In Dog We Trust

by Beth Kendrick

  “I know, I know. I’m the scrappy little underdog you can parade around to show how you’ve matured.”

  “You’re amazing.” He ignored the caustic undertone in her voice. “You can dig up septic tanks and look beautiful doing it. I’ve never been with anyone like you before. I never want to be with anyone else.”

  “Well.” She flipped her hair back. “I do work a septic tank with style.”

  “Yeah, you do.” He picked up her unmoisturized, unmanicured hand and kissed it.

  She rolled her eyes. “Now we come to the sugarcoating.”

  “Every word is true,” he vowed. “I’m proud to be with you. I’m proud to introduce you to my family. I’m proud to finally be a man worthy of a woman like you.”

  She gazed at him, knowing she should walk away. Hearing her mother’s warnings in her head. “I wish I could believe all that.”

  “You will. You’ll see. I’ll prove it to you.” His easy, contagious smile returned. “Starting with brunch this Sunday.”

  Jocelyn sat back in her chair. “My mom’s still recovering from spinal surgery, and she’s kind of glued to the couch right now.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No, she’ll barely let me help. This surgery really took it out of her, even more than the first time she had to have back surgery.”

  “I didn’t realize she’d had surgery before.”

  “Yeah. It was so bad, she had to stay off her feet for months. That’s why I never finished college.”

  His expression flickered. “You didn’t finish college?”

  “I had to take a leave of absence to run the business while she was out of commission. One month turned into six months and we got really busy, and I never made it back to school.” She furrowed her brow. “I thought I told you all this.”

  “No, I definitely would have remembered.” He looked so troubled.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Of course not. You had to help your mother. Family first.”

  “I’m planning to start taking classes again during the off-season,” Jocelyn added. “They have some online options now.”

  Chris regarded her for a moment. Then he shrugged and regained his usual sunny demeanor. “Your mother won’t have to go anywhere. I’ll come over and bring takeout of the famous churro waffles our country club makes.”

  “Maybe next week.”

  “Definitely next week. I’ll bring some flowers, I’ll do the dishes, we’ll have a great time.”

  Jocelyn tried to hold on to her indignation. “You think I’ll say yes to anything if you turn up the charm enough, don’t you?”

  He cupped her cheek in his palm. “I’m hoping. I love hearing you say yes.”

  And just like that, she was thinking about engagement rings again.

  * * *

  • • •

  Jocelyn arrived at the law offices at eight forty-five, double-fisting a mocha latte and an iced coffee. She’d been out late with Chris, then had decided to check in on the dogs on her way home. All three of them had acted so clingy and pitiful that she’d ended up staying for hours to watch TV and cuddle with them on the sofa in the living room.

  The waiting area of the law office looked like something out of a TV court drama: polished wood and potted plants and supple leather everywhere. Jocelyn gave her name to the assistant seated at a mahogany desk, then perched on the edge of one of the wingback chairs lining the wall.

  The office phone rang with a melodious, muted tone, and the assistant got to her feet. “Mr. Tumboldt is ready for you, Miss Hillier.”

  Jocelyn was ushered into a large conference room with an oval table polished to a gleam and a crystal pitcher of water surrounded by rows of drinking glasses. The room was filled with people wearing black and gray, but the first person Jocelyn noticed was Boat Shoes, who was seated directly across from the chair the assistant pulled out for Jocelyn.

  This guy was everywhere. Who was he?

  He nodded in recognition when he saw her but made no move to rise or speak to her. She reciprocated with an equally brisk nod and sat down. A few chairs down, she spotted Lois Gunther, the dog show handler. All around her, people were murmuring in hushed, urgent tones. She could pick out snippets of conversation:

  “They said he died right in his chair at the restaurant. At least he didn’t suffer . . .”

  “. . . would be lovely if he left the bulk of his estate to charity . . .”

  “Want to go get coffee after this? There’s a new café on Prince Street.”

  Everyone spoke respectfully, but no one was remarking on what a great guy Mr. Allardyce had been. No one was crying.

  Jocelyn busied herself with pouring a glass of water. Due to years of working in the hospitality industry, she felt compelled to offer a glass to her tablemate. “Water?”

  Boat Shoes seemed both surprised and suspicious when he realized she was addressing him. He glanced over his shoulder, then adjusted the collar of his white shirt. “No. Thank you.”

  Jocelyn gazed up at the oil painting above Boat Shoes’s head. Boat Shoes focused on the framed diplomas hung behind Jocelyn. Finally, Mr. Tumboldt entered the room, followed by a pair of assistants carrying huge stacks of documents.

  “Good morning, all.” He took the chair at the head of the table. “Thank you for coming. I understand that many of you had to rearrange your plans to accommodate this meeting and I appreciate that, especially given the short notice.”

  No one said anything in reply, but they all leaned forward as they waited for the reading to begin.

  “Those of you who knew Mr. Allardyce well know that he liked things done a certain way.” Mr. Tumboldt smiled a tight little smile. “His way. And it was important to him that you all be physically present for this.”

  The room was so quiet, Jocelyn could hear the clock ticking on the far wall.

  “Very well.” The attorney produced a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket. “This may take a while, so bear with me. ‘I, Peter Allardyce, being of sound mind and body . . .’”

  Jocelyn understood not a single word the attorney said for the next five minutes. The legalese was so unrelenting and dense, so jam-packed with “herewiths” and “testators” that it might as well have been ancient Sumerian. She glanced around the table to see if she was the only one not following. Everyone else looked as glassy-eyed and slack-jawed as she felt.

  And then Mr. Tumboldt cleared his throat and got to the good stuff. “‘I do bequeath my sailboat, the Portly Porter, to my groundskeeper, Raymond Young.’”

  “Score,” hissed a young man.

  And the list kept going. As stingy as he had been in life, Mr. Allardyce was equally generous in death, especially to his employees. He left his Bentley to his chauffeur, a large lump sum to his housekeeper, and a piece of undeveloped property to his finance manager. Lois Gunther got three thousand dollars and the collection of dog show trophies.

  As the list of assets went on, Boat Shoes became more and more agitated. He shifted in his seat, he drummed his fingers on the tabletop, he tugged at the buttons on his jacket sleeves.

  But his name, whatever it was, apparently didn’t come up in the will.

  At long last, after varying sums had been doled out to various individuals and organizations, the lawyer paused for a moment and gave a tiny but unmistakable sigh. “The bulk of my estate, including all remaining investment accounts, retirement accounts, profits from the sale of my domicile in Virginia and physical property of my domicile in Black Dog Bay, Delaware, I leave in trust to . . .”

  Boat Shoes’s forehead broke a sweat.

  “My three Labrador retrievers, namely, Curtis, Carmen, and Hester Allardyce and any future offspring that they may bear.”

  The room erupted in gasps and exclamations.

  “
The dogs? Are you serious?”

  “That’s so Leona Helmsley!”

  “Leona who?”

  “Can dogs inherit property? Is that even legal?”

  “Order, please.” Mr. Tumboldt tapped his pen on the table. “The dogs are to remain at the Black Dog Bay property and are to receive proper care and upkeep courtesy of a trustee and guardian.”

  Boat Shoes’s face had gone from white to red to ashy gray during this pronouncement. Jocelyn rested her palms on the table, stunned. All that money, all the opportunity, all that power . . . and it was going to the dogs? Who, while very cute and clever, clearly could not be trusted with a bunch of investment accounts. They couldn’t even be trusted not to snatch bread off the kitchen counter.

  She tried to process the absurdity of this while the lawyer droned on about the accessibility of liquid assets and fiduciary duties and co-trustees and privilege of property use. Just as she segued into a daydream about what she might do with three thousand dollars and a cabinet full of dog show trophies, she was jerked back to reality by the sound of the lawyer saying her name.

  She looked up to find everybody staring at her. Mr. Tumboldt was clearly awaiting some sort of response. Boat Shoes looked as though he were about to pop a vein in his forehead.

  She brushed back her hair and folded her hands. “I’m sorry, would you mind repeating that?”

  The woman next to her whispered, “You get it all.”

  “I . . . what now?”

  “You’re named as the dogs’ guardian and co-trustee,” the attorney explained. “As the designated custodial guardian for the dogs, you are granted use of the Black Dog Bay property and you have discretion to make reasonable expenditures for maintaining the animals’ medical care and domicile.”

  “I’m a co-trustee?”

  “That’s correct. The other trustee is Mr. Allardyce’s attorney in Virginia. She is in charge of overseeing discretionary decisions about significant financial expenditures and canine lifestyle changes. Together with your co-trustee, you have a fiduciary duty to carry out Mr. Allardyce’s wishes. As the custodial guardian, you have a duty to oversee the practical, day-to-day care of the dogs and any descendants they may produce.”

  “Oh.” Jocelyn tried not to get too excited because there was no way this guy was really saying what she thought he was saying. This was legalese, not real life.

  “Well?” The attorney’s tone sounded a wee bit impatient. “Do you accept?”

  Jocelyn’s gaze slid sideways. “I guess so.”

  Boat Shoes finally lost it. “You guess so? You guess so?” His heavy chair shot back as he rocketed into a standing position. “This is bullshit!”

  All around Jocelyn, voices murmured their assent.

  “You’re saying that all his money is going to be squandered on a bunch of spoiled show dogs?” Boat Shoes pounded the table. Droplets of water splashed out of the crystal pitcher. “This is ridiculous. It’s obscene! It’s vindictive!”

  “It’s what Mr. Allardyce wanted,” the attorney informed the room at large. “He was very specific in his wishes.”

  “I’m going to challenge the will,” Boat Shoes vowed. A little muscle was twitching away in his jaw. “It’ll never hold up in court.”

  The collective murmuring intensified into grumbling, which crescendoed into out-and-out derision:

  “He’s right—this is bullshit. I get an old boat full of barnacles and the dogs get millions?”

  “Seriously. All those years of putting up with his nonsense and I get five grand?”

  “I can’t believe I drove all the way out here for this. They could have just mailed me a check that had ‘Screw you’ written in the memo section.”

  The attorney rose to his feet and held up his hand to restore order. “I know emotions are running high, but I caution you not to do anything rash.” He turned to address Boat Shoes. “And as for you, Liam . . .”

  Liam. So Boat Shoes had a name.

  “If you’ll calm yourself and be patient, I think you’ll find that Mr. Allardyce did bequeath you something very meaningful.”

  Liam sat back down, his eyes dark. “A million dollars’ worth of meaningful?”

  Mr. Tumboldt picked up the will and cleared his throat. “Yes. You are to receive . . . let’s see here . . . the mature ironwood tree on the grounds of his Black Dog Bay property.”

  Liam’s brows snapped together. “What ironwood tree?”

  Mr. Tumboldt blinked. “I assumed you were familiar with it.”

  “I’m not.” Liam took out his cell phone and tapped a few buttons. “And ‘ironwood’ isn’t even a specific kind of tree—it’s a label used to refer to a whole category of trees.”

  “There’s a lot of trees in his yard,” a voice from the other end of the table chimed in. “How is he supposed to know which one?”

  “Yeah, does this tree have any type of legal specifier?” Liam demanded.

  “No.” The lawyer glanced back at his documents. “Mr. Allardyce was very clear on the language he wanted, and that was the level of detail he provided. Against legal advisement, I might add.”

  Liam stared at the attorney for a long moment, then turned his attentions to Jocelyn. “This is not over.” He shoved back the chair again and strode out of the conference room without another word.

  After a moment of tense silence, Mr. Tumboldt reached for the water pitcher. “If no one has any further questions, I have preliminary documents I’ll need you to sign.”

  chapter 10

  “ For real, it was like a riot with imported crystal and framed diplomas on the wall,” Jocelyn reported to Bree as she drove home. “Everyone had a million questions and the lawyer kept trying to calm everyone down and no one would talk to me. No one would even look at me.”

  “But the upshot is, you’re Scrooge McDuck rich now?” Bree’s voice sounded distant and tinny over the old car’s hands-free Bluetooth system.

  “I’m not rich, the dogs are.” Jocelyn tried to explain the whole guardian/trustee situation, which proved difficult as she didn’t completely understand it herself. “They asked me to sign a bunch of papers with my date of birth and social security number. But I asked if I was free to come and go from Mr. Allardyce’s house, and they said yes.”

  “Well, yeah. Because it’s your house now.”

  “But technically, it’s not. It’s the dogs’ house.”

  “And the dogs’ investment funds and the dogs’ gold bars stacked from floor to ceiling. I heard you the first time. But since the dogs don’t have opposable thumbs, who’s going to be in charge of all the credit cards and cash money?”

  “They did say something about allowing me to make decisions about property upkeep and discretionary spending,” Jocelyn admitted. “Oh, and guess who was there? The hot, bitter guy who was with Mr. Allardyce when he died. His name is Liam, it turns out.”

  “Ooh, the plot thickens.”

  “Yeah. He inherited some random tree and he hates me now.” Jocelyn braked as a tourist darted out between two parked cars. “Like, blood feud hates me.”

  “A tree?”

  “That’s what the will said.”

  “Is it a magic tree?” Bree asked. “With a treasure chest full of gold buried underneath it?”

  “I have no idea, and neither did anybody else who was at the reading of the will.”

  “Well, who the heck is this guy, anyway, that he thinks Mr. Allardyce owes him anything?”

  “That’s how it is with money. Everyone thinks they deserve it more than anyone else.” Jocelyn nibbled her lower lip. “You know how long I’ve been wanting to move out of my mom’s house, but this is not the way I thought it would happen.”

  “Moving into Mr. Allardyce’s house.” Bree sighed in wonderment. “The house that blocks the best views. The house that bogarts water a
nd electricity. The house that jacks up property taxes for people like you and me.”

  Jocelyn suddenly felt exhausted. “I’m going against everything I ever stood for.”

  “Boo hoo. Dry your tears with a stack of Benjamins.”

  “I’ll have to hire my own lawyer to review all the paperwork. Which means I’ll have to get the co-trustee to approve of spending the dogs’ money on my legal bills. But first, I need a drink.” Jocelyn brightened. “What are you doing right now? Want to meet me at the Whinery?”

  “Home of the fourteen-dollar Bellini? You know I can’t afford the Whinery.”

  “You don’t have to.” And with that, Jocelyn made her first executive decision as custodial canine guardian. “Drinks are on the dogs.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Let’s check out the bathrooms.” Bree strutted into Mr. Allardyce’s foyer like she owned the place. She and Jocelyn had dropped by the Whinery, only to decide that they’d rather check out the new digs than while away the afternoon sipping chardonnay. They’d splurged on a to-go bottle of champagne, which Bree clutched in her fist as though ready to wield it in a bar fight. “No, let’s check out the bedrooms first.” She paused, deliberating. “No, let’s check out the closets.”

  “We have to fill up the water dishes first.” Jocelyn led the way to the mudroom, where the dogs were staging their usual attempt at a prison break. “Oh, thank goodness, Hester didn’t go into labor yet.” She reached down to stroke the expectant mother’s ears. “Don’t worry, girl, I’ll be by your side from this moment on.”

  Bree grabbed the stainless steel dog dishes from the floor, turned on the faucet to release a gush of triple-filtered, reverse-osmosis water, and filled them to the brim. “There.” Water sloshed onto the mudroom floor as Bree set the dishes down. “Let the grand tour commence. Starting with closets.”

  “What is your obsession with closets?” Jocelyn headed for the kitchen, where she opened a cabinet door to find stacks of pristine white porcelain plates. “Hmm. Where do you suppose he kept the wineglasses?”