Patrick Robinson - To The Death

“I know he is,” replied Emily. “And, you know, if I ever miss a day taking him for a walk, he gets so boisterous, rushing around the house, knocking things over.”

Carla smiled and said, “Well, I love dogs, and I love walking. Would you like me to take him out sometimes?”

“Oh, my dear, that would be such a huge help. But would you mind? I hate to be a nuisance.”

“No, I should like it very much. I don’t have many friends around here yet. And he is the most gorgeous dog.”

Thus Carla Martin and Emily Gallagher became firm friends. Carla walked Charlie, three or four times a week, sometimes with Emily and sometimes not. Sometimes she had a cup of tea with the old lady before starting her shift at the Estuary, and occasionally they had lunch together.

Meanwhile, at the hotel she had become extremely popular, particularly with a youngish crowd who were in the hotel bar three or four times a week, always on Thursdays and Fridays, sometimes on Saturdays, and always on Sunday nights.

Despite all her efforts to play down her obvious charms with loose sweaters, wide skirts, flat shoes, no makeup, and her hair tied back in a plain ponytail, Shakira could not avoid attracting the attention of young men.

Among the group she saw most was Rick, the local computer engineer; Bill, whose father owned the supermarket; Eric, who had inherited one of the local building firms; Herb, who ran a photographic business; and Matt Barker, who had built and owned the local garage and Toyota dealership. Matt was older, maybe thirty-four.

The best-looking was Eric, twenty-four, divorced and the local golf club champion. Rick was the most studious and well-informed; Bill was the richest; Herb was showy and overconfident, with not much money but a lot of ambition to work in New York in fashion; and by far the most consistent in his admiration for Shakira was Matt Barker, who drove a Porsche and asked her to have dinner with him every time he saw her.

Shakira used all of her guile to remain remote from them. She hinted at a serious boyfriend in London; she always closed the bar by 11:30 and left by the back door, running swiftly across the parking lot and around the corner into a dark street, where Fausi awaited her, engine running.

She never said she was leaving, and her routine was not varied. She always pulled on a pair of short leather driving gloves, which she knew suggested she had her own car, and in turn that would discourage anyone from asking if they could drive her home. And once the gloves were on, she just slipped away, leaving the security to the night porter who supervised the last nonresidents, seeing them out, and then locking up.

After a couple of weeks, she became a woman of mystery. The guys used to ask each other, “When did she go? Which way did she go? She never even said good night.”

And she never would. Shakira had no intention of being alone outside the hotel with this high-spirited but well-mannered group of young bucks, the well-heeled middle-range stratum of Brockhurst society.

On busy nights, there were often girls from the town in the bar, but they tended to be those whose education or background had not taken them to a good university and on to Washington or New York. And Matt Barker and his guys had no serious interest in dating also-rans.

They had no idea who Shakira was (she thanked God), but they definitely knew she was not an also-ran. There was a poise about her, an aloof quality, like someone with more important things on her mind. And boy, did she have important things on her mind.

And every time the group came in, one of them, sooner or later, asked her out. With Bill and Eric it was slightly frivolous; Rick and Herb seemed earnest and genuinely were looking for more permanent girlfriends. Matt Barker, however, from across the bar, was falling in love.

Shakira determinedly kept him at arm’s length, spending less time chatting to him than she did with the others, but sensing him watching her, admiring her, wanting to talk to her.

He was a big man, always well dressed, clean-shaven, with longish blond hair. At first sight, he could easily have been mistaken for a city lawyer or financier, except for his big hands, which were slightly rough from years of grappling with car engines, brakes, and chassis.

“Hi, Miss Carla,” he would say when he walked in. “Have you changed your mind about me yet?”

Shakira did not wish to offend him, and she tried to be evasive… oh, you know I can’t, Matt… I’m very involved with someone… I might even be married before the end of the year.

Matt did not buy it. He sensed she was alone, and at times, late at night after a few beers, he found her the most sexually alluring woman he had ever seen. He would stand looking at her back, watching the firm tilt of her hips as she hurried about her duties. Matt actually dreamed about her, dreamed she was naked in his arms, imagined the feel of her, longed for the moment when she agreed to go out with him, as he believed she would. One day.

But night after night, she always slipped away, vanishing into the dark, leaving Matt bereft of the only woman he believed he could ever love. The trouble was, Matt believed Carla Martin was simply playing hard to get, and that she too lay in bed at night thinking of him in a similar light. Which was about eight hundred light-years from the truth.

It was a Monday morning when Shakira finally hit pay dirt. She called at Mrs. Gallagher’s house to collect Charlie and went in for a cup of coffee. She sensed that Emily was about to ask her for a favor, and her instincts did not let her down.

“Carla, my dear,” she said, “I have been so terribly worried. My daughter has asked me to look after her dog for a month, and very foolishly I said yes. But I just don’t think I can cope, not by myself.”

“Name and make?” asked Shakira.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Name and make?” repeated Shakira, laughing. “Of the dog, I mean.”

“Oh, how foolish of me,” chuckled Emily. “He’s called Kipper. A King Charles spaniel. My son-in-law says he’s as silly as a sheep.”

“Has he been here before?”

“Oh, yes. Lots of times. He’s really quite charming, nothing like so boisterous as Charlie, nor so greedy. Of course, he’s considerably smaller.”

“Emily, I don’t think you should be let loose on the public road with two dogs in hand. Especially since one of them’s Charlie.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s true. And I was almost afraid to ask you, but do you think you could help? I’d pay you to do this.”

“Of course I will. When do we expect Kipper to make his appearance?”

“Four weeks from today. That would be Monday, July 30, the day Kathy and her husband are leaving. She’s delivering Kipper, then taking the evening flight to London.”

“So you enter this two-dog frenzy the next day?” Shakira had learned everything she knew about humor from Ravi, and he learned it at Harrow. For an Arab, she really could be quite droll.

“Well, yes,” said Emily. “By that Tuesday morning, I will probably be at my wits’ end. Could you possibly be here early that morning? Just to help me get them under control.”

“Of course,” replied Shakira. “I usually come at eleven. While you have both dogs, I’ll be here at ten, starting July 31.” She produced her little leather-bound notebook and wrote in the dates. On the previous page were the words: TARGET EMILY GALLAGHER. Brockhurst, Virginia.

Shakira sat back and sipped her coffee, glancing up just once at a framed photograph she had seen before. “Is that your daughter there, in the photograph?” she asked.

Mrs. Gallagher picked up the picture and smiled. “Yes, that’s Kathy,” she said.