Last But Not Leashed, page 6
A banging noise made us turn our heads. Out of the dark hallway came a large metal scythe pointed toward us. It looked very realistic. A bit too realistic.
I stood up and backed away.
“Ta-da!” With one hand under the Chihuahua and the other hand on the large scythe, Daffy stood hunched over, a long white wig on her head. Little Man had been transformed into Baby Time, with the infamous diaper held on by a strap over one shoulder. Across his owner’s chest draped a sash announcing the beginning of a new year. “Father Time waits for no man or dog. Prepare!”
Of course we both clapped and admired her handiwork. I’d expected a rubberized blade on the scythe, but instead it was a nasty-looking piece of sheet metal cut into that characteristic New Year’s curve.
“That looks dangerous.” Mari pointed to the blade, light bouncing off its shiny surface.
Daffy disagreed. “I’ve got a plastic sheath that slips over it,” she insisted. “The high school shop teacher, Dan Belson, made it for me a few years ago. I can’t have anyone cut themselves at the New Year’s party.”
Daffy? Going to a party? Although she often played bridge and went to gardening club meetings, I’d never pictured Daffy going partying.
“What party?” Mari always focused on the main issue.
The question hung in the air.
“Judy’s Last-Minute Costumes-Optional New Year’s Eve Blast-Off Party.”
Mari and I exchanged looks.
“Why didn’t…” Mari began but was cut off by Daffy.
“Judy just decided this morning that everyone needed to give this year a big send-off. It starts at ten and goes till who knows when.” Our client took a moment to laugh at her rhyme. Even Little Man appeared pleased.
“Where is it going to be held?” I asked.
“The old hay barn on Miller Road,” she said, giggling a bit. “Be there or be square—dancing.” This time Mari joined in the laughter.
After accepting a parting gift of cookies, we passed through Daffy’s front yard and opened the picket fence gate. Once inside the truck cab, Mari began furiously texting. She and Cindy prided themselves on knowing what was going on in our community. A major slipup like this wounded their pride.
I didn’t get what all the fuss was about.
“Where now?” Our receptionist/office manager booked all the house-call appointments, working them around regular hospital hours. Often, they were rescheduled or updated by text.
“Just a sec.” Mari’s fingers flew at a ridiculously swift speed.
Watching her repetitive movements, I bet that twenty years from now doctors would be treating plenty of arthritic thumbs.
With no address to input into the GPS, I turned on my blinker and pulled to the curb a few doors down from Daffy’s house. Heat started to flow from the F-150’s vents, quickly warming the cab. A wave of drowsiness, fueled by the food and the warmth, took over. I glanced off to the left, through my driver’s side window. All was silent except for the click of text messages.
In the distance, the blue-toned mountains glowed, peaks painted winter white. Small ice crystals trapped in the drifts of snow caught the light, twinkling like fallen stars. I’d read that millions of years ago, glaciers had carved out the Hudson Valley. Its beauty had inspired scores of artists over the years, many drawn to Oak Falls and nearby Woodstock.
“Kate.”
My reverie interrupted, I turned to Mari, who wore a triumphant expression on her face.
“This is going to be fab,” she said. “Last time Judy threw a party, she almost burned the town down.”
***
That night after checking on Mr. Pitt, I called Luke.
“Hi Kate,” he said in a rush. “I’m about to leave in a few minutes. What’s up?”
In the background I heard loud laughing. “Okay. I’ll make this quick. Judy is having a party at the old hay barn on Miller Road on New Year’s Eve. Do you want to go?”
“Judy’s Café Judy? Sure.”
I heard a muffled voice in the background. It sounded like Luke had placed his hand over the speaker.
“Are you at a party?” I asked.
He sounded a bit defensive when he said, “It’s just a few of our classmates and some friends they dragged along. We’re celebrating finally having some free time.”
The only conclusion I could draw was that he didn’t want to spend that free time with me.
He must have noticed my silence. “You there?”
“Yes.” I swallowed the hard lump in my throat and said the first thing that popped into my brain. “Any idea where this hay barn is?”
That elicited a chuckle from Luke.
Annoyed, I asked, “What’s so funny about a barn full of hay?”
“Because that specific hay barn is infamous. In high school we used to call it the make-hay barn, if you get my drift.”
“Yep. Got it.” From my vet experience I also knew hay barns could be dusty, drafty, and dirty.
“Sorry.” Someone in the distance called Luke’s name—a female someone. “Have to go. Miss you.”
“Miss you too.” I waited, debating what to say next. “Luke, I…”
The loud dial tone cut me off.
I felt miserable after my conversation, so I figured I’d check on someone who had my personal misery beat.
“Mr. Pitt,” I said as I turned on the lights, “you’ve got a visitor.”
Buddy looked around, then tentatively approached the large run we’d assigned to our newest patient. I didn’t expect any aggression, but I prepared for it. Instead, Mr. Pitt greeted the much smaller dog like the dog pal I hoped he’d be.
After watching the playful body language between the two dogs, I brought out a treat. “Sit.” I held the treat up for the pit bull to see. He immediately sat.
Buddy watched the other dog chomp his treat and sat without being asked. Wagging tails made me hope for the best. I tried a very brief nose-to-nose visit. That culminated in a definite down-on-the-front-legs invitation to play from Buddy.
“Okay. Let’s try this.”
Attaching a strong lead with a nose loop to Mr. Pitt, I opened the cage door. He walked out and waited by my side. Someone had taught him good dog manners. How had he ended up in a dogfight ring?
Had he gotten lost like so many dogs, or been stolen?
After the two dogs did their business in the snow, I took them both back into my apartment. I made sure there was no food on the floor to argue about. Then I brought out the two spare dog beds often used by Mari’s Rottweilers and showed them to Mr. Pitt. He gladly lay down on my command, rolling on his back and grunting with pleasure. Next to the bed I placed a ragged stuffed moose toy. He delicately picked it up and held it in his mouth.
Too restless to go to sleep, I curled up on the sofa with a hot cup of tea and turned on HGTV.
When my cell phone rang, I gladly answered the familiar number. My Gramps always had a way of making me feel better.
“Hey, Gramps,” I said.
“Hey, sweetie,” he answered, his breathing harsh. “Watching House Hunters?”
“Of course.” We sometimes bet on which house would be chosen.
Gramps could always read my moods by my voice. In the background I heard noises, like dishes going into a sink.
“We can talk another time if you’re busy,” I told him.
“Katie,” Gramps said, “there’s nothing in the world more important than talking to you.”
Determined not to burden him with my dumb problems, I started out by talking about Mr. Pitt. Gramps knew a bit about dogfighting, having once investigated a fire set to destroy fighting evidence.
“There used to be quite a lot of backroom-type gambling and dogfighting in New Jersey and Lower Manhattan,” he commented. “But thanks to arrests and publicity from animal rights groups, those numbers are way down.”
“Gramps,” I began, “I think someone rescued him, then brought him as close to the animal hospital as they could without being caught on camera. Whoever it was woke me up by throwing something up onto the roof.”
The phone went silent while he thought. “It must be someone who’s familiar with you or the animal hospital and your routine.”
The pit bull gently snored, the fuzzy brown moose firmly in his mouth. “Whoever did it saved his life.”
“Agreed. But I don’t think that is the only thing on your mind.”
Reluctantly, I gave him an edited version of my current relationship or lack of relationship with Luke. After going on and on without any comment from him, I stopped and waited for his response.
“Keep working on yourself,” he cryptically said. “When you’re happy, you’ll know if he makes you happy.”
Mulling over our conversation, I went back to the House Hunters episode. As I drifted off on the sofa, I dreamed Luke and I were participants on the program trying to choose between three houses. We kept arguing and changing our minds and arguing again, until the producer kicked us off the show.
When I woke up just before dawn, I found Buddy snoring on the couch next to me and Mr. Pitt sound asleep, his head resting on my foot.
Chapter Eleven
“Well, look who’s here,” Mari exclaimed as she bent down to say hello to Mr. Pitt. “Nice collar.” He rewarded her with a slow wagging tail. I stood with him in the treatment room trying to decide whether I really needed another cup of coffee.
“Gray fur is very popular and goes with anything,” she joked. “He’s styling now.”
I’d picked out a patterned turquoise dog collar from the many collars and leashes donated by clients. The animal hospital, in turn, pays it forward by providing these items to anyone in need.
Cindy walked in and stopped dead when she saw the big dog. “Is he going to be all right?” she asked, temporarily stunned by all his wounds.
“He should be. Mari, let’s check him for a microchip. Use the universal scanner.”
Cindy reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a mini bone. Pitt’s eyes immediately snapped to attention, and he sat like a champ.
“Good boy,” the receptionist said, giving him a pat on his lumpy head. He stood up and watched Mari approach with the chip scanner in her hand. His back legs quivered.
“You’re okay,” I told Pitt and scratched his chest.
“Anything I need to do?” Cindy often ran down owners of lost dogs through their implanted microchips.
We were interrupted by a shout from Mari, who’d checked between Pitt’s shoulder blades. “Bingo. We have a manufacturer and their phone number.” Cindy jotted down the info. Because different chip manufacturers have different databases, it was important to be able to read the data correctly. Once we tracked down Pitt’s owners, one part of his past would be revealed. We’d coordinate with the fostering program at the shelter to make sure he wasn’t returned to a dangerous situation. With any luck, we’d found his family.
With both Buddy and Mr. Pitt snoozing in their beds, I brought my lunch back into the hospital and joined Mari and Cindy in the employee lounge. They were mid-chat about Judy and her unexpected New Year’s Eve bash.
“When I spoke to her a while ago, she said it’s a pop-up party—like a pop-up restaurant, only better.”
“Pop-up meaning spur of the moment?” I asked, taking a tentative bite of my microwaved burrito. Instead of being “surface of the sun” hot, it had barely reached warm. My relationship with our office microwave was like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, either too hot or too cold. Only rarely did it turn out just right.
“It means temporary.” Cindy confirmed the meaning of pop-up. “Judy has so many chef friends with pop-up restaurants, she figured why not a pop-up party instead?”
Mari held up a family-sized chip bag and offered it to us. Cindy frowned at her choice and went back to her salad. I begged off, knowing that I couldn’t eat only one chip. One chip led to one hundred chips. I blamed the addictive crunch and the salt.
“How do you eat like that and never gain weight?” Cindy was constantly on a diet of one sort or another. Mari, on the other hand, ate enormous amounts of food and snacks, yet never gained a pound.
“Fast metabolism,” our technician answered. “My sister’s the same way.” She went over to the refrigerator, rooted around, and came out with a doughnut.
“You’re killing me here,” I told her. “The truth is we all have to work with the genetic cards we’ve been dealt. One size doesn’t fit all.”
Cindy finished her food and put the empty plastic container back into her lunch bag. “Knowing your weaknesses really helps. At least it’s helpful to me.”
“I agree. But chocolate and pie always make me feel happy.”
“You don’t have to eat the whole pie and all the chocolate,” Cindy said. “Portion control is important.”
I’d bought some mandarin oranges at the grocery store, and scrounged around for them in the fridge’s fruit bin. With the burrito long gone, I began to peel one, the tangy smell of citrus driving the hospital smells away.
“Listen guys,” I began, “being healthy should be our ultimate goal. All you have to do is look at the wide range of dog body types to get an idea of the power of genetics. The greyhound is an example of a doggy ectomorph, a dog who stays slim under all sorts of circumstances. Contrast that to a chow or a pug. There’s no point in a pug being upset because she’s got a pudgy neck or body. She’s got no choice. People love all the shapes and sizes of dogs. It’s only with our fellow humans that we are so judgmental and critical in unproductive ways.”
Cindy eyed me and asked, “Something bothering you, Kate?”
“Yep. My scrub pants are getting tight.”
Between appointments Mari met me in the hallway and whispered, “Do you want to go with us to the lecture at the community center tonight?”
“What?”
“The organizing series. Sookie’s assistant will be giving the class. It’s on closets.”
I hadn’t intended on ever listening to another organizing lecture, but at the moment my closet was so stuffed full of clothes I never wore that I could barely hang anything up.
“Okay. I’m in.”
“We’ll pick you up at five thirty. Lecture starts at six. And be aware that I am not letting you out of my sight. No discovering any more bodies for you.” She gave me a thumbs-up, brushing past on her way to reception.
An unwelcome image of feet sticking out beneath a snowy branch briefly grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go.
I gritted my teeth and went back to work.
Chapter Twelve
Mari arrived promptly at five thirty as the darkness thickened and claimed the night sky. She and Barbara happily chatted away in her SUV, but my stomach began to protest going back to the scene of the crime. To derail those thoughts, I asked Barbara what she knew about Sookie’s assistant, Elaine.
“She’s so sweet. A little timid at first, but once she gets going, that vanishes. Sookie let her speak a bit at the first lecture, and her suggestions sounded very practical.” Barbara half-turned toward me. I sat in the back seat next to two huge bags of dog food. “You’ll like her, I’m sure.”
“Are you okay back there?” Mari wondered.
“Sure.” What could I say? I was crammed against the window, the forty-pound bags taking up two of the three seat belts. With the funky smell of dog kibble ripe in my nose, I hoped my clothes wouldn’t reek when I got out of the car.
“Anyway,” Barbara continued, “I guess she and Sookie were best friends. This death has been very difficult for her. Very difficult.”
I saw the lights of the community center up ahead.
“Sookie’s husband, Glenn, probably killed her, you know,” confided Mari to her sister-in-law. “For the money.”
“Love or money,” Barbara replied. “The two biggest motives for killing anybody, at least in the mystery novels I read.”
We pulled into the parking lot, which was rapidly filling up with minivans and SUVs. If Glenn Overmann had knocked off his wife, I thought, I’d bet he’d combined those two motives into one—killing for the love of money.
He must have been pretty pissed off to find all the cupboards bare.
I’d carefully dressed in layers, but tonight the auditorium felt chilly. While Barbara and Mari discussed renovating her bathroom, I glanced to my left and studied the crowd. Again, the majority of attendees were women, with a few husbands or boyfriends trapped into coming along. When I turned to my right, I saw someone two rows behind staring back at me.
“Dr. Kate? What are you doing here?” The man who spoke was tall, muscular, and dressed in black leather. A Harley jacket lay draped over the seat next to him. I recognized him immediately, and he definitely didn’t fit the category of boyfriend or husband.
“Same as you. Learning to organize my closet, I hope.” My client and friend, Henry James, otherwise known as the Baking Biker, was a proud cat daddy and a minor celebrity in town. His teacher parents had gifted him a famous literary name, but he’d never fit into their upper-middle-class mold. After their deaths and while dealing with a midlife crisis, he’d started baking to relieve his stress. To everyone’s surprise, it turned into a successful cottage industry. After an article featuring him was published in the New York Times, he became even more in demand.
“I see Mari is here with you. I can tell by the hair.”
My friend’s gorgeous Afro was exuberant with life compared to my flat blond strands. “Mari,” I called out, “look who’s here tonight.”
Someone loudly tapped on the microphone, a rapping noise echoing in the room. The lecture was about to begin.
“Henry, see you at break.” My technician blew him a kiss. Their parents had been next-door neighbors, and she’d known him since she was a baby. In his late teens, Henry joined the Hells Angels. He messed up and eventually ended up in prison; Mari and her family wrote and visited him frequently, a kindness he never forgot.
