Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

Lisette, Arnold, and I headed back to the front of the house. ‘‘All I need to do is to check a few things with Mr. Berkshire.’’

‘‘Paul will be in his office-no, wait, here he is now.’’

I’ve got pin-drop hearing, or I wouldn’t have heard the soft growl Arnold gave. I looked down at him. He was staring fixedly at Paul Berkshire. His body language was a puzzle-I’d heard a growl, but he wasn’t stiff with aggression; he was unnaturally still, waiting. Then he glanced up at me, with the oddest expression on his face.

‘‘You’re done?’’ Berkshire asked me.

‘‘I’ve got a few more areas to cover with you.’’

‘‘Lisette, take Arnold to his gym. He doesn’t need to tag along with us.’’

When I looked back over my shoulder, Arnold hadn’t moved.

The bloke’s office was huge, being more what I’d call a library, with shelves and shelves of impressive-looking books and lots of maroon leather furniture. Paul Berkshire plunked himself behind a massive antique desk and answered my questions about Arnold’s training regimen with cool economy. It seemed there was to be a new series of Professor Swann’s Spooks and Arnold was already learning new routines for the show.

‘‘Nothing too risky?’’ It was one of our duties to make sure Arnold was never involved in hazardous situations.

‘‘Of course not. Arnold has a stunt double who looks exactly like him.’’

‘‘But not as talented?’’

Berkshire gave me a thin smile. ‘‘More talented, in my professional opinion. A pleasure to work with the animal. Dopp is Arnold without the attitude.’’

‘‘Dopp for doppelganger?’’

Berkshire raised his eyebrows. ‘‘My little joke.’’

I raised my eyebrows right back at him. ‘‘I’m surprised you say Arnold has an attitude. I found him a bonzer dog.’’

‘‘He’s temperamental at times. Difficult. Could be he’s getting close to the end of his performing life.’’

‘‘Maybe he’s grieving for your aunt.’’

A fleeting emotion flickered across Berkshire’s face. Just that morning at breakfast I’d been reading in my invaluable reference source, Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook, about microexpressions. These only lasted for a split second, but exposed the true feelings of a person before they could hide them. In this case, I reckoned he’d revealed a pretty disturbing mix-sneering anger, tinged with arrogant triumph.

‘‘If there’s nothing else, I’ll get Gary to escort you to your car,’’ he said, clearly wanting to get rid of me.

Gary, a limp strand of pale hair flopping over one eye, arrived. Once outside the front door, he gave me a conspiratorial look. ‘‘I don’t know if you’re the one I should go to, but lately Arnold’s been trying to tell me something. I swear he has.’’

‘‘What sort of something?’’

‘‘You know about Rhea-her dying like that? Well, of course it was a stupid accident, but it’s odd how Arnold’s changed. Like, he used to love Paul, but lately he just goes quiet when Paul comes in the room. Arnold watches him, weird-like, if you get what I mean. And then Arnold looks at me…’’

‘‘What do you think he’s trying to tell you?’’

‘‘I’m not sure.’’ He glanced around furtively. ‘‘Gotta go.’’

Gary went. I climbed into my car, feeling a bit weird-like myself. I couldn’t shake the idea that Arnold had tried to tell me something, too. Something bad.

Earlier I’d seen Dr. Stanley Evers, veterinary surgeon to the stars-Arnold was one of his most valuable celebrity clients-so I had everything I needed to write my report for Frogmartin, Frogmartin & Flye.

Turning off Sunset Boulevard I got my customary little thrill when I drove through the gates and past the sign reading KENDALL & CREELING INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES. I still had thousands of hours of supervision ahead of me, plus an exam, but one day I’d become a fully fledged PI, and be worthy of my dad’s company.

Our building was a pseudo-Spanish house converted into offices. I still wasn’t quite used to its pinkish ocher color, but I rather liked the black, brass-studded front door.

‘‘G’day, Melodie,’’ I said to our receptionist-at least until her acting career took off.

Green eyes wide, Melodie gave a practiced swirl of her long blond hair. ‘‘Kylie! It’s real urgent!’’

‘‘Not Mum again?’’ My mother was always trying to persuade me to return to the outback and help her run the pub.

‘‘No, not your mom. It’s Lonnie. Julia Roberts has been in his room for the fourth time this week. He says he’s desperate. This time he means it-he’s calling the authorities.’’

I was outraged. ‘‘What? And have her taken away, just because he sneezes?’’

‘‘Lonnie says it’s impacting his quality of life. He’s real serious, Kylie.’’ She clasped her hands and added soulfully, ‘‘He says it’s him or Julia Roberts.’’

As we were speaking, Julia Roberts herself sauntered into view, her tawny tail held high. She was followed by the plump, indignant form of Lonnie Moore, our technical wizard and sufferer of severe feline allergies.

‘‘Jules, have you been wicked again?’’ I asked her. ‘‘You know very well you’re not supposed to go into Lonnie’s office.’’ Julia Roberts gave a quick, contemptuous flick of her tail. She never took criticism well.

Lonnie sneezed, blew his nose on a tissue he snatched from Melodie’s desk, then declared, ‘‘Either that cat goes, or I do.’’ His soft face was grim. ‘‘I really mean it.’’

This was a true dilemma-I loved Jules dearly, but Lonnie was absolutely invaluable to Kendall & Creeling. I had talked Lonnie around before, but this time his militant expression showed I had my work cut out for me.

‘‘Injections,’’ I said.

Lonnie looked horrified. ‘‘I don’t want her killed- just out of my hair.’’

‘‘I’m talking about desensitization. For you. It’s a course of injections giving you a tiny bit of what you’re allergic to, and your body gets used to it so you don’t get a bad reaction anymore. I’ll spring for the cost, and any time off you need, if you give up the idea of getting rid of Jules.’’

‘‘Kylie, you know I don’t like anything medical. I can’t stand the sight of blood.’’

‘‘There won’t be any blood. You’ll hardly feel a thing.’’

‘‘Well…’’

Melodie said helpfully, ‘‘And Lonnie, you wouldn’t have to be looking out for Julia Roberts every moment of the day, and you wouldn’t be sneezing all the time and you wouldn’t-’’

‘‘All right! All right! I’ll do it.’’ He glanced at Julia Roberts, who had one foot up in the air as she washed her nethers. ‘‘It’s not that I hate her or anything. It’s her rotten personality. I swear it amuses her to torment me.’’

‘‘Speaking of personality,’’ I said, ‘‘I was at the Berkshire mansion this morning, checking on Arnold. He’s a bonzer little dog.’’

‘‘ Love that show!’’ Melodie exclaimed. ‘‘Larry, my agent, says when auditions open for the new series of Professor Swann’s Spooks, he guarantees I’ll get a part. Like, with my psychic abilities, I’ll be in sync with Arnold.’’

‘‘Arnold is no more psychic than you are,’’ Lonnie snorted. ‘‘He’s just a dog doing whatever his trainer tells him to. Anyway, I hear he’s on the way out. Taking early retirement.’’

‘‘I am too psychic,’’ Melodie snapped. ‘‘And Arnold’s so cute, no one could replace him.’’

Lonnie was an authority on showbiz gossip, so he probably had the good oil. I had a sinking feeling that Arnold was in danger. ‘‘He’s got a stunt double called Dopp,’’ I said. ‘‘Paul Berkshire spoke very highly of him when I was there this morning.’’