Page 15 of Evil Bones
The interior temp had to be at least 120 degrees, the vinyl seats double that. For the billionth time, I reminded myself to buy one of those windshield sunshades designed to keep a car cooler. Knew that once the AC kicked in, I wouldn’t remember.
Recognizing that the drive to Weddington might take longer, but not wanting to divert out to the beltway, I decided to follow Providence Road, a city street, the full distance. Bad call. Cars and trucks clogged the lanes in both directions, slowing my progress and souring my mood.
As usual when jammed up in traffic, I thought about all the things I could be doing with the wasted time. Reports on the three sets of bones in my lab. Birdie’s overdue checkup. Dirty laundry cramming my hamper.
Mostly, I thought about Ralfs Balodis. Ralph.
I’d met Balodis at an Allegro Foundation fundraiser. I was there with my husband Janis “Pete” Petersons, soon to be my ex. Sad but clichéd story involving his partying with women other thanmoi. Painful then, but time heals. Pete and I are on good terms now.
Pete and Balodis had spoken to each other in Latvian that evening, but I’d caught that they shared a connection through a camp both had attended as kids. As adults they’d maintained contact for a while, butPete went into law and Balodis became a vet. Their lives diverged. You know how that goes.
Over the years, I’d learned through Pete that Balodis operated a veterinary clinic in Weddington, one of Charlotte’s southernmost burbs. That he’d married a woman named Marcia, maybe Marcy or Marve. That the marriage had ended after about three heartbeats. No kids.
My ex has made a lot of mistakes in his life. I guess I’m one of them. But Pete’s a good guy. And a good judge of character. Though he disapproved of the switch from Ralfs to Ralph, he liked and trusted his fellow Latvian. We’d bumped into Balodis sporadically back in the day.
Weddington, once a sleepy southern town surrounded by farmland, was sucked into Charlotte’s orbit as developers began casting their nets farther and farther south in search of buildable land. Today it’s a mélange of parks and malls and churches and schools. Of McMansions and small tract homes. Of pools and jungle gyms in large backyards. Of shiny new SUVs in three-car garages and not-quite-late-model cars at curbs.
Forty minutes after setting out, I went left onto Sunset Hill Road, left again into a cluster of shops featuring a lot of red brick. Scrolly lettering on a sign indicated that Balodis’s clinic, optimistically named Happy Tails, was located down a narrow strip of asphalt cutting between a dental office and a Bojangle’s chicken joint.
I made the turn and twenty yards farther came to what looked like a modest two-story brick home topped by a satellite dish and fronted by a patch of asphalt marked with diagonal yellow lines. Closed blinds obscured what lay behind every window, up and down.
A doggy comfort station had been set up to the right of the asphalt. Artificial turf. Faux fire hydrant. Water bowls half full of what had to be very warm water. Nice touch.
After parking I got out and walked to the door. Philodendra in large ceramic crocks sat to both sides. The wood, though alligatored in places, had been freshly painted a bright Kelly green. The potted plants looked discouraged at having to compete.
A sign hung at eye level.
Sorry. We’re Closed.
Below, in smaller font, a phone number accompanied the words:For emergencies.
Did my desire to speak with Balodis qualify?
No.
I dialed.
My call was answered after two rings.
Thank you for contacting Happy Tails. The clinic is closed until further notice. For urgent veterinary needs please phone Dr. Michaela Horowitz.
Another number followed that message.
I stood a moment, perspiring and considering options. Which seemed nonexistent.
Frustrated, I tapped a name on my Favorites list.
Pete answered with his usual affable greeting.
“Tempe, how’s it going?”
“Sorry to bother you, Pete.”
“No bother at all. It’s always great to hear your voice.”
“I’ve got an odd ask.”
“Hit me.”
