I pushed my way into K-9 Korners to the accompaniment of many barking dogs. Dogs and I do not get along. They inevitably stick their snouts right in my crotch, sometimes clamping themselves around my leg as though to do some kind of two-legged dance. On certain occasions, I have limped gamely along, dog affixed, their masters swatting at them ineffectually, saying “Hamlet, get down! What’s the matter with you!?” It is hard to look such a dog in the face, and I prefer to keep my distance from the lot of them.
There was a glass showcase full of dog-care products, and many photographs of dogs and cats affixed to the wall. To my right was a half door, the upper portion opening into a small office with several grooming rooms adjoining. By peering around the doorjamb, I could spot several dogs in various stages of being done up. Most were shivering, their eyes rolling piteously. One was having a little red bow put in its topknot, right between its ears. On a worktable were some little brown lumps I thought I could recognize. The groomer, a woman, looked up at me.
“Can I help you?”
“The dog just stepped on that brown lump,” I said.
She looked down at the table. “Oh Dashiell, not again. Excuse me a minute,” she said. Dashiell remained on the table, trembling, while she grabbed for some paper towels, deftly scooping up Dashiell’s little accident. She seemed pretty goodnatured about it. She was in her mid-forties with large brown eyes and shoulderlength gray hair, which was pulled back and secured with a scarf. She wore a dark wine-colored smock and I could see that she was tall and slim.
“Are you Gwen?”
She glanced up with a quick smile. “Yes, that’s right.”
“I’m Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator.”
Gwen laughed. “Oh Lord, what’s this all about?” She disposed of the paper towel and moved over to the half door and opened it. “Come on in. I’ll be right back.”
She lifted Dashiell from the table and carried him into a back room just off to the left. More dogs began to bark and I could hear a blower being turned off. The air in the place was dense with heat, scented with the smell of damp hair, and the odd combination of flea syrup and dog perfume. The brown linoleum tile floor was covered with assorted clippings, like a barber shop. In the adjoining room, I could see a dog being bathed by a young girl who worked over an elevated bathtub. To my left several dogs, beribboned, were waiting in cages to be picked up. Another young woman was clipping a poodle on a second grooming table. She glanced at me with interest. Gwen returned with a little gray dog under her arm.
“This is Wuffles,” she said, half clamping the dog’s mouth shut. Wuffles gave her a few licks in the mouth. She pulled her head back, laughing, and made a face.
“I hope you don’t mind if I finish this up. Have a seat,” she said affably, indicating a metal stool nearby. I perched, wishing I didn’t have to mention Laurence Fife’s name. From what Charlie Scorsoni had told me, it would rather spoil her good humor.
Gwen began to clip Wuffles’s toenails, tucking the dog against her body to prevent sudden moves. “You’re local, I assume,” she said.
“Yes, I have an office downtown here,” I said, pulling out my I.D. automatically. I held it toward her so she could read it. She gave it a glance, apparently accepting it without much suspicion or concern. It always amazes me when people take me on faith.
“I understand you used to be married to Laurence Fife,” I ventured.
“Yes, that’s right. Is this about him? He’s been dead for years.”
“I know. His case is being opened up again.”
“Oh, that’s interesting. By whom?”
“Nikki. Who else?” I said. “The Homicide Department knows I’m looking into it and I have their cooperation, if that helps you any. Could you answer some questions for me?”
“All right,” she said. Her tone was cautious but there was also a note of interest, as though she considered it a curious inquiry but not necessarily bad.
“You don’t sound that surprised,” I said.
“Actually I am. I thought that was finished business.”
“Well, I’m just starting to look into it and I may come up with a blank. We don’t have to talk here if it’s inconvenient. I don’t like to interrupt your work.
“This is fine with me, as long as you don’t mind watching me clip a few dogs. I really can’t afford a time-out right now. We’re loaded today. Hold on,” she said. “Kathy, could you hand me that flea spray? I think we missed a few here.
The dark-haired groomer left the poodle long enough to reach up for the flea spray, which was passed over to Gwen.
“That’s Kathy, as you might have gathered,” Gwen said. “The one up to her elbows in soapsuds is Jan.”
Gwen began to spray Wuffles, turning her face away to avoid the fumes. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
“How long were you married to Fife?”
“Thirteen years. We met in college, his third year, my first. I’d known him about six months I guess.”
“Good years? Bad years?”
“Well I’m mellowing some on that,” she said. “I used to think it was all a big waste but now I don’t know. Did you know Laurence yourself?””
“I met him a couple of times,” I said, “just superficially.”
Gwen’s look was wry. “He could be very charming if he wanted to, but at heart he was a real son of a bitch.”
Kathy glanced over at Gwen and smiled. Gwen laughed. “These two have heard my version about a hundred times,” she said by way of explanation. “Neither has ever been married so I tend to play devil’s advocate. Anyway, in those days I was the dutiful wife, and I mean I played the part with a dedication few could match. I cooked elegant meals. I made lists. I cleaned the house. I raised the kids. I’m not saying I’m anything unique for that, except that I took it awfully to heart. I wore my hair up in this French roll, not a pin out of place, and I had these outfits to put on and take off, kind of like a Barbie doll.” She stopped and laughed at the image of herself, pretending to pull a string from her neck. “Hello, I’m Gwen. I’m a good wife,” she burbled in a kind of nasal parrot tone. Her manner was rather affectionate as though she, instead of Laurence, had died but was remembered fondly by dear friends. Part of the time she was looking at me, and part of the time she combed and clipped the dog on the table in front of her, but in any event her manner was friendly, hardly the bitter, withdrawn account I’d expected.
“When it was over, I was pretty angry — not so much at him as at myself — for buying into the whole gig. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I liked it at the time and it suited me fine, but there was also a form of sensory deprivation going on so that when the marriage blew up, I was totally unequipped to deal with the real world. He managed the money. He pulled the strings. He made the major decisions, especially where the kids were concerned. I bathed and dressed and fed them and he shaped their lives. I didn’t realize it at the time because I was just running around anxious to please him, which was no easy task, but now that I look back on it, it was really fucked.”
She glanced up at me to see if I’d react to the language, but I just smiled back.
“So now I sound like all the other women who came out of marriages in that era. You know, we’re all faintly grumpy about it because we think we’ve been had.”
“You said you’d mellowed some,” I said. “How did that come about?”
“Six thousand dollars’ worth of therapy,” she said flatly.
I smiled. “What made the marriage blow?”
Her cheeks tinted slightly at that but her gaze remained just as frank. “I’d rather save that for later if you’re really interested.”
“Sure, fine,” I said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anyway.”
“Well. It wasn’t all his fault,” she said. “But it wasn’t all mine either and he hosed me with that divorce. I’m telling you, I got beat up.”
“How?”
“How many ways are there? I was scared and I was also naive. I wanted Laurence out of my life and I didn’t care much what it cost. Except the kids. I fought him tooth and nail over them, but what can I tell you? I lost. I’ve never quite recovered from that.”
I wanted to ask her about the grounds for the custody battle but I had the feeling it was touchy stuff. Better to let that slide for the moment and come back to it later if I could. “The kids must have come back to you after he died, though. Especially with his second wife going to prison.”