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I GOT OUT OF MY CAR and stood for a few seconds in the parking lot of the Bonner County building, gathering my courage. Somewhere inside was the jail, and somewhere in the jail was Abe Kurst. I wanted to be there and I didn’t. What animal lover hasn’t imagined what she’d say to an abuser if given the chance? Still, I hadn’t come for spite or to gloat over Kurst’s arrest. I’d come to get help for Mollie, the Chihuahua, and maybe even the Rottweiler.
I’d called Sheriff Idalski the day before to explain my purpose, so I got no resistance when I asked to speak to the prisoner. Kurst’s court-appointed lawyer had no doubt warned against talking to anyone without him present, but I told the deputy to assure the prisoner I was neither press nor police. “Tell him I’m fostering one of his dogs.”
I was taken to a small visitor’s room and invited to sit at a plastic-topped table with black and red marker stains on its surface. Soon the prisoner was escorted in. The guard nodded at the chair across from me and took a stance beside the door, his face blank.
Kurst hadn’t shaved in a while, and he looked like a character actor known for cattle rustling. I wondered how he’d settled on raising dogs for a living if he didn’t care what happened to them. Sylvia told stories of people, even religious ones, who believed animals were meant to serve mankind so they could be treated however humans chose.
No sense focusing on that. “Mr. Kurst, I’m Faye Burner, and I volunteer at the shelter where your animals were taken. I took in one of the three dogs you kept in the house.”
He looked me over before asking, “Which one?”
“The border collie.”
That brought a sound of disgust. “A real chicken, that one. Not a lick of courage.”
Arguments sprang to mind. Different breeds have different strengths, and collies are known for their intelligence. How dare he...?
The look in Kurst’s eye showed he was baiting me. I hadn’t come here to convince him of Mollie’s worth. I waited in silence.
“What’d they do with the little noise-maker?”
“He’s on a farm.”
He hunched forward, and I sensed he cared about the next question. “Where’s the big one?”
“The Rottweiler is on the same farm.”
“You won’t find nobody that can handle him.” He was proud of it. “He’ll rip anybody that comes into reach to pieces.” He leaned back in the chair. “Anybody but me, that is.”
How could you ruin that beautiful dog? Instead of that I said, “I’ve come to offer you a deal.”
Suspicion narrowed his weasel-like face. “What kind of deal?”
Before he jumped to the conclusion I’d lift a finger to help him get out from under his legal troubles I said, “What’s the food like here?”
“The food?” He chuckled humorlessly. “It sucks. What’d you think it’d be like?”
“Exactly that,” I replied. “What if I promised you a home-cooked meal with all the trimmings every day from now until your hearing?”
His eyes narrowed. “You gonna put rat poison in the mashed potatoes?”
“You’ll eat exactly what my husband and I eat, and I brought along a sample.” I opened the cooler I’d stashed under my chair after it had been carefully searched by the young deputy on duty.
When I set a covered plate before him, Kurst’s nose overcame his distrust. Taking up the plastic fork I’d provided, he tried the roast beef left over from last night’s supper. (It’s always better on the second day.) Then he tasted the cheesy broccoli and finally the potatoes. Tearing the popover into pieces, he buttered it and used it to sop up the remaining gravy. Between mouthfuls he asked, “What do I have to do?”
“Teach me how to handle the dogs.”
He thought about that. “You’ve got the little bitch?”
“Not to keep, but I want to get her used to being with people. It would help if she knew basic commands.”
His smile wasn’t the friendly type. “Oh, she does. They all do.”
“She just looks at me when I tell her to do something.”
His expression turned sly. “The trick is to say it in German.”
“Of course.” Attack dogs are often taught commands in German to assure they obey only those familiar with their training. Pulling out a notebook and pencil I said, “Tell me the right words.”
I had to insist he use decent names for the dogs, since what he called them demonstrated neither affection nor consideration of them as living beings. I told him the Chihuahua was now called Pepe and the collie was Mollie. For the Rottweiler I chose Earl, because he looked like an Earl to me. We covered the usual voice commands: Sitz (Sit), Platz (Down), Bleib (Stay), Ruhig (Quiet) and Fuss (Heel). After I’d written those down, Kurst raised a brow. “When you come tomorrow, you’ll get more. If I like the meal.” Pointing a finger at my nose he added, “Don’t bring no fish. I ain’t interested in anything with fins.”
As I left I thanked the deputy on duty, whose name tag said Danson. He wore a plastic boot made necessary, he told me, by recent foot surgery. He’d seemed faintly disapproving until he realized my purpose was retraining Kurst’s dogs so they could find homes.
“You did that pretty slick,” he said. “Kurst isn’t the type who’d help you out for nothing.”
“That’s what I heard.” From the way he spoke about Kurst, I sensed he disliked the prisoner, though he was polite to a fault when speaking to him. Kurst was no doubt hard to deal with, but I’d have cooked for Lucifer himself in order to save those dogs. Thanking Danson, I went out into the crisp December air, free in a way I guessed Abe Kurst wouldn’t be for a long time.
Back at home I started rearranging the coat rack near the back door, taking fall things down and bringing heavier garments from the hall closet. When a repeated noise finally penetrated my consciousness, I realized my phone was ringing somewhere in the house.
Where? The office? The bedroom? The kitchen?
I never know where I’ve left the dumb thing.
By the time I found it in the outside pocket of my purse, hung over the back of a kitchen chair, the ringing had stopped. I checked the record and saw the call had come from the nursing home where Dale’s mother lived. I hit the convenient little magic spot on the screen that let me call them back.
“The Meadows, Ms. Blount speaking.”
“It’s Faye Burner. I didn’t make it to the phone in time to answer.”
“I’m Sheila, activities director at The Meadows.” She sounded like a teenager, and I’d observed over time that activities directors at the facility came and went like summer rain. Each one began her tenure determined to do great things, and most soon went on to other jobs, where they accomplished more than running daily Bingo games.
“Mrs. Burner wanted me to call,” Sheila informed me, “to let you know that you and your husband should be here no later than four on Wednesday to help her get ready for the family reunion.”
“Sheila, I assume you’re new to the job?”
“Well, yes.”
“Here’s the deal. There is no family reunion. Dale and I are the only relatives who visit Harriet. Ever.”
“Oh.”
She sounded disappointed, so I hurried to explain. “She often asks people to call and give me orders. In the future it will make your life easier if you wait a few minutes and then tell her you did as she asked. Harriet needs to believe she’s getting things done.”
“Nobody’s flying in from Alaska?”
“As far as I know, there are no Evans family members in Alaska. Never have been.”
“I see.”
Guessing Sheila felt silly I said, “She’s really good.”
“What?”
“I bet she told you we’d reserved the conference room and ordered pizza and maybe even balloons.”
“She didn’t mention balloons.” Beginning to see the humor, Sheila said, “She did ask if I knew of any DJs who might come out here.”
For a moment I wanted Harriet’s dream to come true. Could I get Dale’s siblings to attend a Christmas party if I promised free food and entertainment?
Probably not. Though Harriet didn’t remember and probably didn’t want to, she’d alienated most of her family beyond reconciliation. Still, she was Dale’s mother, and she’d always loved parties.
“I’d like to reserve the conference room,” I told Sheila. “Make it the Sunday before Christmas if possible.”
Recipes were already beginning to flood my mind. I’d make my Christmas truffles and buckeyes and stained-glass cookies and butternut balls. Dale would make punch from fruit juice and ginger ale. I didn’t think Barb and Retta would mind spending a few hours with a lonely old lady, and Rory might even attend if Barb asked him to. With Dale and me, and maybe Gabe and Mindy, Harriet would have her party. It wouldn’t be the family she expected, but she probably wouldn’t notice.
