Bloodlines

on that.”
    Fair enough? More than fair. The dog, the vet bills, the boarding? Not cheap.
    “Actually,” I said, “I understand completely.”
    And I did. I finally understood that whether or not Lois gave a damn about her bitch, she’d pay anything whatsoever to buy back her own good name.
     

19
     

     
    Every good book on competitive dog obedience warns you to avoid numerous handler errors that will cost you points and may even make you and your dog fail to qualify. Handler errors? You give a voice command and a hand signal when the rules for an exercise permit either one but not both. If your dog lags, he’s thereby losing himself points, but if you slow your own pace to match his, you’re committing a handler error, and any decent judge will dock you points for it. Some handler errors are deliberate, of course; you decide to lose points instead of failing outright. Most are inadvertent. One accidental handler error that even the kindest or most inattentive judge can’t overlook consists of failing to get the dog into the ring at all because you got hopelessly lost on the way to the trial. The cure? A good map and a detailed local atlas.
    According to the map of Burlington in my Universal Atlas of Metropolitan Boston and Eastern Massachusetts, which I consulted before pulling out of Lois Metzler’s driveway, Sherwood and Locksley lanes were dead-end streets that ran off Nottingham Road. Now, I’m not naive. In other words, as I entered Joe Rinehart’s neighborhood, I didn’t actually expect to be accosted by an evil sheriff or a band of merry men, but I’ll admit that I did envision something of a theme tract of pseudo-thatched-roof cottages and fieldstone minicastles set amidst tall greenery at least somewhat suggestive of a forest. Even before I turned onto Sherwood, though, it was obvious that there had been profound confusion about just what movie was supposed to be shot on this set. These oddly assorted haciendas, glass-and-cedar lodges, New England colonials, Mediterranean villas, Victorian bijou mansions, and plain old big pretentious houses had a few things in common, though. Every single one had a triple garage, and they all looked as if they’d contain opulent bathrooms and ghastly lamps.
    The white neo-Georgian house at 84 Sherwood Lane came as a relief in the sense that the movie was unmistakable. The tall white columns were angular instead of round, and there weren’t any oaks, of course, but the only other thing missing was a soft-sculpture Scarlett O’Hara fanning herself on the porch. I pulled into the mile-wide driveway, killed the engine, looked in the rearview mirror, and addressed the dogs. “Behave yourselves, guys, because we’re in a very exclusive neighborhood.”
    Even before I got out of the car, I guessed that no one was home. A couple of plastic-bagged daily newspapers lay on the wet brown lawn. Every curtain was closed. Every blind was drawn. I didn’t hear a sound until I got to the front door, pushed the bell, and thus caused a set of chimes to inflict on my innocent ears a blessedly muffled version of—believe it or not—“That’s Amore.” Movie confusion, right? The Italian palace down the street probably got “Dixie” by mistake.
    I made my way around Tara to the backyard, but found no sign of a dog—no kennel, no tie-out stake, not even a telltale pile on the grass. I went up a short flight of steps to a small, open porch that sheltered the back door of the house. On the floor lay a big sisal mat that depicted neither a dog nor anything else. The back doorbell produced a muted, tuneless ring of the chimes. A slip of white paper sticking out of a sheet-metal milk box by the door turned out to be a bill from the dairy. The box contained exactly what the bill said it did, namely, two one-quart bottles of homogenized milk and a one-pint carton of half-and-half. The name on the bill was Joseph Rinehart. I concluded that I had the right address and that Rinehart’s dairy wasn’t bilking him. Samantha Spade. The date on the bill was yesterday’s. With the professional writer’s mistrust of the printed word, I lifted out one of the bottles, eased off the silver cap, and plunged in my finger. Before my hand reached my mouth, I smelled the off odor, and, instead of licking my finger, I wiped it on my jeans.
    Then I went back to the Bronco and drove home to Cambridge. Oh, I made one stop on the way. Emma’s Pizza, Huron Ave. Blame Rinehart’s chimes. The