Sleeping Dogs Lie wfm-1

by Sharon Henegar

  I untangled myself from the heap that the two dogs and I had become, sat up and yawned. Jack jumped off the foot of the bed and did his stretches, and wagged his way to me. “You want to go out?” I asked him. The rate of wagging increased. “How about you?” I asked Emily Ann, who was still curled on her side in the middle of the bed. She gave me an affronted glance and turned over. “Hang on a minute,” I told Jack. A trip to the bathroom and a quick swipe over my teeth with a wet but paste-less toothbrush sufficed.

  Jack danced me down the hall and just before we reached the kitchen I heard Emily Ann thumping down from the bed. I let them out the back door and headed for the fridge.

  Orange juice was the first item on the agenda. Real orange juice is a food group unto itself. When they talk about the nectar and ambrosia of the gods, this has to be the nectar. Most mornings I cut Valencias or navels and use a juicer to squeeze a big glass. Today I couldn’t be bothered. I poured from the pitcher of the frozen stuff I keep mixed up for doses during the day.

  I heard the dogs jostling each other at the back door and let them in, glancing at the still dark sky. The rain clouds had cleared, though in October the weather can jump from sun to rain in no time. I carried my glass of juice back to the bedroom, where I pulled on jeans and a blue sweatshirt.

  “Jack,” I said, “I don’t know where to even start looking for Bob. You don’t have any ideas, do you?” His wagging tail indicated that he had lots of ideas but none on this subject. “Geez, he’s the only person I know besides me who doesn’t carry around a cell phone.” I thought about calling Bob’s house, but I'd had strict training from my mother that phone calls could not be made before eight in the morning or after ten at night. I harbored irrational fears that if I broke that rule I would inevitably call a wrong number and wake some total stranger.

  Where could someone look for information about me if I had disappeared? They would only have to ask Kay, who knew practically everything about me. Bob had only lived here a matter of weeks. But he’d had a whole life in High Cross before he moved here. He must have had friends, and he’d told me he was a freelance writer so he would need contacts to do that.

  “I know,” I said. Both dogs pricked their ears at me. “Writers use computers. Let’s go look at Bob’s and see if it gives us anything useful.”

  I ran a brush through my hair before leading the dogs back to the kitchen. I scooped dog food into a couple of bowls, and while Emily Ann and Jack scarfed that down I slipped my wallet into a fanny pack and strapped it on. In a few minutes we were all bundled into my car, with the garage door closing on Bob’s vehicle, now safely hidden from view.

  Streaks of pink clouds lit up the eastern sky, while half a moon lingered above the opposite horizon. The lacy forms of half-bare trees shivered in a dawn breeze. Only a few other cars were out this early, dark anonymous shapes behind their glowing headlights.

  I passed the turn for Maple Street and Kay’s store. Though she’s my first cousin, a lot of people assume we’re sisters. We obviously come from the same gene pool. Our fathers were brothers, and we look more alike than they did.

  During the time I lived in Seattle, I gave up on the idea of ever being a thin person, and Kay kept dieting year after year. Thirty years later we have basically the same body. I wear my hair short and she has shoulder length waves; under the warm honey color she uses it’s the same shade of ashy brown streaked with gray as mine. I'm taller by three inches, and ten months older, and when we argue she nearly always wins.

  My parents took every opportunity throughout my childhood to drop me off to play with my little cousin. I always wanted her parents instead of mine. My Aunt Poppy and Uncle Bill were wonderful, cheerful and hardworking. And they adored their daughter; the three of them did everything together. Looking back, I think Kay should have been a lot more spoiled than she was, but Poppy especially didn’t let her get away with much.

  My parents existed only for each other. I spent my early years hearing people sigh over their great love story, telling me how inspiring it was to see two people who were so much in love. Maybe it's just my faulty memory, but I can hardly recall anyone ever speaking of them without using the word love.

  One day when I was nine or ten, I was at Kay’s house. We’d been outdoors playing and had argued over something, so I had come inside to read. I always brought along a library book, and had settled down quietly in a nook in the upstairs hall with The Mystery on the Old Island. The phone rang downstairs and my aunt answered it. “Of course,” I heard her say, “you know we love having her. Sure. All right, about 8:30.” She hung up the phone and her footsteps clicked across the wood floor of the hall, back into the living room where she’d been reading the morning paper with Uncle Bill.

  “That was Eloise,” I heard her report. A crisp rustle of newsprint made me sit up straighter to listen. Eloise was my mother.

  “And I suppose they want her to spend the night.”

  “Of course.”

  Silence hovered in the air like dust motes in a beam of light. Then my uncle said, “You know, I would buy into this great love story of theirs a lot more if they managed to divert just a little affection to their daughter.”

  I sat very still in my nook with my book open on my lap, several thoughts chasing around in my head. I must be pretty unlovable if my own parents didn’t love me, but my aunt and uncle did, so I couldn’t be completely awful. But clearer than that was a feeling almost of satisfaction, that my uncle had voiced my own unspoken thoughts. Someone else had noticed what I thought only I had seen, and that meant that it was real.

  The turn for Bob’s driveway brought me back to the present. The scene was completely different from the previous night: instead of darkness and fog, a wind high up blew broken clouds across the increasingly light sky. The gray stone of the little house gleamed silver in the dawn light.

  I parked the car in front of the house, leaving my keys in the ignition and clutching Bob’s set. I kept Emily Ann’s leash in my hand as we walked to the house, but I didn’t bother with Jack’s. I didn’t want her to take off into the woods after some real or imagined prey, but he was unlikely leave us. This time I picked the right key for the front door the first time, and the three of us stepped into the silent house. Emily Ann went straight to the sofa and curled up on it, trailing her blue leash.

  I called out a tentative, “Hello? Bob?” but I wasn’t surprised when no one answered. Everything looked the same as last night, and the light still burned in the kitchen. After only one night’s abandonment the house felt cold and unused.

  Bob’s home was sparsely equipped with basic middle-American stuff: a sofa and matching chair with a coffee table between them in the living room; round maple table with four chairs in the dining room. Bob had said that he’d rented the place furnished. He had added little of a personal nature to the front part of the house, no family photos or collections or books. With the exception of some short black dog hairs on the seat of the chair, everything was tidy.

  The white sheers at the big front window became see-through in the growing daylight. I stood in the living room staring blankly past them to the grassy front yard and my car parked in the drive until Jack poked me with his cold nose.

  “What?” I asked him. “All right, I'm back from Lala Land.”

  The voices in my head had evidently been conversing, and now the sensible one said, “Go on, look for his computer.”

  The prissy one decided to be scandalized. “Invading his privacy? You still aren’t sure if he was really kidnapped.”

  “Just take a look and if it's too private turn it off again. But if we find a file named ‘Open this if I'm kidnapped by a woman in a red suit’ go ahead and read it.”

  The most sardonic voice said, “Just don’t erase anything.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said out loud. Jack wagged in response. “Where’s the computer, boy?” He wagged again but didn’t move. Evidently I'd have to find it myself.

  With Jack at
my heels I started down the short hall. The first door on the left opened into a compact bathroom, tiled in a Fifties pink with gray trim. I leaned in to flip on the light. Gray towels hung neatly over a wooden bar and shaving equipment marched in a line along the edge of the sink. I was tempted by the medicine cabinet but it seemed an unlikely place for a computer. Still, maybe I'd find prescription bottles that might tell me something. I pulled open the mirrored door and looked with disappointment at bare shelves that held only a bottle of ibuprofen and a box of Band-Aids.

  Further along the hall I found a small bedroom furnished with a twin bed in the corner, neatly made up with white sheets and a brown wool blanket. A faded depiction of Little Bo Peep and her peripatetic sheep decorated the pillowcase. A small brown student type desk stood in front of the window, but no computer graced its bare surface. I pulled open the single drawer. Inside was a pad of steno paper, a box of envelopes and a couple of pencils. The small closet was completely empty, not even a wire hanger dangling from the rod.

  The other bedroom was equally neat and impersonal, except for a rather nice old quilt in a flying geese pattern spread over the double bed. Four pillows in plain white cotton covers rested on top of the quilt. A couple of library books—the latest by Dean Koontz and an early Dick Francis—inhabited the bedside table. I opened the closet door, and had to lean against the door frame as I took in Bob’s scent from his collected clothing. Jack touched the back of my leg with his nose.

  “I'm scared, Jack,” I told him. “Do you think I was right to follow Kay’s advice last night and not call anyone else?” Another thought struck me. “Maybe Bob wouldn’t have wanted me to call the police. He could have all kinds of reasons to go off with that woman. He said he’s a writer. Maybe she’s part of a story. Or maybe he’s done something awful.” I shook my head. This was as hard for me to believe as a kidnapping.

  A shelf over the closet rod was slightly too high for me to see. I gave as much of a hop as my age and body type would allow. It wasn’t much of a look but unless Bob had a computer as thin as a piece of typing paper, nothing was up there.

  I turned to the mahogany chest of drawers between the room’s two windows. One drawer was occupied by boxers and tee shirts, another with a couple of sweaters, and the rest were empty. On its well polished top a white milk glass dish held forty-seven cents in change and a folded Kleenex. A little carved wooden box boasted several miscellaneous items—two collar stays, some stray keys, three English coins, a couple of two-cent stamps, a watch band with no watch, and a folded piece of paper that turned out to be the instructions for his phone machine.

  “Too bad I didn’t find this last night before I called Officer Ed,” I said to Jack, who panted in agreement. “Doesn’t Bob have a computer?” I asked the dog. “How can he write? If he has a laptop, it certainly wasn’t with him last night when he drove off with that women. And it's not in his car. Come on, maybe it's in the kitchen.”

  Chapter Eight

  Two Weeks Earlier

  Bob and the dogs and I turned the corner from First onto Maple. “This is nice,” Bob said looking around. “I used to hear about this place when I lived in High Cross.”

  The autumn sun mellowed the facades of restored two-story buildings, most built in the late nineteenth century of brick and native stone. A variety of upscale shops and restaurants, including my cousin’s antique store, attracted clusters of well-dressed women and an occasional man, even on a weekday morning in October.

  “You haven’t been here before?” I asked. He shook his head. “It used to be pretty depressing, back in the Sixties and Seventies.”

  Bob paused in front of the store that specializes in vintage radios. His gaze lingered on a beautiful floor model from the Forties, with rounded edges and Bakelite knobs. “I remember seeing an article in—was it Newsweek? I guess I thought anything this popular would be tacky.” He laughed. “I'm putting my foot in my mouth, I'd better be quiet.”

  We moved on. Emily Ann and Jack walked side by side in front of us, getting smiles from almost everyone we passed.

  “I thought so too,” I said. “I have deeply rooted notions about anything touristy. But when I moved back here I found it’s…maybe homey is the word.”

  We crossed Second and passed the toy store with the old Lionel train in the window, then Bob paused once more to study the yarn shop display, a tangle of silks artfully arranged around a toy tiger kitten.

  That’s when I heard a voice calling my name. “Louisa! Oh, LEW-EEEE-SA! Is that you?”

  I froze, unable to believe my ears. Moving two thousand miles to a small Midwestern town had not been enough. I looked over my shoulder and saw a tall, broad shouldered woman crossing the street, carefully highlighted and tousled hair gleaming in the morning sun. Her brown slacks and matching shirt looked expensive, and a dramatic ankle length duster of heavy cream silk flapped around her.

  “Oh. My. God.” I muttered. As she drew near, I bared my teeth in what the charitable might mistake for a smile. Bob looked back and forth between us with an interested expression.

  The woman stopped in front of us, giving Bob a thorough inspection before focusing on me. She ignored the dogs. “I thought that was you.” Her voice was nearly as loud as when she was shouting across the street. “So this is where you ended up, or are you visiting too? And, I see, not alone. Have you remarried already?” She cocked her head and raised her brows at Bob.

  As the dogs sat down side-by-side and peered up at our faces, I pried my stiff jaws apart to make some sort of answer. But Bob was ahead of me.

  “No, no,” he said in bluff and reassuring tones, “Louisa and I are just old friends. She grew up here, you know. I'm Bob Richardson.” He stuck out his hand and pumped hers up and down.

  “Um, Bob, this is Doris Carter,” I managed, “who used to work with my husband.”

  “Yes, poor Roger,” she sighed. She slowly shook her head and closed her eyes, the picture of sadness. “Such a tragic loss, though given the circumstances I don’t suppose you felt it as much as the rest of us.” She pressed her right hand against her chest where her heart would be if she had one.

  My cheeks flamed as I tried to find something to say, something I could say aloud, since “you vicious harridan, I wish you would spontaneously combust” didn’t seem quite tactful. But again, Bob stepped in.

  “You know, one of the things I have always admired about Louisa is her ability to keep her private feelings private,” he said, a friendly smile relentlessly in place. Before Doris could react, he went on, “And are you staying in the area? It's a great time of year for a visit, isn’t it?”

  “Why, yes, I got a chance to combine business and pleasure,” she told him, and everyone else within a block who was not stone deaf. “I have a conference in St. Louis on Thursday, so I decided to spend a few days checking out the shopping here. I've heard so much about it. I bought a little vacation home on Whidbey Island recently and it needs just everything.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place,” he told her confidently. “Don’t miss the shop with the antique linens, and OKay Antiques is rather special too. Now, if you’ll excuse us, these dogs are getting restless.” He continued to smile pleasantly, took me by the elbow to get me moving, and shook his obviously placid dog’s leash. “Come on, Jack, let’s get that cookie we promised you.” And we moved down the street away from Doris.

  When we were far enough away not to be overheard, Bob looked down at me with a rueful expression. “I'm sorry,” he said, “that was really pushy of me, but bullies annoy me. She is a bully, isn’t she? I hope I didn’t read her wrong. Tell me she’s not your oldest friend.”

  A little laugh forced its way out of me. “She’s absolutely a bully, and no friend at all. I always think next time I'll stand up to her, but I'm so amazed at what she’s willing to say that I stand gaping like an idiot.”

  “Not at all. The rude have a serious advantage.” His smile was slightly wicked. “But b
eing politely rude back can be fun.”

  At the Bluebird Café I reached for the gate that led into the patio, but Bob already held it open. I walked over to the door into the café. The window in the upper half framed the picture of a waitress pouring coffee into a heavy china mug for a woman with curly black hair and bright cheeks, sitting at the counter. I tapped on the glass, and they both looked around and waved. Raising my hand in greeting, I pointed toward the patio tables. The waitress nodded back at me.

  Pantomime over, I turned back to Bob. “How about over here?” I twitched Emily Ann’s leash, and we went to a table in the back corner. I was going to sit in the chair facing the street, but Bob pulled out the one on the other side of the table with a little gesture. I settled myself in it and smiled at him, enjoying the contrast between his courtly manners and the way Roger had ignored me when we were in public together. Bob hung his pack from the back of the other chair and sat, gazing over my shoulder toward the street. Emily Ann settled in the shade of the large green market umbrella by my chair. Jack looked around, sniffing the air.

  “Jack, lay down,” Bob said, and the dog obligingly went under the table, giving a little grunt as he flopped on the brick floor.

  I knew that by lunchtime the place would be full, but now only one other table was occupied. A bearded man with fluffy red hair tonsured around a shining bald spot read the High Cross newspaper, sipping from a mug.

  “You know, you were amazing. Are you an actor?” I asked Bob. “You came up with that stuff so quickly, it was like watching improvisational theater. I thought you’d never been down here before.”

  “I haven’t, but I could see the stores across the street from where we were standing. I thought it might get her moving. I can't say I immediately warmed to her.”

  “She’s horrible, and she’s horrible on purpose. And she’s a lawyer, so she’s also horrible by profession. I can't believe she’s here. I thought I'd never have to see her again. If she really does go into OKay Antiques we’ll have to fumigate, or have an exorcism.”