Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

that you might need—her pan, her brush, and the red cape.”
    “Blanche’s cape?”
    “Yes. She’s staying with me and she won’t need it, Ruth, but you and Bianca will. You’ll be taking her to work with you. You’ll be taking her everywhere.”
    “Oh.”
    “I’ll bring it all tonight.”
    “And Bianca?”
    “And Bianca.”
    “At seven?”
    “Seven’s fine. And, Ruth, I have something else for you, a gift for helping me.”
    “You don’t have to do anything, Rachel. Truly. You’ve already done so much.”
    “No, I do. I’m going to work with you, to help you feel comfortable and in control with Bianca, for as long as you need me.”
    On my way down MacDougal Street, I thought about the time I’d seen Philips sitting in the run, the time the head count of dogs and people was off. I bet he’d been there before, watching the little clone play, awed by what he had accomplished. He could watch her in Sophie’s garden, too, from the top floors of the main house or from that little window in the back of the cottage. I bet he did it often, spying on Sophie and Bianca, never able to get enough of all three of the cloned dogs he’d created, wishing he could tell the world what he’d done.
    Elizabeth was in on it with her father and, apparently, involved with Philips. From what I had seen, they were a perfect couple, too. And Mel had been in on it from the start, pretending to be a dog walker so that he could keep an eye on Bianca and Sophie, so that they’d be sure they’d gotten what they were after, and once they were, then Philips could work on the real project, his hubris, and Madison’s, getting full range. It must be nice to have money. You can be as crazy as you want to be, as long as you’ve got the bucks to pay for it.
    But there were still a few things I didn’t know. Who was the woman in the park who’d told me she knew Herbie? Was there another adopted kid around to do Madison’s bidding, or was she his secretary or his personal assistant? And whom had I heard at the cottage? Was that also the woman from the park? Or did Madison have mice, really big ones?
    I unlocked the door to Sophie’s building, letting Dashiell in ahead of me, then walking down the short hall to Sophie’s door and unlocking that. I looked around the living room for the last time, then began to gather the dogs’ things and pile them into shopping bags to take with me. Even if Wexford decided he wanted some of Sophie’s things, I was sure he wouldn’t need a couple of used brushes, a red leather collar, a nail clipper, and the medical histories of dogs he didn’t want.
    When I finished, I straightened up the kitchen, packed up all the veggies and supplements, put away the blanket I’d left on the couch, put the towels I’d used in the hamper for someone else to wash or throw away. I smoothed the bed where Blanche had been, but left the dent in the pillow, her big head having rested where she could best smell the comforting odor of her lost mistress. I wondered about the windows, if I should leave them open or closed, but decided it didn’t matter. In a day or two, Sophie’s things would be taken out of here and the apartment would be painted and rented to someone else. I wondered who would empty the apartment and where her things would go, but I was dog tired, and it didn’t really matter now. What difference could it possibly make what happened to her towels or her toaster, as long as her dogs would be safe and loved.
    And then, just like that, one of my questions got answered in the Zen way I had been taught on another job. I had paid attention to what I was doing, cleaning up Sophie’s apartment, letting my mind relax, not forcing anything, and the answer had come. JSB Realty and WAM Realty were branches of the same firm, both owned by Charles Madison, named for two of his favorite musicians. That’s how the veterinary office had appeared and disappeared on a Sunday. And how his son, without a real job, had a space worth thousands a month. And a piano he probably couldn’t play.
    I thought about the music I’d heard over the phone and in the garden, opening the door and walking out, thinking that this was the last time I’d do that, too, the last time I’d stand in Sophie’s garden, protected by the ivy-covered wall I’d climbed, the building next door to the west and the fence to the east with the broken slat, the empty apartment, access for Madison when he was playing Joe and didn’t