Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

time, a perfect time, the ideal time to buy in upstate New York. The real estate boom hasn’t hit us yet, but it will—”
    “Hello,” I said, wondering if I was hearing a person or a computer-generated message.
    “It’s still possible to buy property here very reasonably and I can almost guarantee you that your investment will—”
    I spoke a little louder this time.
    “MR. WEXFORD?”
    Okay, I shouted. But it worked.
    “Ma’am?”
    “That’s not why I called you.”
    “Oh. I apologize, but since you called my business number—”
    “I’m calling about your cousin Sophie.”
    “Sophie? She’s still alive?”
    “Actually, she’s not. She was killed a few days ago. That’s why I’m calling ...”
    “I don’t understand. How did you get this number?“
    “From Sophie’s doctor. She had you down as next of kin.”
    I could hear a dog barking on his end, a siren passing on mine. I waited, but nothing happened for a while.
    “Mr. Wexford?”
    “I haven’t seen Sophie since we were kids, since a year or so after ...”
    “You weren’t in touch recently, birthdays, Christmas?“
    “I thought she was dead. I thought she died. My mother said she wrote her and the letter came back, oh, years ago. We assumed ...”
    I got up and walked over to the open door, stood next to Blanche, saw Dashiell and Bianca asleep on the warm flagstones that led to the tunnel.
    “You know, because of her condition.”
    “I’m sorry to—”
    “Yeah,” he said. “And she had my number in her book?”
    “Yes, but I got it from her doctor. She had you down as –“
    “Right,” he said. “Next of kin. You’re sure there’s no one else?”
    “She didn’t seem to think so.”
    “I don’t know how to feel about this.”
    “That might take some time,” I said.
    Blanche walked down the stairs, squatted right on the flagstones, then came back inside, lying down on the floor near where I stood.
    “Well, Mr. Wexford, as far as I can tell, you are next of kin. I’m sorry to be the one to give you this bad news, and to be so abrupt about everything, but, you see, I’m running out of time here. I’m trying to clean up Sophie’s affairs be-* fore her apartment... the thing is, Mr. Wexford, Preston, J I was wondering if you’d be willing to make arrangements for her.”
    I moved the phone away from my ear and swiped at my eyes. I didn’t think Preston Wexford was going to be in any tush to respond.
    “I could give you the number of the precinct.”
    “The precinct?”
    “She was murdered, Preston.”
    “Murdered? You mean, like in a mugging?”
    This time I took my time.
    “Ask for Detective Burke,” I said, giving him the number of the Sixth. “It’s probably better if he explains it, gives you the official, uh, details.”
    “Okay,” he said, overwhelmed.
    “And that way, you can take some time. You can think about what you want to do, about your cousin. Look, it doesn’t have to be real complicated. Something simple would—”
    “I thought she died a long time ago,” he said.
    This wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. I was beginning to think I shouldn’t bother to ask about the dogs. But if he was next of kin, I didn’t really have a choice.
    “She has two dogs that are going to need homes really soon,” I said. “Although I’m pretty sure I can place the younger one with Sophie’s best friend. If that’s okay with you.”
    “Yes. Yes, of course. That would help,” he said.
    I heard a dog bark again.
    “Do you have a—”
    “Three of them. It’s the country up here, you know. What kind is it, the other dog?”
    “A bull terrier. She’s old, Preston. It’d be swell for her to live in the country, have someone in the family to—”
    “I don’t know,” he said. “Like I told you, I already have three. The last one, Roberta, she just found me. I woke up one morning, she was on the porch, no intention of leaving. So what could I do? I put out a bowl of food, then I took her to the vet and we went on from there.”
    He was starting to sound like a very nice man, startled by what I’d dropped on him, but very nice. Kind, too.
    “Perhaps I should tell you that Blanche, the old dog, was a seizure-alert dog. She wasn’t just a pet, Preston. She was a service dog and she made a radical, positive change in your cousin’s ...”
    And then I just stopped, because Blanche had rolled over and put her head on my foot. I crouched down and stroked her cheek.
    “If you don’t