Gaits of Heaven (9 page)

I was furious.
Make amends
? As if she’d broken a teacup and were willing to replace it but couldn’t find one in the right pattern. I immediately acted on the agreement Steve and I had that either of us would let the other know if we heard from the Fiend. I caught him between patients. He had received an almost identical note. He told me to ignore the whole business. I couldn’t. Consequently, I called the other person who seemed a likely recipient of one of these missives, my stepmother, Gabrielle, whom Anita had helped to defraud of a large amount of money.

Gabrielle, too, had received a note. “Something is up with her,” she said in that warm, sultry voice of hers. “This nonsense isn’t something Anita would ever have come up with her own. In fact, I’d bet anything that someone has put her up to it.”

“Who?”

“Do you suppose she’s become alcoholic? I don’t remember that Anita ever drank, did she? Not to the point of alcoholism. But this business of apologies and amends is very AA.”

“Yes, it is, now that you mention it.”

“Maybe it’s some other kind of recovery program. There are twelve-step programs for everything.”

“Being a vile human being?”

“For all we know, yes. But whatever it is, Anita obviously hasn’t committed herself wholeheartedly to the steps.”

“The hypocrite! That business about amends made me want to throw up.”

“She’s obviously insincere,” Gabrielle said temperately. “As usual. Making amends to you and Steve would be difficult of course. But to me? If she’d really wanted to make amends to me, it would’ve been easy. She’d have enclosed a check.”

I have an image of Johanna Green, Ted’s ex-wife and
Wyeth’s mother, as she examines her face in what is all too accurately known as a
fright mirror
. The magnification confirms her sense that her lower lashes do an inadequate job of hiding the tiny scars from her eye job. Furthermore, in the four years since her last major cosmetic surgery, gravity has been at work. Jowls!

After resolving to recommit herself to aesthetic dermatology and cosmetic surgery, Johanna turns to her professional work, which at the moment consists of feminist linguistic research on grammatical gender in Hebrew, Verdurian, and various other languages in which verbs as well as nouns are masculine, feminine, or, in some instances, neuter.

Under Rita’s influence, I am forced to wonder about the emotional meaning of Johanna’s choice of topic. Does she find it nervy and greedy of languages to extend masculinity and femininity beyond the province of the noun to the vast territory of the verb? Or maybe the hidden source of Johanna’s scholarly pursuit lies in her feelings about her ex-husband, Ted Green, who is forever saying that he wishes he knew Hebrew but has never bothered to learn its rudiments or to visit Israel. Or if she thinks about Ted, perhaps it is with regard to the third category of nouns and verbs, the neither feminine nor masculine group, the desexed or sexless one, so to speak:
neuter
.

As soon as Caprice returned from her therapy appointment,
she went upstairs to take a nap. Without Lady. Or any of the other dogs. I decided that her therapy hour had been a waste of time. Rita would’ve disagreed about the specifics, but she’d have agreed with the general proposition that if therapy doesn’t teach you to give and accept love, what good is it?

While Caprice was napping, I took a break from work to check my e-mail and simultaneously to visit my cat, Tracker, who inhabits my study, in which I almost never write, never mind study. Tracker is mine because no one else wanted her. She has a torn ear, a birthmark on her nose, and, worse, a tendency to hiss at everyone but Steve and to scratch everyone but him, too. My efforts to teach Rowdy and Kimi to accept her had been less than the sort of success that would have made for a great article in
Dog’s Life
: “Malamute Lions Lie Down with Feline Lamb.” Rowdy and Kimi were far calmer in Tracker’s presence than they’d once been, but I still didn’t trust them. Consequently, when they were loose, she was not. My study did offer her as much stimulation as one room could provide, including a tall cat tree and a myriad of toys, and she sometimes had the privilege of sleeping in our bedroom on Steve’s pillow. Even so, I felt guilty about her and made a point of socializing with her, or trying, whenever I used my desktop computer.

Unfortunately, Tracker took the word
mouse
literally. She was asleep on it when I entered the room, and when my presence awakened her, she glared at me and hissed. When I finally got to sit at my own desk, I found my usual thousand e-mail messages from my malamute lists and dog writers’ lists and an invitation from Ted Green to attend Eumie’s memorial service at eight o’clock the following evening at his house. His message included this passage:

Eumie’s mortal remains will not be available, but she is still and will always be very much with me in all possible senses and will be present in spirit at this gathering as we celebrate her life and especially her loving relationships with all of you. Each of you was very, very special to Eumie. Although her background was Protestant, her true religion was the nurturance of caring relationships. Consequently, I hope that each of you will speak to all of us and to Eumie herself about the memories of her that you cherish most and the lessons you learned from her.

I had met Eumie only twice—postmortem didn’t count—and knew from experience in personal invitations to funerals that I was being invited only in case Dolfo acted up. If he did, I could be counted on to settle him down. My memories of Eumie weren’t exactly cherished, so I had no intention of speaking about them, and, as for lessons she’d taught me, what could I possibly say?
Never buy a dog on the Internet
? I hadn’t learned that one from Eumie. I’d known it for a long time. Still, although Thursday evenings were usually sacred to the training of the Sacred Animal, I e-mailed back an acceptance. Caprice would have to attend, and she couldn’t be allowed to go unprotected.

Leah, who’d been up early, returned from work at five o’clock. Her face bare of makeup, her red-gold hair tumbling from a ponytail, she looked healthy and beautiful and was bubbling with exciting news about hyperthyroid cats, hypothyroid dogs, and two healthy ferrets who’d been at the clinic for routine exams but were nonetheless noteworthy because of their charm. Leah changed out of her green scrubs and into shorts and a T-shirt, and left to take Kimi for a run. Caprice was evidently still in bed. The contrast between her lethargy and Leah’s energy was worrisome. If sleep was Caprice’s means of handling loss and stress, it was preferable, I thought, to overeating and to a great many other possible coping mechanisms. Did she always go to bed early, sleep late, and nap for most of the afternoon? Or was the pattern a response to her mother’s unnatural death? I had no idea. Did she have a chronic illness? Or, as I’d wondered earlier, could she be drugging herself into oblivion? I’d ask Rita, who was going to have dinner with us. Steve’s clinic was open until nine on Wednesday evenings, so I’d be cooking for only four people. If it hadn’t been for Caprice, we’d probably have had nature’s most perfect food, pizza, but I couldn’t bring myself to serve Caprice something so high in calories. On the other hand, tonight’s vegetable would not be green beans, squash, or any other dog-weight-loss staple, either, even though Rita kept herself on a permanent diet. As I was about to leave for our local whole-foods market, Loaves and Fishes, Caprice made her way downstairs.

“I’m running out to get food for dinner. I thought we’d have a big salad with shrimp, if that’s okay.”

“Anything is fine,” she said. “I think I might take another shower, if that’s all right. It might help me wake up. And I need to check my e-mail.”

“Whatever you want. Leah has gone running, so she’ll want a shower, too, but she can use the bathroom on the first floor. If you want to use your notebook, there are a lot of phone jacks. Help yourself. Or you’re welcome to use my computer, but it’s in my study, which is where my cat, Tracker, lives, so please be careful not to let her out.” I explained about Rowdy and Kimi, showed her where my study was, and warned her about Tracker’s sour disposition and tendency toward aggression. “And our friend Rita will be here for dinner. She lives on the third floor. I’ll be back in no time.” I paused. “And you should know that Ted is planning a memorial service for tomorrow evening. Eight o’clock.”

Caprice made a face. “I don’t believe in death parties. And at eight o’clock? I’ll tell you what he’s doing. He’s trying to drum up business for himself. Referrals.”

“You don’t have to go.”

“I do.”

“For what it’s worth, I said I’d go. We can go together.”

“Thank you.”

I left for Loaves and Fishes, did the shopping, and returned to find that Leah and Caprice weren’t going to be home for dinner after all. A friend of Leah’s who was staying in Cambridge for the summer had called for help in moving to an apartment, and Leah had not only volunteered but was taking Caprice along. Pizza was part of the deal. Out of Caprice’s hearing, I protested: “Caprice is in mourning.”

But Leah said, “What do you want her to do? Hang around with you and Rita? Stay in her room? She needs to get out. It’ll be good for her.”

In fact, the prospect of doing anything seemed to energize Caprice, who helped Leah to move the crates out of my car, which Leah was borrowing to help with the move. Soon after Leah and Caprice left, Rita showed up. I had just finished emptying the refrigerator, freezer, and cupboards of ice cream, cookies, chocolate, and other horror foods that I didn’t want Caprice to know I was purging. I supplied Rita with a gin and tonic and myself with a glass of Australian Shiraz, and worked on the salad. Rita sat at the kitchen table with her feet propped up on a chair. She’d even taken off her bone-colored pumps. She wore a linen outfit in a shade of rose that brightened her cheeks. At my request, she was reading the note from Anita.

“Gabrielle got one, too,” I said. “She thinks that the apology and the stuff about amends means that Anita is in some twelve-step program.”

“A good guess. Or maybe she’s in therapy. It does read as if someone told her to write it.”

“I just can’t imagine what she’s supposed to be recovering from.”

“It could be anything. The recovery movement covers a lot of ground. I think you should forget all about the note.”

“Speaking of recovery,” I said, “I could use some advice about Caprice.” Rita already knew that Caprice was staying with us. I’d filled her in when we’d arranged dinner.

Rita sipped her drink. “Ethical considerations have arisen,” she said. “I really can’t say much about that family.”

“No one has mentioned you,” I said. “Caprice’s therapist is Missy Zinn. You said she’s good. Eumie told me the names of a lot of others. Ted has mentioned some. They were seeing Vee Foote, and she’s seeing Ted now. It’s exactly like her to do
couples
therapy with
one
person.”

“He may need…why am I defending her? With someone else, there might be a good reason to see the surviving spouse, but knowing Vee, she’ll probably keep on seeing him for years if he’s willing to pay. Anyway, the reason is that I’ve just started supervising a young psychologist, Peter York, who’s connected to the case, and this is a new patient of Peter’s. I’m far from sure that I’m the best supervisor for Peter. He’s more interested in families than in individuals.”

I set the kitchen table, put the salad bowl on it, told Rita to help herself, and then resumed my badgering. “Rita, you aren’t Caprice’s therapist, so you have to listen. Her mother has just died. Either she committed suicide or she was murdered. The police are investigating her death. And even when Eumie was alive, Caprice was in trouble. She is horribly overweight. She’s so overweight that her face is disfigured. If she were thirty, okay, then it would be her choice and so on, but it’s simply a fact, whether we like it or not, that at her age, she cannot be obese and have any kind of half-decent social life. And she sleeps…it’s normal for adolescents to sleep a lot. Leah used to, and she’ll still sleep late sometimes, but this is different. It’s not just how long Caprice sleeps, but when she wakes up, she seems drugged. Rita, look how Eumie died! And Ted and Eumie used to help themselves to each other’s medications. For all I know, their medicine cabinets were open to the whole family, like refrigerators. What if…Rita, all I’m asking for is ordinary advice. There’s nothing unethical about giving me that.”

“Use your own judgment. Do what you’re doing. She’s seeing Missy. You are not her therapist. This is a good salad.”

“Thank you. I’ve decided that salad is the new pizza. Almost. For women, anyway. Steve considers it a side dish.”

I was interrupted by Kevin Dennehy’s signature rapping on the back door. When he’d greeted both of us, I set a third place at the table and asked whether he wanted a beer. For once, he refused, but he did take a seat.

“Women and vegetables,” he said, eyeing the salad I’d put on his plate.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “And you’re welcome to pick out the shrimp and just eat those. And you have some hot dogs in the refrigerator, and there’s some of your hamburger left, too, but it’s turning strange colors.”

“That’s mold,” Kevin said. “Excellent source of penicillin.”

“Are you feeling sick?” I asked.

“In the head.” Smiling at Rita, he added, “Not you, Rita, you’re an exception, but I’ve got this theory about your profession. All it takes is one of you. And that one drives someone crazy. And then the victim goes to another one of you. And that one gets driven crazy and has to see another one. And so on. Like rabbits. Two of them are all cute and fluffy, and then a month later, it’s thousands. Except with rabbits, you gotta start with two. With shrinks, all you need is one, and before you know it, there they are, all getting their heads examined, all stark raving mad.”

Pointing to the lettuce on Kevin’s plate, Rita said, “It’s possible that the rabbit food is affecting your brain, Kevin. Maybe you should have some of that penicillin after all.”

“Dogs,” Kevin said. “You’re not off the hook, Holly.”

“Dolfo,” I said, “is not my dog.”

“Peed all over the scene. And did the first officer on the scene, O’Brien, remove him? And protect the scene? He did not. And did he permit Dr. Green, who was having quote-unquote an anxiety attack, to raid the bathroom and help himself out of the same medicine cabinets that should’ve been sealed up? He did. Is O’Brien an idiot? He is.”

“Well,” I said, “at least he’s one of yours and not a shrink or a dog. Kevin, I am sorry. Your mother said you were being driven crazy by psychiatrists. I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

“And then there’s my mother. And you.”

I rounded up most of the shrimp that remained in the salad bowl and put them on Kevin’s plate. “Protein may help,” I said.

“Not according to Jennifer.”

“Well,” said Rita, “the theme for today is that the world is lined up on two opposing teams. One team consists of Kevin. The other consists of everyone else.”

“You got it,” Kevin agreed. “And guess who’s winning.” He paused to eat. When he’d swallowed, he asked, “Caprice Brainard is staying here?”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s why I left all those messages for you. But she isn’t here right now. She and Leah have gone out.”

Turning to Rita, Kevin said, “And you’re in on this, too, aren’t you.”

“Indirectly,” Rita conceded.

“The memorial service,” I said, “is tomorrow.”

“First I’ve heard,” said Kevin. “The body hasn’t been released.”

“That’s okay. It’s not a funeral. It’s a memorial service. No body required. We’re supposed to share memories. And lessons Eumie taught us.”

“Yeah. Don’t get your head shrunk.”

Sherlock Holmes fan that I am, I said, “As you value your life and reason, stay away from the shrinks. That’s from
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. More or less.”

“Enough, both of you!” Rita was genuinely put out.

“We don’t mean you,” I said.

“Do I make hostile jokes about cops and dog trainers?”

“There aren’t any,” I said, “or maybe you would.”

“What’s happening here,” Rita announced, “is that the toxic environment of this horrible event is affecting all three of us. Harry Stack Sullivan had what’s really a contagion theory of emotion. He said—”

“Something about mothers,” Kevin finished. “That’s what they all say.”

“Actually,” said Rita, “now that you mention it, he was talking about mothers. ‘Anxiety in the mother induces anxiety in the infant.’”

“Thus Caprice,” I said. “Maternal overdependence on prescription medication induces—”

Kevin suddenly turned serious. “It’s a homicide, you know. It’s a homicide. Nobody could’ve taken that much by accident, and this crap in the refrigerator was loaded with it. You know stuff comes in liquid form? It was mixed with all this soy stuff and vegetable juice that no one else drank but her. It’s gawdawful is what it is. I’ve been a cop a long time, and I’ve seen a wicked lot of drugs, but I gotta tell you, even after Dr. Green had been in that bathroom, there was so much there that I…it was…honest to God, it was like finding a meth lab on Avon Hill. It’s a wonder there’s anyone in that house still left alive.”