unease, as if vile plots were astir at the Gottschalk manse I was powerless to foil. I had a disheartening suspicion I was being used, manipulated, for what purpose I could not imagine.
Finally, the dark at my window just beginning to gray, I sank into a deep sleep, mercifully dreamless. When I awoke and glanced at my bedside clock it was pushing ten-thirty. I had all the symptoms of a racking hangover, which was outrageous since my alcoholic intake the previous evening had been if not minimal then certainly restrained.
It required a shave and a long hot shower followed by a cold rinse to restore the McNally carcass to any semblance of normalcy. I pulled on my usual Saturday morning costume of T-shirt, jeans, and loafers. But before descending for a late breakfast I remembered to phone the dog shelter to ask if someone would be in attendance on Sunday. I was assured they’d be open and would welcome visitors.
I found Jamie Olson in the kitchen brewing a fresh pot of coffee: a welcome sight. I poured myself a tall glass of chilled tomato juice into which I stirred a bit of horseradish. I also toasted two big slices of Ursi’s homemade sour rye. Those I smeared with cream cheese allegedly flavored with smoked salmon although I couldn’t taste it. Then Jamie and I sat at the enameled kitchen table, sipping cautiously at our steaming coffee mugs.
I told him about Hobo and how my parents had agreed to take a look at him on Sunday after church.
“A terrier?” Jamie said.
“Sort of. A mixed breed but mostly terrier. He looks to be strong and I’ve seen him run. He’s fast.”
“Uh-huh. Male?”
“Yes. Short coat.”
“Been fixed?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Two or three years. Around three.”
“He might tree that raccoon.”
“I think there’s a good chance,” I said, “if you urge him on. He’s one smart hound.”
“We’ll see,” Jamie said. “Some terriers can be hell on wheels. Others just whimper and go hide.”
“Hobo won’t whimper,” I told him. “He’s got too much pride.”
“Mebbe,” Jamie said, and lighted up his old, pungent briar. And I had my first cigarette of the day in self-defense.
We smoked awhile in silence. Jamie is a taciturn man; he considers small talk a waste of time. So I refrained from commenting on the weather or the high cost of haircuts.
Finally he said, “Those staffers you asked about.”
It took a mo to get my brain into gear. The effect of sleep deprivation, no doubt. “Got and Mei Lee, chef and maid for Hiram Gottschalk?”
“Yep,” Jamie said. “I asked my friend Eddie Wong about them.” He paused.
“And?” I said.
“They’re closemouthed, that lot. But Eddie says Got and Mei are looking for a new spot.”
“Oh? They want to leave the Gottschalks?”
“Eddie says so.”
“Did he say why?”
“Nope. Just they want to go. If Eddie knows why, he ain’t saying. But he made a face.”
“Thanks for your help, Jamie.”
“Not much,” he said. “But when people don’t want to talk they won’t.”
A truism if ever I heard one. But Jamie had provided another small piece of the puzzle bedeviling me. I washed up my breakfast things, stacked them in the countertop drainer to dry, and returned upstairs to my dorm. I confess I had a fleeting thought a short nap would be welcome, but I determinedly discarded such a disgraceful notion and continued to function.
For the remainder of the morning I scribbled in my journal, not only noting recent events and intelligence but posing questions to myself which I am certain you are also asking as you follow this chronicle. Nothing at the moment made a great deal of sense. But as I explained to Binky Watrous on one occasion, enduring a temporary mishmash is a challenge to an investigator’s patience, determination, and acumen. The reaction was vintage Binky.
“What?” he said.
It was about one p.m. when I finished my grunt work, much too late to call pals for a round of golf, a set of
Finally, the dark at my window just beginning to gray, I sank into a deep sleep, mercifully dreamless. When I awoke and glanced at my bedside clock it was pushing ten-thirty. I had all the symptoms of a racking hangover, which was outrageous since my alcoholic intake the previous evening had been if not minimal then certainly restrained.
It required a shave and a long hot shower followed by a cold rinse to restore the McNally carcass to any semblance of normalcy. I pulled on my usual Saturday morning costume of T-shirt, jeans, and loafers. But before descending for a late breakfast I remembered to phone the dog shelter to ask if someone would be in attendance on Sunday. I was assured they’d be open and would welcome visitors.
I found Jamie Olson in the kitchen brewing a fresh pot of coffee: a welcome sight. I poured myself a tall glass of chilled tomato juice into which I stirred a bit of horseradish. I also toasted two big slices of Ursi’s homemade sour rye. Those I smeared with cream cheese allegedly flavored with smoked salmon although I couldn’t taste it. Then Jamie and I sat at the enameled kitchen table, sipping cautiously at our steaming coffee mugs.
I told him about Hobo and how my parents had agreed to take a look at him on Sunday after church.
“A terrier?” Jamie said.
“Sort of. A mixed breed but mostly terrier. He looks to be strong and I’ve seen him run. He’s fast.”
“Uh-huh. Male?”
“Yes. Short coat.”
“Been fixed?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Two or three years. Around three.”
“He might tree that raccoon.”
“I think there’s a good chance,” I said, “if you urge him on. He’s one smart hound.”
“We’ll see,” Jamie said. “Some terriers can be hell on wheels. Others just whimper and go hide.”
“Hobo won’t whimper,” I told him. “He’s got too much pride.”
“Mebbe,” Jamie said, and lighted up his old, pungent briar. And I had my first cigarette of the day in self-defense.
We smoked awhile in silence. Jamie is a taciturn man; he considers small talk a waste of time. So I refrained from commenting on the weather or the high cost of haircuts.
Finally he said, “Those staffers you asked about.”
It took a mo to get my brain into gear. The effect of sleep deprivation, no doubt. “Got and Mei Lee, chef and maid for Hiram Gottschalk?”
“Yep,” Jamie said. “I asked my friend Eddie Wong about them.” He paused.
“And?” I said.
“They’re closemouthed, that lot. But Eddie says Got and Mei are looking for a new spot.”
“Oh? They want to leave the Gottschalks?”
“Eddie says so.”
“Did he say why?”
“Nope. Just they want to go. If Eddie knows why, he ain’t saying. But he made a face.”
“Thanks for your help, Jamie.”
“Not much,” he said. “But when people don’t want to talk they won’t.”
A truism if ever I heard one. But Jamie had provided another small piece of the puzzle bedeviling me. I washed up my breakfast things, stacked them in the countertop drainer to dry, and returned upstairs to my dorm. I confess I had a fleeting thought a short nap would be welcome, but I determinedly discarded such a disgraceful notion and continued to function.
For the remainder of the morning I scribbled in my journal, not only noting recent events and intelligence but posing questions to myself which I am certain you are also asking as you follow this chronicle. Nothing at the moment made a great deal of sense. But as I explained to Binky Watrous on one occasion, enduring a temporary mishmash is a challenge to an investigator’s patience, determination, and acumen. The reaction was vintage Binky.
“What?” he said.
It was about one p.m. when I finished my grunt work, much too late to call pals for a round of golf, a set of
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