Evil Breeding

possession and not mine. “Has he ever bitten you?” I asked forcefully.
    She hesitated.
    “He’s put his teeth on you,” I guessed, “but he hasn’t broken the skin.”
    Jocelyn nodded. As she was about to speak, Mr. Motherway appeared at the top of the stairs. Viewed from below, he looked even taller than he was. In advanced age, he was a handsome man. “About the dog,” I murmured to Jocelyn. “I can help.”
    She looked skeptical.
    “Jocelyn,” said Mr. Motherway, when he’d descended the stairs, “we’ll be in my office.” Opening a door off the hall, he gestured to me to enter first. I did. The room had a brick fireplace, walls painted in an odd shade of pale green, yet more American primitive paintings, and the most beautiful desk I had ever seen. Mr. Motherway was a big, tall man. The desk could have accommodated someone twice his size. It Was made of cherry, I think, and had shiny brass hardware. Upholstered chairs faced the fireplace. Except for Mr. Motherway’s framed college diploma—Princeton, 1930—the museum effect of the entire room was so pronounced that I half expected to see velvet ropes fastened across the chairs to prevent tourists from making themselves at home. And the whole house obviously had what the dogs and I would kill for: central air-conditioning. Mr. Motherway followed me into the room. The dog trailed at his heels. He was a long shepherd with the exaggerated rear angulation that produces a gait known as a “flying trot.” That distinctive angulation, together with the resulting gait, is the hallmark of the German shepherd dog bred for the American show ring.
    “What’s the dog’s name?” I asked.
    “Wagner.” He made the W sound like a V. The a was ah. Smiling gently, he said, “My dear wife was fond of music.”
    “I’m very sorry.” I meant to refer to her death. What else? Why offer condolences on the deceased’s love of music? Or on an inoffensive dog name? Although Mr. Motherway couldn’t have misunderstood me, I felt awkward. In less elevated social circumstances not involving a recent death, I’d probably have tried to turn my faux pas into an unfunny joke. Now, it seemed best to ignore it. “Are you sure I’m not intruding?” I asked.
    “Certainly not.” He directed me to one of the chairs by the fireplace and took a seat in the other. He didn’t sit until I did. Neither did Wagner. He waited for Mr. Motherway, and then sank to the floor at his master’s feet. Strange human manners: Remain standing until the lady is seated, but let her assume that your daughter-in-law is the maid. The growling, too: odd hospitality. “I believe in keeping busy,” Mr. Motherway went on. “Resumption of normal activity and all that sort of thing. And this book of yours must, after all, have a deadline.”
    The word hung in the air: deadline. Then it reverberated in my ears: dead, dead, deadline. But Mr. Motherway’s family line wasn’t dead. Kennel help or not, Peter was his son, and there was also the grandson mentioned in the death notice, Christopher, presumably Peter and Jocelyn’s son.
    Still, the word unnerved me. I pulled a steno pad and a pen from my purse. “There is a deadline, but it’s flexible.”
    Mr. Motherway rambled a bit about Morris and Essex. Like everyone else who’d ever described it, he kept saying that it was fabulous. I was getting tired of the word. I wanted details, not adjectives. But the man’s wife had been dead for less than a week; this was no time to lean on him. If he wanted to ramble, I’d listen patiently. Eventually, I said, “You mentioned that you’d found some snapshots?” I wished that he’d come up with a menu instead.
    He rose and went to the magnificent desk, where he rummaged and eventually found a couple of tattered, curling black-and-white photographs printed on old-fashioned paper with scalloped edges. They were just what he’d said, snapshots, and amateur ones at that; Elizabeth, my photographer coauthor, would have no use for them. In one, two men and a shepherd posed by a car with running boards. Both men were dressed in suits. The shorter, older-looking man had a substantial paunch. On his head was one of those felt hats that men wore back in the days when ladies wore white gloves. The other man, bareheaded and towheaded, was easily recognizable as the young B. Robert Motherway. The men and the dog wore serious expressions. They didn’t seem to be having fun.
    “Kaiser,” Mr. Motherway