All Shots

adamant that the victim is unidentified. Among her belongings, according to these ridiculous policemen, were financial records of mine suggestive of an effort to steal my identity. This other person with my name claims that various identifying items had been stolen from her trash, but I ask you! And she found the body!
 
I simply cannot believe that you left your house in the care of some stranger. Who was she? And do you know anything about this woman with my name who lives on Concord Avenue? I paid her a visit. She is not our type at all.
 
Finally, let me, as a fellow crime victim, express my empathy. I have not had my tangible possessions damaged, as you have, but the dead woman entered my flat during my absence, or so it seems, and it is, furthermore, galling to have had her help herself to a valued intangible of mine, namely, my name, as opposed to having had her death result in the destruction of readily replaceable tangibles, i.e., aquariums and fish. Now that I have returned from England, I have the advantage of being on the spot, whereas you are not. If there is anything I can do for you, do let me know. Please get in touch!
 
Best,
Holly Winter
     
    I was going to withhold my comments, but I ask you: “on the spot... you are not”! I was not and am not her type, but I do my best to edit out unintended rhymes. Furthermore, if I’m about to slip into Lauren Bacall mode by telling a man that if there’s anything he wants, all he has to do is whistle, I don’t preface the offer by telling him that his pets have died and then referring to them as “readily replaceable tangibles.”
    I could go on. But I’ll just add that below Holly Winter’s name there appeared her phone numbers: office, home, and cell. Hot come-on, huh?
     

CHAPTER 16
     
    Early that evening, when the rain had stopped and Rowdy and Kimi were in the yard, Steve got through on his cell phone. By unfortunate coincidence, I’d taken advantage of the absence of the other dogs to let Sammy play with his Buster Cube, a one-dog toy if there ever was one, especially if even one of the dogs is a malamute. As perhaps I need to explain, the Buster Cube is a plastic box that you load with dry dog food or treats that it subsequently dispenses as the dog paws it, noses it, or, in Sammy’s case, delivers massive whacks that send it noisily flying across the room. Anyway, Sammy was whamming the plastic toy across the tile of the kitchen floor when the phone rang, and since caller ID displayed Steve’s cell number, I grabbed the wireless phone and took refuge in the living room.
    “I’m so glad to hear your voice,” I said before he’d had time to say a word. “I miss you. Are you okay?”
    “Didn’t you get my message? We’re fine.”
    “That was days ago. Rowdy got a Group II on Saturday, and Sammy went Winners Dog. Steve, Teller is a mistake. He mixed up the dogs, and the handler he provided for Sammy was a dope. But the dogs looked good. I was proud of them. And it’s always good to see Gabrielle.”
    “Did your father behave himself?”
    “More or less. Not exactly. No. He could’ve been worse, I guess. And they left early this morning. Are you having fun?”
    “Holly, I can’t begin to tell you. The dogs are loving it. You should’ve come with us. No, you shouldn’t. Except for the bugs, you’d love it. But they’re pretty bad.”
    “I’ve had a lifetime’s worth of black fly season in Maine. You’ve seen the scars. And I hate bug dope. It always ends up in my eyes.”
    “You’ve mentioned that once or twice,” he said, meaning ten thousand times.
    After that, I told Steve how much I loved and missed him, as I really did. I then intended to tell him about the murder, the whole Holly Winter identity business, the photo of the blue malamute, and so forth, but the damned inevitable intervened: with no warning, we lost the connection. I tried his number, got nowhere, waited for him to call back, tried his number again, and settled for leaving a short message in which I said nothing about the murder. The aborted call left me feeling cheated and unsettled. The sense of dissatisfaction lingered, and throughout the evening, j was restless and jumpy. In particular, my ears were sharply attuned to the sound of motorcycles passing by on Concord Avenue. Ridiculous! I was so used to the Concord Avenue traffic that it was background noise that ordinarily didn’t register on me at all and had no business alarming me now. And