Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky (11 page)

After the greetings were out of the way, she instructed the maid to “fetch Raul from his nappy.” Then she led me to a broad window at the end of the room. Outside, a wide lawn ended at a thin crescent of sandy beach and beyond that, the ocean. It was a bewitching view. I stared longingly, careful not to press my nose against the glass.

She hugged herself. “The ocean looks chilly today, doesn’t it?”

“If I lived here (
and if my aunt had balls she’d be my uncle,
I thought to myself), I’d be in the water every day.”

“My husband and I rarely swim nowadays. The water’s not as nice as when I was a girl.”

While few things in life are as nice as they once were, having a private beach was a reasonable compensation. I sighed, reluctant to turn away from the window.

While we waited, Mrs. Phipps and I made small talk, something I loathe. I told her about the paper’s circulation, the publisher, and my duties as reporter. All the while I was wondering what happened to the maid.

Just as I was launching into an account of the Seniors’ Summer Picnic, minus any mention of the Salmonella, Mrs. Phipps patted my arm and got to her feet. I’m going up to see what’s keeping Raul. The little fellow sometimes gets cross when he awakens. He’s apt to nip.” She gestured to a tall glassed-in case against the far wall. “While I’m gone, take a peek at Raul’s awards. I’ll be right back.”

I took her suggestion and checked out the various ribbons and engraved silver trophies inside the wooden case. As I was putting on my glasses to read an inscription, Mrs. Phipps returned. “We’re back,” she called.

I turned and sucked in my breath. In her arms Mrs. Phipps carried the weirdest looking creature I’ve ever seen. It was small, shriveled, gray and hairless with big sad eyes and ears that stuck out like inverted ice cream cones. I hoped my face didn’t register the shock I felt. And to think the dog was worth thousands, thanks to its peerless, yet hairless, lineage.

“Let’s sit here and get acquainted, shall we?” she said, lowering herself onto a sofa near the window. “We’ll take a moment to get used to each other first.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Sit here. You can pet Raul, but don’t try to kiss him.”

Kissing Raul, who resembled a large rodent, was the last thing I had in mind. At the same time I didn’t want to offend Mrs. Phipps, patron saint of Yvonne, so I hesitantly touched the clammy skin, repressing a shudder. “He’s darling,” I lied, peering into the dog’s yellow eyes, “but his skin feels a little cold.”

She cuddled him closer. “Hairless breeds are cold-blooded. Do you notice how warm this room is?”

Did I notice? It was so warm the candles were in danger of melting.

She continued, “Raul sleeps in a climate controlled room where the temperature never drops below seventy-five degrees. His little heart must work overtime providing heat for his body. That’s one reason why Lester and I drive to Florida every winter. We can’t risk taking him on a plane. Even in first class the temperature can drop.” She kissed the top of his wrinkled head. “Besides, it’s nice and cozy in the car.” She touched her nose to his wet, black snout. “Raul loves Palm Beach, don’t you, peaches?”

Raul, in response, regarded her morosely.

After recovering from my initial shock, I dug out my notebook and began the interview, asking questions concerning the dog’s lineage. When she said they went to Bristol, England, to get Raul, I made a feeble joke. “You mean, you didn’t drive?”

Mrs. Phipps took the question seriously. “We’d planned to fly back, but Lady Higganbotham, who owns the kennel, discouraged us. She said the pressurized cabin in a plane could result in ear infections in a wee pup. Fortunately, we were able to book passage on the QE II. Lady Higganbotham also mentioned that Raul’s first few days with his new owners are a time of bonding. We shouldn’t be separated for even a minute.

“On the ship, we didn’t want to expose him to the passengers in the dining room so we took all our meals in our stateroom.” In a confidential tone she added, “One must commit oneself.”

“He must be a very contented dog,” I said, examining the tiny mutt whose skin was the color of wet clay.
It isn’t fair,
I thought.
Why didn’t the Phippses adopt me? I never get ear infections or require climate control.

Instead of agreeing that Raul was indeed contented, Mrs. Phipps pressed him closer. I was afraid the thing would suffocate, but he didn’t protest. In fact, Raul was strangely passive. “At least he’s not noisy,” I said, “like some small breeds.”

When Mrs. Phipps spoke, her voice wavered. “This is off the record, Miss McNichols. Raul, you see, is clinically depressed.”

Surprised, I murmured an apology as she continued. “I became aware of the change in him about three weeks ago. He became listless. When Lester came home from the office, Raul didn’t run to the door and do his little dance.”

“Dance?” I asked.

With that she sat up and bounced on the sofa, wrists bent and hands flapping up and down. “Yip! Yip! Yip!” she barked in a high-pitched tone. It was a good imitation of a dancing Hairless Peruvian.

She continued. “As the days passed, Raul got worse. He started to tinkle on the legs of the furniture. Finally, when he did toity in Lester’s slippers, we made an appointment at the Angell Memorial Hospital in Boston. Their doctors gave Raul a thorough examination and said the problem wasn’t physical, it was behavioral.

“We wondered how this could be. We’ve treated Raul like our own child. We didn’t know where to turn until someone suggested Dr. Klinger. At that point we’d seen so many specialists—”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Phipps. You contacted Dr. Klinger?”

“For a consultation.” She placed a hand on my arm. “Please don’t mention any of this in your story.”

“Of course I won’t. I asked because I’m surprised to learn that Dr. Klinger treated dogs.”

“She didn’t actually engage in therapy. She observed what she called the family dynamic to determine if there was anything in our interactions that was upsetting Raul.”

“And did Dr. Klinger learn anything?”

“Before she died—so tragic, that was—she’d told us that a sudden change in Raul’s environment was likely responsible. The only change I could think of was the decorating job in the solarium. We had new wallpaper and slipcovers made. Yet after we returned the room to its original state, Raul still remained depressed.” She gazed sadly at the sleeping dog.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Phipps. Do you mean to say you had the solarium decorated and then you had it undecorated, changed back to the original state?”

She nodded, the loose skin under her eyes quivering. “It didn’t help. The poor baby still moped pitifully.”

I couldn’t help staring. “Mrs. Phipps, you really love that dog.”

“Oh, we do.”

I studied Raul, who now resembled a sleeping cactus plant. “Let me ask you, as Raul’s caregiver, what is your gut feeling?”

She looked startled. “What do you mean?”

“It’s like the bond among family members. You know when something’s wrong.”

She averted her eyes. “Odd that you should mention that. I do have a hunch, but I haven’t mentioned it to Lester. Although my husband is a high-powered businessman, he’s also extremely tenderhearted. If I told him about my hunch, he’d feel terribly guilty.”

“Guilty about what?”

She sighed. “About a month ago Lester attended a tile convention in Texas. When he got back we had a dinner party, inviting some of our oldest friends. As a matter of fact, we had cocktails right here in the library.

“After an hour or so, Lester excused himself and went upstairs. When he returned, he was wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat he’d brought back from his trip. It was quite amusing, and everyone laughed at the sight. Raul, who was sleeping under that chair, woke up. When he saw Lester in that hat, he froze. It was eerie. Little Raul seemed to turn to stone. Of course, Lester immediately removed the hat and we continued with the party. Yet from that moment Raul developed a haunted look.”

“Did you mention this to Dr. Klinger?”

“I did without telling my husband. Dr. Klinger seemed to agree that it could have been traumatic for Raul to awaken and see Daddy, I mean Lester, looking so strange. Raul is sensitive. He comes from an old, aristocratic line. Dr. Klinger said he may also have a fear of men in hats. Many breeds do.”

“Now that you have your suspicions, what are you going to do?”

She rested her cheek on top of Raul’s head. A tear slid from her eye. “I don’t know, Miss McNichols, I just don’t know.”

Lunchtime found me picking alfalfa sprouts from my computer keyboard. I’d bought a veggie wrap from Mega Mug, a downtown hole in the wall whose only attraction is its proximity to the office. As I grappled with the soggy, loose wrap, bits of mushroom, tomato, peppers and sprouts rained down on my keyboard.

Seeing my dilemma, Stewart asked, “Shall I hose you down?”

I chucked the remainder in the wastebasket. “That’s the last time I go to Mega Mug for anything but coffee.”

“You should bring something from home,” he said. “I brought a thermos of lentil soup that saved me four dollars.”

“Maybe in my next lifetime I will.”

“Just trying to be helpful,” he said in a prissy tone.

I wiped wet, sticky hands on the restaurant’s thin napkins. They shredded on contact. “Don’t mind me, Stew. I’m just mad I went back there after swearing I’d never step foot in that place again. I always expect it to improve, but it never does. Now they hired some pea-brained kid who’s not too tightly wrapped himself.”

“Young people have to get work experience somewhere,” he said.

An appropriate response from a trust fund recipient who’s never worked full-time in his life. “I wish they’d get some experience in manners,” I said. “Nothing major, just a simple thank you. And while I’m on the subject, do these kids have something against smiling? Is that not a cool thing to do?”

Stew chuckled. “You’re showing your age, Rose.”

Immediately, I reached in the wastebasket for my discarded sandwich to throw at Stewart’s head. While I was doing this my phone rang, thus sparing him. It was Betty Ann. “What are you doing right now?” she asked. No greeting, no preliminaries.

“Picking sprouts from my keyboard. What’s up?”

“Can you come over here? I’m at work, and I need to see you.” She sounded like she was talking through clenched teeth.

“I can kill two birds with one stone. I was planning to interview one of your residents, Mabel Snodgrass. She’ll be one hundred three years old at the end of the week, and—”

“I’ll see you then.”

“Fine,” I said, although she’d hung up. I grabbed my bag and said to Stewart’s back, “Tell Yvonne I’ll be at Green Pastures Nursing Home if she needs to reach me.”

“I heard. You’re meeting Betty Ann and interviewing a hundred-and-three-year-old lady. Do me a favor. Let me know if there are any good-looking nurses over there.”

“You thinking of settling down?” I sized up the thin, greasy hair, the loafers bound with duct tape.

He shrugged. “Providing she’s young, good-looking, and can discuss the issues without sounding like a bimbo.”

“I’ll let you know,” I promised. Stewart should add another requirement in his search for the perfect woman: embalmed. No living woman would last two days with Stew. Although he’s got an encyclopedic knowledge of sports, he’s totally lacking in social skills.

I found a parking space in the visitors’ section under the big white sign reading Green Pastures Nursing & Retirement Home. Printed in italics below that was their motto,
where dreams come true.
Betty Ann is fond of adding, “if you dream of being drugged, diapered, and permanently detained.” Although she loves working with the elderly, B.A. laments the modern nursing home. Often, usually after her third drink, she launches into her dream of someday running her own establishment.

“I’ll buy a big old house and put in tile floors so we won’t have to worry about spills. We’ll have a couple of cats, maybe a dog. And instead of vegetating in front of the TV all day, the residents will be outside, helping in the garden. We’ll raise our own vegetables, grow our own food. Nothing will be processed or precooked. Some can help inside doing housework. It will be like a family where everyone has chores.

“At the end of the day they’ll be so tired they won’t need sleeping pills. In fact, they won’t need half the medications the average patient takes.”

“You know what?” I say. “My dad will be the first person to sign up for your nursing home.”

She smiles, though before the night is through her optimism fades. “Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t last a week in the business. The nitpickers in public health, the license boards, will descend with a checklist. Have I recorded the residents’ urine output? Their daily weight? Their blood pressure?

“The state will ask where the elevator and the automated doors are. Public Health will check the refrigerator, cupboards and bathrooms. One wet mop and I’ll be written up for violations I never heard of.” Eventually, she becomes wistful. “I could create such a wonderful environment, but in the end the nitpickers would win.”

I paused outside the door with its black lacquered sign reading Betty Ann Zagrobski, Director of Activities. Through the tiny window I spotted her two assistants setting up tables stacked with bingo cards. I stuck my head in the doorway. “Is Betty Ann around?”

“She’s in the break room having lunch,” the younger woman said.

Where else?
I thought, heading down the long hallway whose ambiance, if that’s the appropriate word for linoleum tiles and institutional green walls, was a marked contrast to the residents’ living areas. They had flossed wallpaper, chandeliers, and pastel carpeting, all the better to spill upon. As a result, Green Pastures Nursing Home exuded all the warmth of a suburban hotel while its rates doubled those of The Ritz.

I found Betty Ann hunched over a submarine sandwich that dripped oil. At a nearby table, a group of nurses’ aides carried on a lively conversation in Spanish. They seemed to be the only people in the place having fun. I approached and stood over Betty Ann. “What’s that smell?”