by Nina Wright
“Damn,” I muttered. “The overhead light’s burned out. I forgot about it.”
Jeb played his beam over the entire interior and behind the door, too. “GIL’s long gone, Whiskey. You’re more likely to find your dog.”
I didn’t want to find GIL. And Abra was welcome only if she returned Norman. I insisted we check my attached garage, which I rarely locked, and the tumble-down barn built back in the day when Vestige was part of a farm. In both places Jeb’s beam uncovered only what belonged.
“Now can we call it a night?” he said. “And take a shower together?”
I grabbed Jeb’s flashlight and jogged toward the treeline, where my mowed lawn gave way to several acres of hardwoods. I knew my ex-husband would follow, and not just because I had his light. But in the end it wasn’t what we saw that mattered. It was what we heard: the insistent bark of a dog coming not from the woods in front of us but rather from behind us. From the direction of the Castle. Running toward us were Prince Harry the Pee Master and his master, Chester.
“What on earth are you doing up at this hour?” I said, shining Jeb’s light in their little faces. The beam bounced off Chester’s round glasses, and made Prince Harry’s eyes glow greenish-red.
“Lower the light, please,” Chester said, shading his face. “We’re on your side!”
He and Jeb high-fived each other (technically, it was a low-five for Jeb), and then Prince Harry tried to high-five both Chester and Jeb. I repeated my question.
“Prince Harry woke me up because he had to pee!” Chester exclaimed. “That’s progress. And when we went outside, I saw the lights on at Vestige. It looked like an emergency, so we came to help.”
I made the responsible adult decision not to tell Chester about GIL. No point alarming a child about a trespasser, especially one who looked like a dead man. Instead, I reported that Norman had come back and then bounded off into the woods with Abra.
“Is Fenton with them?” Chester asked.
I didn’t know if I had the energy to explain why Fenton would be at Vestige in the middle of the night. It might make me look like, well, like one of Chester’s parents.
So I simply said, “Why do you ask?”
“Because there he is.” Chester pointed past us.
I whirled about, and the flashlight whirled with me, revealing Fenton—in full frontal nudity. Apparently, he’d dropped his towel. I hadn’t realized how spectacularly well-endowed he was. We hadn’t gotten that far. Silently I vowed never to let the shitzapoo foil another night of love-making. Who knew Teddy Roosevelt was hung like a horse?
“You all right?” I heard Jeb ask Fenton.
“Yeah,” he panted. “But I lost both dogs.”
Remembering my role as hostess, I said, “I didn’t really want Abra back.”
But Fenton wanted his dog back. Needed him, in fact. He was disconsolate. As he stumbled toward us, Jeb said to me, “Can you give the man some light?”
“I am!” I exclaimed, the beam still on Fenton’s best feature.
“Lower, Whiskey,” Jeb said. “He needs to see the ground.”
As our motley crew moved toward my house, Fenton recounted what had happened. “Norman was glad to see me. God knows I was relieved to see him. Then he spotted Abra, and off they went. At first I thought they were chasing the man who looks like your dead mayor. But I saw him turn toward the road. Abra and Norman kept going—straight into the woods. I tried to follow them, but I didn’t have a light, and I’m not dressed for the terrain.”
“The ground’s gotta be rough on your bare feet,” I agreed.
“The low branches were a bigger problem.”
Once inside Fenton trudged upstairs to dress. I stole a look at the other males; Prince Harry was wagging his tail, Jeb was grinning like a court jester, and Chester seemed utterly unfazed. Maybe Rupert strutted naked around the Castle grounds all the time.
“How about I make a pot of coffee?” Chester suggested.
“Whiskey’s out of coffee,” Jeb said.
Rooting through a low cupboard, Chester came up with a box of loose tea I was sure I’d never bought. Then he located a teapot and infuser I’d never seen.
“A little Earl Grey makes a good eye-opener,” he said. “Of course, Whiskey’s out of lemons, but I know where she keeps her honey.”
“So do I,” said Jeb.
Chapter Twenty-Four
After Fenton put on his pants, Jeb offered him a ride back to Red Hen’s House. Finally I got the shower I needed. By the time I took Velcro outside to do his duty, it was sunrise, and I had learned how to handle him. His extreme separation anxiety required either Animal Lullabies, me, or my scent.
If I couldn’t have Teddy Roosevelt in bed, I wanted to sleep alone. So I put Velcro in the guest room with the smelly things he loved and collapsed on my own bed. I woke four hours later to the insistent sounds of my doorbell ringing and Velcro yapping. I couldn’t blame him for that. Name a dog who doesn’t bark when there’s someone at the door. With my robe on right-side-out, I hurried downstairs.
Really, I shouldn’t have hurried. I probably shouldn’t have answered the door at all. It was Dr. David making a house-call. A “house-modification-call,” as it turned out. He literally had a shopping cart full of what he called “assisted-living devices.” Not crutches, walkers, or bedpans although these were the canine equivalents. Even so, I let him in. Probably because I felt guilty about having let Abra run away again. Dr. David was the dog catcher of last resort in our community. I hoped I wouldn’t need his help to find her, and she wouldn’t cause too much damage. Lately, my life was all about guilt. And karma. Or were they the same thing?
Dr. David told me to go fetch Velcro while he wheeled in his shopping cart. By the time I returned with the teacup dog, the vet had set up an alternate universe in my living room: graduated-height step stools led to and from every piece of furniture a human might sit on. Clearly this was about making my furniture accessible to nonhumans, even those with bad joints. Velcro required no prompting to demonstrate that the devices worked. He beamed at me from the center of my damask couch.
“Even with his splints on, he can scale your sofa.” Dr. David declared.
“And that’s a good thing because . . . ?”
“Because little dogs need to get up off the floor. It relieves their anxiety, Whiskey, by making them feel like equals. And here’s another tension reliever.”
Dr. David fished around among the items remaining in his cart until he came up with a furry white plush toy that vaguely resembled a lamb.
“Velcro, meet Floozy,” he said, placing the toy in front of the dog. To my amazement, the dog immediately humped the toy.
“Very good, Velcro!” the vet exclaimed. To me, he said, “Watch him closely.”
I couldn’t have looked away if I’d tried. Velcro was going at it with such vigor, I was sure he would damage one joint or another. Suddenly he experienced the relief he was seeking. All over Floozy. And my couch.
“Floozy is washable,” Dr. David told me.
“How about my couch?”
My doorbell rang again. I half-expected to find Velcro smoking a cigarette when I returned.
Chester was on my front porch, sans Prince Harry.
“I’m here to assist Dr. David,” he announced.
Doing what, I couldn’t imagine. My living room had already been retrofitted, and the toy ho was on the job. In the living room, Velcro was sound asleep, his fuzzy black head resting on Floozy’s nicely rounded rump.
“See how relaxed he is.” Dr. David remarked.
I gave silent thanks that my young neighbor had missed the show. “You need Chester’s help with something?”
“Yes. He’s just in time to help me unload the Animal Ambulance and retrofit the rest of your house.”
“Say what?”
“Don’t worry about the cost of all this equipment, Whiskey. Fleggers is happy to lend it to you in exchange for a modest donation.”
> Dr. David let Chester push the shopping cart out my front door and down the driveway, where they reloaded it. As chagrined as I was by the sight of a second cart full of stair-step devices, at least there was no back-up Floozy. When Chester was out of earshot, I sarcastically thanked Dr. David for not supplying more than one ho.
“Psychologically speaking, a dog should have only one bitch,” the vet explained. “Even if that bitch is a lamb, and a fake lamb, at that. If you look closely, you’ll see that Floozy is proportioned for maximum canine pleasure.”
I would never look that closely, and I told Dr. David so.
“It’s science, Whiskey. There’s nothing to fear.”
“Really? How about losing control of one’s home? Most people would fear that.”
Which made me wonder if part of my household was still AWOL. I excused myself to check.
“Avery and the twins have gone missing!” I breathlessly informed Dr. David. “And Deely never showed up for work!”
“The twins are fine, and so is Avery,” he said. “She gave Deely the day off.”
He explained that Avery had left Deely a voicemail message that she and the children planned to spend a long weekend with her “new man.”
“Who’s her new man? And why didn’t I get a message?”
Although Dr. David couldn’t answer the first question, he had a theory about the second question: “Because she loathes you.”
He announced that he and Deely were now planning a long weekend, too. The only thing that could spoil it would be a Fleggers-related crisis. I gulped, realizing that he must not have heard about Abra and Norman.
“Don’t worry about Abra and Norman,” he added. “Chester’s got that covered.”
“How?”
“He’s a Flegger-in-training. Too young to run the Animal Ambulance, but he’s got a professional driver. So Deely and I can take some time off.” The vet came as close to smiling as he ever did in the company of humans.
“But Abra and Norman are missing,” I reminded him.
“What else is new? If they come back, give Chester a call. And if they don’t, they probably will . . . someday.”
With Chester’s help, Dr. David finished retro-fitting the rest of my house, including my bedroom. As I stood in the doorway, surveying the stair-step footstools now in place next to my king-size bed, I wondered if I should even bother inviting Fenton back. Teddy Roosevelt had hunted big game on several continents, but he would have run screaming from a scene like this.
When Dr. David cleared his throat, I realized he was waiting for more than my verbal approval.
“Oh. Right. I’ll get my checkbook.”
“That would be generous of you, Whiskey,” he said. “Make it out to Four Legs Good National Headquarters.”
Besides the negative impact on my sex life and my bank account, I quickly discovered another drawback to canine-assisted-living: it created an obstacle course for humans. On my way to my home office, I tripped over a stool and fell flat on my face.
“Why does Velcro need access to all my furniture?” I yelped.
The vet sighed as he helped me up. “It’s about relieving stress—on his joints and on his mind.”
“Let’s just hope my joints and my mind survive the treatment.”
“Treatment?” Dr. David looked puzzled.
“Therapy. Rehab. Whatever you call this temporary set-up.” I waved at the array of graduated stools now cluttering my home.
“This is a way of life, Whiskey. Living with the differently-abled always requires a period of adjustment. In time you’ll learn to zigzag your way around.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Finally I had reached the end of my metaphorical leash. “If I’m going to make a generous donation, it will be for Velcro’s permanent relocation.”
Dr. David gaped. “You’re not suggesting we find him another home?”
“No. I’m insisting!”
“But—“
“No problem.” a small voice announced. “I’ll take Velcro home with me. Prince Harry needs a playmate.”
Chester grinned up at us. I hadn’t even realized he was listening.
“You’re not allowed to have a dog,” I reminded him. “Let alone two. Even Prince Harry is illegal.”
Not to mention that Velcro had already been expelled from the Castle, which is how I’d gotten him.
“Not a problem,” Chester insisted. “I bribe our new housekeeper to help me hide Prince Harry. He lives in my wing. Cassina and Rupert never go there.”
“But Velcro has . . . special needs,” I said, choosing my words carefully.
“You mean, bad joints and anxiety issues,” Chester said.
“Yes. And he makes a lot of noise. A lot of messes, too.”
Chester shrugged. “We all have our issues, Whiskey.”
Okay, but my karma was calling. “Chester, I don’t feel right about helping you deceive your mother.”
“Trust me,” Chester said. “Cassina prefers it that way.”
Did that include Rupert’s extra-marital affair? And, possibly, a shady shuttle service for missing children? I had a bad feeling about the whole arrangement . . . until I glanced again at the trail of graduated step-stools. Who was I to think that Chester’s life at the Castle was more dysfunctional than mine? And the kid really did love dogs. I wrote Fleggers a larger check than I’d intended and promised to help Chester with his dogs any way I could.
After the vet left, I retreated to my office to check my calendar. Fenton was due to tour Druin with Odette that afternoon. Assuming Felicia Gould and her security squad cooperated, it could only go better than our date last night.
Chester appeared in my office doorway. “Whiskey, I’ve been thinking.”
“And a fine job you’ve done of it, too,” I said.
“Thank you. Specifically, I’ve been thinking about Twyla’s missing kids. You’re worried about them, and so am I.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Chester was a born worrier; he didn’t need my encouragement. So I assured him that Jenx was on the case.
“Jenx is overworked,” Chester said. “But I know a way to find out what happened to Twyla’s kids. I’m going undercover on the North Side.”
Chester had cooked up a Mission Impossible-type scheme with a little help from Yolanda Brewster, who probably watched too much TV.
“Kids are more likely to talk to other kids than to grownups. I’m pretty sure I’ll come home with some clues.”
I tried to imagine Chester blending in anywhere, let alone an ethnically diverse, economically challenged community; i.e., the ‘hood. Still, Yolanda knew the territory and the players. If she thought he could pull it off, who was I to say he couldn’t?
All he needed was a ride to Amity Avenue. Expectantly he looked at me.
“You have a driver,” I told him.
“My driver is taking his real estate exam,” Chester said, “so he can work part-time for you.”
Touché. The more I thought about Chester’s idea, the more I liked it. He came from theatrical stock, all the better to play-act his way into somebody’s confidence. And I was willing to be his round-trip driver du jour. While waiting for him, I would investigate Twyla’s house. Now that the coroner had ruled her death a murder, the sheriff’s evidence team wouldn’t be far behind. I wanted to survey the scene before cops impounded what was left of her stuff.
Chester offered to attend to Velcro while I dressed. He explained that Dr. David had acquainted him with “Floozy the Personal Canine Trainer” and her “unorthodox” ways. Did I believe that Chester had bought the vet’s sanitized version of the lamb’s biz? I did not. But the very fact that he could pretend to do so, for the comfort of hovering adults, confirmed my high opinion of him as a player. I knew Chester would do well undercover.
I was curious about his “costume,” however. That navy blue school blazer was sure to raise suspicion. Just kidding; he didn’t wear it in the summer. But his Polo wardrobe wouldn�
��t work, either.
“Don’t worry, Whiskey. Mrs. B’s got me covered.”
Yolanda planned to dress Chester in her grandson’s clothes, and then slip him out the backdoor. We didn’t talk much during the short ride into town. At Chester’s prompting, I pulled into the alley behind Yolanda’s house.
“You’re absolutely sure you’ll be all right on the North Side?”
“I’m sure,” Chester said with confidence. “I have my cell phone. And my natural charm.”
He grinned broadly, revealing a few missing baby teeth. I promised to keep my phone on, and we wished each other luck. He jumped down from the front seat and threaded his way between trash cans that were almost as tall as he was. I watched him scramble over Yolanda’s chain-link fence, thinking that he was pretty tough for a tiny millionaire.
So as to attract minimal attention, I parked my car inside Twyla’s garage and pulled the door closed. It seemed like a good place to start my investigation. Except that Twyla hadn’t added anything to the garage, as far as I could tell. It appeared to contain only those sundry tools that either I or a previous tenant had left.
The house was another story. Though stripped of children’s things, as Roy had reported, it was not what I’d call orderly. Adult personal items—from clothing to cosmetics—were strewn in every room. I found a hairbrush and curling iron on the coffee table, towels on most chairs, a bra between the couch cushions, and nail polish with toe-separators on the stove. The kitchen table was so littered with tabloid magazines and junk-mail flyers, I could barely see the surface. Twyla’s shirts and shorts covered the floor like small asymmetrical area rugs. Either she was in the habit of never putting her own stuff away, or she’d been looking for something. Or someone else had.
I was legally within my rights to be here; I owned the place, and my sole tenant was dead. Still, I felt sick with guilt and apprehension. What exactly had happened to the woman who lived at 254 Amity Avenue? And the unnamed infants and toddlers she’d claimed were hers and her sisters’? The children had been here, briefly, with their laughter, cries, and dirty diapers. Then they were gone. Spirited away, or so it seemed. Removed under cover of darkness while the ever-vigilant Yolanda Brewster caught a few hours’ sleep. Standing here now, I felt as if their essence had been “erased.” Only faint traces of hairspray, air freshener, and fabric softener lingered in the air. Innocent and unrevealing.