fifty-nine

April is nothing if not muddy in northern Indiana, and the weekend’s rain had sloshed puddles and muck across portions of the paths through Franke Park, but our run cleared my mind, at least for a couple of hours. Jay and I were a mess when we got home, so I stripped off my muddy shoes and pants in the garage, put Jay in a down-stay, and grabbed some ratty old capris and a headband from my bedroom. I reached for the garage doorknob, dog shampoo in hand, but snatched my hand back, detoured to the fridge, and returned to the garage. Jay was exactly where I’d left him, so I tore the slice of cheese into three bits and gave them to him one by one before I told him he was free.

“Not completely free, Bubby,” I said. He eyed the bottle in my hand and hung his head. In a cheery voice I confirmed that yes, he was going to have a bath. I kept up the happy chatter, opening the overhead door and explaining again that I’d had the adaptor hooked up to the wash tub in the garage so I could use the garden hose for warm-water doggy baths on the driveway. The voice didn’t fool him. I tried again as I worked shampoo down his legs, asking why a dog who happily ran through mud puddles and swam like a retriever was horrified by a simple bath. He just hung his head lower.

I set my grooming table up just inside the garage, hoping some of the fur would land outside, raw material for bird-nest linings. A little red sports car crept past the end of the driveway while Jay was being blown dry. It looked vaguely familiar, but I wasn’t sure why. I didn’t pay much attention at first—people are always slowing down for a look when they see a dog being groomed—but the car stopped and the driver’s window rolled down, so I looked more closely. It was Councilman Martin’s arm candy. “Hello,” I called, waving the dryer nozzle at her. I would have added her name, but I couldn’t think of it. Chastity? Charity? She scowled at me and gave her golden locks a theatrical shake, as if bathing and drying a dog were the height of animal abuse. Chelsea. That was it. She hit the gas, screeched into Martin’s driveway, slammed her door, and flounced up the front sidewalk and out of sight. Half an hour later Jay was a clean, fluffy, blow-dried stunner, and I was a wet, frizzy mess with Aussie fur stuck to my skin and clothes.

“I’d better get a move on, Bubby,” I said as I wound the cord around the dryer handle and stashed it under my workbench. “Winnie and Bonnie start school tonight, and we need to cheer them on.” Jay bounced up and down in front of me in agreement and followed me to the bathroom, as if to make sure I subjected myself to the horrors of a bath, too.

Jay was loaded into his crate and I was about to get behind the wheel when I heard a voice bark, “Just a minute there!” It didn’t come from my side of the van, so I stepped toward the front of the vehicle to see over the hood. Phil Martin was stomping across his lawn toward me. He was all puffed up like a rooster, no doubt for the benefit of Chelsea, who stood in front of his house with her arms crossed.

“I’m on my way out.”

“It’s illegal to run a business in this neighborhood, you know.” Martin squinted at me, and when I didn’t respond he added, “It’s a zoning violation.” His Daffy Duck voice was beginning to wear on me, and there was something else. I’d heard that voice somewhere, and not on TV or radio. But where?

My mind was reaching for a response, but I couldn’t imagine how running a photography business out of my home could be a violation. All my sales were done online or by mail, and I went to my clients for their photo sessions. Before I could ask what the heck he was talking about, he told me.

“Pet grooming businesses must be regulated and meet certain, uh, standards.” He slowed down at the end of that just enough to tell me he was winging it. He didn’t know what special regulations applied to professional groomers.

I considered setting him straight right away, but I couldn’t help myself. I smiled and used my best flipping-him-off voice. “I don’t think a little shampoo down the sewer will be a problem, especially considering all the petroleum and lawn-care products that wash into it.”

“Argue all you like. It’s not going to work.” It’s not going to work. That’s what the man I had accidently called from Summer’s phone had said, and I was almost certain it was the same voice. But why would Summer Winslow have Councilman Phil Martin on speed dial?

I stared at him for a moment, and suddenly a few more pieces fell into place. Martin was in insurance. Had Summer been in cahoots with Martin on an insurance scam? I let it go for the moment and said, “You’re right. Because I don’t have a grooming business. I’m a photographer.” I nodded toward Chelsea. “Your girl there has misled you.”

He sputtered and said, “She saw you, with a table and dryer and a strange dog …”

“Like the cop who saw my dog running loose the other night when my dog and I weren’t home?” We stared at one another. I finally said, “By the way, my dog isn’t strange, he was wet. And I’m late.” I got in the van and left the councilman red-faced in my driveway. For my part, I wasn’t sure whether the whole incident was hilarious or infuriating, and settled on half-and-half until I realized what it meant for Tom and me. If Martin and his girlfriend were already harassing me, they were bound to escalate when Tom moved in with two more dogs, especially if the new pet limit passed. Who knew? Maybe they’d even hire a couple of enforcers, like the goons from Cleveland.