This Dog for Hire

so I went poking through the kitchen drawers for what every New Yorker has, menus. While I waited for my miso soup and tekka maki to arrive, I fed the dogs the last of Magritte’s food and set up the slide projector in the studio, where I would be able to look at the slides on those huge, bare white walls.
    When the delivery man buzzed, I salivated like Pavlov’s dogs, buzzed him in, and waited hungrily for him to climb the stairs. I had the money ready. My dogs were ready, too. Dashiell was ready to lay down his life for me, or at least place his bulk in front of mine. Magritte, being a basenji, never wanting to be where he was supposed to be, was ready to escape.
    I reached for the bag, handed the delivery man the money, and felt something warm and quick brush by my left leg.
    The deliveryman headed down.
    Magritte headed up.
    I figured, what the hell, the dog has a C.D. So instead of chasing him up the stairs while my soup got cold, I called him. And he came.
    The food was wonderful, and I ate most of it. Ex-dog trainer or not, there was no way I was going to disappoint my companions. Even if my newest law of private investigation is Never put anything into your mouth that was meant for a dog, there’s no law that says you can’t do it the other way around.
    I turned on the slide projector, and the first slide appeared on the wall.
    Uncle Miltie. The stocky guy in the housedress and cheap wig. His back turned. The cigar burning.
    Click.
    The second panel. Ash accumulating.
    Click.
    The third panel. Ash dropping to the carpet.
    (Stomach tightens.)
    Click.
    The fourth and missing panel. Otherwise known as the truth, as rendered by Clifford Cole.
    The subject of the work, in a dress, a wig, and the kind of orthopedic stockings my grandmother Sonya wore, had turned around.
    He was grinning.
    He was wearing lipstick.
    Lots of lipstick.
    A garish amount, in my opinion. Especially with that outfit.
    Genderfuck is done with wit. This portrait was done with malice. Be that as it may, once again we were face-to-face.
    I had seen him first at the opening, even though he’d told Dennis he couldn’t be there. He had been so impressed with the price of the Basenji sculpture, he had whistled in amazement.
    I had seen him next at Westminster, where he had wondered out loud how anyone could tell the basenjis apart. Where he had made dead sure he knew whose harmless bait to exchange for the tainted hail he’d meant for Magritte.
    And when he’d heard on the news, no doubt, that a handler had died instead of a dog, that his clever ploy had failed to work, because after all he was not a dog person, didn’t know the practices of the conformation ring, he had come back.
    To try again.
    Gotta do it.
    He had followed me into the ladies’ room. He hail whistled then, too, whistled for Magritte, witness to murder.
    My, I thought, studying his portrait, what big feet you’ve got.
    Feet I’d know anywhere.
    That is to say, feet whose size I’d know anywhere.
    To the right of those big feet, there was even a title, neatly printed: big shit-eating sissy.
    For once, without his head torn off.

33
    Dead Ahead

    I KNEW THAT Peter could have been at the opening before I learned that he had been there. I had learned that daring one of yesterday’s many phone calls.
    “Mrs. Cole?” I had said when a woman answered. “Yes. To whom am I speaking, please?” A voice like a dried magnolia petal, brittle yet still fragrant.
    “This is Elaine Boynton, Clifford’s friend. I was so sad to hear about Clifford.”
    “Well, of course you were, my dear. It was such shocking news, such tragic news.”
    “Yes.”
    “Were you close with my son?”
    “Yes. And so I feel just terrible that I missed the memorial service.”
    “There was no service, Elaine.”
    “Really?”
    “Why, yes. Clifford’s brother, Peter, said he thought Clifford wouldn’t want any sort of a fuss, wouldn’t want to make his friends drag all the wav down to Virginia. He said it wasn’t necessary.”
    “He said that?”
    “Well, it was basketball season, Elaine. His weekends belonged to the team. Don’t even call me, Mother, he said to me. I’ll call you when I got a chance. Both my sons are busy, busy men.”
    My bet was she didn’t know Peter had moved out, had no number to call him at.
    “Do you call your mother, Elaine?”
    “She’s, uh, gone,” I said.
    “I am so sorry, my dear. Was there a service for her?”
    “Yes. A small, private one.”
    “I