The Doctor's Dog
Chapter 1
It was one of those rainy April afternoons when you have to remind yourself that better days are on the way. Nicole was three hundred miles away, up in Aroostook County, Maine, doing a segment on the dying timber industry in northern New England. It was now Friday and she’d been gone since Wednesday morning. I hated to admit it, but even though we’d been together for only seven months now, I seemed to have already forgotten how to enjoy myself without her.
The sports section of the Boston Globe offered little solace. The Sox had dropped three of their first four games of the new season. We’d waited all winter. And they’d looked so good in spring training. But what’s another eighty-six years.
After sighing and reminding myself that there were a hundred and fifty-eight games left to go, I folded up the paper and placed it down on the table lamp beside the brown leather recliner in which I was seated. Then I got up briefly to microwave what was left of my coffee before returning to my favorite chair, where I sipped and listened to the patter of the rain.
Between the droplets sliding down the window of my humble study, I could see the top halves of the passersby—slickers, trench coats, hats, and umbrellas. They moved quickly, and from where I sat, silently.
What is it about the rain that makes a person think? It had now been over a year and a half since I’d quit teaching and opened shop as a private investigator. I had done so at the urging of my oldest and best friend, detective Sergeant Peter Perry of Boston’s Finest. That was arguably the only good piece of advice Peter had ever given me. It wasn’t that he didn’t always mean well; rather, it was simply that, with his police work being the single notable exception, Peter seemed to have a great deal of difficulty taking the world and anything in it too seriously. But he was undeniably a friend in the true sense of the word. For how much longer I wasn’t sure, though. He was getting married in October. Why not? Like myself, he was going on thirty-two.
My mind drifted back over the past year and a half—a series of cases involving cheating spouses, deadbeat dads, and a few missing persons. Of the whole lot of them, there was only one…
The phone startled me. I jumped up, lifted the receiver and identified myself. “Cello.”
“Is this Dean Cello, Private Investigations, Discreet Inquiries?” The voice was that of a male who was obviously reading out of the phone book.
“This is Dean. How may I help you?”
“Well for starters, Mr. Cello, you could pardon my ignorance. I’ve never hired a private investigator before.” He spoke slowly and I could hear his smile. Despite his proclamation of ignorance, he sounded relaxed and self-confident.
“Most of my clients are first-timers,” I assured him. “It’s that kind of business.” I made sure that my smile too was evident.
“Very kind of you, Mr. Cello…”
“Please, call me Dean.”
“Okay, Dean. Well I suppose the problem I have would best fall into the missing persons category.” I waited for more and after a brief pause he continued. “I live in Lynnfield. Would it be possible for you to drive out to my home?”
The more common practice was to have clients drive in to see me in my first floor Back Bay condo unit—odd side of Beacon Street between Berkley and Clarendon. I briefly considered my rather somber mood and decided it would do me well to get out. A quick check of my watch revealed that it was quarter past two. Lynnfield was about fifteen miles north of the city off Route 1. “How about three o’clock?”
My potential client identified himself as Connor Bradley and gave me directions to his home in the prestigious Sherwood Forest section of the town.
I replaced my jeans with a pair of khakis, threw on a lightweight jacket and was out the door.
The midnight blue Z4 roadster was almost two years old now. It had been a conscious part of my metamorphosis, and while I still wasn’t convinced that it suited me, it somehow did indeed now feel comfortable.
One caller after another on the sports talk station railed about the Red Sox—the questionable moves management had made in the off season, the free agents that got away. Halfway across the Mystic River Bridge I couldn’t take it anymore and switched over to NPR—a piece on prize-winning dahlias. I turned off the radio and rode in silence.
Lynnfield is an affluent bedroom community and Sherwood Forest is its most exclusive section. Mr. Bradley’s directions were impeccable and within minutes I spotted the large magnolia in full bloom about thirty feet behind the curbside mailbox. Its blossoms seemed incongruous in the driving rain. I motored slowly up the driveway and marveled at the large white English Tudor with three-car garage attached.
A white portico kept me reasonably dry while I waited for someone to respond to the doorbell.
Only a few seconds had passed when a conventionally handsome, blue-eyed, light-haired, mid-fifties-looking man opened the door and extended his hand. He was dressed in pleated khakis and a hunter green V-neck cashmere sweater. “Connor Bradley,” he declared. “Nice of you to come out here in the rain.” His handshake was firm, but not overpowering; his smile seemed genuine. He looked every bit as relaxed as he had sounded on the phone.
Mr. Bradley led me through a foyer and a large living room into a spacious and handsomely appointed study. I considered that I might want to start referring to my own study as a den. Perhaps even a nest. He gestured an invitation for me to be seated in one of the two burgundy, leather wingchairs positioned on opposite sides of a lighted fieldstone fireplace. Of course I accepted the invitation.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked before seating himself.
A cup of black coffee would have been my first choice, but I assumed he had something else in mind. Although I felt neither the need nor the desire to drink alcohol at the moment, I’d learned that it was usually advantageous to do whatever might make a potential client feel comfortable. “Do you by chance happen to have any amaretto?” I asked.
“I certainly do,” he replied triumphantly. “On the rocks?”
“If you would please. Thank you.”
Mr. Bradley walked over to a bar in the far corner of the room, and a moment later returned with my amaretto in one hand and what appeared to be a half drunk cup of coffee in the other. I managed to hide my amusement. He sat in the other chair and, after taking a sip of his coffee, smiled before asking, “So for how long have you been a private investigator?”
I was about to be interviewed. It happened sometimes. At least he seemed pleasant enough, not at all condescending, as were some of the others I’d met.
“About a year and a half now,” I told him. “I used to be a high school science teacher.”
His eyes widened. “Really!” he said. “I’m somewhat of a man of science myself. Although there are some who would dispute that, I’m sure.”
“Oh?” I casually queried. “What is it that you do?”
“I’m a doctor,” he stated matter-of-factly. “But please don’t call me Doctor, or Mr. Bradley for that matter. I prefer Connor if you don’t mind.”
“Than Connor it is.” I couldn’t resist. “So for how long have you been a doctor?”
“Touché, Dean,” he declared before laughing. “I like you already.”
His laugh was genuine and I couldn’t help but laugh some myself.
He took another sip of coffee. “Going on thirty years, to answer your question. My son Kevin, he’s the oldest of two, is now working with me and I’m about to turn the practice over to him.”
“You look awfully young to be hanging it up,” I said, leaving the question implied.
“I’ll be turning sixty in June,” he said. “Kevin just graduated from Loyola Medical last year. He’s a good lad and I feel fortunate that he wants to take over the practice. Not only because I get to pass it down, but also because there’s a need for family medicine these days. Seems every kid out of med school wants to be a specialist or a surgeon now.” He paused to take another sip of coffee, then smiled again before continuing. “I’ve got patients who I’ve known since they were teenagers. Now I’m starting to see their children’s children. It’s a personal thing. I like thinking my own son will be caring for them. In a way, it’s like I’ll still have them.”
I found myself smiling back at him admiringly. He was for real. “Is your practice right here in Lynnfield?”
“Mm-hmm. Just a couple of miles away, down in the center.” He put his cup down on the table beside the chair, smiled pleasantly, and cocked his head a bit. “But enough about me,” he said. “I’m interested in what makes a teacher become a PI.”
I owed him and I didn’t mind anyway. Besides, I’d just about had the whole spiel memorized verbatim at this point. I explained how in the idealistic naïveté of my youth I had entertained the notion of molding young minds, having a strong positive influence. What more noble cause existed? Over the course of the nine years, though, I’d learned that it wasn’t knowledge that the vast majority of kids wished to acquire, it was simply the ability to make money.
“Ah, so you don’t like money,” the doctor said. “Then I’ll assume your services are free.”
I repaid the touché and we laughed again. I told him I’d grown.
“All kidding aside, Dean,” he started, “and of course you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but it must have been awfully difficult for you to establish yourself as an investigator when you didn’t even have the benefit of a teacher’s salary.”
I explained that I’d been an only child, and that during my fourth year of teaching, both my parents had been killed in an automobile accident while returning from their summer place on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. I thereafter couldn’t bear to be in either house, so I sold them both and invested the proceeds in the stock market at what ended up turning out to be the right time.
The doctor looked at me approvingly. “You’re okay, Dean. I like you,” he said. “Most notably, you’re honest. It’s a quality that’s becoming hard to find. Don’t lose it.”
He rose from his chair and walked over to a large mahogany desk positioned in front of the wall adjacent to the bar. He then opened a drawer and removed what from a distance appeared to be a photograph. “This is who I want you to find,” he said as he closed the drawer. He began walking toward me while explaining. “His name is Sir Cedric of Winchester. He’s about two feet, five inches tall and weighs sixty-four pounds.” He handed me the photograph. “Of course if you don’t want to accept the job I understand, but I’m willing to pay you whatever you say, within reason.”
Sir Cedric was black and tan, stood on four legs, and was hairier than a Sicilian.
“An Airedale, I believe.”
“You know your dogs, Dean. That’s a good start.”
I looked up at the doctor. He was smiling, but at the same time I could tell that he was quite serious.
“Doctor… Connor, you seem like a nice guy but… well, forgive me, but do you have any idea what the services of a private investigator cost?”
“He’s not just a dog, Dean, he’s a champion. From a long line of champions. And it might sound silly, but he’s also my pal. I miss him. And I’m worried about him.”
“And of course you’ve already reported his absence to the local animal control folks?”
“Of course.”
I told Doctor Bradley what my usual fee was and warned that even if I agreed to accept the assignment, I couldn’t guarantee success. It was unlikely that Sir Cedric had a social security number, a driver’s license, a credit card, or even a post office box. It was equally unlikely that he’d ever done hard time or served in the military or been otherwise pawprinted.
While walking back toward the desk, the good doctor tried to assure me that he was very much aware that the task he wished to entrust unto me was not an easy one. He sat at the desk, and as he was still talking, I could see that he was writing out a check. He returned with both the check and several pieces of paper he’d taken from the top of the desk. He handed me the entire package.
I made note of the sizable amount of the check, placed it on the end table beside my chair, and looked over the papers—Sir Cedric’s pedigree, his veterinary records, and a typed history that began with the breeder from which the dog had been purchased and ended with the last show, the one in which the beast had achieved championship status.
As I finished perusing the papers, I was still undecided. I needed more information. The doctor had reseated himself in the chair by the fireplace. I looked over at him.
“How long has he been missing for?”
“Since Tuesday,” he said. “Three days ago. I’m down to only fifteen hours a week at the office now—one to six on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. He was here in the house when I left for work and Ellen, my wife, had a hair appointment at two. She returned home before I did, around four-fifteen, and found him gone.”
“You do have a security system?”
“Mm,” he muttered pensively. “Here’s where it really gets interesting. Ellen says she activated the system when she left and it was still set when she returned.”
I felt a bit apprehensive about asking the next question but I had to know the answer. “Who else has the code?”
“My two sons, my daughters-in-law, and my nephew Brian. Brian’s the one who uses it most often. He likes Cedric almost as much as I do. Whenever Ellen and I go away, Brian takes care of the dog.”
“And the two sons are your only children?”
He nodded a yes.
“Maid? Housekeeper?”
“We have a couple of women who come in once a week on Thursdays, but Ellen lets them in and out or leaves the system disarmed before they arrive.”
“You haven’t told me anything about your other son,” I noted.
“You’re right, I haven’t,” he acknowledged. “I guess it just didn’t come up. Kevin, the doctor, is thirty-two, and Tim just turned thirty last month.”
Connor Bradley went on to explain that his younger son, Tim, was a pharmacist and was married to Jill, an artist. They had one child, a three-year-old girl named Hannah. Kevin was married as well, to a bookstore proprietor named Carol. Kevin and Carol did not yet have any children.
I took notes that included where each of the family members lived and worked. If I accepted the job, I’d undoubtedly end up having a conversation with each of them.
“And obviously you’ve already checked with the neighbors.” One could never be too sure.
“Of course,” he said. “Nothing.”
We sat for a moment looking at one another.
I liked Dr. Connor Bradley, but to be totally honest, it was probably the challenge that interested me most. This one would definitely be different. And I’d already been paid an advance in excess of what I would have normally required.
“I’ll do my very best to find your dog, Connor.”
“Wonderful,” was his reply. He seemed pleased but not terribly surprised.
I pocketed the check and, with papers in hand, stood up to solidify our arrangement with a handshake. I’d just come to my feet when the doorbell rang.
“Please don’t leave yet,” the doctor urged. “I’ll be right back.”
A moment later he reentered the room with a young man whom I figured to be about college age. “Dean, this is my nephew Brian.”
Brian looked like a Bradley, although his hair was darker than that of his uncle and he was smaller in stature. As we shook hands, I noticed that he was probably a couple of inches under my five foot eleven.
“Dean, I’d like it if you could stay for just a few more minutes,” urged Dr. Bradley. “You see it was Brian who suggested I retain your services. Unless of course you must be getting along?”
I was going to have to speak to Brian anyway. No time like the present.
“What’s a few more minutes,” I said. I sat back down again; the doctor and his nephew did the same.
“Brian is a teacher,” Connor informed me with a smile. He then looked at Brian and explained that I too had been a member of that noble profession for nine years.
“Really!” Brian exclaimed, obviously surprised. He asked me which subjects I had taught and I told him biology, chemistry, and physics at the high school level. He explained that he was just finishing up his first year—elementary history and social studies in nearby Danvers. We engaged in several minutes of conversation about teaching in general. When an opportunity finally presented itself, I asked Brian if he had any theories concerning Sir Cedric’s sudden disappearance.
“Not a clue,” he came back. “I had classes all day on Tuesday. I only learned of it when Uncle Connor called to ask if I had him.”
When Brian finished speaking, he continued to look at me. Then he smiled knowingly, and finally decided to share his secret, albeit with what I thought to be some apprehension. “I chose you out of the phone book based solely upon your name,” he said. “I play the bass.” He shrugged. “You know… the lows.” He immediately appeared to have wished he hadn’t said it, but managed an awkward chuckle.
“I hate to disappoint you,” I told him, “but family legend has it that it was actually Ucello. Supposedly the Department of Immigration lost the U somewhere.”
“Close enough,” he came back. “Besides it’s Cello now and that’s all that matters.” Dr. Bradley and I laughed some, which might have encouraged Brian to make yet another comment. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look all that Italian. Light brown hair, green eyes…”
“Another family legend has it that my mother was half Irish,” I told him.
That got them both going. The elder Bradley came back with, “I knew we had the right man.”
I took advantage of the frivolity to come to my feet and initiate a smooth escape. As I did so, I noticed the amaretto that I’d placed down on the table and subsequently forgotten about. I apologized to the doctor who dismissed the idea with a quick backhanded wave. He reached out for a final handshake and then began escorting me to the door. As he did so, Brian told him that he too had to be leaving; he’d just stopped by to meet Mr. Cello.
Dr. Bradley bid us both a good evening and I assured him I’d be in touch. When he opened the door, I noticed that the rain had finally stopped.
“I was admiring your car on the way in,” Brian said. “Can I get a look inside?”
“Yeah, sure,” I casually agreed. “When I first got it I wasn’t sure it suited me. Sometimes I still think the real me is the boxy old Volvo I traded in for it.” What I didn’t want to tell him was that I had made a conscious effort to shed the teacher image. “But now it’s become comfortable,” I added. “I’ve grown attached to it.”
I opened the driver’s side door and Brian leaned over some, apparently to get a closer look inside. As he did so he quietly muttered, “Can you meet me around ten o’clock tomorrow morning at Lou’s Donut Shop on Main Street?” He stood back up and, smiling, pointed toward the dashboard while saying, “I think you’ll find what I have to tell you rather interesting.” Obviously, he was trying to appear nonchalant just in case his uncle was still watching from the window.
Okay, I’ll play along. I pointed at the same dashboard, nodded and said, “I can do that.”
He took a step backward and, still smiling, slowly looked the car over admiringly from the front bumper to the rear and then back again. “And don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got the dog.”
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