The Girl in the Green Raincoat_ A Novel - Laura Lippman [7]
He hung up. Without, Tess couldn’t help noticing, taking down details that would allow him to make good on the offer of a check. A deadbeat doggie dad. A first for her, but she didn’t see how it would be that different from making the more common kind live up to his responsibilities.
Chapter 3
Mr. Epstein?”
The woman who stood on the front steps of Don Epstein’s home looked ridiculous. She should. She worked hard enough at it. She wore a fuchsia trench coat, unbuttoned to reveal the riotous flower print of her dress, flower prints being an unavoidable signature look for a woman named Mrs. Blossom. Her shoes were hot pink, high-top Reeboks, circa 1985. She had unearthed a cache of these lumpy wonders at a flea market, a virtual Reebok rainbow—pink, orange, red, yellow, white. She cared for her Reeboks as if they were custom-made Italian pumps, massaging them with special cream, buffing the toes, even stuffing them with tissue paper at night. The shoes might not flatter her sturdy calves, but they were kind to her feet. And as the late Mr. Blossom liked to say: “Without your feet, where would you stand on anything?”
Besides, Don Epstein wouldn’t be the first person to dismiss Felicia Blossom on a glance. Tess Monaghan herself had thought Mrs. Blossom a bit dull when they first met, and now Mrs. Blossom was bucking for an equity share in Keys Investigations. She was sorry, of course, for the reason behind this opportunity. After all, that child was going to be Mrs. Blossom’s almost grandbaby, her consolation prize for living so far from her biological grandchildren, now in Arizona. But she was glad for the chance to show Tess the range and breadth of her talents.
“Whatever you’re selling, we’re not interested,” her quarry said. He might have slammed the door if Mrs. Blossom had not planted one pink, padded foot on the threshold.
“I’m from BARCs, the city animal shelter.” She flashed a business card, designed and printed by Crow a mere hour ago. “We want to discuss your fiduciary responsibilities for the dog you abandoned.”
Tess had argued that fiduciary was too grandiose, perhaps inaccurate, but Mrs. Blossom decided it was just right for a self-important civil servant. In fact, she had approached this whole venture as a Method actor might, thinking long and hard about her “character.” Her alter ego lived in Northeast Baltimore, in one of those small but charming bungalows. She had seven grandchildren. Her husband was on disability; the household needed her paycheck.
“Excuse me?”
“As costs rise and public funding falls, we’ve taken a page out of the Department of Social Services playbook and decided to seek renumeration from pet parents who dump their offspring into the system. That’s the only way we can avoid resorting to almost immediate euthanasia.”
“Kill the mutt,” Epstein said. “I don’t care.”
Don Epstein was playing out their scene exactly as Tess had envisioned, but it was dismaying nonetheless. Mrs. Blossom produced the jargon-laded “authorization form”—again, Tess’s idea, Crow’s execution—and indicated where he was to sign. He scrawled his name, not even bothering to read the presumptive death warrant.
“And, of course, we’ll need your wife’s signature,” she said, pointing to a second line.
“My wife’s?”
“The people who brought us the dog supplied the breeder’s name, which is how we found you. He says you both signed the contract. Therefore, we need two signatures to proceed.”
He was the kind of man who flushed when angry—not red, but a deep, eggplant purple. It would be a nice shade on a shoe, come to think of it, but it didn’t flatter a face. Don Epstein, with his dark hair and heavy beard, looked a little like a werewolf. Mr. Blossom, rest his soul, had been as sweet as the surname he had bestowed on her more than fifty years ago.
“You can force me to pay for this mutt’s care, but I don’t have the authority to waive custody? That’s insane.”
“All I need is your wife’s signature—”
“She’s not here.”
Tess had anticipated this answer, too.
“Has she left for work? I can always visit her office.