The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (17 page)

“Not like that. Here, let me.”

If these two are an item, this scolding sounds totally wrong. Steven shrugs his shoulders, mumbles something about not being much of a cat person, and returns to his seat, unfazed. He seems quite content to look on, stroking his neat goatee like he’s checking that it’s still there.

Ginny picks up the carrier, places it on the examination table, and this time there are no complaints as she extracts an orange, flat-faced, long-haired cat. My mind should be brainstorming feline kidney disease but it’s hit the “pause” button. I’ve gone totally blank on Chelsea’s breed.

“We’re hoping you share the same treatment philosophy as your father.”

Is she asking me a question? And how do I stop her from using that word?

“Weekly examinations. Regular checkups on her urine. Careful monitoring for dehydration.”

Persian. The name of the breed is Persian. Originated in Iran. Known for polycystic kidney disease, an inherited disorder. These particular cats are born with abnormal kidneys, but most don’t show clinical signs until three to ten years of age.

It takes me a while to realize Ginny’s staring at me, as though I might have succumbed to a narcoleptic event. Was I talking to myself again? “Sorry, yes,” I say. “Certainly. Happy to.” I run a hand over Chelsea’s back and feel the greasy, clumpy fur and boney skeleton of a creature fighting a chronic, relentless disease.

“I’m sure you’ve heard this before, Doctor, but Chelsea is the best cat in the world. Sorry, I should have asked if you prefer Dr. Mills, or can I call you Cyrus?”

Is this a test? Is she actually questioning my family loyalty?

“Um … Cyrus … and I don’t doubt it … about her being the best cat in the world.”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. Nothing. Isn’t that right, Steven?”

Steven’s not listening, still playing with his watch, and once again Ginny waits for a response from me. What does she want me to say? Something philosophical? Something reassuring? I tip my head back, open my mouth, and inhale, desperate to impart some sort of personal, eloquent wisdom. But I’ve got nothing. Seconds pass, trapped in mute moronic limbo, trustworthy veterinarian transformed into village idiot. In the end I do the only thing that comes to mind. I pick up Chelsea and hug her to my chest.

To my amazement Ginny beams, as though this is exactly what she’d hoped for, and joins me, running her hand down her beloved cat’s body. Botox may have limited her ability to express alarm, and yes, she’s a little too tight in the wrong places, but her lips can still tremble. This is no act.

Then I notice the left hand that strokes the cat, not the wrinkles—the part of the aging process her cosmetic surgeon cannot hide—but the enormous sparkling rock on the fourth finger. “That’s a beautiful ring.”

At this Steven is all ears, rocking in his seat, and making a show of interlocking his fingers in his lap. He seems to be accustomed to taking the credit.

“Thank you,” says Ginny. “Three carats.”

“Three point two,” Steven says. “Picked it up in New York. Friend in Midtown gave me a deal. Before Vermont I lived in Manhattan.”

“I beg your pardon, three point two.”

She overplays the demure shoulder shrug. “Steven surprised me with it, what, couple of months ago. Feels funny, being a fiancée at my age.”

This comment actually gets Steven on his feet, placing an arm around Ginny’s hip and giving her a disconcerting pat on her derriere. “You’re as old as you feel, right, Doc?”

Ginny offers him a playful punch on the arm, and Steven feigns mock pain. Chelsea and I look on. I believe we are unified in our revulsion.

“So,” I say, eager to move on. “Chelsea gets her blood tested, urine tested, anything else?”

“X-rays. Doc Cobb was worried about kidney stones.”

Most common types of stone: cystine, oxalate, urate, and struvite. “Really. When was the last time she had an X-ray?”

Ginny consults with her boy toy.

“Couple of weeks before he died,” says Steven. Ginny seems to concur. “She won’t sit still. I always have to hold her.”

I’ve noticed a couple of wide shelves in the work area, home to large manila envelopes, presumably the clinic’s collection of pet X-rays. This feels like an opportunity to finally catch Lewis. “Mind if I track them down? Give me an idea of what’s going on.”

“Be our guest,” says Steven. “Take your time.” He winks at me. I don’t want to imagine what he hopes to get up to in my absence.

Lewis, grappling with a fluffy white object, seems to be making a conscious effort not to catch my eye as I rifle the shelf of X-rays and find the appropriate folder. It’s thick and heavy and the films date back over many months. No question, Ginny Weidmeyer is worried about Chelsea, but, more importantly for Bedside Manor, she’s game to spend some serious money on her cat. I wonder if I can continue to make that happen before the end of the week?

There’s a viewing box on the wall. I switch it on and begin looking at films in chronological order. It’s been a while since I tried to read an X-ray and, unlike Lewis’s previous synopsis, it’s nothing like riding a bike.

When I put up the final image, taken eleven days before the death of Robert Cobb, I see it, a tiny kidney stone.

I could take a little more time, review a medical textbook, get my questions and facts straight before I go back in, but already my eyes have focused on a totally different area of the X-ray film. I can make out a series of small bones that should not be there—human bones, Ginny’s hand, exposed to radiation from restraining her fidgety cat. And the ring, the diamond in its gold setting, is totally white and opaque on the film. How can that be?

Once again another stupid factoid has lodged in my mind: diamond is a cubic lattice structure of one atom, carbon. Diamond will not show up on an X-ray. I should see a black, empty setting. But Ginny’s three-carat—sorry, three-point-two-carat—rock is white and opaque. Either Steven was duped when he purchased the ring or, unwittingly, this little cat with a kidney stone has just unmasked lover-boy Steven as a fraud.

No wonder Lewis’s appointments last so long. Will the man ever stop talking? I’ve been finished with Ginny for nearly twenty minutes. I promised to review Chelsea’s entire record and evaluate “Dr. Cobb’s” treatment plan (I hope she noticed how I referred to him) regarding the kidney stone, before getting back to her. Naturally I said nothing about the fake engagement ring. Intriguing as it is, it’s none of my business.

The chime of the shopkeeper’s doorbell is my cue to pounce. “Finally. Can we talk?” I gesture for Lewis to join me in the work area rather than add, “in private,” in front of Doris.

“Didn’t believe it ’til I came in this morning.” A jovial Lewis strolls past me, and I close the door behind him. Why is he acting chipper and congratulatory? And that crimson bow tie with white polka dots is not helping matters. He nods at the cage that’s home to Tina and her kitten. “Only way to pry that young girl off her cat was if she had her baby. And that means the rumors about the gifted Dr. Mills must be true.”

He steps in and puts an arm around my shoulder like a proud parent, obviously unable to read my irritation. After a restless two hours of sleep, I had stumbled downstairs, intending to tell Lewis about the mysterious newspaper article and confront him over leaving me in the lurch last night. This development with the media has changed my focus. Where to begin?

“Take a look at these.”

Lewis pauses as I pass what feels like a handful of warrants for my arrest, regarding me with more optimism than concern, a convivial “how bad could it possibly be” expression. Then he begins to read, and the more he reads, the more his blithe confidence melts away. With it goes my need to terrorize him for the truth about his ailing wife.

“What are we going to do?” I ask. “The last thing I need are reporters asking questions about a veterinarian who thinks he’s an obstetrician. If they’re curious, they’ll dig, and if they dig, they’ll find my suspended license and as soon as they do, it’s over. If I can’t work, I can’t turn this practice around, and if I can’t sell it as a going concern, I can’t get back.”

Suddenly Lewis seems filled with sadness, and I can’t tell whether it is aimed at me or leaking from him. “Get back to what?”

A minute ago I might have jumped all over him with an emphatic “the private and dispassionate life of a veterinary pathologist, of course.” But sensing this change in him, I soften my reply to something I hope he will appreciate. “What I do best.”

Lewis keeps his head down, lips pursed, and nods. Was it something he read or something I said?

“You never came right out and said you wanted to sell the practice. I had hoped you were making a new start for yourself. I mean you’ve only just got here.”

I frown. “It’s not as though I have a choice. I’m out of money. I’ve got bills to pay, serious legal fees, and no one was going to hire me without a license to practice. Bedside Manor found me, and for that I will be eternally grateful, but it was always a means to an end. Thing is, if I don’t make a significant first payment in three days’ time the bank will step in and I’ll lose everything.”

“How much are we talking?”

I tell him the dollar amount. Lewis appears stunned, as if I as good as handed him his pink slip. Critchley’s opening fee should be labeled “heartbreaking disbelief,” not good faith.

“When were you thinking of trying to sell?” Lewis asks.

“Ideally within the month.”

“Seriously. Less than a month?” For a moment I lose him as the thoughts behind his eyes pull him away from me. I don’t know where they take him, but judging from the speed of his transition into the distress written across his face, the destination is painful. When the Lewis I know comes back, he says, “Let me ask you something: last night, when you delivered the kitten, when you delivered the baby, how did it make you feel?”

“Who told you what happened?”

Lewis locates the message from Ethel Silverman and makes it flutter between his fingers like a patriot welcoming home the troops. “Her daughter-in-law works ob-gyn at University Hospital.”

I shake my head. Who needs the Internet when you’ve got Ethel Silverman to turn the town’s petty gossip viral?

“And don’t worry. I already called Ethel. Kai’s fine. And Denise and her baby are doing fine. Ethel just wanted the details of what happened here last night. If nothing else, Mrs. Silverman prefers her tattling to be current and accurate.” He waits a beat. “So, tell the truth, how did it make you feel?”

My right hand begins reaching for that imaginary itch at the back of my head. It was a long night. After driving Denise and her son to the hospital in the VW (she was right, it took over an hour to get there, and The Bug’s useless in the snow) and fending off disapproving looks from nurses convinced I was the child’s illegitimate father, I had to wait for a shift change to hitch an ambulance ride back to Eden Falls.

“If I pretend not to feel like crap and ignore this unwanted attention then … sure … there was a measure of satisfaction in the process.”

Lewis snatches at my restraint. “A measure? Admit it, it felt pretty damned good, right?”

“If you say so.”

“Like nothing you’ve ever experienced looking down a microscope?”

I see where he’s going with this. “Different is all. There’s plenty of satisfying thrills in pathology.”

“Really?” He does a little cant thing with his head. “Since when did pathology make you forget to breathe? Since when did pathology get your heart bursting in your chest?”

My moment of hesitation is proof enough, and he celebrates with an enormous grin. I can’t get mad at him. Whatever was lurking in his ominous daydream can stay there for now. First things first.

“What are we going to do about the media?” I use the word
we
without thinking, but Lewis latches onto it as if he’s grateful, like there’s still hope.

He thumbs through the messages one more time. “You can’t hide from this. Saying ‘no comment’ will only fire up their curiosity, especially on a slow news day. But there may be a way to minimize the damage while maximizing an opportunity to improve business.”

I’m not with him.

“Peter Greer. Englishman, nice guy, editor in chief for the
Eden Falls Gazette
. He’s been a Bedside Manor client for years. Has a Jack Russell terrier, Toby. We’ll tell the other reporters we’re going to give our hometown columnist the exclusive. They want their scoop, they’re going to have to quote Greer.”

“Why choose him?”

“Simple,” says Lewis, “Greer’s proven himself loyal to the practice and he knows what it’s like to be an outsider trying to catch a break in a small town. He’ll be receptive. He’ll spin the story in our favor. Just focus on the events of last night and make it clear you’re hoping to get some good publicity for the practice. Remember, this is the
Eden Falls Gazette
. It’s not an interview with
Vanity Fair
. And he’s not going to alienate you, not after what you did for Denise Laroche.”

I’m not convinced. “You really believe this guy’s our best option?”

“This way the story might stay local. Think about it, how many folks actually read the
Gazette
? You call Greer and I’ll call Denise and tell her there’ll be no charges for last night so long as she refuses to speak to any reporters.”

“What? Which bit of ‘we need money’ did you not hear?”

“You got a cheaper way to buy her silence? Didn’t think so. Doris can fend off the rest of this lot in her sleep. After all, articulation to the point of rudeness is Doris’s specialty.”

I wanted to ask about Mrs. Lewis, about Ginny Weidmeyer’s relationship with Cobb, and whether I should be worried about the potentially meddlesome Crystal Haggerty, but Lewis is already headed for the reception desk, triumphantly waving my paper slips over his head.

Peter Greer could not have been nicer during our phone conversation. What’s with a plummy English accent—it makes everything you say sound so weighty and indefatigable. Apparently it was “absolutely splendid” of me to give him an exclusive, he assured me that he was not a hack overeager to use the word
hero
, and, if I could “pop-in” around seven this evening for an interview that would be “smashing.”