The Big Dirt Nap

Twelve

What were the odds? You could go to any park or dog run in Connecticut and yell Maggie and a dozen pooches would come running. And there was no shortage of Tesses, Maxes, or Rileys. But April was not a common name for a dog in these parts. It was like naming a dog Barry or Helen. It just wasn't done that often.

Caroline told me she was doing a favor for a colleague of Grant's who'd had to unexpectedly join him on a business trip and hadn't had time to find a pet sitter.

"Grant brought her home last night. To keep me company, I guess. Isn't she darling?" Caroline bent down to give the dog a scratch and a gourmet dog biscuit she fished out of a decorative tin on the counter.

You'd have to have some cojones to fly off on a tryst with your girlfriend and make your wife watch the woman's dog. From what I'd heard about him, Grant Sturgis was too much of a wuss for that brazen a move. Still, who knew? I was hardly an expert on suburban mores. Or men.

Grant Sturgis was a management consultant, whatever that meant. Everyone I knew who was unemployed refers to himself or herself as a consultant, but apparently there are people who really do it, and full-time, not just while they're waiting for the permanent job to come along.

According to Caroline, who'd quietly gone back to sipping her mimosa, Grant's work took him from Chicago to Georgia to Massachusetts, with the occasional trip to Europe. Despite her halfhearted attempts to join him, she never went. Every time she'd brought it up, he'd mumble something about boring clients, lengthy business dinners, and generic hotels. With that kind of review, I'd have stayed home, too.

"It can't be that boring," she said. "Chicago has museums, Marshall Field's, Buddy Guy's." Shopping on the Miracle Mile and Frango mints, yes, but I hadn't pegged her for a blues fan.

"Marshall Field's isn't there anymore," I said. "And B. B. King's is a lot closer than Buddy Guy's."

"You're right," she said. "It's not him." Had I said that? Maybe I was better at this suburban advice thing than I realized.

"I need to find something more mentally engaging," she announced, nuzzling the tiny dog she now held with both hands.

I steered her back to our garden discussion. Seeing the dog had put some very uncharitable thoughts about Grant Sturgis in my head—I didn't like the idea that he might be boffing some cocktail waitress while making his wife pick up his mistress's dog's poop. I longed for the old days when my pals had easier problems like "It's Thursday, why hasn't he called?"

Under the circumstances, I felt a little guilty but got Caroline to sign off on plans and purchases for the garden; I should remember to get all my clients tanked before meetings. I watched the wrinkled forehead return along with a determined little set to her mouth.

As I got up to leave, she mumbled something about going out, too, so when she wasn't looking, I reached into the tin that held the dog biscuits, got one for April, and left Caroline's car keys in the tin. Not to drive her crazy, just to keep her in the house long enough to realize driving was a bad idea.

The three spoonfuls of cereal I'd had for breakfast were starting to feel lonely in my stomach, so I turned left out of Caroline's driveway and headed back to Springfield for an early lunch at the Paradise.

I pulled in past a line of vehicles that made the diner's parking lot look like an emissions control station on the highway. As always, whatever the hour, size, or temperament of the crowd, Babe had everything under control. I spied one empty stool at the far end of the counter and elbowed my way through a sea of wide-bodied truckers whose haunches were spilling over the edges of the diner's counter stools. It reminded me not to order whatever they were eating.

Business had picked up since Pete started his television cooking lessons and Babe now had three sullen waitresses helping her out at lunchtime instead of just one. Paulette, Theresa, and Alba were busy so Babe motioned for me to help myself to a cup of coffee and a newspaper until things died down a bit. I slipped behind the counter and served myself.

"How goes it?" she asked, when the crowd had thinned.

"It goes. Looks like your business is booming."

"It's Pete's fault. When he was a lousy cook, I had more time to read; now my TBR stack is yea high." She held a hand up to her hips. "And back then I didn't have to play den mother. Look at those three. They're worthless as waitresses, but the little one has a pretty good voice. The one with the black hair plays bass." Having spent some of the best years of her life with a band, Babe still had a soft spot for rock and rollers. And although she denied it, I think she enjoyed playing den mother.

"Where'd you find them?"

"They came in late one night," she whispered, "after an open mike night at Boomer's. They were pretty upset—it didn't go so well. I told them if they worked the lunch shift, four days a week, I'd give them stage pointers plus salary and tips. We'll see how long they last. Are you eating or is this one of your liquid lunches?"

"Eating. I'm ravenous." I ordered a turkey and sundried tomato wrap, something Pete had recently added to the menu courtesy of Giada De Laurentiis.

Babe stuck the order slip into a revolving rack behind her and spun it around like a prayer wheel, then brought me more coffee.

Two cops from the substation across the road came in, and Babe left me to say hello and seat them. Just then, something in my backpack rumbled and I recognized the sound as that of a new text message. I expected it to be Lucy, but it was Caroline Sturgis. Thanks for listening and for moving my keys, Sneaky Pete! You're a good friend. Call me tomorrow, I have a great idea!

I didn't need a 9 A.M. drinking buddy, and Caroline's last great idea had involved thousands of bulbs the size of cocktail onions. Was I a good friend? I didn't bestow the F word easily. I generally thought of people as acquaintances until years had passed and they'd lost most of their fur like the Velveteen Rabbit. But maybe that was another New York habit I'd soon be jettisoning. If we were friends, should I have said something about April and the tacky woman I thought was her owner? I wondered how Caroline and the pooch were getting along.

I nursed my food until most of the lunchtime crowd had departed and Babe had time to sit and catch up.

"Okay," she said, hauling herself onto a bar stool on her side of the counter, "what's on your mind?"

"What makes you think there's something on my mind?"

"C'mon, you haven't camped out here this long since the early days when you had two clients and one of them was dead."

I left names out of it, and she leaned in so none of the stragglers would hear. "What would you do if you thought the husband of a friend was having an affair?"

"Easy," she said, straightening up, disappointed that my problem wasn't more challenging. "Do nothing. Say nothing." She made a zipping motion across her lips.

"Really?"

"Absolutely. First of all, it sounds like you don't really know, and second of all, there's nothing in it, either for you or your friend, for you to be the one who drops the bomb."

It wasn't the answer I was hoping for.

"Look, if you're wrong, you'll be persona non grata. If you're right and they split up, you'll be the unwelcome reminder of her humiliation. If you're right and they stay together, you're the friend that knows too much. And if one of them kills the other, then you'll have to testify."

She had a point.