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Authors: Susan Conant
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pay today’s fees for some shot in the dark. That’s one reason Oscar was so popular.”
“From what I hear,” said Ron Coughlin, who was sitting next to me on the floor, “there was one guy he wasn’t all that popular with.”
“Or one woman he really was,” said Barbara Doyle. I remembered that she was a Patterson fan. The one time I’d seen Oscar Patterson, at the poetry reading, he hadn’t looked like Lord Byron to me, except that his hair was dark and that he’d forgotten to do up the top buttons on his shirt. But Barbara does look romantic. She has fluffy curls and wears lacy, velvety clothes that are totally impractical for someone with German shepherds.
“No, no,” Jackie said. “I don’t know why people are saying that, because it was definitely, definitely Cliff Bourque, and if Oscar had minded his own business and let Lee take care of that dog, it never would’ve happened.”
“What kind of dog was it?” I asked. If fate assigns you a role, why recast yourself? Besides, maybe because the story about the young Patterson cradling the newborn puppies had touched me, I felt protective toward him and even toward Geri, whom I didn’t know at all. At any rate, I was glad that Jackie hadn’t told everyone that Geri was pregnant and that Patterson might have run out on her. I wanted Jackie to talk about anything else, preferably dogs rather than people.
Jackie answered my question about Cliff Bourque’s dog. “Some kind of sled dog,” she said. “Lee will know.”
“A malamute?” I asked. The Alaskan malamute isn’t a rare breed, of course. Even so, the number of people active in the breed, people who show or belong to the clubs, is small enough so that I know, or at least know of, a lot of them. I’d never heard of any Cliff Bourque.
“Uh-uh. Something weird. They had a few of them, him and his wife. She was my hairdresser, which is how I know, and she’s a very, very nice woman. I feel sorry for her. He must be a very disturbed man. A vet.”
I was stunned. Why would a vet have …?
“Vietnam,” Jackie said. “For all we know, and I for one think it’s very likely, Cliff had some kind of flashback, and when Oscar broke the news that the dog was dead, it took him back to the jungle, and he went completely out of control. And what he did then was take to the woods, if you ask me.” She swept a hand wildly toward some imaginary forest.
“That’s awful,” Arlene said.
“His poor wife,” said someone else.
“Could be worse,” Ron murmured to me. “If she’s a hairdresser, probably she at least knows how to groom—”
But Jackie overheard. “You know, it’s no joking matter,” she said severely.
I felt chastised. It seemed to me that off and on over the past few days, I’d been guilty of treating Oscar Patterson’s unsolved disappearance as something of a joking matter. In spite of her irksome dramatics, Jackie Miner, though, clearly took it very seriously indeed.
Ron apologized. Everyone fell silent. Mostly to smooth over the awkwardness, Ray Metcalf changed the subject. “Well, there’s one thing I’ve heard about Oscar Patterson that I can’t help admiring, and that’s that he taught Dickie Brenner a good lesson.”
“Brenner!” Jackie said. “Well, I can tell you positively everything about him, and none of it’s good! Before I knew better, I took Willie to him, and let me tell you …”
Both Ron and I had had about enough of Jackie, and as he followed me into the kitchen, he asked, “Who’s this Brenner?”
I refilled the ice bucket and tidied up around the sink. “Some kind of dog behavior expert. A consultant.”
In Cambridge at least,
consultant
means anything or nothing, or maybe I’m still too much an outsider to understand what it does mean except that consultants tell other people what to do. Can that be right? Why should people pay all these consultants to give them a lot of advice they probably don’t want and won’t take? Anyway,
“From what I hear,” said Ron Coughlin, who was sitting next to me on the floor, “there was one guy he wasn’t all that popular with.”
“Or one woman he really was,” said Barbara Doyle. I remembered that she was a Patterson fan. The one time I’d seen Oscar Patterson, at the poetry reading, he hadn’t looked like Lord Byron to me, except that his hair was dark and that he’d forgotten to do up the top buttons on his shirt. But Barbara does look romantic. She has fluffy curls and wears lacy, velvety clothes that are totally impractical for someone with German shepherds.
“No, no,” Jackie said. “I don’t know why people are saying that, because it was definitely, definitely Cliff Bourque, and if Oscar had minded his own business and let Lee take care of that dog, it never would’ve happened.”
“What kind of dog was it?” I asked. If fate assigns you a role, why recast yourself? Besides, maybe because the story about the young Patterson cradling the newborn puppies had touched me, I felt protective toward him and even toward Geri, whom I didn’t know at all. At any rate, I was glad that Jackie hadn’t told everyone that Geri was pregnant and that Patterson might have run out on her. I wanted Jackie to talk about anything else, preferably dogs rather than people.
Jackie answered my question about Cliff Bourque’s dog. “Some kind of sled dog,” she said. “Lee will know.”
“A malamute?” I asked. The Alaskan malamute isn’t a rare breed, of course. Even so, the number of people active in the breed, people who show or belong to the clubs, is small enough so that I know, or at least know of, a lot of them. I’d never heard of any Cliff Bourque.
“Uh-uh. Something weird. They had a few of them, him and his wife. She was my hairdresser, which is how I know, and she’s a very, very nice woman. I feel sorry for her. He must be a very disturbed man. A vet.”
I was stunned. Why would a vet have …?
“Vietnam,” Jackie said. “For all we know, and I for one think it’s very likely, Cliff had some kind of flashback, and when Oscar broke the news that the dog was dead, it took him back to the jungle, and he went completely out of control. And what he did then was take to the woods, if you ask me.” She swept a hand wildly toward some imaginary forest.
“That’s awful,” Arlene said.
“His poor wife,” said someone else.
“Could be worse,” Ron murmured to me. “If she’s a hairdresser, probably she at least knows how to groom—”
But Jackie overheard. “You know, it’s no joking matter,” she said severely.
I felt chastised. It seemed to me that off and on over the past few days, I’d been guilty of treating Oscar Patterson’s unsolved disappearance as something of a joking matter. In spite of her irksome dramatics, Jackie Miner, though, clearly took it very seriously indeed.
Ron apologized. Everyone fell silent. Mostly to smooth over the awkwardness, Ray Metcalf changed the subject. “Well, there’s one thing I’ve heard about Oscar Patterson that I can’t help admiring, and that’s that he taught Dickie Brenner a good lesson.”
“Brenner!” Jackie said. “Well, I can tell you positively everything about him, and none of it’s good! Before I knew better, I took Willie to him, and let me tell you …”
Both Ron and I had had about enough of Jackie, and as he followed me into the kitchen, he asked, “Who’s this Brenner?”
I refilled the ice bucket and tidied up around the sink. “Some kind of dog behavior expert. A consultant.”
In Cambridge at least,
consultant
means anything or nothing, or maybe I’m still too much an outsider to understand what it does mean except that consultants tell other people what to do. Can that be right? Why should people pay all these consultants to give them a lot of advice they probably don’t want and won’t take? Anyway,
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