This Dog for Hire

your husband the dentist hands you while he reads the international, national, and local news and checks the value of his holdings in the business section. I found the article on page nineteen and picked up the cordless extension in the living room.
    “So—‘Not the Death of Art. Murdered artist Clifford Cole’s works will be on display in his first one-man show this weekend at the Cahill Gallery in SoHo, a posthumous installation of the artist’s paintings, drawings and sculpture,’ ” I said, reading from the article that Dennis could probably recite by heart. “I guess Veronica Cahill finally figured out what installation is going to follow Dots.”
    “What are you talking about, Rachel?”
    “I stopped by the gallery yesterday, just to take a look, and they had this installation called Dots, the most god-awful stuff you ever saw. Well, no, I guess we’ve both seen worse. Anyway, I told the salesperson I sort of collected dog art, I had Dashiell there, and she failed to sell me a Clifford Cole. She said she didn’t know what the next show would be. But apparently Veronica Cahill figured out a good way to get some mileage out of the contract she signed with Cliff. The way it’s put here,” I said, referring to the article, “well, the notoriety will at least bring people in, maybe even critics. Death makes good copy, or so they say.”
    “Do you believe this?” Dennis said. “ ‘An up and coming star of the downtown art world, cut down by human hatred just as his career was taking off.’ Where do they get this garbage? She never even guaranteed him she’d put one of his pieces in a group show. Now she’s his fucking patron. Excuse me while I go get a bag to throw up in.”
    There was nothing but silence on the line for a long moment.
    “Listen, Dennis, this is good, isn’t it? I mean, wouldn’t it be worse if no one ever saw Cliff’s paintings? They’re quite wonderful.”
    He didn’t respond.
    “Dennis?’
    “You’re right, I know it, it’s just that . . .”
    “I know. He didn’t get the support when he was alive, and he won’t get to hear the applause, right?” “Right,” he said, “and someone else will get the money.”
    “Louis.”
    “Louis?”
    “Louis.”
    “I thought his family ...”
    “Louis.”
    “Now I’m really going to be sick. Rachel, I bet Louis is behind all this publicity, this exploitation. I bet he engineered it!”
    “It’s possible. It should certainly increase the value of his inheritance. Let’s keep our mouths shut and our ears open.” That’s the second law of investigative work. But I sometimes have trouble with the mouth shut part. I thought Dennis would, too.
    “Dennis, don't tell anyone you hired me or what I do.” “Oh, God.”
    “What? Or should I say who?”
    “I told Louis.”
    “Shit. Anyone else?”
    “No. I swear .”
    “Okay. Let’s keep it that way. I have to lie sometimes. Do you understand?”
    “I never thought about it. I’m not exactly experienced in this sort of thing. Sorry. I’ll watch my mouth. I promise.”
    “It’s my fault, Dennis. I fucked up. I should ha\e told you. It just means Louis will be, well, more guarded with me.”
    “You’re not thinking that Louis —”
    “It’s possible. He did gain from Clifford’s death.”
    “Not nearly what he lost.”
    Now it was my turn to be silent.
    “You’ll be there, at the opening?” he asked. “Definitely. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Would you?”
    “Clifford would kill me if I did, no matter what it took. Sorry I woke you, Rachel, but you said I could call anytime, and, shit, it’s ten-thirty.”
    “No problem. I was up late reading Clifford’s address book. His brother Peter lives in Woodcliff Lake, by the way, not Fort Lee.”
    “Same difference. It’s all Jersey,” he said. “Dennis, while I’ve got you on the phone, I need to ask you something. You said Magritte’s collar and leash were missing, right?”
    “Yes. They weren’t on the hook, and I didn’t see them anywhere else.”
    “What did they look like?”
    “Red leather, thin, buckle collar, not a slip, four-foot leash. Oh, and Cliff had hung a little bell on the liar. He liked the way it sounded when Magritte talked. Why?”
    “Dashiell found them, on the pier. The leash was tied to the back fence, way Sow. buried in the snow. So he was there. Dennis, I’m sorry, but it looks as if Clifford took Magritte and went out to meet someone. Why else would he be on the