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, tapiocacolored 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.”