The Sow's Ear

by E. Joan Sims

  “I told you. I had good reason…”

  “Good reason, my hind foot,” I exploded. “You’re not Leonard Paisley, or anything like him. You have no business playing detective.”

  “Neither do you, and you do it all the time!”

  “That’s different. I’m your mother, and I’m a grownup.”

  “Oh, yeah? And I’m not?”

  We were both shouting now, and Aggie came scampering in to see what was going on. Remembering my gentle grandmother, I lowered my voice and tried to smooth things over, but I had already made a fatal mistake and, like a dummy, I proceeded to compound it.

  “Of course, you are, sweetie, but I’m just a little more grownup than you are.”

  “Hah!”

  “And you are relatively innocent.”

  She raised one eyebrow and smirked, “Do go on,” she urged. “This should be fun.”

  “Well,” I began, casting around desperately in my mind for something to say. “You lived in San Romero a long time. You were sheltered there. Of course, that was my fault, and your father’s, and your grandparent’s…”

  “Mom…” she warned.

  “You don’t know much about stuff…bad stuff…and things.” It sounded lame even to me so I switched horses in mid-stream. “And I don’t even think Huntley Haverstock is a Brit. I mean, pulease—lassie? Who really says that?”

  “John Connery, that’s who,” she countered.

  “It’s Sean Connery, and he’s a Scot and you just proved my point, Cass. You really don’t know all that much.”

  “So I’m stupid?” She jumped up from the table and stomped her foot on the kitchen floor. Alarmed, Aggie turned and ran back down the hallway—fluffy white tail flying at half-mast.

  “That’s what you’re really getting at, isn’t it? And why am I stupid? Because I don’t know the names of a bunch of silly old movie stars? How smart is that, I ask you?’”

  “Not stupid, sweetheart, just uninformed and maybe a little inexperienced.”

  “Only a little inexperienced?” she sneered.

  “Okay—a lot.”

  “Well, that’s just wonderful. Here I am trying to help you out by bringing you a real live mystery on a silver platter—a mystery right here in Rowan Springs. And you ungrateful…you…you…”

  She picked up a grape and threw it at me as she ran out of the kitchen.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mother and Horatio found me sitting at the kitchen table, chin in hand, musing on the great joke the universe had played by making me a parent. When prompted, I declined to share that damning bit of information because, for one thing, the argument was between Cassie and me, and for another, I was too upset to discuss it front of Mother because I knew she would take Cassie’s side just to get my goat. Instead, I went for the shock value of Cassie’s startling claim.

  “A drug dealer? That ordinary little man? I think not, dear. And certainly not doing business out of the animal hospital. That would be, well, almost obscene.”

  Horatio smiled gently, but wisely refused to comment. I, on the other hand jumped in without thinking—as usual.

  “Don’t be silly, Mother,” echoing, I was quite sure, Horatio’s unspoken thoughts.

  “What do you mean, dear?” she asked too sweetly.

  “An animal clinic has the same access to drugs as a regular clinic—more, probably.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” she snapped.

  I took one look at her—cheeks flushed, head held high, dainty feet slightly parted, all primed and ready for me to fire one—and for the second time that night I remembered my grandmother’s gentle ways.

  “I’m sleepy,” I yawned and rose. “’Night, Horatio, ’night, Mother.”

  “Humm.”

  I paused outside of Cassie’s door, listening for a moment, afraid to knock—afraid of making things worse. Better to sleep on it, I decided. I had already done enough damage for today—and it wasn’t even midnight.

  The price of an argument with Cassie was always the loss of a good night’s sleep. I decided not to even try fooling myself by getting into bed and instead made my way to library. It was a great night for an early fire—cool, crisp and chill—with a definite hint of persimmon in the air. School had started early in August this year—the result of snow days to make up—and I knew there was a football game tonight. I considered briefly sneaking out to attend, but it was no fun sneaking out when you were an adult and already had all the permission needed.

  I fiddled with the CD player for a moment and came up with some wonderfully romantic boleros. I turned the volume up “loud enough to command attention yet not loud enough to disturb anyone else,” turned off the lights, and curled up on the big red chintz sofa to enjoy my sulk in solitude.

  Despite my efforts to the contrary, my thoughts kept going back to Cassie’s assertion that Huntley Haverstock was a drug dealer. I found that idea very unsettling. I liked my puzzles to come one at a time so I could enjoy each one to the fullest. Millicent’s auto-engraved body was my conundrum du jour, and I wasn’t ready to have my attention divided.

  But I had to admit that Cassie, bless her heart, had the right idea. I did need some new story material, and I had promised Horatio not to expose Millicent’s terrible little secret. Maybe the vet wasn’t really a drug dealer, but I thought it entirely possible that he had something to hide or he wouldn’t have run off with his tail between his legs when I popped up unexpectedly.

  For one thing, Haverstock was so stereotypically English that he was almost a caricature. His “lassie” this, and “ta” that, came right out of the dialogue of a mediocre Rank film from the thirties. And even if he were truly British, I had a hard time believing everything about Huntley Haverstock was for real. For one thing, my memory kept tap dancing around his name. I was certain I’d heard it somewhere before—the same name with a different face hovering at the edges of my mind.

  I had to marvel, though, at Cassie’s cheeky decision to date him in an attempt to discover more fodder for my own personal literary mill. After some amount of cogitation I finally decided that no matter what she said, she probably didn’t start out seeing him with that in mind, and only began to notice Huntley’s supposed hanky-panky when she began to tire of his charms. Too bad, I thought, that Aggie couldn’t speak—she would make a great little spy, because I knew I wouldn’t get another word out of her angry mistress. If Huntley Haverstock was up to mischief, then mischief had won.

  I fell asleep on that thought, dreaming of endless tea parties where Mother poured, as Cassie, dressed to the nines in a frilly dress and frou-frou hat, flitted from table to table sampling iced teacakes and jam scones. Aggie was there, too—trying to tell me something just like Lassie in those old three handkerchief movies where the dog limps and plays dead and generally wrecks a little kid’s mental state for days.

  I woke up in a quandary, wondering what the stupid dog could possible know that I did not.

  In spite of the night spent away from my bed, I felt rested and ready to face the day and all the daughters in it. What I hadn’t counted on was the mother.

  “Paisley, I need you to drive me around town.”

  “And a hearty good morning to you, too, Mother dear.”

  “And don’t be sassy, my girl, or I can promise you it will be a very long day indeed.”

  After hours of waiting in her car while she delivered homemade soup and corn muffins to those friends of hers from Sunday School who were ailing—and forbidden to change the dial on her car radio from that mindlessly bland, so-called “classical” music that made you wish devoutly for electric shock therapy—I came up with one of what Cassie called my ‘hare-brained schemes.’

  Suddenly restless and eager to be on my quest, I turned around and counted the remaining soup containers and muffins still to be delivered. By rapidly devouring four muffins and pouring a container of soup in the midst of some really lovely pansies in front of Mary Beth Tatum’s ho
use, I managed to shorten the house calls by one and was happily heading home with Mother a mere thirty minutes later.

  “I could have sworn I had another container of soup. And I really thought I had enough muffins left to take some to Horatio’s nephew. He’s batching it this week, poor dear, and he adores homemade bread. Too bad his fiancée doesn’t like to… Paisley, are you sure something didn’t fall out of the car?”

  “For the fifth time—no, Mother,” I lied. “I was very careful.” Although, truth be told, it didn’t fall out. And I was very careful. I didn’t spill a drop when I poured the soup out and hid the plastic container in the flowerbed.

  By the time we pulled up the long circular drive of Meadowdale Farm I was feeling somewhat of ashamed of my behavior. After all, Mother was just being the good soul that she was: a kind-hearted southern lady looking out for those who were ill or infirmed. Was I so uncharitable and mean-spirited that I couldn’t give up one morning to help Lady Bountiful?

  The answer was simple. I was mean, and uncharitable—especially when I was bored to tears and subjected to three hours of mindless musical Pablum pretending to be culture. And besides, I most desperately wanted to be on my way.

  I helped Mother carry in the boxes that had protected her precious leather seats from errant muffin crumbs and accidental soup drips, and went in search of Aggie. After all, she was a major player in my little scheme.

  “Good doggie,” I crooned as I attempted to mold my face into what might pass for a genuine “I really do like you” grin.

  She raised her suspicious head from the nest of down in my favorite pillow and ever so carefully lifted one side of her little black doggie lips in a snarl that contained worlds of contempt. She was so insolent that I didn’t feel the least bit dishonest when I asked the magic question.

  “Wanna go?”

  The dog was up and off the bed in two seconds flat. She pawed impatiently at the back door while I explained to Mother that I would be back in an hour and was taking the dog out for some air and maybe a doggie cone at the DQ.

  “But Paisley, you never…”

  And we were gone in a flash.

  * * * *

  Beside herself with canine joy, Aggie stuck her fuzzy little head out the window and let the wind blow her long beard and eyebrows back from her face in a furry white ruff that made her look almost…well, cute. Not cute enough, however, to make me regret making her part and parcel of my nefarious plan to infiltrate enemy territory using her as my Trojan horse, er, dog.

  Chapter Twelve

  From some of Horatio’s wry comments, I had gathered that our own local vet had taken advantage of Huntley’s sudden appearance by going on a long over-due vacation with his wife and children. After giving him a cursory tour of the clinic, Dr. Quentin White had waved goodbye to a bemused Huntley Haverstock and jumped into his twelve year-old farm truck to race home and pick up Sally Mae and the kids for a flight to Florida’s golden beaches.

  Even a seasoned professional would have had a hard time picking up from that point, especially with the differences in language and treatment protocols, but if Huntley were a fake in the medicine department as well as in the Brit department, like I thought, then he had fooled more people than Cassie. His borrowed waiting room was full of patients—large and small, furry, feathered and scaly, and all of them were squawking, bleating or barking at once.

  I tried to remember where I had seen the receptionist before while I waited my turn at her desk. When I mentally painted her stringy grey hair brown, and dressed her in jeans and a checkered shirt instead of a wrinkled white uniform, it came to me.

  Worrying on a hangnail and chewing on a number two pencil, Tillie Dunn barely paused to look up as I approached her desk.

  “How’s the pony?”

  “Huh? What?”

  “That wonderful pony you rode in the Bright Leaf Festival parade a couple of years ago.”

  Tillie beamed up at me.

  “You saw me and Gaucho?”

  “Sure did,” I grinned, and this time it was genuine. Tillie and the pony had put on a pretty nifty show. I had been impressed.

  “Gaucho, well,” she sighed, “both of us are a little too old for showing off now, but we sure did have fun for awhile.” She paused and attacked the hangnail again. “You’re Cassie’s mom, right? Can I help you with something?”

  I had decided on the way over to use the same chief complaint for Aggie that Cassie had so rudely urged on her grandmother last year when we were faking our way into another doctor’s office. It’s only fair, I thought, and it serves her right.

  Tillie didn’t believe me.

  “Are you sure she has worms. I mean, she’s here all the time with Cassie since Dr. Haverstock took over. I would have thought…”

  The flush that rose up from her neck to her cheekbones made her look years younger and much healthier than someone who reportedly smoked five packs a day and only ate bologna sandwiches and number two pencils.

  I tried unsuccessfully to control my smirk by pressing my lips together and pulling them to the side. I’m sure it made me look like I had a twitch and a booger. Finally, I let go and grinned broadly. Tillie grinned back and we shared a private moment until she remembered she was over-worked and underpaid. She blew a wisp of hair back from her eyes and vowed tersely that she’d work me in as soon as she possible.

  “Your doggie won’t need a full physical since she’s been here, er…well, you know. We probably can just get a stool sample and let you go. I can call in some medicine to the pharmacy if she needs it. You won’t even have to see the doctor.”

  Yanking hard on Aggie’s tail with one hand, I poked none too gently at a tiny freckled spot on her little pink tummy with the other.

  “Did I tell you she’s been crying out like that when we touch her here?”

  Predictably, the dog snarled and snapped viciously at my finger, but for once I was prepared. Her teeth coming together without my pinky in the middle made a sound a crocodile would have been proud of and caused heads to turn as the other waiting clients cradled their precious pets protectively in their arms.

  “Fine,” snapped Tillie, her good humor and patience at an end. “But it’ll be an hour, maybe more. Take a seat.”

  During the two hours that followed, I got acquainted with more people and their pets than I wanted to know in a lifetime. After the first ten minutes passed and Aggie saw that we were going nowhere, she scratched around until she found a comfortable spot on my lap, then settled down to resume her mid-day nap. Much to my sorrow, people suddenly felt safer approaching me to show off their own beloved animals. After I had properly admired a croupy parakeet, an asthmatic schnauzer, and a lovely but skittish Siamese, I found myself cornered by a short, fat little woman who claimed to be in Mother’s Sunday school class and was the proud owner what had to be one of the world’s fattest felines.

  “He’s almost nineteen now, but as spry as ever. Can’t hold his wee-wee though, so we can’t take trips—well, except to here, and to my mother’s.” The woman leaned in closer just in case any of the other people waiting gave a damn. “Mother’s blind, you know, and she’s lost her sense of smell so…well, I’m used to it, but some people, my uppity sister for one, says cat urine…” She proudly held almost thirty pounds of incontinent cat up by the armpits allowing the rest of him to spill back over her lap like a furry puddle of liquid mercury.

  “…but it’s a small price to pay for wuvin’ my wootsie dootsie. Isn’t it my precious kitty? Ohhh, wookee dat pretty face on my wittle baby boy, isn’t he adorable?”

  I tried in vain to pretend an admiration for the offending puss without taking a breath, but the pervasive odor of obese cat in need of a diaper was too much. I coughed, then gagged, then retched, praying fervently all the while that I would not lose my breakfast on Woosie Dootsie.

  “Well!”

  And suddenly, I was thankfully alone on my end of the waiting room. I squirmed carefully in the little pla
stic bucket seat trying to find a more comfortable position without waking up Beowulf in drag, but the plastic was hard and my backside was a trifle wider than it had been a month or so ago.

  By the time Tillie called my name, my right butt cheek was completely without sensation. It was this condition that caused me to walk with a queer sort of lurching motion as I made my way back to the examining room. Aggie slept on in my arms until the scent of other frightened and distressed animals reached her delicate little black nose. She opened one sleepy brown eye, looked up to see me instead of her beloved Cassie, and retaliated by biting me as hard as she could.

  “Damn dog!”

  I practically threw her on the stainless steel top of the examining table. Her sharp nails clicked a frantic tattoo on the metal surface as she tried to get away from big bad me and maintain her balance at the same time. When I saw that she was intent on escaping, I made a grab for her tail and came away with handful of feathery white plumes as she leapt from the end of the table and took off.

  “Damnation!”

  I ran after her—and from a window at the end of the hall caught a passing glimpse of Huntley Haverstock as he backed rapidly out of the driveway in a brand new Land Rover.

  “Damn again and again!” I shouted.

  I popped my head in and out of examining rooms like a Jack-in-the-box until I finally found the dog cornered in a room at the end of the building—apparently in the area of the clinic that served as a laboratory. A long shelf on one wall held an array of microscopes. Other shelves held beakers, Petrie dishes and vials filled with noxious looking solutions.

  Aggie stood her ground—growling and pretending to be six feet tall and twice as wide. I had to admire the little twit. She almost had me fooled, but I had learned over the years that if you ignored her in circumstances like these she would soon drop her fearsome stance and forget what she was about.

  I had already forgotten.

  My attention was focused on a rough wooden table in the middle of the room where a collection of little brown paper sandwich bags sat on blatant display. Cassie hadn’t been making that part of her story up! Without even thinking about it, I grabbed two of the little bags and hastily stuffed them in my leather tote. Maybe I wouldn’t get to confront the good doctor, but I had some first class evidence and that was enough for me.