Paws before dying

afternoon? If Martori had been judging then? And especially if they’d all been in western New York State late on Friday and early on Saturday morning? Well, then Heather, Abbey, and Martori had the same solid alibi.
    And they did. Late on Sunday night, I reached Sandi Matson, one of my Dog’s Life buddies. At Guilford, on Friday, she said, Utility B started in the afternoon. Martori and Heather were both at the Saturday show, too. So why didn’t Heather brag about her Saturday score as well as about Guilford? Well, that’s obvious: It was a lousy score. Anyway, Saturday didn’t even matter, because Sandi has poodles, and poodle people hang out together. She had dinner with Heather and Abbey on Friday night. Martori sat two tables away. While Rose was in Newton training for the last time, they were all in New York State.
     

Chapter 21

     
    WILLIE Johnson called Leah the next morning on the pretext of asking about an upcoming fun match. Spurred by Rita’s strong views on open communication, I used his call as the opportunity to have a frank discussion with Leah about my take on his family. Open is just that, open, according to Rita, two-way and honest, and I was. People who grow up in dysfunctional families have a hard time learning how to act in the rest of the world, I said. Furthermore, this family had a history of violence, and it made me nervous. Leah had probably been talking to Rita, too, because she pointed out that my nervousness was my problem. My hackles went up a little, and I told her about the abuse of one of the dogs and about the fights at the family business, more than I probably had a right to spill. Maybe I was unfair to Willie.
    An hour later, while Leah was taking a shower, the front doorbell rang. Hell, roses again, I thought. I prepared a speech for the florist’s delivery person: Leah Whitcomb had moved, she wasn’t coming back, and I wouldn’t accept the flowers.
    But when I opened the door, the brown UPS van was pulling away, and a box with a return address in Freeport, Maine, sat on the porch. Good clothes and large, shedding dogs are incompatible, of course, but nevertheless Pd splurged on a summer-weight short-sleeved cotton sweater from L. L. Bean, in a very impractical shade of navy blue, together with a pair of hiking boots. I didn’t even open the box before I stashed it in my bed-room closet, out of Leah’s view, and shut the door.
    A moment later, a heavily betoweled Leah emerged from the athroom with that incredible glowing hair plaited, wrapped, and wound into an elaborate coiffure suitable for a lady about to be presented to the Court of St. James. Kimi and Rowdy, my own royalty, were daffy about her, anyway, but she’d evidently rubbed some kind of after-bath lotion on her legs and feet, and they ran for her and began licking her skin and wagging their tails.
    “Oh, God, no!” she ordered them. “Get away! Holly, get these dogs away! They’re getting their fur all over me!”
    “Easy, there,” I said. “They don’t know they’re shedding. Come on, guys. I’ll be nice to you.”
    But when she’d layered herself, she was all smiles and pats again. She made up with the dogs and took Kimi out to do some work. In their absence, I called Steve and reached him between patients.
    “Look, I’ve thought of an excuse for you to find out about Don Zager,” I said. “The nephew? What you need to do is call him.”
    “Clever,” he replied. “Devious. I’d been thinking of something simple and straightforward. Like calling him.”
    “Well, so what’s your excuse? You don’t have one. Were you just going to call up and introduce yourself and say hello? What you need to do is ask about this stuff he does. Tell him you heard he did this alternative veterinary whatever it is, homeopathy, and say you’re interested. Why don’t you say you might want to refer someone to him?”
    He answered patiently and slowly. “I called him this morning,” he said one word at a time. He’s used to explaining complex veterinary matters to uncomprehending owners. “I called him this morning,” he repeated. “He was not available. I left a message. About my interest in acupuncture. He will return the call.”
    “A step ahead, huh? So when he calls, you also need to raise the subject of shock collars.”
    “Acupuncture is painless,” he said, “or it’s supposed to be-I haven’t tried it myself, but people swear the needles don’t hurt. So I pretend I don’t know