Bloodlines

commonwealth is probably somewhat different from yours, unless, of course, you show your dogs around here. Westford: northwest of Boston, the 4-H grounds, Minuteman Kennel Club, temperament testing. Westboro: near Marlboro, Wachu-sett and Worcester County shows. West Brookfield: agility training, lots of other canine activities. Weston: Weston Dog Training Club, Charles River Dog Training Club. Westfield, Westminster, Westport, Westwood? Westbrook: beyond Route 128, before 495, maybe forty-five minutes.
    “Mr. Coakley breeds dogs,” Enid Sievers added.
    “Malamutes?”
    “Oh, lots of different kinds,” she said brightly.
    Shit! I almost yelled it out loud. Two breeds? Sure. The husband has bassets, the wife has bloodhounds, man, woman, and dogs met at a tracking test. Happens all the time. Three breeds? His German shepherds, her collies, their Belgian sheepdogs. Okay. But lots? Lots makes me suspicious.
    “What kind?” I asked.
    “Poodles,” she said. “Little balls of fluff.” She cupped her beringed hands to demonstrate. “And something called a, uh, Pomeranian?”
    “Yes.”
    “Darling! And these adorable little white ones all covered with curls.”
    “Bichon. Bichon frisé.” Curly lap dog.
    “Yes! And Pom-a-poos! Isn’t that cute?”
    I almost wept. If the dying Edgar Sievers just had to have a dog, why not one of the little breeds? And not from Puppy Luv and not from someone who had lots and lots, either. I wasn’t very responsive. I said I’d better be going and asked for Mr. Coakley’s address and phone number.
    Enid Sievers rose, made her way between and around a few dozen mismatched pieces of furniture, and began rummaging around in a delicate little desk with a fold-down front.
    “And,” I said casually, “it would probably be best if I take Missy’s papers. They really should go with her.”
    Enid Sievers looked up, darted a glance at me, and addressed the air over my head. “Missy’s papers meant a lot to Edgar,” she said reverently. “I really don’t think he’d want me to just give them away like that.” Enid Sievers resumed her rummaging.
    “Here it is,” she said. She leaned over the desk, evidently copying down the information on a notepad shaped like a daisy. Then she straightened up and, as she began to make her way back toward me, said hesitantly, “And, um, this reminds me. My friend suggested...” She cleared her throat. “Missy’s doghouse?”
    “Her crate? The Vari-Kennel?”
    Enid Sievers brightened up. “Edgar paid a substantial amount of money for it,” she said proudly. “My friend thought that Mrs. Burley might like to buy it from me. For Missy? Or maybe you’d like it? I could give you a very good price.”
    “Maybe,” I said. I didn’t need it myself, but Malamute Rescue did. “How much would you...?”
    “My friend says that half of what Edgar paid would be very fair. To both of us. Eighty dollars.”
    “So half is forty,” I said.
    “Miss Winter, you must be joking! These things are terribly expensive! Edgar paid a hundred and sixty dollars for that house. And that’s not counting tax! So I really couldn’t let it go for—”
    I'd had enough. “I hate to tell you,” I said, not hating it at all, “but the standard price for a number five hundred Vari-Kennel, which is what that is, is about eighty dollars, including shipping, maybe less. New. That’s in the discount catalogs.” I softened up. “But it’s in good shape. Maybe if you advertise, you’ll find someone who’ll want it.”
    A lot of good it did me to soften up. Enid Sievers pursed her lips in a sour pout. I’d insulted Edgar’s memory, I guess. I resisted the temptation to inform her of the probable markup on Missy. The crate would seem like a bargain by comparison.
    Enid Sievers handed me the slip of paper on which she’d written the information about Coakley. I glanced at it. Have you ever heard of “spidery” handwriting? Hers looked like the web: little interconnected squares linked in a complicated design, evidently meant to trap something, too.
    “I’m sure Missy will be very happy with Mrs. Burley,” she said as she trailed me to the door.
    “I’m sure she will,” I replied. Let Betty Burley explain that she wasn’t adopting Missy. And while she was at it, let Betty talk this woman out of Missy’s papers, too.
     

12
     

     
    If I’d met Bill Coakley in what turned out to be the dirty flesh, I’d have hated him on sight. But I didn’t