Page 14 of A Matter of Pedigree
This was interesting, thought Carole. Poor Susan; it would be awfully frustrating to come so close, to find buyer after buyer, and always be turned down.
“So what color are you thinking about?” asked Sonia. “Red? Pink? I have this new frost, Sunset Over Cairo …”
Carole didn’t answer. She was thinking, wondering if Susan might have taken her frustration out on Hosea with a piece of pipe. She certainly had motive enough. If Hosea had accepted their offer of four million dollars, Susan would have netted around two or three percent, which would be eighty thousand. Even with taxes and expenses and whatever, it would have been a tidy haul. And even if the other offers had been less, say the asking price of two million, she would have cleared around forty thousand. Enough to make a lot of mortgage payments.
“You want to go with the frost?” asked Sonia.
“No,” said Carole. “I’m thinking of something brighter. Something cheerful.”
“How about Chapel of Love?” suggested Sonia, looking up as a woman in a fuzzy wool cape and clunky clogs opened the door. “Can I help you?” she asked. “I’ll be free in a few minutes.”
“Oh, no, I don’t want a manicure,” said the woman, who obviously went in for the natural look. “I just happened to notice a very unhappy dog outside, left in a parked car, and I wondered …”
Carole was quick to deny responsibility. “Sorry, I don’t have a dog.”
“It’s barking its head off,” said the woman. “People are so irresponsible. Imagine leaving a dog in a car like that.”
“What can you do?” asked Carole, with a shrug. “At least it’s not hot; the dog won’t get heatstroke.”
“Even so, it’s very inconsiderate,” said the woman. “Maybe I should call the animal control officer.”
“Why don’t you try the florist next door,” suggested Carole, smiling and nodding until the woman left.
“Chapel of Love?” asked Sonia, holding up a bottle of pink polish.
“No,” said Carole, scowling. “Something stronger. Like Vampire.”
Chapter Five
That annoying woman who shunned hair dye and lipstick and wore ugly natural fibers was right; Poopsie was barking her head off when Carole got back to the SUV. Probably because the interfering woman had disturbed her when she approached the SUV and wrote a note about the danger of leaving a dog unattended in a car and stuck it under the windshield wiper. That was exactly the sort of thing that would drive Poopsie wild. Carole pulled off the note and tossed it in a nearby trash barrel, thinking it was a wonder that the woman who couldn’t mind her own business hadn’t bothered to inform her that an oversized car like the Porsche only got eighteen miles to the gallon on the highway and contributed to global warming. Climbing behind the wheel, she took a few yoga breaths and hoped that Poopsie would calm down when she started the car.
Poopsie didn’t; she kept on barking and tried to jump into the front seat.
“No!” ordered Carole, using the authoritative voice the dog trainer had told her would guarantee instant obedience. “Sit! Quiet!”
Poopsie continue to bark and tried to slip through the gap between the two front seats. Carole grasped the steering wheel with both hands and rested her head on it; Poopsie immediately slipped by and seated herself in the front passenger seat, where she continued to bark. What was she supposed to do now? How was she going to get the dog to quiet down and go back to the rear seat, where she belonged? If only there was Xanax for dogs …
Carole lifted her head, inspired. That was it. They must have something like that, some sort of dog tranquilizer. She’d take Poopsie to the vet.
Shifting into drive, Carole zoomed out of her parking spot, cutting off a VW Beetle. Hey, she couldn’t be responsible for everybody in the world, could she? She had problems of her own, namely this dog, who was driving her crazy. The vet, fortunately, had her office nearby, in Pawtucket. Carole was definitely rattled as she drove, but she began to feel calmer just spotting the vet’s sign, and she almost felt normal when she parked. Poopsie, however, was still upset and barking frantically. There were a lot of other cars in the parking lot, so Carole figured it would be best to leave the dog confined to the car while she went in to ask for an emergency appointment.
“Sorry, hon, the doc’s got an emergency; a Lab got hit by a car. We’re all backed up,” said the receptionist. She waved a hand at the waiting room, which Carole saw was packed with people and their assorted pets: cats, dogs, birds, even a rabbit.
“This is an emergency, too,” said Carole. “My dog won’t stop barking.”
“That’s Madame Pompadour, right?” asked the girl, pulling out a file and flipping it open. It apparently made absorbing reading. “She’s a biter, I see,” said the girl.
“That was an accident,” said Carole, a bit defensive. “The veterinary assistant had her hand in the wrong place.”
“Sure,” said the receptionist, who had clearly been trained to agree with the clients. “Why don’t you take a seat, and we’ll see if the doctor can squeeze you in.”
“I’m not kidding; the dog is out of her mind. I’m worried she’s going to have a fit or something,” explained Carole. “Maybe I could just buy some tranquilizers for her?”
The receptionist looked shocked. “The doctor will want to examine the dog before prescribing medication.”
“Okay, I’ll wait,” said Carole, turning to go into the waiting room. She could hear Poopsie barking right through the walls and shut windows. Pausing in the doorway, she sighed and looked for a seat. Only one was empty, and she was surprised to discover it was next to Millicent Shaw, the old lady who lived at Prospect Place. She was dressed, as before, in a pleated skirt and twin-set combo, blue this time, and was holding a gray plastic cat carrier on her lap. Carole hesitated, afraid Millicent might not welcome her presence. Her husband, after all, was accused of killing her neighbor.
Millicent looked up, spotting Carole. Carole was ready to flee; there must be other vets in this town. But Millicent smiled at her.
