Bloodlines (5 page)

“Seven weeks old,” Betty said. “Honest to God. I would really like to strangle these people.”

Enid Sievers lived in one of those late-Victorian houses a few blocks off upper Mass. Ave. in North Cambridge on the Somerville line. It stood out from its neighbors by virtue—or sin—of being painted an unspeakably intense shade of raspberry. Because of that god-awful color, it was the kind of house that makes people gasp, titter, and return with friends who just have to see it and simply won’t believe it when they do. But they do believe it, of course—its undiluted reality is undeniable—and ask one another whether that ultraraspberry was the embarrassing result of some unimaginable misunderstanding with the house painter or whether, God forbid, it was chosen deliberately.

Thus the stunned queasiness on my face must have been the expression Enid Sievers saw whenever she opened her front door to anyone, and in case you’ve ever wandered by there and wondered the inevitable, the answer is, no, that raspberry was no accident, as I guessed the second Enid Sievers opened her door. Transpose that screaming raspberry into a violent electric green, and you’ll see the color of the garment she wore, a silky pantsuit or polyester evening costume or possibly a pair of nineteen-thirties Hollywood-movie lounging pajamas minus the feather boa. Exactly what the outfit
was
didn’t actually matter, I thought: Anyone willing to wear it at all would probably be willing to wear it anywhere.

The woman herself was in her late fifties, I guessed. She was very slim and had what my grandmother always refers to as “good posture,” meaning that she held her shoulders back as if in perpetual defiance of imminent osteoporosis. Her most striking feature was exceptionally sparse black hair that had been cut, gelled, curled, fluffed, and sprayed to create the illusion of thick tresses, but a prominent part down the side revealed a good half inch of white scalp. Delicate, fragile, heavily moisturized skin stretched across the fine bones of her face. Thick glasses magnified the lines and pouches under her darting hazel eyes, which seemed to focus on a fascinating series of objects that didn’t exist. I had the immediate impression that Enid Sievers believed something extraordinary: that alien beings had subjected her to grueling medical tests aboard their spaceship, or that Elvis regularly returned to earth to offer her spiritual counsel and tips on the lottery.

But her welcome was perfectly ordinary, even gracious. As soon as she introduced herself and made sure that I was, in fact, Holly Winter, she invited me in, saying proudly and confidently, “You didn’t have any trouble finding the house, did you?”

“No,” I said, half embarrassed. “Not at all. I spotted it right away.” I was sorry I’d worn old jeans.

“No one ever has trouble finding us,” Mrs. Sievers assured me as she led me through a little foyer and into a living room. “Edgar liked
cheerful
colors,” she went on to explain. Her voice was high and wispy, as if amplified from a great distance, for example, Mars or Saturn. “Edgar always said that vision is a great blessing and that we should use it to the best of our ability and not just waste it.”

She swept a bony green-swathed arm around to direct my attention to the room’s furnishings, of which there were hundreds, maybe even thousands, and I’m
not exaggerating. The windows were not so much curtained as red-velvet-barricaded against light, and above each window hung great swathes of the same red velvet augmented with heavy gold braid and thick tassels. Elaborately upholstered in a bewildering variety of red brocades and crimson patterns, dozens of Victorian love seats, fat couches, and old-fashioned overstuffed armchairs battled for floor space against the armies of highly polished mahogany coffee tables, teak magazine racks, wrought iron plant stands, French provincial end tables, and standing lamps about which the less said, the better. Small area rugs with the bright, happy designs of Poland were scattered here and there on the richly textured bright maroon wall-to-wall carpet. The intricately carved green marble mantle of the fireplace supported an ormolu clock, two oversize modernistic jade green vases, a small collection of expensive-looking crystal owls, and a pair of china shepherdesses with candles sticking out of their heads.

Just as Enid Sievers invited me to have a seat, my legs seemed to go out from under me. When I’d caught my breath, I found myself in the soft depths of one of the love seats. Fringed pillows nudged at me like friendly lap dogs. The end table to my left held a large brass lamp, a foot-wide porcelain ashtray, a set of cork-and-plastic coasters, and two glass candy dishes piled with paper-wrapped caramels.

Enid Sievers took a seat on an equally pillow-laden couch opposite me. Between us lay a pie-crust-edged coffee table crowded with glass objects and candy.

“Edgar was an optometrist,” Enid Sievers explained brightly. She sat stiffly upright, her ankles crossed, her knees locked tightly together. “It taught him the value of
seeing.
He always said that we should use what God had given us.”

“That seems like a good idea,” I said stupidly or maybe even stuporously. The house was sickeningly hot and had a stale reek of perfumed soap and microwaved food additives. Where was the dog?

Enid Sievers leaned forward, picked up a candy dish, and graciously proffered it. “Would you like a caramel?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “Uh, you, uh, called about your dog?”

“Missy is an Alaskan malamute.” She sounded as if she were reciting something she’d memorized. “She is a registered purebred dog. Are you sure you won’t have a caramel?” She pursed her lips and stared at me.

I cleared my throat. “No, thanks,” I repeated, pulling myself out of the depths of the love seat. “About Missy?”

Enid Sievers met my gaze. “This isn’t easy for me,” she said. “She was Edgar’s dog, really.” Her eyes were nearly tearful.

I helped her out. “But she’s the wrong dog for you.”

Her face brightened. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s just it. She’s the wrong dog for me.” Enid Sievers and her jam-packed room cried out for a Pekingese, a Pomeranian, a Maltese, a toy poodle, a Shih Tzu, any of dozens of tiny breeds. “Would you rather have a chocolate? And I have some very nice pralines that my sister just sent me from Florida.” She half rose in apparent search of them.

“No,” I said firmly. “No thanks. Do you think I could take a look at Missy?”

“Well, of course,” Enid Sievers answered, reseating herself opposite me, “I feel terrible about this, you know, but when Mrs. Burley heard about Missy, she was so thrilled! And I realized, well, Missy will really have a better life there. So it’s really better for everyone.”

“We’ll find a good home for her,” I said.

Enid Sievers’s eyes focused on some apparition behind my head, but her correction was almost sharp. “Oh, you don’t need to find a
home
for her. Mrs. Burley is very anxious to have her.” Now she surveyed me as if in search of signs of mental deficiency. “Mrs. Burley
raises Alaskan malamutes, you know,” she informed me. “And Missy is an outstanding specimen of the breed. Edgar always said so, and he was very knowledgeable.”

“I’m sure he was. Do you think I could take a look at her?”
Show me the dog!

“Well, of course,” she said, but retained her ladylike pose on the couch.

I found myself glancing around. As you probably know, malamutes are among the few creatures on earth that never talk unless they have something to say. Consequently, they often remain silent for hours. On the other hand, most of them are almost ridiculously friendly. I began to feel alarmed. If, in fact, Missy were tucked behind one of the couches, chairs, or love seats or hidden under one of the dozens of tables, there must be something horribly wrong with her.

“Mrs. Sievers,” I said in my firmest dog-training voice, “where
is
Missy?”

Enid Sievers gestured vaguely toward the back of the house and asked, “Or maybe you’d like a chocolate-covered cherry?”

“Thank you,” I said. “Maybe later. Right now, I’d like to see Missy.” Then I finally caught on. “Mrs. Sievers, would you like
me
to get her?”

“Would you? I have a terrible time with her.” Her odd, vaguely mechanical voice was pitifully grateful, and she finally rose from the couch and gestured to me to follow. As I trailed after her through a furniture-packed dining room and into an out-of-date, surprisingly bare lime green kitchen, she went on about her troubles with the dog. “She’s knocked me over five or six times! And I know she doesn’t mean it, it’s just that she’s terribly strong, and, of course she’s very young and
so
vigorous! And I know she misses Edgar—he used to take her for her walkies every morning and twice at night, when he was able. Edgar worshipped this dog—and I’ve hired a boy to walk her, and that helps, but it’s
not enough! And I can’t let her run through the house, can I? Just imagine!”

And I did. Candy dishes emptied and smashed, porcelain figures flying, lamps crashing to the floor, tea tables toppled … How the hell had a malamute ever ended up in this worse-than-a-china-shop? I knew the answer, of course: Puppy Luv, that’s how.

Mostly because I’d entirely dismissed Enid Sievers’s claim that Missy was an outstanding specimen of the breed, I expected to see the opposite: a tiny “malamute” with some obvious Siberian husky in her; or maybe a grotesquely oversized monster with bad hips; or simply a poor specimen, a malamute with a snap tail and coat; or perhaps a wooley. A wooley? That’s a malamute with a really long, shaggy coat. Woolies are spectacularly pretty, but that coat isn’t what the standard calls for, so you can’t show woolies in the breed ring. Anyway, Missy wasn’t one. In fact, for a pet shop dog, she was surprisingly decent looking, and she was loaded with personality.

As it turned out, she’d been confined to a large pantry at the back of the kitchen. The little room had been stripped of its original contents and furnished with a mammoth red dog bed, a set of stainless steel bowls, and a big Vari-Kennel complete with a cozy-looking fake-sheepskin crate rug. Enid Sievers had supplied me with a sturdy inch-wide leash, and I’d cautiously opened the door, but the second Missy caught sight of me, she dashed forward, wiggled all over, rubbed her head vigorously against my knees, and then veered, dashed in a couple of happy circles, and returned to me.

“Hi, pretty,” I said, massaging her neck and rubbing the top of her head. “Are you a good girl?”

She plunked her bottom on the floor, flattened her ears against her head, rose up a little, gently placed both front paws in my hands, and held my eyes in hers. I was crazy about her, of course. I am a complete sucker for dogs, but especially for malamutes. And here’s the damn thing, the real killer: Her color and facial markings were
a whole lot like Kimi’s. Gray dog, white trim with a little tan, the full mask, the whole bit. Her eyes were paler than Kimi’s, her coat was a lighter gray, her tail was shorter, and her build was more delicate than Kimi’s—she’d end up smaller than Kimi, I thought, with legs and feet too fine for the breed—but the superficial resemblance was there. And sweet? Missy was a born cuddler, much more submissive than either of my dogs. She rubbed herself against me like a cat. When I knelt down, she wrapped her forepaws around my neck and—I swear it’s true—gave me a big hug. She didn’t just rest her paws on me; she squeezed. I loved her on sight and felt a momentary rush of anger at Rowdy and Kimi, who would’ve welcomed her with all the joyous enthusiasm I’d display if Steve announced that, guess what, our life was about to be enriched by the addition of a new woman. Damn them, I thought. And damn the show on Sunday, too. This was one rescue malamute who’d be easy to place in a good home.

“Well,” I said to Enid Sievers, who hovered timidly in the background, “she’s a sweetheart.” Then, although the floor of the pantry was clean, I asked, “Is she fully housebroken?”

“Oh, yes,” Enid Sievers said.

“Any, uh, bad habits? Chewing on things? Anything like that?”

“Just her toys.” They littered the pantry floor: one large Nylaring, one giant Nylafloss, two plaque attackers in different sizes, three hard plastic balls, a tug-of-war toy, a big red rubber Kong toy, a chew-proof Frisbee, to mention a few. “The lady at Puppy Luv explained to Edgar that toys are very important.” Well, they are, of course. But two or three hundred dollars’ worth? “And,” she added as if transmitting a piece of insider information, “water must always be available. That’s very important for Alaskan malamutes.”

“Yes,” I said. Missy’s water bowl was full. “Mrs. Sievers, has Missy come in season yet? Has she had her first heat yet?”

As you’ve probably guessed, Enid Sievers wasn’t exactly a real dog person. Her pale, fine skin turned from ivory to pink to scarlet. I heard her catch her breath. Her voice was faint and controlled. “Not that I’ve noticed,” she said. “But I’m not …”

I tried to dream up a probe that wouldn’t embarrass this woman.
Notice any bloody vaginal discharge? Any swelling of the vulva?
In fact, it seemed to me that there was some. “Um, have there been any, uh, red spots on the floor?”