Daisy went on, addressing her remarks to the crumbled tissue. “I asked him. I asked… what it would have been like for her. How she died. He said carbon dioxide poisoning. I forget some of it… the technical stuff. He said basically, how deeply you breathe is regulated by your arterial oxygen pressure and carbon dioxide tension, some kind of pH that controls the reflexes in your lungs and chest wall. If there’s not enough oxygen in the mix your breathing picks up. Your body has to have oxygen so it’s compelling… this instinctive drive to take in air. Her heart would have started racing and her body heat would have spiked. She’d sweat. She’d be having chest pains that would only get worse. She’d breathe faster and faster, but every breath she took would use up more oxygen and produce more CO₂. She’d start hallucinating. He said her systems would shut down, but eventually there might have been a kind of peace… once she resigned herself to her fate.

“Can you imagine dying like that? All I can think is how scared she must have been, how cold and dark it was, and how hopeless she felt.”

I found myself veering away from the images, searching for safety. I could understand the bind Nichols had been in. Once he laid out the facts, that’s the picture she’d carry for the rest of her life. But if word ever reached Daisy from an unofficial source, she’d be reeling anyway. Adding his betrayal to the horror would only confound any healing she might hope for in time.

Daisy blew her nose again and moved on to something else. I could see the shift. There was only so much she could process. Little by little she’d assimilate the information, but it was going to take a very long time. She picked up six round black circles that were lying on the table. She said, “He gave me these.”

“What are they?”

“My mother’s bracelets. Sterling silver. I’ll polish them and wear them, the last thing I’ll ever have from her.” She set them back on the table. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”

“Me too.”

“Are you finished?”

“Not quite. Let’s go sit in the yard. We need space.” I’d nearly said “air” but I’d caught myself in time. Daisy must have heard the unspoken word because she winced.

We sat together on the back patio in the waning light of day while I laid out my reasons for concluding that Foley was in no way connected to her mother’s death.

“That’s some comfort,” she said.

“Not much, but it’s the best I can do. The rest of it-what happened to your mother-makes my blood run cold.”

“Please let’s change the subject. Every time I think about it I feel like I’m suffocating myself. What’s left to do? You said you weren’t quite finished.”

“I’m wondering where your mother got the dog?”

The question wasn’t anything she expected. “It was a gift.”

“From whom?”

“I never heard. What difference does it make?”

“Did the dog have papers?”

“You mean, was she pedigreed? I think so. Why?”

“Because a pure-bred Pomeranian must have cost a fair penny, even in those days. I think the guy-the mystery lover-bought her the pup. That’s why she doted on the little bugger, because the dog came from him.”

She thought about it. “Yes, I can see that. You have anyone in mind?”

“I’ve got a feeling about Jake sitting in the middle of my gut. We know she took him to small-claims court because a dog of his killed hers.”

“I remember that. A toy poodle named Poppy. Mom had taken her outside. Jake’s pit bull attacked her and killed her on the spot. Mom was beside herself.”

“So maybe he thought giving her the new pup was a way of making-it up to her.”

“Are you going to ask him?”

“I think not. There’s no way I can force him to tell the truth. I’d like to track down the breeder and find out who paid for the dog. I may not have any luck, but I think it’s worth a few calls. There are still lots of people around who were part of the picture back then.”

“I’ll make supper. We have to eat.”

While Daisy puttered in the kitchen, I sorted through my file and pulled the photocopies of the Serena Station and Cromwell business listings for 1952. There were no breeders. Damn. Nothing’s easy in this world. I did count two pet hospitals, five veterinarians, and three pet-grooming shops. I hauled out the local phone book and did a second search, coming up this time with still no dog breeders, six pet hospitals, fifteen grooming shops, and twenty-seven veterinarians. By comparing addresses, I could see that none of the earlier pet-related enterprises had survived to the present day. I didn’t picture a grooming shop being passed down tenderly from father to son, but I did think a profitable business might be bought and sold over the years and still retain the original name. Not so here.

I decided to fold pet stores into the mix, and I started making calls, telling my story until I had it down pat. I couldn’t think of a reason why anyone would want information about the sale of a pedigreed Pomeranian in the spring of ‘53, so I was forced to tell the truth. Geez, I hate that. “The dog was killed some years ago and for reasons too complicated to go into, I’m looking for the breeder. This would have been the spring of 1953. Do you know if someone was breeding Pomeranians in the area back then?”

The responses varied from curt to conversational, long stories of much-loved dogs and how they perished, tales of cats crossing state lines to reconnect with owners after long-distance moves. There were more succinct replies:

“No clue.”

“Can’t help.”

“Sorry, the boss is gone for the day and I’ve only worked here three weeks.”

“You might try Dr. Water’s Pet Hospital out on Donovan Road.”

“I already talked to him, but thanks.”

“What makes you think it was someone around here. Pomeranians are bred and sold all over the country. The dog could have come from another state.”

“I’m aware of that. I was thinking along the lines of an impulse buy. You know, you pass a pet store, you glance in the window, and there’s the cutest little pup you’ve ever seen.”

I chatted with veterinarians and vet’s assistants, pet-store owners, clerks, and dog groomers. I felt as though my tongue were starting to swell. I was on call number twenty-one when the receptionist at a twenty-four-hour emergency facility dropped the first helpful sugges tion I’d heard: “If I were you, I’d try Animal Control. They might keep records going back that far, especially if you’re talking about a puppy mill and there was ever a complaint.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that.”

As it turned out, Animal Control kept no such files. The man who answered the phone was apologetic, and I thought for a moment that would be the end of it, but he said, “What’s this about?”

I went through my truncated account at the end of which there was a moment of quiet. “You know who I think you’re looking for? There was a woman who operated a boarding facility about six miles out Highway 166, right where it intersects Robinson Road. I believe she got into breeding Pomeranians in the early fifties, though it didn’t come to much. Rin Tin Tin was the popular dog in that day.”

“Is she still in business?”

“No, the kennel shut down, but I know she still lives there because I pass her house two and three times a month when I go to visit my grandkids in Cromwell. House hasn’t changed-same bright blue wood frame and the yard’s a mess. If the place sold, I should think the new owner would have the good taste to clean up and repaint.”

“You have her name?”

“Daggone it, I sure don’t and I knew you’d ask. I was just trying to think. I can’t say for sure, but I’d say Wyatt… Wyman… something along those lines.”

“You’re my new best friend,” I said, and blew him a kiss.

I went back through the phone book and within thirty seconds I was talking to Millicent Wyrick, who sounded old and cranky and not all that happy to be hearing from me. “Hon, you have to speak up. You want what?”