by Nina Wright
My recidivist dog. Also, the bitch had a libido that didn’t quit. While I believed that Norman the Golden was her one true love, Abra had been known to hump the nearest hunky hound. “Love the One You’re With.” If she had a theme song, that was it.
My love life should be so active. God help me, that’s what I was thinking when I happened to glimpse the rent application in my inbox, further proof that Odette was very, very good at what she did. Nash Grant had barely walked away from his lease before she’d lined up my ex-husband as sub-lessor. Jeb Halloran had paper-clipped a folded note to his rent application. Damn. Just seeing my name in his handwriting still thrilled me, a little. I looked away. I looked back. I looked away again. Then I gave up and unclipped the note.
How about catching the new act at the Holiday Inn tomorrow night? Drinks are on the singer. He misses you.
The truth was I missed him, too. Jeb and I knew how to have fun together. We also knew how to fight. While we were married, we’d done more of the latter than the former, which is why we weren’t married anymore. But he’d been a good bud since Leo died, letting me know I could count on him. The last time we talked, he’d claimed he still enjoyed life on the road—the thrill of singing and selling his tunes wherever he could find an audience. It was un-Jeb-like for him to rent a house and settle down, if only for the duration of Nash Grant’s lease. Was the open-ended gig at the Holiday Inn up the highway a coincidence? Or was Jeb growing tired of the gypsy life? Did he want to be part of my life?
I signed my name as landlord on his app, put the form in my outbox, and slipped his note in my purse. Who knew what tomorrow night might bring? Maybe I’d be in the mood for Oldies but Goodies.
Chapter Seven
In the meantime I had another tenant to think about. I opened Twyla Rendel’s file. As good landlords know, a well-written, enforceable lease agreement is the key to successful—i.e., profitable—property management. And peace of mind. Leo had taught me what to stipulate, including how many people can occupy the unit—the exact number of adults and kids. Twyla’s lease stipulated a maximum of four occupants, no more than two adults and two children. It also made clear that no one on the premises could violate city codes, including overcrowding. Since Twyla wasn’t the first tenant to claim she had “visitors,” I had included a provision limiting houseguests, as well. Maximum number: two—one adult and one child. The lease also stated that anyone in violation of the stipulated rules and regulations could be banned from the premises. This savvy landlord had spelled out how to give notice: I need only tape a message to the door.
Of course, errant tenants rarely reform overnight. In the worst cases, eviction becomes necessary. Thus landlords must document the violation(s) in preparation for filing the proper papers in court. I shuddered at the prospect of stepping into that sticky, time-consuming arena. Never mind that I had recently slept with the local judge. Eviction was a messy business. Emotional, too. And I, for one, believed in stuffing as many strong feelings as possible. No way I wanted to evict fragile-looking Twyla Rendel and her kids, however many were actually hers.
I had just typed up an official warning to post on Twyla’s door when Jenx called on the line that rings straight through to my desk.
“Nine,” Jenx said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I just got nine kids out of the street in front of Twyla’s house, and none of ‘em looked older than four. They didn’t want to talk to me, either.”
“Nine kids? Please tell me most of them belong to the neighbors.”
“Wish I could,” Jenx said. “Nobody around here has ever seen ‘em before. Plus, she’s got two infants in the house. Family emergency, Twyla says.”
“No way her sister could have that many kids under five.”
“Twyla told me she has three sisters, and they were all seriously hurt yesterday in a car crash,” Jenx said. “They got nobody to take care of their kids, so she’s stepping up to the plate.”
“Last week she had no family at all.” I exclaimed. “Suddenly she’s related to the Brady Bunch? Why did she tell me a different story?”
“Dunno. I explained that the children were not adequately supervised, and the rental unit isn’t zoned for high occupancy. Then I gave her a warning, told her she had forty-eight hours to make other arrangements or I’d call Social Services. I also reminded her she was in violation of her lease and could be evicted.”
“How’d she react?” I said.
“Contrite—and flustered. She had trouble making eye contact. My take? Something else is going on over there.”
“You think she’s running a daycare? Or selling something, like her body…or drugs?”
Jenx didn’t know.
“What about her job at Food Duck?” I asked. “I verified her employment before I rented to her. But she can’t be going to work as a cashier and leaving a dozen kids at her house.”
“Well, she could,” Jenx said. “I’ve seen it happen. Twyla claims she took a leave from Food Duck for the duration of her family crisis. You want to check it out?”
That’s how the Magnet Springs P.D. usually conducted investigations: by commissioning volunteer “deputies” like me. Jenx’s official staff consisted of one full-time canine officer and one part-time human officer. The canine was better trained although the human was in grad school. Officer Roscoe, a purebred German shepherd, had been rigorously educated by the Michigan State Police. Officer Swancott, a charming twenty-some-year-old, was earning his master’s degree in Art History—mostly online from home where he babysat his son while his wife made real money.
I agreed to call Food Duck and find out Twyla’s employment status. Jenx said my tenant had been vague about the location of her sisters’ car accident. The chief was going to run a check on that. She would also talk to Yolanda and at least one other neighbor about what they’d seen on Amity Avenue.
“In the meantime, I’d advise you to do what smart landlords do: give her official notice that she’s in violation of her lease.”
If I was a smart landlord, I probably wouldn’t have rented to Twyla Rendel; I almost never let my heart get in the way of my brain. I’d taken her for a sweet single mom who needed a break, a good kid with two kids trying to play by the rules. Maybe that was her story, but it now seemed unlikely.
Leo wouldn’t have let me kick myself for long. He used to say, “The world will smack you upside the head when you need a correction. Your job is to dust yourself off and do better next time.”
With that in mind, I called the manager at Food Duck. He said Twyla had failed to show up for her last two shifts and no longer worked there.
Maybe I’d been a fool. Maybe I’d encountered a girl who was damn good at her job, which didn’t include operating a cash register. By now I was wondering if Twyla’s best talent was play-acting.
By five o’clock, I had pushed around a few papers, reviewed my calendar, and decided I’d have just enough time to post Twyla’s notice on my way home to Vestige. I planned to change clothes before dinner with Fenton. My briefcase was full, and my heart was hopeful.
Before I could leave my office, in walked David Newquist, DVM. If I hadn’t known him on sight, I would have needed only to read his shirt. Bright yellow, like his Animal Ambulance, it proclaimed more or less the same thing:
MAGNET SPRINGS VET CLINIC
YOUR PET’S A PERSON, TOO
His name was stitched in tasteful cursive on his right sleeve.
“Hewwo, Whiskey,” he said. Dr. David was a balding, slightly paunchy man with sparkling turquoise eyes and a noticeable speech impediment. Noticeable to humans, that is. His animal patients paid it no mind at all. They adored him unconditionally, as he did them. Dr. David saved his smiles for his animals—and, presumably, for his girlfriend, Deely Smarr. Around the rest of us humans, the good vet had no sense of humor. Also, very limited social skills.
For example, when I asked—for the sake of politeness only—if he’d enjoyed the Flegge
rs conference in Amsterdam, Dr. David assumed I actually cared. He went on and on about anti-speciesist legislation in the Netherlands and other enlightened nations. I finally had to interrupt and ask if he had a reason for coming to my office.
“Yes. It’s about your dog,” he said. “Your second dog.”
“I’m still having trouble accepting that I have a first dog,” I said.
Over the past year, I had mightily resisted the notion that I was legally responsible for Abra. “My dog” was not a phrase that would ever roll trippingly off my tongue. The plural form of the noun was unthinkable. And yet here was Dr. David, making an office call expressly to discuss my second dog.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.
“Patella luxation,” Dr. David replied.
“What’s that?”
“The dog has dislocated knees.”
“All four of them?”
“Two,” Dr. David said. “Very painful. I feel for the little guy. I got bad knees myself.”
“What causes it?”
“I’m afraid it’s genetic. Some toy breeds have very weak joints, especially knees and elbows.”
“Knees and elbows?” I tried to picture the difference in a dog.
“Layman’s terms,” Dr. David said.
“Is patella luxation expensive?”
“Depends on how well he responds to treatment. Surgery is always the last resort.”
Last night the tiny dog had seemed a small price to pay for the privilege of selling Cassina’s cottage—and insuring myself against a lawsuit in case Chester’s mom got nasty about my having almost let him drown. Tonight the shitzapoo looked like less of a bargain. And I wasn’t thinking in terms of medical costs alone. Velcro’s nerve-grating whine permeated my office. Dr. David had parked him in the hallway, where he was producing unearthly sounds.
“He has amazing lung power,” I said, speaking loudly enough to make myself heard. “And he hits such high notes.”
“You don’t own fine crystal, do you?” Dr. David asked. “Some of these small dogs have voices that can shatter glass.”
Forget glass. Velcro was shattering my peace of mind. “Is he crying because he’s in pain?”
“Probably not,” the vet replied. “I’ve treated the pain. I assume he’s crying because he’s anxious. Another chronic issue in some toy breeds.”
“But he’s not a purebred,” I pointed out. “Aren’t mixed breeds supposed to be stronger and more stable?”
“Sometimes. And sometimes they take on the worst of both breeds.”
Lucky me. I had taken on a dog who shat a lot, yapped a lot, and had bad joints as well as an anxiety disorder.
Shouting over Velcro’s nonstop yips, Dr. David instructed me to keep the dog quiet.
I had only one question: “How? Please?”
He assured me that Deely would know what to do. Ah, yes. Deely. Thankfully the Coast Guard nanny was back on duty at Vestige. I could trust this creature—along with Abra, Avery, and the twins—to her capable care. The woman worked miracles with species I didn’t care to contemplate. Including my own.
* * *
I don’t recommend cranking a car radio up to maximum volume, but that was the only way I could drown out Velcro’s howl. My ears ached, my sinuses hummed, my jaw throbbed. Music could not soothe the savage beast in my backseat. Or could it?
Although I didn’t own a copy of his new Fleggers-produced Animal Lullabies CD, I did have several Jeb Halloran albums handy. The first one I grabbed was from his short, doomed stint as a blues singer. CD title: A Humble White Man from Michigan Sings Songs from the Delta. That one had gone straight to remainder bins. But I was desperate enough to play it now. Seconds after inserting the disk, Velcro’s cries were joined by my ex-husband’s cover of John Shines’ classic “Cool Driver.”
The song didn’t suit Jeb at all. But damn if his voice didn’t lower Velcro’s volume. Dramatically. By the second chorus, the shitzapoo’s wail had faded to a whimper. By the song’s final bars, Velcro was snoring. And I was silently vowing to buy copies of Jeb’s new lullaby CD for every dog owner I knew.
Chapter Eight
When I pulled into the driveway at 254 Amity Avenue, what I noticed first wasn’t Twyla’s house. It was the duplex next door. My newly acquired and renovated property, which shared a driveway with Twyla’s rental, now boasted a broken window. On the driveway side of the house.
Twyla’s car wasn’t in the driveway, but it could have been in her closed garage. I left my car running so that Jeb’s frankly awful blues would keep soothing Velcro.
The broken window was in the side door. To enter, I had only to reach through the jagged pane and turn the knob. That wasn’t the main issue. On the floor inside I found shattered glass—and a chunk of broken concrete. It appeared to be the very one that Twyla’s charmless houseguest had hefted at my car. I picked it up and walked around to her front door, where I rang the bell. There was no sign, visual or aural, of any occupants.
As usual, Yolanda was in place on her porch across the street. While I waited for Twyla to respond to the door chime, Yolanda and I exchanged waves. After a minute I realized that she was waving for me to come over. First, I taped copies of the official Notice of Lease Violation to Twyla’s front and back doors.
“She in there,” Yolanda said. “But somebody come about a half-hour ago. He took a few kids.”
“Was it one of the men you’ve seen before?”
“Those men come at night. I couldn’t see ‘em too good. This man, he look Hispanic to me.”
At least four of the kids I’d seen that afternoon could have been Hispanic. What was the connection? Or was there one? Part of me still wanted to give Twyla the benefit of the doubt.
“Maybe she called one of her brothers-in-law.”
Yolanda gave me a look that implied my brain was made of cheese.
“Okay,” I conceded. “If the guy you saw isn’t the father of some of those kids, then who could he be?”
Yolanda wouldn’t play my guessing game. But I kept trying. “Maybe he’s Twyla’s boyfriend. Or cousin. And he’s helping out.”
“Or her pimp. That be more likely,” Yolanda said. “That girl got troubles, for sure. I saw you taping up the notice. You gonna evict her?”
“Only if I have to,” I said.
Then I realized that Yolanda would have witnessed the window-breaking. So I asked what she’d seen. It was just what I’d suspected—and almost certainly the same kid who’d gotten my attention earlier.
“They was playing,” Yolanda said. “Biggest kid run over to the yard next door. Pick something up and throw it. You know boys and rocks. He bust that window, and all the kids run.” She shook her head, laughing. “Boys will be boys, Miz Mattimoe. My own boys busted a few windows, too, while they was growing up.”
Suddenly I felt more responsible than victimized. After all, I had supplied Twyla’s kids with the “rock.” Excusing myself, I phoned Roy Vickers about the window damage. He promised to nail up a temporary cover tonight and replace the pane tomorrow. I’d once had serious misgivings about Roy; maybe I shouldn’t prejudge Twyla, either. Yes, she had violated the terms of her lease. And, yes, her situation looked fishy. But she could be as earnest and innocent as my handyman.
I thanked Yolanda for her help, declined a glass of her famous sweet tea, and re-crossed the street to my car. By now I had little more than an hour to get home, get dressed for dinner and get back to town to meet Fenton. I held my breath and cautiously opened the driver’s side door. Jeb’s voice was singing Furry Lewis’ hit “I Will Turn Your Money Green.” And Velcro’s voice was silent. Halleluiah.
I was about to shift into reverse when someone tapped on the passenger-side window. Fortunately, the knock was light enough not to disturb Velcro. Twyla peered in at me.
I eased my way out of the car again. Joining Twyla on her side of the vehicle, I waited for her to speak first. Her eyes were red, and her face was blotchy. She
wiped her leaky nose with the back of a chapped hand.
“Mrs. Mattimoe, I . . . just want to tell you I’m sorry. I’m doing my best to get things back the way they were. Please don’t evict us.”
She sniffed loudly but still didn’t meet my gaze. I looked where she was looking, at her feet. Her toenails had once been painted bright red. Now the enamel was mostly chipped away. She wore cheap pink rubber flip-flops that couldn’t have much tread left. Her jean shorts were frayed, and her yellow halter top had baby spit-up on it. Twyla’s skinny white legs and arms reminded me of uncooked chicken. If this girl was a whore, she wasn’t selling one bit of glamour.
“Twyla, I’m sorry for your problems, and I hope you can get things under control.” Against my better judgment, I added, “I wish you hadn’t lied to me. I wish you’d told me straight out what was going on.”
Brimming with tears, her eyes met mine. Her thin lips parted as if she was about to speak. Then she must have thought better of it. She turned toward the house. I was getting back in my car when she called out, “I didn’t lie, Mrs. Mattimoe. I just couldn’t tell you everything.“
There were lies of commission and lies of omission. In either case, Twyla’s excuse didn’t compute; I felt compelled to say so. “First you told me you had no family. Then you said your sister was sick, and you were taking care of her kids. Later you told Police Chief Jenkins that your three sisters were in a car accident, and you had to take care of all their kids. That sounds like at least one lie, Twyla. Possibly a whole lot more.”
My voice was harsher than intended, and I regretted that. But dammit, I wasn’t about to be misled again.
“Good luck getting things straightened out,” I said as I opened my car door. What lousy timing. I managed to shout my last comment during the dead air between tracks. In his carrier in the back of my Lexus, Velcro awoke with a start. And a piercing howl.
“What’s that?” cried Twyla, jumping in alarm. Her eyes darted about as if she expected a pack of wild dogs to appear.
