A Hell of a Dog (25 page)

I opened the magazine and began to study the lists in earnest, first the list of people in this audience, checking all the other participant lists for the last two years to see if any name popped up in a telling way. But while there were people in attendance here who had been to a Bucky talk or a Martyn weekend symposium, there was no name that appeared in the audience of all three deceased colleagues. This was not to say that perusing the lists wasn't worthy of my attention. Not at all.

Of note, it seemed to me, was that while Bucky was the most demanding of the speakers—spelling out the publicity he had to have, demanding first-class travel and lodging, requiring limos and escorts instead of taking cabs, even submitting his own introduction, which was three pages long, single-spaced—his draw, and consequently his fee, had gone not up but down over the last two years. Despite all the self-inflation, Bucky's popularity was slipping. And Bucky, I'd guess, was not a man to take that lightly.

I remembered that quite a few years back Bucky had had a nice gig as a steady guest on some daytime TV show, and Rick Shelbert had wheedled his way in there with some little tap dance about what he could do, causing Bucky to get fired and Rick—Dr. Rick, as they called him on the show—to get the job.

Had he had a bone to pick with Alan and Martyn as well? Where was he when I was sleeping in the bathtub?

But what was I thinking here? Sure, someone could have used a passkey and gotten into Alan's room, surprised him as he was getting out of the tub and knocked the radio, shelf and all, into the bath with him. But what about Rick? He'd died right in front of us. He'd choked on breakfast. And it was Chip and Martyn who had worked on him and failed to save him, not Bucky. Or Boris.

This was great. The more I learned, the less I knew.

I'd told Chip that things weren't what they seemed to be. So fine. What were they?

What if Rick hadn't choked? Was there something that could have made it seem he was choking? Some drug the killer could have slipped into his morning juice? And what a clever scheme that would be. Wouldn't choking be the obvious thing for us to think, watching a man start to cough, turn pale, and be unable to breathe in the middle of a meal?

Then there was Martyn. Was he competition for Bucky?

I looked up his seminars. He was pulling twice to three times the crowd Bucky pulled in. As Bucky's popularity went down, Martyn's had ascended. Sure, Bucky got the media to show up. But when it came to black-and-white figures, he wasn't doing as hot as he'd like everyone to believe.

I felt a jab in my side and looked up.

Audrey was speaking. “Yes, it was more difficult for a woman to get started in dog training years ago, but I don't think that's as true today.”

“She wants you all to answer,” Chip whispered, his hand covering his mike. “The good old macho days of yesteryear versus politically correct today.”

“I may barf,” I whispered.

There was a ripple of movement in the audience, then laughter. Everyone was looking at me. That's when I realized I hadn't covered my microphone.

“That's what I get for eating before a panel discussion,” I told them. “Food's not a great idea when you're nervous.” I smiled ingratiatingly at the sea of faces, still intensely focused on me. “Well, as long as I have your attention,” I told them, “I don't pay attention to the sort of thing you're talking about.”

The woman who'd asked the question was standing, taking notes at a furious pace. She was tiny, even smaller than Audrey, and dressed in pale violet, including the scarf that held her ponytail.

“I figure out what it is I want to do with my life and then go out and do the absolute best job I can. You can't ask more of anyone, male or female, can you?” I wondered if I should slow down so that she could record me verbatim, but I'm much too much of a New Yorker. I couldn't do it. “I think by doing that,” I continued, “you can keep your choices open. Even in male-dominated professions, women have a good chance of succeeding, if they believe in themselves and don't listen to what other people say.”

“But what about the men?”

“What about them?”

“They don't take women trainers seriously.”

“So what? Take yourself seriously. No one else can prevent you from doing that. And the way someone else views you can't hold you back or make you fail. Only you can do that. Or not do that.”

I heard Bucky exhale loudly. He had little patience for anyone else holding the floor.

“What Bucky is probably thinking is that you shouldn't pay so much attention to what other people are doing. Or thinking.” I smiled down the table at Bucky. “That's one of the reasons why he's so successful. He uses his energy productively rather than worrying about what you or I are up to. There's a wonderful lesson there.”

With Beryl's voice as a backdrop, I turned my attention back to the papers on my lap. And perhaps since it was Beryl speaking, I turned to the phone records from her room. She'd only made a couple of calls, both to the same number, probably telling her grandchild about Cecilia's antics. It was a 718 area code. I circled the number to remind me to check it out later.

Tracy was next to speak. I looked up as she began to answer.

“I disagree. Things are no better today.” She looked even angrier now than she had when we all sat down to begin the panel. “This has always been a male-dominated profession, and as far as I can see, it still is. I'm reminded of the Ginger Rogers quote. You know, when she said she did everything that Fred did, but backwards and in high heels.”

She waited for her laugh, but it didn't come. No one wanted to hear that even today women weren't getting an even break in the profession they practiced or, in most cases, longed to practice. I saw a few of the women looking back toward me, perhaps thinking that I would argue Tracy's point. But that wasn't the way the panel worked. Each of us, even Tracy, was entitled to her own opinion, and the fact that I disagreed not only with the content of it but with her negative attitude was beside the point.

A young man in the audience got up to ask a question. It was the brittle young man with the flat-coat that Beryl had worked with. He stood silently for a while, holding our attention without making good use of it.

“In my area,” he said, spacing his words carefully, the way some children separate the food on their plates so that nothing touches anything else, “there are two women trainers. And as far as I can see, they're getting more business than I am. Which is why I came here,” he added. “To improve my skills in the hope that it would improve my business. Nevertheless, I don't see evidence of what Ms. Nevins is saying. If I recall correctly, at least half the books and tapes in my home library are by women. Of course my favorite,” he said, turning toward Beryl, “is Ms. Potter's series, from the TV show she did in Britain. It's just brilliant.”

Tracy's dark look became even darker, her eyes hooded, her fingers tearing nervously at her cuticles. I turned to the phone bill from her room; nothing was logged there, but of course, room-to-room calls wouldn't be. So all I could do was wonder what Tracy Nevins was doing while nearly everyone else was playing musical beds. Had she seen what was going on? Had she tried to cozy up to Alan or Rick or Martyn and been rejected? Maybe it wasn't an unlucky man but a woman scorned.

I pulled out the seminar lists and looked for Tracy's name, first as a speaker. Sam had booked her only twice before, and she'd had a modest draw both times. She'd never done a video or a book. It was usually the people who did who pulled the biggest crowds. I wondered if she'd tried. There were several local trainers I knew of who, upon failing to get their method published, had self-published pamphlets. I wondered if there was a Gospel According to Tracy, and if the bitterness written across her face had to do with the words she'd just spoken and the envy she felt toward the successful men in the field. Again the same question: business or pleasure?

I began to flip through the names of attendees at the seminars given by the three speakers who had died this week. And there Tracy's name showed up more often. She'd attended three of Martyn's talks, all on the East Coast, four of Rick's, and two of Alan's, which, since she was a foodie, should have surprised me. But it didn't. I would never understand it, but for years I'd seen people embracing disparate methods as if they could take a little of this and a little of that and make something new and wonderful, something that made sense and would work, when if they had given the least little bit of thought, it should have been clear that it was an impossible combination. Still, there was Tracy's name, and for one talk, one of Rick's, she had traveled all the way to Phoenix. Fancy that.

“Being successful requires determination, good scholarship, and lots and lots of hard work, no matter your gender. There are no shortcuts, my dears, no magic answers. Even if your mum's in the business, you still have to make it on your own, don't you?”

Something was bothering me, one of those things you almost remember but not quite, but I had to let it go. Cathy was talking, and I wanted to hear what she had to say.

“Beryl's right,” Cathy said. “Personally, I've found nothing but acceptance in this profession. I'm a bit surprised by what I'm hearing today. From the very first, I've met people who were generous, helpful, and willing to share information.”

If Cathy had wanted our attention, she'd just earned it. Panelists and audience alike, we were all staring, wondering on which planet Cathy had started out as a dog trainer, because wherever it was, it sure as hell wasn't Earth.

“I think women have not only found a comfortable niche in dog training, we've had a beneficial effect on methodology. We're not as rough as the men. Well, as the men used to be,” she said, showing off the contrast between her California tan and her pearly white smile.

As Cathy elaborated, once again her voice growing stronger as she concentrated on work, I looked past her, back at Tracy. She didn't seem to be paying attention to Cathy. Still, she was nodding, her eyes checking out the molding in one of the far corners of the room as her head bobbed up and down, up and down, as if she might be approving not of what the rest of us were hearing but of some private thought or plan, something, perhaps, of her own making.

Maybe I'd made a mistake with the poker game. Maybe in order to keep the men safe, I should have organized a quilting bee.

26

MY MOTHER WOULD HAVE BEEN PROUD

“There's got to be a connection we're missing between the killer and the victims,” I whispered to Chip after the panel, this time remembering to shut off my microphone. “There must be something that would tie all this together, that would explain it.”

“But how do you get to it, from the victims' lives? We can't get to it from the killer's life. We don't know who the killer is.”

I got up to go.

“Where to now?”

“I have to go upstairs for a minute. I want to put on something of my own. This was careless of me,” I said, pulling on the front of the shirt he'd given me to put on after my bath. “I feel as if I'm waving a red flag in front of a bull.”

We walked up to three, heading down the hall toward my room. But I stopped before I got there, staring at the door to 303.

“What's up?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Speak up, Rachel, don't be shy. What do you need from me this time? A felony? Grand theft auto? B and E?”

“Oh, no way. I have a passkey. But that's not it. I'm just trying to recall something from a long time ago. But I need help. How much time is there before dinner?”

He looked at his watch. “An hour and a half.”

“Come on,” I said, heading back to the stairs. “We have to hurry.”

“We do?” he asked.

“Stop being cute. You're with me, aren't you?”

“In sickness and in health. I just wish we were doing something less sick. Where are we going now?”

“My house.”

It must have been something in my tone, or the way I yanked on his arm. He didn't say another word. When we hit the street, I went straight to the curb and put my arm out and, God bless New York City, a taxi pulled over to the curb to pick us up with both dogs.

“Tenth and Bleecker, please.”

The driver's turban bobbed forward and back, and we were on our way.

We rode downtown in silence, the dogs jammed between us. When the cab stopped in front of Kim's Video, we got out and walked west, past the Sixth Precinct, jaywalking across the street to the gate that led to my cottage. There was a thin young man leaning on the gate, his nails painted a frosty blue, the blue arcing around platinum moons on each nail. It must have taken forever to do them so neatly. He moved away when Dashiell, followed by Betty, headed for where he was standing.

I unlocked the gate, and we walked down the brick passageway into the garden. After Westminster, I'd often imagined Chip coming here. I even made up what he might say, and what I might answer back. I'd thought about it a lot after he said he'd call, but this afternoon, there wasn't time for us to think about ourselves. Back at the hotel, someone could be in danger.

Chip must have been thinking the same thing. He didn't tell me how beautiful the garden was or how at home he felt in my living room. He didn't look into my eyes until my body heated up and I ached for him to touch me. He didn't touch me, either. Without speaking, he followed me upstairs to my office, and when I'd found the videos I was after and had put them inside the leather backpack that had been hanging on the back of the office door, he followed me back down the stairs. We whistled for the dogs, who were having a sniffathon in the garden, and headed back to the Ritz.

“What do you expect to find in those?” he asked, this time sitting pressed against me, the dogs smudging up the windows on either side of the taxi as the city pulled by.