Bloodlines (24 page)

I parked by the gate, grabbed the briefcase, and got out of the Bronco into the rain. When Mrs. Appleyard had said that you could smell the place from the road, she hadn’t exaggerated; the air, in fact, smelled foul. A few dogs barked. I slammed the car door. I’d removed the bumper sticker, but should I have left the Bronco down the lane? In back of Rinehart’s, I’d seen nothing
more identifiable than a dark van. I reasoned that Walter Simms had seen nothing more distinctive than a large dark car. The night had been very black, and the Bronco’s headlights must have reduced his night vision. He’d had no reason to notice and remember the number on my license plate. And if the Bronco looked like the property of a dog person? Well, why not? Dogs were, after all, my pretext as well as my real reason for being there.

I reached the gate and was searching for a latch when the torn screen door at the front of the house squealed open and discharged a scrawny young woman in a hot-pink nylon raincoat. She began to scream at me.

“This’s private property,” she shrieked. “Me and Walter don’t want nobody sticking their big fat noses in our business!”

I’d heard those frantic, terror-driven tones before, but only in the snarls of fear-biting dogs. Some fear-biters strike with no warning. I considered myself lucky. I removed my hand from the gate, took a deep breath, gave a smile that cramped my cheeks, and held up the briefcase. “Ever have a problem with fleas?” I asked brightly. “Sure you do,” I went on. “Let’s face it. So does every other breeder.” I tried not to stare at her. Sudden direct eye contact will sometimes trigger a rapid flash of teeth and a swift lunge.

“Me and Walter—” she began to bleat.

I interrupted. I’d spent the long drive to Afton composing this spiel, and I intended to deliver it. “And we’re all tired of being offered easy solutions that cost a fortune and don’t work.” I took another big breath of fetid air. “Why don’t they work? Because, Miss, uh, Simms,” I said, glancing at the mailbox, “fleas are not an
easy
problem.”

“Me and Walter—”

“You and Walter have tried your best, just like everyone else,” I declared, “but now and then, fleas have gotten the best of you. But you’re not alone. Many other
top show kennels have had the same unhappy experience. And, of course, to compound the problem, most of these so-called easy solutions to the flea problem are dangerous chemicals that pose a threat to you and your animals.” Inside the house, dogs were yipping and barking. A raindrop worked its way under the neck of my slicker. My merry tone was making me queasy. I swallowed and said, “But now, Miss Simms, you can join the thousands of happy breeders who’ve already discovered that Flee-B-Gon’s unique three-step program is the safe, easy cure that really, really works.” I was talking very fast. I didn’t stop. “Step One? Treat the environment, because only about ten percent of fleas are on your dogs, you know. The other ninety percent are all around us.” I swept my arm dramatically. “In our yards and kennels, in our animals’ bedding, and even in our own carpets and furniture!” Perfectly true, by the way. “Step Two? Treat the animal. Step Three? Prevent reinfestation.”

“Me and Walter don’t want none,” she said stubbornly, but her tone had changed from shrill to whiny, and her eyes were on me.

“No cost and no obligation,” I said, opening the briefcase. A gust of wind sprayed me and it with rain. “In fact,” I added with sudden inspiration, “I’m here today, Miss Simms, to deliver the good news that you and Walter have been selected to participate in our special Flee-B-Gon Selected Breeders Program.” I swear, you could hear the capitals in my voice. There is nothing, but nothing, I won’t do for dogs. “Miss Simms,” I said. “This is Miss Simms I’m talking to?”

“Yeah, Cheryl,” she admitted.

“Well, Miss Simms, all you do is accept these samples of Flee-B-Gon products.” I held up the half-open briefcase. “Give them a try. And in a month or so, let us know just how thrilled you are with them.” I wiped the smile off my face and confided, rather loudly, because of the distance, “And you can use these fine products with
the full assurance that Flee-B-Gon contains
no
harmful chemicals. Everything we manufacture is one hundred percent natural and organic. Why, you could drink a bottle of this kennel and yard spray, and it wouldn’t do you a bit of harm. You have my personal guarantee on that.”

My smile crept back. Cheryl was halfway down the muddy drive. As she approached, I tried to listen hard to the dogs. The high-pitched yipping certainly came from the house. The stench came from everywhere, including, it seemed to me as Cheryl Simms drew near, from the young woman herself. Her pale hair was thin and matted, and she had the blotched skin of someone who lives mainly on potato chips and diet soda. The hot-pink nylon protected her body from the rain, but her Reebok imitations sank into the mud. She didn’t seem to notice her wet feet or ruined shoes. If it hadn’t been for the dogs, I’d have felt guilty about luring her out with the offer of something for nothing.

Then the screen door banged hard. Walter Simms appeared on the sagging porch. His complexion, darker and better than his sister’s, would have stood up to her hot pink, but he wore a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt over tight jeans and high-topped sneakers. At his side, a handsome, sleek young male Rottweiler trembled with excitement. “Cheryl, what the hell are you doing?” Walter shouted at her. “Get back here!”

Cheryl cringed and headed toward the house.

Then Walter Simms turned his furious face toward me. “What the shit do you want? Can’t you read the fucking sign? It says to keep the fuck out of here.”

His sister was already cowering on the porch. “Walter, she’s givin’ stuff away,” Cheryl said pitifully. “She’s givin’ it for free.”

Walter looked exasperated. “For Christ’s sake, Cheryl.”

“It’s for free,” Cheryl pleaded. “For fleas. Walter, please?”

Walter turned toward me, stabbed a finger toward my briefcase, and demanded, “What the fuck’s in that?”

“Flea powder. Spray. It’s a line of flea control products.”

“Me and Cheryl don’t need none. Get the fuck out of here.”

“That’s a handsome Rottie you’ve got there,” I said. “You know, a bad case of fleas could really do a job on him. Fleas can carry tapeworms, for one thing. And a lot of dogs are allergic to fleas. If he starts scratching, he’ll tear up that beautiful coat.”

“Oh, yeah?” Simms jerked his thumb back toward the source of the yipping. “Champ’s around all them other dogs, and he never picked nothing up.”

“Well, he could,” I said, wiping the rain off my face with my free hand, “if the other dogs have fleas. Maybe you’ve just been lucky so far. You take pretty good care of Champ, don’t you?”

And, I swear to God, Walter Simms beamed. Like his Rottie, he was dark-eyed and muscular, and his face had the same well-developed cheekbones as his dog’s. “Yeah,” he confessed almost shyly. Then he turned serious. “I ain’t got no money to waste on them dogs out there,” he said, jerking his thumb once again, “but I don’t want nothing happening to Champ. That stuff really work?”

“Yes,” I lied. “I told, uh, Miss Simms. I’ll leave you the free samples.” I was as close to Walter Simms as I wanted to be. “I’ll put them in your mailbox, okay? Is that all right?”

Cheryl threw Walter a look so subservient that I almost expected her to crouch and leave a little submissive puddle on the porch at his feet.

“Is that all right?” I asked again.

Walter looked Cheryl up and down, then said, “Yeah.”

As I was stashing Flee-B-Gon containers in the mailbox, I called casually, “Hey, what’s so special about Champ? I mean, your other dogs …”

Walter Simms looked at the Rottie and clapped his hands. The sleek black-and-rust dog gave a powerful upward bound and made a springing, muscular landing at Simms’s feet. As if stating the obvious, Simms said, “Champ’s not like them others. Champ’s
my
dog.”

I left Afton that Wednesday afternoon feeling wet, weak, and cowardly. In visiting Walter and Cheryl Simms, I’d accomplished nothing. I’d smelled and heard the evidence of a puppy mill, but the only dog I’d observed had been Walter’s pet Rottie. Champ looked anything but neglected. According to Missy’s papers, Simms had malamutes, presumably including Missy’s dam, Icekist Sissy, but I hadn’t even been able to verify the presence of the breed. I’d had a small camera tucked in my shoulder bag. In retrospect, I wondered why I’d even bothered to take it with me. Had I expected Walter and Cheryl Simms to give me free run of the place to do a full-page spread for
Dog’s Life?

But if Cheryl Simms had been alone there? It seemed just possible that Cheryl might at least have opened that gate. She’d eyed my briefcase of bright containers with the greediness of a deprived child. If I’d taken advantage of Cheryl’s simplicity to buy my way in, I just might have had the chance to get a couple of photos. If so, Jane Appleyard might have had the probable cause she needed to take legal action, maybe enough evidence to get the authorities to raid the damned place and permanently close it down.

As it was? I hadn’t even found out for sure that
Simms had Missy. I tried to forget Missy’s open, friendly trust, the eagerness of her greeting, her puppy sweetness, that full mask on her face, the markings so much like Kimi’s. Until the previous Friday, only five days ago, Missy had spent a pampered life in the small and hot but clean and toy-packed pantry of Enid Sievers’s overstuffed raspberry house. I tried to console myself. Although Missy’s own existence had left her utterly unprepared for hardship, she was, after all, an Alaskan malamute. The breed evolved in the brutal environment of the Arctic. Some of Missy’s own ancestors had survived the unspeakable cruelty of the men and the climate in Little America. An Alaskan malamute can endure almost anything, I reminded myself. Tears filled my eyes. I pulled to the side of the road. The Byrd expeditions are the stuff of my nightmares. Why in God’s name had I looked to Antarctica for consolation?

When I’d blown my nose and pulled myself together, I decided that instead of heading directly back to Cambridge, I’d detour through Westbrook and stop at Your Local Breeder. Gloria Loss had been due to start work there this morning. She’d had very little time to discover anything, and Janice Coakley had probably kept her busy cleaning out kennels and scrubbing kibble off food bowls. I probably wouldn’t even have a chance to talk to Gloria alone; Janice Coakley might not trust a new employee to deal with a customer. Even so, I’d already established myself with Janice as a potential puppy buyer—there’d be nothing suspect about a second visit—and Westbrook wasn’t far out of my way.

When I drove up to Your Local Breeder, the parking lot by the kennel building held three cars, one of which, a charcoal gray Volvo sedan, turned out to have a Cambridge resident parking permit on its dashboard. Adhering to the back bumper of the car was a campaign sticker for a candidate for the Cambridge City Council, a radical feminist lesbian woman whose chances of election were deemed slight. Why? Most observers agreed that, given her conservative views, she didn’t stand a
chance. Cambridge: Berkeley with lousy weather. Anyway, maybe my luck had turned. At least Gloria hadn’t quit or been fired.

Far from it. I found Gloria in Ronald’s old place, perched on the stool behind the counter in the kennel supply shop at the front of Your Local Breeder. Unlike Ronald, Gloria was working. In fact, she was ringing up a sale. Although she looked far from beautiful, the change in her appearance was remarkable. She’d obviously washed her hair, which hung in neat dark braids, and, in place of Sunday’s gloomy drapery, she wore a starched white shirt. Her skin was still an erupted mess of acne, of course, but she’d lost some of her neglected, hapless air.

On the opposite side of the counter stood a blond, freckle-faced woman and three blond, freckle-faced little girls. In the world of dogs, the ability to produce miniature versions of oneself, as if by parthenogenesis, is called prepotency. This was obviously a prepotent dam. With a vaguely reluctant look on her face, she was paying Gloria for a tiny, adorable Finnish spitz puppy that rested in the arms of the tallest of the three children.

“Now,” the woman said to Gloria, as if concluding a discussion, “you’re very sure that they don’t bark?”

You know what a Finnish spitz is? Cutest breed in the world, just like a darling little fox. I’d get one tomorrow, except for one thing: yapping. As if tuned to my thoughts, the puppy launched into a series of ear-shattering yips. The woman’s eyes widened.

“She’s just nervous now,” Gloria said. “Wait till you get her home. You’ll hardly hear a peep out of her. Practically a silent breed.”

The child holding the puppy said impatiently, “Mom, who
cares?
This is the one
we
want.”

The next tallest little girl seconded her sister. “Yeah, Mom. You saw her. She ran right to
us.
She picked
us.”

The mother conceded. Gloria handed her a receipt
and a plastic bag that must have held puppy paraphernalia. The mother gave the bag to the smallest child and hefted a twenty-pound bag of premium chow in her arms. The blond family filed out.