Bad Love (51 page)

“Insurance company jerking you around?”

“As predicted.”

“Let me know if I can do anything.”

“I will.”

“And when you’re ready for a contractor, I’ve got a possible for you — ex-cop, does nice work relatively cheap.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for everything — and sorry about the rental house. I’m sure your banker didn’t expect bullet holes in his walls. Tell him to send me the bill.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s the most exciting thing’s ever happened to him.”

I smiled. He looked away.

“Shootout at the Beverly Hills corral,” he said. “I should have been there.”

“How could you have known?”

“Knowing’s my job.”

“You offered to drive us home, I turned you down.”

“I shouldn’t have listened to you.”

“Come on, Milo. You did everything you could. To paraphrase a friend of mine: “Don’t flog yourself.’ ”

He frowned, tilted his glass, poured ice down his gullet, and crunched. “How’s Rov — Spike?”

“A few surface cuts. The vet said bulldogs have high pain thresholds. A throwback to when they were used for baiting.”

“Right through the glass.” He shook his head. “Little maniac must have taken a running start and gone ballistic. Talk about devotion.”

“You see it from time to time,” I said. Then I ordered him another Coke.

I drove back to Venice. The shop was empty and Robin had left a note on her workbench:

11:45 a.m. Had to run to the lumberyard. Back at 2. Pls. call Mrs. Braithwaite. Says she’s Spike’s owner.

Pacific Palisades exchange. I phoned it before the disappointment could sink in.

A middle-aged female voice said, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Braithwaite? Dr. Delaware returning your call.”

“Oh, doctor! Thank you for calling, and thank you for caring for our little Barry! Is he all right?”

“Perfect. He’s a great dog,” I said.

“Yes, he is. We were so worried, starting to give up hope.”

“Well, he’s in the pink.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“I guess you’d like to come by to get him. He should be back by two.”

Hesitation. “Oh, certainly. Two it is.”

I busied myself with the phone. Calling Shirley Rosenblatt and having a half-hour talk with her. Calling Bert Harrison, then the insurance company, where I dealt with some truly vile individuals.

I thought about the Wallace girls for a while, then remembered another little girl, the one who’d lost her boxer — Karen Alnord. I had no record of her number. All my papers were gone. Where had she lived — Reseda. On Cohasset.

I got the number from information. A woman answered and I asked for Karen.

“She’s at school.” Brilliant, Delaware. “Who’s this?”

I gave her my name. “She called me about her boxer. I was just wondering if you found him.”

“Yes, we have,” she said edgily.

“Great. Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Good news.”

Mrs. Braithwaite showed up at one forty-five. She was short, thin, and sixtyish, with an upswept, tightly waved, tapioca-colored hairdo, sun wrinkles, and narrow brown eyes behind pearloid-framed glasses. Her maroon I. Magnin suit would have fetched top dollar at a vintage boutique, and her pearls were real. She carried a bag that matched the suit and wore a bejeweled American flag lapel pin.

She looked around the shop, confused.

“Robin’s place of business,” I said. “We’re in between houses — planning some construction.”

“Well, good luck on that. I’ve been through it, and one meets such an unsavory element.”

“Can I offer you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

I pulled up a chair for her. She remained standing and opened her handbag. Taking out a check, she tried to give it to me.

Ten dollars.

“No, no,” I said.

“Oh, doctor, I insist.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“But the expenses — I know how Barry eats.”

“He’s earned his way.” I smiled. “Charming fellow.”

“Yes, isn’t he?” she said, but with a curious lack of passion. “Are you sure I can’t reimburse you?”

“Give it to charity.”

She thought. “All right, that’s a good idea. Planned Parenthood always needs help.”

She sat down. I repeated my drink offer and she said, “It’s really not necessary, but iced tea would be fine if you have it.”

As I fixed the drink, she inspected the shop some more.

When I gave her the glass, she thanked me again and sipped daintily.

“Does your wife fix violins?”

“A few. Mostly guitars and mandolins. She fixes and makes them.”

“My father played the violin — quite well, actually. We went to the Bowl every summer to hear Jascha Heifetz play. Back when you could still enjoy a civilized drive through Hollywood. He taught at USC — Heifetz did, not Father. Though Father was an alumnus. So is my son. He’s in marketing.”

I smiled.

“May I ask what kind of doctor you are?”

“Psychologist.”

Sip. “And where did you find Barry?”

“He showed up at my house.”

“Where’s that, doctor?”

“Just off Beverly Glen.”

“South of Sunset, or north?”

“A mile and a half north.”

“How odd . . . well, thank heavens for good samaritans. It’s so nice to have one’s faith in human nature restored.”

“How did you find me, Mrs. Braithwaite?”

“From Mae Josephs at Frenchie Rescue — we were in Palm Desert and didn’t get her message until today.”

The door opened and Robin came in, carrying a bag and holding the dog by the leash.

“Barry!” said Mrs. Braithwaite. She got off the chair. The dog trotted straight to her and licked her hand.

“Barry, Barry, little Barry. You’ve had quite an adventure, haven’t you!”

She petted him.

He licked her some more, then turned around, stared at me, and cocked his head.

“You look wonderful, Barry,” said Mrs. Braithwaite. To us: “He looks
wonderful
, thank you so much.”

“Our pleasure,” said Robin. “He’s a great little guy.”

“Yes, he is
— aren’t
you, Barrymore? Such a
sweet
boy, even with your snoring — did he snore?”

“Loud and clear,” said Robin. Smiling, but her eyes had that pretears look I knew so well. I took her hand. She squeezed mine and began emptying the bag. Ebony bridge blanks.

The dog padded back over to us and propped his forelegs on Robin’s thigh. She rubbed him under the chin. He pressed his little head to her leg.

“Mother loved that. The snoring. Barry was actually Mother’s — she kept English bulldogs and Frenchies for over fifty years. Did quite a bit of breeding and showing in her day. And obedience training.”

“Did she perimeter train him?” I said. “To avoid water?”

“Oh, of course. She trained all her dogs. She had lily ponds and a big pool, and the poor things sink like stones. Then her back started to go and the English were too heavy for her to carry, so she kept only Frenchies. Then she got too weak even for the Frenchies. Barry was her last little boy. She imported him three years ago. Flew him all the way from Holland.”

A linen hankie came out of the handbag. She took off her glasses and dabbed at her eyes.

“Mother passed away three weeks ago. She’d been ill for a while and Barry was her faithful companion — weren’t you, sweetie?”

She reached out her hand. The dog settled on all fours but remained next to Robin.

Mrs. Braithwaite dabbed some more. “He stayed in bed with her, barked for the nurse when she started to — I do believe he was the reason she kept going as long as she did. But of course, in — when she — the last time we had to call the paramedics,
such
terror and commotion. Barry must have slipped out. I didn’t realize it until later. . . .”

“Where did your mother live?” I said.

“Little Holmby. Just off Comstock, south of the boulevard.”

Two miles from my house.

She said, “He managed to cross Sunset — all that traffic.” Dab. “Poor little
boy
, if anything had
happened
to you!”

“Well,” said Robin, “thank God he made it.”

“Yes. I see that — you’ve made a nice little home for him, haven’t you?”

“We tried.”

“Yes, yes, I can see that . . . yes . . . would you like to have him?”

Robin’s mouth dropped open. She looked at me.

I said, “You don’t want him?”

“It’s not a matter of that, doctor. I
adore
animals, but my husband doesn’t. Or rather,
they
don’t like
him
. Allergies. Severe ones. Dogs, cats, horses — anything with fur sets him off and he swells up like a balloon. As is, I’m going to have to take a bubble bath the moment I get home, or Monty will be wheezing the moment he sees me.”

She pulled something else out of the purse and gave it to me.

An AKC pedigree sheet for “Van Der Legyh’s Lionel Barrymore On Stage.” A family tree that put mine to shame.

Mrs. Braithwaite said, “Isn’t that noble?”

“Very.”

Robin said, “We’d love to take him.”

“Good. I was hoping you were nice people.”

Smiling, but she took another dubious look around the shop. “He likes his liver snaps and his sausage sticks. Cheese, as well, of course. Though he doesn’t seem to have any affection for Edam — isn’t that odd, his being Dutch?”

Robin said, “We’ll support him in the lifestyle to which he’s become accustomed.”

“Ye-ess . . .” She glanced furtively around the shop. “I’m sure he’ll love your
new
home — will it be in the same location?”

“Absolutely,” I said, scooping up the dog and rubbing his tummy. “We’ve been happy there.”

It came in a plain white envelope.

Pressed into my hand as I walked out the shop’s side door, Spike heeling.

I looked up to see Ruthanne Wallace’s kid sister, Bonnie. Tight jeans tucked into cowboy boots, white blouse, no bra, nipples assertive.

She winked at me, tickled my palm with her finger, and ran to the curb. A dark blue Chevy Caprice with chrome wheels and black windows was idling there, blowing smoke. She jumped in, slammed the door, and the car sped off.

No postmark on the envelope, no lettering. Too thin to have anything in it but paper.

I slit it open with my fingernail.

A piece of notebook paper, torn evenly in half.

A note on the first:

Dear doctor.
I am fine. I am happy. Thank you for try to help us. Jesus loves you.
Tiffani.

A drawing on the second. Blue skies, golden sun, green grass, red flowers.

A girl sitting in what looked like an aboveground swimming pool. Fat droplets of water scattering, the girl’s face a perfect circle bisected by a crescent-shaped smile.

A signature in the lower right corner: Chondra W.

A title next to the sun:

HAVING FUN.

“Sounds like a good idea,” I said to Spike.

Snort, snort.

After a distinguished career in child psychology, J
onathan
K
ellerman
turned to writing fiction full-time. Today there are more than fourteen million copies of his novels in print:
When the Bough Breaks, Blood Test, Over the Edge, Silent Partner, Time Bomb, Private Eyes, Devil’s Waltz
(all Delaware novels), and
The Butcher’s Theater
, a novel of serial killings in Jerusalem. He is also the author of two volumes of psychology and a soon to be published children’s book,
Daddy, Daddy, Can You Touch the Sky
? He and his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, have four children.

FICTION:

Billy Straight
(1998)

Survival of the Fittest
(1997)

The Clinic
(1997)

The Web
(1996)

Self-Defense
(1995)

Bad Love
(1994)

Devil’s Waltz
(1993)

Private Eyes
(1992)

Time Bomb
(1990)

Silent Partner
(1989)

The Butcher’s Theater
(1988)

Over the Edge
(1987)

Blood Test
(1986)

When the Bough Breaks
(1985)

NONFICTION:

Helping the Fearful Child
(1981)

Psychological Aspects of Childhood Cancer
(1980)

FOR CHILDREN, WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED:

Jonathan Kellerman’s ABC of Weird Creatures
(1995)

Daddy, Daddy, Can You Touch the Sky
? (1994)