Death of a Dog Whisperer (9780758284570) (23 page)

Or maybe she was making too fine a distinction.

“How long before Nick died did all this happen?” I asked.

“A while,” Diana replied airily. “At least a couple of weeks. Nick and I had long since made up by then. Everything was copacetic between us.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You don't believe me.”

I regarded her across the table. “Does it matter what I believe?”

“It does if you're planning to go running to the police and tell on me.”

“We're not in kindergarten, Diana. This is serious.”

“I know that.”

She reached up a hand and brushed back several strands of hair that had fallen forward over her face. Once upon a time, Veronica Lake had used the same gesture to great effect. Unfortunately its appeal was wasted on me.

“Which is precisely why I don't want to get any more involved than I already am,” Diana said.

Her espresso was finished. She pushed her cup away, then unwound her purse from the back of her chair and looped it over her shoulder as she stood up. “I never should have come here today,” she said. “Agreeing to meet with you again was a mistake.”

“Why did you?” I asked.

“You're a woman. I thought you'd understand. Men think it's their world. That they can do whatever they want and get away with it. And that's just not right.”

It sounded like a flimsy rationalization to me. “So by burning Nick's clothes you were striking a blow for
all
women?”

Diana glowered down at me. “I have nothing more to say to you. Don't ever call me again.”

The mocha latte was too good to waste. I stayed and finished every drop before leaving. My car was parked on a side street three blocks away. I was almost there when my phone rang. The number was unfamiliar but it was a Greenwich exchange.

“Hello?” I said.

“Is this Melanie Travis?”

Great, I thought. A telemarketer. “Yes, it is.”

“This is Fran Dolan. Do you remember me?”

It took me a few seconds to place the name. Then I said, “Sure I do. You're Barney's owner.”

I could almost hear her smile. “That's right. I hope it's okay that I called you. Claire told me it would be.”

“Claire?” I asked.

“You know, Nick Walden's sister? Something's the matter with Barney. Before, I would have asked Nick what to do. Now I couldn't think of who else to call so I got in touch with Claire. She sent me to you. I'm hoping you can help me.”

“I can try,” I said slowly. “What seems to be the problem?”

“It's the way Barney's behaving. He's acting all strange.”

I thought of the low-slung Basset Hound who'd done nothing but sleep during my recent visit to the Dolan household and wondered how she could tell. Then I gave myself a mental kick for being mean. Fran Dolan lived just north of the parkway. I'd be headed in that direction just as soon as I got to my car. Stopping by and having a look at the Basset would take me only a few minutes out of my way.

I conveyed that news to Fran and told her I'd be there soon.

“You're an angel!” she said happily. “We'll be waiting for you.”

I hoped she wasn't placing too much faith in my abilities. Nick had been the expert on canine behavior. So was Aunt Peg. I didn't have their knowledge or their experience. Compared to those two, I was nothing more than a concerned dog lover who also happened to be available.

Fran met me at the door to her house and hustled me quickly inside. “Barney's in the backyard,” she said. “I had him in here with me, but he started having a little problem with his bladder, so I put him out.”

“Is that normal for him?” I asked.

“No, not at all. Barney's been housebroken since he was a puppy. And he's always very good about minding his manners.”

“So that's one problem,” I said. “Are there others?”

Fran bobbed her head up and down several times. Her hands were clasped together at her waist, fingers twisting in agitation.

Rather than waiting for her to explain further, I started toward the back of the house. She could supply the details along the way.

“Let's go see how he's doing,” I said.

While we hurried down the hallway, I got more background information. I asked what Fran and Barney been doing all day and whether anything unusual or unexpected had happened. I also wanted to know whether there had been any changes in their routine.

Fran paused to think before answering. I liked that. I wanted her to consider my questions carefully.

“No, there was nothing,” she said after a minute. “Today was the same as always. I got up this morning and put Barney outside.”

“He seemed okay to you then?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” I nodded encouragingly. “Go on.”

“After that it was just morning stuff. I got the coffee started and took a shower. When I came downstairs again, I opened the back door. Barney was over by the shed. I called him and he came inside.”

“Just like every other morning?” I asked.

Fran nodded. “Well . . . I had to stop and clean off his front feet. They were covered with dirt. It looked like he'd been digging again.”

“Again,” I repeated. “So that would be something he's done before?”

“Oh yes. Barney enjoys digging. This time it looked like he was trying to tunnel his way into the shed. You know that nose of his. I thought maybe a rabbit had gotten inside there.”

“Did you go and have a look?” I asked.

“No, there wouldn't have been any point. My son stores his stuff in there and he always keeps it locked. If there's a rabbit inside, he'll have to deal with it himself. I just brought the dog in the house, poured myself a cup of coffee, and started my day. Then about an hour later, I noticed that Barney didn't look right.”

We had reached the kitchen and I could see Fran's backyard through the wide windows. The area was about half an acre in size, mostly lawn, studded here and there with mature trees. A border of densely packed trees marked its boundaries and provided plenty of shade. The shed, sitting off to one side, looked less neglected than the last time I'd seen it. Someone had started to work on making repairs.

I glanced around quickly but didn't see Barney anywhere. Then the Basset began to howl and I realized that he was standing in the shadow of the house, not far from the back door. The hound's eyes were closed and his muzzle was lifted high in the air. His full-bodied baying had the eerie quality of a keening wail.

Fran opened the door and we both slipped outside. At first Barney didn't react to our approach. He didn't seem to notice us at all.

“Shush!” Fran said sharply. “Stop that noise right now.”

Barney lowered his nose and turned his head slowly in our direction. His eyes blinked open, but he didn't appear to be looking at us. I'm accustomed to Poodles who think and react faster than I do. By comparison, Barney seemed to be responding in slow motion.

I squatted down several feet in front of him and held out a hand. “Com'ere, boy. What's the matter? What's going on?” My voice was pitched low, and its tone was soothing. I kept up a steady patter of words. “Hey Barney, watcha up to? Come over here and talk to me.”

The Basset opened his mouth and began to pant heavily. The day was warm, but it wasn't hot. And we were standing in the shade. An accumulation of saliva pooled in his flews, then spilled over the side. A thick strand of drool dangled toward the ground.

“See?” said Fran. “There's definitely something wrong with him. Barney's the friendliest dog you ever met. Usually he'd come right up to you. But now it's like he doesn't want to walk or something.”

Fran sat down on the ground beside me, and Barney tried to take a step toward us then. He didn't walk so much as stagger. The Basset's body rolled unsteadily from side to side with the effort.

Abruptly I rose to my feet. I'd seen enough.

“Who's your vet?” I asked Fran.

“Dr. Cochrane at the Banksville Animal Hospital,” she replied, looking worried.

“Call and tell him we're on our way.”

Quickly I crossed to where the Basset was standing and leaned down to pick him up. The low-slung hound weighed a ton. It took two tries for me to get him up into my arms.

“I think Barney's been poisoned,” I said.

M
y car was already in the driveway. I drove while Fran cradled a woozy Barney on her lap. Ignoring the speed limit, we raced north into New York State.

Luckily the Dolan residence was less than ten minutes from the border. Almost as soon as we crossed into Banksville, Fran leaned over and pointed toward a white clapboard building approaching on the left. I saw the Animal Hospital sign; it was shaped like the intertwined silhouettes of a cat and a dog.

The Volvo's tires squealed as I braked and turned hard into the driveway. Holding Barney between us, we hurried into the building. Dr. Cochrane and his staff were waiting for us inside. Quickly we were shown into an examination room.

Dr. Cochrane plied Fran with questions, many of them similar to those that I'd asked earlier. A vet tech recorded Barney's vital signs, then the vet began his own examination. I stood back against the wall of the room and watched the professionals work, relieved that the Basset Hound's fate no longer rested in my hands.

“How long ago did Barney start acting like this?” Dr. Cochrane asked.

“More than an hour now,” Fran told him. “Maybe ninety minutes. At first I thought he was just goofing around. But then I began to get worried. So I called Melanie.”

The vet, still occupied with the groggy Basset on the examining table, lifted his head and glanced my way.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“You're the one who mentioned the possibility of poisoning?”

“That's right. The dog seemed disoriented. He was staggering. It was the first thing I thought of.”

“Did you attempt to make him throw up?” he asked.

Fran and I both shook our heads. “We just came straight here,” she said.

After a few minutes, Dr. Cochrane finished his exam. He conferred with the vet tech, then picked up the Basset and placed him carefully in her arms. Dog and girl disappeared through a door in the rear wall of the room.

“We're just going to take Barney in the back and run a few tests,” he told us. “We want to draw blood and obtain a urine sample. There are several things that could be causing his symptoms and some are quite serious. But there's another option—perhaps the most likely one—that would be less critical with regard to Barney's long-term health.”

“Then let's hope for that one,” I said, and Fran nodded.

Dr. Cochrane looked back and forth between the two of us. “Is there any possibility this dog could have been exposed to marijuana?” he asked.

My eyes widened. I hadn't been expecting that.

Beside me, Fran cleared her throat. “Like . . . Barney
smoked
something?” She sounded incredulous.

Dr. Cochrane smiled. “More likely he ingested something. Marijuana cooked into food for example. Or he might have eaten the leaves and stems of a plant.”

“I don't know.” Fran looked puzzled. “Barney's been with me all day. How could something like that have happened?”

“Think about it,” said the vet. He reached over and patted Fran's arm. “It happens more frequently than you might think, and fortunately most dogs recover uneventfully. At any rate, we'll run a urine test in our lab so we should have an answer before too long.”

“If it is marijuana toxicity,” I asked, “then what?”

“We'll put Barney on fluids. Give him charcoal to help absorb the drug and get it out of his system faster. He may be uncomfortable for a couple of days, but he should be just fine after that.”

“So that would be good news,” I said.

I expected Fran to agree, but instead she remained silent. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her shoulders had slumped inward. She still looked worried about her pet's prognosis.

“We'd like to keep Barney here overnight,” Dr. Cochrane said. “But hopefully we'll have some answers for you later this afternoon. Is that all right?”

“That would be fine,” Fran agreed.

We headed for the door and Dr. Cochrane saw us out.

“Thank you for your help,” I said to him as we left the examining room.

“I'll be in touch,” he told Fran.

 

I dropped Fran off at her house then continued on to Stamford. While I drove, I pondered the events that had just taken place. The last time I'd given any thought to marijuana and/or its effects was more than a decade earlier in college. Now the subject had come up twice in two days. Was that merely an odd coincidence? I wondered. Or could it be something more?

I might have devoted more time thinking that through, but when I arrived home not only were Sam and Kevin waiting for me, Claire Walden was there as well.

“I'm glad you're back,” said Sam. “I expected you home a while ago. That's what I told Claire when she showed up. She's out on the deck with Kevin. She's been waiting an hour.”

“Why didn't you call me?” I asked. Not that there was anything I could have done about my tardy arrival. But at least Sam would have been able to explain to Claire that I'd been held up.

My husband gave me that look. You know the one.

So I pulled my phone out of my purse and checked. I had two missed calls.

“Sorry,” I said. “I've been busy. I'll bring you up to speed later.”

“You'd better. Now go on outside and see what Claire wants.”

I could probably guess the answer to that. Claire wanted to know what I'd been doing since we spoke on Friday. And while I'd actually accomplished a great deal, unfortunately the most pressing question still remained unanswered.

I did have some good news for Claire, however, because her visit would give me a chance to deliver Taran's message. Hopefully she would be elated by the prospect of a family reunion, even if it looked as though the meeting itself might require some luck and a bit of wrangling to bring about.

When I walked outside, I found Claire sitting on a chaise with Kevin in her lap. A stack of my son's books spilled off the lounger and onto the deck beneath. Claire was reading aloud from Dr. Seuss while Kev pointed at the pictures and turned the pages. Both had big smiles on their faces. Even the Poodles, who were sitting in attendance, seemed to be having a good time.

I detoured past Faith and brushed my hand over the top of her head. As I paused to scratch behind the Poodle's ears, Claire sensed my presence and paused in her reading. She and Kevin both looked up.

“Don't stop on my account,” I said.

“Don't stop,” Kevin echoed. He clapped his hands imperiously.

Claire laughed. “Let me just finish this book,” she said.

“Sure. Take your time. But only if you want to. There's no reason that the Little Dictator”—I leveled a look in Kevin's direction—“needs to think that he's in charge of the world.”

“I don't mind.” Claire gave my son a gentle squeeze. “And Kevin's a sweetheart.”

“When he wants to be,” I agreed easily.

I pulled up a chair and sat down. Faith came over and rested her head on my lap. We all listened while Claire read aloud about many different fish of varying colors. Kevin especially liked the one with the little car.

“Again!” he cried when she was done.

“Sorry kiddo, not right now.” I stood up and retrieved my son from my visitor's lap. A discreet sniff revealed that all was well in diaper-land. “Claire has entertained you long enough for one day. Why don't you go dig in your sandbox for a while?”

Kevin's brow puckered as he considered his options. “Augie dig too?” he asked.

I didn't even want to think about what all that sand could do to a show coat.

“Not Augie,” I told him. I swung Kevin down off the low deck and set him on his feet in the grass. “But Tar can.”

“Tar come,” Kevin said, and the big male Poodle hopped up eagerly. The two of them set off across the yard.

“How cute is that.” Claire sighed happily, watching as boy and dog strolled away. “I can't wait until I have kids of my own.”

“That's how I felt before I had them,” I said with a laugh.

Claire gathered up the books and set them aside as I sat back down. “I'm sorry I kept you waiting so long,” I said. “I didn't know you were here. I was in Greenwich with Fran Dolan. She said you were the one who told her to call me?”

“Yes. I hope that was all right?” Claire suddenly looked worried. “She seems like a nice lady and I know she was one of Nick's favorite clients. I wanted to help her but I didn't know how.”

“Sure, it was fine. I was in Greenwich anyway when she called. Her Basset Hound, Barney, wasn't feeling well. We ended up dropping him off at the vet.”

“Poor dog. Her son didn't do something to him, did he?”

“What do you mean?”

Claire shook her head. “Don't listen to me. I'm probably entirely off base. It was just that Nick mentioned something once about Mrs. Dolan having an adult son who didn't get along with the dog. Which, you know, made his job harder.”

“In what way?” I asked curiously.

“I guess the guy used to follow Nick around when he was there and ask him what Barney was saying. Like he thought that the two of them were holding actual conversations. Nick explained that wasn't how it worked, but the son kept bugging him anyway.”

“I hate to break it to you,” I said with a smile. “But all of Nick's clients that I've spoken to believed that he knew exactly what their dogs were thinking. Every single one of them was in awe of his canine communication skills.”

“I can understand why,” said Claire. “Nick certainly had a better handle on Thor and Jojo than I'm ever going to be able to achieve.”

“Problems?”

“Nothing I can't manage. But I didn't come here today to talk about dogs. I wanted to let you know that the police have located Anabelle.”

“Actually,” I told her. “So have I.”

“You have?”

I nodded. “Remember your old buddy, Taran Black? I talked to him on Saturday. He's been in touch with her.”

Claire looked shocked. “But how? Since when?”

“Apparently for a long time,” I said gently. “Ever since he came up to New York for a job.”

“But . . .” She shook her head in confusion. “He never said anything.”

“Anabelle didn't want him to. She didn't feel like she was a part of your family anymore.”

“I guess I can see that,” Claire said slowly. “But that must mean that she's known where Nick and I were all along.”

“I think so. I'm not really sure.” I watched her process the unwelcome information.

“So she rejected us, just like our parents rejected her.”

“I don't think you want to make that assumption without first hearing her side of things,” I said.

Claire looked up. “Have you heard
her
side?”

“No. I only know what Taran told me. But it sounds to me as though none of you were treated fairly in this situation. So maybe you don't want to rush to judgment about what Anabelle's been through—”

“You mean like my father did?”

I shrugged but didn't reply.

Claire sat in silence for several minutes. Finally she said, “Since the last time we spoke I've been thinking about Anabelle a lot. When Detective O'Malley told me he'd located her, I got really excited. I couldn't believe that she was in New Rochelle. All this time, we've only been thirty miles apart! I thought about what it would be like to see her again. I pictured us having this great reunion.” Claire stopped abruptly. When she started speaking again, she sounded stricken. “I guess that was silly of me.”

“It wasn't,” I said firmly.

“Except that now you're telling me Anabelle has known all along where to find me and Nick and that she just never bothered.”

“I don't think that's the way she looked at it.”

“Why do you keep telling me what my sister was thinking? How do you
know?
”

“I don't,” I said. “I'm just hoping that you'll keep an open mind.”

“My mind is wide open,” Claire replied tightly. “It's also filled with questions.”

“You should see your sister.”

“That's what I thought before I came here today.” Claire frowned. “Now I'm not so sure. How much did Taran tell you about her?”

“Quite a bit,” I admitted.

“Did he know why Anabelle called Nick before he died?”

“He did.”

“And?”

“There's something else I need to tell you,” I said. “Anabelle has a son.”

Claire had been looking at me intently. Now her features froze. “A son?” she repeated. “I have a nephew?”

“Yes. His name is Alexander.”

“That was my grandfather's name,” she said softly. “Is Anabelle still with Zane?”

“No, that's been over for a long time. Alexander had some medical bills last year and Anabelle wasn't able to pay them. Without her knowledge, Taran asked Nick for a loan. He didn't tell your brother what the money was for.”

“Then why did Anabelle call him?”

“Afterward, neither Taran nor Anabelle had the money to pay back the loan. And that was causing a lot of friction between Nick and Taran. Eventually Taran had to confess to Anabelle what he'd done. At that point, she called Nick to tell him where the money had gone.”

“Why didn't Nick tell me?” Claire's voice rose to a wail.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I don't know the answer to that.”