Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

up, there she was, standing at the top of the staircase, her tail wagging slowly from side to side.
    She was warm, the way dogs are when they first wake up. She must have been curled up on the other side of the couch, so deep in sleep she hadn’t heard me come in. Unless there was another problem, unless Blanche was losing her hearing. Or found it too difficult to get up unless she absolutely had to. I bent to hug her. When she started to squirm, I knew I’d held on too tight and too long.
    I went into the kitchen and got food ready for the dogs. Then I went back upstairs to change, putting on Chip’s denim shirt, a pair of jeans, an old, black jacket with a tear in the sleeve, and black sneakers, pinning up my hair and covering it with a black baseball cap, grabbing an oversize pair of dark glasses, too, so that I would blend in with the night. I did one more thing before leaving, something that would pretty much guarantee that no one would look in my direction. I took out the shopping cart and piled it full of newspapers, magazines, and the empty water and soda bottles I hadn’t yet put in the recycling bin outside. I added a broom, stuffing it in upside down. I checked myself out in the mirror, holding on to the shopping cart. Unless someone tried to smell me, I’d pass.
    I left the dogs at home, Dashiell giving me that puzzled look he gets when I go out without him, and headed for the nearest florist, giving them the address of the house I’d just seen on Barrow Street and the name I’d found in Mel’s address book as well as some explicit instructions and a generous tip for the deliveryman who would carry them out. The owner kept his distance, kept shaking his head, having every reason not to want to do business with me, at least until I took out a wad of cash to pay for the flowers I’d ordered, adding an extra twenty for him. Then I headed back to Barrow Street myself to take my place on the stoop next door and wait.
    I sat on the hard step for nearly an hour, hoping I wasn’t waiting because the florist had called before sending his deliveryman and found out that no one was home. There were lights on in the house, but that didn’t mean anything, people left lights on when they weren’t home, too, to fool the burglar, a trick that probably wouldn’t fool an observant ten-year-old.
    I saw him coming up the block, a little guy with bandy legs, holding the bouquet by the stems until he saw me. I shook my head and he passed without a word, climbing the ' stairs next door and ringing the bell.
    I heard the voice over the intercom, a woman’s voice.
    “Who is it?”
    “Delivery,” he said. He turned to look at me and once again, I shook my head.
    “Who’s it for?” she asked.
    Good one. That’s why people don’t put their names on the bells of private houses in New York. Anyone can ring and say it’s UPS or Fed Ex. God knows who’d be standing there when you opened your door.
    The list at the phone had said only “Lizzie.” There was only one Elizabeth in Mel’s address book.
    “Elizabeth Madison.” He was holding the flowers upright now. No, he was holding them up to the intercom. Who did I expect would be delivering flowers, Einstein?
    “Who did you say you were?”
    I could see the little white envelope stapled to the flowered wrapping paper at the top end of the cone.
    “Florist, miss.” He waited for a response, but none came. “I was by twice earlier, but no one was home.“
    “Florist?”
    “Yes, miss.”
    “Who would be sending me flowers?”
    He shrugged.
    “Who are they from?” She spoke louder this time, and spaced out her words.
    He still didn’t answer her.
    “Who are the flowers from?” Shouting now. Losing her temper.
    Better than I’d hoped for.
    “Oh, I wouldn’t know that, miss. I only delivers them.”
    “Hold on. I’ll be down.” As annoyed as if he’d gotten her out of the bathtub.
    Sitting on the far end of the stoop next door, the cart parked in front of me, my head down as if I was napping, I wondered what the hell this would accomplish, a quick glance at someone whose number was next to Mel’s phone? Someone with the same last name. But for now, it was all I could do, just take a look, let the deliveryman do what I’d tipped him to do, figure out the rest later. I sat there for longer than it would take to walk down from the top of the building, waiting for the door to open. And then it did.
    She looked cold, the way she was hunched into her