by Susan Conant
I felt heartsick.
chapter forty-one
I had no opportunity for a private talk with my dogs when we got home that evening and no chance the next morning, either, because Steve, Leah, Buck, Gabrielle, and all of the dogs were everywhere. The chaos that I’d once thought of as our family madness now felt like the epitome of sanity, with everyone too occupied and preoccupied with dogs to tell lies, put on airs, spouse-swap, accidentally discharge firearms, or whack anyone over the head with a poker.
At ten o’clock, I ran down the street to join Rita and Zara to do our makeup and to dress in our wedding finery. The master bedroom of Rita and Quinn’s new house was done in fresh white and pale yellow, and sunshine flooded the room. Rita, having recovered from what she swore was a trivial bout of morning sickness, looked beautiful just as she was, but Zara insisted on applying serum, moisturizer, toner, foundation, tint, blush, eyeliner, mascara, lip liner, and lip tint to Rita’s face, mine, and her own. In between painting us, she took photo after photo with her phones and cameras, and, over Rita’s objections, splashed our pictures all over cyberspace.
So there I was at ten thirty on the morning of Rita’s wedding day, my face plastered with twenty kinds of goop, my hair stiff with spray, my body swathed in deep-peach silk, my legs encased in honest-to-God stockings, my feet suffering in high heels, and to lessen Rita’s anxiety, I said, “All this is against the laws of Cambridge, Rita! Any minute, a squad from city hall is going to arrive and give us a choice: either we can go to jail and lose our Cambridge citizenship, or we can shampoo our hair, scrub our faces, remove our nail polish, change into artisanal handwoven unbleached tunics, embroidered peasant skirts, and Birkenstock sandals with socks, and keep living here and voting here happily ever after. Which is it going to be?”
Rita stood up and, at the risk of wrecking her makeup and mine, gave me a big hug and said, “If you want to jump in the shower and wash your hair and scrub your face and put on kennel clothes and show up at my wedding with your half-wild malamutes, go right ahead. From now on, I choose my family, and I choose you and Steve and your dog-obsessed relatives.”
“Love us, love our—”
“—dogs,” Zara finished. “But you’re keeping me, aren’t you, Rita?”
“Of course. You and Izzy and Uncle Oscar.”
“Don’t cry!” Zara ordered. “Your makeup! You’ll spoil it. Don’t cry!”
Rita blew her nose. “Besides everything else, I’m upset about my diamond earrings. The police are going to return them, but how can I wear them? I can’t. Not after—”
“Of course not,” Zara said. “That would be disgusting. We’ll clean them up and sell them on eBay.”
Rita looked shocked. “Without disclosing their history?”
“Their history,” said Zara, “is that Quinn bought them at Tiffany. We can provide the sales slip. That’s the only provenance anyone needs. And their history doesn’t matter. What counts is their beautiful future in some lucky woman’s ears.”
chapter forty-two
Rita had extracted from me the ridiculous and unnecessary promise to refrain from comparing her wedding to a dog show. Consequently, as she, Zara, Izzy, and I rode in the white limo that transported us to Harvard Yard, I kept to myself the realization that I finally knew how it had felt to be one of Geraldine R. Dodge’s dogs. If you’ve read any of my articles, blogs, or Facebook posts about Mrs. Dodge, neé Rockefeller, my idol, you’ll know that she was the ultimate grande dame of dogdom, the benefactor and guiding spirit of the original old Morris and Essex shows, and—
I seem to be drifting from the topic of Rita’s wedding. Where was I? The limo, the limo that reminded me of the mile-long specially equipped limo that Mrs. Dodge commissioned Cadillac to build for her dogs so that they could travel to and from shows in comfort and style.
As to the wedding itself, the venue, Appleton Chapel, was too magnificent, too small, and too cluttered with pews to be suitable for a dog show, but as a site for the exchange of human vows, it was lovely and reminded me of the real thing, so to speak, in one principal respect: just as the American Kennel Club was fond of issuing detailed rules and regulations applying to dog shows, so Harvard set forth detailed rules and regulations applying to weddings at Appleton Chapel.
Specifically, whereas Rita and Quinn had wanted to plight their troths amidst a veritable indoor garden of greenery and blooms, Harvard restricted the floral decorations to one arrangement at the altar and smaller ones at the ends of pews. Rita and Quinn had chosen a lavish display of lilies for the altar and smaller versions for the pews.
To make sure of abiding by Harvard’s rules about music on show grounds, Rita and Quinn had hired university musicians, including a gifted organist who played some stately but joyful piece as I processed down the aisle clutching a bouquet of peach-colored blossoms and baby’s breath. Because of the supposed informality of the wedding, Quinn and Steve, who stood to the right of the mammoth lily display, wore dark three-piece suits. Trying to cultivate a positive attitude, I concentrated on feeling happy that Steve was the best-looking man at the wedding as well as the best man; and I struggled to suppress the thought that standing there next to Steve, Quinn looked old enough to be his father.
To the left of the lilies stood Zara, also in ghastly peach, and sitting proudly at her left side, Izzy, who wore a white lace service-dog vest that Zara had commissioned and a decorative collar of white ribbons that was a gift from Steve and me. Among the guests in the pews were psychotherapist friends of Rita’s whom I knew or had met, together with three or four dozen strangers, friends of Rita’s or Quinn’s. My father, handsome in a summer suit, was holding Gabrielle’s hand and beaming; in a flowing pale-blue dress, my stepmother was as radiant as a bride.
On my way to the altar, I saw no sign of Rita’s or Zara’s parents, and when I took my place next to Zara, I looked carefully and confirmed the impression that all four were absent. Escorting Rita down the aisle, Uncle Oscar had a broad smile and kept looking right and left in a way that reminded me of royalty.
In her palest-peach silk gown, holding a bouquet of white blossoms in steady hands, eyes on Quinn, Rita was impossibly lovely and, I was relieved to see, unmistakably happy. She wanted to be married and to have a child. She had decided—even contrived—to marry Quinn and have his baby. Steve’s and my doubts about him didn’t matter. I felt confident that Rita was getting exactly what she wanted. My principal memory of the service itself is of the music: the organ, a mezzosoprano soloist, and a brass quintet playing a song of celebration. I never cry at weddings. I might have made an exception for Rita’s, but a sense of responsibility distracted me and weighed me down.
The absence of Rita’s parents did not pass entirely unremarked at the reception, a luncheon in an elegant upstairs room at the Harvard Faculty Club.
The explanatory phrase I copied from Rita worked perfectly: family crisis. I uttered it in a confiding tone. The third time I did so, I realized that I was holding a finger to my mouth as if say, “My lips are sealed.” With a shrug and a smile, Zara, too, kept saying, “Family crisis.” MaryJo whispered it. Steve sounded as if he were diagnosing a serious but curable disease: “Family crisis.”
In other respects, the reception was just as Rita and Quinn wanted it to be. The setting was all Harvardian crimson and white. We nibbled on little crab cakes, tiny dumplings, and spinach tarts before taking our seats for baby greens, beef tenderloin, poached salmon, fancy vegetables, and French wines. The same photographer who’d taken hundreds of shots during the ceremony took candids, the best of which is, I think, a close-up of the beribboned Izzy licking my father’s craggy face. The champagne for the toasts was Dom Pérignon. Zara, Mary Jo, and Monty took only token sips, but Uncle Oscar consumed enough for four people before singing a Beatles toast that combined “All You Need Is Love” with “All My Loving.” Speaking of love, Rita loves the photo of my cousin Leah giving Uncle Oscar a hug as he raises his glass. The pictures
of the cake-cutting turned out well, too, in part because the cake was highly photogenic—dark chocolate with elaborate white icing—and in part because the clever photographer managed to show the joy on Rita’s face while blurring the age visible on Quinn’s.
All in all, the wedding was a tremendous success. By the time we returned to Appleton Street, the combination of champagne and emotional fatigue was making my head swirl, and I felt happy to be home to stay. Rita and Quinn still had a long day and night ahead of them. Zara was driving them to the airport for their flight to London, and although Uncle Oscar’s eyes were unnaturally bright and his skin strangely whitish and purple, he insisted on going along for the ride.
Steve, Leah, Monty, MaryJo, Buck, Gabrielle, and I all saw them off and tossed confetti at Zara’s car as they drove away. The next morning, Monty and MaryJo were leaving for Montana, Buck and Gabrielle were returning to Maine, and Steve was driving Leah back to vet school. Zara and Uncle Oscar would stay at Quinn and Rita’s with Willie. Steve and I would be alone with our dogs. I’d find time to consult with my malamutes.
Then I’d decide how to do what had to be done.
chapter forty-three
Kimi is the most intellectually gifted of my three malamutes, and although she knows how to have fun, she’s a fundamentally serious individual who forgets nothing and analyzes everything. Happy-go-lucky Sammy, in contrast, is so lighthearted that he can fool you into thinking that he’s brainless, as he is not; when he needs to think, he does, but most of the time, his buoyant optimism wafts him from one cloud nine to the next with pauses in between when he rolls onto his back, waves his legs in the air, leaps up, and sings woo-woo-woo.
When Rowdy puts his mind to it, he’s almost as brilliant as Kimi. Like Sammy, he’s sure that the future will be sunny, but Rowdy bases his conviction not on faith in externals but on his happy belief that if he and the world get into a tussle, he will win, the world will lose, and all will thus be well. He is a dog of strong character.
On the morning after Rita and Quinn’s wedding, I finally had the chance to summon all three malamutes for a private meeting. My father and stepmother had left for Maine; Steve was returning Leah to school, with Lady and India for company; and I’d already dashed down the street to say goodbye to Monty and MaryJo as they set out for Montana.
Although the day was bright and almost autumnally cool, the dogs and I convened in the privacy of the kitchen rather than in the yard, where I might have been overheard.
In effect, the four of us were an informal grand jury meeting in secret to decide what to do about someone whom I, in the role of prosecutor, suspected of having committed a serious crime. In presenting evidence, I offered only one document: Steve’s timeline of the evening we’d gone to Vertex, the evening when Frankie Sorensen had been killed, the timeline I’d ridiculed as a waste-of-timeline but had just pulled from Steve’s computer.
Mainly, I talked, and the dogs listened. I read their eyes.
I was seated on a chair with the dogs sitting neatly in front of me: Sammy on the left, Kimi on the right, and Rowdy in the middle. Sammy’s expression was joyful, even frivolous, and in his beautiful almond-shaped eyes I saw nothing but levity. What happened once, he seemed to say, won’t happen again. The circumstances were extreme. Let it go! Forget it! It’s a lovely day for a hike. Let’s get out and have fun! Shifting my gaze to Kimi, I found a severe condemnation of Sammy’s attitude: That mindless puppy is as illogical as he is irresponsible. Since it happened once, it clearly can happen again. And very well may! Consider the consequences of inaction! Go for a hike, indeed. Do what you need to do!
Rowdy caught my eye, rose to his feet, and trotted to the door, hanging on which were leather leads in a variety of lengths and widths. We’ve never taught the dogs to retrieve their own leashes when it’s time for a walk, and Rowdy hadn’t figured out the trick on his own. He waited as I selected a six-foot leather leash, snapped it onto his collar, and said, “Yes, I get it. Enough thinking. Time for direct confrontation. Thank you for your good counsel, buddy.”
A few minutes later, we arrived at Rita and Quinn’s to find Zara’s car in the driveway. When I’d said my goodbyes to Quinn’s parents, Zara had told me that she and Uncle Oscar were going to have a quiet day at home. He needed time to recover from the excitement of the wedding, she’d said; he’d overextended himself at the rehearsal and then again at the wedding. She needed to catch up on editing she’d promised to do for clients.
I had no intention of speaking to the two of them together but hadn’t worked out a plan to arrange a one-to-one conversation. Maybe Zara would be indoors working while Uncle Oscar sat outside; maybe he’d be indoors while she sat on the patio with her laptop.
I rapped my knuckles on the gate to the yard, and when no one responded, I opened the latch and stepped into the yard with Rowdy at my side. Zara was nowhere to be seen, but Uncle Oscar was stretched out on a recliner in the shade near the glass doors to the kitchen, his eyes closed, his head lolling, his mouth slightly open. On his lap was a sheet of paper torn from a yellow legal pad. Stepping closer, I saw that Zara had left Uncle Oscar a note in big block capitals: GONE FOR A WALK. BACK SOON. XXXOOO, Z. AND I.
Lacking Rowdy’s self-confidence, I hesitated. My heart was racing, and my mouth felt dry. Uncle Oscar was motionless—entirely at peace. It felt mean to rouse him. If I touched him, I’d startle him, wouldn’t I? Procrastination tempted me: I’d awaken Uncle Oscar only after I’d made him a cup of coffee. I could make coffee for myself, too. Or get a drink of water. Sure, Holly. While you’re at it, make lunch. Check your phone for messages. Call someone. Send a text. Go for a walk. Put it off.
I looked to Rowdy for courage, took a deep breath, silently carried a wrought-iron chair to Uncle Oscar’s side, took a seat, and closed my eyes.
“Uncle Oscar,” I whispered, “we need to talk.” Almost inaudibly, I added, “I want you to know that I love you. Everyone loves you. You know that? We love your warmth. Your singing! I love your gift for uniting your family. Rita says that you’re the family star. The center of the family. She needs that center. So does Zara. That’s why I didn’t want it to be you, Uncle Oscar. I wanted it to be anyone else. Even Zara.” I paused. “Even Zara. And for a while, I thought it was. I thought she’d gone back to the house for her Nikon and found the burglar and hit him with the poker. The silver, the wedding presents, must’ve felt like hers, or that’s what I told myself. Zara was keeping track of them.
“So it made sense that she’d want to stop him from stealing them. But I was wrong. Steve made a timeline, you know, and it shows who left the restaurant, Vertex, and who could’ve been here at the house. Quinn was alone here for a while before he left for Vertex, but that was before the burglary. Monty went out, but now I know why: he was outside smoking. Vicky was gone for a long time, but except when she was checking on you, she was on her phone talking to Al. My neighbor Elizabeth overheard her.”
My voice was softer than ever, all but inaudible.
“And what the timeline shows, Uncle Oscar, is that the one person who was here all the time, the only person with the perfect opportunity, was you.”
Only after murmuring under my breath what I’d dreaded saying aloud did I open my eyes and notice Rowdy, whose behavior was more than peculiar. Quick to respond to anyone who habitually handed out treats, Rowdy was sprawled on the patio, his tail end toward Uncle Oscar, his chin resting on his paws. My alarm was immediate and intense. Rowdy, not nudging Uncle Oscar? Failing to turn on the charm of those big brown eyes? Not wagging and woo-woo-woo-ing for goodies? Rowdy? My Rowdy? He must be sick. In no time, he must have fallen horribly, terribly ill.
All concern for Uncle Oscar forgotten, I shouted, “Rowdy! Rowdy, what’s wrong? Rowdy!”
The handsome boy lifted his head. His eyes were clear and alert. With his usual strength and vigor, he rose to his feet and shook himself. Ignoring Uncle Oscar, he came to my outstretched hands.
Slow
to catch on to what Rowdy had grasped immediately, I turned to Uncle Oscar, who had remained entirely motionless. His eyes were still closed. His head still drooped. He hadn’t shifted position since we’d arrived. His chest moved not at all. I listened for the sound of breathing and heard nothing. Overcoming a weird and irrational squeamishness, I reached out, placed my fingertips on his neck, and searched for a carotid pulse.
At liberty to speak aloud, I said, “I wondered about Zara. No, I suspected her. But once Elizabeth McNamara told me about hearing the voices of two men, I assumed that there’d been a falling out between the brothers, between thieves. And I thought that was a reasonable hypothesis until two days ago, Uncle Oscar, when I heard Gil say that he hadn’t killed Frankie. He said, ‘I swear to God, Cathy, I keep telling you, I found Frankie that way.’ And I believed him. I’m a dog trainer, you know. I pay attention to tones of voice. And Gil had no reason to lie.”
Still squeamish, still hesitant, I rested one hand on Uncle Oscar’s shoulder. To give myself strength, I put my other hand on Rowdy’s neck and dug my fingers into his thick ruff.
“At first, I thought you didn’t have the strength. I was wrong. Bocce. Golf. And visits to the weight room. Frankie Sorensen must’ve made the same assumption I did. He must’ve seen you as no threat at all. And then there’s the matter of your strength of character, to use an old-fashioned phrase. Yes, I’m thinking about your little foible, as your family calls it. Zara’s camera. The sensor for our weather station. Even coffee pods! I watched you slip those in your pocket. Not to mention Quinn’s drug samples. And for all I know, Uncle Oscar, your family knows what you did to Frankie, too. And makes excuses for you. Forgives you. I’ll never know. And now I don’t need to. I can stop worrying about my responsibility.
“I’ve been worried, you know. What if one of your neighbors at home had done something you just didn’t like? One of your bocce buddies. A golfing friend. Someone in the weight room. Or even before you got home. Here. While you were staying with Zara? What if Zara had challenged you? Taken you up on something? What—?”
