staying in that apartment, just like he said. If he’d wanted to do me harm or grill me about Gary, he had all the time in the world to do so. It was just a coincidence that he has the same name as Veridot . . . and a heart tattoo.”

  “I suppose, but I’d still mention it to Sam.”

  “I’l
l think about it. Now let’s move along. I’ve had all the excitement I can stand for one day.”

  Chapter 18

  The next morning, after her first round of walks, Ellie dropped Rudy at Sutton Pets, a doggie day care on East Sixtieth, and arrived at the crematorium shortly after lunch. Standing in a showroom at Blackman’s, she gazed openmouthed at the shelves of containers available for storing ashes. Intricately carved wooden boxes covered one entire wall, beautifully filigreed urns occupied another, and delicately painted ceramic ginger jars another.

  A card hung beneath each sample, giving the name of the craftsman, the casting house of the urns, the composition of the wooden boxes, and the artists of the jars. The bottom of each card was stamped with a price, which ranged from modest to downright ostentatious.

  Mr. Blackman, a jovial older man who looked more like Santa Claus than a mortician, had left her alone to “peruse at her leisure” for the past half hour, but studying the floor-to-ceiling shelves made her dizzy. If not for the fact that Gary was “ready for retrieval,” she’d have left a while ago.

  She enjoyed spending money on the finer things, but she wasn’t a fool, which is why she’d shopped the sale racks for the dress she’d worn on her date with Kevin. She’d be using Gary’s money for this purchase, and he’d been a simple guy, more at home with thirdhand knick- knacks than actual objets d’art. He’d thought that trite painting of dogs playing poker was the work of a genius, as was Elvis on velvet, so it stood to reason he’d be just as happy sealed in a coffee can as he would in an inlaid mahogany box, especially if it could be opened with a simple screwdriver.

  The urns and ginger jars were even more costly—the least expensive she’d found was five hundred dollars—but Mr. Blackman had assured her they were guaranteed against contamination. More importantly, if someone wanted to remove the ashes and pawn the receptacle, they’d have to damage the container, thus rendering it useless for resale.

  She checked her watch and calculated the time. After she made her decision, she’d have to cab to the first stop on her afternoon rounds in order to finish the day on schedule. Worse, she now had a crick in her neck, and she still couldn’t make up her mind. As far as she could tell, there was only one way out of the dilemma.