This Dog for Hire

suspicion of murder, there’s no delay, and two hours later the toxicology result? were in and, big surprise, the liver had been laced with enough sodium cyanide to fell a fucking horse. That’s what they told Marjorie.”
    Something was nagging at me, holding a part of my attention captive, but I couldn’t get a grasp on what it was.
    “They’re sure it was cyanide poisoning?” I asked him.
    “Pending autopsy results. But the doctor was sure enough of the cause of death to call Marjorie. Not his heart, he said. Cyanide.”
    “Dennis, you said you hardly knew Marjorie. Why did she call you right away?”
    “I told her to call if she needed me, Rachel. She asked me if I would talk to the police, see what I could find out. She said she’d given them my number, and she hoped that was okay. I mean, she’s so far away.”
    “Is she coming up?”
    “I don’t think so. You know how most people are. They figure if you just set foot in New York, next thing you know, you’ll be murdered.”
    “Where could people get an idea like that?”
    I thought about Big Foot in the ladies’ room. “Dennis, I—”
    “I guess he ’s off the hook,” he said.
    “What did you say?”
    “Well, if someone killed him, doesn’t that let him off the hook?”
    “We don’t know for sure the two murders are connected, do we?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Suppose someone killed Gil, and it had nothing to do with Cliff’s death?”
    “Who would want to kill Gil? Well, except me?” “How about anyone who had been in the ring With him? Didn’t you see what he did to the little tri? There was also this handler he tripped in the ring. Ted Stickley. He fell and broke his arm. You can’t handle dogs with a broken arm. Dennis, I bonder if he was at Westminster. Maybe he was bid-his time, waiting for a way to get back at Gil. Did you save your catalog?”
    “Of course.”
    “Check it for me,”
    “Hang on. Stickley, Stickley, Stickley. Yes. Ted Stickley. He handled a saluki.”
    “Well!” I said, as if handling a saluki were proof of his guilt. “There are a lot of people who hated Gil. Everyone knew his habits, Dennis, I mean everyone knew that liver went into his mouth.”
    “So you’re saying maybe the person who hated him enough to kill him had nothing to do with Clifford’s death?”
    “Dennis, Gil’s death doesn’t solve this ease. There’s too much we can’t explain.”
    “What next?”
    “Sleep. It’s been a long day. I’ll call you tomorrow, in Boston. Everything changed today. I need some time to think.”
    “Be careful, Rachel.”
    “Yeah. Yeah,” I told him.
    But I hadn’t even looked down the block when I’d gotten out of the cab, carrying Magritte, my keys ready in my right hand. I was just so happy to be home. Was I kidding myself to think we bad really lost Big Foot?
    When I hung up, I looked over at Magritte. He d had three close calls, two the night of Clifford’s murder when he could have been intentionally killed by whoever killed Cliff or accidentally killed crossing West Street after he’d gotten free of his collar. And another at Westminster, had Gil had the time to spot the tainted liver to him before he went down. That he hadn’t may not have been an accident. Most show people care much more about dogs than they do about people.
    Three close calls. Yet here he was. The good luck dog.
    Magritte began washing himself, like a cat. Perhaps he had nine lives, too. If so, he was going through them mighty fast.
    I poured a glass of wine and began to think about the loft and those three empty stretchers. Had Clifford changed his mind about three paintings, ditching them because they weren’t good enough? I’d read that Picasso worked that way, painting quickly, creating many works, and keeping only the ones he liked.
    Or was there some other reason those canvases were gone?
    Who was Mike? He must have had a key to the loft, too, since he had left a message about picking up Magritte.
    More important, who was Big Foot?
    It had been easy to assume that Morgan Gilmore had been the killer. He had the motive and the opportunity. He had keys to the loft. He knew Cliff Would do anything to get Magritte back.
    My head was aching, the questions I couldn’t answer eating at me. I picked up Marty’s note, which, as usual, was on the green marble table, just outside the kitchen.

    Rach,
    Dash played with Elwood and had dinner at the
    precinct, two slices of pizza, a burger without
    the bun,