Hot Dog (16 page)

F
rowning, I reached in and had another look. My purse isn't that big, and I don't carry a whole lot of stuff. Once I'd pushed aside sunglasses, checkbook, and an assortment of old lipsticks, there wasn't anyplace left for my wallet to be hiding.

Still, my brain refused to process the obvious conclusion. The enormity of the problem was simply too big to grasp. I'd left my wallet in my purse—I
always
leave my wallet in my purse. Therefore it had to be there.

“Uh, ma'am?” The cashier was a teenage boy with skinny shoulders and pimples on his chin. He'd already bagged the groceries and put them in my cart. A line was beginning to form behind me. “That'll be seventy-two, eighty-six.”

“Yes, I know.” I was tempted to take the purse and upend it onto the counter. I knew it wouldn't do any good, but it was the only idea I could come up with. “I just can't seem to find my wallet.”

“You can pay by debit card if you want.”

Like that was an option. If I'd had my debit card—which had been in my wallet—would I have been looking so frantic?

“Or check if you have some I.D.”

I looked up. “My I.D is in my wallet, along with all my cash and credit cards. It's missing. It should be here and it's not.”

The boy glanced at the line growing at his register and looked aggrieved. I could hardly blame him. I was feeling much the same way.

“I'm going to have to call the manager,” he said.

The store manager listened to my tale of woe, but the expression on his face made it perfectly clear that he was skeptical of patrons who expected to shop in his store when they didn't have the money to pay.

“You don't understand,” I said. “I thought I had my wallet when I came in, but it's not in my purse where it should be. It's gone.”

Along with my cash, my driver's license, and several credit cards, I thought miserably. Not to mention Triple A and insurance cards, a library card with a book charged against it, and a selection of Davey's baby pictures.

“I'm afraid I can't help you.” The manager was already motioning a stock boy over to reshelf the items I'd gathered.

“My checkbook's here. Can I pay by check?”

“You got identification?”

Back to that again. “No, it's in my wallet.”

“Look,” the manager said, not unkindly. “You probably just misplaced your wallet. Go home and have a look. Maybe you used a credit card to order something online, and you'll find it sitting next to your computer. I've done that.”

He might have, but I hadn't. Last time I'd seen my wallet, it had been in my purse. I was sure of it.

The manager nodded toward Davey, who was finishing up the doughnut we hadn't paid for. “Maybe the kid took it out and was playing with it.”

Davey looked at me and shook his head. Though he hadn't said much, I knew he was listening to every word. Besides, he'd stopped playing with my pocketbook when he was four.

“Yeah,” I said, without much hope. “I'll go home and have a look.”

“Does this mean we're not going to have any food?” Davey asked as we left the store. He was trying to sound brave, but his brow was furrowed with concern.

“No, of course not.” I reached out and took his hand. Usually my son considers himself too old for hand-holding, but right then he didn't mind. “We still have money, we just don't have it with us. As soon as we figure out what happened to my wallet, we'll come back and buy lots of food.”

“You didn't pay for my doughnut,” Davey reminded me gravely. “That's stealing. Are we going to go to jail?”

The question brought me up short. There I was, consumed with worry, feeling frustrated and half-crazy over the loss of my cash and credit cards, and my son was concerned about inadvertently shoplifting a thirty-cent doughnut. Motherhood is like that. Just when you think nothing could be more dire than the problem you're facing, it sneaks up, slaps you on the side of the head, and reminds you that the little things are important too.

I gave Davey's small hand a reassuring squeeze. “We were planning to pay for it,” I said. Not that good intentions were any excuse. “We would have paid for it if we could. Next time we go shopping at that store, I'll tell them what happened and we can pay then.”

“Are you sure?”

I wasn't, but I nodded anyway. One of us being worried sick about the situation seemed like plenty to me.

We got in the car and I found myself doing what I usually do in times of stress and confusion. I drove to Aunt Peg's house. One thing you have to say for my aunt, give her a problem to gnaw on and chances are she'll either solve it or magnify it tenfold. Maybe I'm a gambler at heart and it's the uncertainty that keeps me coming back.

Worst case, I knew she'd have plenty of food on hand to reassure my hungry child.

Aunt Peg wasn't expecting us, but her Poodles let her know the moment we turned in the driveway. She met us at the door. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Did you come to see how I was holding up after my strenuous day of judging?”

“No,” Davey informed her. “Mom's in trouble again.”

Peg's smile faded. Holding her dogs at bay with a well placed leg, she ushered us inside. “Are Faith and Eve all right?”

Note my aunt's propensity to inquire after the Poodles' well-being first. In fairness, though, it was unusual for me to stop by without bringing the dogs to visit, and I was sure she'd noted their absence.

“They're fine. Davey and I went to the supermarket. That's why we left them home.”

“You were at the market,” Aunt Peg repeated. I supposed she was wondering if I had groceries defrosting in the car. “And you decided to come here? Whatever for? What's the matter?”

“Mom lost her wallet.” Davey, now rolling on the floor with the Poodles, took time out from his revels to deliver the bad news. “The guy at the store wouldn't let us buy any food because we didn't have any money.”

“That
is
trouble,” Peg agreed. Above Davey's head, she sent me a questioning look. “I was just working on Zeke when you came in. Maybe you'd like to come and explain what happened while I finish up.”

Now that she mentioned it, I noticed that the puppy's ears were unwrapped. His topknot, only partially banded, listed to one side.

At one time Aunt Peg had done her grooming in a well-appointed room in the kennel building out back. The number of Poodles she kept, however, had decreased over the last several years; and in recent months, expediency had brought most of the grooming supplies into the house. A guest room on the ground floor had been transformed into a state-of-the-art hair salon, and overnight guests were now advised to find accommodations elsewhere.

“As for you,” Peg said to Davey. “I enjoyed a rather delicious crumb cake with my morning coffee. Perhaps you'd like to go out to the kitchen and help yourself to a piece?”

“I could do that,” my son allowed.

“Splendid.” Aunt Peg cupped her hand around Zeke's muzzle, holding the big puppy in place as Davey headed off to the kitchen followed by the rest of the herd. Show Poodles never wear collars except when they're in the ring and nearly all are taught to lead by hand. Fingers wrapped gently around his muzzle, Peg escorted the puppy in the other direction.

I followed them down the hallway and found a stool to perch on as she hopped Zeke back up onto the rubber-matted grooming table. The tools for the job—a greyhound comb and pin brush, tiny colored rubber bands, knitting needle for making parts, and spray bottle of water for taming frizzies—were already out on the counter. Aunt Peg picked up the comb and deftly hooked one tooth under one of the remaining bands in Zeke's topknot. A sharp flick of her wrist popped the band and sent it flying.

“Now then,” she said pleasantly, “what sort of scrape have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Ignoring the implication that whatever had gone wrong must have been my fault, I said, “My wallet's missing. When I went to pay at the supermarket, I discovered that it wasn't in my purse.”

“Any chance you left it at home?”

“Slight. Minimal, really. I always keep it in my pocketbook.”

Remaining bands now gone, Aunt Peg picked up the pin brush and began to stroke though the long silky hair on the top of Zeke's head. “All right, let's backtrack then. When was the last time you remember having it?”

“Thursday,” I said after a minute's thought. “I got gas and used a credit card.”

“Not since Thursday? That's three days! Surely you've had to pay for something since then.”

“I don't think so. Friday, I was at school all day—”

“Pocketbook with you?”

I nodded.

Aunt Peg now had a fresh supply of bright blue rubber bands clenched between her lips. It didn't stop her from talking around them. A talented woman, my aunt. “Where does your purse stay while you're working?”

“In my classroom, in a desk drawer. I throw it there every morning and take it out at night.”

“So in theory, any number of people had access to it.”

“Yes, but—”

“Someone could have taken your wallet from your purse and you never would have noticed.”

“Not at the time, no.” My classroom wasn't locked. Kids were in and out all day long. I'd never worried about security at Howard Academy. I'd never had to. “Do you actually think someone at school stole my wallet?”

“Not necessarily.” Aunt Peg paused. “I'm just trying out the options. How likely is it that you simply misplaced it?”

“Not very. I've certainly never done it before. I'm not a careless person.”

“Precisely. So someone has been in your purse. Let's try to figure out when. Friday at school is one possibility.”

I frowned at the thought. This was my second year at Howard Academy and I loved it there. The kids I taught were really good kids, the other teachers were cheerful and generous, the administration was mostly supportive of my efforts. It hurt to think that the theft could have taken place there.

I shook my head but before I could speak, Aunt Peg was already arguing the opposing view. I hate it when she does that.

“I know what you're going to say, that Howard Academy isn't that kind of place. Need I remind you that last year your school was the kind of place where a murder could occur?”

“That was different.” It was a lame argument, and we both knew it. Aunt Peg didn't bother to dignify my claim with a response.

“Friday night you were where?” she asked.

“Home.” Just like Saturday night, now that I thought about it. Thank goodness this inquisition had nothing to do with the deficiencies of my social life.

“Assuming you still had your wallet with you, where was it?”

“In my bag, on the counter in the kitchen. I always put it there when I come in.”

“So, locked inside your house, right?”

“Right. . . .” My thoughts flew back to the middle of the week when I'd thought there was someone in the house, when I'd gone downstairs to find the television on and the back door unlocked.

“What?” asked Aunt Peg.

“I told you what happened Wednesday night.”

Eyes lowering to the job at hand, Peg used the long knitting needle to make a part in the dense black hair. “You also just said that you paid for gas on Thursday, so your wallet couldn't have disappeared then.”

“That's not what I mean.” Despite the room's warmth, I shivered slightly. “What if someone did get into in my house Wednesday night? And what if they came back on Friday?”

“You didn't hear anything?”

“No. . . .”

“Were your doors unlocked Saturday morning when you got up?”

“No, but—”

Aunt Peg glanced up, waiting to hear my objection. Unfortunately, I didn't have one, at least not one that she would find credible. Just a vague, nagging sense of unease that things weren't right, that there was more going on than I knew.

“Yesterday morning you went to see George Firth,” she continued. “You don't suppose he stole your wallet, do you?” Her tone perked up. “Marian would love to hear that.”

“I doubt it. My bag was sitting with me on the couch the whole time I was there.”

“Too bad.” Aunt Peg went back to brushing. “Then you went to the show. Pay any tolls on the way?”

“I have E-Z Pass.”

“Me, too.” Peg grinned. She gets a real kick out of modern technology.

“Admission?”

“No. I was waiting in line to pay, but Bertie came and grabbed me to show a Bichon . . .” My voice trailed off.

“And?” Zeke was now sporting a new topknot; it was time to wrap his ears. The wraps Aunt Peg had chosen were bright blue to match the rubber bands.

“I threw my purse in the first crate I saw, ran to the ring, went in the Open Class, and proceeded to totally piss off the Bichon's owners, costing Bertie a client in the process.”

“You don't lead a dull life,” Aunt Peg said mildly. “I'll give you that.”

Nor a charmed one either, apparently.

But now that I thought about it, the most likely time for my wallet to have disappeared was the day before, when I'd left it unguarded—not counting the protective ability of a rather cute Finnish Spitz—for several hours at the dog show. And if that was when the deed had been done, it wasn't hard to come up with a pair of possible suspects: Mike and Jean Azaria, Bertie's disgruntled clients who had vowed to get even.