Bride & Groom (16 page)

“I knew Bonny Carr,” I told Kevin. “Not well. She gave workshops about treating traumatized dogs. I went to one a few years ago.”

“Is there a dog owner in the Commonwealth that you don’t know?”

“There are thousands. But I do know a lot of people who work with dogs. Or write about dogs. Or show. Train. Do agility. But Bonny Carr wasn’t really a dog trainer, and she didn’t show. I went to the workshop because I thought I might write about it.”

“And did you?”

“No.”

“For no good reason.”

“On the contrary. For an excellent reason.”

“I gotta drag this out of you?”

I drank some coffee. “No. It’s... I’m embarrassed. And kind of ashamed. Because I told you that I really didn’t like Victoria Trotter.”

“And you didn’t like Ms. Carr any better.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

Kevin looked at Rowdy and Kimi, who’d thrown themselves at his big feet. “I gotta ask you guys?”

“Rowdy’s the one to ask. He went with me to Bonny Carr’s workshop. He acted horrible. Her method had to do with relieving anxiety by touching the dog. Massaging. And you know how Rowdy loves anything like that. And he would
not
cooperate. She’d say something about applying gentle pressure to the dog’s ears, and Rowdy would bounce up and start yelping. It was humiliating. But what I realized, belatedly, was that Rowdy was right. What he didn’t like was being there at all. And the reason was that he didn’t like Bonny Carr. He spotted something wrong. Something fake.”

Kevin wrapped his giant hands around Rowdy’s muzzle and moved the big dog’s head back and forth. “You got a nose for a phony, huh?”

“He did this time. Kevin, something about that woman just didn’t ring true. Supposedly, she was devoted to relieving trauma. But as I thought it over afterward, it seemed to me that what she was actually devoted to was presenting herself as a sort of savior. Her strong emphasis, her real energy, was directed at how she came across. I had the feeling that we were meant to leave there with the image of Saint Bonny. And that the dogs she was talking about didn’t matter much to her at all. Also, she more than suggested that Rowdy was acting wild because I’d abused him!”

“Any connection between her and Victoria Trotter?”

“Not that I know of. I don’t see why there should have been. Victoria had no interest in shelter dogs or rescue or anything like that. And what Bonny Carr did had no connection with the tarot or mysticism or anything remotely like that. In the world of dogs, they moved in completely different circles. The only possible connection I could think of was that both of them might’ve belonged to DWAA.” I refilled Kevin’s cup. “The Dog Writers Association of America. But I checked the DWAA directory, and neither of them belonged. You know, though, there’s one thing I’ve wondered. Kevin, do you know whether Laura Skipcliff owned a dog?”

“No pets,” he said. “Not so much as an ant farm.”

“Do you have idea what the murder weapon was? Or what the weapons were?”

What I heard him say was, “Heavy metal.”

I must’ve looked bewildered.

“Metal object. Heavy. Probably new. Clean. Probably with a wooden handle. All along, I’ve been guessing a sledge hammer. Like they say, a blunt instrument. Not an ax.”

“I have to tell you,” I said, “and I’m not the only person who feels this way—I really hope that all the people investigating these murders know a lot more than anyone is saying.”

“You and me both.”

“That’s why I was honest with you about Bonny Carr. And Victoria. Maybe my dislike wasn’t just a personal matter. Maybe it’s information. I’d like to say that they were both beautiful human beings, and it’s perfectly possible that lots of people thought so. But I didn’t.”

“Hey, if it’s any consolation, someone agreed with you.”

“It’s no consolation,” I said.

CHAPTER 20

As promised, Rita arrived home in time for our shopping trip, which was to be no ordinary outing, but a ritual quest for nuptial finery. Consequently, two o’clock on Sunday afternoon found Rita, Leah, and me in Maurice’s Bridal Shop, a vast suburban strip-mall emporium recommended by Olivia Berkowitz. I almost wish that I’d counted the number of white gowns jammed into the miles of extralong racks, but if I’d started the task, I wouldn’t be done with it yet. There were trillions, each more elaborate than the others, or so it seemed to me.

Yanking a heavy satin, lace, and seed-pearl garment from an overstuffed rack, my cousin Leah said, much too loudly, “Yuck! Holly, is this ever not you! What are we doing in this awful place? This thing looks like a Halloween costume for someone who wants to go as the pope.”

“Leah, keep your voice down,” I whispered. “You may not care for the dress or the store, but for all you know, some woman in the next aisle just bought that exact dress and is thrilled with it. Or was until you opened your mouth.”

Thereafter, Leah modulated her volume. Her opinions, however, remained unchanged, and she continued to claim that one dress looked like a mammoth christening gown, another like a First Communion outfit, and another like a nurse’s uniform. Rita, who also found nothing to her liking, nonetheless insisted that we try on a few bridal gowns for me and pastel atrocities (or so I thought) for herself and Leah. Our arms laden with Rita’s selections, we staggered to the dressing rooms at the back of Maurice’s and dutifully enrobed ourselves. At the urging of a salesperson, we then paraded out to a small, low stage backed by mirrors, where I examined us and thought that we looked dandy—but only when I managed to keep my eyes exclusively on our heads. Leah’s red-gold curls spilled from a becoming top knot. Rita’s morning walk with Artie and Willie had given her cheeks a healthy, ruddy glow. In evaluating myself, I tried to filter out my resemblance to a golden retriever.

Just as I was succeeding in seeing the three of us as a lovely bridal party, two minor events ruined the perspective. The first was that Leah pointed a finger at Rita’s dress, a cocktail-length pale green affair, and said, admittedly in a hushed tone, “That thing looks like a high school prom dress, and it’s the exact same color as a lime Popsicle.”

The second event was that I glanced toward the front of the store and spotted a tall, slim woman with long, silky blond hair identical to Anita Fairley’s. The next moment, the woman turned, and I saw that her face looked nothing like Anita’s. Still, the pangs of jealousy and envy soured my mood. Or maybe what hurt was the sharp realization that even on my wedding day, when I’d presumably glow with ephemeral bridal loveliness, even when I was wearing a gracious, simple, elegant, and flattering gown entirely unlike the one I now wore, I’d still never be half as beautiful as Anita at her very worst.

“This place isn’t for us,” I said abruptly. “We have to go somewhere else.”

New Yorker that she was, Rita decided that the somewhere else should, of course, be Bloomingdale’s. Wise counselor that she was, she turned out to be right. Indeed, the second we entered the Bloomie’s on Route 9, I felt myself catch Rita’s spirit of optimism and happily glued myself to her in the attentive manner of a well-trained dog heeling beside a trusted, capable handler. In a small, uncrowded department on the second floor, we immediately found a long, absolutely simple, and simply perfect silky white dress and, miraculously, short dresses for Rita and Leah in the same style and fabric, but tinted a pale apricot.

When I tried on my dress, Leah, instead of announcing in her usual manner that it made me look like a monstrous infant or a nun about to take vows, said, “It’s so romantic! Holly, it’s perfect.”

And it was, too. Even the fit was perfect. Leah’s apricot dress was, however, too tight, and Rita’s had a greasy spot on the bosom. Consequently, I was left alone in a cubicle of the dressing area while Leah, and Rita went in search of replacements. Having succumbed to the temptation to admire myself in the mirror, I was enjoying the sight of my very bridal and decidedly undoglike image when I heard the voices of two women and the rustle of the clothing they obviously intended to try on. But they were not discussing their proposed purchases. Rather, they were talking about the murder of Bonny Carr.

The first woman expressed conventional sentiments. “Horrible,” she said. “I’m scared to leave home after dark. I make Harold take out the trash. It’s awful. You don’t expect something like this to happen in Brookline. All I can think is, it could’ve been any of us.”

In hushed tones, the second woman said, “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

I couldn’t see the women, of course, but the first woman probably gave the second a questioning look.

“Maybe she didn’t deserve what she got,” the second woman confided, “but she was no angel. I’ll tell you something about her, but if anyone asks you, I didn’t say it, and I’m not using names. I know about her because she had an affair with my best friend’s husband. And he wasn’t the only one. My friend was totally devastated. She lost fifteen pounds practically overnight. And besides everything else, she was terrified of AIDS. Her husband told her all about the affair, and she made him get tested, and he was negative. But it was strictly a matter of luck.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And do you know what Bonny Carr did for a living? She worked with traumatized animals. What a joke! Here she was devoting her professional life to supposedly healing trauma, while all the while, she spent her personal life inflicting it. What she was, was a stinking little hypocrite. My poor friend is waltzing on her grave. And she isn’t the only wife, either.”

“Sounds like there’ll be a chorus line.”

“Oh, there will. There definitely will.”

CHAPTER 21

From Monday through Thursday of that week, I was frantically busy. I finished my column for
Dog’s Life,
worked on the proposal for
No More Fat Dogs,
double-checked the plane and hotel reservations for our honeymoon, and did my usual volunteer work for Alaskan Malamute Rescue of New England, meaning that I answered E-mail and returned phone calls about malamutes in need of new homes. I also sketched a seating plan for what Gabrielle called “the wedding breakfast,” and Steve and I drew up a list of restaurants to consider for our rehearsal dinner. The “breakfast” would follow our afternoon wedding, and I saw no need to rehearse our simple service. Steve, however, having spoken with Gabrielle, explained that the point of the rehearsal was to provide an excuse for the mandatory dinner; therefore, we had to rehearse.

On Tuesday, Rowdy and I went to a cable television studio in Woburn to tape a show about pet care. Liver authority that I was, I was supposed to be the featured guest and was so nervous that my hands got drenched in sweat. Rowdy regarded the studio as yet one more splendid showring erected for the sole purpose of allowing him to strut his gorgeous stuff. To my relief, he stole the show by kissing the interviewer and howling for the camera. On Thursday, Steve and I took Sammy and Rowdy to dog training.

On Friday morning, I finally had time to get Rowdy to add his autograph to fresh copies of
101 Ways to Cook Liver.
Working in our usual cooperative fashion, Rowdy and I had developed a paw-printing system that limited the amount of ink tracked throughout the house and minimized the number of books spoiled by smears or dirt. Our “usual cooperative fashion” consisted of my making sure that the entire undertaking was saturated with dog treats and was therefore to the big boy’s liking. At about ten-thirty, Rowdy was hitched to a kitchen cabinet with an old, stained leash. Stacked on the table were thirty copies of my book, each with a sheet of scrap paper inserted at the title page. Also on the table, on a thick pad of newspaper, was an ink pad that I’d moistened with a little water and repeatedly inked from a bottle. Near it, within my reach and out of Rowdy’s, was a pile of my homemade liver brownies. On the counter next to the sink rested the ink bottle, a dog dish full of warm, soapy water for washing Rowdy’s right paw, and a second dish of clear water for rinsing off the soap. A mop and a bottle of spray cleanser stood ready, as did a roll of paper towels and a dog crate lined with threadbare bath towels.

Our eccentric book signing went smoothly. I popped a treat into Rowdy’s mouth, grasped his right leg with my left hand, raised his paw, and, using my right hand, pressed the ink pad against the bottom of his foot. I repeated the process until his paw was leaving dark marks on the tile floor. Then I re-inked his paw, held his leg in my left hand, wiped off my right hand, and used that clean hand to grab a book, open it to the title page, and shake the book lightly to allow the scrap paper to fall to the table. Chatting happily to Rowdy about what a good dog he was, I then held the title page just beneath his paw, pressed hard for about three seconds, removed the book, and re-inserted the scrap paper, which absorbed excess ink that would otherwise have smeared the facing page.

“Good job! That’s a beauty!” I shoved food into his mouth, and off we went again. The trick, by the way, is to work fast. By the time we’d done all thirty books, Rowdy stood in a shallow pool of watery ink, and my worn-out, once-white running shoes were wet with ink, as were my holes-in-the-knees jeans, my knees themselves, and the cuffs of my ancient sweatshirt. That was when the front doorbell rang. Having sworn softly, I bellowed, “JUST A MINUTE!” My friends never use the front door. Delivery people do because my address is 256 Concord Avenue, and the front of the house is on Concord. Rowdy assumes, not unreasonably, that the front bell means a package from a kennel-supply company, a box that will contain toys and goodies for him. He bounced in the inky pool. I, in contrast, assumed that UPS or FedEx was delivering a wedding present, and I tiptoed around the ink and kicked off my shoes. Two gifts had already arrived, both sent by friends of my family even before they’d received invitations. One was a food processor that sat in its carton on the kitchen counter, and the other was a beautiful set of five thin but strong white leather leashes for the dogs to wear at the wedding. They, too, were on the counter.