Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

the look of the waiting room, the walls covered with framed fabric samples, I thought the occupant might be a wholesale fabric dealer. But the business cards on the empty desk said Ink, Inc. was in book packaging. The pretty blond I expected back at the desk at any moment turned out to be a squatty senior citizen, short and wide, a cigarette dangling from her wound of a mouth, her bright red lipstick bleeding into the deep wrinkles on her upper lip.
    “Help you?” She sounded like a bullfrog.
    “I hope so. I’m looking for a veterinary office that used to be in this building. On this floor.”
    I smiled and waited.
    She took the cigarette out of her mouth with two stained fingers and snubbed it out in her ashtray.
    “A vet’s office?”
    ‘That’s right.”
    “Not in my memory. Not in this building.”
    “And you’ve been here long?”
    “Too long,” she croaked. “One day I’m going to do something about that. But not today. Today I’m too busy to think about it. So, can I get back to work now or is there something else you want?”
    Dash and I headed over to the east side.
    Ruth was in a booth at the back and waved me over.
    “I saw you through the window,” she said, a woman of about forty whose pear-shaped body reflected her sedentary work. Her brown hair was short, in a boyish cut, and the round face was lost behind huge glasses with red frames.
    “Ruth Stewart,” she said. Her hand was cool.
    “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” I said, sending Dash under the table and taking the seat across from her.
    She waved her hand at me. “I just got here a moment ago myself, Rachel.”
    The booth was dark brown leatherette, with a couple of slits in the seat and one in the back. The menu had seen better days, too. She ordered tuna. I said, “Me, too.” Ruth had only a half hour for lunch and I didn’t want to waste my time mulling over the cuisine. I thanked her again for meeting me.
    “I can’t believe she’s gone,” she said. She wiped her eyes with her napkin.
    I nodded.
    “Her class is in an uproar. She was a very gifted teacher and had such a way with the kids. They knew about her disability, of course, and that helped some of the shyer kids relate to her and feel accepted.”
    “Had she ever had anything like this before, that you know of?”
    “You mean, a seizure this serious?”
    “Well, almost this serious.”
    “She had a few close calls, but most of them were before she got Blanche.”
    “That’s one of the things I need to talk to you about.“
    “The dogs?”
    I nodded. “One of the things I’m trying to find out is if Sophie has any family, someone who ought to be notified, someone, I’m hoping, who might be willing to provide a home for her pets.”
    “She never mentioned anyone.”
    “She never said she was going home for the holidays, nothing like that?”
    “No. We always had Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner together. She never really traveled anywhere. She was always afraid she’d be away from her doctor when she got into trouble. She didn’t want that to happen.”
    She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed carefully.
    “What about a boyfriend? Was she involved with anyone?”
    “You mean Herbie?” She didn’t mean to, but she made a face.
    “Right, Herbie.” I took a bite of my sandwich. This time I made a face. You wouldn’t think anyone could ruin canned tuna, it’s not that terrific to begin with. “What was his last name?” I asked, as if it was on the tip of my tongue but I couldn’t remember it.
    “She never said. And I never thought to ask.“
    “Did you ever meet him, this Herbie? Did he ever come to the school to pick her up after work?”
    “No, he never did. And anyway, that was a while ago. They hadn’t been seeing each other recently.”
    “How long ago were they dating, Ruth?”
    I wondered if Ruth had a sweetheart. I wondered if she and Sophie saw less of each other when Herbie was in the picture. I wondered if Ruth had been envious of Sophie, who had a beau when she didn’t.
    “She stopped talking about him a few months ago, maybe six months, I’m not sure. For a while, it was Herbie this and Herbie that. That’s all she talked about. Then, nothing.”
    “No more Herbie?”
    “Not a word.”
    “No explanation?”
    “None.”
    “Did you ever ask?”
    She looked at her plate for a while, the second half of her tuna on whole wheat toast sitting there untouched. Maybe she was thinking the chicken salad would