This Dog for Hire

by Carol Lea Benjamin

“Who’s Doc?”

  “This hideous little man Gil was talking to when he came back to get Magritte ready for the ring.”

  “Do you think he switched the liver?”

  “All I’m saying is he could have. Dennis, I could have. Gil left all his things there when he went for coffee. But he had some liver in his jacket pocket, untainted liver, because he gave some to Magritte when he cut his nails. So, that means—”

  “Magritte. Oh, God, you mean he could have—”

  “No, Dennis, it went into his own mouth first, for a while, too. He kept swishing it around in his saliva to get it all juicy, and he teased Magritte to distract him from the indignity of getting his nails cut. That means the liver in his pocket was okay. That explains why the tri is okay, and why Gil wasn’t poisoned in the group run.”

  “So you’re saying that when he took liver earlier from his pouch, it was okay. And when he used liver later, from the pouch, it wasn’t.”

  “Right. In fact, a moment after I saw him fish around in his pocket and then go into the bait pouch, I saw him make this awful face. I figured, shit, who wouldn’t make a face, putting liver in his mouth. But, you know something, he didn’t make a face in the grooming area, and he practically ate the fucking liver while he was grooming Magritte.”

  “But when he got a piece with cyanide, he did notice it was bitter.”

  “Apparently.”

  “My mother used to make me eat liver when I was a kid, you know, for the iron, and I still remember that some of it was sort of sweet and some of it was really bitter.”

  “So Gil could have thought he had just gotten a normally bitter piece. It’s not like he had time to taste-test the whole pouch. He was in the ring, working. And anyway, he didn’t have time for another reason.”

  “The cyanide. It’s too fast.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you think the killer planned it so that it would happen in the ring, right in front of everyone?”

  “I don’t know. But if he did, it would mean that whether or not he was there, he’d hear the results of his handiwork on the news that night. There’s no way something this dramatic would go unreported.”

  “Damn clever of him.”

  “Or her. What else did Marjorie tell you?”

  “That the technician sent the pouch to the lab for testing. Once there’s suspicion of murder, there’s no delay, and two hours later the toxicology results were in and, big surprise, the liver had been laced with enough sodium cyanide to fell a fucking horse. That’s what they told Marjorie.”

  Something was nagging at me, holding a part of my attention captive, but I couldn’t get a grasp on what it was.

  “They’re sure it was cyanide poisoning?” I asked him.

  “Pending autopsy results. But the doctor was sure enough of the cause of death to call Marjorie. Not his heart, he said. Cyanide.”

  “Dennis, you said you hardly knew Marjorie. Why did she call you right away?”

  “I told her to call if she needed me, Rachel. She asked me if I would talk to the police, see what I could find out. She said she’d given them my number, and she hoped that was okay. I mean, she’s so far away.”

  “Is she coming up?”

  “I don’t think so. You know how most people are. They figure if you just set foot in New York, next thing you know, you’ll be murdered.”

  “Where could people get an idea like that?”

  I thought about Big Foot in the ladies’ room.

  “Dennis, I—”

  “I guess he’s off the hook,” he said.

  “What did you say?”

  “Well, if someone killed him, doesn’t that let him off the hook?”

  “We don’t know for sure the two murders are connected, do we?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Suppose someone killed Gil, and it had nothing to do with Cliffs death?”

  “Who would want to kill Gil? Well, except me?”

  “How about anyone who had been in the ring with him? Didn’t you see what he did to the little tri? There was also this handler he tripped in the ring. Ted Stickley. He fell and broke his arm. You can’t handle dogs with a broken arm. Dennis, I wonder if he was at Westminster. Maybe he was biding his time, waiting for a way to get back at Gil. Did you save your catalog?”

  “Of course.”

  “Check it for me.”

  “Hang on. Stickley, Stickley, Stickley. Yes. Ted Stickley. He handled a saluki.”

  “Well!” I said, as if handling a saluki were proof of his guilt. “There are a lot of people who hated Gil. Everyone knew his habits, Dennis, I mean everyone knew that liver went into his mouth.”

  “So you’re saying maybe the person who hated him enough to kill him had nothing to do with Clifford’s death?”

  “Dennis, Gil’s death doesn’t solve this case. There’s too much we can’t explain.”

  “What next?”

  “Sleep. It’s been a long day. I’ll call you tomorrow, in Boston. Everything changed today. I need some time to think.”

  “Be careful, Rachel.”

  “Yeah. Yeah,” I told him.

  But I hadn’t even looked down the block when I’d gotten out of the cab, carrying Magritte, my keys ready in my right hand. I was just so happy to be home. Was I kidding myself to think we had really lost Big Foot?

  When I hung up, I looked over at Magritte. He’d had three close calls, two the night of Clifford’s murder when he could have been intentionally killed by whoever killed Cliff or accidentally killed crossing West Street after he’d gotten free of his collar. And another at Westminster, had Gil had the time to spit the tainted liver to him before he went down. That he hadn’t may not have been an accident. Most show people care much more about dogs than they do about people.

  Three close calls. Yet here he was. The good luck dog.

  Magritte began washing himself, like a cat. Perhaps he had nine lives, too. If so, he was going through them mighty fast.

  I poured a glass of wine and began to think about the loft and those three empty stretchers. Had Clifford changed his mind about three paintings, ditching them because they weren’t good enough? I’d read that Picasso worked that way, painting quickly, creating many works, and keeping only the ones he liked.

  Or was there some other reason those canvases were gone?

  Who was Mike? He must have had a key to the loft, too, since he had left a message about picking up Magritte.

  More important, who was Big Foot?

  It had been easy to assume that Morgan Gilmore had been the killer. He had the motive and the opportunity. He had keys to the loft. He knew Cliff would do anything to get Magritte back.

  My head was aching, the questions I couldn’t answer eating at me. I picked up Marty’s note, which, as usual, was on the green marble table, just outside the kitchen.

  Rach,

  Dash played with Elwood and had dinner at the precinct, two slices of pizza, a burger without the bun, and a cinnamon doughnut. Sorry. You know how the guys are with dogs.

  Marty

  I stroked my hand over Dashiell’s big, round belly, then scratched the base of Magritte’s tail. They were heaped in a pile, sound asleep, Dashiell’s head on the Flying Man, as if it were a pillow. Suddenly sleep seemed the perfect idea.

  29

  Tunnel Vision

  I never made it upstairs. I woke up at seven-fifteen, covered with my coat, the grayish light of winter slipping through the shutters, making stripes on everything.

  I let the dogs out and watched them chase each other around, taking turns being hunter and prey.

  Now that I knew it had been Veronica Cahill at the loft, I didn’t need to check the Young Detective’s Handbook to figure out why. But law seven says, Confirm your hunches.

  I decided to catch Louis Lane before he left for school. That I most certainly did. He worked the late session and didn’t have to be in until ten forty-five.

  “Louis,” I said, no
t bothering to apologize for waking him, “I was at Clifford’s loft one night, and someone in a camel coat, black beret, and white scarf came in and took the tape from the answering machine.”

  Ba da boom. I never beat about the bush before I’ve had my first cup of tea.

  “Oh, that was Veronica. She’s so paranoid about people trying to cheat her out of her commission.”

  “But—”

  “I told her that it couldn’t happen because I own the art now, and of course I wouldn’t cheat her, but she still had to go and get the damn tape. I guess it means she doesn’t even trust me.”

  “She told you about going?”

  “Of course. But only after she did it. She said there was some man-eating beast there and it nearly scared her to death, and I—oh! You!”

  “Right. We scared each other.”

  There are always people who try to get around the gallery commission by buying directly from the artist, and few people, if any, would know that Louis, not the Cole family, now owned the art. Perhaps Veronica was right to worry—some people will do anything for money.

  I wondered what else Veronica Cahill and Louis Lane might have done for it.

  “Louis, there’s something else, it’s about Cliff’s art and the way he worked. Did he sketch on paper before he painted?”

  “Sometimes. But not always. Oh, he’d scribble on napkins in restaurants and stuff them in his pocket, on matchbook covers, anything at all when he got an idea, just little quick reminders. Then he’d sketch right on the canvas. In fact, when he got into his noir period, those gray paintings, a lot of the way he worked changed. He changed.”

  “How so?”

  “He began working long, long hours. Sometimes he wouldn’t even take Magritte out in the afternoon. He’d ask Dennis to do it Or he’d use a dog walker. He just kept at it, painting until late at night, not coming here for days at a time.”

  “Did you worry? Did you think something was wrong?”

  “Not really. He’d done it other times, I mean, get on a streak and paint almost around the clock. But never quite like this—”

  “Louis, what about the piece at the show without a title?”

  “He probably didn’t get a chance to do the last panel.”

  That’s what I thought,” I said quietly. “But wouldn’t there be a partial fourth panel? A sketch on canvas? Something? The first three are clearly completed paintings. Is that how he worked when he did a multiple-panel piece? One at a time?”

  “Actually, no. He worked on all the panels at once.”

  “Even so, you think the last panel never got done?”

  “I don’t know. Does it mean something?”

  “It could. Louis, by any chance, do you know the name of the dog walker Cliff used?”

  “Mike. I don’t remember hearing his last name.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “I heard about Gil,” he said.

  I waited.

  “Rachel? Are you getting anywhere?”

  “It’s too soon to say,” I told him, wondering what his shoe size was and if he ever wore anything but Gucci loafers. “But I’ll keep you posted,” I lied.

  I opened the door. The dogs were digging and burrowing in the snow. I let Magritte in and sent Dash back to the passageway for the Times.

  The piece about Gil was in the sports section, adjacent to Walter Fletcher’s piece about the springer’s win, not with the obituaries. It was small, but dramatic.

  Death at the Dog Show

  Morgan Gilmore, handling the basenji Ch. Ceci N’Est Pas un Chien, whose owner, Clifford Cole, had been found dead on the Christopher Street pier late last month, fell in the ring and died just minutes later in the ambulance on the way to St. Vincent’s Hospital, a representative of the Westminster Kennel Club said. Pending autopsy, the presumed cause of death was heart failure.

  Mr. Gilmore, 47, of Greensboro, North Carolina, had been a professional handler for twenty-three years. He is survived by his wife, Marjorie, and his parents, Lloyd and Ellen Gilmore of Charlotte.

  I called Marty.

  “Shapiro. How goes it?”

  “Could be worse. How’s your case coming? I was going to give you a buzz, Rach, about that question you asked me, whether or not the victim had semen in his anus.”

  “And?”

  “He didn’t.”

  I knew I’d be looking for clues there one day!

  “I saw in the paper Magritte’s handler died of a heart attack. Bummer. Was he heavy?”

  “This is why I’m calling, Marty. I got a call from the client, late last night. It wasn’t as the papers reported it.”

  “So what else is new?”

  “Marty, it was cyanide. He was murdered.”

  “No shit. Is this connected to your case, you think, or coincidental?”

  “I thought he was our man until I heard how he bought it.”

  I told Marty what I had found out about Gil and the frozen semen business, and about all the loose threads that were driving me crazy.

  “Be careful, Rachel.”

  “Hey, listen to you, playing with bombs day in and day out, the man tells me to be careful.”

  “You know something, kid, I feel much safer the seven years I’ve been doing this than I ever did the eleven I was on the street in uniform. At least no one’s taking potshots at me now. Say, how’s my boy Dashiell? He do okay on yesterday’s menu?”

  “Dog has a cast-iron stomach, Marty. Thanks for helping out.”

  “Hey, anytime, Rach. You know, the article upset a few of the guys. The heart thing. We fucking live on doughnuts around here. They’re pretty high in cholesterol, aren’t they?”

  “What am I, a fucking nutritionist? Read the box. It’s all there, in black and white.”

  When I hung up, I remembered one time when I was talking to Marty and he was gesturing with a powdered doughnut in his hand, the sugar falling everywhere, quietly, like snow. Dashiell’s head followed the doughnut’s every move, as if he were watching the ball at a tennis match.

  Exactly the way the dogs in the ring watch the bait.

  Now I knew what wouldn’t stop tugging at a corner of my mind, like a terrier peeling a tennis ball. I ran upstairs to my desk and started leafing through the Cole file. They had even called the piece “Witness to Murder.” Magritte’s picture accompanied it, his brow wrinkled, his dark eyes so alert.

  I read through the article quickly—artist dead, witness found, artist’s dog, undiscovered genius, Dr. Shelbert, Tracy Nevins, bingo!

  “As to whether or not Magritte could finger his master’s killer, Nevins was quoted as saying, ‘Definitely,’” giving the killer his motive.

  “‘We are still planning on having Magritte compete at Westminster on Tuesday,’ Kenton added. ‘Clifford would have wanted him to be there.’”

  The poison was in the bait.

  I was so blinded by what I knew that I hadn’t seen the simple truth.

  Morgan Gilmore had been murdered by accident.

  The poison had been meant for Magritte!

  The article even included the whereabouts of the potential victim, giving the murderer a perfect blueprint from which to work.

  If Magritte was the intended victim, whoever had tried to kill him knew by now he had failed. Gil’s death, though the cause was misreported, had been all over the news last night and was in all the papers this morning.

  That was no pervert in the john. It was the killer.

  He was out to try again, and now he knew Magritte was with me.

  It was tunnel vision, thinking the cyanide was meant for Gil. Just because we knew the practices at dog shows, it was the only way we were able to see the crime.

  But the most logical and obvious conclusion, which we never thought of, was that if you want to kill a dog, you poison something he’s going to eat. A five-year-old could have seen this clearly.

  I added Mike’s name to the blackboard. He had the key. Here was someone else who kn
ew how Cliff felt about his dog. Maybe he had a motive, too. I’d have to call him. His number would be in Clifford’s address book, which I had copied.

  There were too many people I hadn’t spoken to. Now was the time to change all that. I ran back downstairs, double-locked the door, and came back up to the desk where I could take notes. It was time to see broadly, to check every little detail out again, to consider every possibility and to avoid jumping to conclusions.

  As Ida, my therapist, used to say, pushing up her sleeves and making two lines between her eyes, finally we’re getting started.

  “Mrs. Cole? This is Elaine Boynton, Clifford’s friend. I was so sad to hear about Clifford. Yes. Yes. And so I feel just terrible that I missed the memorial service. Really? He said that? She’s, uh, gone. Yes. A small, private one. Yes, I do. I’m sure they would. I understand. I was wondering where I could send a donation in Clifford’s name. Does the family have a preference? Okay. Thank you.”

  30

  What Would You Like to Say?

  I had spent all day and evening yesterday on the phone. All I wanted to do today was get over to Cliff’s loft and find the final few pieces of the puzzle. But there was one place I wanted to go to first, B & H Photo, to pick up Clifford’s slides.

  “This is olt,” the pale, bearded young man in the yarmulke told me, examining the slip I handed him. “Vot made you vait so lonk?”

  “I was busy,” I told him.

  Then he noticed Magritte, who had put his paws up against the counter to see what was on the other side.

  “Oh, it’s mine friend,” the young man said, stepping forward and leaning over. “I’ll get for you a kendy, vait, vait,” and all in a stir, he reached into one of the candy dishes that sat at even intervals along the counter and pulled out a small Tootsie Roll for Magritte.

  “He doesn’t eat candy. It’s not good for him,” I said in protest. But I was too late. The Tootsie Roll was already in Magritte’s mouth.

  “He alvays eats a kendy ven he comes. Vot vould he t’ink if ve didn’t give to him today a piece?”

  But as I watched Magritte chewing, opening his mouth twice as wide as usual for each bite, all I could think about was the poisoned bait and how quickly and unexpectedly the whole world could change.