Besides, I thought, pugs are naturally clownish, funny and unpredictable and they would be great for taking Jo’s mind off last night. I said I’d check with Annie and get right back to her.
I met Rebecca at her house for the pug handoff. The pugs were four-year-old Tommy (short for Tommy Lee Jones—because the actor is “so ugly he’s good-looking”—“I mean, Bear, that man would be a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to have his babies, would you?” Seeing as I did not want to have Tommy Lee Jones’s babies, I agreed and tried not to examine too closely exactly what the statement said about my secretary), and eight-year-old Mr. Wiggles (there was a long, involved story about why he’s named Mr. Wiggles, but I stopped listening). Tommy and Mr. Wiggles were sitting on Rebecca’s front porch swing, wearing identical green harnesses and French-print bandanas around their fat necks.
Rebecca handed me a ream of printed papers with a cover sheet titled, “How To Take Care Of Tommy and Mr. Wiggles,” and a big, plastic cat-litter carton that was full of their special dog food. After I stored those items in the backseat, Rebecca also gave me a shopping bag filled with dog toys, chicken jerky, very special feeding and water bowls (a total of six because I “might want to put a set in several rooms—the boys feel more secure when they don’t have to walk too far for their food”) and two paw-printed fleece blankets, along with a miscellany of other things I didn’t discover until I got home. Last were four dog beds, two large denim pillows and two nice-sized beanbags covered in creamy-colored faux fur. The denim pillows, according to Rebecca, were for the kitchen so the pugs could watch me and Annie cook (“They’re very interested in food preparation, Bear, it’s a pug trait”) and the furry beanbags were for our bedroom. I paused mid-stow and drew myself out of the backseat to look at Rebecca.
“Rebecca, they’ll sleep in the kitchen, okay?”
Rebecca hesitated and then said, “Whatever works for y’all,” and smiled at me.
I stared at her for a moment, but gave up trying to interpret that smile.
In spite of the cool October weather, the pugs had gotten themselves worked up. They were panting like steam engines, so I got the air conditioner cranked while Rebecca fussed over her bug-eyed porkers. She finally shut the passenger door and made her way around the car to my side, motioning me to unroll my window.
Rebecca stooped to lean her elbows on my window and look at me searchingly.
“Bear?”
“Yes, Rebecca.”
“I know you don’t take my boys all that seriously.”
“Oh, now, Rebecca, I do too . . .”
“But you know how you feel about that horse you call Baby Bear?”
I said I did.
“And you know how you said Baby Bear maybe saved Jo’s life when all that mess happened and you got yourself shot?”
I did not get myself shot, someone shot me, but I nodded yes.
“Mr. Wiggles, the old one? I got him as just a five-pound puppy when Craig divorced me. I don’t know if Mr. Wiggles saved my life, but he made me feel like I had a reason to live again. Mr. Wiggles always thinks I’m beautiful and he’s always glad to see me. So maybe he did save my life. And Tommy? I got Tommy when Craig married that girl half his age and had the baby he’d never given me. These two boys are all the family I have to come home to after work, and when I’m sad or lonely, they . . .” She started to tear up. “Oh, Bear, I didn’t mean to cry.”
I said, “I’m going to take good care of your dogs for you, Rebecca.”
“Okay then, that’s fine.” She patted the roof of my car.
The pugs looked at me with their pop-eyes and I again promised Rebecca very sincerely that I would take very good care of her boys. As I pulled away from the curb, I quickly realized that the pug breed is not the Einstein of the dog world, because even though those two dogs had watched me pack all their worldly belongings into the back of the car, even though they had suffered themselves to be put into the front seat of my car, and even though Rebecca had kissed and hugged them, wept over them and told them good-bye for a wearying amount of time, it wasn’t until I pulled away from the curb that they realized they were going away, and Rebecca wasn’t coming with them.
Oh. My. Gosh.
Both pugs catapulted their top-heavy frames at the passenger window, screaming—I’m not lying, the noise they were emitting could only be described as a scream—screaming at a note that really should be too high for human ears, and pawing frantically at the window until one of the little wretches must have stepped on the window control because the window silently unrolled and had I not glanced over to discover why cool air was pouring into the car, had I not retained the lightning-fast reflexes that made me a starter on the University of Texas football team some years ago, had I not managed to grab the harnesses of those two insane lapdogs, I would have been responsible for the demise of Rebecca’s entire doggy family two minutes after I’d picked them up.
I hadn’t even had time to get off her block.
With a knee on the steering wheel, a hand searching my armrest for the window control and the child-lock feature and another hand grappling with Rebecca’s insane doggy progeny, I turned the corner and was out of sight before the still-waving Rebecca could realize the near miss.
Based on the last three minutes, there was every indication that this was going to be a looooong, long two days.
• • •
After ten minutes of that awful noise, the pugs stopped screeching at the same moment, like they had come to a unanimous decision that it was time to stop. They stood looking out the window another forlorn minute and then turned their bodies to face me. I assured them that Rebecca would be back soon and that we would have fun this weekend. Evidently, that was an invitation to get better acquainted. Tommy stepped over the console and settled himself on my left thigh. I tried to ward him off but he persisted and I gave up. Mr. Wiggles then picked his way over and settled on my right thigh, adding a good twenty-five pounds of pressure to the gas pedal. I didn’t protest.
My cell buzzed to let me know I had a text. Knowing very well that I shouldn’t—texting and driving is a dumb thing to do, even if you’re just reading not texting—I glanced at my phone. It was from Michael Edwin, a church member who acts as general contractor any time the church is having a general contractor-like need. Michael was hoping I’d meet him at the church to take a look at some carpet he’d picked out for the youth room. I couldn’t have cared less what carpet was chosen to replace the tattered and stained carpet we had, but Michael gives his time free to the church in spite of having a demanding job that requires him to fly all over the country to oversee the building of sports stadiums and multiplexes, and I feel it’s only right to act like I know a thing or two about whatever it is he brings to my attention.
It didn’t make sense to keep Michael waiting while I drove the dogs to the house and got them settled, so I went straight on to the church. I had the sense to rummage around in their luggage until I found their leashes, and I had them firmly in check before I opened the car door.
The pugs came along all cheerful and friendly and as if they had never known a Rebecca Rutland, much less mourned for her not twenty minutes ago. They were excited about the new sights and smells, and they took time to anoint each and every shrub we passed, which delayed us some, but since I was taking them inside the building I was glad to have them divest themselves of any extra liquid they were carrying around.
Michael was waiting for me in the youth room and had to hide a smile when he saw me with the two dandies. They do have kind of a fancy-lad walk. “Bear! New companions! Love the matching bandanas—we need to get one for you, too.”
“They’re Rebecca’s. We’re watching them for the weekend but I didn’t want to keep you waiting while I—”
“Don’t explain! A man has a right to his softer side. Listen, take a look at this.”
&nb
sp; Michael unfurled a four-by-four-foot sample of carpet on the floor. The label in the corner informed me that it was greige, a beige/gray mixture that looks like wet cement.
“You like the color?” I asked Michael.
He glanced up from stroking the carpet like it was the pelt of a dead animal.
“What I like, Bear, is the hardiness of this high-traffic carpet. This carpet can take anything without staining—you drop a Dr Pepper on this carpet? Blot it up and nothing, not a sign of a stain. Ditto coffee and tea, and those two, those are problem liquids, carpet-wise . . .”
Tommy and Mr. Wiggles were inspecting the sample, sniffing up the faintly chemical smell like a couple of glue addicts. Tommy tested the ply with his paws, first just one, then all four, walking gingerly on the spongy stuff.
“In the showroom,” Michael continued, “they take a full can of Coke and have you pour it over the carpet—then they take a wad of paper towel and . . .”
Tommy delicately lifted a hind leg and urinated gushingly on the carpet sample. I don’t know where he came up with the liquid—he really had paid attention to every shrub in the churchyard.
Michael and I looked at the rotund beast who was now smelling his own discharge.
I said, “How’s it do with pug pee?”
Michael stood hands on hips looking at the puddle that was, credit to the carpet manufacturer, beading on top of the carpet and not being discernibly absorbed.
“I don’t know, Preacher. Go get us a roll of paper towels and let’s find out.”
• • •
Neither pug was the least bit chagrined by the episode at the church. They sashayed back to my car and waited on the passenger seat for me to buckle up, then insinuated themselves back on my lap.
When I pulled into the garage, I could hear Baby Bear’s joyous greeting through the kitchen door, but I didn’t make immediate introductions. I put both pugs on their leashes and led them to the front yard where they squirted everything in sight except my legs. Baby Bear had followed our progress from the inside of the house and was now watching us narrowly from the dining room window. He didn’t look happy.
After I was as sure as I could be that every last drop had been squeezed out, and I could safely introduce a distraction, I unlocked the front door and let Baby Bear out.
Baby Bear was on the lawn with one bound. Then he stood stock-still. The pugs looked at the Newfie. The Newfie looked at the pugs. There was a cautious advance on both sides, accompanied by a great deal of the sniffing of hindquarters. That done, Mr. Wiggles walked off and sat down on some purple and gold pansies Annie had recently planted. He yawned. Tommy placed himself right in front of Baby Bear and dropped his forequarters to the ground, leaving his bottom and ridiculous curled tail up in the air in what was clearly meant as an invitation to play.
Baby Bear still has a lot of puppy in him—he adopted the same stance, and the game was on. It was sad to watch. Baby Bear is fast. He is. For a big dog, he can make tracks. I guarantee you that on a long run, Baby Bear would leave Tommy snorting in the dust. But for maneuverability—well, Tommy weighed 25 pounds to Baby Bear’s 180. It was like pitting a Mini Cooper against a Mack truck: the Mini Cooper has go-kart handling, and so does Tommy. Tommy literally ran circles around Baby Bear, and then expanded the circles into figure eights so that I was included in the game, too. Baby Bear couldn’t even track Tommy with his eyes, Tommy was that fast.
It was a good workout for both dogs. When I opened the front door, Mr. Wiggles rose from the crushed pansies and entered just behind Baby Bear and Tommy. All three followed me to the kitchen and while I unloaded all the pug stuff from my car, they fought over Baby Bear’s water bowl. Baby Bear lost again, but I filled a mixing bowl with water and set it up on the window seat where only Baby Bear could reach it. He sucked down half of it before he raised his dripping muzzle. He sank to his haunches and watched the two pugs, their front feet planted inside Baby Bear’s regular water dish, drain it to the bottom. He looked happy. It must have been like having cousins come for a stay.
I took a shower with an audience, Baby Bear and the pugs sitting outside the stall watching in interest, and had toweled my head dry when I heard the doorbell. I grabbed a robe and went to the door. I opened the door to Detective James Wanderley, and Baby Bear gave the detective his best doggy greeting—it’s too enthusiastic for most people. Tommy and Mr. Wiggles added their noise, too.
“Can I come in?” Wanderley asked.
I stepped back, thinking that’s what the little girl vampire had said in Let the Right One In, and that hadn’t turned out well for anyone involved.
“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” I told him. “Help yourself while I finish getting dressed.”
When I got back, Wanderley was sitting in my chair sipping from a giant mug that said BIG BOSS that was clearly mine, but I didn’t make a fuss. I poured myself a cup, which was still good even though it had been in a thermos since Annie Laurie and Jo had left, and added real half and half. None of that powdered awfulness.
I removed the pugs from the couch and sat down. Baby Bear was attempting to mouth one of Wanderley’s immaculate cowboy-booted feet.
“What is your dog doing?”
“He’s inviting you to play Steal the Sneaker but he can’t find a shoelace or an edge to get ahold of.” Baby Bear had given up looking for a handle and had gently clamped his teeth around Wanderley’s ankle. Wanderley said, “No!” so loudly and emphatically that Baby Bear released him at once and scurried over to my side looking frightened and wounded. In league with Baby Bear, Tommy ran over to Wanderley and tried a stare down. Wanderley didn’t notice.
“I don’t mind the dog slobber so much, Bear, but I don’t want my boots scratched.” Wanderley pulled out a handkerchief and polished the offended boot. One of his grandfather’s, I surmised, knowing that Wanderley had a whole collection of vintage cowboy boots left to him by his grandfather. They’re all beautiful and he takes good care of them.
He said, “You’re keeping Rebecca’s pugs?”
“How’d you know they were Rebecca’s?”
“We keep in touch. Talk books sometimes. I like her.”
“I understand.” I sipped my coffee. “So, do you know how Phoebe died yet?”
“No. We’re pretty sure, but there hasn’t been an autopsy yet.”
“Do you think it was drugs?”
“We know she didn’t get shot or bashed over the head or stabbed.”
“So you’ve narrowed things down quite a bit,” I said. I got a sour look.
“Is Jo here?”
I put my coffee cup down. I didn’t slam it down. There’s glass over the wood so it makes a lot of noise, that’s all. “Wanderley, you can’t really think Jo had anything to do with this.”
His eyes didn’t waver. “Bear, your daughter was the first person here when Phoebe Pickersley was dead or dying. I want to talk to her. If you feel like there’s something to protect Jo from, if you’re afraid she might incriminate herself, call a lawyer. He’ll sit in on the interview and listen to me ask my very reasonable questions and then he’ll send you a bill for five to seven hundred dollars.” He gave a shrug to let me know how he didn’t care one way or another—he was going to talk to Jo.
“She’s out with her mom,” I said. “You could have called and I’d have told you.”
“I was in the area.”
Okay. We drank our coffee for a while.
“Pretty tough last night, huh?”
I agreed that it had been, but told him this morning had not been any more fun. I gave him a rundown of the morning’s events. Wanderley listened carefully and grunted when I finished.
“One big happy family over there, huh? I feel for the girl, though it would have been smarter and braver to strike out on her own instead of offing herself, if that’s what she did.”
&nb
sp; Wanderley finished his coffee and set it down. He took out a guitar pick and popped it in his mouth the way another man would have a breath mint. He folded a leg over a knee and clasped the shank of his boot with one hand. “I don’t like this. Last night felt wrong. Phoebe Pickersley won’t be my first teen suicide by a long shot. It happens. But last night felt . . .” He struggled for the word. “. . . off. Something is off about this one.” He pulled the pick out of his mouth and fiddled with it.
Baby Bear jumped up on the couch. Like I was going to miss a 180-pound beast making himself comfortable. I shoved him back down and he nosed the pugs away to make room for himself at my feet.
“Did you notice the stepmom last night?” Wanderley said. He was quiet for a while. “Does Annie wear makeup to bed?”
“Why do you want to know what Annie wears to bed?”
Wanderley grimaced. “Don’t be a perv. Does she?”
“No she doesn’t wear makeup to bed. We sleep in the dark, so what would be the point?”
“The point is that Lizabeth Pickersley-Smythe was made-up last night. Her hair was brushed and she had makeup on and it wasn’t smudged as though she’d left some of it on a pillowcase.”
“Okay . . .”
“But the big thing for me is, she never asked what had happened.”
“What?”
“Mark went straight to Phoebe’s room, he’s screaming his head off, and there’s an appreciable passage of time before Lizabeth joined him. The kids were there. You and I were there. And then Lizabeth appears, all tidy and hair brushed and makeup on, and her husband and kids are screaming, and she never says, ‘What the hell happened?’ Did you hear her ask?”
No, reviewing the evening, I didn’t remember Liz asking what had happened.
“Yeah, but Wanderley, Mark was screaming Phoebe’s name. She knew it had to be Phoebe.”
“Phoebe what? Phoebe had a car accident? Phoebe’s in the hospital, or in jail, or joined the army, or got pregnant by a biker? The stepmom didn’t ask. I don’t like it. And we couldn’t find Phoebe’s phone. It wasn’t with her clothes in Jo’s room, or in her purse, it wasn’t in her car—”
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