Bride & Groom (22 page)

To no one’s evident surprise, Claire executed a nimble little dance and sang the chorus of that old song called “Daddy’s Little Girl.” Her voice was pretty good. Everyone laughed. When she’d finished the performance, she took the place that Judith had meant for her. If the table had been mine, I’d have been tempted to remove the chair and feed her a dinner of moldy leftovers in a dog bowl on the kitchen floor. Judith, however, displayed great sangfroid in serving Claire the same first course that she and Olivia had prepared for the group, namely, individual ramekins of truffle flan in Parmesan broth. A truffle custard in cheese soup might not sound like something to die for, but I spoke the truth when I said, “Judith, one reason I try to be good in this lifetime is that if I get to heaven, the food will taste exactly like this.”

“I copied it from a restaurant,” Judith said. “But thank you.”

“Judith is amazing,” her husband said. “She throws these things together in no time.”

Olivia and Ian exchanged glances.

“Right,” Olivia said. “No time at all. It also took her no time to make Ian’s special food.”

Only then did I notice that Ian’s ramekin contained something other than the flan.

“Fruit salad,” Judith said. “That really did take no time.”

“Ian is a vegan,” Claire said. Although her voice carried no hint of ridicule, the bare statement somehow sounded like a taunt chanted in a schoolyard. “He lives on seeds and nuts.”

“With the occasional tuber and root thrown in,” Ian said mildly.

“Daniel,” Claire said, “would you go check on Gus?” Daniel excused himself and left the room.

“Now we can tell lawyer jokes,” his wife said. "Only kidding.” To me, she said, “He’s a lawyer. Obviously.”

I wondered whether she knew that Steve’s vile ex-wife, Anita, was also a lawyer, albeit a disbarred one.

Soon after Daniel returned, Judith and Olivia cleared the table. Steve and I offered to help, but Judith and Olivia seemed to prefer to work as a team. They soon served the main course, which consisted of a leg of lamb, a fricassee of wild mushrooms, a fancy version of mashed potatoes, and, as I was disconcerted to learn, brussels sprouts. I hate the damned things. Rather, I’d always hated them until I tasted these, which were chopped into a sort of puree and were bright green, buttery, and in all other respects, entirely unlike the smelly little cabbages I’d avoided throughout my life. Mac made a show of playing the carving knife on a sharpening steel and did a capable job of carving the lamb. As probably goes without saying, Judith once again unobtrusively served Ian a special meal.

“The mushrooms are from the store,” Olivia said. “They’re wild, but you can relax. We didn’t gather them ourselves and pick poisonous ones by accident.”

It was, I think, Olivia’s casual reference to unnatural death that triggered the subsequent discussion of the serial killings. The topic would have arisen anyway; everyone in Massachusetts was obsessed with the murders. With three veterinarians at the dinner table, the explicitly veterinary nature of the crimes made the subject inevitable. In any case, the mention of mushrooms somehow led to a conversation about the pharmaceuticals injected into the victims.

“Acepromazine was an odd choice,” Claire said. “Injectable. Mac? Steve? Would you ever send a client home with it?”

Steve said, “Tablets.”

There followed a technical exchange about the risks and benefits of a variety of veterinary tranquilizers, including ace, which emerged as safer for some breeds than for others. All three vets agreed that these days, the choice of antianxiety agents was so wide that they had the ability to prescribe on a case-by-case basis, selecting the best drug for each individual dog. Similarly, the three agreed on the importance of using behavioral interventions as well as medications.

“The same goes for amitriptyline,” Mac said. “I’ll tell you when I used to prescribe that—before Prozac became generic. If I had a client who couldn’t afford Prozac or didn’t want to pay for it, we’d give amitriptyline a try. It was cheap.”

Everyone agreed, of course, that insulin was another matter; just as people with diabetes tested and injected themselves, so, too, did owners monitor and manage the disease in diabetic pets.

Ian listened eagerly and eventually asked, “So, where were they injected?”

“Ian, that’s ghoulish!” Olivia said. “What does it matter? And these poor women were already dead. The point is that it was a creepy thing to do. Never mind anything else! Except the creepiest thing of all, which is that it’s getting so veterinary.”

“I’m curious,” her brother told her. “In the arm?”

“Ian, enough,” Mac said. “No one wants to dwell on gruesome details. And you’re forgetting that these poor women, some of them, weren’t strangers. Holly and I were blurbing a book that Elspeth What’s-her-name had just written.”

I didn’t know what to make of the statement. Even Mac, I thought, wouldn’t stoop to blurbing a plagiarized book. Maybe he’d missed the E-mail I’d sent him after I’d read about Zazar and before I’d learned of Elspeth’s murder. Or maybe he was telling a pointless lie? I said nothing. With Elspeth dead, what did it matter whether I had or hadn’t intended to have my name on the cover of her book?

“The scarlet lady,” Ian said. “At the bookstore.”

Olivia came down hard on her brother. “Ian, what a way to talk about someone who’s just been murdered!”

“She was all red. Red hair, red clothes, red face. All I’m doing is saying what she looked like.”

“No, you are not, and you know you’re not. And it’s not exactly as if you’re in a position to criticize other people for the way they dress. You spend most of your life—” Olivia caught herself. To Steve and me, she said, “Sorry! I’ve scared you about your wedding. Ian does own a tux. He’ll be perfectly presentable.”

Whether deliberately or accidentally, Olivia thus shifted the conversation from murder to music, and the dinner party regained its normal atmosphere. As we finished the main course and ate the salad that was served after it, everyone joined in a discussion of Ian’s music and the musical choices we needed to make for our wedding. Daniel was an especially helpful contributor. Claire excused herself twice to check on Gus, and when she was present, limited herself to humming snatches of songs that were mentioned. By the time we’d finished the salad, the idea had arisen that instead of having dessert at the dinner table, we’d move back to the opposite end of the room for live music.

The party dispersed. Daniel and Steve helped Ian to carry in his instruments. Mac added logs to the fire and set out liquors and glasses for after-dinner drinks. Claire took a seat on one of the couches near the fire. Meanwhile, I insisted on helping Olivia to clear the table and load the dishwasher, and Judith put together a chocolate soufflé. As the three of us did traditional women’s work, we talked traditional women’s talk about weddings, especially Olivia’s and mine. Once the soufflé was in the oven, Olivia decided that I just had to see her wedding gown, which turned out to be stored at her parents’ house. Consequently, Olivia, Judith, and I started upstairs to the top floor, where I’d never been before. With a look of happy expectation, Uli trailed after us.

“Oh, dear,” Judith said, “Uli sometimes forgets that stairs are a problem for him these days.”

As Ian had done earlier, she supported the old dog’s hindquarters and spoke encouragingly as she helped him up the stairs. “My best boy,” she murmured. “You can do it! I know you can. Good boy!”

Impatient to show off her gown, Olivia raced up and said, “Mommy, Uli really isn’t interested. Let him stay downstairs.”

“He wants to be with me,” Judith said gently. "All he wants is to be with me. It’s not too much for him to ask.” To me, she said, “He’s on every old-dog drug there is. He’s not in any pain.”

"I’m sure he’s not.” Indeed, Uli wore a contented expression and softly wagged his white-tipped tail.

The flight of stairs ended at a spacious landing. Two doors were closed, and three stood open. Pointing toward one of the open doors, Olivia said, “Mommy’s study. People always want to see where she writes.”

Before I had a chance to get more than a glimpse of a computer sitting on a paper-laden desk, Olivia rushed into another room and announced, “Mommy’s bedroom. My gown is here because she has tons of closet space.”

It seemed to me that the whole bedroom had tons of space. It was furnished with a king-size bed, two night stands, two dressers, a small easy chair, and a large dog bed that looked unused. Olivia opened a door to reveal a walk-in closet. “Wouldn’t you die for all this room?” Olivia exclaimed. “Mommy is so lucky.”

Looking embarrassed, Judith said, “Uli and I both snore, and I have insomnia. And Uli gets restless at five in the morning. Mac can’t sleep through the noise.”

The awkward topic of the separate sleeping arrangements ended there. Olivia emerged from the closet with what she told me was a Vera Wang gown. It was elaborate and lovely. I took care to exclaim admiringly about it. Then the three of us and Uli made our way downstairs. Judith and I helped Uli, whose progress was slow. As I held him, I noticed how extraordinarily clean he was. His coat felt as if he’d just been bathed and groomed, and he had not a trace of the old-dog odor that’s sometimes impossible to eradicate.

When we reached the main floor, Judith and Olivia went to the kitchen, and I joined everyone else by the fireplace. Arrayed near it were a guitar, a violin, and a keyboard connected to a big speaker. In my absence, the others had been talking about our wedding music. Specifically, although neither Steve nor I was a particular fan of classical music, we’d felt obliged to have a solemn, highbrow accompaniment for the service. Ian had a better idea. “Why get married to music you don’t love? How’d you feel about jazz guitar?”

Steve and I looked blank.

Instead of regaling us with words, Ian picked up his guitar and began to play a medley of 1930s jazz songs. The sound was anything but solemn, and far more hot than highbrow. I was crazy about it. Steve squeezed my hand. Watching our faces, Ian smiled and began what it took me a second to recognize as the Wedding March.

By then, Judith and Olivia were serving the chocolate soufflé and pouring coffee. Daniel moved to the keyboard, and he and Ian switched to music we might want at the reception, mainly country and old Motown. Daniel had been modest about his own talent, but he seemed to have no difficulty in following Ian, and they both played requests. Although Ian assured us that he’d have a great female vocalist with him, I’d liked his singing on his CDs, and when he and Daniel sang, they sounded good to me. Steve asked for and got “My Girl.” The chocolate soufflé, the upbeat music, and Steve’s flattery took me out of myself, and I almost lost my discomfort and suspicion until Steve, as seduced as I was, made the faux pas of requesting “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” I could feel my cheeks turn the color of the flames in the fireplace. Fortunately, Ian and Daniel immediately began to play the song, and I practically buried my face in my plate as I scraped up the last of the chocolate.

When the song finally ended, I said, “We wondered about dog songs, but they’re probably too corny for you.”

Ian’s response was sweet. “Nothing’s too corny for me. And I love dogs.” With that, he began a series of amazing guitar improvisations on “Hound Dog,” “Hot Diggity Dog,” and a few other sappy songs rendered unsappy by his good-humored brilliance.

When he finished, Mac said, “Play your mother’s song."

“’Uli’s Tune,’" Judith said. “It’s not mine. It’s Uli’s.”

The instrumental was strong and melodic, with a theme that began simply and developed richly. It ended with soft, sad notes. Judith watched her old dog throughout it. At the end, she said, “My two good boys. Ian, thank you.”

If Claire had yet again nagged Judith about getting a puppy, I’d have wanted to throttle her. As it was, she said nothing. Instead of sitting in respectful silence, however, she got up and walked over to Uli, who was lying at Judith’s feet. Bending down, Claire stroked the dog’s head.

“Claire, take your hands off Uli,” Judith told her. “I need you to get your hands off my dog.”

CHAPTER 29

“Mac and Judith have separate bedrooms,” I said to Steve as I drove us home. “She sleeps in the master bedroom.”

“And you found out where Mac sleeps, why he sleeps there, whether John and Olivia have separate rooms, what kind of birth control, if any, they use, and a whole lot of other intimate details of everyone else’s life?”

“Olivia stores her wedding gown in a walk-in closet in what she calls ‘Mommy’s room.’ After Olivia said that, Judith looked embarrassed, and she said that she and Uli snore, and she has insomnia, and Uli gets restless in the morning and wakes Mac up. I didn’t pry. Besides, lots of couples have separate rooms. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Don’t let it give you any ideas.”

“I won’t. And if all five dogs and I snored all night in your ears, it wouldn’t bother you. Speaking of which, Mac is the least animal-oriented veterinarian I’ve ever known. I’ve known a few who didn’t have animals because they didn’t have time to take care of them, but that’s always been temporary, and it’s pretty rare. Time isn’t an issue with Mac or Judith. With Mac, it’s got to be a lack of interest. I find that pathological.” |

Steve laughed. “The Holly Winter One-Item Mental Health Assessment Instrument. If you don’t have dogs, you’re crazy.”