by Susan Conant
“So, boys,” I said, “why won’t Zara answer simple questions about Izzy’s origins? Especially now! And why can’t she accept comfort and company?” Dogs are such geniuses at decoding human intentions that even if I’d shouted, Rowdy and Sammy would’ve understood that they weren’t the targets of my wrath. Still, my tone was sweet. “And whose fault is it that Zara has so many problems? And has to take medication? Maybe not all Vicky’s fault, but partly hers, the nasty bitch—in the nontechnical sense. No reflection on Kimi, India, or Lady.
“And then there’s MaryJo and her antique revolver. I mean, so what if it was her great-grandfather’s? Who cares? What kind of pitiful excuse is that for reckless stupidity? And Monty! Monty should have kept that revolver locked up. She’s his wife. He must know what she’s like. While we’re at it, since John is supposedly so close to Zara, he should be here now to hold her hand and maybe to rouse her to action. Yes, what action? I have no idea.
“But I can tell you that if one of you vanished, I’d be out there doing something. Anything! And on the subject of who should and shouldn’t do what, I should never have let Zara and Izzy out of my sight on the trail. Mea culpa, boys, mea maxima culpa.”
The dogs’ attention was beginning to wane. I dug into a pocket and gave each of them a little treat. “Thank you for listening. Okay!”
The dogs did not grant me absolution; since they believe me to be incapable of sin, they didn’t have to. Besides, I hadn’t finished confessing. Among other things, I hadn’t said how furious I was with Rita, not only for tolerating Vicky’s noxious presence, but also for getting pregnant to begin with and, worse, for insisting on marrying Quinn. Rita would be a superb single mother. Steve and I would be terrific godparents.
What did she need Quinn for? If she wanted a child, fine; and from a dog breeder’s viewpoint, in other words, from my viewpoint, Quinn was a strong, healthy, intelligent, good-looking male, a suitable sire, but damn it! As Zara had said, he was a pompous ass. A sperm donor is one thing. A husband is quite another.
chapter twenty-three
Maybe Rita is right about talking cures: my discussion with the dogs—and with myself—left me energized; after venting my sense of helpless anger, I was ready for action.
For a start, I took Rowdy up to Rita’s old apartment, knocked, waited, and then presented him to Zara, who retreated to the couch, where she curled up. “Rowdy isn’t a service dog, of course,” I said, “and he isn’t your dog, but any dog is better than none, and Rowdy is better than most.” A gross understatement, but there’s a limit to my insufferable bragging about my dogs. Really there is. There is, isn’t there? Anyway, even a perfect dog, Rowdy, for example, isn’t a perfect service dog because there’s no such thing as a generic service dog. Each service dog is trained to meet the handler’s specific needs, so perfection lies in the match between the dog and those needs.
I expected Rowdy to barge in and nudge Zara or maybe to lick her face or hands, but instead, he stationed himself next to her and simply watched her. I knew immediately that Rowdy was right: Zara needed a strong, calm presence. He had set himself the task of meeting that need.
Returning home, I posted on Facebook about a missing black Lab. I didn’t identify Izzy, but I was quite precise about the area where she’d disappeared. I checked my voicemail and found no messages from the ACOs or Lab rescue. The only e-mail of note was yet another message from Tabitha the Pest about Cathy Brown, the “evil wife,” as Tabitha called her, the woman who’d bought the puppy, Cheyenne.
As I hadn’t known, the woman was a nurse. After hearing that she’d been seen in Massachusetts, Tabitha had found her—or, I thought, another nurse with the same common name—in the Massachusetts database of registered nurses. According to the listing, Cathy Brown lived in Waltham. Tabitha, who’d searched WhitePages.com and who knows what else, went on to list sixteen addresses in or near Waltham for Catherine Brown, C. Brown, C. G. Brown, and so on. Could I possibly do Tabitha the favor of doing a quick drive-by? Typical Tabitha! One quick drive-by, okay. One drive-by might be quick. But sixteen? I mean, sixteen?
I replied by telling Tabitha that my dearest friend was getting married in three days, that I was her matron of honor, that my husband was the best man, that two of her relatives were staying with us now, and that more houseguests were arriving soon. And there are complications that I won’t go into, I added. In other words, this isn’t the best time, but I’ll do my best.
I’d no sooner sent the message than Steve, India, and Lady returned. They were not, I might add, followed by Izzy.
“No luck?” My question wasn’t one.
“Nothing. I talked to people. No one had seen her. She likes other dogs, so I thought that Lady and India might attract her.” He shrugged.
“I think that we wait for a ransom demand,” I said. “I just hope that there is one. And if there is—”
Steve finished my thought. “Zara’s a wealthy young woman, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that she can raise a lot of cash in a hurry.”
“And even if she can—” I left the sentence unfinished. Even if Zara paid ransom, Izzy could be dead. We had, in fact, no proof that Izzy was still alive. “Steve, there must be something we can do. The accomplice? The brother? If that’s who it was. If there even was one.”
“It could’ve been a girlfriend.”
“Frank took her out for a night on the town breaking into houses?”
“His driver.”
“That’s possible. He broke in, grabbed the stuff he was going to steal, got clobbered, and then when he didn’t reappear, she got worried and went in after him. And got him back to the car.”
Steve looked skeptical. “And while she was at it, she acquired a pet.”
“Why not? Willie is very appealing. He’s cute.”
“While her boyfriend’s bleeding from a head wound?”
“If you put it like that. Yes. You know, I just thought of something. When I talked to Elizabeth McNamara, she said something about bad language. She was in a hurry, so I didn’t ask much, but that doesn’t sound like Rita’s and Quinn’s relatives. They have their faults, but obscenity isn’t one of them.”
“What exactly did Elizabeth say?”
“I don’t remember. She immediately started talking about Vicky. She’d overheard that phone call I told you about, Vicky’s end of it, Vicky talking to Al, and she was shocked. All I remember about the bad language is just that she mentioned it. For all I know, the person she heard swearing was a woman, in which case it could’ve been a girlfriend. It could even have been Vicky. I’m going to call Elizabeth.”
When I reached Elizabeth, she at first assumed that I was calling to report that her house, too, had been burglarized.
“No, Elizabeth, it’s not that at all. Your house is fine. I’m just calling to find out a little more about something you said about overhearing bad language. We’re trying to find out whether the burglar had an accomplice, and we wondered whether you might’ve heard the two of them, the burglar and someone with him. Also, did you tell the police about what you heard?”
Although my questions were not, for once, about dogs, Elizabeth, being a real dog person, began to answer me by talking about dogs. “I said very little to the police because The Baby happened to jump on one of them, and do you know what he said? He said to get it off him. It! Never trust a person who refers to a dog as it!”
“Certainly not. I never have and never will.”
“Good. So, after that, I just got rid of those terrible men. Besides, I thought they’d ask me to repeat what I’d heard, and I wasn’t about to pronounce those words, was I?”
“I don’t blame you. Elizabeth, could you tell who was speaking? A man? Two men? A man and a woman?”
“Oh, two men. Actually, I know this will sound funny, but for a split second, I mistook one of them for Kevin Dennehy. But it was just because of the Boston accent. Kevin never uses language like that, and it wasn’t Kevin’s voice, an
yway. Now there’s a policeman who’d never call a dog it.”
I agreed. When I got off the phone, I immediately went online to see whether I could find an address for Frank Sorensen’s brother, Gil. His name turned out to be Gilberto, and the address I found, 55 Peach Street, Waltham, was the one Zara and I had driven by. Although I had no conscious recollection of having done more than glance at Tabitha’s list of possible addresses for her puppy buyer, Cathy Brown, the image of that list must somehow have imprinted itself on my mind. Consulting it and actually reading it this time, I had no difficulty in finding the same address, 55 Peach Street, Waltham, next to “C. Brown.”
My head was spinning. The points leading to the conclusion were whipping around, but in the midst of the swirl, the conclusion itself was clear: Izzy was Tabitha’s missing puppy.
chapter twenty-four
My first impulse was to jump in the car and drive to 55 Peach Street. What stopped me was the fear of being recognized. Someone—Frank or Gil Sorensen or Cathy Brown—had presumably cased Rita and Quinn’s house before the burglary and followed Zara in person and on Facebook. I’d been in and out of Rita and Quinn’s house all the time. Zara and I had gone places together, and many of the recent photos she’d posted included me. Consequently, I was in no position to show up at the door of 55 Peach Street and try to pass myself off as a stranger selling religion or requesting donations to a good cause.
In fact, I knew better than to show my face on Peach Street at all.
Instead, I made a phone call. “Tabitha? Holly Winter. I owe you an apology.”
“It’s about time.” Tabitha is not the most gracious person I’ve ever known. “You did the drive-bys?”
“No, but I know what happened to Cheyenne.”
“My God! She’s dead!”
“No. No, I, uh, think I can find her. I just need a little more information about Cathy Brown. Cheyenne is registered to her and her husband? They’re both the legal owners? What’s his name?”
“No, they bought her together, but she’s registered to Cathy. They have different last names. He’s Wilson. John Wilson.”
No wonder Izzy had gone berserk when she’d seen John: she’d once been his dog. I am too stupid to live. Well, maybe I’m not too stupid to live, but I’m too stupid to live with malamutes. My poor dogs. “Tabitha, you’ve been right all along. I must’ve sent those people to you. Indirectly. I must’ve given your name to a friend who gave it to them. I’m sorry.” People ask me for names of breeders all the time. I must have given Tabitha’s name to Rita, who’d given it to John.
“You should be. They’re liars and cheats. The last time I talked to that horrible woman, she said that Cheyenne was with her husband, who was living at their house. They’d split up. But when I went there, no one was home, and there was no sign of a dog. I looked. Nothing in the yard. I looked in the windows, and I could see the whole kitchen, and there was no crate, no toys, no bowl, nothing. And when I was leaving, some neighbor told me that the puppy wasn’t there anymore.”
“Tabitha, I did not know these people. I did not recommend them. I leave it to breeders to screen their puppy buyers.”
“I did! They seemed fine. They owned their house. The yard was fenced. A doctor and a nurse? They seemed fine.”
“He’s not a doctor. He’s a drug-company sales rep.”
“He said he was a doctor. You see? I told you they were liars.”
“I believe you,” I said.
As soon as I got off the phone, John Wilson—pardon me, Dr. John Wilson—had the misfortune to show up, and even though he was Rita’s cousin and my houseguest, I had no inclination to go easy on him.
“Izzy is missing,” I said, “Izzy, who is Cheyenne, the puppy you and your wife bought from Tabitha Treen. You got Tabitha’s name from me via Rita. I know that I never gave it to you directly. And then for some unknown reason, you gave Cheyenne to Zara, you left her breeder worried sick about where the puppy was, and you persuaded Zara to lie about where Izzy had come from. And you know what? Zara is not a particularly good liar. She’s bad at supplying details. She doesn’t create a credible picture. Her story was that Izzy came from a shelter. Period. With no embellishments. But you know what Zara’s good at? Loyalty. Keeping a promise. She didn’t tell me the real story. I had to work it out for myself.”
John was still standing by the back door. “Holly, you haven’t heard my side.”
“I’m listening.”
“My wife, my ex-wife—”
“Cathy.”
“Cathy. Cathy had a big substance-abuse problem, and that was just one of a lot of problems she had. Men. Money. She spent my money, she spent money we didn’t have, she lost her job, and when we split up, she robbed me blind.”
“The puppy?”
“For the first couple of months we had Cheyenne, Cathy was okay. She even took her to some class. And then it started. She’d forget to feed Cheyenne. She’d leave her locked in a crate. Forget to take her out or just not do it. And the worst thing she did was just open the front door and let Cheyenne out. When the back yard had a fence! Cheyenne could’ve been killed by a car. And then Cathy’d be drunk or high, and she’d fall all over Cheyenne. It was disgusting. And after I kicked Cathy out, I had the locks changed, but she broke in and stole Cheyenne. I managed to get Cheyenne back, but I knew I had to do something, so I gave her to Zara.”
“What do you know about Frank and Gil Sorensen?”
“Wasn’t Frank Sorensen the dead guy? Rita’s burglar.”
“Yes. What else do you know about him?”
“Nothing.”
“Did Cheyenne belong to you and your wife? Was she registered to both of you? Or just to one of you?” I found myself speaking as if Izzy were two dogs, the one she’d been in her previous existence, Cheyenne, and the one she was now. In a sense, of course, Izzy really had had two lives.
“Both of us,” John said. “I paid for her. I wrote the check.”
Since Tabitha had no reason to lie about the registration, John was lying. Or maybe he’d forgotten. Pet people never attach the importance to American Kennel Club registrations that dog people do.
“Are you in touch with Cathy?”
“If I knew where she was,” John said, “I’d go after her and get my diamond ring and my money back.”
chapter twenty-five
The ransom call came just after I’d fed Rowdy and taken him out. When I returned him to Zara, she played her recording of the call. I closed my eyes and listened hard. The caller’s voice was as unmistakably male as his accent was inimitably Boston. To my ear, the man’s parking, with its baaing a and missing r, was identical to Kevin Dennehy’s pahking, and the o in lot and dog—lawt and dawg—sounded like Cambridge, too.
The man’s t’s thought about becoming d’s but changed their minds just the way Kevin’s did. Within a few blocks of my house there was probably a Harvard sociolinguist who could’ve stated with certainty that particular features of the accent were unique to the South Shore, the North Shore, East Boston, Southie, Revere, Medford, Cambridge, or, of course, Waltham. I’m not that good. All I knew was that the accent was the real thing. The letter r is easy to drop, but Boston vowels are impossible to fake. Poor Hollywood! Actors almost never even get close. Two who get the accent right are Matt Damon and Ben Affleck in Good Will Hunting. Why? Damon and Affleck both went to Cambridge Rindge and Latin.
“Gil Sorensen,” I said to Zara. “I’ll bet that’s who it is.” Although I had no idea where he’d been when he’d placed the call, I pictured him sitting on the steps of the shabby house on Peach Street.
“He’s reading it, isn’t he? He wrote it down, and he’s reading it.”
“And not very fluently.”
This was the first time I’d seen Zara without makeup. During Rowdy’s and my absence, she’d washed her face and brushed her hair. She looked pale and very young.
I took a seat on the couch next to her. Rowdy resumed the posi
tion he’d evidently decided was his: he sat next to her, his body relaxed, his expression gentle and open. She rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Why is the ransom so small? Why isn’t he asking for more money?” Her voice was soft and weak. “He calls me Rich Bitch.”
The demand was for only about a third of the price of a car, and that’s the kind of car I’d buy, not the Mercedes that Zara drove. The man had told her that unless she did what he said, her dog would die; if the police were involved, her dog would die. He’d instructed her to put the money in twenty-dollar bills in a white plastic bag and to come alone the next day at six to a parking lot—pahking lawt—off Pleasant Street in Watertown, near Pignola’s.
She was then to walk toward the river, pass some tennis courts, keep heading toward the river, and drop the bag by an old desk. Although he’d clearly been reading from a script, he sounded disconcertingly uncomfortable about giving explicit directions. Zara had had to ask him whether he meant six in the evening. He’d said yes. She’d also asked whether he meant the Pignola’s parking lot. He’d said no: “the pahking lawt nee-uh the tennis cohts and the Sons of Italy.” Fortunately, I knew exactly the parking lot he meant. He’d ended more or less as he’d begun: with a death threat, and a credible one.
“Desk?” Zara asked me.
“People dump things there,” I said.
“The money’s easy. There’s a branch of my bank in Harvard Square.” She paused. “If I can—”
“I can get some of the cash if that’ll help.”
“No, it’s not that. But thank you. I’ve got enough. But how do I get to the bank without Izzy?”
“Zara, please remember that you’re not in this alone. I’ll do anything I can, and so will Steve and Rita and Quinn. We’re with you.”
“No! Don’t tell them! If you tell them, they might call the police. Holly, please! Don’t tell anyone!”At her side, Rowdy stirred. Then he shifted an inch or two and rested his head on the couch next to her.
