Last But Not Leashed, page 14
After working in an animal hospital for twenty years, Cindy had an iron stomach, nerves of steel, and could charm a frightened cat from a tree. We left her in charge of cleanup and carried a wiggly Snowbell into the treatment area.
Bloody incidents are common in veterinary medicine. You can tell a human to hold still and put pressure on a bleeding wound. Most of the time they comply. Try telling that to a dog with a lacerated tail or ear, who insists on wagging or shaking the injured part. Many a veterinary hospital employee has had to scrub blood off the walls, woodwork, and sometimes the ceiling.
Snowbell had been to see us only a month ago. Because she was a healthy, spayed three-year-old with fluffy white fur, we were confident the stitches in her pad would heal quickly—as long as she had limited exercise and cage rest for the next ten days.
“Are we having some kind of special on cut pads?” Mari joked.
With Snowbell snoozing peacefully under light anesthesia, and a hemostat securely stopping any blood flow, I proceeded to clean the wound and begin suturing. “Neat trick using the fluorescent pink nylon,” Mari said, jotting down the number of stitches in the surgical record. “Who taught you that?”
“One of the first patients I ever sutured.” I remembered it vividly even now. “I was just out of vet school and needed to stitch up a pad wound on a black toy poodle. Not thinking, I reached for the black suture material.”
Mari laughed. “So when it came time to remove them you had to play find-the-suture?”
“Yep. In front of the owner, who visibly winced each time I tugged on them. Finally, one of the surgeons at the practice took pity on me. He slipped on some magnifying glasses and quickly removed them all.”
We carried Snowbell from surgery over to the treatment table. Mari clipped her nails; then we wrapped the wound. After covering her bandage in a towel and waterproof wrap, we rinsed the remaining blood off her white fur.
“Anyway,” I continued the story as I cleaned her muzzle, “that’s when the surgeon gave me two pieces of advice. Always count your sutures and mark them in the chart, and buy fluorescent pink suture material. It’s hard to miss, so long as none of your patients are pink.”
Our Samoyed began waking up, so we did the rest of the drying in her recovery cage and gave her an injection of a long-acting antibiotic. As the pièce de résistance, we slipped the dreaded cone over her head and anchored it to her collar. However, it was a kinder, softer variation of the rigid plastic ones so infamous among pet owners. Many a cone-headed patient with limited visibility has goosed its owner or knocked things off coffee tables. Luckily, we now have a variety of types to choose from.
“Let’s make sure we send her home with the bandage care handout. Also put her on my callback list for tonight. I want to make sure she doesn’t yank out those sutures.” Every working veterinarian has dealt with at least one surgical patient who ripped out every stitch within the first twenty-four hours. Teeth make a surprisingly easy job of it.
Mari said, “When I had stitches a couple of years ago, nobody called me to see how I was doing.”
“Tell me about it,” I answered. “I bet they didn’t clip your nails, either.”
Snowbell was post-op and sitting up when I went out and spoke to the owners. The reception area smelled like grapefruit or lemons and gleamed, immaculately clean. Cindy, however, quickly noticed my white coat was not and skillfully handed me a new one in mid-sentence. The clients barely noticed as tears welled up in the wife’s eyes, and they both thanked all of us profusely. Sometimes it takes an emergency to remind all involved how quickly the gift of life can be taken away.
Of course, all that gore didn’t put us off our lunch. While Cindy arranged for Snowbell’s release later in the day, Mari had half a pizza warming in the microwave.
For lunch I heated up some soup and enjoyed one of those Christmas pears a thoughtful client dropped off. Cindy picked at yet another salad and peeled a banana.
We had brought our chairs out and formed a semicircle in front of Snowbell, now awake and plotting her escape. No one wanted a repeat of this morning. With all of us keeping an eye on her, it limited her chance of success.
“Maybe we should introduce her to Keanu,” Mari joked. “They could compare stitches.”
Once settled in we began to chat. I noticed both my friends made a concerted effort at first not to ask me any personal questions. That didn’t last long.
“So what was that all about last night, with you and Henry James?” Mari paused for a moment before chomping on a slice of stuffed pizza.
Cindy’s head rose from contemplating her lettuce. “What? You and Henry?” Her voice took on a disapproving tone.
“Easy now, mother hen,” Mari answered, the remainder of the slice poised in the air. “We were all at the organizing meeting learning about dirty clothes.”
“Two words,” our receptionist said. “Wash them.”
I laughed. Mari and Cindy could bicker over any topic under the sun.
“Henry got all protective because he saw two guys dressed in black in the back of the auditorium. Tough guys, according to him,” I said, “which is ironic because Henry looks pretty tough himself.”
Cindy frowned at something, maybe our crazy story.
“Mari didn’t see them,” I continued. “They looked like gangsters, or actors playing gangsters. Maybe they went to the wrong meeting?” As I explained my take on the strange sighting, even I thought it sounded pretty odd.
“Two guys, you said?” Cindy asked.
“Yep. Wearing long dark coats and sunglasses. Inside the building at night!”
The hard snap of the lid of her plastic container startled Snowbell. All eyes turned to Cindy, who shifted in her seat like a child who has a secret.
Mari squinted her eyes. “You know something about this, don’t you?”
“Maybe.” She pursed her lips as if making a decision. “All right. I may have heard about some weekenders who have bodyguards. They bought that huge estate on the mountain that belonged to the Vanderbilt family. Near the Tibetan Buddhist monastery.”
“What were bodyguards doing at a lecture on organizing your laundry?” Mari sounded astonished. I knew if she had millions of dollars, she’d never do a load of laundry again for the rest of her life.
I felt the same way—but to infinity and back.
Snowbell gave a grunt and lay back down in her cage. Damned if she knew either.
“They’re not just for him, but also for his wife. Whenever she goes out, she’s got these two, ah, gentlemen with her. Daffy told me this is his second wife. She starred in some indie movie when she was seventeen. French. Gorgeous girl. Former model.”
“Is there anything that happens around here that Daffy doesn’t know?” Mari shoved her final bite of pizza into her mouth.
I poured another cup of coffee and tried to recall the members of the audience without much success. I’d spent the entire night talking to Henry and the rest of our group and observing Elaine on stage.
Finished eating, Mari asked, “Do these mystery people have a name?”
“Gambino. Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Gambino.”
“That’s a famous name,” I said. “Are they related to the…”
“No idea.”
Cindy had abruptly cut off my question, which more or less confirmed the answer. Most people recognized that name. In the 1960s and ’70s, Carlo Gambino was rumored to be the organized crime boss of New York City.
Cindy finished her lunch first and scurried abruptly back to her desk in reception. Mari was sure she’d escaped because she didn’t want to get in trouble with her brother-in-law, Police Chief Garcia. She juggled a delicate balance between what her sister told her in gossipy confidence, and what she felt comfortable sharing with us. As her friends, we were under no such constraints.
“This requires some well-placed phone calls.” Mari began cleaning up. Soon the treatment room smelled like pizza and disinfectant.
I stood up and stretched. “Don’t forget to keep me in the loop.”
“It still doesn’t explain why that kid Lucky was hiding in his mom’s car,” she said. “That’s plain odd.”
“He might have something to do with Mr. Pitt showing up here,” I theorized. “Maybe he stole the dog away from the dogfight promoters.”
My assistant’s eyes widened. “They’re prosecuting people for running those things. Putting them in prison. Do you think those guys…?”
“Might be looking for him?” I finished her thought. “If they’re looking for Lucky, that means they’re also looking for Mr. Pitt. The kid would be a witness, and that sweet pit bull he took would be evidence.”
As soon as I had a chance, I took Cindy aside. “Any idea when that kid is coming in for an interview? Did he schedule a time he wanted to volunteer?”
My barrage of questions made her suspicious, of course.
“You mean Lucky Heally? Why do you ask?”
Cindy had an inquisitive nature. She liked to gather as many facts as she could about the world and its occupants. My problem? I didn’t want to cause a ruckus where there wasn’t a reason.
“If he does a good job, we might want to start training him as another veterinary assistant. You know how busy it is in the summertime. Tony is going to college full-time now, so he won’t be available for kennel work.”
As at most veterinary hospitals in New York, our appointments increase in summer, when people aren’t fighting inclement weather. Summer is when we often take on additional staff. Of course, that’s not the only reason I wanted to talk to Lucky, but I kept that to myself.
“You’ve got a good point,” she said. “Winter won’t last forever.”
***
Winter won’t last forever.
Cindy’s words described my current dilemma. Parts of my life felt frozen in an endless winter. To move forward, I had to melt the ice.
After work I slipped into my old routine. The dogs and I got comfy on the sofa. My baggy sweats, soft as velvet, felt cozy and familiar. While sipping my wine, I picked up my cell and…almost called Luke. That’s a habit I’ll need to get over, I thought. So instead, I called my Gramps.
Often when I phoned Gramps, there was lots of background noise when he answered. An active senior and widower, he kept a busy schedule in his independent living home. From the many poker parties to his several lady friends, Gramps didn’t let his COPD from his fireman days stop him. This time, however, when I called I had his complete attention.
Try as I may, I can’t keep a secret from Gramps. As soon as I spoke to him and he heard the tone in my voice, he suspected something might be wrong.
“I’m guessing this has something to do with Luke,” he said. “You haven’t mentioned him at all recently.”
With a big sigh I confided, “We broke up. For good.”
“You can’t force someone to love you, Katie,” he said. “You deserve so much better. We all deserve better than that.”
“I know.”
His voice gentle, he told me about a happily married couple who’d each gone through two divorces before they found each other. “Of course I’m not suggesting that for you,” he said with a chuckle. “But I think the number of available men you meet a day is pretty small. Perhaps you should widen your field.”
Was Gramps suggesting a dating service? That shocked me.
“Gramps, I don’t have time for any of that. I’m working too hard.” Didn’t he realize I was the only vet at Oak Falls Animal Hospital? Between the house calls and hospital appointments and surgeries, I barely had any personal time.
Laughter met my question. “That’s precisely what I’m getting at. You’ve devoted yourself to your work. Have you given any thought to what you will do when Doc Anderson gets back?”
That stopped me. Periodically I remembered I only had a one-year employment contract with Oak Falls Animal Hospital. When Doc Anderson returned from his round-the-world cruise, he would reclaim his business, and that would be that.
“Well, I guess I should think about it,” I admitted. “If I make a decision, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Anything else happening up there in the Hudson Valley?”
Gramps usually kept an eye on me through my Facebook page, which I rarely posted on, and Cindy’s page. She and Gramps were avid Facebook friends. Our busy receptionist posted all the hospital news on several social media sites. Her own page was crammed with photos and messages. I still was reluctant to share too many personal things on the Internet.
“Did the chief arrest anyone for Sookie’s murder?” he asked.
“Uhh…”
“Have you spoken to your father since Christmas?”
That, I could answer. “We’ve emailed a couple of times. It’s a start.”
“Good. Listen, Katie. You may never have a close relationship with him, but after I’m gone, he and his children—your half brother and sister—will be the only family you have left.”
Great, I thought after we hung up.
Something else not to look forward to.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I’d been avoiding the Oak Falls Diner, owned and run by Luke’s family, but a sudden desire for something sweet overcame my reluctance. My talk with Gramps only accelerated the need. At first I intended to just order takeout but decided to face the possibility of meeting one of his cousins head on.
When I arrived at eight, the parking lot was half full. I sat in a booth at the far end of the dining room. The waitress who took my order was a stranger—so far, so good. Taking a quick glance around, I saw that no one seemed familiar. With that last hurtle cleared, I started to relax. Blessed anonymity.
Then it happened.
The swinging doors to the kitchen opened. Out came Rainbow, Luke’s kissing cousin from New Year’s, her arms wrapped around a guy with streaky blondish hair. After an X-rated kiss, he headed back inside. Rainbow strode out, only to yell, “Hi, Kate.”
Everyone in the diner turned to look at us.
She walked over with that strange tiptoed, extremely high-heeled boots stride and plopped herself opposite me. “How’s it going?” she asked. A big wad of gum miraculously appeared in her mouth. Her orange-blond hair almost glowed in the dark.
“Great,” I told her. “Yourself?”
“Oh, it could be better. I took this semester off to travel,” she explained. “But that’s not going to happen. No money. Can’t hang around here anymore. I’ve got a three-year plan in place.”
That surprised me. “Rainbow, how old are you?”
“I’m eighteen. I’ll be nineteen in November.” Then she added proudly, “I’m a Scorpio.”
The server briefly interrupted our chat by bringing my decaf coffee and slice of chocolate walnut pie—with a scoop of ice cream on the side. She placed a fork and spoon in front of each of us.
Rainbow leaned back against the red plastic booth and gave me a side eye. “Drowning your sorrows?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Well, good for you. Get it out of your system and then jump in again. ‘Onward and upward’ is my motto. ‘Get more than you give.’” Rainbow lifted her fork and snuck a chunk of pie.
The couple behind us got up and started to leave. My eye followed them out the door. There were plenty of empty booths now. Most of the customers left meditating over their food were singles.
Since Rainbow appeared in no hurry to leave, I asked her what her major was. I expected theater or communications, not mathematics.
“Yep. Mathematics. Statistics. Algorithms. I’ve been coding since middle school.” She delicately dipped her spoon in my melting ice cream. “I see numbers in everything. Just born this way. A shrink told my mom it’s like Asperger’s syndrome.”
“That’s fascinating,” I told her truthfully. “Do you plan on teaching math?”
My suggestion elicited a snort-laugh. “Are you crazy? I’m going to create an app and sell it. Start a statistical analysis company and then sell that too. Independently wealthy is what I’m aiming for, like Musk. I wish I’d been born a dude.” Her bravura turned serious. “My mom worked dead-end jobs most of her life and wasted herself on dumb-ass guys. Did you know she’s not even sure who my father is?”
“I’m so sorry…”
“Don’t be sorry for me,” Rainbow lashed out. “Feel sorry for my mom, and her dead high school friend.”
“What do…?”
Again she interrupted me. “Her friend, Posey. Nosey Posey. The one who took a high dive from the rafters on New Year’s Eve.”
Before I could question her, Rainbow abruptly stood up and disappeared into the restaurant kitchen. I waited for a while but suspected she’d exited out the back door. I had a feeling this girl confronted problems by running away—not a sustainable choice. As for her possible Asperger’s diagnosis—I wasn’t a medical doctor, but I did observe her abrupt language, clumsy walk, and fascination with computers and numbers. And, so far, I’d seen her physically involved with at least three guys since New Year’s, which was worrisome.
Gramps always told me you never knew what strangers were dealing with on a personal level, so give them the benefit of the doubt. Rainbow hid her problems from view behind those false eyelashes. As usual, Gramps was right.
Someone else hid her problems from view, I thought. Maybe there also was more to Posey’s story than anyone thought.
***
A progression of nightmares interrupted my sleep that night. Every hour I woke up with the vision of Posey falling from the sky and Rainbow laughing. Over and over that brief memory played in my brain…until I realized something at around four a.m.
I’d seen no voluntary movement as Posey dropped to her death. No last-minute scream. No arm or leg movements. Maybe she’d been unconscious when she fell or was pushed.
