Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(21)
“Does the husband know her real identity?”
“Can’t say.”
There is no reason to waste time. We are already at Teterboro Airport. Kabir quickly arranges for my plane to take me to Greenbrier Valley Airport. Less than two hours after I say goodbye to PT, the jet’s wheels are touching down in West Virginia. I keep sets of clothes on board, so I change into the closest thing I own to local garb—slim-fit Adriano Goldschmied faded blue jeans, a Saint Laurent plaid flannel shirt, and Moncler Berenice hiking boots.
Blending in.
A vehicle awaits my arrival on the tarmac—a chauffeur-driven Chevy Silverado pickup truck. More blending in.
Fifteen minutes after the plane has slowed to a stop, the Chevy Silverado pulls up to a long ranch house on the end of a cul-de-sac. A depressingly cheerful sign in the yard—one where every letter is a different color—reads:
Welcome to the RITZ SNARL-FUN
Hotel & Resort
I sigh out loud.
And under that, in smaller lettering:
West Virginia’s Top-Rated Doggie Spa,
Hounds Down!
I sigh again and wonder about state-mandated justification for discharging my firearm.
The website, which I scanned through on the flight, touts the “Rated Five Paws” pet hotel and all its merit. The facility is a “cage-free canine establishment” for both “day care” and “overnight stays” for the “posh pup.” There was an oversaturation of appropriate buzz words/phrases—pampering, grooming, positively-reinforcing, and, I’m not making this up, Zen wellness.
For a dog.
The “hotel” (as it were) is a generic ranch-style suburban home with extended eaves and low-pitched roofs. Barking dogs serenade me up the walk and through an open front door. A young woman behind the desk offers up a toothy smile and too much enthusiasm: “Welcome to the Ritz Snarl-Fun!”
“How many times a day do you have to say that?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“Does a sliver of your soul leave your body every time?”
The young woman does maintenance on the toothy smile, but there is nothing behind it anymore. “Uh, can I help you with something?” She leans over the desk and looks down by my feet. “Where’s your dog?”
“I’m here to see Jane Dorchester,” I say.
“I can take care of you.” She hands me a clipboard. “If you can just fill out—”
“No, no, I need to see Jane first,” I protest. “I was told by my good friend Billy Bob”—more blending in—“to ask specifically for Jane Dorchester before I fill out any paperwork.”
She slowly puts the clipboard back on the desk and rises. “Uh, okay. Let me see if she’s available. Your name?”
“They call me Win.”
She looks at me. I give her a reassuring smile. She leaves.
My phone rings. It’s Cousin Patricia. I don’t answer, instead text-replying:
I’ll fill you in later.
I don’t yet know how much of what PT told me I should share with Patricia, but it can wait. Do one thing at a time, as my father, who rarely did even that much, always told us. I prefer the way Myron’s mother said the same thing with a delivery that rivaled the greatest of the Borscht Belt: “You can’t ride two horses with one behind.” At the time, she was talking to me about my womanizing, so her point didn’t really take root with me, but I adore Ellen Bolitar and her wisdom just the same.
On my right, I see a multihued playroom of sorts—slides, tunnels, ramps, chew toys. There are rainbows painted on the walls. The floor is made of large rubber tiles that snap together in green, yellow, red, and orange. The place is bursting with more color than a preschool.
A big man comes out led by his big gut. He frowns at me. “Can I help you?”
I point to the playroom. “Aren’t dogs color-blind?”
He looks confused. Then he asks again, this time allowing a little more irritation into his cadence, “Can I help you?”
“Are you Jane Dorchester?” I ask.
Big Gut doesn’t like that. “Do I look like a Jane Dorchester?”
“Maybe in the boob area.”
He doesn’t like that either. “If you want to sign up your dog for a stay—”
“I don’t,” I say.
“Then I think you better leave.”
“No, thank you. I’m here to see Jane Dorchester.”
“She isn’t available.”
“Tell her I was sent here by a Miss Davies. Miss Lake Davies.”
His reaction would have been about the same if I’d landed a roundhouse kick on the gut. No doubt. He knows Jane Dorchester’s true identity. I’m thinking that this man must be her husband, Ross.
“Debbie,” he says to the toothy young woman at the desk, “go out back and help with the spa baths.”
“But Dad—”
“Just go, honey.”
Merely from her use of the word “Dad,” I infer that Debbie of the Desk must be one of Ross’s daughters. Don’t be too impressed. It’s bad form to toot your own horn, but I’m pretty adept at deductive reasoning. My phone buzzes. Three short beeps. Surprising. Three short beeps indicate an incoming request from my no-name rendezvous app. I’m tempted to glance at it now. Requests don’t come in that often without the male being the instigator. I am intrigued.