“No,” I say. While I rescue dogs, I have little or no knowledge of dog shows or breeders.
“Well, he was, and he had a seven-month-old, apparently a descendant of a champion, that his widow and son are fighting over. The animal was not included in the will.”
This may not be so bad. “So because of my experience with dogs, you want me to help adjudicate it?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Glad to help, Your Honor. Civic responsibility is my middle name.”
“I’ll remember to include it on the Christmas card. I assume you have a satisfactory place to keep your client?”
“My client?”
He nods. “The dog. You will retain possession of him until the issue is resolved.”
“I’m representing a dog in a custody fight? Is that what you’re asking me to do?”
“I wouldn’t categorize it as ‘asking,’ ” he says. “I already have a dog, Your Honor.”
“And now you have two.”
TARA KNOWS SOMETHING IS GOING ON.
I don’t know how she knows, but I can see it in her face when I get home. She stares at me with that all-knowing golden retriever stare, and even when she’s eating her dinner, she occasionally looks up at me to let me know that she’s on to me.
I take her for a long walk through Eastside Park, which is about six blocks from where I live on 42nd Street in Paterson. Except for a six-year span while I was married, it is where I’ve lived all my life, and no place could feel more like home. No one that I grew up with lives here anymore, but I keep expecting to see them reappear as I walk, as if I were in a Twilight Zone episode.
It’s home to Tara as well, and even though the sights and smells must be completely familiar to her, she relishes them as if experiencing them for the first time. It is one of the many millions of things I love about her.
It’s been really hot out lately, but the evenings have been cool, and tonight especially so. All in all it’s a perfect couple of hours, but the ringing phone when I get home is a reminder that perfection is fleeting, and not everything is as it should be. I can see by the caller ID that it’s Laurie Collins calling from her home in Wisconsin. The Wisconsin that is nowhere near New Jersey.
“Hello, Andy.”
Every time I hear Laurie’s voice, every single time, I am struck by my reaction to it. It is soothing, and welcoming, and it makes me think of home. But I’m already home, and Laurie isn’t here.
We talk for a while, and I tell her about my day, and my new client. I glance over at Tara to see if she’s listening, but she seems to be asleep. Laurie tells me about her day as well; she’s the police chief of Findlay, Wisconsin, and has been since she moved back there, a year and a half ago.
We broke up when she first moved, and those first four months were maybe the worst of my life. Then I went up to Findlay to handle a case, and we reconnected. Now we have a long-distance, committed relationship, which is feeling more and more like an oxymoron. Telling her about my day isn’t really cutting it. I want her to be an actual part of my days.
“So when are you getting the dog?” she asks.
“Tomorrow.”
“Have you mentioned it to Tara?”
“No. I think she’ll be okay with it, but it’ll cost me a truckload of biscuits.”
“You seem a little quiet, Andy. Is something wrong?” she asks.
Of course something’s wrong. It’s wrong that you’re in Wisconsin and I’m here. It’s wrong that we only talk on the phone, and we sleep in beds a thousand miles away. It’s wrong that we only see each other on vacations, and that we can’t be making love right now. These are the things I would say if I weren’t a sniveling chickenshit, but since I am, all I say is, “No, I’m fine. Really.”
Laurie is coming here on a week’s vacation starting in a few days, and we talk about how nice it will be to see each other. Talking about it is enough to cheer me up, and it puts me in a more upbeat mood.
I hang up and turn to my sleeping friend. “Tara, my girl, there’s something we need to talk about.”
Tara takes the news pretty well, though the fact that she keeps falling asleep during my little speech means she may not be fully focused. She’s sleeping a lot more than she used to, a sure sign of advancing age. It doesn’t worry me, though, because Tara is going to live forever. Or even longer.
I settle down to read about my new client in a three-page report prepared by the probate court. The dog is a seven-month old Bernese mountain dog named Bertrand II, which strikes me as a pretty ridiculous name for a puppy, or a dog of any age, for that matter.
The dog is currently living at the home of Diana Timmerman, the widow of the murder victim. I have been told to arrive promptly at her house in Alpine, half a mile west of the Palisades Interstate Parkway, at ten AM. I’m a punctual person, and pretty much the only times I’m ever late are when someone instructs me to arrive promptly. I get to the Timmerman house at ten forty-five.
Actually, it’s less a house than a compound, or maybe a fortress. There are two guards on duty at the gate, one inside the gatehouse and one patrolling outside. The one outside is actually wearing a gun in a holster. He’s at least six five, 260 pounds, and would probably only need the gun if the intruder happened to be a rhinoceros.
“Name?” the guard inside the gate asks me.
“Carpenter.” I’m a man of as few words as he is.
He picks up a clipboard and looks at it for a few moments, then puts it down and says, “Drive up and park to the left of the house. Someone will be out to get you.”
I go along a driveway that slopes upward until I come to the house, an amazingly impressive structure that looks straight out of Gone with the Wind. I consider myself independently wealthy, having inherited over twenty million dollars from my father a few years back. If I were willing to part with all of it, I could probably afford the Timmermans’ garage.
Because civil disobedience is my thing, I park to the right of the house, not the left. I get out of the car and wait, and after about five minutes the front door opens and a young man, probably in his early twenties, comes out. He starts to walk toward his car, then sees me and heads over.
“You’re here for Waggy?” he asks, and when he sees that I look confused, he adds, “The Bernese.”
“Yes,” I say.
“I’m Steven Timmerman,” he says, which means he is Diana Timmerman’s stepson, and one of the two people fighting for custody of the aforementioned “Waggy.” He offers his hand, and I shake it.
“Andy Carpenter.”
He nods. “Please take good care of him, Mr. Carpenter.” He starts to walk back toward his car, but stops and turns. “He loves to chew on things, especially the rawhide bones. And he goes crazy over tennis balls.” He grins slightly at the recollection, then turns and goes to the car.
As soon as he pulls away, the door opens again and a woman comes out of the house. She is dressed fashionably; my arrival definitely didn’t interrupt her in the process of cleaning out the attic or scrubbing the toilet.
“Mr. Carpenter?” she asks.
“Andy. You must be Ms. Timmerman?”
She smiles, apparently with some embarrassment. “No, I’m Martha. Martha Wyndham. I’m Mrs. Timmerman’s executive assistant.”
“Nice to meet you. What do you executively assist her at?”
Another smile. “Being Mrs. Timmerman. You’re here for Waggy?”
“Waggy? Is that what everybody calls him?”
She shakes her head. “Just Steven and me. But it would be best if you didn’t mention that to Ms. Timmerman. Bernese mountain dogs were originally bred to pull wagons. That seemed so funny in this case that Steven and I call him Waggy. You love dogs, I understand?”