It made Gage curious about the will. He'd thought leaving it unopened would make it likelier that the will would hold up in court, especially with Ron as his witness, but now he really wanted to know if Lady Luck was mentioned.
"I need a favor," Gage said.
"Huh," Ron said.
"I need you to leave me alone in the apartment for a few minutes."
"Huh."
"I can't quite tell the difference between your various huhs. Is that a yes?"
"Why?"
"Let's just say I need to use the facilities and I'm a shy person."
"Right."
"Or we could say that I want to make sure you don't see something so you can't say you saw something if somebody asks you what you saw."
Ron nodded. "Plausible deniability."
"Yes. I could have just said that, I guess."
"I do read," Ron said.
"Of course you do."
"Will this help Ed?"
"It may."
Ron nodded and left. He didn't even look at Gage as he closed the door. Not a man for big goodbyes, apparently. Gage retrieved the will from the bookcase. He searched the drawers in the kitchen until he found some blank envelopes, ones that matched the envelope the will was inside. He found a blue ballpoint pen in the same drawer.
Then he opened the sealed envelope. He pulled out a typewritten single sheet of paper, holding it by the very corner, careful not to get his fingerprints on it. Using his sleeves and not his hands, he pushed out the folded edges so he could read it.
The will was one page, typewritten, signed and dated six months earlier. There was no mention of Lady, or any other pet. It was just as Ed had said in his letter: he'd named Nora West the executor.
Just like Ed's letter, most of the lowercase t's were chopped off at the top, so it was obviously from the same typewriter. Gage made a mental note to find out where Ed had typed the will. A friend's? A copy shop? The library? Six months earlier … Well, that would explain why the dog wasn't mentioned. If Ron was correct, Ed didn't have the dog then. There were also fewer spelling errors and other typos, which also made sense. Ed must have had more of his faculties intact then.
Still, it didn't answer the most nagging question: why hadn't Ed mentioned the dog to Nora?
Chapter 9
Once Gage had carefully put the will in the new envelope, he sealed it, wrote "My Will, Ed Boone" in as close to the original handwriting as possible, and put it back where he'd found it on the shelf. He stuffed the old envelope in his pocket and made one more pass of the apartment. He came up empty, but when he was in the bathroom again he looked at Ed Boone's hairbrush, a wooden brush with black plastic bristles, and an idea occurred to him. He took the brush, slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket, and headed for the door.
Outside, he found Ron sitting in the passenger seat of his van.
All right, strange. What, the guy wanted a lift to the mall? The van had never felt small to Gage, but the way Ron filled the front window made Gage think of one of those tiny clown cars.
The sun was not visible, but the sky had gone from gunmetal gray to dishrag dirty white. No traces of the early morning fog remained, but the air still felt thick, pushing against his face like wet cotton. The Douglas firs that separated the apartment complex from the forest were a vibrant, shimmering green. He took the steps slowly with his cane, trying to decide how he was going to break it to Ron that, despite the mustard-yellow color of his Volkswagen, he wasn't a taxi service.
It wasn't until he actually opened the driver's-side door that he saw the dog on Ron's lap.
"Oh no," Gage said.
The tiny black-and-white dog perked up its pointed ears. Gage's canine expertise ranked only slightly higher than his feline expertise—which was to say, not much expertise at all—but he did know this particular breed because he'd once had a client with three of them. A Boston Terrier. Though the three Boston Terriers of his client, which he'd been told repeatedly by their rich, artsy owner were certified purebreds, were enormous compared to the runt in his van.
It could hardly be called a dog, really, more of a giant rat, and not even all that giant if placed in a lineup with some of the rats he'd seen in New York. Compact and muscular, with a snout so flat it looked like it had just smashed into a brick wall, the dog blinked up at him with big, glassy eyes, eyes much too big for its little face. Most of its dense fur was black, except for its snout and its belly, which were white.
"This is Lady," Ron said.
"I gathered."
"I want you to take her."
"I was afraid you'd say that."
"I like the dog. It just doesn't get along with my cat."
"I could take the cat instead."
"No."
"I like cats. I'm more of a cat person."
"No."
Gage stood there with the door open, afraid that getting into the van might seal some unspoken compact to accept the dog. A breeze stirred the tops of the fir trees. Somewhere around the corner, a baby started crying. Gage felt a connection. The idea of taking the dog—any dog, not just this little runt of a dog—made him want to cry too. His mind stumbled through a dozen excuses not to take the dog, most of them untrue, and even the ones that were true were pretty lame (the dog's colors wouldn't match his decor, for instance), but before he could settle on one, Ron got out of the van. He left Lady in the passenger seat. All Gage could do was watch helplessly.
"You have to take her," Ron said.
"It's not a good idea."
"You have to. There's nobody else."
"You don't have friends or family who might—"
"No."
"How about the Humane Society? Or the pound?"
Ron's eyes narrowed, his face darkening. "Ed loved this dog."
"But—"
"Ed loved this dog," Ron repeated. There was no threat in his voice, but there was an undertone of anger that matched his scowl. "Her things are in a box in the back. Dog food, bowl, a sleeping bed. A couple of toys. She didn't have much."
"Kind of like Ed," Gage said.
Ron nodded. Gage still hadn't gotten in the van. He was still holding out hope that Ron would change his mind, or that there would be a divine intervention.
"You get done in there what you wanted to get done?" Ron asked.
"Yeah, but if you think of anything else I should know about him—"
"I didn't know him that well."
"I know, but if you do—"
"I won't."
"Okay."
"I told you everything."
"Sure."
"There wasn't much else. He lived a quiet life."
"All right. I appreciate your help."
Ron tapped the window on the passenger side with the flat of his hand, and Lady looked at him, ears perking up again. Ron matched her, tilting his head at just the same angle, then turned abruptly and walked away. He loped, shoulders hunched, arms swinging, reminding Gage of the grainy videos of Bigfoot.
He looked at Lady. Lady looked back at him. When he couldn't prolong the moment any longer, Gage got in the van. The two of them regarded each other in the confined space, sizing each other up, the resignation Gage saw in Lady's eyes surely matching his own.
"Don't worry," he said, "you won't be stuck with me for long."
* * *
"No," Alex said.
Gage had barely gotten the question out of his mouth when Alex was already firing his reply back with all the force of a slugger pounding a baseball that had floated dead center over the plate.
Too late now, Gage realized he probably should have waited at least until the front door to Books and Oddities had closed before asking if Alex would be interested in taking home a very cute Boston Terrier that just happened to be in Gage's van at that very moment. In his eagerness—or perhaps his despair—he hadn't been able to help himself, babbling a hello and a "how are you" and the question all in one fervent rush. He could have been offering a brand-new Corv
ette and the answer probably would have been the same. It was hard to accept anything from someone who sounded so desperate.
The bells over the door still rang in the air, the breeze stirring the bookmarks hanging on the rack on the edge of the glass counter. Alex, hunched on his stool and pricing a stack of paperbacks, hadn't even turned to look at him. A snowy-haired old lady out in the stacks did look at him, clutching her green plastic basket already half filled with books a little closer.
"But I even brought you donuts," Gage said, holding up the white bag.
Alex turned, his eyes, behind his glasses, registering both surprise and suspicion. "Chocolate with sprinkles?"
"So fresh you can smell the goodness."
"Mmm. I appreciate that very much. But I still won't take the dog."
"But you haven't heard anything about her yet."
"Alas, it doesn't matter. I can't take a dog regardless of its character, breed, or history."
"You told me you loved dogs. You said you always had them around growing up."
Alex slid off the stool and sauntered over to the bag, digging out one of the donuts. He held it up, inspecting it like a jeweler examining a diamond before taking a healthy bite of it. "Both are true," he said, after swallowing. "However, as much as it pains me, and as much as it pained my daughters when they were living with us, dog ownership is not in the cards for our particular family. Eve, you see, is deathly afraid of them."
"Oh, she wouldn't be afraid of Lady. She's tiny."
"I once saw my wife flee in hysterical terror from a miniature poodle about the size of my slipper."
"Seriously? You're not just making this up?"
"Afraid not." He leaned past Gage, peering out the window at the van. "Huh. She's cute, though. How'd you end up with her?"
While Alex finished his donut, Gage explained not only how he'd ended up with this particular Boston Terrier, but also, in a whisper, how this dog wasn't mentioned in either Ed's letter or his will.
"One question," Alex said. "Did you ever actually say no to Ron?"
"Of course I did."
"You actually said the word?"
"Well, maybe not the actual word."
"Uh huh."
"But I definitely made it clear that I wasn't interested."
"Mmm."
"Okay," Gage said, "you're getting that tone again. The smarmy tone of the psychiatrist who's about to reveal to me all of my hidden secrets."
"All I'm saying is maybe on some level you wanted the dog."
"What?"
"Zoe is gone. The nest is empty."
"You're being ridiculous."
"Am I?"
"Yes. And you've got sprinkles all over your mustache. That makes you look even sillier."
Alex, his smile so self-satisfied and smug that Gage was tempted to crack him upside the head with his cane, dug into his second donut. Gage stewed in his indignation, but was having a hard time keeping up the front. Was Alex right? As he pondered this, the snowy-haired old lady brought her books to the counter—a mixture of romances and mysteries, from the looks of it, much the same that was on the counter. Alex wiped his face with the napkin in the bag, told her what her credit for the traded books was, and rang the difference up in the cash register. She handed Alex her credit card, then turned and smiled at Gage.
"I heard you talking about the dog," she said.
"Oh?"
"I like Boston Terriers. I had one years ago."
"Oh yeah?"
"I might be interested in taking her."
"No," Gage said, surprising himself.
"Excuse me?"
"I don't even know you."
"Oh."
"No offense. I'm sure you're a nice person."
"I am. I am a nice person." She seemed beside herself. "I'm nice to dogs. I'm nice to everyone."
"I'm sure you are. But I just can't give this dog to anyone."
"Oh. Well, you could come over to my house if it would make you—"
"No."
"No?"
"No," Gage said flatly. "It's just that I'm … No. We should just leave it at that."
The woman appeared too stunned to speak, staring at Gage in stricken silence. She even smelled like freshly baked cookies, which made Gage feel all the worse. Alex placed her books in a flowery bag with the words Readers Are the Best Kind of People in a heartwarming design on the side, and handed them to her. She fled the store without a glance at either of them.
"Now, see, you didn't have to do that," Alex said.
"Do what?"
"You know. Be you."
"I was just being honest."
"Uh huh. And you still don't think you want the dog?"
"I just didn't want the dog to go to her."
"Yes. Those rosy cheeks. All that white hair. She did seem quite … unsavory."
"Mock me all you want, but I will make sure this dog gets a good home."
"Like a lonely widower who lives by himself?"
"Exa— Hey, now."
"So what's your next move on filling in the life story of one Ed Boone? We can speak frankly now. There's no one else in the store but us."
Gage, tabling the dog discussion despite his frustration, caught Alex up on the rest of what he'd learned, both from his visit to Ed's apartment and from talking to people at the diner. Alex got him a coffee in a Harry Potter mug—strong, with just a touch of Irish creamer, just the way he liked it. It placated Gage somewhat. He may have been stuck with a dog, but at least he had a friend who knew how he liked his coffee.
"I've also got a favor to ask," Gage said. He took the hairbrush out of his pocket and placed it on the counter.
"Thanks," Alex said, "but I don't have a whole lot of hair left to make use of it."
"It belonged to Ed Boone."
"Ah."
"You've probably guessed the favor."
"You want me to use my elaborate network of former colleagues in the FBI to somehow get a DNA test of a sample of Mr. Boone's hair."
"Exactly."
"I'll need a sample of Nora's hair, too."
"So you'll do it?"
Alex sighed. "Only because I like Ms. West quite a bit. Let me get something to put it in."
While Alex retrieved a clear plastic bag from under the counter, Gage thought about telling him about the man he'd seen in the trees the previous night, but decided to pass. Alex worried about him too much as it was, and Gage was still too uncertain about the whole thing. Both of them sat there sipping their coffee. Outside, the gravel parking lot was mostly empty, half the open signs still off, par for the course for ten a.m. on a Monday after Labor Day. A motorcycle roared past the Horseshoe Mall on Highway 101, not more than fifty yards away. Otherwise, the store was so quiet Gage could hear the ticking of the overhead fluorescent lights.
"The library, his doctor, the Heceta Head staff," Alex said. "You've got some choices. This waitress he used to sometimes drive home, you said she had a son?"
"Yeah, Howie. Still lives in town, from what I heard."
"Sounds like Ed and his mom were at least friends, maybe more. The kid might know something."
"Worth a shot, I guess."
"You don't sound all that excited."
"It's the dog not being mentioned in the letter," Gage said. "It's really nagging me. I understand if he wrote the will before he got the dog, but what about the letter? He'd said nothing else he had was worth anything."
Alex shrugged. "Maybe your mountain man was wrong about how much Ed cared about it. Or maybe Ed was just too out of his mind to think clearly about who was going to end up with his dog. You've been assuming that his suicide was premeditated, but maybe it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. It would explain why he just left the dog in the apartment. When he left, he was planning on coming back."
"Maybe. They did find a suicide note on him. I haven't read it yet—I imagine it's with the Florence police—but it was at least premeditated enough that he wrote a note before jumping."
"It'd be good to see that note."
Gage nodded. "Might explain his state of mind a little bit better. I'm not quite ready to drive to Florence yet, though. But there's someone in town who might be able to get me a scan of it. I need to talk to him, anyway."
"Who's that?"
"I'll tell you if you agree to take the dog."
"Nice try."
"All right, then you'll just have to wait in suspense like everyone else."
"It's going to be like that, then?"
"Yes," Gage said, "it is."
Chapter 10
Ten minutes later, Gage parked his van outside a gray one-story building on the far side of Big Dipper Lake that looked more like an inflated manufactured home than the Barnacle Bluffs police station. The place hardly seemed big enough to contain all the people who'd parked the dozen cars out front, some cruisers, most not, but in his visits inside—far too many the past few years for his liking—the station was much larger than it seemed.
The grounds were nicely kept, with bark dust so fresh it hadn't yet lost its reddish hue, a large rectangular swath of grass as well tended as the finest golf courses, and rhododendron bushes trimmed to a uniform perfection, as if the police were well aware of the unimpressive appearance of their station and were trying to make up for it with top-notch landscaping. The spruces and oaks behind the building blocked all but a hint of the blue expanse of lake.
Gage got out with his cane. His knee was holding up all right, and he hated to take it with him when surrounded by so much machismo, but he'd learned his lesson from one unfortunate incident a few year earlier—stumbling through the front door like a drunk idiot—and he wasn't willing to chance it.
On the passenger seat, Lady stood on all fours and looked at him expectantly. She'd been so quiet this whole time, not a bark, not a peep, nothing at all, that he'd begun to wonder if she was mute.
"You sit tight," Gage said. "Hopefully this won't take long."
Lady produced her first sound since he'd met her: a brief but unmistakable whine.
"What?" Gage said.
The dog looked past him. Following her gaze, Gage saw only the big rectangle of grass in front of the building.
"Ah," he said. "Got to do your business, huh?"
A Lighthouse for the Lonely Heart: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 5) Page 10
