Bride & Groom (18 page)

Buck,

I do not believe in interfering in other people's marriages, especially yours, but I feel compelled to repeat what I just said to you on the phone, namely, that if you want to go to mushing boot camp, fine! And I am happy to have Rowdy and Kimi accompany you. They will have lots of fun. The same cannot be said of Gabrielle. I wish that you had not signed her up without letting her know what to expect. It is your responsibility, and not mine, to inform her of the realities of camp! She needs to understand that mushing is mushing and that boot camp is boot camp! Please have her call Twila Baker!

Love,

Holly

CHAPTER 23

On Saturday night, Steve and I had an early dinner at a new restaurant in Newton called Nuages, which means, as I translated for Steve, Clouds. His French still hadn’t progressed beyond the statement that his wife didn’t like the heat.

“Actually,” I reminded him as we drove to Nuages, “when you’re its source, your wife-to-be likes the heat just fine.”

We were trying out Nuages in the hope that it would be a suitable place for our rehearsal dinner. Because Althea tired easily, we wanted a restaurant close to Ceci’s house on Norwood Hill. Nuages was a five-minute drive from there. Our investigation was a great success. The food proved to be not only delicious but more substantial than the restaurant’s name suggested; because I’m half malamute, I object to light fare, and I absolutely hate small portions. The decor, atmosphere, and menu at Nuages, while unpretentious, were trendy enough to make us feel that we were getting married in style. By the end of the meal, we’d agreed that this was the right place, and before leaving, we talked with the manager and reserved tables for Saturday. September 28.

If all had gone according to plan, we’d then have returned home to spend an hour or two poring over our guides to Paris and making notes on romantic walks we just had to take and museums we just had to visit. Unfortunately, thirty seconds after we walked into the house, the vet tech who was living in Steve’s old apartment above his clinic called to say that a hospitalized cat had taken a bad turn. Instead of relaying the message to one of the vets who worked for him, Steve apologized to me and took off. His parting words were, “Don’t go outside alone!”

Steve’s dedication to the welfare of his patients was one of the reasons I loved him. Still, I resented the interruption and even felt a little jealous of the ailing cat. I was left with the task of giving all five dogs some time outdoors in the yard, and, in Steve’s absence, not simultaneous time, either. Steve’s three dogs were in the third-floor apartment. The simplest way to get them to the yard would’ve been to take them down the back stairs, out the back door, along the driveway, and through the gate to the fenced area. It seemed ridiculous to suppose that the serial killer would attack me while I was outside for a few seconds in the company of three big dogs. Even so, I crated Rowdy and Kimi, went to the third floor, and then, with Lady and India following me and Sammy bounding in circles around us, passed through my place and into the yard. In the short time since Steve and I had arrived home, a heavy rain had started. Consequently, his dogs got wet and, on the way back up to the third floor, tracked mud over my kitchen tiles and the stairs. I didn’t bother to clean up yet, but put on a rain parka and gave Rowdy and Kimi their turn outside. Rowdy, with his hatred of water, relieved himself in about five seconds and demanded to return to the dry indoors. After letting him in, I stood under the eaves and waited for Kimi, who was cooperatively quick.

When I opened the door and let her in, I should’ve known that trouble awaited. Instead of shaking herself off, Kimi zoomed forward, and the next thing I knew, she’d tackled Rowdy, and the two big dogs were in the middle of the kitchen floor fighting over a horrible mess of coffee grounds, empty ice cream containers, dirty plastic bags, and other refuse that Rowdy had liberated from the trash can that belonged in the cabinet under the sink. Alaskan malamutes display what is known as “genetic hunger,” a legacy of the breed’s Arctic origins evident in the malamute’s determination to devour everything that could possibly be edible—and anything else that happens to be in the vicinity as well, including rival dogs vying for the same spoils. Consequently, the cabinet under the sink was always supposed to be fastened shut with a tight stretch cord. Steve wouldn’t have forgotten to fasten the cabinet. Either I’d been careless, or Rowdy had somehow defeated my dog-proofing. Bending my knees to put myself in a secure stance and bellowing at the dogs to remind them of exactly who was spoiling their fun, I grabbed Kimi’s collar, yanked her off Rowdy, dragged her to a crate in the guest room, and locked her up. Then I returned to the kitchen, swabbed out Rowdy’s mouth with my fingers to remove a greasy hunk of aluminum foil, and incarcerated him in the guest room in the crate next to Kimi’s.

Without even removing my rain parka, I got a broom and dustpan. Only when I’d transferred most of the debris to a trash bag did I notice that under the rain parka, I still had on the new pale gray dress I’d worn to dinner. Its skirt was about four inches longer than the parka, and in sweeping up the coffee grounds and grease, I’d managed to soil the fabric with what I suspected were permanent stains. I began swearing, mainly at that damned Jack London, and let me warn you, as he didn’t, that
The Call of the Wild
doesn’t begin to prepare a person for the reality of life with the noble and legendary dogs of the Far North.

So, I changed out of my new dress and into ratty jeans and a T-shirt, finished sweeping the kitchen floor, vacuumed and mopped it, put a fresh plastic bag in the trash can, stowed it under the sink, and defiantly slammed the cabinet door shut and secured it with stretch cord. The big green garbage bag was still in the kitchen.

All this is to explain, although not to justify, why I went outside alone at night. With the dogs in their crates, I could’ve left the trash bag in the kitchen. Or I could’ve put it in a closet, in the back hall, or in the cellar. I succumbed, however, to an urgent desire to rid my house of the evidence of the dogs’ misdeed. Reality aside, I liked seeing Rowdy and Kimi through Jack London eyes; the green garbage bag reflected an image of trash hounds that jarred with my treasured picture of Arctic nobility. Also, with the green trash bag in one of the barrels under the back steps to the house, Steve would never have to know what bad dogs Rowdy and Kimi had been and what a careless idiot I’d been to let them get in trouble.

“This is going to take two seconds,” I called to the dogs. “I’m practically not going out at all. I’ll be right back.”

As if to demonstrate just that, I didn’t put my rain parka back on, but picked up the trash bag, passed through the little back hall, opened the outer door, and considered dropping the bag over the railing so that it would land next to the barrels. But I didn’t. For one thing, Steve might’ve seen it when he came home. For another, although we have very few loose dogs around here, we do have a few raccoons and occasional possums and other wild animals that raid trash; I had no desire to clean the same mess off the driveway that I’d just finished removing from the kitchen floor. And the rain had now changed to mist; I wouldn’t even get wet. Besides, the original outside lights in combination with the new ones that Steve had installed meant that it was anything but dark outside. Clutching the bag, I ran down the back steps, yanked the lid off a barrel, deposited the trash, and put the lid back on.

That’s when I heard the noise. It came from alarmingly nearby. Worse, it originated in a place where almost no one ever went and where no one belonged: the narrow strip of earth between my house and the low fence that separated my property from my Concord Avenue neighbor’s. In contrast to the fenced yard on the opposite side of my house, this little passageway was about the width of a footpath. I kept it clear of weeds, but otherwise took no care of it and used it only as a place to rest a ladder when I painted or washed windows. Running as it did from Concord Avenue to the end of my driveway, it wasn’t a shortcut; no one but me used it at all.

When I say “noise,” I don’t mean a loud one. On the contrary, the sound was soft and muffled, as if someone lurking just around the corner of my house had taken a single step on the wet ground or had perhaps shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Ordinarily, I’d have ignored the sound; I wouldn’t have investigated its origin or called out to ask who was there. In this extraordinary time of fear, I heard the sound as furtive and threatening. Feeling guilty and stupid for ignoring the warnings, I made a panicked run up the back steps and went hurtling indoors. Once inside my cozy kitchen, I caught my breath, double-checked the locks on all the doors and windows, and freed Rowdy and Kimi from their crates. If Kevin Dennehy had been at home, I’d probably have asked him to take a look around, but I knew that he’d had a date with his girlfriend, Jennifer, and I knew that his car wasn’t in his driveway. As to dialing 911, Kevin had told me all about people who pestered the police by summoning officers to chase down and arrest what turned out to be tree limbs rubbing against roofs or paper bags blowing in the wind; I had no intention of becoming such a person.

“But,” I told Rowdy and Kimi, “I did not imagine that sound. I really did hear something. And you know as well as I do that no one ever goes on that side of the house. Something was there. Or someone. I would really like to know who. Or what. And I would like to know whether it’s still there.”

With that, I turned off the lights in the rooms with windows facing the passageway: the living room and kitchen. Feeling ridiculous, I then moved from window to window, stopping at each to peer out at what was, as far as I could see, the usual vacant strip of property.

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt you two to bark when there’s someone outside,” I said. “I don’t actually like barking, and I hate pointless yapping, but I wouldn’t mind an occasional woof when the situation calls for one.” The dogs, being mala-mutes, wagged their tails. “And this situation does, or at least did, warrant a woof because... hey, let me tell you something. You know how people are always saying, ‘I’m not the imaginative type? Well, I
am
the imaginative type, and that’s the reason I’ve had to get good at distinguishing between my imaginings and what’s really out there. And tonight, someone really was out there. Is out there. Maybe.” I paused. “And here’s something I’m not proud of. And I’m not telling this to anyone but you guys. But I’m different from Victoria Trotter. And I’m different from Bonny Carr. I don’t pass off other people’s work as my own, and I’m not some self-aggrandizing phony. I try to be kind, honest, and all the rest! And that difference made me feel safe. Now it doesn’t. And I don’t like feeling threatened. So, what do I do? Call the police and report that I heard, quote, a noise, unquote? Do I take the two of you out there and poke around? Do I take India? Victoria’s dogs were in her house. Bonny Carr’s dog was crated in her car. Yes, exactly. What if the dogs had been right there?”

Rowdy and Kimi gave my monologue their full attention; they did so in the happy expectation that I was about to feed them treats. I ended up doing just that, but only because they tagged along when I went to the bedroom, opened the closet door, stood on tiptoe, and retrieved the ultrafeminine Smith & Wesson case that contained the world’s weirdest hostess gift, a Ladysmith revolver once presented to me by my father as a token of his thanks for my hospitality. Rowdy’s and Kimi’s interest in the weapon made me uneasy, not because the dogs were capable of firing it, of course—even malamute brilliance has its limits—but because the innocence of the dogs’ curiosity jarred with the reality of its object. Still, instead of leaving the Ladysmith in its case, I crated the dogs, fed them treats, and dug ammo out of a locked file drawer in my office. Then I loaded the revolver. I grew up in Maine. Therefore, I grew up with guns. I’m not the sort of person who accidentally discharges a firearm, nor am I the sort who cowers helplessly in her house because she suspects that an evildoer lurks outside.

After slipping on a jacket, pocketing my keys, and grabbing a flashlight, I quietly entered the back hall and eased open the outer door. The floods, both old and new, showed my car and Rita’s BMW; everything looked normal. Moving slowly, I descended the stairs. With the flashlight in my left hand and the revolver in my right, I made a sudden sprint past the barrels and around the comer of the house. Almost to my disappointment, the narrow strip of land was empty. As if to justify my presence there, I aimed the flashlight at the wet ground and walked the length of the passageway. The beam showed wet leaves that I hadn’t bothered to rake. If it also showed footprints, I didn’t see them. Feeling foolish, I made my way back along the length of the house and had just stepped onto the brightly illuminated driveway when a human figure appeared on the sidewalk. The figure was female. Taking a look at me, she opened her mouth in a giant O that could have come right out of Munch’s famous painting titled “The Scream.” And scream Rita sure did.

CHAPTER 24

“Don’t give me this line of yours about Maine and guns,” Rita said. “The world is full of people who grew up in Maine and don’t go around brandishing deadly weapons.”

“Name one,” I challenged.

We were seated at my kitchen table. I’d explained about Steve’s feline emergency, invited Rita in, unloaded the Ladysmith, and returned it to its case, which I’d stowed safely in the bedroom closet. After locking the ammunition in the file drawer, I’d let Rowdy and Kimi loose. Then I’d opened a bottle of a red wine that Steve was considering for our reception. It was called Mad Fish. The name suited the present occasion. Rita was furious at me, and we were on a subject intimately related to fish and fishing, namely, the State of Maine. Then, too, there was the unmentionable matter of fishy Artie Spicer.