Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog

I knew that that’s who it was. Martyn Eliot, of all the ironies.”
    “How did you get him to go up to the roof, Beryl?”
    “What did you say, dear?” she asked, fiddling with a wisp of hair that had come loose from its combs. “Oh, yes, the roof. Of course, you’d wonder about that. Well, you’re such a terribly clever person, you tell me.”
    “As you wish. It had to be a test of character, in keeping with your theme.”
    She smiled, but her eyes were cold.
    “First, you heard me at your door. Cecilia must have been all excited, because Dashiell was with me. Next—”
    “I’ve had quite enough of this, dear. The tea is cold, and I’m afraid I’m getting bored with your company.”
    She stood, took her purse from the bureau, and stooped to scoop up her dog. Then she headed for the door.
    I watched her reach for the knob, turn it, and pull the door partway open before sending Dashiell. Crossing the room, he didn’t seem to touch the ground. When he came up on his hind legs and slammed the door shut with a satisfying thud, the room shook.
    “Sit down, Mrs. Potter. We’re not finished with our discussion.”
    Beryl reached for the doorknob again.
    “Watch her,” I said.
    Dashiell wedged himself between Beryl and the door, using his hip to back her out of his way. Then he stood facing her, as quiet and unmovable as cement.
    “Out,” she commanded, her voice booming.
    Dashiell never blinked.
    “Haven’t you trained him?” she asked me, desperation in her voice. Then without waiting for me to tell her what she had already learned for herself—that while Dashiell might sit for her, or even roll over if she asked him to, he had been proofed against taking commands from anyone but his handler when doing protection work—she made another mistake. She reached for Dashiell’s collar.
    Dashiell’s muzzle wrinkled up like an accordion, retracting his lips. There were sound effects, too, a low rumble that made everything tremble, as if we were outside and the subway were passing underneath the sidewalk.
    Beryl withdrew her hand.
    “Sit down, Mrs. Potter. You aren’t going anywhere. Even if Dashiell weren’t here, I am. You don’t have the advantage of surprise this time.”
    She backed up to the bed and sat, Dashiell watching her every move.
    “It had to do with Cecilia,” I said. “Because that would be the one request he couldn’t turn down, and you knew it.”
    Even sitting on the bed, her back was as straight as a ramrod.
    “I woke up at four again. It was Cecilia. She was at the door, and I heard the tags on her collar tinkling. She was just standing there, begging me to open up, her little tail wagging back and forth. Then she came back to bed. But a moment later, she was at the door again. That time I did get up, because I heard the key in the lock next door to me. It was our Martyn, home from your poker game.”
    “You locked Cecilia in the bathroom,” I continued, having recently felt the scratches on the inside of the door to make sure my theory was correct. “And then you went to knock on his door.”
    “He looked so tired, so out of sorts. It was a demanding lifestyle he kept, trying to make so many women happy. It would wear a man down, I’d think. It wouldn’t leave much for the woman waiting at home.”
    “No, it wouldn’t.”
    “I was quite hysterical, you know. I grabbed at his shirt and began to pull him out into the hall. ‘It’s Cecilia,’ I told him; ‘she awakened me crying, had to go and do her business, poor thing, but Samantha had warned us about the dangers of New York City,’ I told him, doing my best frail and frightened old lady in a bathrobe for him. ‘I’m afraid I’ve done a naughty thing,’ I said. ‘I took her up on the roof. I thought she could take care of things there, and we’d be safe.’
    “He was frowning, almost too tired to follow the little story I was telling him. ‘Well, somehow,’ I said, rushing on with it, ‘she’d gotten herself into some sort of pipe and was too frightened to come to me. Oh, could you help, Martyn?’ I asked him.
    “ ‘Perhaps we should call the desk,’ he said. I could see he was annoyed. He was dying to get to sleep. ‘There’s no time,’ I told him, ‘it’s a matter of life and death.’ Well, that was certainly true,” Beryl said. “I begged him to fetch his umbrella, I said perhaps we could use the handle to hook her collar and pull her out We headed for the stairs. I assured him that