with their back ends elevated, front paws extended, chests near the ground, growling lasciviously, and head faking at each other. Then suddenly they straightened and began to dash in widening gyres about the Public Garden as pedestrians dodged and some cringed. Susan and I and Otto’s mom and dad stood watching like chaperones at a freshman dance.
“They’re adorable,” Otto’s mother said.
“Absolutely,” Pearl’s mother said.
There was a Scottie and a Jack Russell off leash in the garden as well as Otto and Pearl, and they made a kind of halfhearted attempt to get in on the frolic, but they couldn’t keep up, and neither Pearl nor Otto paid them any mind.
“We take him almost everywhere,” Otto’s mom said. “Do you like pictures?”
“I love pictures,” Susan said.
Otto’s mom took out a digital camera and began to click through the stored pictures as Susan leaned over, looking at them and saying “Oh my God” and “Totally adorable,” and things like that. What made me smile was that I knew she meant it. She loved looking at other people’s pictures, especially pictures of Pearl’s first real romance.
“Stop there,” Susan said. “Where is this?”
“Oh, that’s a gala we took him to,” Otto’s mom said. “We posed him in front of that painting because we thought it looked a little like him.”
Susan said to me, “Look at this.”
I looked. It was a picture of Otto, beaming and self-confident, in front of the painting of a prosperous-looking seventeenth-century merchant who did, in fact, look a little like Otto.
“Frans Hals?” I said.
“Yes,” Otto’s mom said. “It was a benefit for a small museum in New York of seventeenth-century Dutch art.”
“Same period when they founded New Amsterdam,” I said.
“Exactly,” Otto’s mom said.
As they had on their last meeting, Pearl and Otto finally burned themselves out and came and flopped down with their tongues hanging from their mouths. Otto’s dad bent over and patted them both.
“Do you know people at this museum?” Susan said.
“Oh, yes,” Otto’s mom said. “I’m on the board.”
“Is there anyone at this museum with a specialized knowledge of Dutch art, and the art business?”
“Sure.” She looked at Otto’s dad. “That lovely man, with the salt-and-pepper beard. You know, Carl something?”
“Carl Trachtman,” Otto’s dad said. “Probably the leading expert in the world in low-country art.”
Susan nodded at me.
“Do you suppose he’d talk with the big ugly one here?”
“He talks to me,” Otto’s dad said.
I grinned at him.
“Then I’m golden,” I said.
Otto’s dad smiled and took out a cell phone.
“We’re practically in-laws,” he said. “I’ll give him a call.”
“See,” Susan said. “I told you I’d find somebody.”
The two dogs were lying between us, Pearl’s head resting on Otto’s.
“She has a Ph.D. from Harvard,” I said to Otto’s dad.
“Wow!” he said, and punched up a number on his cell phone.
35
T he Museum of the Dutch Renaissance was on upper Madison Avenue in Manhattan, several blocks north of the Viand Coffee Shop. The museum was a lovely low building that had once been a church, and Carl Trachtman was the curator.
“Otto is a glorious dog,” Trachtman said when I sat down.
“So is Pearl,” I said.
Trachtman smiled.
“Proud parents,” he said.
“You have a dog?” I said.
“I do,” Trachtman said. “A Piebald dachshund named Vermeer. We call her Vee.”
“She glorious?” I said.
Trachtman smiled.
“Completely,” he said.
“Many dogs are,” I said.
Trachtman went around behind his ornate antique desk, doubtless of low-country origin, and sat down and smiled.
“Now that we’ve exchanged bona fides,” Trachtman said, “let me say that I’m very familiar with this case. I’ve followed it with great interest. My great hope is that it wasn’t Lady with a Finch that exploded.”
“Wasn’t enough left to
“They’re adorable,” Otto’s mother said.
“Absolutely,” Pearl’s mother said.
There was a Scottie and a Jack Russell off leash in the garden as well as Otto and Pearl, and they made a kind of halfhearted attempt to get in on the frolic, but they couldn’t keep up, and neither Pearl nor Otto paid them any mind.
“We take him almost everywhere,” Otto’s mom said. “Do you like pictures?”
“I love pictures,” Susan said.
Otto’s mom took out a digital camera and began to click through the stored pictures as Susan leaned over, looking at them and saying “Oh my God” and “Totally adorable,” and things like that. What made me smile was that I knew she meant it. She loved looking at other people’s pictures, especially pictures of Pearl’s first real romance.
“Stop there,” Susan said. “Where is this?”
“Oh, that’s a gala we took him to,” Otto’s mom said. “We posed him in front of that painting because we thought it looked a little like him.”
Susan said to me, “Look at this.”
I looked. It was a picture of Otto, beaming and self-confident, in front of the painting of a prosperous-looking seventeenth-century merchant who did, in fact, look a little like Otto.
“Frans Hals?” I said.
“Yes,” Otto’s mom said. “It was a benefit for a small museum in New York of seventeenth-century Dutch art.”
“Same period when they founded New Amsterdam,” I said.
“Exactly,” Otto’s mom said.
As they had on their last meeting, Pearl and Otto finally burned themselves out and came and flopped down with their tongues hanging from their mouths. Otto’s dad bent over and patted them both.
“Do you know people at this museum?” Susan said.
“Oh, yes,” Otto’s mom said. “I’m on the board.”
“Is there anyone at this museum with a specialized knowledge of Dutch art, and the art business?”
“Sure.” She looked at Otto’s dad. “That lovely man, with the salt-and-pepper beard. You know, Carl something?”
“Carl Trachtman,” Otto’s dad said. “Probably the leading expert in the world in low-country art.”
Susan nodded at me.
“Do you suppose he’d talk with the big ugly one here?”
“He talks to me,” Otto’s dad said.
I grinned at him.
“Then I’m golden,” I said.
Otto’s dad smiled and took out a cell phone.
“We’re practically in-laws,” he said. “I’ll give him a call.”
“See,” Susan said. “I told you I’d find somebody.”
The two dogs were lying between us, Pearl’s head resting on Otto’s.
“She has a Ph.D. from Harvard,” I said to Otto’s dad.
“Wow!” he said, and punched up a number on his cell phone.
35
T he Museum of the Dutch Renaissance was on upper Madison Avenue in Manhattan, several blocks north of the Viand Coffee Shop. The museum was a lovely low building that had once been a church, and Carl Trachtman was the curator.
“Otto is a glorious dog,” Trachtman said when I sat down.
“So is Pearl,” I said.
Trachtman smiled.
“Proud parents,” he said.
“You have a dog?” I said.
“I do,” Trachtman said. “A Piebald dachshund named Vermeer. We call her Vee.”
“She glorious?” I said.
Trachtman smiled.
“Completely,” he said.
“Many dogs are,” I said.
Trachtman went around behind his ornate antique desk, doubtless of low-country origin, and sat down and smiled.
“Now that we’ve exchanged bona fides,” Trachtman said, “let me say that I’m very familiar with this case. I’ve followed it with great interest. My great hope is that it wasn’t Lady with a Finch that exploded.”
“Wasn’t enough left to
Similar Books
