“Dog-boarding business in Dogpatch,” I said. “Woman’s consistent in her interests anyway. And she picked the right neighborhood.”
“Should’ve called the business Dogpatch Dog Boarding. If I had a mutt, I wouldn’t take him to a place called Canine Customers.”
It wasn’t quite as cute as The Warm and Fuzzy Shop but in the same league. Consistent in that respect, too. “Neither would I.”
“Doing pretty well, though,” Tamara said, “for that kind of business. She’s got an A-one credit rating and no outstanding debts. Address is also her residence. Been there nearly seven years on a long-term lease.”
“So I see. Must’ve moved here right after she left Blodgett the second time.”
“I can call Alex and have him deliver the stuff from the Catholic Diocese. Or I could drop it off myself after work. Dogpatch isn’t far from my new crib.”
“No, I’ll do it,” I said. “I’m out of here when I finish the Bennett report. I’ll swing over there on my way home and then notify the client.”
Dogpatch is one of the city’s smallest and oldest neighborhoods-nine square blocks on the flats east of Potrero Hill (where Tamara’s new “crib” was located), one part of it bordering the once-thriving shipyards and mills on the Embarcadero at Pier 70, another part adjacent to recently upscaled Mission Hill. It has a long, rich history dating back to the 1860s, when it was home to thousands of immigrant workingmen and their families. It survived the ’06 earthquake and fire pretty much intact, one of the few neighborhoods that weren’t devastated, so it’s packed with workers’ cottages, warehouses, factories, and public buildings a century or more old.
The neighborhood had gotten pretty run-down by the late seventies, when artists, graphic designers, and other urban professionals discovered it and began the same process of gentrification that was going on in the SoMa district farther north-buying up and renovating its Victorian cottages and Edwardian flats and turning some of the old warehouses into live-work lofts and condos. Nowadays Dogpatch is a diverse mix of historical residences, restaurants and saloons, marine repair outfits, a film company called Dogpatch Studios, the two-block-long American Industrial Center, and the headquarters of the San Francisco chapter of the Hell’s Angels.
R. L. McManus’s business and residence was on 20th Street, a couple of blocks off Third, the area’s main business artery. The house was a renovated and enlarged version of one of the tall, squarish workers’ cottages, in good repair and sporting what appeared to be a recent purple and yellow paint job. It sat on a large corner lot, set farther back from the street than its neighbors and bordered by a wrought-iron fence. There were two signs on the fence in front, one on either side of an entrance gate. The larger, professionally lettered one said: Canine Customers-“A Dog’s Home Away from Home.” The smaller, homemade, was more straightforward: Room for Rent. A bulky Ford Explorer with tinted windows was parked inside a pair of closed gates; beyond it, at the end of the driveway, I had a partial glimpse of an outbuilding that would be the boarding kennels.
I pushed through the gate, went up onto the porch. Loud barking started up inside as soon as I rang the bell-a pretty large dog, judging from the deep-throated noise. After about five seconds a woman’s sharp, commanding voice said, “Quiet, Thor!” and the yammering cut off instantly in mid-bark. Well-trained animal, the best kind.
The door opened and I was looking at a diminutive woman in her mid- to late thirties with shag-cut blond hair, bright blue eyes, and an even brighter smile. Right age, but not the right woman.
The dog was sitting about a foot behind and to one side of her. A thick-chested, black and brown Rottweiler mix with yellow eyes-hot yellow eyes, like globular flames. The eyes were fastened on me, not exactly as if I were a raw hunk of chateaubriand but not friendly, either.
“Hello,” the woman said, making the word seem like a chirp. The bright blue eyes moved over my face in a way that made me think of a supermarket shopper feeling up a piece of fruit to determine its ripeness. “Are you here about the room?”
“No, ma’am. I’m looking for R. L. McManus.”
“I’m Jane Carson. If you have an animal you’d like boarded, perhaps I-”
“I’m not a canine customer, either. Is Ms. McManus home?”
The smile lost about half of its candlepower. “What did you want to see her about?”
“Personal business.”
“What sort of personal business?”
“I have something for her.” I waggled Virden’s envelope. “To be delivered personally. It won’t take long.”
“Your name, please.”
I handed her one of my business cards. The woman looked at it, blinked, blinked again, and the smile flattened out into a straight line. She said, “Come in,” in a reluctant voice that no longer chirped, and stood aside.
I hesitated, eyeing the Rottweiler.
“Don’t worry about Thor,” she said. “He’s gentle as a lamb.”
Sure he was. A were-lamb, maybe. Thor. Some name for a dog. Some dog. But I went in anyway, sidling past him. He didn’t move, but his hot yellow gaze tracked me as I trailed Jane Carson across a hallway and into a room that had probably once been a parlor and was now a combination Canine Customers reception office and waiting room. Behind me I heard nails clicking on the hardwood floor as Thor came in after us.
“Wait here, please.”
She went away through a door behind a short counter. The Rottweiler sat in a watchful pose, about twelve inches of tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth. I quit looking at him and pretended interest in some of the batch of dog paintings and photographs that covered the walls. I was eyeing a bad watercolor rendering of a mastiff about the size of a small pony when the same door opened and a different woman came in, alone.
R. L. McManus, this time. Not as slender or attractive as she’d been nine years ago, the brunette hair styled differently, cut shorter and waved, her cheeks less rounded and tinted with the kind of waxy shine that comes from more than one facelift done by a plastic surgeon not half as good as the one Kerry had gone to; but the generous mouth and luminous brown eyes hadn’t changed much. She was carrying my business card between a blunt thumb and forefinger as if it was something not quite clean. The brown eyes were wary, the cords in her too-smooth neck drawn tight.
“I am Ms. McManus,” she said in crisp tones.
“Roxanne Lorraine McManus?”
“I prefer to use my initials. What could a private investigator possibly want with me?”
“It’s nothing for you to be alarmed about,” I said. “Your ex-husband hired my agency to locate you.”
“My ex-husband?”
“David Virden.”
There were about five seconds of dead air before she said, “I don’t understand. What does he want after all these years?”
“A favor.” I extended the envelope. “It’s all in here, Ms. McManus. Easier for you to look over the contents than for me to try to explain.”
Frowning, she opened the envelope. The frown deepened as she scanned through the Church material; her mouth got tight, loosened and bent a little, then tightened again. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No, ma’am.”
“The Catholic Church can really do this kind of thing?”
“If all the paperwork is in order and the Marriage Tribunal votes in favor.”
“And enough money changes hands, I suppose.”
I had nothing to say to that.
“Why does he want an annulment now?”
I told her why.
“Well, I think it’s ridiculous,” she said. “I’d never be a party to anything like this. I want nothing to do with him or the Catholic Church.”
“That’s your prerogative.”
“And don’t try to talk me into it.”
“Not my job.”
