Dead Storage

by Mary Feliz

  As I got everything set up, Belle licked gently at Munchkin’s ear, whining.

  I filled the galvanized wash tub with warm soapy water, wet one of the towels, and dabbed gently at the worst and smelliest patches of debris on Munchkin’s coat. “Were you confined somewhere?” I asked him. “Did you escape? Was there an accident?”

  I looked more closely at the injuries I could see, most of which were deep lacerations rather than the pervasive road rash he might have if he’d fallen or jumped from a moving car or truck.

  I turned my head as I washed a particularly foul-smelling wad of fur, and then sat back on my heels. “That’s not your blood, is it?” I dabbed again. While this particular patch of Munchkin’s coat was soaked in blood, I could find no abrasion or cut. Could it be Stephen’s? Or belong to someone Munchkin had attacked to defend himself or Stephen? I couldn’t know. Not without testing.

  I slapped my hands on my thighs. “I don’t want to destroy any evidence here, guys. I think we’re off to see Dr. Davidson.”

  I gathered up all the smelly wet towels I’d used, along with the dry ones, hoping that there was some way to prevent Munchkin from transferring too much of his blood, filth, and smell to me, Belle, or my car.

  I smoothed towels over the car seats and Belle clambered in. Munchkin yelped as I boosted him into the car when his bad leg failed him. I left the windows open and phoned the vet to let him know we were on our way, that we had possible criminal evidence, a dog who needed stitches, and we weren’t fit for the waiting room.

  Chapter 2

  A nineteenth-century Prussian general famously said that no plan survives first contact with the enemy. I’d go a step further. While I can’t live without a plan, I find all plans require continuous adaptation. No plan survives first contact with the real world.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald, Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Thursday, February 16, Morning

  “I assume you’re Maggie? I’m Amy,” said a young woman in bright pink scrubs who helped me ease Munchkin from the car. “Your car is fine right there. Let’s get you and both dogs inside quickly. We’ve been keeping this door locked because we’ve had a few break-ins. Dr. Davidson thinks it’s addicts looking for drugs. Can you imagine? In Orchard View?”

  I shook my head, unable to break into Amy’s monologue. I held the dogs’ leashes and stood on a nonslip mat inside the big loading dock doorway. Both dogs leaned against me and whined. I wanted to join them. We all smelled awful, were worried about Stephen, and felt miserable.

  But our collective misery didn’t dim Amy’s perkiness. Her blond curls were meant to be up in a bun, out of the way, but the bun was on the verge of an explosion as tendrils sprang loose. The curls resembled the ones in an illustration of Goldilocks or Little Bo Peep, but were much more frantically active, much like Amy herself.

  “I’m going to take Munchkin straight into an exam room,” Amy said. “But I’m thinking you and Belle might want to do a little cleaning up.” She didn’t wait for a response. “Stay right here until I get back.”

  Belle pulled at the leash as Amy led Munchkin away, but Munchkin must have felt he was in good hands. He never looked back.

  “I need to talk to the vet,” I called after her. “Dr. Davidson. I think a violent crime has been committed and all that... gunk . . . on Munchkin’s coat is evidence. It needs to be collected properly and documented. Please don’t give him a bath!”

  Amy stopped to open a door at the end of the hallway and turned back to me, smiling as if I’d offered her an ice-cream cone rather than suggested the dog whose leash she was holding was a criminal witness.

  “That’s fine. I’ll pop him in an exam room until Dr. Davidson can see him. No bath until later, I promise. Doc will know what to do. He’s been working with the animal crime lab at UC Davis for years.”

  Amy and Munchkin disappeared as the door closed behind them. Standing in the hallway, I could hear muffled barks, plaintive meows, and the squawking of a few birds. Dr. Calvert Davidson ran a large-animal clinic on weekends on his own property up in the hills. His office in town dealt with smaller companion animals like cats, dogs, rabbits, and birds.

  I knelt next to Belle and hugged her despite the rancid smell she’d picked up after rubbing shoulders with Munchkin. She licked my face and I laughed. “Vets are amazing, aren’t they? A horse and a bird are as much alike as . . . I don’t know, two things that are very different, I guess. A blender and a freight train? How can one vet with one degree have an affinity for treating all those creatures, none of whom can talk?”

  Before Belle could respond, Amy was back with a stack of fluffy white towels, the kind you’d expect at a spa, rather than the worn-out, scruffy gray-green towels we used for washing our animals.

  Amy caught me looking askance at the towels and laughed again. “This is a brand-new batch. We use white because we can bleach them. They don’t stay this fluffy for long, I assure you.”

  I’d said little since Amy had urged us out of the car and I couldn’t think of a proper response now, either. Amy bustled off in the opposite direction and down a nearly identical hallway.

  “Follow me,” she said. “I’ll get you set up.”

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I reached for it, hoping it was finally Stephen, but then decided to let it go to voice mail. I didn’t want to touch anything, since Munchkin had transferred a considerable amount of his accumulated mud, blood, and other stinking detritus to me.

  Amy was about to disappear around a corner and I raced to catch up.

  She ushered us into a room that looked much like a locker room, with showers around the edges at varying heights and a line of benches down the middle. Amy put the towels down on a bench, along with a plastic bag and what looked like a small bolt of children’s fabric.

  She turned the faucet of a shower at the far end that was at people height, and then started up another one lower to the floor. She reached out to test the temperature. “It takes a while to warm up sometimes.”

  She pulled a sheet of plastic from the bag on the bench and spread it on the floor, safely away from the shower. “If you stand on this while you take off your clothes, we won’t lose any of the material that may have come from the crime scene. I can collect it all later, when you’re done. I don’t know how important the evidence on your clothes might be, or whether it will be accepted by the court, but we’ll collect it all and let a judge decide later.”

  Belle looked up at me, but I didn’t move. The idea of being this close to criminal evidence shocked me. I shook my head and shivered. It was ridiculous. It had been my idea to preserve any materials that might point to a crime or criminals, but I’d only been thinking of Munchkin. The evidence on my clothes, my skin, and my dog was a whole different story—a horror story I wanted no part of.

  Amy ignored my discomfort or didn’t notice. She picked up the fabric bundle. “When you’re done, you can pop on these scrubs. And I’ve got a pair of shoes you can borrow if you need them.” I shook my head. I had an extra pair of sneakers in my emergency kit in my car.

  “All right, then, I’ll leave you to it. Push that green button when you’re done, and I’ll come back and take you to Munchkin. The shampoo in the dispenser is gentle enough for both you and Belle. I’d recommend you let her get right in there with you.”

  “How often do you do this?” I asked, thinking she seemed confident in her job, skilled at handling my confusion as the shock set in, and completely unfazed by the violence.

  “Hardly ever,” Amy said. “Certainly not with dogs. But I was a forensic nurse in a trauma unit before I decided it was too much like being in a combat zone. This is nothing. You’re going to be fine. So is Belle, and Munchkin too, I promise.”

  She opened the door and left me standing in the middle of the locker room holding Belle’s leash. Normally, Belle was energized by water and would be racing from faucet to faucet to drink, splash, and shake herself off. Maybe the flo
or was too slippery for her usual antics or maybe she was picking up on my own discomfort, but she waited patiently while I stripped down and left all my clothing in a pile on the tarp Amy had spread out.

  The soap had a lavender herbal scent that I breathed in deeply as I lathered up both Belle and myself. One of the first people I’d met in Orchard View was an herbalist who’d told me that lavender was a great relaxer. She no longer practiced herbal cures, but the woodsy floral scent—or the hot water, or rinsing off the stinky gunk—was definitely helping me feel better.

  I’d almost forgotten the earlier horror of finding Munchkin injured when my ringing phone startled me. I lost my balance on the soapy tiled floor and slammed into Belle, knocking us both to the floor as I lunged for my phone.

  I didn’t recognize the number identifying the call, but I answered it anyway.

  “Hello, this is Maggie,” I said, grabbing a towel and covering myself up as if I were on FaceTime instead of a phone call.

  “It’s Jason. Have you been able to get in touch with Stephen? I wanted to let him know I landed here safely and to give him the unit’s number in case of an emergency. Communications are going to be spotty. The storm knocked down a bunch of cell towers, and everyone’s trying to call in or out to check on loved ones.”

  “Are you okay? I thought you told us not to call unless it was an emergency.”

  “I’m fine. The airport is miles from the disaster zone. Everyone’s taking one last opportunity to call home from the airport pay phones while we can. But didn’t you have a meeting with Stephen this morning? How did it go?”

  I chewed my bottom lip, not sure what I should tell Jason about Stephen. When in doubt, lead with the truth was one of my guiding principles, but I didn’t want to worry Jason unnecessarily. And the truth was, I had no idea what was going on with Stephen.

  “Maggie? Are you there?”

  I decided to start slowly and add facts as needed.

  “I’m here. I haven’t been able to get in touch with Stephen either, I’m afraid, and he missed our scheduled appointment time. I’m not sure where he is.”

  “He didn’t call? That’s not like him. Where are you now? If I reach him, I’ll tell him to call.”

  “At the vet with Belle and Munchkin.”

  “Both dogs? Is everything okay?”

  And there it was. The question that demanded I come clean or deliberately hide the truth from Jason.

  “Um . . .”

  “Maggie, what’s going on? Is something wrong? Do I need to come home?”

  “No!” I said, more vehemently than I’d intended. “You need to be there. This project is your baby. You can’t let your team down.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Not much. I’ve got Belle and Munchkin here at the vet. I found Munchkin with some cuts. He may need stitches. We should be here a few more minutes and then I’ll take him home. Or to my house if Stephen isn’t back yet. I’m sure everything is fine.” I’d told the truth, but felt a little guilty not sharing with Jason how concerned I was. I could text Jason later when I had more information. Or Stephen could text him.

  “Cuts? How did that happen? Was the poor boy in a knife fight? A bar brawl?” Jason laughed, but had no way of knowing how close he’d come to what I feared might be the truth.

  “I don’t know. That’s partly why I brought him to the vet. That and he has a bit of a stiff leg that I want to make sure doesn’t need any special treatment. The vet’s still looking at him, though, so I can’t give you a report. I can fill you in later by text, right?”

  “Sure, that’d be great. They’re telling us that texts should get through most of the time. Apparently they take up less bandwidth than voice calls. And let me hear what you learn from Stephen, too. Tell him to call me. I gotta go now, though. There’s a long line of people trying to use the phone.”

  “Take care, Jason,” I said, but he’d already disconnected.

  I dressed quickly and toweled Belle dry. I pushed the green button on the wall to call Amy, but also clicked Belle’s leash to her collar and set off down the hall in my bare feet to find Munchkin. My stomach rumbled. It was nearing lunchtime. I was hungry and it was time for me and the dogs to salvage something useful from this crazy day.

  Belle and I ran into Dr. Davidson before we got to the examining room. I greeted him and reintroduced myself, since I’d met him only once several months earlier.

  “Of course I remember. Newton, right? A giant Russian wolfhound?”

  I nodded yes to the doctor’s memories. “How is Munchkin?”

  The doctor frowned and my mouth went dry. Belle sat and whined.

  “He’ll be fine,” he said, brushing his hair back from his forehead so it stuck up in stiff spikes. “But I want him to stay here tonight. I’d like to sedate him and keep him on intravenous antibiotics. It will let his body focus on healing. When he came in he’d lost a lot of blood and was severely dehydrated. He’s lucky you brought him in when you did. Much later and . . .” The doctor cleared his throat, brushed his hair back, and looked at the floor, then the ceiling, and then the corridor behind him. Anywhere but at Belle and me. “He’ll do a better job of healing if we can keep his electrolytes balanced and his fluid levels up. We put in a hefty number of sutures and I don’t want him pulling them out. I can’t put a collar on him right now because it would irritate the stitches on his neck.”

  My skin prickled and I felt the room begin to spin. I’m not usually squeamish about blood and injuries but from the doctor’s assessment I could tell that Munchkin had had a close call. Imagining what might have happened made me feel sick. That horror, coupled with my concern for Stephen, made me sink to the floor to kneel next to Belle. She nudged at my arm until I wrapped it around her and drew her close. “Can we see him?” I asked. “I want to be able to tell Stephen Laird how he’s doing. Stephen is Munchkin’s person.”

  “Amy will bring you the paperwork,” he said, kneeling in front of both Belle and me. He rubbed Belle behind the ears and under the chin. “Now you,” he added, looking into Belle’s eyes. “I assume you and Munchkin are chums, right? I think it’s best if you don’t visit him today. He needs to be kept quiet and I’m guessing that wouldn’t be possible with you around, huh?” Belle smiled in agreement. But then, golden retrievers are almost always smiling.

  “That goes for you too, I’m afraid, Maggie. But I assure you that there’s no reason to think he won’t make a full recovery.” The doctor’s stomach rumbled. He blushed and glanced at his watch. “Oh wow. Past noon. You’ve had a shock yourself. Would you like to come back to my office and split a sandwich? You’re looking a little pale. Amy will bring the paperwork back to us.”

  Once in his office, I took the sandwich out of politeness, but after forcing down a few bites, along with sips from a can of cola the vet shoved my way, I felt less like I was living on a Tilt-A-Whirl. I wolfed down the rest of the sandwich. In between bites, I glanced at the paperwork and filled out as much as I could—Stephen’s name, address, and phone number, along with my own phone number as the emergency contact.

  I explained what I could, which wasn’t much, about what was going on with Munchkin and his owner. “They’re bonded more than any other dog and person I know,” I told him. “I’ll get Stephen over here as soon as I can. Munchkin will be anxious, I expect.”

  Dr. Davidson inclined his head sagely while surreptitiously passing Belle treats from behind the desk. “Right now, between the shock he’s gone through, the healing he needs to do, and the sedative I’m giving him, anxiety shouldn’t be a problem for Munchkin. We’ll address that issue if and when we get there.”

  “Do you have any idea what happened to him?” I asked. “Could you tell from his injuries or all that . . . gunk on his fur?” Gunk. A technical term if there ever was one. But I had no idea what was clinging to poor Munchkin’s coat. Nor was I sure I wanted to know.

  “Chinese food,” said Amy, walking through the door
with a smoothie in one hand and a clipboard in the other. “If the noodles and duck sauce are anything to go by.”

  She closed the door with a quick hip check and lifted her chin in Dr. Davidson’s direction. “No appointments until 3:00 p.m. I locked the front door, put the phone on messages, and sent Brittany to lunch too. Bashir is taking vitals. I phoned the university lab at Davis and sent a courier up there. They need you to call with the codes before the samples arrive.”

  Amy turned to address me while pulling out another desk chair with her foot and sinking into it with a sigh. “We had an emergency at five this morning and have been moving like a NASCAR pit crew since then. We don’t usually shut the door during the day, but we need a breather and there’s an emergency bell if anyone desperately needs us.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I would have thought we were the only ones here.”

  “That’s the impression we try to give all our customers,” Amy said, laughing. “Some days it’s easier than others. Today wasn’t one of those days.” She turned her attention back toward Dr. Davidson. “The treatment codes?”

  He leaned forward over the desk. He grabbed a piece of scratch paper and scribbled a series of numbers on it before handing the scrap to Amy. He looked at me. “From your story, I take it you have no idea where Munchkin was when this happened.”

  I shook my head. “I came on a hunch—but I don’t have any authority to order a review of the evidence, if that’s what you’re getting at. Stephen’s partner, Jason Mueller, is a cop here in Orchard View and could probably give you all the appropriate requisition codes, or whatever you need, but he’s in Texas as part of the emergency response team for all those storms—the flooding and tornados. I can try to reach him, but chances are . . . Maybe his partner Paolo Bianchi could help?” I fumbled for my phone. “I’ve got his number in here.”