Animal Appetite

correspondence between this fatality and the murder of Jack Andrews. It must have been almost seven o’clock when I was finally free to leave. A cop gave me a ride home.
    Steve and I were supposed to be going out to dinner at Rialto, which is in the Charles Hotel and is by far the fanciest and best restaurant in Cambridge. The decor is what I guess would be called a warm version of Art Deco, voguish enough to please the celebrities and the rich out-of-towners who stay at the hotel, but stopping short of the New York trendiness that would scare away the Cambridge clientele. The food is so good that it always makes me wish I were the kind of person who can send compliments to the chef while keeping a straight face. In brief, a romantic dinner at Rialto is my idea of the perfect cure for the emotional wounds that fester when, for example, he refuses to spend Thanksgiving with her father, and she refuses to spend it with his mother.
    Until I found Steve at my kitchen table studying an issue of the Journal of the American Veterinary Medical Association and idly stroking the heads of my dogs, I’d forgotten that we were supposed to go out. Instead of greeting either him or the dogs, I stood rigid and silent. As Steve rose, I said, “He died.”
    Steve wrapped his arms around me. “Your professor?”
    “My professor.”
    Without permission, the dogs leaped up to nuzzle our faces. I didn’t correct them.
    “You’re shaking,” Steve said.
    “Have the dogs eaten?” I asked.
    “No. I thought you’d fed them before you left.”
    “No. Could you feed them? And take them out?” Steve is not the kind of insensitive clod who, in these circumstances, says something dense like “Never mind about the damn dogs! What about you?”
    “Tie them up before you feed them,” I said stupidly. Instead of saying “I know,” he spoke quietly to the dogs as he hitched them at opposite ends of the kitchen, measured correct portions of defrosted Bil Jac, sprinkled on dry kibble from the bag in the closet, and added water. As always, Rowdy and Kimi yelped, shrieked, bounced, and whirled in circles until their dishes hit the floor.
    “I love to listen to them eat,” I said. “Before Rita got her hearing aids, she thought that dogs ate silently. Did you know that? And she couldn’t hear them when they drank water.”
    “She told me.” He went to the cabinet where I keep my small supply of liquor and poured me a glass of cognac. When he handed me the drink, he kissed the top of my head.
    I took two big sips and swallowed. “I need to call Kevin.” My voice sounded loud. I lowered it. “I think Professor Foley was murdered. I need to talk, but the dogs have to go out. Steve, I don’t want them loose in the yard. I keep worrying that they’ll kill a rat that’s
    been poisoned. Could you just take them for a little
    walk?”
    While Steve walked Rowdy and Kimi, I took a hot shower. When he and the dogs returned, Rita was with them. I was in the kitchen wearing wool socks, flannel-lined jeans, a turtleneck, and a heavy fleece pullover, not exactly an outfit meant for Rialto.
    “So what’s this about murder?” Rita demanded.
    “I need to call Kevin,” I said.
    “Have you eaten?” Rita asked.
    “We’re going to Rialto,” Steve told her.
    “We’re not,” I said. “I can’t. And I need to talk to Kevin.”
    “He’s away for a week,” Rita said. “He left today.”
    “Kevin? He’s never away. He never goes anywhere. Where is he?”
    “I’m sworn to secrecy.” Rita was serious.
    “Where is he?”
    She didn’t really reply, but asked, “Do you have any food in the house? And I don’t mean dog food.” She can be very bossy.
    “Eggs,” Steve said. “Potatoes. And beer.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake, Holly! You wouldn’t treat an animal like this. If Steve didn’t feed you, you’d die of malnutrition.”
    “I’m not hungry. Steve, you’d better cancel the reservation.”
    Instead of using the phone in the kitchen, he headed in the direction of my study.
    The second he left, Rita said, “You listen to blues, Holly. Haven’t you heard? A good man is hard to find.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Didn’t you see his face?”
    “Rita, the face on my mind right now is Professor Foley’s.”
    “There you have it. You think that he doesn’t notice that he always comes last?”
    “Steve? He does not come last.”
    “When have you ever put his needs before your dogs, your