Brute Strength (26 page)

‘I've had a call from some puppy buyers of yours,' I told her. ‘The Snells. With Buster.'

‘Oh, them! What'd they tell you?'

‘That you won't take the dog back.' The thought crossed my mind that if Pippy had, in fact, refused responsibility, my call might be persuasive, especially if she was still harboring the hope of using Rowdy.

‘Is that what they said? Well, what we agreed on when I talked to them was that they'd give it another week. That puppy is ten months old, and they're giving him free run of the house, and then they have the nerve to complain that he's chewing on shoes and ripping up pillows. What do they expect?'

‘A stuffed animal?'

She laughed. ‘Well, that's not what they've got. They're supposed to use a crate like I told them in the first place. But if they give it a week and it doesn't work out, back here he comes.'

‘Fair enough.'

‘You know, you can never tell for sure when you sell a puppy. People can seem fine, but who knows? And you never know what damned thing's going to happen out of the blue. Take that girl Olympia. How was I supposed to know she'd drop dead?'

‘Who?'

‘The girl I sold that puppy to. Ulla. The bitch that's with that friend of yours who was at the show with you. What's her name?'

‘Vanessa. Vanessa Jones. What happened to Olympia?'

‘Like I said, out of the blue, she's dead as a doornail! Healthy young girl. Single. Good job, stable life. And then, wham!'

‘That's terrible. I knew she was dead, but I had no idea . . . how did she die?'

‘Car accident. She fell asleep at the wheel, or maybe she got blinded by the lights of the oncoming cars. This was at night. She was alone, so nobody knew for sure. She crashed into an overpass or something. Out of the blue! It wasn't like she had a heart condition. She wasn't sick. Matter of fact, she'd had dinner with that friend of yours, Vanessa, and she was fine. She didn't complain about feeling sick. And then, wham! She was gone.'

Pippy's revelation left me, for once, almost speechless, but I somehow managed to end the call before she had a chance even to mention Rowdy's name, never mind to pester me about using him. For a minute or two after hanging up, I sat motionless at the kitchen table. Kimi roused me, as she sometimes awakened me from sleep, by fixing her gaze on my face. Without getting to my feet, I reached out, put my hands on either side of her head, and lowered my own head so that we were at first face to face, and then eye to eye. At one with Kimi, I felt strengthened. Releasing her, I was suddenly aware of being chilled to the core, horribly cold, as if the temperature in my kitchen had dropped below zero. Thanks to Kimi, my common sense returned. I switched on the electric kettle, dropped a tea bag in a mug, and put on a heavy sweater. As I waited for the water to boil, I wrapped my arms first around Kimi and then around Rowdy, as if I needed their body heat to keep me from freezing to death.

When the tea was ready, I almost gulped it down, and as I began to warm up, my power of speech returned. ‘Questions I should've asked Pippy,' I said to the dogs. ‘When Olympia had dinner with Vanessa, was it at Vanessa's house? Olympia's? Or at a restaurant? Was anyone else there? Tom, Hatch, Avery? Not that Pippy necessarily knows. And not that I'm about to call her back. Or ask Vanessa. But I wonder. OK, so, Pippy says that Olympia was a
girl
, meaning that she was young, maybe close to the age of Vanessa's children. Vanessa told me that Ulla's first owner was a friend and neighbor, so presumably the rest of the family knew Olympia, too. Was she a friend of Avery's? Or maybe Hatch's? A girlfriend of his? Yes, I know that you don't know, either. But what we know for sure is that her death bears an uncanny resemblance to Fiona's.'

THIRTY-TWO

I
f dogs could talk, they'd be blabbermouths. For example, the second Steve got home from work Rowdy and Kimi would've gone running up to him to blurt out, ‘Guess what? Gabrielle thinks that Vanessa's family is murdering people, and now Holly thinks so, too! Isn't that exciting!' Sammy would've happily shared Gabrielle's theories not only with Steve but with all the prime suspects. Not to be left out in the matter to total disclosure, India and Lady would've innocently informed Rita that Steve and I had never been able to abide Quinn Youngman. I could just hear them: ‘They think you're well rid of him, you know. Isn't that interesting!' I cringe to imagine what any or all of the five, possibly in unison, would've revealed to Elizabeth McNamara. ‘The bipeds keep saying that your husband was barely cold before you took up with Tom Oakley. Did you know that? Isn't that fascinating? Feed us! Rub our tummies!' And you can bet that if dogs could talk, they'd make phone calls. ‘Hey, Buck, Steve is leaving on Friday for a fishing trip at Grant's Camps. How about if you show up there? Wouldn't that be fun!'

As it was, when Steve got home, Rowdy and Kimi did go running up to him, but they limited their speech to
woo-woo-woo
, and I didn't say a word about Gabrielle's theories or Pippy's revelation. At the time, I told myself that Steve, rationality personified, would cite statistics on fatalities attributable to car crashes, heart attacks, and liver and kidney failure. And if survivors benefitted? When people died, the living often did gain in one way or another. Heirs inherited money and property. Matters rearranged themselves in ways that were pleasant or convenient for survivors. Hadn't I ever heard of silver linings? In retrospect, I see, however, that my underlying reason for saying nothing to Steve was the fear that speaking my suspicions aloud to my intelligent, logical husband would give them a credibility that they now lacked. In other words, if the suspicions remained crazy ideas, they were easy to dismiss, but if they became reasonable hypotheses, I'd have to take them seriously. Worse, I'd feel the need to do something about them. And what could I do?

As I failed to realize at the time, the problem should have felt familiar to me and to any other dog trainer who has ever worried that a relatively unknown dog is likely to bite someone. You don't know the dog's history. You have no proof that he's ever bitten anyone. He isn't growling, snarling, lifting his lip, or baring his teeth. You can approach his food bowl. If you hold his collar, he makes no objection. But there's a look in his eye, there's a knot of fear in your stomach when you're in his presence, and you just don't trust him. Why? Because you love and trust dogs, and if this one scares you, your reaction is information about the dog. So, what do you do? Remain vigilant. Watch the dog. Trust your gut more than you trust him. And that's what I did, perhaps to the point of hypervigilance: during the small encounters I had with Vanessa's family throughout the week, I was nervy and jumpy.

The first occurred on Wednesday morning in Loaves and Fishes, where I ran into Tom, who was kneeling in an aisle of shelves packed with natural remedies. When he rose to his feet, I was puzzled by the extreme embarrassment of his expression until I saw that he'd been examining the bottles and packets in a section labeled Men's Health. Taking care to avoid staring at the contents of his shopping cart, I greeted him and rather reluctantly asked how he was.

For once, he merely said that he was doing well, but just when I thought that I'd escaped his usual harping on ailments, he said, ‘Gabrielle told me that you'd once had a traumatic head injury!' He made it sound as if I'd neglected to mention that I'd once climbed Everest.

‘Yes,' I said, ‘but I'm fine now.'

‘No after-effects? No special precautions?'

‘Not really.' I laughed. ‘I've been warned to avoid another head injury, but it isn't exactly the kind of thing I'd seek out, anyway.'

For a few seconds, his face was flat. ‘Well, of course . . . oh, yes! Very funny! No, it isn't something anyone would go looking for, is it? Still, it's sound advice for all of us.'

The second encounter took place that same afternoon when Avery unexpectedly appeared at my back door with a big wicker basket in her hands. She was dressed entirely in white – white jeans, white T-shirt, white sandals – as if she were costuming herself as chef, perhaps, or as a bride about to be married on a beach.

‘Come in,' I said.

‘I can't stay. I'm just dropping off food. As usual, I made too much, and I thought that you and Steve could use it.'

The combination of the basket and the phrase ‘could use it' made me feel like an object of charity. Even so, I was gracious. ‘Thank you.'

‘It's home-made bread and a lamb stew.'

‘Thank you,' I said again.

When she'd left, I threw everything out, of course, but felt foolish and wasteful.

The third little incident occurred on Thursday morning. The day was bright and dry, perfect for painting. Careful to keep the dogs indoors, I'd raised the high ladder on the north side of the house and had then gone out by way of the gate and into the cellar through the door near the driveway. When I returned to the yard, I was carrying a caulking gun, a can of paint, and brushes. Since my arms were full and the dogs were inside, I left the gate open. Ladder-safety fiend that I am, I rechecked the ladder to make sure that it was level and that the pitch was correct, not straight up and likely to make me fall over backward, and I needlessly re-examined the ropes to make sure that the ladder wouldn't slide down and take me with it. Caulking gun in hand, I climbed up and was beginning to caulk an area by one of Rita's windows when Hatch Jones hailed me from below. With him, on leash, was Ulla.

‘Hi, Hatch,' I called.

To my dismay, he pulled the gate shut.

‘Do me a favor,' I said. ‘Keep Ulla on the leash! Steve keeps warning me not to have a dog loose when I'm up here on the ladder.'

Although I tried to keep the warning friendly, I must've sounded sharp, because Hatch said, ‘Sorry. I was just passing by, and I saw you and thought we'd say hello.'

‘I'm sorry if I snapped at you.' Again passing the responsibility to my husband, I added, ‘Steve worries that a dog could zoom around and collide with the ladder and knock me off. And some dogs will climb ladders. That's a situation I'd rather not face.'

My effort to smooth things over apparently succeeded, and Hatch and Ulla left. Although there'd been no danger, I felt a sense of unease, as if I'd somehow left myself vulnerable. At the same time, I was a little ashamed of having overreacted. It wasn't as if Hatch had marched in and turned Ulla loose; she'd been on leash every second.

That same afternoon, Vanessa called to invite Sammy to play with Ulla. I couldn't think of a good excuse to refuse, and it seemed a pity to deny Sammy the chance to burn off energy and have fun with his buddy. When I got there, still in my ragged painting clothes, Vanessa let me in through the gate, and at the sight of Sammy, Ulla did a flirtatious little dance and led him on exactly the kind of wild chase he loved and needed.

‘A match made in heaven,' Vanessa said. ‘Tea?'

‘No!' I blurted out. Recovering, I said, ‘Thanks, but I'm already pumped full of caffeine.'

‘Herbal tea? Juice?'

‘No, thanks.'

‘Well, I think I'll have something. You're sure . . .?'

‘Yes, but go ahead.' I sat on one of the patio chairs.

Vanessa went inside and soon returned with a cup of tea. ‘Would you like something to eat? Cookies? Or cake. Avery has been on a cooking binge. My father bought her some sort of bread machine and a couple of cookbooks. He spoils her rotten.'

‘Oh, please thank Avery! I should've called. She brought us bread and a lamb stew.'

Taking a seat, Vanessa said, ‘I'm glad someone other than Ulla got to enjoy it. Avery left ours uncovered on the counter, and Ulla ate all of it. You can't trust her for a second. She is an incurable counter surfer. Avery should've known better. It was her fault. She knows what Ulla's like. Ulla will watch and watch for an opportunity. She'll wait endlessly for her chance, and then she'll strike!'

The statement made me uncomfortable, summarizing, as it did, the strategy that Vanessa or a member of her family had perhaps been using to get rid of unwanted people. ‘My dogs are the same way,' I said. ‘Sammy less than Rowdy and Kimi. Kimi is the worst. She's so smart, and she's lightning fast. The second you realize that you've left food unattended, it's already in her stomach.'

‘Sammy is such a good boy,' Vanessa said. ‘He's the perfect dog. He's wonderful with people, he's good with other dogs, and he's gorgeous.'

Inevitably, I was tempted to expand.
Gorgeous? Vanessa, you don't know enough about this breed to begin to understand how beautiful Sammy is. His temperament? He's sweetness itself. And funny! He makes me laugh aloud . . .
Then I came to my senses. According to the old Sippie Wallace song, ‘Women Be Wise', as belted out by the incomparable Bonnie Raitt, it's a mistake to advertise your man; and in the present, somewhat comparable, situation, my wise course of action was not to advertise my dog. The song would've had me keep my mouth shut, but silence seemed an inadequate defense. ‘Thank you,' I said. ‘We think so. We co-own him. Steve and I do. And his breeder is crazy about him, too. If anything happens to us, Sammy goes back to her.'

Having thus eliminated a possible motive to kill off Sammy's present owners, I felt awkward and foolish about defending myself and Steve against a ridiculously improbable threat. When survivors benefit, it's almost always because they're just that, survivors, and not because they're murderers. Looking around, I was struck by the ordinariness and innocence of the scene. The spring day was bright. Vanessa's house and yard were attractive and safe. I was not wandering down some urban alley at midnight! Vanessa herself was a familiar Cambridge type and a person I knew. Dressed in ever-so-Cantabrigian beige jersey, she had her gray-streaked hair fastened at the nape of her neck. On her feet, for God's sake, were Birkenstock sandals! She loved Jane Austen. Her son was a doctor. She was wholesomeness itself. And if her father was an annoying hypochondriac who'd taken up with a neighborhood widow, and if her daughter was having an identity crisis, so what! As Buck's daughter, I of all people should know that some of us have difficult relatives. As to Vanessa's late husband and Ulla's first owner and poor Fiona, not to mention Isaac McNamara, people die! My own mother had. After her death, Buck and I had inherited everything she owned, including her dogs, but we certainly hadn't killed her.