Read Online The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel by Nick Trout - Free Book Online Page A

murder mystery and going straight to the end to find out whodunit. It’s like standing at the bottom of a cliff with the dead body and all you have to do is look up and wonder, did he fall or was he pushed and why. No one’s going to ask you to save him.”
    Lewis squeezes my upper arm, and I shy away as politely as possible. “What matters is you’re here, that you came back to accept the terms of your father’s will.”
    I should point out that I have not been exactly forthcoming about my plans for Bedside Manor, but I say nothing. I know, I know, but right now I don’t have the heart to tell Lewis that, one way or another, I’m determined to sell the place and he’s going to be out of a job. Truth is, I still need him to show me the ropes.
    “Don’t give me that look,” he says.
    “What look?”
    “Like you just sucked on a lemon. Eden Falls isn’t such a bad place to hang your hat. You like to ski?”
    “Not really.”
    “Spectacular hiking. Especially in the fall.”
    “I prefer to be near the ocean.”
    “If you like culture, Burlington’s not far.”
    “I live in Charleston, one of the most cultural small cities in the country.”
    Lewis regards me like a teacher regarding a student who’s always armed with a surly comeback. “I’m not going to lie,” he says, “the residents of this town are an odd, wary bunch, slow to warm up to visitors. But I promise you, once they do, a more genuine, straightforward but kind group of folks you will not meet.”
    I breathe out. The sound is something between a growl and an exasperated sigh. Lewis means well, but he should know that Eden Falls ranks somewhere between the Strait of Hormuz and the Korengal Valley as places in the world I would least like to visit, let alone “hang my hat.” Fourteen years and a thousand miles away was morphine for my past. Back in Eden Falls, my father’s will (what an apt term) promises nothing but flashbacks, ghosts, and whispers behind cupped hands. Trouble is, the only way out is through.
    “Look,” Lewis releases his grip but remains close by, “this house call is for one of my favorite clients. I told him all about you. I am drawing you a map.”
    Lewis scribbles lines and the names of certain landmarks as points of reference. He doesn’t notice my concern over the phrase, I told him all about you .
    “How much did you tell him?”
    Fielding stops his map making and looks at me. Though his shaggy gray thatch of hair defies his years, time has furrowed the leather of his face into creases and crow’s-feet that beg to differ. He has to angle his head up to make eye contact, but when he does the wisdom wrinkles create an expression verging on disappointment.
    “I told him you were a good man,” he says, his tone soft but even. “I told him I’d trust you to look after my own dog. Should I have said more?”
    My eyes fall to the floor. Like I said, I tend to jump to conclusions, and they’re not always the right ones. I shake my head and come back with a weak, “No.”
    There’s that reassuring squeeze on my upper arm again. I wince with a whistling inhalation. I can’t help it. I’m not into gratuitous physical contact with anyone. It’s just the way I am. It’s not personal. I happen to like this man and I can see why Robert Cobb liked him as well. Lewis exudes so much more than professional geniality. Somehow he makes you know that he really cares. Yes, I’m tuning in to the difference between Lewis and Cobb. I can’t help it. Perhaps I should be asking a bigger question—why didn’t Cobb care as much about me?
    “Hate to break it to you,” says Lewis, “but if you want to make this practice work, you need to earn some trust. This client is very different from Ethel Silverman. A perfect opportunity to develop your communication skills.”
    “Diagnoses and cures will earn trust. I’m looking to do my job, not get friendly with pet owners. I don’t engage in irrelevant verbal fluff. Ideally, in