This Dog for Hire

live in a jail. That’s why you’re here.” I was in no position to argue.
    I followed Dashiell, telling him he was a good boy, checking to make sure the shutters were closed in the front of the house and open to let light in in the rear, those windows that faced the cottage. The thermostat was set at sixty so that the old house wouldn’t take too bad a beating contracting and expanding as the weather changed.
    We finished at the top without finding a single thief hiding under any of the beds or in the closets, double-checked the front door, shut off the lights, and let ourselves out the back.
    Once, the first winter I was here, Dashiell had started to pare and whine, going to the living-room window that faced the main house and coming back to poke me with his muzzle and look into my eves. I had taken my gun from the shoe box in the bed-room closet, and we had gone across the snowy garden in silence, my heart pounding as I opened the, back door. Five minutes later we were face-to-face with the, intruder, a homeless woman who had broken one of the front windows to get in from the cold. She was nestled under three blankets in the spare bedroom, trying to get warm.
    This time, everything was as it should have been. By the time we got back to the cottage, stopping briefly to race around the big oak, it was time to get ready for the opening. I had planned to soak in the tub until I was as wrinkled as a shar-pei, but I couldn’t. I was too excited about the thought of possibly meeting the killer in an hour or so and she question of whether or not I’d know him—or her— when I did.
    In the Village, if your sweats are clean, you’re dressed up. SoHo is another story. Not wanting to stick out like a bulldog at a field trial, I put on my long black coatdress with matching pants, wound my hair up, and clipped it at the back of my head. Then I stood by helplessly as most of it worked its way out of the barrette. Looking as if I’d just been Marlene Dietrich’s stand-in in Morocco , I called my dog, and together we headed downtown to see if anyone smelled like a killer.

12
    He Raised His Lovely Eyebrows

    THE BIG BLACK dot was nowhere in sight, and the floor of the Cahill Gallery had been painted iridescent chartreuse. The walls, still white, were hung with Clifford Cole’s paintings, which gave me the same kind of pang I got when I thought about my father not living long enough to see his grandchildren. Then again, who ever said life was fair.
    Despite the fact that this was a posthumous show, the mood was festive. Artists turned out in great numbers, as they always do for openings—and the free food and booze—and there were an unusual number of collectors, especially for the shrinking art market of the nineties. There was press, too, so there would be, it seemed, even more articles in the papers and magazines about the young artist who died so tragically just as his tremendous talent was about to come to light.
    God, did schmaltz sell. Then again, lurid sex crimes also sold. It was just a matter of time before the rest of the story came out, which would drive the prices even higher than the schmaltz had already done. Louis Lane was going to end up a rich man.
    Dennis was in the back, with Magritte.
    “Honey, you look sen-sa-tional!! ,!
    “Yeah. Yeah.” I leaned in as if to kiss his check. “What have you learned?” I whispered.
    He leaned closer. “Well, apparently blue eye shadow is back!”
    “Dog people,” I explained.
    He rolled his eyes. “And Lois is here.” He indicated the location with a tilt of his head, and I turned to get a look at the new owner of the collection, prepared to loathe him on sight.
    “She’s doing an interview,” he sang. “Does anyone ask me—” he began, but I cut him off.
    “I’ll see you in a bit,” I said, leaving quickly and pushing through the crowd with Dashiell at my side.
    Leonard Polski was a few feet away from where I had been standing with Dennis, talking to someone who was taking notes. I squeezed in close enough to hear some of the bull he was tossing around, sure I’d be hearing about his always having had faith in Cliff’s ability, about how he encouraged him to try his last series of grayish, oversize paintings where images took several canvases to be completed, and richest of all, how pleased he was that Magritte was found and how much he loved the little dog.
    What I heard surprised me. Even allowing for the distortion of the tape recording,