At least they didn’t arrest me. It certainly seemed like a possibility at first, although I was able to establish fairly quickly that I hadn’t had anything to do with the kidnapping. But rarely in my life have I been so humiliated. The detective I spoke to, a great bully of a man named Caffrey, was very menacing until he’d decided I wasn’t a threat. Then he treated me like an imbecile. When I told him the story of Lexy’s death and my subsequent work with Lorelei—it seemed important that I explain the circumstances that had led me to attend the meeting—he actually laughed.
“So should I put the word out that we’ve got another talking doggy on our hands?” he asked, smirking.
“No,” I said quietly. “She hasn’t learned yet.”
“I see,” he said. “She hasn’t learned yet. Well, we’ll certainly let you know if she comes in here asking for help.”
Just then, Detective Anthony Stack, the man who had presided over the scene of Lexy’s death, walked in.
“Dr. Iverson,” he said. I could have hugged him for calling me doctor. “I heard you were here, and I thought I’d come say hello.”
“Detective Stack,” I said. “It’s so nice to see you. I was hoping I might be of some help with the Cerberus Society case, but it doesn’t look like I have any useful information.”
“I was a little bit surprised when I saw your name come up. I couldn’t believe you were mixed up with those guys.”
“Well, I’m not really,” I said. “I was just telling Detective Caffrey, here…”
“The professor here is trying to teach his dog to talk,” Caffrey said. “He’s going to turn her into a police dog. She’s going to solve the mystery of his wife’s death.”
“Dr. Iverson,” said Detective Stack, “you know your wife’s death was ruled accidental.”
“Yes, well,” I said. “I just wanted to… There were some incongruities,” I finished lamely.
Detective Stack gave me a searching look. He nodded doubtfully.
“But as I was telling Detective Caffrey,” I went on, “my dog’s disappeared. One of the men from the meeting took her.” I could hear how I must have sounded.
“And apparently,” Caffrey said, “the dog’s the only one who can figure out those ‘incongruities.’”
Stack shot Caffrey a warning look. “Well, we’ll see what we can do about your dog,” he said to me. His voice was gentle. “Now, why don’t you go home. Do you need someone to take you back?”
For an instant, I saw myself as he must have seen me—shabby, frail, broken—and I felt ashamed. “No,” I said. “Thank you.” I walked out of the police station into the starless night.
Now I’m back in my empty house, and the sun is starting to come up. Late as it is, I don’t feel much like sleeping. So I do what I always do lately when I have a few moments’ time on my hands. I pick up the phone and dial the number I’ve learned by heart.
“Thank you for calling our Psychic Helpline,” the woman on the other end says. “This is Lady Arabelle.”
THIRTY-FIVE
This is Lady Arabelle,” she says again when I don’t answer. “Extension 43981. I’m going to do a tarot card reading for you, so why don’t you start by giving me your name, your birthday, and your address.”
“Is this really Lady Arabelle?” I ask, though I know her voice by heart.
“Yes, it is,” she says. “And who am I speaking to?”
“Paul,” I say.
“Well, Paul, honey, why don’t you tell Lady Arabelle your birthday, so we can get started.”
“September twentieth,” I say. “But I’m not calling for a reading.”
“Oh, no?” she says. Her voice is smooth as warm caramel.
“No,” I say. I try to figure out where to begin. “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks. You see, my wife died last October, and then a couple of months ago, I was watching TV, and I heard you talking to her on one of your commercials. She’s the one who said, ‘I’m lost, I don’t know what to do.’ Do you know the one I’m talking about?”
“Well, of course I know the commercial, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about any one particular call. It’s confidential, for one thing, and to be honest with you, I can’t say I remember the details of every call I take.”
“No, of course not. But if you could just think about it for a minute, if you could just try to remember. It’s very important to me.”
She starts to say something, but I interrupt her and go on in a rush. “As for confidentiality,” I say, “I’m sure you have your rules, but do they still apply when the person you spoke to is dead?”
Lady Arabelle sighs. “You know,” she says, “it may not even have been your wife’s voice that you heard. It might have been another woman entirely. Isn’t it possible that in your grief you might have been mistaken?”
“I know my wife’s voice,” I say. I’m surprised at the coldness of my tone. I take a breath and compose myself. “Anyway,” I say, “I found it on my phone bill. October twenty-third. Eleven twenty-three P.M. Eastern time. You spoke to her for forty-six minutes. Surely you can remember something. You can at least try.” She doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “Look, you’ve got me on the phone for five dollars a minute, and I’m not planning on hanging up until I get an answer out of you. How often does an opportunity like that come along?”
She doesn’t laugh, but when she speaks, I can hear she’s softened. “Why don’t you tell me about your wife?” she says.
And so I do. I tell her everything I can think of. I tell her about how I met Lexy; I tell her about how Lexy died. I tell her about the lonely months I’ve spent since then, unraveling clues that may not be clues at all. My work with Lorelei, the open gate, the empty yard. I have no idea how long I’ve talked, but when I finally stop, my throat is dry.
There’s a long silence after I finish talking. “Lady Arabelle,” I say. “Are you there?”
“I’m here, baby,” she says.
“So… did that help?” I say. “Did it help you remember anything about Lexy’s call?” My voice cracks. I don’t think I’ll be able to bear it if she says no.
“I think I can help you,” she says. I let out a breath that sounds like a sob. “I don’t remember the call, I have to be honest with you. I get a couple hundred calls a month, and most of them sound pretty much the same after a while. But I do keep notes.”
Notes! Oh, God, she has notes from Lexy’s phone call! I don’t trust my voice to answer her.
“I’m writing a book,” she says. “About my experiences as Lady Arabelle. Starting last fall, I’ve kept notes on every call I’ve taken. If you give me the date and time again, I can look and see what I have, and I’ll call you back.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you. I can’t tell you…”
“I know, baby,” she says.
I give her the information and my phone number, and we hang up. I’m shaking all over. I feel jubilant, and I feel afraid.