The Dogfather

Kevin died, it would be my fault.
    O’Flaherty asked whether I needed a ride home. My house is within walking distance of Mount Auburn Hospital, and if the dogs had been with me, I might have gone on foot, Deitz or no Deitz. As it was, I felt vulnerable and accepted the offer.
    When the cop in the cruiser asked where I lived, I was so preoccupied with worry and guilt that instead of telling him that I lived next door to Kevin on Appleton Street, I gave my mailing address, 256 Concord Avenue, and consequently got dropped off at the front door of my house. On the porch next to the door was a basket of flowers professionally wrapped in clear plastic and obviously delivered by a florist. Sticking out of the plastic was a green stake that bore a small white envelope. Printed on it was my name. Muttering the Mob’s favorite obscenity under my breath, I kicked the flowers and sent the basket sailing to a corner of the porch. It especially infuriated me to see tall spikes of blue delphiniums in the arrangement. Just as Guarini had sent red wine, which I prefer to white, he’d now sent delphiniums, my favorite flower.
    Entering through the front door, I first checked on Rowdy and Kimi. Deitz’s threat had made me hypervigilant about their safety during my absence. Before leaving for dinner with Kevin, I’d crated them in the guest room, padlocked the crates, locked the door to the room, and double-locked the doors to the house; Deitz had specified Rowdy and Kimi, and the crates and locks would have made it hard for him to get to them. Emerging from their crates, the dogs bounded around. Even more than usual, their vigor and beauty felt like undeserved blessings.
    Assured of the dogs’ safety, I found comfort in the sameness of my ordinary rooms. The horror of the shooting and my fear for Kevin’s life had left me disoriented, and the too-bright, windowless hospital rooms had had a casino-like atmosphere of existing apart from time. The clock on the stove read 9:30. The message light on my answering machine was blinking. I pressed the play button.
    “Holly, Steve,” said the deep voice. “My mother died. I’ve got a flight to Minneapolis first thing in the morning. Lady and India are all set here, but I wondered if Sammy could stay with you. Sorry to impose. If it’s a problem, let me know.”
    His mother had just died, and he was apologizing? Her death was a total surprise. Steve’s mother was in her early sixties, not all that old, and had always seemed robustly healthy. I called him immediately, extended my sympathy, learned that she’d died of a heart attack, and said that I’d be delighted to keep Sammy for as long as he wanted. During the brief conversation, I had to keep reminding myself that sudden, fatal heart attacks really did occur, hence Guarini’s liking for them, I supposed.
    “Do you want me to get Sammy now?” I asked. “I can probably borrow Rita’s car. Or you could drop him off here. Now or in the morning. Whatever’s best for you.” The invariable result of asking Steve any question at all was waiting while he thought over his answer. The one impulsive act of his life had been marrying Anita. Having learned from that disaster, he was now even more pensive and deliberate than he’d been before.
    “I’m not real clear about anything right now,” he finally said. “Sorry.”
    “Don’t apologize. Your mother just died. You’re entitled to let people help.”
    “My plane’s real early.” He paused. “Don’t bother about Rita’s car. I’ll run Sammy over now if that’s okay.”
    “I’m crazy about Sammy. Besides, I’m glad to help. I remember so well when my mother died. I know what it’s like. I’ll do anything you want.”
    “I feel so sad,” Steve said. “Just so sad. That’s all. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
    I hung up without having told Steve about Kevin. The omission was deliberate. If Steve knew that I was worried, he d feel compelled to make other arrangements for Sammy. I didn’t want him to have to go to the trouble.
    In preparation for Sammy’s stay with us, I dragged a puppy crate into the bedroom and then, on impulse, moved two big crates there, too. Having done so, I realized that I’d been acting on the principle that no one should have to sleep alone.
     

CHAPTER 25
     
    Fifty percent of so-called dog training consists of starting with the right dog. Another forty-nine percent consists of not ruining what you started with. Now that