“Hello,” he returned with a curt nod. “I’m looking for Dr. Popper.”
Once he got closer, I could see that his eyes were as green as a shamrock on St. Patrick’s Day. So I wasn’t surprised when he added, “I’m Kieran O’Malley.”
“I’m Jessie Popper,” I told him once I’d finally caught my breath.
Suzanne cast me such a scathing look that I wondered if she had planned on claiming to be Dr. Popper. Anything to prolong her interaction with this living, breathing page out of GQ.
I cast her a dirty look of my own, thinking, Every woman for herself.
“Is there something I can help you with?” I asked sweetly.
It was only then that I remembered I was currently in the process of planning my wedding—a wedding that involved place cards, ice sculpture, and even surprise showers that weren’t actually a surprise. Oh, yes, and a lifelong commitment to one Nicholas Burby.
I cleared my throat, a gesture that seemed to clear my head as well. “Of course,” I said in my normal voice. “You’re Trooper O’Malley from the New York State Canine Unit. I was told to expect a call from you.”
I’d gotten a call a few weeks earlier, asking if I’d be willing to add some of the dogs in the New York State Canine Unit to my list of patients. Of course I said yes. In order to foster a good working relationship, the dogs lived with their handlers in addition to working with them. And with state troopers residing all over the state, the dogs received their medical care from local veterinarians, rather than one central facility.
Once I’d found out I was going to be working with state troopers and their dogs, I did a bit of Internet research. I learned that the New York State Canine Unit had more than sixty canine teams that specialized in explosive detection or narcotics detection, with three additional bloodhound teams used for tracking. The unit had started in 1975 with three troopers and three dogs purchased from the U.S. Army. While Crow, Miss Jicky, and Baretta were trained by the Baltimore Police Department, in 1978 New York began its own training.
These days, most of the dogs were donated by Humane Societies, breeders, and private citizens. Dogs and handlers trained together at the department’s training center in Cooperstown for twenty weeks. In addition to basic obedience and agility, they learned specialized skills like tracking, building searches, and narcotics or explosive detection.
“I happened to be close by, so I figured I’d stop over,” Trooper O’Malley explained. “It seemed easier than playing phone tag.”
“How did you find my address?” I asked, surprised.
He shrugged. “I’m a cop,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Personally, I’ve always thought that law enforcement was such a fascinating career!” Suzanne interjected, her voice as breathless as if she’d just run a marathon. “Looking danger in the eye must be an everyday occurrence for someone like you.”
Kieran O’Malley grinned. “I’ll admit I’ve got a few stories to tell.”
“Did I hear Jessie say you’re with the canine unit?” Suzanne asked.
“That’s right. In fact, that’s why I’m here. Skittles, come heel!”
He’d barely gotten the words out before the muscular German shepherd that had been sitting patiently in the truck leaped out and positioned herself beside him as if she was his shadow. Yet from the steely look in the beautiful dog’s dark brown eyes, it was clear that this powerful animal was nobody’s shadow.
“Here’s my girl,” Officer O’Malley said proudly. “Skittles, sit!”
The dog dutifully lowered her butt to the ground.
“Skittles is such a cute name,” Suzanne purred, fluffing out her hair as if she’d begun channeling Farrah Fawcett. “How did you ever come up with it, Officer O’Malley?”
“Please, call me Kieran,” he drawled. “It’s a custom in the department to name every new dog after the last trooper killed on duty. In this case, it was a man named Stanislaus Kraminski. But his nickname was Skittles because he loved candy so much.” Smiling fondly at his partner-in-crime-fighting, he said, “The name Skittles suited this little girl much better than Stanislaus or Kraminski.”
“I’m going to be treating some of the dogs who work with the state troopers,” I explained to Suzanne. “The dogs in the canine unit live at home with their handlers. I’ve just been hired to work with the troopers who live on Long Island.”
“I’d love to get involved in something like that!” Suzanne cooed. “I’m a veterinarian too.”
Between all the cooing and purring, Suzanne sounded as if she was one of the patients instead of a doctor. In fact, I had to look closely to make sure the woman standing next to me was the same one I’d stayed up all night with during our pre-vet years at Bryn Mawr, memorizing the body parts of a fruit fly and doing dissections. This version of Suzanne reminded me a little too much of Betty Boop. At the moment, she was draped across Kieran’s pickup truck like a model in a spark-plug ad, batting her eyelashes as if she’d gotten soap from a car wash in them.
“It sounds as if you live nearby,” she murmured. “What town?”
“Bright Shores,” he replied.
“Really!” Suzanne exclaimed. “I live in West Brompton Beach. Goodness, that practically makes us next door neighbors.”
Right, I thought dryly. If your backyard happens to be thirty miles wide.
Kieran didn’t seem to be any better at Long Island geography than my gal pal.
“West Brompton Beach, huh?” he said lightly. “You’re right. You and I live so close to each other that maybe we should get together sometime. Compare notes on our favorite restaurants, stuff like that.”
Like Suzanne, his voice had changed. His posture too. At first I thought I was the only one who’d noticed. Then I realized that Skittles had as well.
And Kieran’s loyal sidekick didn’t seem to approve of all the sparks that were suddenly flying. She drew herself up a little higher and stuck out her chest. And then, her ears pricked and her eyes bright, she emitted a no-nonsense growl.
“Quiet!” Kieran barked.
Being a well-trained animal, Skittles followed his command. But that didn’t keep the German shepherd from glaring at her master.
I’m with you, Skittles, I thought grimly. I’m running a veterinary practice, not a dating service for the hormonally challenged.
“Let me give you my phone number,” Suzanne offered. With a giggle, she added, “You know, I don’t think I told you my name. It’s Suzanne Fox.”
Kieran’s grin widened. “Fox, huh?”
Somehow, the double meaning of my girlfriend’s last name never seems to be wasted on her male admirers.
“I’ll just give you one of my cards,” Suzanne went on. “It has both my office number and my cell phone number. . . .”
As she stepped forward to hand Kieran her card, Skittles tensed. The massive dog’s upper lip flared upward, just a millimeter or two, in what I recognized as a snarl.
Kieran and Suzanne were too busy playing the roles of Romeo and Juliet to notice.
“Great,” Kieran said, tucking the card into his pants pocket. “I’ll give you a call, Ms. Fox.”
“Anytime, Trooper O’Malley,” Suzanne cooed.
I cleared my throat. “Maybe I should take a look at Skittles,” I suggested, gesturing toward the clinic-on-wheels parked a few feet away. “Since you’re here and all.”
A look of confusion crossed Kieran’s face. For the moment, at least, he’d clearly forgotten all about why he’d come to my house.
“Oh. Sure.” He snapped to attention. “Skittles, heel!”
Skittles seemed relieved that once again she was the center of her master’s attention. As for Suzanne, she was already sashaying toward the cottage, her hips swaying so far from side to side you’d have thought she was giving rumba lessons.
“I’ll just wait inside,” she called over her shoulder. Fixing her eyes on Kieran, she added, “It was so lovely meeting you. I look forward to seeing you again
. Soon.”
Skittles let out a yelp. I had to suppress the urge to do the same.
Since this was the first night Nick and I would be spending in the Big House, I wanted to mark the occasion by doing something sensational.
Besides, Friday evenings had had a special meaning for Nick and me for a long time. Both of us were so busy during the week that we’d begun setting aside this one night of the week as a chance to relax and reconnect. This past year had been particularly tough. His first year at the Brookside University School of Law had been as demanding as boot camp, but it had lasted nine months instead of six weeks. Embarking upon his first internship at a law firm wasn’t much easier. As if the long hours and nonstop pressure weren’t bad enough, the poor man had to iron a shirt every morning.
I decided to take advantage of the magnificent kitchen that was now at my disposal by cooking an elegant dinner. My version of an elegant dinner anyway. That meant ravioli smothered in Bolognese sauce. Homemade, of course—not by me but by the wizards at Papa Luigi’s Italian Market.
I picked up a bottle of Chianti too. For the dessert course, however, I stuck with an American classic: Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. Besides, I told myself it was possible that either Ben, Jerry, or the ice cream’s namesake had some Italian blood in them. To maintain the theme of fine dining, I served it in the crystal bowls I found in the butler’s pantry instead of straight out of the carton.
“This isn’t too shabby,” Nick commented as the two of us sat at opposite ends of Betty and Winston’s dining room table. Since it was long enough to seat fourteen, I practically had to squint to see him.
Not that it wasn’t worth it. The table was covered in a lacy cream-colored tablecloth that matched the napkins we’d both felt obligated to place in our laps. A fresh bouquet of cream-colored roses that Betty had left for us to enjoy sat in the center, flanked by two ornate silver candelabras holding six pale pink candles. A chamber music CD added to the elegant and extremely romantic ambience.
Even though I’d been busy shoving pasta into my mouth, I paused long enough to say, “Not at all. In fact, I could definitely get used to this.”
Nick set down his fork. “You know, Jess, once I’m out of law school and I’ve started working, we should be able to buy a house. With our combined salaries, I mean.”
Is it getting warm in here, I wondered, or did Papa Luigi put too much garlic in the tomato sauce?
Here I was still trying to get used to the idea of being someone’s lawful wedded wife, with my wedding day looming ahead in the not-distant-enough future. And now my betrothed was suddenly throwing real estate into the deal. Mortgages, taxes, circuit breakers, cesspools, lawns that required mowing, leaves that required raking, shingles that required painting . . . it was enough to take away anyone’s appetite.
I took a big gulp of wine, then mumbled, “I’m happy living in the cottage.”
“Sure,” Nick replied. “The cottage is great. For now. But before long, we’ll want more space. A two-car garage. A laundry room. And we’ll probably want to do some renovations. You know, to make our place exactly the way we want it.
“Besides,” he continued as matter-of-factly as if he was talking about the Yankees, “at some point we’ll want to start a family.”
“I have a family,” I squawked. I gestured toward two of my children, who at the moment were sitting on the floor next to me with their pal Frederick, as alert as Beefeaters guarding the crown jewels. Of course, I knew perfectly well that all three of them were merely hoping that some random morsel of people food would drop onto the floor.
“Right.” Nick chuckled. “But I’m talking about family members who don’t have to be walked twice a day.”
“Oh.”
By now, I’d really lost my appetite. If talking about real estate made my stomach so tight that it would no longer accept food, talking about the pitter-patter of little feet was enough to launch a full-scale anxiety attack.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want children. It was just that whenever I thought about having them, it seemed like something in the distant future. One of those things it was difficult to imagine actually happening, like losing one’s teeth. Or hair. Or any other body parts that had the potential to drop off much further along in one’s life.
I’m not saying that having children should be viewed in such a negative way. It’s just that it sounded so darned scary. In fact, discussing it was as likely to ruin a romantic dinner as talking about global warming or nuclear warfare.
Nick must have read my mind. Either that or he correctly interpreted the stricken look that was no doubt on my face.
“But we don’t have to make any decisions about that now,” he said with a gentle smile. “Instead of the future, we should be concentrating on the present.”
Yes, I thought, the present is much easier to cope with. Especially since it involves nothing more demanding than finishing up this bottle of Chianti and moving on to the Ben & Jerry’s course.
After dinner, Nick volunteered to do the dishes. He insisted it was only fair, since I was the one who’d played the role of executive chef, or at least executive food shopper.
I decided to use my free time by grabbing my computer and my purse and parking myself on one of the silk brocade-covered Victorian couches in Betty and Winston’s living room. Tinkerbell jumped up beside me and meowed crossly at the machine in my lap, telling it in no uncertain terms that that was her spot. When it failed to respond to her threats, she finally gave up and settled down on a lavender beaded throw pillow that Betty had brought back from Morocco or Majorca or one of the other exotic places she’d traveled to.
I reached into my purse and pulled out the Xerox copy of the cocktail napkin that I’d been carrying around. Spreading it out on the couch next to me, I studied it, hoping that somehow what I was looking at would start to make sense.
100 Brown BB +
NGIPPL IFAWCI
A2RX
It looked just as mysterious as it had the first time I’d seen it. Still, I didn’t lose heart.
In the old days, I thought as I clicked on the Internet Explorer icon, people needed a decoder ring to figure out this kind of thing. In modern times, we had something a heck of a lot better.
As soon as the Google page loaded, I typed in “100 Brown,” then hit Enter.
As I expected, a long list of links came up. Unfortunately, they all appeared to be links to websites that were selling something with the words 100 and brown in them, including 100 Christmas lights on brown wire, a 100% brown leather recliner, 100 brown baby-proof electrical outlet covers, and 100 brown corrugated shipping boxes. There was also a link to the website of a radio station that considered Van Morrison’s recording of “Brown-Eyed Girl” one of the top 100 hits of all time.
Maybe I would have done better with one of those decoder rings.
But I was hardly ready to give up. Next I Googled “NGIPPL.” After a few seconds, Google politely informed me that my search did not match any documents. It also suggested that I make sure all words were spelled correctly or try different keywords.
“You’re not trying very hard,” I muttered churlishly.
Next I tried Googling “IFAWCI.” Not surprisingly, I got the same response—and the same unhelpful suggestions.
I expected the same for A2RX, but learned that A2RX was part of an equation that had something to do with a perturbed harmonic oscillator and odd coherent states. At least, according to some physicist in Russia.
I was so absorbed in what I was doing that I didn’t even look up when Nick came into the room and snuggled up next to me.
“Hey,” he murmured, gently brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen into my eyes.
“Hey, yourself,” I returned, wondering if I should Google “odd coherent states.”
“This is our first night as lord and lady of the manor,” he reminded me. “Shouldn’t we be taking advantage of all the finery around us?”
“You mean
like the big-screen TV in Winston’s study?” I teased.
“Actually, I was thinking of the king-size bed in the master bedroom.” Kissing my neck, he said, “Didn’t you tell me once that Betty gets her sheets at some fancy store in the city? What do you say we check them out and see what we’ve been missing?”
I had to admit, that sounded like a lot more fun than trying to decipher Erin Walsh’s mysterious scribblings. “I think that’s an absolutely stupendous idea,” I replied.
Having Nick and me sleep in the master bedroom had been Betty’s idea. It was the nicest bedroom in the house, and she’d wanted to make sure our stint as house sitters was as luxurious as possible. The room was huge, with a gigantic four-poster bed, antique dressers, and elegant drapes that reminded me of the curtains in a theater. The dear woman had even thought to leave chocolates wrapped in gold foil on the pillows as a special welcoming gesture.
But we’d barely slipped between Betty’s silky Italian sheets before my cell phone trilled.
Nick groaned. “It’s Friday night. Don’t your clients ever leave you alone?”
“It’s your mother,” I informed him, glancing at caller ID as I grabbed my phone off the spindly table next to the bed.
“Don’t answer it!”
But it was too late. “Hello, Dorothy,” I greeted my future mother-in-law cheerfully, trying to sound as if I wasn’t lying in bed naked with her son.
“Jessica,” she said brusquely, “I’m calling because I have a question.”
“Shoot,” I replied, immediately wondering if I’d just made a Freudian slip.
Dorothy hesitated. “It’s a question about wedding showers.”
Ah, I thought. Such a popular topic these days.
“If someone was throwing a person’s future daughter-in-law a wedding shower—a surprise shower, mind you—and that person happened to live far away—say, a distance of well over a thousand miles—do you think that person would be obligated to travel such a long distance, at great personal expense, no less, and I’m not even going to mention the inconvenience, to attend that daughter-in-law’s surprise wedding shower?”
Monkey See, Monkey Die Page 12