Chapter 8
Lucinda quivered with excitement. She pressed her nose on the window of the truck as she watched Kent, Aubrey, and Barry approaching across the Wheat Sepal’s parking lot.
“Barry, let that ol’ fleabag out, will you? See if she’ll eat this.” Kent held out the carton of tabbouleh that had been next to his plate during lunch.
He could not remember the last time he had dined with a woman and child. It reminded him of the old days with Mary and Emily. It was a good feeling.
Barry flashed his mother a hopeful look. “Can I?”
Aubrey nodded half-heartedly.
Barry grabbed the container. “Will she eat it right out of the box?”
“Take her over in the grass,” Kent said. “Lucy, go with Barry.”
Aubrey and Kent leaned against the truck watching boy and dog. Barry held the carton over his head, laughing and fending off Lucinda as he walked.
“Don’t put your hands near her food while she’s eating. Sometimes they’ll bite,” Aubrey said. Then she caught herself. “Sorry, I get wrapped up in this parenting thing.”
Kent smiled, eyes still on the pair. “He could put his head down on the plate. She wouldn’t bite.”
Lucinda sniffed the gooey wheat purée Barry set before her, raised her head, and cast a bewildered look at Kent.
“Sorry, girl, that’s all I have. It’s good for you.”
As if to demonstrate her loyalty, the big dog dove into her meal.
“She prefers hamburgers.”
Aubrey released the musical laugh again.
“How’d you get involved in this FOAM thing anyway?”
“One thing led to another, I guess. A few years after the Otis affair, I left Iowa for Chicago. Became a model, if you can believe that.”
Kent could. Easily.
“Then I decided to do the Hollywood thing—you know, become an actress. I never really made it in showbiz, but I met a lot of interesting people. Influential people. Eventually, I married one of them. It didn’t work out, but that’s how Barry came into the picture. For a few years I drifted. Professionally that is. And personally, I guess, too. I was searching for where I fit in. About that time, the animal rights movement began picking up steam. The rest is history.”
“You’re not married now?”
“No. It’s me and Barry.” She stared, soft focused, out at the boy. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
“Yeah. He seems like a nice kid.”
She looked square into Kent’s eyes the way she had at their first meeting, but this time he noticed a gentleness, a melancholy warmth, that wasn’t there before.
“How about you? Any family?”
Talking about himself usually made Kent uncomfortable, but somehow he felt different with Aubrey. Opening up to her wasn’t too bad, like there was a chance she would get it and figure out what he was really like, and maybe even understand why he held his beliefs about animals. “I’ve got a daughter, Emily. She’s nine. She lives with her mother. I wasn’t too successful with the marriage game either.”
“Too committed to your work?”
“I hate to admit being so stupid, but that’s it. I dug my own grave.”
“You miss her a lot?”
“Terribly. In that regard, Lucinda doesn’t cut it.”
“You’re pretty good with self-analysis. You should come to California, the land of shrinks and therapy groups—touchy-feely heaven.”
“Makes my blood run cold just thinking about it.” He was relieved when Lucinda finished her health food and came bounding over. “Load in, girl. We’re headed back.”
Kent took a different route home. He guided the car slowly along a narrow ribbon of macadam that snaked its way through hills and valleys. They passed several dairy farms, and Kent pointed out a herd of cows loafing on a green knoll shaded by a fence line of old maples.
“You realize that if you eliminate farming, you can forget having the ready supply of milk, ice cream, cheese, and the rest of the dairy products Americans have learned to expect. Same for meat.”
“There are alternatives.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You tell me how you love and respect animals, and then in the next breath you tell me you condone their abuse.”
“I don’t condone animal abuse! But I don’t criminalize all animal use. And, by the way, FOAM resorts to some pretty criminal activities too!” He really didn’t know how that statement had worked its way into his consciousness and out of his mouth. But it was too late to retract it.
“What?” Aubrey said, obviously caught off guard.
“You know what I mean! Your group doesn’t mind crossing the legal line once in a while.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m simply saying that FOAM breaks the law to accomplish its goals.”
“That’s not true! We work within the law. Always.”
“Always?”
“Yes. Always!”
Kent brought the truck to an abrupt stop along a wide stretch of shoulder. With both hands still on the wheel, he turned to look directly at FOAM’s leader.
“I suppose you know nothing about an anonymous note my receptionist received.”
“I don’t know about any note. And we certainly didn’t send one.”
“Yesterday?”
“Not yesterday. Not ever!”
“Well, Sally, my receptionist, got a note telling her to quit working for me. It also implied my clinic might get torched. You don’t know about that?”
“That did not come from FOAM, I can assure you. Hate mail and threats of violence are not our style. If that was the way FOAM worked, I’d be outta there.”
Aubrey’s simple disclaimer deflated him.
“We’ve got the police working on it,” he said with more confidence than he really felt. “They’ll find out who sent it.”
“I hope they do!” She glanced back at Barry to see that he was paying attention. “FOAM always works within the law.”
Kent steered back onto the road. Frustration lapsed into a silent stalemate for several miles.
Finally, Kent said, “I just thought of a place I should take you. You ought to see Jefferson’s new animal shelter. It’s state of the art.”
“State of the art animal shelter. Kind of an oxymoron, wouldn’t you say? Like Copithorn’s animal-care supervising veterinarian.” Except this time there was no hostility.
“You never let up, do you? You want to see the pound or not?”
“Sure. I’m up for a shock.”
Aubrey wasn’t sure if she was delighted or galled that the Dewitt County animal shelter was not shocking. In fact, it was hospital clean and well lighted and ventilated. She guessed four hundred animals held, hopefully temporary, residence in its three wings—about half cats, half dogs. There were a few grumps, but mostly smiling pet faces. Amazingly, she didn’t hear a single cough!
They proceeded along a row of pens, each housing a small pack of motley dogs that piled forward in a jiggling mass of excitement to greet Barry. Kent expected the usual I want one, but the boy seemed content to squat near the cages and speak soft words of encouragement to hopeful eyes, while soft pink tongues moistened his fingers through the wire.
At the far end there was a couple with two young children engrossed in a family debate over which pup to adopt. And closer by, a slender black man was scooping small dogs into a large crate he had apparently brought with him. Kent watched him grab several. He worked rapidly, seemingly paying no attention to the characteristics of any of his adoptees.
“Where’d a rural county come up with the money for a facility like this?” Aubrey asked. Her question broke Kent’s attention from the curious way the man was collecting dogs.
“Good luck,
mostly. The state wanted to put a highway through where our old one was. Our lawyers got us top dollar out of that, and then we got a couple of matching contributions from local philanthropists. And we had a few fund drives.”
“This place is really nice.”
“We work hard to keep it that way.”
“You must have a big crematorium.”
“No, damn it! I mean adoptions. Give us some credit, will you!”
“I will when I figure you deserve it.”
Kent shook his head in an I-can’t-win gesture. Then he noticed a woman hosing a dog pen ahead of them. As they approached, he said, “Connie Hirt, meet Aubrey Fairbanks. Connie is the shelter director.”
The middle-aged woman wiped her hand on her sweatshirt and extended it. “With FOAM, right? I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Aubrey shook her hand. “I imagine. And not much good either.”
“Actually, not so bad. Depends how you look at it. We are animal lovers too. We just differ with you guys on how and how much. You know what I mean?”
“Sort of,” Aubrey said.
Connie drew her forearm across her brow, buckled her knees in exaggerated weariness, and looked at Kent. “Business is booming lately.”
“That’s good, I’d say.”
“I can’t remember ever placing pups and cats so fast.”
“Don’t knock it.”
“Oh, I’m not.”
The shelter director paused and toyed with the nozzle of her hose, appearing to consider whether or not to mention something else. Finally she said, “It’s just a little strange. Like that guy over there.” They turned to where the man had been snatching up pups, but he was gone. “He must have just left. Did you happen to notice he took several dogs and one cat?”
“Yeah. I was watching him. He took quite a few.”
“There’s been a few of those.” Connie shrugged her shoulders. “I mean, usually we get the family with young kids making a big thing out of deciding on their next pet. Takes a couple of visits sometimes. You know what I mean? But lately we’ve had a run of guys by themselves. They stop in, pick out a bunch of pups and cats in five or ten minutes, and leave.”
“Did you ask any of them what they were doing with all these new pets?”
“Not really. They say something vague like they’re getting hunting dogs or barn cats.
“You know who that guy was?”
“Nope. Don’t recognize most of them.”
For a moment, Kent searched for a logical explanation but could find none. “Like you say, it’s odd.” Then he remembered something else. “By the way, I promised Maureen Philips that I’d alert you that her dog, Bear, is missing.”
“She already called.” Connie pointed with a thumb over her shoulder. “I put her name with Bear’s description on the bulletin board. That’s another thing. Come look at this.”
Connie led Aubrey, Kent, and Barry back into the entry foyer. She waved at a corkboard wall, every inch cluttered with multicolored posters, handwritten notes, and three-by-five cards pleading for the return of lost animals. “I never saw so many missing pets!”
“Strange. Sally mentioned the same thing about the lost and found board at our clinic.”
“Dognappers,” Barry said. There was youthful intrigue in his voice.
Connie gave a short laugh. “In Jefferson?”
Kent felt Aubrey’s eyes burning him.
Chapter 9
After the animal shelter tour, Kent dropped Aubrey and Barry back at the Red Horse and moved Lucinda to the front seat. He drove back toward his clinic thinking about all the questions Sally would have. She’d want every detail. Was Aubrey Fairbanks a bitch one-on-one too? Did he find out about the anonymous letter? Did he convince Ms. Fairbanks that people owning animals is okay? Some of the questions would be easy. Some would be impossible.
It had been an interesting afternoon to say the least. He doubted he’d made any real change in Aubrey’s attitude. But the big thing was, he genuinely liked her, to his amazement. She was a complex woman with a simple clarity of purpose. The combination intrigued him. And he honestly believed she liked him. He had felt it when her eyes softened and had heard it in her laugh. He wanted to see her again.
He liked Barry too. He was a typical adolescent pushing his way out from under his mother’s wing. Just a boy—Kent smiled to himself as the image of Barry and Lucinda in the backseat returned. Aubrey genuinely loved the kid, no doubt about that. Unfortunately, she bound him with her dogma and overprotectiveness. Allergies, schmallergies—it was as obvious as the nose on his face, the boy needed a friend. A dog! That’s what Aaron Whitmore would have said. Yep. He could hear Aaron saying it, Get the boy a dog. That’s what he needs. Aaron’s solution to any problem was to connect with nature. Why hadn’t it worked up at Cuyler Lake?
As he pondered that, an uncontrollable impulse rose from the corner of his heart where he had stowed his mourning for Aaron. He slammed on the brakes and cranked the steering wheel, causing the truck to spin into a jostling, creaking 180. He took off toward Aaron’s cabin like a fox being chased by a pack of hounds.
Lucinda whined nervously.
The driveway to Aaron’s cabin was a narrow ribbon formed by two parallel tire tracks and a center mound that grabbed the undercarriage of any vehicle that traveled it too quickly. Kent scraped bottom a time or two before pulling to a stop in the dooryard under a massive white oak, from which many a deer had hung.
Kent surveyed the sparse plot of grass surrounding the cabin. Aubrey was right—it did need mowing, but still, he resented her saying so. He felt protective of the old building. Aaron had built it himself and boasted proudly that it was a real log cabin, not some prefab job ordered off a lot and assembled in a week. He had cut the logs, oiled them, seasoned them, and built every stick of it himself. He and Claire had lived in it for thirty years. It was Aaron’s cabin.
Kent stepped onto the covered porch that spanned the entire front. There was a pair of high-back wicker rockers, forest green, placed so that Aaron and Claire could watch the bird feeders that hung a few feet out in the yard. A hand-hewn table between them held a pair of berry-picking baskets and several Hubbard squash. Birds chirped nearby, wondering why the feeders were empty.
Kent reached up to a log ledge above a pair of snowshoes that hung on the cabin’s face. He ran his fingers along it until he found a key. He inserted it into the lock and pushed his way into the cabin.
Immediately his nostrils filled with the familiar, sweet fragrance of pine logs, wood ashes, and gun oil. The layout was simple, to the right, a large kitchen, to the left, a living area complete with a woodstove on a stone hearth. Kent couldn’t remember ever seeing it without a fire this time of year. There was a bedroom and bathroom in the rear and an open loft over them. Though the furnishings were rustic, the cabin was clean, and when Aaron was there, always warm and inviting, a place Kent loved to visit.
He glanced at the twelve-point buck mounted by the hearth. Aaron’s pride and joy. He scanned shelves laden with books of woods lore and a rack of polished hunting rifles, and he smiled at the sight of Aaron’s old AM tube radio. The place was a study in Adirondack decor except for a shiny new IBM Selectric on Aaron’s oak desk. Kent stepped to it and searched the otherwise barren desktop. Nothing. He pulled open the top drawer and jumped back with a start.
“Jesus!”
The image of his mother smiled back at him.
Guardedly, he lifted the frameless picture into better light and examined it. It was June Stephenson Mays, all right. He guessed she was in her midthirties and casting a warm glow at the camera from her seat on a porch swing. The edges were worn as if the photo had been held many times in caring hands. In the lower right, in his mother’s looping cursive, he read: To Aaron, the man I came to know too late. Love always, June.
For the
first time Kent ever, a feeling of betrayal toward Aaron welled up inside him. How could he have missed a relationship between his mother and his mentor? He studied the picture once more, then carefully placed his mother back as Aaron had left her. He racked his brain for a better explanation. None came. As he thought about it, he pawed through the rest of the desk.
In one drawer, under a sheaf of typing paper, he pulled out a clean, new manila folder, opened it, and again was shocked. His half brother’s cold eyes stared at him. This time the picture was small, fuzzy yellow with age, and framed in print. It was a newspaper article from a decade ago. Bold type above Maylon Mays’s mug shot read: Jefferson Man Sentenced for Animal Welfare Violations.
He shuffled through several more articles in the folder. “What the heck?” he said into the empty cabin. “What was Aaron up to?”
Aubrey Fairbanks sat alone in a corner booth of the Red Horse Inn’s taproom. She contemplated the gilded letters on the mirror behind the bar, The Groggery. Soft light, deep mahogany, and old brass made it dark and cozy. She leaned back against the wall and looked down at her legs sprawled full length on the bench. Still nice and firm, no cellulite. She rocked toward the black-glass tabletop and stared at her reflection—just a little too full for the camera. She’d have to watch that.
She lifted her empty glass, rattling its sludge of fruit and ice at the barmaid.
Without coming from behind the bar, a tiny, sienna-skinned woman with Indian cheekbones made a questioning expression and mouthed, “Another?”
Aubrey nodded. She poked through the fruit at the bottom of her glass with a long fingernail and then slurped a soggy cherry into her mouth. She’d have to be careful of these. Nowhere did it say vegans couldn’t have a drink, but at the same time, nowhere did it say old-fashioneds, fruit muddled, wouldn’t make vegans as fat as anyone else.
She was glad Barry had gotten caught up in his movie upstairs. It was nice to be alone for a while. She was torn in too many directions these days—a single parent, demands of work, living out of hotels. And Barry’s schooling. She hadn’t realized the magnitude of the task when she had opted for homeschooling. Homeschooling? That was a laugh. Hotel schooling would be more accurate.
Taking On Lucinda Page 7
