by Dana Dratch
“So let’s lock the door and walk the halls,” Annie suggested. “Can she do stairs?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She’s kind of afraid of heights.”
“We’ll find her,” my sister said. “She’s wearing her tags, and she’s microchipped. Even if she got out of the building, they’ll know she’s not a stray. And if we have to, we’ll call all the shelters.”
I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. My arms and legs felt limp. How would I tell Nick? He’d trusted me. And I’d let him down.
“What if we get up a search party?” I said. “There are still a few dog lovers in the building. I bet Stan and Ethel would help.”
“That’s a great idea!” Annie said.
A sudden buzzing startled us both. My phone. I looked at the screen, and my heart sank.
“It’s Nick. What do I say? How do I tell him what I’ve done?”
“You didn’t do anything. She got out. Dogs do that.”
“ ‘I didn’t do anything’ is right. I didn’t do enough to protect her.”
“We’ll find her,” Annie said, reaching for her own phone. “Tell him the truth. And the search party’s a good idea. I’ll start calling people.”
“So, how’s my baby girl?” Nick’s voice boomed through the handset. “Can you put her on the phone?”
“Nick, she got out. I don’t know how. Both doors were locked. But we’re gathering a search party, and we’ll call you back as soon as we find her.”
“She’s at Diamond Jack’s.”
“What?”
“The manager just called. My number’s on her tag. She showed up there about two minutes ago. He remembered her from this morning, because she polished off a full breakfast, and sampled one of his specialty lemon ricotta pancakes. And apparently she liked it, because she came back this evening for more. Hopped up on a chair and sat there politely waiting to be served.”
“They found her and called Nick!” I shouted to Annie, across the apartment. “She’s at Diamond Jack’s.”
Annie grinned. “What did I tell you about those pancakes?”
Relief flooded my body as I sagged against the sofa. I felt something wet on my cheek and realized I was crying.
“Nick, I’m so sorry. I still don’t understand how she got out.”
“The little dog’s a regular Houdini,” he said, laughing. “That’s why I named her Lucy. She’s a crazy redhead, and she’s always up to something.”
CHAPTER 16
The next morning—in keeping with my new vacation mode—I slept late. Annie handled Lucy’s early morning walk. And brought us back coffee and doughnuts. So if Lucy escaped again, we’d have another new place to look for her.
After our high-carb splurge, I decided to do a little more digging into the other four HOA candidates. I knew precious little about any of them. And neither did anyone else I’d spoken with so far.
I had borrowed one of Annie’s big sun hats. I planned to take Lucy for her second stroll of the morning, then drop her off at the condo and do a little research poolside. After an hour, I figured I’d pop upstairs, refresh the sunblock, collect Lucy and escort her on another tour of the neighborhood. Annie and I reasoned that if we took her for more regular jaunts, maybe the pup wouldn’t feel the need to strike out on her own.
We still couldn’t figure out how she’d managed that one.
I coaxed the pup into all four booties with promises of walks and treats. Then I clipped on her leash, and we were good to go.
But when we reached the elevators and I pressed the button, nothing happened.
I jabbed it again. Nada.
I pushed it down and held it—still nothing.
I looked down at Lucy. The pup looked up at me.
“How do you feel about getting a little extra cardio today?” I asked her.
She appeared to give it some thought.
After what Ethel and Stan had said about the stairs, I wasn’t exactly eager for the experience. We walked around the corner, and I opened the stairway door.
Ethel was right. Not even eleven o’clock and it felt like the inside of a pizza oven.
With cement slab stairs, concrete walls, and no air vents, it was as if the architect had designed it to trap and hold the heat.
“OK, baby, we’re going to trot right down and get through this as quick as we can. Then we’re going to find something good to eat.”
Like ice.
At the word “eat,” Lucy’s tail picked up steam. So we had a plan.
Five floors later, I was rethinking the whole trip. My canine companion was skipping down the steps like a prizefighter in training. I was a sweaty wreck.
The only thing that kept me going: By that point, it was only four flights down to the ground. But it was five flights up to the penthouse.
Lucy, gamboling beside me, was none the worse for wear.
When we made it to the bottom, I threw the door open and staggered out like I’d survived a trek across the Mojave. I craved water. And oxygen.
At this rate, who needs an early morning exercise class?
* * *
A little while later, after a successful beach outing that included scooping up shells and walking in the surf (for me), and chasing seagulls and barking at waves (for Lucy), along with running in the wet sand (for both of us), we returned to the air-conditioned comfort of the condo.
The pup made a beeline for her new water bowl—now in my sister’s space-aged kitchen—then raced for the sofa, hopped up, turned around a few times, and settled in for a nap.
Mission accomplished.
I slipped out and made my way back down nine flights of stairs to the pool. That’s when I spotted Ethel Plunkett on one of the landings, standing next to a fluffy, snow-white dog who couldn’t have weighed twenty pounds. Mrs. Pickles.
“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” Ethel said cheerily.
As I hit the landing, the little dog ran over, sniffed my ankles, and stared up at me with twinkling black button eyes. With pristine fur and a cute clip, she looked like a little teddy bear. A smiling teddy bear.
“It is that,” I said, as I bent down and scratched behind one furry ear.
“You were right, by the way,” Ethel said, buoyantly. “I called the county this morning. No rules about pets in elevators at all. They never even heard of such a thing. The poor man in the zoning department probably thought I was crackers. I kept asking ‘Are you sure?’ So as soon as those elevators are up and running, Mrs. Pickles and I are riding in style. No more stairs for us!”
“That’s fantastic,” I said. And it would take some of the wind out of Leslie’s sails. I wondered how many other rules and regs she’d been inventing over the past few months. I’m guessing as word spread, the residents of Oceanside might take it on themselves to find out. If that was the case, a few government offices would be fielding a lot of phone calls.
“Sure will make my life a lot easier,” Ethel said happily, as she stepped lightly up the stairs, with Mrs. Pickles hopping up the steps beside her.
As she exited the stairwell, I swore I heard her singing.
* * *
From my poolside office in the shade, I searched a couple of different databases and hit a certain well-known, name-brand search engine for good measure. I found plenty of people with names matching the candidates—including sixteen guys named Manuel Garcia—in the greater Miami area. But none of the names traced back to an address at Oceanside.
But if Ethel was right and they had all moved in fairly recently, that would track. And people of means often supplied their office addresses or even postal boxes on forms, rather than their actual homes—anything to give them an extra measure of privacy.
So I went at it from a different angle. I pulled up the property tax rolls, typed in Oceanside’s street address, and looked for matches to the four candidates’ names. Nada.
But a number of the units were owned by corporations. Including Annie’s penthouse. Someon
e had been taking advice from our lawyer brother.
It was a common enough practice. And, for recognizable names like my sister’s, it offered an additional layer of protection in case an overly enthusiastic fan wanted to show up for tea.
I decided I’d have to get more creative.
In Florida, voter registration records are public. And some websites post them online, too. It’s a bonanza for telemarketers and reporters. Not so great for privacy advocates and people hiding from telemarketers and reporters.
But I reasoned that if someone was civic-minded enough to serve as condo president, they’d probably registered to vote. And this was one place you couldn’t list a corporate address or box number.
Twenty minutes later, I discovered that there were quite a few guys with those four names voting in the Miami area. But none of them lived at Oceanside.
If Leslie’s opponents were transplants, it’s possible they were still voting at their old polling places. It’s also possible that they’d never registered to vote in the first place. But it was kind of odd that out of four candidates, all four were absent from the local voter rolls.
Something definitely smelled. And it wasn’t fresh doughnuts.
CHAPTER 17
“No doubt about it, Red. That does sound fishy,” Trip drawled after I’d relayed the story of the enigmatic board candidates.
I was also relieved to hear he’d gotten some sleep. In fact, he sounded more rested than I did.
“Most politicians will show up at a ribbon cutting just to soak up the love and listen to the sound of their own voices,” he continued.
“Well, to be fair, these guys aren’t politicians. They’re just four schlubs who put their names forward for a thankless job that actually pays less than mine.”
“How much less?” he asked.
“Zilch.”
“OK, so just a little less.”
“I’m sorry, we all don’t live in historically significant neighborhoods with private chefs and in-house bakers at our beck and call. Seriously, how’s Nick doing?”
I’d seen my brother drag himself home from Ian’s kitchen looking like a zombie after baking half the night. And that’s when his commute was just shuffling across the street. I was seriously worried about him driving from Fordham to Georgetown in the wee hours.
“Comes home all hours, stinking of cheap perfume and covered in even cheaper lipstick.”
“Good, because I was afraid he was working too hard,” I said.
“That boy does put in some serious hours. Between him and Tom, I feel like a lazy layabout.”
“This from a guy who only gets three hours’ sleep.”
“They put me to shame, the both of them,” Trip said. “But they also feed me well, so I’m not complaining.”
“Well, if you ever light out for pancakes in the middle of the night, just be sure to let someone know where you’re going.”
“I heard about that. Sounds like Lucy is officially a teenager now. Pretty soon she’ll be blasting her stereo, skipping school, and dating boys.”
“There’s only one boy in her life. And don’t tell Nick, but I think she misses him like crazy. We were exploring the neighborhood yesterday morning and way off in the distance there was a tall blond guy in shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. All of a sudden, her head comes way up, her tail starts to beat double time, and she’s dragging me down the sidewalk toward him. When we got close enough and she realized it wasn’t Nick, it was like she melted. Head, ears, tail—all drooped. I just felt so bad.”
“She’s a one-man dog,” my best friend said.
“That she is. So, have they at least started in on the kitchen?”
“Wow, look at the time! Got to make that staff meeting.”
“Chase Wentworth Cabot the Third—spill,” I said through clenched teeth.
“The contractor says your wiring isn’t grounded. It’s a fire hazard, and they’re going to have to redo the whole place.”
“Noooooooo!”
“And she wonders why I don’t tell her anything.”
“That house has been standing for a hundred years,” I said. “If it hadn’t been grounded, it would have burned down by now.”
“Especially with you in the kitchen,” he quipped.
“Exactly!”
We fell silent as I digested the new information. It was like a Rubik’s Cube—whichever way I looked at it, nothing made sense.
“Look, it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway,” Trip said. “You guys are welcome to stay at the townhouse or the farm for as long as you like.”
Trip hailed from money. His family home was a five-hundred-acre spread in the heart of Virginia horse country. Anyone else would have labeled it an estate. His family called it simply “the farm.”
“Rewiring the whole house? Trip, that’s going to take forever.”
As houseguests, we Vlodnacheks have a short expiration date. Like yogurt.
“The contractor told Nick it would take a couple of weeks,” Trip said. “Unless there’s black mold.”
“Because the black mold cancels out the bad wiring? Like two negatives make a positive?”
“Because then they have to schedule specialists to come in and remove that first,” he explained. “Then the contractor can start.”
“Two teams of experts, months of construction, boatloads of money, and that doesn’t even include the changes Nick needs to bring the kitchen up to code,” I said, sighing. “And I haven’t got the money for any of this.”
“Look at the bright side,” Trip said. “If the place is as much of a fire trap as they claim, maybe it’ll burn down.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
CHAPTER 18
I had no idea what to do about my house. So I decided to kick the can down the road a bit and just enjoy the Miami sunshine. Even if that came with a side of sizzling heat.
Annie had gone to a business meeting at one of the fashion houses. So I figured Lucy and I could explore the glories of South Beach in the summer. And if we happened to bump into some food, so much the better.
I looked through my purse. Cash—check. Small note pad and pen—check. Extra bags for Lucy—check. Treats for Lucy—check. Water for Lucy—check. Pooper-scooper—check.
The pup was even wearing all four of her booties.
“OK,” I said as we ducked into the stairwell, “it’s gonna be like an oven in here, but we can do this.”
Her tail wagged enthusiastically. I noticed that for Lucy, any trip out was cause for celebration.
My new vacation motto.
Which lasted all of thirty seconds. Idiotically, I’d hoped that, after what felt like a dozen trips up and down the stairs, the trek might actually get easier. But I hadn’t counted on the afternoon heat.
Encased in cement, the stairwell was sweltering. Forget frying eggs on the sidewalk. Nick could have used this place to bake scones.
Lucy, good sport that she was, trotted down the steps like a champ. I just tried to keep up.
When we exited I felt a welcoming rush of cool air. Lucy, pulling me toward the front door, didn’t even break stride.
But when we cut through the lobby, I could see a crowd gathered in front of the elevators. From a distance, I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying. But the body language told me they weren’t happy.
“Hey, with all the money we shell out, these should work one hundred percent of the time. And if they don’t, there should be a guy here in overalls with a wrench in his hand fixing the danged things.”
“Women can fix elevators, too, Charlie.”
“I don’t care who’s wearing the overalls, as long as they’re fixing the danged elevators.”
“Has anyone called the management company?” another woman asked. I recognized her from the party as Mrs. Ernie.
“An hour ago,” a glamorous brunette in a lavender sheath dress replied. “They said we need to speak with Leslie.”
“Good luck with that,” sa
id a forty-something bald man in a blue blazer. “I called her three times. It just keeps going to voice mail.”
“She’s probably out giving away T-shirts and kissing babies,” Ernie grumbled. “Gonna have to take the service elevator.”
“There’s a service elevator?” I asked, stunned.
“You can’t,” the brunette said. “I already tried that. Someone’s moving out. And they’ve got it locked up for the next couple of hours.”
“Well, it’s only one flight up to the restaurant,” Ernie said, turning to his wife and offering her an arm. “How about an early dinner and a nice bottle of wine?”
CHAPTER 19
The next morning, I was up at dawn to walk Lucy. And this time, we were taking the freight elevator.
Because the two main elevators still weren’t working. Big surprise.
Annie had tried Leslie a few times herself last night. But, just like the guy in the lobby, her calls went straight to voice mail.
She even phoned an after-hours number for the management company. But when she finally reached an actual human, they weren’t any help, either. Basically, unless her name was Leslie McQueen, they didn’t have the authority to share any information about what was (or wasn’t), going on at Oceanside.
So this morning, I came prepared. Annie had given me directions to the service elevator. And if someone was moving today, I was just going to hitch a ride with their bookcases.
Anything was better than nine flights in the hot box.
From the tenth floor, finding the freight elevator was relatively easy. It was hidden behind a locked door marked “Authorized personnel only.” One swipe of the fob, and we were inside.
I was carrying the leash and our directions from the elevator to the lobby in one hand, and the scooper in the other. I also had an overstuffed beach bag—with water and extra poop bags—slung over my shoulder, and another of Annie’s wide-brimmed sun hats on my head. So it took a bit of maneuvering to navigate the heavy steel door.
Once we exited the elevator on the ground floor, finding our way through the building’s storage area and out to the lobby was a little more complicated.