Olivia reached into her pocket and withdrew a whistle, the kind that emitted a loud, piercing sound that only dogs could hear. She blew it three times and shouted at the top of her lungs, “Cecil, get on that bench and pose! Now! Or…or you are going back home with that stiff who brought you here.”
Cecil stopped pawing through the wastebasket, turned to look at the object of his torment, then pranced over to the bench and hopped up. He posed, he preened, he looked haughty, he looked devilish, then he lay down. Alice barked her approval as Olivia’s Nikon clicked and clicked. Then, ham that he was, Cecil stood up on all fours and bowed. He actually bowed. Olivia burst out laughing—until Cecil showed his teeth, which meant the gig was over. He hopped down and chased Alice around the room until the female terrier collapsed. The Yorkie pounced on her and barked shrilly. Alice ignored him. With nothing else to entertain him, Cecil lifted his leg and defiantly peed on the legs of a tripod. Then he walked back to Alice. He lay down and was asleep within seconds.
Olivia smiled as she looked at the two sleeping dogs. She adored Cecil but felt sorry for him. He was now destined to live out his life in a fancy mansion with servants catering to his every whim. The servants wouldn’t love him or play with him the way Lillian Manning had. Poor, poor Cecil. Maybe the money people would allow Cecil to have play dates with Alice. How silly was that? How silly was leaving a hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar estate to a dog? Pretty damn silly, in her opinion.
Olivia Lowell, photographer to the canine world, looked at her watch. Lunchtime. Yogurt, a banana, and a cup of coffee, and she’d be ready to photograph a seven-year-old English whippet named Sasha for her owner’s Christmas card. Christmas was ten months away, but the owner said she didn’t want to have to wait till the last minute.
It was a lucrative living, and Olivia enjoyed every minute of it because she was a devout animal lover.
As Olivia spooned the yogurt into her mouth, she thought about her father. She missed him but understood his desire to retire to the islands and rent out his fishing boat to tourists. He was happier these days than she’d ever seen him. Of course, that might have something to do with his new love, Lea. Maybe she would call him later in the day to ask him how things were going.
Tears pricked Olivia’s deep-green eyes when she thought of her father and how he’d raised her on his own. He’d sacrificed so much for her, even giving up his accounting practice and going to night school to learn photography so he could open a studio in their home to be with her during the day. A studio that he himself built on the side of the house, with its own entrance, bath, and minikitchen. The studio even had a plaque beside the door that said LOWELL AND LOWELL, and underneath their names, the word PHOTOGRAPHY.
Her father had never remarried, despite her urging as she grew older. Not that he didn’t, as he called it, “keep company” with various and sundry ladies. Some of those ladies were to Olivia’s liking and some weren’t, but she kept her own counsel where they were concerned. Until Lea came along five years ago. Lea was the mother she never had. They were friends, good friends. Maybe now that both her father and Lea were in a less stressful atmosphere and retired, they might think about getting married. At least she hoped so, for her father’s sake.
Three things happened simultaneously when Olivia tossed her empty yogurt container in the trash. Cecil and Alice raced into the kitchen; Sasha, the English whippet, arrived wearing a huge red and white Santa hat, granny glasses that were tied to her ears, and a Christmas neckerchief; and a distinguished-looking gentleman carrying a briefcase rang her front doorbell.
Olivia strode to the front door. She really needed to make some rules around here. The least Sasha’s owner could have done was take the dog to the studio door instead of the kitchen door. Now she had to contend with some door-to-door salesman, the barking, howling dogs, and her own frustrations. Her father would have had the situation under control in a heartbeat. All he ever had to do was look a dog in the eye, wag his finger, and he was rewarded with instant obedience. Her clients walked all over her.
“What?” she snapped irritably. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.” She was about to shut the door when the man held up a small white business card. She paused to read it. He was Prentice O’Brien from the law firm of O’Brien, O’Malley and O’Shaughnessy. A nice Irish firm, Olivia surmised. Or else it was some kind of song-and-dance act, and the man standing in front of her was a scam artist.
“What?” she said again, yelling to be heard over the din. “Is someone suing me?” Sasha’s body slammed against the locked storm door. Prentice O’ Brien stepped back, his face showing apprehension.
“No!” the lawyer bellowed in return. “Can we go somewhere to talk where it’s a little more quiet?”
Olivia brushed at her blond curls. “I’m afraid not,” she bellowed back as loudly as the lawyer had. “I’m running late, and, as you can see, I seem to have lost control here. Why don’t you call me later, around five.”
The lawyer frowned. “Ms. Lowell, this really is important, urgent even. We need to talk.”
Olivia turned around when she heard a sound reminiscent of a waterfall. Sasha was peeing on the hall carpet runner. Damn. She noted the look of disgust on the lawyer’s face.
“Some other time. This situation is really urgent. Good-bye, Mr.”—she looked down at the card in her hand—“Mr. O’Brien.” She shut the door in the man’s face and raced to the kitchen for a roll of paper towels.
Thirty minutes later she was still searching for Sasha’s glasses and Santa Claus hat. My father would have this under control, too. Damn.
At three o’clock Sasha and all her gear were gone. Cecil’s handler still hadn’t picked him up. Anna Logan, the owner of Logan’s Bakery, arrived with a basket of new kittens. She wanted pictures to put up on the bakery bulletin board in the hope that some of her customers would adopt them.
It was ten after five when Anna and the kittens pulled out of Olivia’s driveway. Cecil’s handler still hadn’t arrived to pick him up, which probably meant he’d forgotten about him. Just the way Alice’s owners had forgotten to pick her up three years ago. That had been Alice’s lucky day. Olivia loved Alice the way mothers love their children.
At five-thirty the doorbell and the phone pealed at the same time. Ignoring the doorbell, Olivia answered the phone while Alice and Cecil raced to the front door and barked. Cecil’s handler was on the phone, asking if Olivia could possibly keep Cecil overnight, and he would be picked up in the morning by “someone.”
“Well, sure, for fifty dollars an hour, Mr. Bannerman. I don’t operate a dog-sitting service. This is a photography studio.” She was told the fee would be no problem. After all, Cecil was the richest dog in the United States. She hung up the phone wondering what she was going to prepare for dinner as she made her way to the front door. She opened it. Prentice O’Brien.
“What is it, Mr. O’Brien? It’s the end of the day, I’m tired, and if no one is suing me, I can’t imagine what you want to talk to me about. Make it quick.”
“Can I at least come in, Ms. Lowell? It’s rather cold out here, and it is snowing.”
It was snowing. How had she missed that? Maybe she’d build a fire later, snuggle with the dogs, and think about Clarence De Witt’s marriage proposal. Then again, maybe she wouldn’t think about Clarence De Witt’s marriage proposal. She didn’t want to be Mrs. Clarence De Witt. She didn’t want to be Mrs. Anybody. She liked her life just the way it was, thank you very much. “All right. This better be good and quick. Come in. Just so you know, Mr. O’Brien, I hate lawyers.”
“Until you need us,” O’Brien quipped. “Nice house,” he said, looking around as Olivia led him to the great