Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

He was referring to my partner in Kendall & Creeling Investigative Services, Ariana Creeling. ‘‘She’s out of town on a case,’’ I said. ‘‘You’ll have to make do with me.’’

He grunted and stood aside. ‘‘I suppose you’d better come in.’’

I blinked at the entrance area. Two stories above, light flooded in from a huge circular stained-glass window set into the ceiling. Multicolored patches of light were splashed over the black marble floor and chalk white walls. A wide curving staircase with bloodred carpet led to the next floor. Scattered, apparently at random, were life-size sculptures of various animals- dogs, cats, a llama, a potbellied pig-displayed on white marble bases. The one closest to me depicted a huge bear rearing up on its hind legs. Engraved on the pedestal were the words LEONARD, DANCING.

‘‘Crikey,’’ I said.

I became aware the bloke was watching me with a sour smile. It was apparent he wasn’t intending to introduce himself, so I said, ‘‘And you’d be Paul Berkshire.’’

‘‘Proper little detective, aren’t you?’’

Actually, I wasn’t. I’d inherited fifty-one percent of Kendall & Creeling from my father, but wasn’t a private eye’s bootlace yet, just a trainee. There was no need to blab this to Paul Berkshire, of course.

He set off for the rear of the house down a wide hallway, not bothering to see if I was following. Even from the back he was a bonzer-looking bloke, with a strong neck, wide shoulders and a narrow waist. Paul Berkshire was the nephew of Rhea Berkshire, who before her death had been a crash-hot animal trainer for movies and TV. She’d been a heavy drinker, and six months ago-just before I came to the States- had died from an accidental overdose of bourbon and sleeping tablets. The very specific provisions she’d made in her will for her menagerie of animals at her ranch outside LA ensured that all went to good homes, many with other professional trainers. The ranch itself was sold, the proceeds going to animal charities.

One of her charges, however, received special treatment. This was Rhea’s most adored and successful subject, Arnold. Her will specified that no expense was to be spared. Her nephew, Paul, was to ensure that Arnold lived a life of luxury in Rhea’s Beverly Hills estate for the rest of his days.

Everyone knew Arnold’s story. Rescued from a shelter when just a puppy, he was what we Aussies call a bitser-a bit of this and a bit of that. He was a pepper-and-salt charmer, incredibly photogenic and very smart. And he loved performing. He’d become a household word as the cute psychic dog-also called Arnold-in the paranormal hit comedy series Professor Swann’s Spooks. Even before I’d come to the States, I’d been a fan of the show. Most people in my outback hometown, Wollegudgerie, watched the program on Wednesday nights. Even my mum, who wasn’t what you’d call a fan of television-addled your brains, she always said darkly-always made sure the program was on the screen above the main bar of her pub, the Wombat’s Retreat.

Ahead of me, Paul Berkshire had reached a black lacquered door, and was looking impatiently over his shoulder. ‘‘I haven’t got all day.’’

I suppose in his place I’d resent being regularly checked to ensure that the conditions set out in his aunt’s will were being followed to the letter. Rhea Berkshire had cause to use Kendall & Creeling’s services long before I turned up on the scene. She’d become a fast friend of my father’s, so she’d instructed her lawyers, Frogmartin, Frogmartin & Flye, to include in her will a generous payment to our company to visit Arnold once every two months-or more often if it seemed indicated-to make certain he was being treated in the manner a megarich canine should expect. We were to liaise with his vet, his walker, his dietician, his groomer, and his round-the-clock companion, Lisette, who had been in Rhea’s employ for many years. And Paul Berkshire, of course, as he had inherited his aunt’s business and so was Arnold’s trainer.

I’d heard a new series of Professor Swann’s Spooks was in the works, and was going to ask if that was true-Mum would love to know-when the bloke threw open the door. ‘‘Arnold’s beauty parlor,’’ he said with a bit of a twist to his lip. As he spoke, I noticed these three words were engraved in ornate script on the door’s lacquered surface.

‘‘Gets up your nose, does it?’’ I said.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Not sure I approve, myself. Not very macho, is it?’’ He looked at me blankly, so I added, ‘‘I reckon a dog like Arnold would prefer something more masculine. How about ‘sprucing room’? What do you think?’’

‘‘I think Arnold can’t read,’’ he said, ‘‘so he doesn’t give a rat’s ass what the room’s called.’’ Opening the door, he said, ‘‘Lisette? This is the Kendall from Kendall and Creeling, here to check we’re not mistreating the dog.’’

He’d said ‘‘the dog’’ with such a flat tone that I looked at him with surprise. Recently I’d read an article in Hollywood Reporter where Berkshire had spoken glowingly of Arnold’s sweet nature and his ability to master new routines.

‘‘Lisette will call me when you’re finished,’’ he said, turning away and stalking off back down the hallway before I could respond.

I stepped into the room, and found myself grinning at Arnold, who cocked his head and waved his stubby little tail. Even more adorable in person than on the screen, he was standing patiently on a table while a young bloke with a pale face and lifeless fair hair groomed him.

‘‘G’day, Lisette,’’ I said to the woman who was smiling at me warmly. ‘‘I’m Kylie.’’ She was much older than I expected, small and wiry, with a cloudburst of white hair.

‘‘Hello, dear. Ariana’s told me all about you.’’ She had the faintest suggestion of an English accent.

‘‘Crikey. All good, I hope.’’

‘‘Mostly,’’ said the young bloke with a bit of a smirk.

Lisette introduced him as Gary Hartnel. ‘‘G’day, Gary,’’ I said. I couldn’t resist adding, ‘‘And g’day to you, too, Arnold.’’ Arnold blurred his little tail.

‘‘Friendly,’’ I remarked.

‘‘Not to everyone,’’ Gary declared. ‘‘Arnold has his likes and dislikes.’’

‘‘Righto,’’ I said, whipping a folder out of my bag. ‘‘I’ve got a checklist here. Let’s go through it and then I’ll get out of your way.’’

Lisette took me to meet the rest of the staff. Arnold came, too, trotting along beside us with a delightfully cheerful demeanor. As we walked down the hall’s thick carpet, I said to her, ‘‘Does he miss Ms. Berkshire, do you think?’’

‘‘Rhea? I’m sure he does. Look at him.’’

When she said her late employer’s name, Arnold’s tail drooped and he gave me such a pitiful look my heart turned over.

‘‘I’m sorry I mentioned it.’’

‘‘That’s okay, dear. Arnold’s very sensitive. We found him snuggled up in bed with Rhea, her being dead and all and him softly whining. He was in mourning. Near brought me to tears.’’

Soon I knew rather more about Arnold’s day-to-day schedule than I’d ever intended to know-his dietician went into such detail about the measurement and preparation of Arnold’s food that my eyes glazed over, and his walker insisted on describing at length the variety of routes Arnold covered every week.

‘‘Is everything satisfactory?’’ Lisette asked when I’d finished going through her duties as Arnold’s companion.

‘‘Too right,’’ I said, giving her the thumbs-up. ‘‘She’s apples.’’

She shook her head. ‘‘You Aussies.’’