S is for Silence (Kinsey Millhone 19)

“I’ll make supper. We have to eat.”

While Daisy puttered in the kitchen, I sorted through my file and pulled the photocopies of the Serena Station and Cromwell business listings for 1952. There were no breeders. Damn. Nothing’s easy in this world. I did count two pet hospitals, five veterinarians, and three pet-grooming shops. I hauled out the local phone book and did a second search, coming up this time with still no dog breeders, six pet hospitals, fifteen grooming shops, and twenty-seven veterinarians. By comparing addresses, I could see that none of the earlier pet-related enterprises had survived to the present day. I didn’t picture a grooming shop being passed down tenderly from father to son, but I did think a profitable business might be bought and sold over the years and still retain the original name. Not so here.

I decided to fold pet stores into the mix, and I started making calls, telling my story until I had it down pat. I couldn’t think of a reason why anyone would want information about the sale of a pedigreed Pomeranian in the spring of ‘53, so I was forced to tell the truth. Geez, I hate that. “The dog was killed some years ago and for reasons too complicated to go into, I’m looking for the breeder. This would have been the spring of 1953. Do you know if someone was breeding Pomeranians in the area back then?”

The responses varied from curt to conversational, long stories of much-loved dogs and how they perished, tales of cats crossing state lines to reconnect with owners after long-distance moves. There were more succinct replies:

“ No clue.”

“Can’t help.”

“Sorry, the boss is gone for the day and I’ve only worked here three weeks.”

“You might try Dr. Water’s Pet Hospital out on Donovan Road.”

“I already talked to him, but thanks.”

“What makes you think it was someone around here. Pomeranians are bred and sold all over the country. The dog could have come from another state.”

“I’m aware of that. I was thinking along the lines of an impulse buy. You know, you pass a pet store, you glance in the window, and there’s the cutest little pup you’ve ever seen.”

I chatted with veterinarians and vet’s assistants, pet-store owners, clerks, and dog groomers. I felt as though my tongue were starting to swell. I was on call number twenty-one when the receptionist at a twenty-four-hour emergency facility dropped the first helpful sugges tion I’d heard: “If I were you, I’d try Animal Control. They might keep records going back that far, especially if you’re talking about a puppy mill and there was ever a complaint.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that.”

As it turned out, Animal Control kept no such files. The man who answered the phone was apologetic, and I thought for a moment that would be the end of it, but he said, “What’s this about?”

I went through my truncated account at the end of which there was a moment of quiet. “You know who I think you’re looking for? There was a woman who operated a boarding facility about six miles out Highway 166, right where it intersects Robinson Road. I believe she got into breeding Pomeranians in the early fifties, though it didn’t come to much. Rin Tin Tin was the popular dog in that day.”

“Is she still in business?”

“No, the kennel shut down, but I know she still lives there because I pass her house two and three times a month when I go to visit my grandkids in Cromwell. House hasn’t changed-same bright blue wood frame and the yard’s a mess. If the place sold, I should think the new owner would have the good taste to clean up and repaint.”

“You have her name?”

“Daggone it, I sure don’t and I knew you’d ask. I was just trying to think. I can’t say for sure, but I’d say Wyatt… Wyman… something along those lines.”

“You’re my new best friend,” I said, and blew him a kiss.

I went back through the phone book and within thirty seconds I was talking to Millicent Wyrick, who sounded old and cranky and not all that happy to be hearing from me. “Hon, you have to speak up. You want what?”

I raised my voice a notch and repeated my spiel, hoping I sounded winsome and sincere while I was yelling at her. “Is there any chance you might have the information?”

I listened to a silence that seemed to bristle with aggravation. “Mrs. Wyrick?”

“Hold your horses. I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m setting here trying to think. I know I have it. Whether I can find it is another matter.”

“Is there any way I can help?”