by Katie Hagen
My soliloquy had become a series of mutters as I walked around the room and drank.
With a belly full of pizza and wine I wandered to the guest bedroom and flopped onto the bed.
A few hours later I opened my eyes and searched the moonlit room. Something wasn’t right. My mouth felt like cotton, so I pulled myself out of bed to get a glass of water, cursing the wine and wishing I’d left some pizza behind.
I padded down the hallway until I reached the kitchen and filled another mug with water. It felt cool as it slid down my throat.
From the rear of the house I heard a rattling. My pulse skyrocketed. The noise came in bits and pieces, a shuffling then a scrape, a rattle and a clang.
Barefoot I cracked open the back door and stuck my head outside. Beneath me was a small parking area for employees, a potty yard for the dogs, and the trash cans. I listened and tried to focus my eyes on the darkness.
A loud clang rose up toward me and I closed the door, counted to three then opened it again. Something was rustling around in the cans, I realized, and breathed a sigh of relief. Probably a raccoon or maybe even a deer. The island was full of hungry wildlife but few of them were seriously dangerous. The worst would be a coyote, but they mostly stayed to the woods and fields and didn’t often venture too close to town. Unfortunately, the woods crept right up to the side of Kitty’s so anything was possible.
“Psst!” I whispered. “Knock it off!”
The sound stopped briefly but then I heard a distinct ‘humph’ sound from whatever creature I’d interrupted before the pillaging began again.
I had no intention of cleaning up a trash mess in the morning. Most of those cans were filled with dog hair which meant that I’d be pulling it from the shrubbery for weeks if it got loose. I whined to myself once for good measure and grabbed an umbrella from a little stand by the door.
As I walked down the stairs, I ran the umbrella along the railing, hoping to scare the animal off before I actually made it down.
When I was about at the bottom, I finally saw a flash of greyish black hair dart toward the bushes where a white garbage bag was sitting just at the edge. It was too dark for me to be sure, but it looked like a tall, thin, long-haired dog. For a second, he stood and watched me with a perfect mask of white before disappearing into the brush, dragging the garbage bag along with it.
I sat on the steps and watched the bushes. After a minute I tried to whistle but saw no sign that the animal was coming back.
Shivering, I rounded the corner to where we kept the trash cans and tried to tidy up the slight mess. The dog, if that’s what it was, hadn’t done too much damage. One can was turned over, but the bag left beside it was intact. A smaller bag was torn open and a few cans and wrappers scattered about. I picked up what I saw, including a small, ceramic pig and put them back in the can, making sure that the cord on top was strapped this time.
Then I turned back, unstrapped the can and pulled out the pig. It seemed wasteful to toss it out, so after securing the cans again I took it upstairs with me and set it on the counter before finally passing out on the couch.
The next morning, I checked my phone as I sipped an Americano from the bakery down the street. At least someone in this town had a decent espresso machine.
Nothing. Nothing from my so-called friends in L.A. Nothing from my family either. It seemed that no one was bothered by my first visit in ten years.
To keep myself sane I wandered down the interior stairs of Kitty’s to the salon. At one point the apartment had been a loft but Kitty installed a door and walled up the opening when she bought the place. As soon as I opened the door, memories came flooding back. As much as the apartment felt nostalgic, the shop felt like home.
The Laundromutt would remain closed until the next day. Groomers often worked Saturdays to keep up with the schedules of the clients, so Sundays and Mondays were our weekends.
From the top of the stairs I could see the entire workspace. In the far corner, under what was Kitty’s bedroom sat two galvanized steel tubs resting on yellow wooden boxes to hide the plumbing with shelves built in for storing shampoo. A few feet away were two tables for drying and forced air dryers hung on the wall.
Under the guest bedroom, two grooming tables were set up, one for Beverly and the other was Kitty’s. Shelves clung to walls between them where shears, clippers, and blades all sat amongst cooling sprays, clipper lubricant, perfume, brushes, combs, and toenail clippers.
A half wall with kennels lined against it divided the grooming space from the front lobby.
Through the entire shop the floor was covered in dark blue laminate flooring.
The walls were my favorite. My mother and Kitty worked together to paint giant floral murals across every inch. I could spend hours tracing the edges of those flowers and still after ten years, discover the occasional tiny fairy face poking out of a flower or a butterfly that I hadn’t noticed before.
I wandered to the front lobby and stood behind the long, glass-topped counter. The shelves below it were filled with Kitty’s knick-knacks, collected from years of yard sales and thrift store hunts. Others were gifts from clients. I slid open the cabinet doors and placed the little pig that I’d saved from the trash on a shelf before digging into the stacks of paperwork covering the top of the file cabinet.
Kitty wasn’t a fan of the new digital recording systems, something I would have to change, so for years she kept her records on the backs of post cards. When a card was filled, she would attach a note card on top to continue her record keeping. Some were inches thick. I wondered how many of those clients would still keep their loyalty after Kitty’s passing, and after that awful letter in the paper.
I got busy filing away cards that hadn’t been touched in weeks. Finally, I hit a familiar name, Picklepuss: Perring, Vicki.
I scanned the thick card. Vicki, it seemed, was a regular. Three years of grooming for Picklepuss and five before that for a dog called, Francis Sparkleton. One thing stood out. The first appointment for Picklepuss was set at a much lower price than the following grooms. It wasn’t that the rest of the prices were lowered, it just seemed that the first one was too low for a toy poodle kept in a fluffier haircut. Maybe it was just an intro special, but I hoped Kitty had decided to charge her extra for bad behavior. Due to the owner, of course, not the pup.
As I flipped through the card, a scrap of paper dropped to the floor.
I noticed Kitty’s handwriting right away on the note.
Please refund Vicki Perring with the price of her last groom, again.
‘That old hag,” I whispered. “How many times did you refund her, Kitty, and why did you let her back in? I would have kicked her to the curb a long time ago.”
Kitty always checked off jobs that were done and there was nothing on the note to indicate that Vicki Perring ever got her refund.
“7410 E. Perring Drive,” I read aloud from her card. The address was on one of the upper streets of Glaney on a big hill that overlooked the town. “Well Vicki, it looks like you have something coming to you.”
I grabbed a fifty from the register, and an umbrella, and headed outside.
Chapter 3
After locking the front door to the shop, I took a look at my reflection in the shop windows. A pair of dark blue leggings, a cream button-up blouse and a military style jacket fit what I considered the pacific northwest chic look I was hoping for. To finish the ensemble, I’d bought a pair of cute green wellies from a vintage shop on La Brea before taking this little detour from my life.
I stuffed the fifty and the note where I’d scribbled the address of Vicki Perring in my pocket and stuck my hand out from under the awning to test the rain.
I was about to open the umbrella when I noticed Tom’s blue Chevy parked a few spaces down.
I looked up and down the street, but Tom was nowhere to be seen.
I went first to the back of the building to see if he’d tried to meet me at the apartment but found it to be lock
ed and the parking area empty. Stomping through the puddles I went back to the car and then noticed the note, trapped in a plastic bag on the windshield.
“For as long as you’re here. Tom.” It read.
“No freaking way!” I danced a little where I stood then tried the handle. Sure enough, it was unlocked. I removed the keys from the front seat before climbing in, wondering how long it would have taken the car to be stolen anywhere else.
The Chevy fired up easily and I grinned from ear to ear. After I found the perfect oldies station on the radio, I flipped down the vanity mirror.
“Oh no, no, no. This just won’t do.”
Twenty minutes later I burst through the front door to Kitty’s in a pair of jeans folded at the ankle to show off my red kitten heals, a loose white tank top and a faux leather jacket and slipped outside where the clouds refused to part for me. Oh well, I could handle a little rain even in heels. If only I had a standard poodle in a continental clip I’d be set!
Regardless of my lack of canine counterpart, the car roared to life once more and I crept up the hill toward the infamous Vicki Perring.
I parked a few minutes later on East Perring Drive, a well-groomed street with wide sidewalks. Each front yard was green and mowed, and gardens sprang to life before the spattering of traditional ranch and split-level homes.
7410 was on a large corner lot with a huge elm tree in front. The two-story home was painted cream with a dark wood front door. The black SUV I’d noticed near Main Street Pizza was parked in front. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment with my hand on my hip. It certainly didn’t look as though she needed her fifty-dollar refund, but Kitty’s wishes were clear, so I strolled up the walk, rang the bell, and peered through the front door windows.
Instantly, Picklepuss came running and began lunging at the long rectangular window beside the door, her silver topknot flopping loosely over her eyes. The night before, it had been tied up with a little blue bow.
I waited for Vicki to come down the stairs, alerted by her doggy alarm. Seconds passed and I rang the bell again and began to tap the toe of my shoe. Picklepuss sat and cocked her head at the sound of my tapping.
Suddenly, without any sign of Vicki, Picklepuss darted away toward the back of the house.
“Hello? Mrs., uh Ms. Perring?” I called through the door. I only saw one car, so I assumed that there wasn’t a Mr. Perring.
The doorstep was damp from the rain, and I couldn’t just throw a fifty-dollar bill and a note on the ground…could I? Kitty’s voice in my head clearly said, no.
I decided it was best to go back to the car and grab the plastic bag Tom had left on the windshield. I could put the money and note in there and then toss that on the porch. Vicki was obviously just too busy to come answer the door so she could pick up her money from the cold, wet ground. At least I could go home and get out of the damp air. My hair was starting to frizz.
A soft whine preceded a tickle on my ankle. I looked down to see Picklepuss staring up at me with a face that could stop a train. The skin of her brow sort of sagged and her mouth turned down when she closed it creating a natural scowl.
“How’d you get out here?” I laughed and bent to pick her up, worried about the proximity to the street, no matter how peaceful it seemed. I hadn’t seen a single car pass since I’d arrived but any moment some half-brained teenager could come flying down the road. I couldn’t just let the little dog run free.
She turned her back to me to allow me to pick her up easier, which was harder than I'd thought. Though her card said toy poodle I’d say her weight was closer to a mini. She was a little on the hefty side and slightly taller than the standard for a toy poodle as well. Vicki obviously wasn’t as picky about her breeder as she was about her groomer. Still, pedigreed or not, she was pretty cute, and I cuddled her to my chest. She shook a little but that was normal for smaller dogs. The panting worried me though. It was a classic sign of stress.
I knew she hadn’t come from the front as there was no doggy door, so I wandered through the wet grass toward the back of the house, wishing with every step that I’d kept my wellies on. My heels sunk into the earth below me and made a sucking noise every time I pulled them out.
As I walked, I picked loose hair off the bottoms of Picklepuss’s shaved feet and tossed it on the grass. Poodles didn’t shed. Did Vicki have another dog that she didn’t bring into the shop?
I stopped for a second and examined the multi-colored hair. What breed had orange, black, brown, white, and silver hair?
The back yard was surrounded by a tall, white privacy fence and the gate was closed. I rattled it with my hand, but it appeared to be locked as well.
“Well, well,” I laughed and kicked at a pile of dirt near a large hole at the base of the gate. “Looks like we’ve got a digger.”
I couldn’t just shove her underneath without risking hurting her, nor would I feel comfortable that she’d stay put.
The only thing I could do was go back to the front door and ring the bell again. Still there was no sign of Vicki Perring.
“Hey, can I help you?”
Well hello. I turned to find the dreamboat from the Glaney theatre walking across the lawn toward me with a thick black lab by his side. Picklepuss let out a whine and yawned twice, another sign of stress.
“Hi,” I tucked my frizzing hair behind my ear. “I’m trying to find Vicki Perring; this is her dog.” I held up Picklepuss for him to see.
“So that’s his name,” the man smiled. “She doesn’t go anywhere without that little guy tucked under her arm.”
“She’s a girl, actually. Well,” I hoisted her up to look at her belly, thinking that I may have only assumed she was a girl because of the bow. “Yep. Girl,” I smiled. “So, you live around here?”
The man pointed to the blue rambler next door. A white jeep with a black top was parked in the driveway. I noticed that it was the only car.
“Peter George,” he introduced himself and transferred the leash to his right hand, holding his left out for me to shake. I had to shift Picklepuss to my right side so I could use my left as well. “Kit Davis.” No ring, I thought and smiled.
“And who is this?” The lab wagged his whole body as soon as I made eye contact with him.
“This is Charlie,” Peter ruffled the lab on the head.
“Cute,” I smiled.
Peter ran his hand through his salt and pepper hair and smiled back. Of course he had dimples.
“Did you try the bell?” he asked.
“A couple times,” I sighed and pushed back my rising butterflies. “The back gate is locked too.”
“Ah,” he winked, and I nearly melted. “There’s a trick to that.”
We walked toward the back together and when we reached the gate, Peter stuck his hand through the slats, jiggled something around, and the gate popped open. Charlie barked excitedly.
“How did you know to do that?”
“We’ve got the same fence. Vicki hired the same guys to do all her houses.”
“Oh, so Vicki’s your landlord?”
I’d barely got the words out when Picklepuss wriggled from my arms. I couldn’t hold her, so I bent low to avoid her jumping the whole way on her own then stumbled in the loose grass, one of my kitten heels catching. With a loud sucking noise, it freed, and I fell forward onto my knees. Picklepuss ran toward the backyard as Charlie licked my blushing cheeks.
“Whoops!” Peter laughed and grabbed my elbow to help me up. As I brushed off and tried to regain my composure, I noticed the back yard.
“Woah,” Peter breathed out, noticing it as well. “What is that?”
“Dog hair, I think.”
From where we stood at the gate, around the corner to the back of the house, to halfway across the back lawn where a smaller but equally nice guest house sat, dog hair of all different colors clung to the wet grass.
The sharp bark of a poodle echoed out from inside the house. Peter and I looked at each other wearily t
hen ventured into the yard. When we made it to the corner, we saw the French doors off the back porch were both open. Charlie whined and Picklepuss barked again.
Keeping to the paved walkway, we headed toward the back door. “Ms. Perring?” Peter called out.
Picklepuss popped her head around the bottom of the door, looked at us, barked again and ran inside.
“She’s really stressed. Something isn’t right.”
“I’ll go see if Vic is home,” Peter nodded toward the guest house and jogged across the lawn with Charlie at his heel. I waited while he knocked, came up empty handed and returned. We both stared at the open back door until Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, shuffling Charlie’s leash to the crook of his arm. I didn’t wait for him.
“Picklepuss?” I called when I got to the doorway. “Vicki?”
The French doors opened to a large dining area. A white table sat in the center with a fresh bouquet of colorful flowers in a glass vase on top. A single glass, half-filled with water was left on the table beside a plate full of brownies. I walked by it and noticed a lipstick ring on one side of the glass.
I looked at the rust toned tile floor and saw a trail of hair.
The pounding in my ears nearly drowned out the sound of Peter’s voice on the porch while he spoke on the phone.
“Picklepuss, I swear if you get me killed…” I whispered.
Two doors were off the little dining area. I peeked through one and saw that it led to the kitchen. A quick scan showed me marble counter tops, a gorgeous farmhouse sink, and a huge stainless-steel fridge but no Picklepuss and no Vicki Perring. I crept back through the dining room, listening to the restless panting of Charlie.
“Anything?” Peter asked from the doorway.
“Not yet,” I said, glancing back at him. “I think Picklepuss went that way,” I pointed toward the other doorway but didn’t move. My feet felt as though they’d melted to the floor.
