Note: one of the best pieces of advice I've ever encountered about writing was from a noted author who said above all "write about what you know." Hence the narrator is - you guessed it - a vet. Not exactly a stretch there.
Chapter 3
Two pairs of alarmed eyes were looking at me, and I hated being the center of attention.
“All right,” I said briskly, “no police.” Given the degree of incompetence exhibited by the local law brigade in dealing with even the slightest of misdemeanors, coupled with the general knowledge that if you ever wanted to dispose of a body, Middle Township just outside Polled Neck was the place to do it and get away with it, I figured that since no one was dead despite Patsy’s earliest assumption, , we could simply go into her kitchen, sit down over a cup of coffee, and figure things out. Edna was dozing in the sun, one hip cocked, ears and lower lip drooping, and the dogs were sprawled nearby and snoring. They would be fine, and I could see them from the kitchen window anyway. They were frequent visitors to Patsy’s garden and long ago I had made it clear that dreadful punishments awaited any dogs who decided to entertain themselves by uprooting Patsy’s botanical children. I gestured to the man who was now on his feet, though swaying slightly, and we managed the dozen or so steps to her kitchen door without incident.
Patsy’s cottage was as much a showplace as her garden. The kitchen was a comfortable den of knotty pine paneling that had taken on a warm reddish glow with years of care and elbow grease; a vintage table and chair set that she had rescued from the basement of the Thunder Mug, Polled Neck’s ancient downtown bar, sat in retro splendor next to the picture window that overlooked the garden, and the cottage’s original, shockingly turquoise appliances still chugged obligingly along year after year, having outlasted several generations of repairmen. They had gone well beyond retro into the realm of miraculously cool. When asked by drooling collectors when she planned on replacing them, Patsy inevitably said with a wave of her manicured hand, “when they stop working.” So far, so good.
It was to this homey setting that we helped Patsy’s uninvited guest. He sat down heavily in one of the metallic cushioned chairs and sighed. “Thank you,” he said in a cultured accent that, now that I took the time to listen, was quite clearly Italian. “I am in your debt. “
“You might not be in just a minute,” I said, “let’s get those wounds cleaned up.” I turned to Patsy, who said “I’ll get the first aid kit” and disappeared through the door that led down the hall to the cottage’s tiny bedrooms and bathroom.
“If you don’t want the police, then presumably you don’t want to go to the emergency room either,” I addressed the man who, after clearly trying to decide whether he ought to nod yes or shake no, opted instead for words and said “that is correct.”
“Well, you know we’re going to want to know why. But in the meantime let ‘s get you cleaned up. I’m not a doctor – but I am a veterinarian – so I think I can get you taken care of, if you’re comfortable with that.”
“Entirely comfortable, molti grazie” he said, so I wetted a couple of paper towels at the sink, squirted a small amount of antibacterial hand soap on them, and applied them to the cut on his forehead. He sucked in a breath between his teeth and then relaxed. “If you think this one’s tough,”I remarked , “wait till we get to that arm. We’re going to have to talk about that.” Among other things, I added silently to myself. He nodded, grimacing slightly. “Just so. When your friend gets back---“
At that moment several things happened simultaneously. Patsy was coming back down the hall and had almost reached the kitchen when the front door rattled under someone’s determined knock. Still clearly on edge, she yelped and dropped the first aid kit, which the man gracefully retrieved for her. “Come in,” I called, recognizing that a knock with that degree of authority could only come from our friend Darla Roberson. The dogs out back didn’t care where the knock originated and launched into a flurry of loud barking. In the corner of my vision I saw Edna’s head jerk up when the dogs’ noise disturbed her sleep. Then the door burst open.
“What was that guy doing in your birdba – oh!” Darla stopped in surprise midway through the living room as she saw the stranger reseating himself at the table. “I came as soon as I saw you were bringing him into the house – what the hell were you thinking? A total stranger!!” Privately I wondered the same thing, but I had to admit there was something to this man’s mannerisms that spoke of class – and more importantly of kindness, or maybe innocence. I suppose Patsy and I both felt he merited a chance to explain himself.
“Bon giorno,” the man nodded at Darla, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his left ear. Darla nodded curtly in his direction and thrust out her hand, shaking his in a firm grip designed to intimidate any potential stalker. She was a short, solid woman who would have needed to crane her neck up considerably had the man been standing. As it was, they were nearly eye to eye and she took off her “Neighborhood Watch” ball cap in order to more accurately fix him with a stern blue gaze from behind her round, wire-rimmed glasses. “Who are you?” she demanded bluntly.
“We were just getting to that, Dar,” I said, “but I need to do a little first aid here.” The wound on his temple was clean and had stopped bleeding, so I applied a couple of small bandages, butterfly-fashion, after drying the skin which, I noticed, was disconcertingly warm, smooth and tan. I blinked a couple of times and moved on to his left arm. I held my breath as I peeled away the remains of the shirt sleeve that had stuck to the raw flesh. He gave a visceral grunt but made no other sound.
“Look, this really needs a graft or something, “ I said, “It’s going to leave a nasty scar otherwise.”
He looked alarmed and shook his head again. “Please, no doctors. You do what you have to do. I am healthy – it will heal.”
“Ok,” I said. “What the heck did you do, anyway, catch your arm in something? Did a boat propeller do this to you?”
“No,” he replied, “I was…how do you say it? I was skinned.”
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