Chapter 4
By the time I rinse the last of the shampoo from Ginsberg's wiry coat, the light outside the shop windows has gone honey-soft and thin. It's closing time.
"You and me, buddy," I continue, dabbing him with a microfiber towel, using a smoothing motion rather than rubbing, which he doesn't like. "We're the stragglers, Ginny."
His "dad," Neil, is often late. Neil doesn't drive and sometimes gets anxious with the bus, often needing to pluck up courage after missing one.
When Neil brought Ginny to me the first time, his nails were overgrown, he smelled like fox poo and Neil was beside himself because whenever he tried to get him near water, Ginny snapped.
Neil got Ginsberg from a shelter that took in several street dogs from abroad.
He wanted to do something nice for a creature and also had hoped that having an animal would reduce his anxiety, not add to it.
Some of those shelters aren't great with their screening processes.
Then again, would I rather Ginsberg die?
We all have shit decisions to make sometimes.
Life is a damn paradox, and Ginsberg was Neil's to live.
Thankfully, Neil found me, because one of my strengths as a dog groomer is I can stay calm no matter the circumstance.
I'm not afraid to be clawed or bitten. I had it worse growing up.
These dogs are scared and innocent creatures; my mom wasn't. Their retaliation is something I connect to, and when I show them care, help them through, it's a reflection of the healing I'm trying to do now that Mom is gone.
Healing sounds nice in theory. In practice, it's messy.
I swipe the towel gently under Ginsberg's belly. He gives a low, suspicious huff but doesn't snap. He tolerates me now, and I take that as a compliment.
The washer and dryer hum in the back, where today's towels get laundered for tomorrow, along with whatever money my dad washes through this place. I should consider myself lucky he "supported" this dream, even if it was only with his own end in mind. Dad doesn't invest. He owns.
Velvet Leash makes a loss on paper with card payments.
But thankfully, I'm able to take in cash from customers I've been able to hide from Dad.
It took two years for that cash to accumulate enough to start fresh in Wisconsin.
I have my eye on a couple of properties way up in the north.
Middle of nowhere, but tons of tourists in the summer.
I should be able to get work there doing something.
But I have to find those women first. And I have to do it before I become Mrs. Vaughn.
Pookie yips from his crate behind me in protest, and my own dog, Tina, opens one eye in her dog bed next to her neighbor in the crate.
"I hear you," I call over to Pookie. "You're next, little piggie. I'm not even giving Ginsberg any treats, so why are you jealous?"
Pookie lies down to sulk, and it makes me laugh. He's such a spoiled little dog, but then, I think they all deserve to be. They're so much better than humans. Animals don't pretend they're harmless before they turn on you.
I work the towel over Ginsberg's legs, careful around his shoulder, where the fur never grew back quite right. Street dogs always have stories written into them. You just have to know how to read them.
"It's okay," I say, then click on the hair dryer, blowing it first through my own tresses before turning it on Ginsberg's hind legs first. I have no idea what gave me the idea to show him what the dryer does, but he's a smart mutt, and somehow it worked.
Still, he always needs me to talk him through it.
Nothing's chasing you. Nobody's taking anything. You're safe with me, kid.
People think grooming is about making a dog look good. It isn't. It's about teaching them that being handled doesn't mean being hurt.
I sing what words I remember from Bohemian Rhapsody and a few other long songs to get him through the blow-dry. I've not long finished when the bell over the shop door jingles.
"Sorry, Delilah." Neil rushes in, his cheeks pink from hurrying.
"You're fine," I say automatically. "I was running late, too."
Ginsberg gives a soft whine, turning from defense mode to a big softie at the sight of Neil. The dog's whole body changes. So does Neil's.
Animals are chicken soup for the soul.
I unclip Ginsberg. He hops down, rushing into Neil with a whipping, wagging tail. Neil crouches down and takes him in his arms as if he hadn't only dropped him off a few hours ago. Neil runs his hand over Ginsberg's freshly trimmed back. He sniffs him like he always does.
"Don't worry. I used the lavender shampoo," I reassure him.
I keep a bottle of lavender on the side at all times for Ginny. And Neil. I know he hates anything else.
He offers a thin-lipped smile. "Thanks."
I crouch to fasten Ginsberg's collar. "He did great today."
Neil pays with his card, giving me a cash tip I will happily deposit into the lining of my coat later. The bell jingles again as they leave, and the shop settles into quiet. I let out a breath.
One dog left, and of course, my own sweet girl.
Tina is old now, and I'm probably lucky for it.
She wasn't as patient when she was younger, and I'm pretty sure she wouldn't have liked hanging out in the shop all day or dealing with the various doggie personalities that come through the door.
But now, she's happy to snooze in her bed most of the day.
But it's time for her to wake up. "Come on, Tina. Time to take Pookie home, then get some grub."
Pookie is already up and wagging his tail.
"Your Majesty.” I open the crate door.
He bursts out, prancing in tight circles while I chase him to clip on his leash. I ruffle the hair behind his ears and talked through gritted teeth. He's just so damn cute. "You fluffy little prince…"
Pookie doesn't like the crate, so he's jumping up my leg while Tina waddles over, her arthritic legs less springy, and allows me to clip her on a leash, too.
Pookie now exchanges my leg for jumping all over Tina, who basically ignores him but eventually gives him a warning growl.
He wasn't with me to be groomed. Pookie stays with me in the daytime now.
Not long ago, another client mentioned Mrs. Lyman down the road.
She has dementia, and though her daughter, Megan, can come over every evening, the caregivers aren't really there to walk dogs.
When I heard the problem, I stopped by to offer free doggie daycare until they figure out what to do with Pookie.
I don't trust people, but that doesn't mean I won't help them.
The air outside is cool, carrying the faint smell of rain from somewhere far off, but I know it will likely not carry over here now that it's spring.
The sky is streaked pink and violet, the kind of evening that makes life feel softer than it is.
Sunsets don't fix anything. They only blur the edges before the next harsh day arrives.
Pookie trots beside me like a show pony, knowing the way. Tina wants to stop at every tree to mark her turf. Mrs. Lyman lives three streets over in a small yellow house with black trim, siding that hasn’t changed since the seventies.
I knock once before letting myself in with the key her daughter gave me. "Hello?" I call gently, pushing the door open.
From the kitchen, Mrs. Lyman appears, cardigan buttoned crooked, gray hair pinned loosely at the nape of her neck.
"Oh," she says, blinking. "Is it Wednesday?"
"It's Sunday," I say.
"Oh," her features twist with an almost frightened confusion. "I thought it was Wednesday. On Wednesdays, my daughter comes."
I learned about therapeutic lying from Megan, so I ease Mrs. Lyman's tension. "Oh, yes. My mistake. It's Wednesday. I'm sure she'll be here really soon."
I'm also sure she’s already here somewhere. Mrs. Lyman is never alone anymore. Megan always gets here before the caregivers leave.
I let Pookie off the leash, and he launches forward, nails clicking on the floor.
Mrs. Lyman laughs. "What a gorgeous little dog." She glances up at me. "Can I pick him up?"
"Of course."
She gathers him into her arms; she hardly has the strength to lift the teacup Yorkshire terrier. A wave of terrible sadness grips my stomach. She won't be able to take Pookie to the care home.
Just then, her daughter, Megan, comes down the stairs, tying her blonde hair into a ponytail. "Thank you," she says. "You really are a saint."
That word doesn't belong anywhere near me.
"Hardly the way I'd describe myself," I say, lightly.
She chuckles, but the joke hits too close. I remember her taking me in from head to toe when I stopped by to offer help. I was on my Harley that day, and could tell she thought I might take more than Pookie for a walk. I'm not exactly the girl next door.
"Have a great night,” I say, waving goodbye.
I have much less fun things to tend to. I'm still digging for more dirt on my father to take to my meeting with Rio tomorrow.
I know the man doesn't believe me, and he doesn't trust me any more than I trust him.
I get it both ways. I'm the daughter of a ruthless criminal, and he's a man who is comfortable lying about who he is.
If I'm going to get Rio to help me, I need more dirt on him or more evidence on my father. Preferably both.
Time to stop pretending I'm just a girl with dogs and a shop.
I'd made an appointment to meet Rio at six pm tomorrow at the GhostEye headquarters, but he'd rearranged for us to meet in public. At a restaurant. It feels like a strange move for him, but then, it's probably better for us both. There's a sense of safety that way, in public.
I wave Mrs. Lyman goodbye and close the door behind me, heading back up the three blocks to where my car was parked this morning, glancing at the vehicles lining the street out of habit.
There's something about being the daughter of Marcus Cross that makes you feel like you're being tailed all the time.
Sometimes it's true.