Jonathan Kellerman - Bad Love

"Shootout at the Beverly Hills corral," he said. "I should have been there."

"How could you have known?"

"Knowing's my job."

"You offered to drive us home, I turned you down."

"I shouldn't have listened to you."

"Come on, Milo. You did everything you could. To paraphrase a friend of mine: "Don't flog yourself.' "

He frowned, tilted his glass, poured ice down his gullet, and crunched. "How's Rov- Spike?"

"A few surface cuts. The vet said bulldogs have high pain thresholds. A throwback to when they were used for baiting."

"Right through the glass." He shook his head. "Little maniac must have taken a running start and gone ballistic. Talk about devotion."

"You see it from time to time," I said. Then I ordered him another Coke.

I drove back to Venice. The shop was empty and Robin had left a note on her workbench:

11:45 a.m. Had to run to the lumberyard. Back at 2. Pls. call Mrs. Braithwaite. Says she's Spike's owner.

Pacific Palisades exchange. I phoned it before the disappointment could sink in.

A middle-aged female voice said, "Hello?"

"Mrs. Braithwaite? Dr. Delaware returning your call."

"Oh, doctor! Thank you for calling, and thank you for caring for our little Barry! Is he all right?"

"Perfect. He's a great dog," I said.

"Yes, he is. We were so worried, starting to give up hope."

"Well, he's in the pink."

"That's wonderful!"

"I guess you'd like to come by to get him. He should be back by two."

Hesitation. "Oh, certainly. Two it is."

• • •

I busied myself with the phone. Calling Shirley Rosenblatt and having a half-hour talk with her. Calling Bert Harrison, then the insurance company, where I dealt with some truly vile individuals.

I thought about the Wallace girls for a while, then remembered another little girl, the one who'd lost her boxer- Karen Alnord. I had no record of her number. All my papers were gone. Where had she lived- Reseda. On Cohasset.

I got the number from information. A woman answered and I asked for Karen.

"She's at school." Brilliant, Delaware. "Who's this?"

I gave her my name. "She called me about her boxer. I was just wondering if you found him."

"Yes, we have," she said edgily.

"Great. Thanks."

"For what?"

"Good news."

• • •

Mrs. Braithwaite showed up at one forty-five. She was short, thin, and sixtyish, with an upswept, tightly waved, tapioca-colored hairdo, sun wrinkles, and narrow brown eyes behind pearloid-framed glasses. Her maroon I. Magnin suit would have fetched top dollar at a vintage boutique, and her pearls were real. She carried a bag that matched the suit and wore a bejeweled American flag lapel pin.

She looked around the shop, confused.

"Robin's place of business," I said. "We're in between houses- planning some construction."

"Well, good luck on that. I've been through it, and one meets such an unsavory element."

"Can I offer you something to drink?"

"No, thank you."

I pulled up a chair for her. She remained standing and opened her handbag. Taking out a check, she tried to give it to me.

Ten dollars.

"No, no," I said.

"Oh, doctor, I insist."

"It's not necessary."

"But the expenses- I know how Barry eats."

"He's earned his way." I smiled. "Charming fellow."

"Yes, isn't he?" she said, but with a curious lack of passion. "Are you sure I can't reimburse you?"

"Give it to charity."

She thought. "All right, that's a good idea. Planned Parenthood always needs help."

She sat down. I repeated my drink offer and she said, "It's really not necessary, but iced tea would be fine if you have it."

As I fixed the drink, she inspected the shop some more.

When I gave her the glass, she thanked me again and sipped daintily.

"Does your wife fix violins?"

"A few. Mostly guitars and mandolins. She fixes and makes them."

"My father played the violin- quite well, actually. We went to the Bowl every summer to hear Jascha Heifetz play. Back when you could still enjoy a civilized drive through Hollywood. He taught at USC- Heifetz did, not Father. Though Father was an alumnus. So is my son. He's in marketing."

I smiled.

"May I ask what kind of doctor you are?"

"Psychologist."

Sip. "And where did you find Barry?"

"He showed up at my house."

"Where's that, doctor?"

"Just off Beverly Glen."

"South of Sunset, or north?"

"A mile and a half north."

"How odd… well, thank heavens for good samaritans. It's so nice to have one's faith in human nature restored."

"How did you find me, Mrs. Braithwaite?"

"From Mae Josephs at Frenchie Rescue- we were in Palm Desert and didn't get her message until today."

The door opened and Robin came in, carrying a bag and holding the dog by the leash.

"Barry!" said Mrs. Braithwaite. She got off the chair. The dog trotted straight to her and licked her hand.

"Barry, Barry, little Barry. You've had quite an adventure, haven't you!"

She petted him.

He licked her some more, then turned around, stared at me, and cocked his head.

"You look wonderful, Barry," said Mrs. Braithwaite. To us: "He looks wonderful, thank you so much."

"Our pleasure," said Robin. "He's a great little guy."

"Yes, he is - aren't you, Barrymore? Such a sweet boy, even with your snoring- did he snore?"

"Loud and clear," said Robin. Smiling, but her eyes had that pretears look I knew so well. I took her hand. She squeezed mine and began emptying the bag. Ebony bridge blanks.

The dog padded back over to us and propped his forelegs on Robin's thigh. She rubbed him under the chin. He pressed his little head to her leg.

"Mother loved that. The snoring. Barry was actually Mother's- she kept English bulldogs and Frenchies for over fifty years. Did quite a bit of breeding and showing in her day. And obedience training."

"Did she perimeter train him?" I said. "To avoid water?"

"Oh, of course. She trained all her dogs. She had lily ponds and a big pool, and the poor things sink like stones. Then her back started to go and the English were too heavy for her to carry, so she kept only Frenchies. Then she got too weak even for the Frenchies. Barry was her last little boy. She imported him three years ago. Flew him all the way from Holland."

A linen hankie came out of the handbag. She took off her glasses and dabbed at her eyes.

"Mother passed away three weeks ago. She'd been ill for a while and Barry was her faithful companion- weren't you, sweetie?"

She reached out her hand. The dog settled on all fours but remained next to Robin.

Mrs. Braithwaite dabbed some more. "He stayed in bed with her, barked for the nurse when she started to- I do believe he was the reason she kept going as long as she did. But of course, in- when she- the last time we had to call the paramedics, such terror and commotion. Barry must have slipped out. I didn't realize it until later…"

"Where did your mother live?" I said.

"Little Holmby. Just off Comstock, south of the boulevard."

Two miles from my house.

She said, "He managed to cross Sunset- all that traffic." Dab. "Poor little boy, if anything had happened to you!"

"Well," said Robin, "thank God he made it."

"Yes. I see that- you've made a nice little home for him, haven't you?"

"We tried."

"Yes, yes, I can see that… yes… would you like to have him?"

Robin's mouth dropped open. She looked at me.

I said, "You don't want him?"

"It's not a matter of that, doctor. I adore animals, but my husband doesn't. Or rather, they don't like him. Allergies. Severe ones. Dogs, cats, horses- anything with fur sets him off and he swells up like a balloon. As is, I'm going to have to take a bubble bath the moment I get home, or Monty will be wheezing the moment he sees me."