Death of a Dog Whisperer (9780758284570) by Laurien Berenson Page B

opening between us. One that I hadn’t a clue how to cross. Worse still, I wasn’t even sure that I wanted to.
    Faith, still at my side, whined under her breath. Her body felt warm and solid. I wanted to clutch her like a lifeline. I knelt down and wrapped my arms around her neck. Then I drew in a deep breath and thought about what to do next.
    If the morning’s events had taught me anything it was that I’d allowed myself to become complacent. Clearly I’d been taking too much for granted. I needed to be asking more questions.
    â€œYou might as well tell me now,” I said. “Are you and the rest of my family keeping any other secrets from me? You know, for my own good?”
    Sam flicked a dismissive glance in my direction as he left the room. “Not that I’m aware of,” he said.
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    â€œAnd then he just walked away,” I said. “Like he thought the conversation was over. How do men do that?”
    I was seated at a window table in The Bean Counter across from my sister-in-law, Bertie. She and my younger brother Frank have been married for four years and they’re the parents of three-year-old Maggie. As is true with so many of my friends, Bertie and I met because of dogs. She’s a professional handler with a thriving business based out of her home in Wilton. The only reason she’d missed the show where Davey had made his debut with Augie was because the family had been away on a trip to Disney World.
    Bertie and I had touched base by phone since their return, but we hadn’t had an opportunity to get together. So now we had a lot of catching up to do. When Sam had left to retrieve Kevin, I’d called Bertie. We’d agreed to meet at The Bean Counter for lunch. After the morning I’d just had, I was very much in need of Bertie’s sensible, empathetic advice.
    The Bean Counter had started out as simply a coffee bar but now, six years later, it also offers an innovative menu of sandwiches and gourmet pastries. The country bistro is a popular destination for everyone from soccer moms, to retirees, to local businessmen.
    Bob takes care of the back office. He does the accounting, tracks inventory, orders supplies, and manages the payroll. Frank spends all his time in the front of the house. Most days, he’s behind the counter himself. He greets patrons, offers suggestions, and concocts all kinds of custom-made sandwiches.
    Bertie had grabbed a table for the two of us. I went to the counter to put in our order. When my turn came, Frank greeted me with a big grin.
    He has hazel eyes that are much like my own, but other than that I’ve never been able to see much of a family resemblance. Frank is four years younger than me and half a foot taller. I tend to worry about things, Frank takes nothing seriously. I envy the ease with which my brother can simply take life as it comes, especially since it’s an attitude that has served him well.
    â€œWhat’s today’s special?” I asked.
    I knew better than to try and order off the menu. No matter what I asked for, my brother was going to make me what he wanted me to have. Usually that meant I’d be trying a new novelty sandwich whose appeal he was undecided about. Some of Frank’s innovations are wildly successful and go on to be added to the menu. Others are consigned to the garbage bin almost immediately.
    Since I never know in advance which way the culinary wheel of fortune might roll, dining at The Bean Counter tends to be an adventure.
    â€œSriracha-infused breaded chicken in a wrap with spinach, tomato, and red onion.”
    I wrinkled my nose. “Isn’t sriracha hot?”
    â€œSome is. I’m using the Thai variety. It’s sweeter, maybe a little tangier. Give it a whirl. If you don’t like it . . .” Frank shrugged.
    I knew what that meant. Try, try, again.
    â€œTwo then,” I said. “One for Bertie and one for me.”
    Hopefully