Bloodlines (32 page)

With justifiable pride, Kevin said, “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Of course I do.” My voice was huffy.

“No, you don’t. And, geez, you’re the dog expert, and here am I—”

“What does my, uh, expertise—?”

“You pull out this pedigree, and you tell me all about—”

“What does that have to do with …?” It seemed to me that Kevin hadn’t been all that interested in Missy’s pedigree. Mostly, as I recalled it, he’d been morally outraged.

“You remember what you said?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“Well, what you said was that dogs don’t know. Like, uh, one stud and two sisters.”

“Walter Simms. Diane Sweet. Janice Coakley. But, Kevin, if Janice Coakley … 
Janice
found out? And after Walter Simms left her, she followed him, and—Okay, Kevin, this has gone far enough.” I was actually angry, more at Walter Simms than at Kevin and his guessing game. Running a puppy mill is no crime. Even with blatant evidence of neglect and cruelty? That son of a bitch Walter Simms would pay a small fine and spend maybe a few months in jail. I’d wanted him convicted of one crime that everyone, even the AKC, would take seriously, namely, murder.

“Mrs. Coakley didn’t find out until today when yours truly opened his big mouth and told her, and, once he did, you should’ve heard what came out.”

“So … But Diane found out. Who told her? Walter Simms? He told her and then … Just
tell
me, would you?”

“Joe Rinehart gets a tip about the ripoffs, or else he tumbles to it, but whichever way, he gets to Mrs. Coakley’s. This is Sunday night, quarter of ten, somewhere around then, and Simms has just left to go to Puppy Luv, but Rinehart reads her the riot act, scares the shit out of her, only he only knows
half
of it. Rinehart knows about the puppies, he knows Janice and Simms are pulling one over on him, but he doesn’t know about her affair with Simms. So Rinehart scares the pants off her, and then he takes off after Simms.”

“So Janice calls to warn Simms! Only, of course, Diane answers the phone, right? I mean, she owns the
place, and her voice is on the tape. So did Janice talk to Simms?”

“That wouldn’t’ve done it,” Kevin said. “Remember, like I told you about the dogs. If they know, they care. Janice calls Diane, and she wants to talk to Simms, and when Diane asks why, Janice makes a big mistake, not for her, for Diane. She tells Diane that Rinehart’s on his way and she has to talk to Simms, and she lets it slip that they’ve got this special relationship. Or maybe she says Walter is special to her. Something like that. She can’t remember exactly.”

“So basically Janice told Diane. Diane thought Simms sort of belonged to her, and then she found out he was sleeping with her sister, too. Oh, okay! So Diane never passed on the message, right? She heard
special
, and she probably heard something in Janice’s tone of voice, and so she never told Simms that Rinehart was on his way.”

“Cool customer,” Kevin said. “Businesswoman type.”

“And then?”

“Conjecture. Diane doesn’t pass on the word about Rinehart. She just tells Simms that she knows all about him and Janice, and while she’s yelling at him and maybe he’s yelling back, Rinehart shows up, and I think he comes to the back door. That’s where Simms’s van is, and Rinehart’s on a kind of back-door errand, anyway. So Rinehart’s at the door, and when Diane hears him, she knows who it is. She’s expecting him.”

“And Simms could’ve … He could’ve thought it was her husband, I guess.”

“Not if he heard Rinehart’s voice. Simms worked for Rinehart. He would’ve recognized his. So when Simms heard Rinehart holler to open the door, that’s when he decided to shut her up, and while he was at it, he decided to make it permanent.”

“He knew Diane hadn’t warned him. He realized why Janice had called, and he knew Diane hadn’t warned him. Oh, and Simms hadn’t talked to Janice, so
he didn’t know for sure that Rinehart had caught on, did he? And maybe Diane could’ve told Rinehart, I don’t know, more than he knew already, like how long it had been going on, whatever.”

“Or maybe Simms just does what little Walter does when he’s really pissed off.”

“I don’t—”

“You will,” Kevin said.

As predicted, at the intersection with Huron, the great sociogeographical divide, Kevin turned right instead of crossing over into Off Brattle. Rowdy darted toward a tree, raised a hind leg, practically wrapped himself around the trunk, lowered his leg, sniffed the tree, and then lifted his leg so high that he almost toppled over.

“Macho,” Kevin said with approval.

“So how did Rinehart get in? Did Simms open—”

“Tire iron. We got that one wrong to start with. We figured that was part of the business of faking a robbery, like emptying the cash drawer and all, but the tire iron’s covered with Rinehart’s prints. Rinehart did that. Dumb guy, when you think about it. You know, I’ve been thinking about that, about him and Enzio, and I was thinking maybe what Enzio always had against him wasn’t that he wasn’t Italian. Maybe Enzio just always figured Rinehart was stupid. Anyways, he should’ve pulled his gun.”

“Rinehart was carrying a gun?”

“Ça va sans dire,”
Kevin said and added, rather unnecessarily, “like the Frogs say.”

“So then Simms—?”

“Socked him one in the gut, gave him a swift kick where it hurts, and dragged him around the corner to this bathtub and banged his head.” Kevin paused. “Contusions. Not a lot of blood.”

“So the plastic was to keep the blood off the van or truck or whatever. Hey, wait a minute. What happened to Rinehart’s car? If he drove from Janice Coakley’s to Puppy Luv …”

The streetlight near Henry Bear’s toy shop showed Kevin’s grin. “Just like Mabelline.”

“What?”

“Coupe de Ville. Like the song. Mabelline. Cadillac Coupe de Ville.”

“So where is it?”

“Parked on the street, couple of blocks away, covered with tickets, tire iron in the trunk, right where little Walter put it. Like I said, we would’ve worked it out sooner or later.”

“Okay, so what’s the ‘You will’? There’s something else, right? I can tell from your face.”

“Little Cheryl,” Kevin said. “You catch her on TV?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I don’t know what Rita’d call it, but, in my opinion, she hasn’t got all her marbles. Christ, poor kid, no wonder.”

“Poor kid?
Kevin, they seized sixty-eight dogs from that disgusting place. Walter wasn’t the only one responsible for that. Just because she’s simpleminded or whatever she is, it doesn’t excuse that. You don’t have to be exactly brilliant to understand that animals are suffering. So don’t tell me—”

But Kevin interrupted. He’d interviewed Cheryl Simms after the TV segment had been taped. He had some news that hadn’t made the five o’clock report I’d watched. Kevin is a good cop. Smart. He asked Cheryl about Joe Rinehart, and she said, predictably enough, “Me and Walter don’t know nothing.” Then Kevin asked her about Diane Sweet, and, of course, she said the same thing. Finally, Kevin thought about the background information he’d been given on the Simms family, and he asked Cheryl what had happened to her father. Her reply? “Me and Walter don’t know nothing.” The excavation of the dirt floor of the same shed that had held Rinehart’s body revealed the largely decomposed remains of Cheryl and Walter’s father, who had died of gunshot wounds about two years earlier.
When Walter Simms was informed that Cheryl could be charged in the death of their father, he confessed to the shooting and claimed that he’d been protecting his sister. Kevin believes him. The pedigree? I told you to look, didn’t I? Yeah, the father-daughter breeding. Kevin was right, of course. When people know, they mind a lot.

Dog’s Life
published my article on Sally Brand, who was so pleased and flattered that she offered me a free tattooed portrait of the dog of my choice anywhere on my body. I had to decline, though. I finally realized that every dog I’ve ever loved is already written all over me, plainly visible to the canine eye. Who knows what smiling face or wagging tail Sally might inadvertently cover up?

I’m the tattooed lady, and I’m not unique. In fact, if you’ve ever loved a dog, check out your arms, your legs, your torso, even the palms of your hands and the soles of your feet. Look into a mirror and stare into the depths of your eyes. The retina’s a tender place for a tattoo, of course, but you know that already, don’t you? When you lost that dog, you nearly died of pain.

We are the
irezumi
, the tattooed ones, engraved, emblazoned, permanently decorated with elaborate patterns of rich design, and together we form a kind of benevolent, joyful
Yakuza
, too, the legal, happy Mafia of dog fancy, neither secret nor exclusive, but open to absolutely anyone who’s ever bragged about a dog.
Mafia?
The literal meaning? Boldness, bluster, swagger. Dog lovers, and proud of it. And we’re everywhere, of course. We’re the guy pumping gas at your local garage,
the pharmacist who filled your last prescription, the UPS driver who delivers your orders from Cherrybrook, and the homeless woman in Harvard Square who feeds herself on garbage, but begs change to buy food for her dog. We’re Barbara Bush and Cleveland Amory, and I sure hope we’re Robin Williams. We’re Doris Day, Brigitte Bardot, and Dan Quayle. We’re the queen of England.

And damned if we aren’t Enzio Guarini, too, who despite his involuntary residence in Rhode Island, has never visited Sally Brand’s studio, but who bears on his heart the portraits of two beloved Norwegian elkhounds. When the news broke, Guarini made a large donation to the Eleanor J. Colley Society in memory of his late daughter, Maria, and also arranged to have a quick-setting concrete boot hand-fitted to the foot of Rinehart Pet Mart. Rinehart Motor Mart is still in business, but the associated animal brokerage firm sank so fast that no one even saw the bubbles. So you see? We’re everywhere.

Jane M. Appleyard confided to me that the tipster who provided probable cause for the warrant and was thus responsible for the raid on Cheryl and Walter Simms’s puppy mill was, in fact, Bill Coakley. I should have guessed. A friend of the family? I mean, who else could have ignored or endured the stench? According to Mrs. Appleyard, Bill Coakley was trying to buy her off; he informed on Walter Simms, and, in return, she was supposed to leave Coakley alone. She hasn’t, of course. She hasn’t got him yet, but I have faith in her, and I have faith in you, too. If the AKC-registered mini dachshund you bought from Bill Coakley looks suspiciously like a pug, or if Coakley sold you a kennelful of cute little pet tapeworms, whipworms, and roundworms as well as the Pomeranian you wanted, complain! For a start, call Mrs. Appleyard, the Westbrook Health Department, the SPCA, the Humane Society of the United States, the American Kennel Club, and the United States Department of Agriculture.

But I’m pretty sure that Mrs. Appleyard is wrong about why Bill Coakley informed on Walter Simms. I can’t prove it, but I have a hunch that my bribe worked. I’d bet that Bill Coakley wanted my five hundred dollars, tried to buy Missy back from Simms, and decided to get revenge when Simms refused to part with her.

With regard to the Coakleys, I regret to report that, in spite of the recent scandal that hit all the papers (“Scabies Cases Traced to Local Kennel”), Your Local Breeder is still in business. Although
Sarcoptes scabiei
, the itch mite, is not yet registrable with the AKC, Janice Coakley apparently received a large shipment on a litter of Italian greyhounds flown in from Missouri. As I hope you’ve never had to learn, scabies itches like crazy. It’s caused by female mites that burrow in and lay their eggs under your skin.

Oh, while we’re on that topic—under your skin—I have happy news about Gloria Loss, who kept the braids, lost the acne, and, at my suggestion, responded to an ad that read
TATTOO FOR LOVE AND PROFIT
. Gloria still doesn’t believe that we have a right to own companion animals, but she realizes that our dogs and cats are better off with us than they are in a research laboratory and that, at least until they’re all returned to the wild, a tattoo is the best protection we can offer them. And speaking of research laboratories, I’ll confess that I introduced Gloria to someone from my past who knows a lot about them and doesn’t like what he knows. Let’s just say that he’s committed to change, okay? And so is Gloria, of course.

Steve offered to spay Missy free of charge, but refused to perform the surgery until I’d obtained written permission from her owner, Enid Sievers, or a signed document stating that Missy belonged to Malamute Rescue. I’d intended to call Enid Sievers, anyway. I wanted to have another go at persuading her to hand over Missy’s papers; I didn’t like the sound of the gentleman friend who’d recommended Bill Coakley’s boarding facilities.

On the early March day when I stood on her doorstep, Enid Sievers’s house looked even more intensely raspberry than it had in February, almost as if the fruit had ripened. When Mrs. Sievers answered the bell and welcomed me in, she wore a chartreuse dress with dyed-to-match pumps. Prancing and yapping at her high heels was an incredibly cute little short-haired brown-and-white mixed-breed dog, half smooth fox terrier, I guessed, half something much smaller, anyway, a lively, yipping character with alert eyes and a bold expression. Within thirty seconds, he’d produced more noise than I’d heard from Rowdy and Kimi in the entire time I’d lived with them.