Death of a Dog Whisperer (9780758284570) (19 page)

“How old are yours?”

“Eleven and two. Both boys.”

“That's quite a spread in age.” She stopped abruptly, her face growing pink. “I'm sorry, that was rude of me.”

“Not at all,” I said easily. “Probably a lot of people wonder how that happened.”

“I'm guessing that most have better manners than to ask.”

“I don't mind. The boys are from two different marriages, and somehow without meaning to, I took ten years off in the middle.”

Bethany nodded. “I get that. Sometimes it seems like half of parenting is dealing with things you didn't mean to have happen.” She gazed out into the yard. “Like Snowy there.”

“Was he supposed to be Kyle and Tyler's puppy?”

“He
is
their puppy,” Bethany said firmly. “Not that you'd ever know it from the amount of attention they pay to him. Richard—that's my husband—brought Snowy home with him from a business trip. He'd been away for two weeks and I guess he was feeling guilty. He had a box of chocolates for me and a puppy for the kids.”

Bethany's expression wavered somewhere between exasperated and resigned. “Richard told them that Snowy was some rare, exotic, Eskimo dog who'd been born in an igloo. That's how the puppy got his name.”

With that sixth sense all dogs have that lets them know when someone's talking about them, Snowy lifted his head and gazed in our direction. Briefly it looked as though he might get up and come over to join us. Then the puppy thought better of the idea. He lowered his muzzle and went back to chewing on his ball.

“Kyle and Tyler were all excited about their new puppy—for about a week. Then they went back to their friends, and their sports, and their video games. Frankly, my chocolates lasted longer than their interest in the new dog did.”

“That's really too bad,” I said.

“Tell me about it.”

“It's a shame for Snowy, as well as for you,” I pointed out. “Much as you don't want to have an untrained puppy, Snowy's probably not too happy about the lack of structure in his life either.”

“Are you kidding me? That dog has a great life. He gets to do whatever he wants.”

“Snowy's what, five, maybe six months old?”

Bethany nodded.

“He's a baby,” I said. “Not only does he need adult guidance, he's
looking
for it. The reason he does whatever he wants is because you haven't set enough boundaries.”

“I set boundaries,” Bethany said. “Snowy ignores them.”

“Because you let him.”

“No, I don't.” She stopped. Then frowned. “Well, maybe I do. But why do I have to be the enforcer?”

“Because no one else wants the job?”

“It's like having a third child,” Bethany muttered.

“It's worse,” I said. “Because of the language barrier. But only for a little while. And then it gets much better.”

“That's what Nick was doing here. He was trying to teach me how to communicate effectively with Snowy. He said the problem wasn't that Snowy didn't want to behave but that he didn't understand what I wanted him to do.”

“That sounds about right,” I agreed.

“Nick was like Dr. Dolittle,” Bethany said. “He knew everything that puppy was thinking. It was amazing to watch the two of them together. They were totally simpatico. How did he do that?”

“He had a rare gift,” I said softly. “Nick was a lucky guy.”

Bethany looked up. “Right up until the day he wasn't.”

“Do you have any thoughts about that?”

“I think Nick needed a new girlfriend.”

Interesting. “Why do you say that?” I asked.

“The one he had wasn't good enough for him.”

“You met Diana?”

“Diana?” Bethany looked confused. “Who was she?”

“Nick's girlfriend.”

“Not the one I met. Her name was Carol.”

Oh, I thought. Here we go again.

“W
ait a minute,” I said. “Was her name Carol Luna?” “I don't know.” Bethany shrugged. “It's not like we were formally introduced. I just heard Carol.”

There was a woman named Carol on the client list Bob had given me.
Carol Luna, four months duration as client, Doberman Pinscher puppy
. I had left a message on her phone asking if she'd be willing to talk to me. Carol Luna had never called me back. Could she be the woman Bethany had met?

“What didn't you like about her?” I asked.

“For one thing, she was a lot older than Nick. Although she'd probably be pissed that I noticed, considering how much work she'd had done. Not that I'm a prude about stuff like that—the age difference or the plastic surgery—but Nick was a great guy. I just thought he could do better.”

Bethany looked at me and grimaced. “Plus her manners left a lot to be desired.”

Fair enough, on all points.

“What made you think that she was Nick's girlfriend?”

“Who else but an angry girlfriend would follow a man to his place of business and stand there yelling at him where anyone could overhear? And if she wasn't someone close to him, how did she even know where to find him?”

I could see why Bethany had come to that conclusion. And for all I knew, maybe she was right.

“So this woman Carol showed up uninvited at your house,” I prompted.

“That's right. She parked in the driveway and let herself in through the side gate. Nick and I were in the yard working with Snowy, when she came marching around the house like she thought she had every right to be here. Trust me, that's not the way people do things around here.”

In a neighborhood of multi-million-dollar beachfront mansions, I should think not.

“When I saw her,” said Bethany, “my first thought was to call the police.”

“And did you?”

“I got out my phone, but almost immediately it became clear that Nick knew who she was. He seemed pretty shocked to see her though. He left Snowy and me, and walked over and grabbed her arm. He tried to turn her around and make her leave.”

“I take it that didn't work?”

“Not even close. She just started yelling at him. That's when I heard her name. Nick said something like, ‘Carol, please, you need to calm down. You shouldn't even be here.' It didn't help one bit. She just kept screaming. That was one angry lady.”

“What was she yelling about?”

“Considering everything that's happened since, I really wish I knew. But at the time . . .” Bethany stopped and shook her head. “I thought it was a lovers' spat. It never even occurred to me that it might be something more. I liked Nick, you know?”

I nodded. Everybody had.

“I didn't want to embarrass him. It wasn't his fault his girlfriend was a shrew. So even though they were standing in my yard, I made myself scarce. I figured that whatever was going on wasn't any of my business.”

“Too bad,” I said.

“I'll tell you what's really too bad. When I went in the house, Snowy stayed outside. That puppy always did prefer Nick's company to anyone else's.” Bethany gazed at me with her head tipped to one side, considering. “Nick could talk to Snowy like they were members of the same family. It was amazing the way they understood each other. I don't suppose you can do that too?”

I snorted softly. “I wish.”

“Me too. Because then you could ask him. Whatever was going on out here that day, Snowy overheard the whole thing.”

 

After that, my conversation with Sara Owens was anticlimactic. Like Bethany, Sara lived in a wealthy seaside neighborhood. Her Normandy style mansion was a block away from the Sound but fortunately for its owner, still managed to offer a coveted, unobstructed, water view.

Sara was a divorcee in her mid-fifties. Her children were grown and gone. Her husband had had a midlife crisis and left her for a younger woman; the two of them were now living in the south of France. After his defection, Sara had felt lonely rattling around her huge home with only the housekeeper for company, but she'd won the house in the divorce and improbably continued to cling to the hope that her husband might someday return to it—minus the company of his new wife, of course.

I learned all that in the first five minutes of our acquaintance. Sara was friendly, pert, and very talkative. Her dark blond hair was threaded with gray that she didn't bother to hide. Her figure was curvaceous and slightly plump, and she was dressed in a designer ensemble that seemed overly elaborate for an at-home visit on a hot summer day.

But then my usual hot weather ensemble starts with a pair of shorts. Or maybe khakis. So what do I know?

Sara and I sat in a morning room whose temperature had been lowered to just above glacial. We sipped sweet tea, served by the housekeeper, who also set a plate of crunchy homemade oatmeal cookies on the table between us. Sara ate three for every one of mine.

“Go ahead,” she said, poking me in the arm and gesturing toward the plate. “Indulge yourself. Life is short, and things you think will last forever never do. You've got to grab everything you can get your hands on when the opportunities arise. Trust me, I know.”

So I had another cookie. It wasn't a hardship. They were chewy and buttery and studded with plump raisins. Maybe I'd have another after that and skip dinner. And breakfast tomorrow morning.

“If you don't mind my asking,” I said, “where is your dog?”

“Oh, Elan is out back somewhere.” Sara waved a hand dismissively. “That silly hound has a mind of his own. He isn't much of a house dog.”

“Your choice, or his?” I asked.

Sara's lovely home bore the unmistakable imprint of a high-priced interior designer. On the short walk from the front door to the room where we were sitting, I'd seen antique furniture, Oriental rugs, and pristine upholstery. It was hard to imagine how a silly hound might complement the décor.

“Both, actually.” Sara lowered her voice as if confiding a secret. “Elan and I? We don't really get along. Starting when he was a puppy, we just never got on the same page. After Harold left, I thought a dog would be good company. But the only company Elan seems to enjoy is his own.”

“What kind of hound is he?” I asked.

“An Afghan Hound, the most beautiful breed of dog you could possibly imagine. His hair is silver blue and feels like silk. I wanted a classy looking dog, and that's Elan all right. He looks like he ought to be owned by royalty.”

An Afghan, I thought. What a shame. Sara could hardly have made a worse choice. The breed was famous not only for its stunning beauty and aristocratic dignity, but also for its aloof and independent temperament. Not the best idea for a woman alone and seeking companionship.

On the other hand, it turned out that I'd been wrong earlier. The dog
would
complement the décor. He probably looked gorgeous draped over Sara's designer furniture.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Don't be. It wasn't your mistake. I take full responsibility. And believe me, Nick Walden read me the riot act about that. He told me that I should have put as much thought into getting a puppy as I would have into adding a member to my family. And I guess he was right.”

Indeed. Aunt Peg would have told her much the same thing.

“But at least you found Nick,” I said. “He was great with dogs and their owners. Was he able to help you and Elan get along better?”

“That was the original idea. But after a couple of weeks, Nick and I both came to the conclusion that Elan and I just weren't suited to one another. He needs room to run and an owner who will give him plenty of exercise. I need a dog that's little and fluffy and wants to snuggle with me on the couch. Once we figured that out, Nick started looking around for me. He was going to find a good home for Elan and then help me shop for a replacement.”

“Not another hound,” I said with a small smile.

“No way. I learned that lesson the first time around. But I'll tell you what. Nick Walden was really nice about it. He could have made me feel stupid for getting the wrong dog but he never did.” Sara shook her head. “I mean, what kind of idiot doesn't even like her own dog?”

“It happens,” I said. “And depending on what you're looking for in a pet, hounds can be tough.”

“That's what Nick told me. He said he was working with another client whose hound dog got along fine with its owner but caused all sorts of problems for her son. It made me feel a lot better, just knowing that I wasn't the only one who got the whole dog-ownership thing wrong.”

“Believe me,” I told her. “You're
far
from the only one. That's why Nick's services were in such demand.”

“What happened to him is a real shame,” Sara said with a sigh. “I talked to the police, but I don't know if they even have any suspects. It seems like every time there's a break-in somewhere, we're told that it's kids looking for drug money. Nick seemed like the kind of guy who spent every penny he had on his dogs. There couldn't have been much left over for someone to steal.”

“When Nick was here working with you and Elan,” I said, “did he ever seem worried about anything? Did he talk about any problems he might have had?”

“No, never. Although as you may have noticed, I like to talk. Could be that I didn't give him much of a chance.”

We smiled together. Sara did have a lot to say. She would definitely dominate just about any conversation.

“My impression of Nick was that he was a doer, not a talker,” she added. “He was the rare man who knew how to listen. Maybe because he spent so much time listening to his dogs.”

I nodded in agreement. “So what will you do with Elan now?”

“I haven't figured that part out yet. I guess I'll follow Nick's advice and start looking for a home for him on my own.”

“My aunt's involved with a lot of dog people. She might be able to help. She breeds Standard Poodles, but I'm sure she can put you in touch with an Afghan rescue group.”

“Poodles?” Sara's face brightened. “I was thinking I might try one of those next.”

“One thing at a time,” I told her. “Let's get Elan well situated first.”

“Sure, there's no hurry. I'll be working on making some other changes in the meantime.”

“Dog related?” I asked. “Or something different?”

“I've been thinking about what Nick said the last time I saw him. He told me that when something isn't working, you have to learn to let go. It might seem hard at the time, but you have to keep looking forward and not back. Nick Walden was pretty wise for someone so young. Finding a better home for Elan may be just the beginning.”

“Good for you,” I said. “And good luck.”

“Thanks,” Sara replied. She sounded less sure than her brave words might have indicated. “I'm going to need it.”

 

On my way home from Greenwich I swung by Davey's camp. I'd arrived a few minutes before the four-thirty dismissal so while I waited for Davey to appear, I pulled out my phone and gave Carol Luna's number another try. She still didn't pick up. I left a second message, explaining more fully why I wanted to speak with her. Hopefully she'd get around to returning my call this time.

As I disconnected the call, Davey came trotting over to the car. He threw his gear in the back, climbed in up front next to me, and asked, “What's for dinner?”

I leveled him a look. “A more polite child might have started the conversation with,
Hi Mom, how was your day? Thank you for picking me up and not complaining about the mud I tracked into your car
.”

“Maybe.” Davey considered for a moment, then shook his head. “But I don't think so. That part doesn't need to be said. It's assumed.”

No doubt about it, the kid was a smarty-pants. I hated to think where he might have gotten that from.

“Good manners should never be taken for granted,” I said primly as we pulled back out onto Newfield Avenue.

All at once, hearing
those
words coming out of
my
mouth made me frown. Good Lord, I sounded just like my mother.

That thought brought a sharp pang. Even after twelve years, I still felt the loss. Davey had never had the chance to know either of his grandparents. They had been killed in a car crash in the first year of my marriage to Bob. I was newly pregnant when I heard the news.

Looking back now, I remembered that year as a jumble of emotional peaks and valleys. I'd had to mourn the passing of two lives while celebrating the beginning of another.

My mother would have loved Davey with all her heart. She had liked Bob enough and I was sure she'd hoped that their relationship would deepen with time. Neither she nor my father protested when we announced our engagement, even though they both thought that we were marrying much too young. Of course, as it turned out, they were right.

My father's love for Davey would have been more restrained, perhaps a bit gruff in its expression, but no less heartfelt. He would have taken his grandson fishing, teaching him how to thread a line and construct a lure, just as he'd done with Frank and me when we were young.

By the time Davey was old enough to learn those things, Bob was already gone from our lives. My parents would have made the effort to fill that gap. They would have made sure that even with only one parent, Davey never felt any less surrounded by love.

If only they'd had the chance.