A Last Goodbye

by J. A. Jance

  Dumbfounded, Ali stood there holding the dog as the door slammed shut behind them. Unaware of Ali’s dismay over her arrival, the little animal heaved an exhausted sigh, snuggled into the crook of Ali’s arm, and closed her eyes. Colin had said the dog was a puppy. True, she was no bigger than a puppy—not more than seven or eight pounds—but she was most certainly not a baby. The dog was old enough to have a sprinkling of white hair on her muzzle.

  The doorbell rang, startling both Ali and the dog, who jerked briefly and then returned to her slumber.

  “Bellman,” a male voice announced from outside in the corridor. “Dog package.”

  When Ali opened the door, a different bellman stood there holding the promised goods, which included a bed that was three times too big for the tiny dog, two equally huge dog dishes—one for water and one for food—and a cellophane-wrapped bag of dog treats. Those at least appeared to be small enough for a very small dog to tackle.

  “Heard what happened,” the bellman said as he proceeded to arrange the items in the room. He placed the dog bed near the window, then unrolled a plastic mat and put it next to the bed. He set down the food dish at once but held on to the water dish long enough to fill it with a bottle of water he pulled out of his pocket. Once full, the water dish was placed on the mat as well.

  “Had no idea how small she was,” the bellman observed once he was finished. “Would you like me to go downstairs and see if I can find smaller dishes?”

  “No,” Ali said. “These will be fine.” Still holding the dog, Ali pointed at her purse. “If you’d just hand me that . . .”

  “No, ma’am,” the bellman said. “You don’t need to worry about no tip. It ain’t just everybody who’ll go out of their way to rescue a poor little mite like that. If there’s anything else you need, you be sure to give us a call.”

  After the bellman had left, Ali carried the slumbering dog over to the love seat by the window. The animal was so tiny, it felt like holding a baby. When Ali ran a hand down the dog’s side, she noticed that her ribs protruded in a way that indicated she might not have had enough to eat for a very long time.

  Sitting there with the dog in her lap, Ali realized that this wasn’t something she had done often. Growing up, she hadn’t had pets. Her parents had maintained that running a restaurant and having pets didn’t mix. That didn’t mean she’d never had a pet, however. A few years earlier she had been drafted as the temporary caretaker of an aging cat, Samantha, after her good friend Reenie Bernard was murdered. Reenie’s children had adored the ugly, one-eyed cat dearly and had wanted to take Sam with them. Unfortunately the kids’ new living arrangement with Reenie’s parents as their court-appointed guardians precluded that. Their grandfather was allergic to the creature. As a result, Ali’s supposedly temporary fostering arrangement morphed into being permanent.

  Despite initial misgivings on Ali’s part and reservations on Samantha’s part, too, the two of them finally sorted out their differences. The cat was won over to her new household as much by Leland Brooks’s patient kindness as by Ali’s. But a dog? A dog was a different story entirely, and Ali didn’t think she wanted to go there.

  A key card slid into the lock. The door opened and B. entered. “I know what you’re going to say,” he said sheepishly.

  “A dog?” she replied. “On our honeymoon? Are you serious?”

  “See?” he said. “Just as I expected.”

  “But, B.,” she argued, “this isn’t our dog. She belongs to someone. We’ve got to find her owner.”

  “She’s got no collar and no tag, and she’s not going back to the asshole who threw her out of the car,” B. declared with a trace of anger in his voice that Ali had never heard before. “You should have seen what happened. If Colin hadn’t been quick on his feet, that dog would have been out in the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard and run over in two seconds flat.”

  Ali shook her head. She could imagine what Athena would say when she heard that her son had been darting through traffic in an effort to rescue an abandoned animal. B. had never had children of his own. His dealings with Colin and Colleen were his first efforts at either parenting—or grandparenting, for that matter. Ali knew that Athena was inordinately strict when it came to enforcing what she called “parking lot rules,” which meant that the children had to be holding hands with an adult at all times. B.’s version of parking lot rules were abysmal.

  “What do you propose to do with her?” Ali asked, looking down at the sleeping dog, who had yet to move a muscle.

  B. grinned. “First off, we’re going to go to the non-rehearsal rehearsal dinner. The concierge tells me that there’s an all-night veterinary clinic a few miles from here on Sahara. When we go out later to get the marriage license, we’ll stop by the clinic on the way and have her wanded. If she has a chip, we’ll have her back home with her real owner—most likely not the same asshole who threw her out of his car—sometime later tonight. No fuss, no muss.”

  Ali said nothing as B. disappeared into the bathroom to shower and change. Moments later the doorbell rang again. “Room service,” someone called.

  When Ali opened the door, a uniformed waiter stood outside, resting a meal tray on his shoulder. “May I come in?”

  Still holding the dog, Ali stepped aside. “Certainly.”

  The waiter deposited the tray on the desk. On it was a single plate covered by a stainless-steel cloche, the kind of thing servers usually whip off plates in fine dining establishments. “Would you like me to serve this?” he asked, handing her a pen and then holding the bill folder open so she could sign the check without having to relinquish the dog. She scribbled her signature and room number and added a generous tip.

  “No, thank you,” she said. “We’ll manage.”

  B. came out of the combination bathroom and dressing room, showered, shaved, and dressed for dinner, complete with a suit and tie.

  “What was that?”

  “The dog’s dinner arrived,” Ali said. “I guess it’s up to you to serve it.”

  When B. uncovered the meat patty, he found that it had been grilled perfectly, medium rare. Like the bed and the dishes, the patty appeared to be much too big for such a tiny dog. Wielding a knife and fork, B. cut the meat into minute pieces. Rather than putting the small portion of food into the immense food bowl, B. went into the bathroom and returned with a small stainless-steel soap dish.

  “This is a little closer to her size,” he said.

  After B. placed the makeshift dog dish on the mat, Ali carefully put the dog down in front of the food. She sniffed at the meat with arch disdain. Then, turning up her nose and without eating even a morsel, she stepped over to the water dish and lapped up a little.

  “Whatever she’s used to eating,” Ali surmised, “this obviously isn’t it.”

  The dog went over to the dog bed and gave it a sniff or two as well. Then, turning her back on that, she walked over to the king-size bed. The mattress was high enough from the floor that it should have been completely beyond her reach, but it wasn’t. From a four-footed standing start she leaped up onto the bed with a practiced grace. Once there, she made her way to the head of the bed, where she immediately burrowed under the pillows and disappeared from sight.

  Ali and B. stared at the spot where the dog had vanished, then looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “Evidently dog beds aren’t her thing, either,” Ali observed when the giggles finally subsided. “If she stays overnight, it may turn out that you and the dog get the foldout bed and I get the real one.”

  B. nodded. “I suppose that’s only fair.”

  The doorbell rang again. Ali felt as though it hadn’t stopped ringing since she stepped out of the tub. When she opened the door, a slender, silver-haired, seventysomething woman stood in the hallway, holding a PetSmart bag along with a purse that was large enough to hold the dog. “I’m Mrs. Hasti
ngs,” she announced. “The pet sitter.”

  By then it was time for B. and Ali to head downstairs. Like parents dealing with a new babysitter, they showed Mrs. Hastings where the dog had disappeared and then quickly brought her up to date on as much as they knew about the animal.

  “What do you call her?” Mrs. Hastings asked.

  “We don’t call her anything, because we don’t know her name,” Ali said. “We’re still trying to find her owner.”

  “That’s probably wise,” Mrs. Hastings replied. “Once you name them, they’re as good as yours.”

  Ali didn’t want to think about that. “Sorry,” she said. “We’ve got to run.”

  Their dinner reservation was in the steakhouse. The table had originally been set for twelve, but the number was reduced to eleven when Stuart Ramey called down to say he wasn’t feeling up to joining them in the dining room.

  “What if he bails on the ceremony tomorrow?” Ali asked B. under her breath. “We’ll end up stuck with a ceremony and no music.”

  “Stu will be there,” B. assured her. “Don’t worry.”

  For a wedding rehearsal dinner, this was a very subdued affair. The required speeches by both the best man and matron of honor were brief and to the point. B. proposed a toast to his parents, both deceased, saying that he wished they had lived long enough to have a chance to meet Ali. Bob Larson spoke about welcoming a new son to the family, and Colin stood up with his Shirley Temple in hand and said he was really happy to have a new grandpa.

  The rest of the time, however, the main topic of conversation was the dog. If Athena had been upset about her son’s having dashed into traffic to save the dog, she seemed to have recovered.

  “My grandmother has a little dachshund like that,” she said. “Her name is Princess. She’s probably about the same color, reddish-brown, and she’s spoiled rotten.”

  “Maybe they’re sisters?” Colin suggested.

  “I doubt that,” his mother told him.

  “What if B. can’t find her real owner, not that awful man who threw her out?” Colleen asked. She was still worried that the dog would end up in the pound. “Can we keep her?”

  “No,” Athena said, shaking her head. “That’s not gonna happen. We’d need a fenced yard.”

  “We could build one,” Colin suggested.

  Athena looked at him and shook her head again. “That won’t happen, either.”

  Colleen then turned her plaintive gaze on her great-grandparents. Bob Larson was the one who answered. “No can do, pumpkin,” he said. “Grandma and I take too many cruises.”

  Colleen wasn’t about to give up. She turned to Ali next. “You have a fenced yard,” she said triumphantly, as though the fence alone meant the matter was settled.

  “The problem with that is Grandma doesn’t want a dog,” Ali replied. “And I most especially don’t want a dog on my honeymoon.”

  “What’s a honeymoon?” Colin asked.

  Thinking that discussing the dog might have been a better bet, Ali let B. take a stab at answering. “It’s something that happens after weddings,” B. explained. “It’s when the bride and groom go off and spend some time by themselves without anyone else along.”

  “But the dog could go, too,” Colleen insisted. “She wouldn’t be any bother, would she? Uncle Leland could watch her.”

  Knowing they had at least two pressing errands to run after dinner, Ali and B. went light on the champagne toasts and passed on having wine. Because Colin and Colleen would be in attendance and maybe running out of steam, Ali had booked the earliest possible dinner reservation.

  It was only a little past eight thirty when B. and Ali went back upstairs to their room and discovered that a plastic sign with the words PET IN ROOM had been hung on the door handle along with one that said DO NOT DISTURB. Inside they found Mrs. Hastings seated on the couch with the dog in her lap, sleeping again. The animal looked up groggily when they entered. Then, exhibiting a distinct lack of interest, she immediately resumed her former position.

  “Poor little thing,” Mrs. Hastings said, patting her on the head. “She’s completely worn out. She’s barely moved a muscle.”

  “So how was it?” B. asked, sounding very much like an anxious parent grilling a babysitter.

  “Well, I’ve succeeded in breaking the code on a few things about her,” Mrs. Hastings answered. “She’s definitely spoiled and much prefers being hand-fed to eating out of a dish. Once I figured that out, she ate her helping of hamburger like it was going out of style. I tried her on some of the kibble, but she turned up her nose at that, most likely because of her teeth.”

  “What about her teeth?”

  “Didn’t you notice how bad her breath is? Her teeth and gums are in terrible shape. She’ll probably need to have some of them pulled. By the way,” Mrs. Hastings added, “I’m quite sure she’s lived in a multistory building.”

  “Really?” B. asked. “How did you figure that out?”

  “After she ate, I took her for a walk,” the sitter said. “She knows all about riding in elevators. The first time dogs get on elevators and start going up or down, they pretty much go nuts. Not so this one. She understood perfectly. She’s also very well behaved, by the way, and knows all about walking on a leash.

  “When we got to the elevator lobby, she sat down and waited like she already knew that doors would slide open and we’d step inside. On the way up and down, she just sat there, pretty as you please, waiting for the doors to open again. And once we got outside and hit the grass in the dog walking area, there was no fooling around. She did her business right away. By the way, there are more poop bags in the PetSmart bag.”

  “So she knows how to walk on a leash and is house-trained,” Ali said. “But I’m not doing dog-walking duty. I’m here as the bride, not the resident dog walker.”

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Hastings interjected. “Someone mentioned that you’re getting married tomorrow. That’ll make for a busy day. What are your plans for the dog?”

  “Our plan for the dog is to go to a vet tonight, find out if she’s been chipped, and, if so, return her to her owner,” Ali said.

  Mrs. Hastings reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card, which she handed over to B. “Well, if that doesn’t work out, feel free to call me directly. You’ll get a better rate if you take me for the whole day rather than hourly.”

  B. slipped the card into his pocket, then reached for his money clip. Mrs. Hastings waved it aside. “I’m a regular here,” she said. “My charges are simply added to your bill. All right, then. I’ll be going. I left the leash over there on the table by the door. Good luck with that vet. I hope you find her owner.”

  Before venturing back out, both B. and Ali changed into more casual attire. The dog made no objection when B. attached the leash to her tiny red collar. Once he put her down on the floor, she stretched and gave a long, nose-to-tail shake. On their way out the door, B. offered the lead to Ali. She shook her head.

  “Nope,” she said. “This is your deal, not mine.”

  After boarding the elevator, they rode down and made their way through the long corridor that led to the lobby, all without incident. The dog trotted obediently beside B. as though that had always been her rightful place. It was only when the doorman opened the lobby door to let them out into the driveway that things went wrong. Several people were gathered on the curb outside, waiting for their respective vehicles to emerge from the garage. One of them, a portly gentleman in a double-breasted suit, was smoking a cigar with one hand and leaning on a cane with the other. As B. began to lead the dog past him, the dog emitted a surprisingly serious growl deep in her throat and then lunged for the guy’s ankles.

  B. was able to haul her back before any damage was done, but the man was clearly offended. “Hey, that’s a vicious little dog you’ve got there,” he shouted after B. and
Ali as they walked swiftly toward B.’s rented Caddy. “You ought to keep a muzzle on that ratty little monster.”

  Opening the back passenger door, B. shoved the dog inside and shut the door behind her. By the time Ali opened her door and climbed in, the dog had jumped up on the center console. Then, before Ali could fasten her seat belt, the dog darted into her lap, shivering again as though the very idea of being in a vehicle was enough to petrify her.

  “She’s shaking again,” Ali reported to B. when he climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “I don’t blame her,” he said. “We already know that at least one car ride she took today didn’t end very well.”

  Holding the tiny trembling dog and trying to comfort her, Ali saw the scene at the Palazzo’s valet stand from a new perspective. The little animal, suddenly thrust out alone in a huge world complete with looming buildings and rushing cars, must have been utterly terrified. Much as Ali didn’t want to spend her wedding weekend dealing with a stray-dog problem, she couldn’t help but be proud of Colin, who had somehow, against all odds, managed to corral the petrified creature and save her from certain death.

  Once B. had keyed the veterinary clinic’s address into the GPS, they set off. Ali discovered that nighttime traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard was nothing short of astonishing. They inched along in gridlock fashion until they were able to turn off on Sahara. When they located the clinic, it turned out to be a modest one-story stand-alone building with a parking lot full of vehicles. The ride there had taken more than twenty minutes, but the dog was still shivering.

  “Since we don’t know how she’ll react in a roomful of animals, I’d probably better carry her inside,” B. said, and Ali was happy to hand her over.

  Walking into the vet’s reception area reminded Ali of stepping into the ER waiting room of any hospital on the planet. A dozen concerned people were seated on chairs scattered around the room, accompanied by their ailing or injured pets. Spotting a huge German shepherd wearing a pinch collar around his neck and a bloody towel wrapped around one paw, Ali decided B.’s idea of holding their charge was 100 percent correct.