K is for Killer

"Well, hey. How are you? I switch shifts now and then. Keeps me from getting bored. What about you? What are you up to?"

"I have a tape recording with very poor sound quality. Would you have any way to clean it up?"

"That depends on what you got. I could try," he said. "You want to drop it off? I can leave the door unlocked."

"I'll be right there."

En route, I made a stop at Rosie's, where I told her about Beauty and begged for doggie bones. Earlier she'd boiled up two pounds of veal knuckle for the stock she makes. I had to pick through the trash to get them, but she wrapped two in paper with the usual admonishment. "You should get a dog," she said.

"I'm never home," I replied. She is always on me about this. Don't ask me why. Just a piece of aggravation, in my opinion. I took the packet of bones and began to back away, hoping to curtail discussion.

"A dog is good company, and protection, too."

"I'll think about it," I said as the kitchen door swung shut.

"Get a fella while you're at it."

At the station, I let myself in. Hector had left the door ajar and the foyer lights on. I went down into the twilight of the stairwell with my paper packet of bones. Beauty was waiting for me when I reached the bottom. She was the size of a small bear, her dark eyes bright with intelligence. Her coat was red gold, the undercoat puffy and soft. When she saw me, her fur seemed to undulate and she emitted a low, humming growl. I watched her lift her head at the scent of me. Without warning she pursed her lips and howled, a soaring note of ululation that seemed to go on for minutes. I didn't move, but I could feel my own fur bristle in response to her keening. I was rooted to the bottom step, my hand on the rail. Something primitive in her singing sent ice down along my spine. I heard Hector call her, then the quick thump of his crutches as he swung along the corridor.

"Beauty!" he snapped.

At first she refused to yield. He called her again. Her eyes rolled back at him reluctantly, and I could see her debate. She was willful, intent. As strong as her urge toward obedience, she didn't want to comply. Her complaints were sorrowful, the half-talk of dogs in which sentiment is conveyed in the insistent language of canines. She howled again, watching me.

I murmured, "What's the matter with her?"

"Beats me."

"I brought her some bones."

"It's not that." He leaned down and touched her. The howling became a low cry, filled with such misery that it broke my heart. He held his hand out. I passed him the packet of veal knuckles.

Hector looked at me oddly. "You smell like Lorna. Have you been handling something of hers?"

"I don't think so. Just some papers," I said. "There was a scarf of hers in the banker's box, but that was yesterday."

"Sit down very carefully on the steps where you are."

I eased myself down into a sitting position. He began to talk to Beauty, his tone full of comfort. She watched me with a mixture of hope and confusion, thinking I was Lorna, knowing I was not. Hector offered her the bones, which failed to interest her. Instead, carefully, she extended her blunt snout and sniffed at my fingers. I could see her nostrils work as she sifted and analyzed the components of my personal scent. He scratched her ears, massaging her meaty shoulders. Finally she seemed to accept that she had erred somehow. She hung her head, watching me with puzzlement, as if at any minute I might turn into the woman she was waiting for.

Hector straightened up. "She's okay now. Come on. Here. Why don't you take these," he said, passing the bones back to me. "She might decide she likes you yet."

I followed him into the same small studio. Beauty had resumed her wary guardianship, and she positioned herself between the two of us. She put her head down on her feet. Occasionally she gave me a look, but she was clearly depressed. Hector had made fresh coffee, which he offered from a jug thermos sitting on the counter beside a cardboard box and a leather photo album. I let him pour me a cup, figuring I couldn't feel much worse. He perched up on his stool, and I watched while he phased out the jazz number that was playing. He extemporized a commentary, feigning casual knowledge from the liner notes in the CD. His voice was deep and melodious. He slipped in another cassette, adjusted the sound levels, and then turned to me. "Let's try the bones," he said. "Beauty needs a lift, poor girl."

"I feel bad," I said. "I was wearing those jeans when I went through Lorna's files."

I opened the paper packet and hunkered next to Beauty. He coached me through the process. She finally relented, allowing me to stroke her densely furred head. She took one of the knuckle bones between her feet and licked it thoroughly before she tested with her teeth. She made no particular objection when I rose again and perched up beside Hector on a second stool. Hector, meanwhile, was sorting through a stack of old black-and-white photographs with white fluted rims. He had a box of gummed corners and was mounting selected snapshots in an album fat with photographs.