Cutter's Run Read Free

journalist.”
    “And soon you will be a famous author,” I said.
    “Yeah, maybe.”
    “She’s an African-American woman,” I said. “Forty, maybe. Very attractive.”
    She shrugged. “I haven’t met any African-American women up here. Attractive, eh?”
    “Yes. She reminded me of Lena Horne. She keeps a lot of pets, and she’s got a No Trespassing sign by the woods road that leads to her house.” I hesitated. “Somebody spray-painted a swastika on it.”
    “Huh?” said Alex. “A swastika?”
    “Yes. A big hateful red one.”
    “Jesus,” she murmured. “What a world.”
    Alex and I slept in the next morning. I made Canadian bacon and French toast for breakfast, which we drowned in real Maine maple syrup and ate on the deck. We lingered there sipping coffee, smoking, and watching a little flock of early-migrating warblers. We admired the way the slanting morning sunlight painted the countryside in vivid colors, and it was after nine by the time I climbed into my Jeep to fetch my Sunday Globe at Leon’s.
    I remembered Jack, Charlotte’s dog, and decided to swing around to the animal hospital. When I went in, Dr. Spear was talking to a teenaged girl and a man in overalls who I assumed was the girl’s father. A shrouded birdcage sat on the counter.
    Dr. Spear glanced at me, lifted her chin in greeting, then turned back to her conversation.
    A minute or two later, the girl picked up the birdcage and they left. Dr. Spear took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes, put her elbows on the countertop, and shook her head.
    “The dog?” I said.
    She nodded. “He died. He only lasted a few hours after she brought him in. Didn’t surprise me. He was in bad shape. There was nothing I could do.”
    I let out a long breath. “That’s a damn shame,” I said. “Charlotte will be devastated. She really seemed to love that dog.”
    Dr. Spear shrugged. “Of course she did.”
    “What was it? Distemper or something?”
    She leaned toward me. “Mr.—I don’t know your name.”
    “Coyne. Brady Coyne.”
    She nodded. “Mr. Coyne, I’m not sure what killed that dog. She told me he was fine the day before she brought him in. He got sick and died within twenty-four hours. I’ve been doing this for over thirty years, and I don’t know as I’ve ever seen an animal disease that works like that.”
    “So…?”
    “Poison,” she said. “That dog got into some kind of poison.”
    I remembered the swastika on Charlotte’s No Trespassing sign. “Or someone poisoned him,” I said.
    She nodded. “That’s certainly possible.”
    “Jesus,” I mumbled. “Who’d do something like that?”
    “Oh, you’d be surprised,” said Dr. Spear.
    “It was a rhetorical question,” I said. “I assume you’ll report it.”
    “To whom? Report what? That I think the dog swallowed something poisonous, or maybe somebody fed it to him? Where do we go with that?”
    “I don’t know. What about running some toxicology tests on the animal?”
    “I’d like to,” said Dr. Spear. “If it was poison, it’s not anything I’ve ever seen before.” She shook her head. “I’d have to do an autopsy, and I’d need the owner’s permission—if she can pay for it. I can’t autopsy dead animals unless the owners give their okay, even when we don’t know why they died. Pet owners can be pretty sensitive about things like that. What we normally do, Mr. Coyne, is, we offer to cremate the animals. Many people prefer to take the body back and bury it themselves.”
    “What does Charlotte say?”
    Dr. Spear shrugged. “I don’t know how to get hold of her. She left no address or phone number. I tried looking her up, but she’s not listed. I don’t even know where to send the bill.”
    “I’d like to know what killed him,” I said.
    “Oh, so would I. If somebody did poison the poor creature, you can bet I’d like to string him up.”
    “Me, too,” I said. “I’d be willing to pay for the autopsy.”
    “I’d still need her