Brute Strength (11 page)

On Monday morning, after a day of escape from worry, having settled myself at the kitchen table with my notebook computer and cup of coffee in front of me and with Rowdy and Kimi at my feet, I turned to the mystery of the nasty phone calls and the anonymous message. After an uninterrupted day with Steve, I felt comfortably imbued with his calm, systematic rationality. My own approach to the problem would've been to try to find out everything all at once and as quickly as possible. So, I compromised by taking a calm, systematic approach to trying to find out everything all at once and as quickly as possible. In other words, I stopped to make a list of names before I hit the web.

First on the list was Pippy Neff, even though I didn't seriously suspect her. For one thing, she lived in the central part of the state, west of the communities with a 781 area code. For another thing, her hideous voice would've been impossible to disguise; even if she'd tried to sound like a man, that grackle-like squawk of hers would've remained identifiable. She could've had a man make the calls – she had two sons – but the maniacal laughter had seemed grotesquely heartfelt. Besides, Pippy still imagined that she'd succeed in persuading me to let her use Rowdy; and having assured me that her puppy buyer was going to keep his dog, she'd seemed to believe that Malamute Rescue now viewed her as a model breeder.

The applicants whose names I listed were Diane and Don Di Bartolomeo, Irving Jensen, and Eldon Flood. The Di Bartolomeos lived in Quincy. Their area code was the same as ours, 617, but I had no idea whether the calls had come from the laughing man's home number. Because I'd spoken only to Diane, I'd never heard Don's voice. All he had against me and against Malamute Rescue was that I'd disabused his wife of the notion that the Alaskan malamute was a medium-sized, non-shedding breed, as she'd eventually have discovered for herself, probably before her husband actually got a dog. Big deal! Irving Jensen, the man who didn't believe in fences or neutering, was by far the most unpleasant person on my list. Among other things, he'd sworn at me. Worse, to my way of thinking, he'd explained his failure to give a vet reference by stating that his previous dogs had been healthy. As if those dogs hadn't needed exams, immunizations, heartworm testing, and preventive medication! Furthermore, he lived in Lynn, Lynn, city of sin, and his number had the right area code, 781. So, Irving Jensen wasn't just on the list; his name belonged at the top. Eldon Flood, whose name was last, had subscribed to the common conceit that he had a special gift for training dogs. He'd had a particular rescue dog in mind: Thunder. I'd politely told him that I couldn't approve his application. Still, he'd probably felt insulted and angry that I'd been unimpressed by his self-proclaimed power over dogs and that I'd refused him the dog he wanted. Also, hadn't I informed him that the Alaskan malamute was the wrong breed for him? He'd hung up on me. By my standards, I'd been more than civil and respectful. I'd avoided ordering Eldon Flood never to get another dog again as long as he lived; I hadn't even said, as I'd done more than once when speaking to applicants with magical gifts, ‘And don't imagine that you're going to succeed where the rest of us have failed!' So, I'd been a good, good girl. Still, Eldon Flood might not have thought so. Besides, his phone number had an area code of 781.

What about the voices? Could my caller have been Irving Jensen? Eldon Flood? I just did not know. Neither Jensen nor Flood had spoken in memorably deep or high tones, neither had sounded notably old or young, and neither had had a marked regional accent. And the caller? I'd answered when Buck, Gabrielle, and Molly had just arrived. Even though my father had lowered the volume of his bellow, the background noise had made it hard to hear perfectly. What's more, at first, I'd been distracted by everything that was going on in the kitchen, and I'd subsequently been too startled and offended by the content of the call to focus on the speaker's voice. Still, I'd remember deep bass or falsetto tones, a foreign accent, or some other distinctive characteristic. I'd had no impression of extreme youth or age.

Moving to the web – we're wireless – I learned disappointingly little. The website of Pippy Neff's Tundrabilt Kennels was under construction. Its amateurish pages showed little except photos of dogs of hers I'd seen at shows. Google confirmed what I already knew: she showed a lot and advertised puppies everywhere. Irving Jensen, the Di Bartolomeos, and Eldon Flood were listed at the addresses they'd given on their applications. Jensen was a total nonpresence in cyberspace; Googling his name, address, phone number, and email address, I found nothing. There was nothing about Don Di Bartolomeo, either, but his wife, Diane, was mentioned in a lot of places because she was an avid scrapbooker who gave talks and lessons about scrapbooking all over eastern Massachusetts. Eldon Flood had told me that he had a farm. As it turned out, he and his wife, Lucinda, actually had a farm stand west of Boston that was open year round. The website was less amateurish than Pippy's, but not by much. In addition to a photo of the stand, the site was mainly devoted to giving directions and to listing items that the Floods sold, including jams, jellies, home-made pies, and dried-flower wreaths, as well as seasonal produce that included vegetables and apples.

As I was reading about the jams and wreaths and apples, I came to my senses. What had I expected to discover? A news story with the headline ‘Jensen Confesses to Placing Obscene Phone Calls'? Or posts from Don Di Bartolomeo to an online forum with tips and tricks for sick individuals who enjoy snail-mailing anonymous letters? What had I actually found? Trivia! Jellies and pies. My list, I realized, was ridiculous. Among other things, the 781 area code told me almost nothing. Dozens of places had that area code, and without additional information, there was no way to know whether a call came from someone's home phone, work phone, or cell phone or even from a phone listed to someone else. Furthermore, over the years, I'd turned down hundreds of applicants for rescue dogs, as had the sharp-tongued Betty Burley. For all I knew, my bitch message, as I thought of it, had no connection with the phone calls or with Malamute Rescue.
For all I knew?
All I knew was almost nothing. Unless – until – one of us got another phone call or letter, I was wasting my time.

FOURTEEN

‘
W
here do you suppose Quinn met her?' Rita asked.

It was six thirty on Wednesday, and I'd just broken the news about seeing Quinn Youngman with Avery Jones at Legal Sea Foods. Steve was due home from work any minute, and our next-door neighbor, Kevin Dennehy, together with his obnoxious girlfriend, Jennifer, as well as Rita, would be joining us for dinner. Rowdy and Kimi were in their crates, but Sammy was loose in the kitchen. When I opened the oven door and put in two chickens to roast, he hovered around but failed to execute a Kimi-style strike.

‘Good boy!' I said. ‘I have no idea where they met. I didn't ask.'

Rita took an all-too-casual sip from her glass of white wine. ‘What's she like?'

‘Young and depressed.'

‘How young?'

‘Twenty? About that. She hasn't finished college. Her father died this past winter. I think that's why she's taking this semester off. Or maybe she's dropping out. Vanessa, her mother, has signed her up for Harvard Summer School. But I don't know much about Avery. She's not very communicative. When the whole family was here for dinner on Saturday, people tried to draw her out. Leah tried, and so did Gabrielle, and they're both good at it, but neither of them had any luck. Avery just
looks
depressed, too. And what's she doing going out with a man who's so much older than she is?'

Rita rolled her eyes. ‘Not to mention what Quinn's doing. Let's just hope that he didn't meet her—'

I'd had the same thought. ‘He could've met her anywhere, Rita. At a bookstore. At Loaves and Fishes. She has some interest in cooking. And food. For all we know, they met at the sushi bar at Loaves and Fishes. Anyway, I have no reason to believe that Avery was even thinking about seeing a psychiatrist. They could've met in some perfectly innocent place.'

‘As opposed to some guilty place, such as Quinn's office. I hate to think that he's descended to
that
.'

The phone rang. ‘Sorry,' I said as I hurried to answer it. The realization that I had insufficient information about my horrible phone call had transformed my attitude toward the possibility of once again hearing the lunatic laughter. Instead of dreading the harassment, including the cruel reminder of my Vinnie's death, I was eager for the chance to learn something – anything – about the caller. I'd resolved that the next time, I wouldn't be caught off guard. Toward that end, I'd dug out the manual for our phone system and read the instructions on how to record calls. Now, caller ID again displayed ‘Unknown Name, Unknown Number'. But when I answered, the caller hung up. Furthermore, dialing the code that was supposed to reveal the caller's number got me nothing except the area code, 781, which included a zillion places north, west, and south of Greater Boston.

As I was on the verge of telling Rita about the call, the phone rang again, and at the same time, Steve, Lady, and India came in through the back door. Although no one was issuing my father's kind of moose-like bellow, the noise level rose as Steve and Rita greeted each other and as Sammy let out a joyous, welcoming series of
woo-woo-woo
s. Damn it! For a second, it seemed to me that fate was contriving to make sure that the nasty calls came only when I'd be unable to listen carefully to the caller's voice. But as I was heading for the quiet of the dining room with the phone in hand, I checked caller ID, and was half relieved and half disappointed to see a local cell number. In fact, the call was from Elizabeth McNamara.

‘Holly? Oh, I'm so . . . I have to ask you a favor. You or Steve. Could one of you run down the street and let Persimmon out in the yard? And feed her? But . . . this is such an imposition! The key! I'm at Mount Auburn – Isaac is in intensive care – and I can get a taxi to drive the key—'

‘Whatever you need,' I said. ‘There's no one in the neighborhood with a key? Vanessa? Tom? Or Kevin Dennehy?'

‘No. Stupid, stupid of me. I never expected . . .'

‘Elizabeth, Steve is here, and one of us will run over to the hospital and get the key and take care of Persimmon.'

‘She's been locked in the house since noon! I should've . . . I'm just not thinking straight.'

‘Of course not,' I said.

When we'd arranged to meet in the main lobby, I hung up, explained the crisis to Steve and Rita, and took off. According to a report that had recently been featured in the news, the presence of a husband typically creates seven extra hours of housework for a wife each week. I felt thankful that my marriage was atypical. In particular, Steve was more than capable of getting dinner on the table and playing host to Rita, Kevin, and Jennifer.

During the five-minute drive to the hospital, I wondered what had landed Isaac in intensive care. Vanessa had mentioned something about his arthritis and some sort of heart condition. Although she'd remarked that he couldn't keep up with Elizabeth, I hadn't noticed any change in him. Elizabeth had always been the one who'd exercised Persimmon and their previous dogs; Isaac had seldom accompanied her. As far as I could remember, Isaac looked the same as ever: he was neither pale nor red-faced, and he hadn't gained or lost weight. In planning the club's upcoming event, he'd given the appearance of having his usual energy. My guess was a sudden heart attack or possibly a stroke.

When I drove up the ramp to the multilevel parking area attached to the hospital, I decided for the sake of time to use valet parking instead of hunting for a free space. The doors from the parking area open into the main lobby, and I'd barely entered when Elizabeth rose from a seat and, to my surprise, ran to me and almost threw herself into my arms. I knew Elizabeth and Isaac from the club and from our neighborhood, but we'd always been on friendly rather than affectionate or intimate terms. Still, as dog people, we shared the kind of bond that exists among members of an extended family; indeed, it
is
the same bond because we really are members of a great big family. Consequently, Elizabeth's relief in seeing me and her freedom to seek comfort from me sprang, I knew, from her sense of being with one of her own.

Her need for comfort was clear: her soft white curls were in disarray, and although the lobby was comfortably warm, she was wearing a thick handwoven yellow shawl and trembling with cold in spite of it. Releasing her grip on me, she said, ‘You are an angel.' Her high-pitched voice almost seemed to fade away.

‘Steve and I will do anything you want. I hope you know that.'

‘Oh, Holly, this is a nightmare!'

‘A heart attack?' I asked.

‘No. Worse! And out of the blue. On Saturday, he had some little stomach bug, not so little, really, but all he did was tell me to stop fussing. I tried to get him here, to the emergency room, but he wouldn't listen to me, and I wanted to try to reach his doctor at home, but Isaac was having none of it. You know how stubborn he can be! And then, well, I thought he was right, because he got over it. He was fine! Until this morning. And all of a sudden, he collapsed. I called an ambulance, and we've been here ever since. The doctors are talking about liver and kidney failure.'

Example number 5,365,188 of the superiority of dogs to human beings: when confronted with a person in great distress, a dog never offers advice or makes suggestions. Had Rowdy, for instance, been in my place, it would never have occurred to him to tell Elizabeth to remember that Isaac was a strong man who stood a good chance of pulling through; and in complete contrast to me, Rowdy would not have felt the urge to advise Elizabeth to take slow, deep breaths, sit down, drink tea, go home and get some rest, or seek a second, third, or fourth medical opinion about her husband's condition. Having learned a bit from dogs, I restrained my stupid human impulses and offered the comfort of physical contact, which is to say that I put my arms around Elizabeth and held her gently.