The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

brief encounter, an allegation of dog-napping may be the least of my worries. The residents of this tiny backwater have always been hungry for any drama that might titillate their quiet existence. For fourteen years I’ve moved on with a modest, simple life, content to let my past fade into a forgotten darkness I never intended to disturb. Bedside Manor insists I take a look back. It’s bad enough that I have to be here. It’s bad enough that in order to see my money I must act like a regular animal doctor. It’s bad enough that I’m working illegally on a suspended license from another state. But these concerns are nothing compared to the shameful truth lurking in my DNA. I have worked too hard to delete its existence, to get beyond the anger and disappointment, but now, back in Eden Falls, curious minds are poised to scrutinize me, expose me, and worst of all, make me accountable for who I really am—the only son of Dr. Robert Cobb.

3
    At precisely eight o’clock the next morning I hear the after-hours doorbell—old-fashioned, shrill, and insistent—ringing in the second-floor hallway. I suppose it could be my first customer of the day. Then again, it could be Mr. Charcoal Suit, here to sign his consent form and pay off his bill for services I have totally failed to render.
    I find Frieda lying down in front of the refrigerator. Perhaps by worshiping this appliance she thinks she will be rewarded with a tasty morsel trapped within.
    The bell ringing intensifies from intermittent Morse code to a continuous electric trill. It seems the person pressing the doorbell will not be denied. This cannot be good. I lock the dog in the kitchen ( just in case) and race downstairs to the front door.
    “Can I help you?”
    There’s a tall thin gentleman in a suit and tie and a long cashmere coat clutching a leather briefcase, standing on the stoop. “Dr. Mills?”
    The voice is familiar .
    “Yes, I’m Dr. Mills.”
    The man allows a hint of relief to taint his stern expression.
    “Mr. Critchley. Green State Bank. You stopped answering my e-mails and phone calls.”
    His tone is clipped, and he makes no attempt to shake my hand, as though he’s only here to state facts.
    “There’s been some … developments … concerning your father’s will. I thought it prudent to meet with you, face-to-face. There are still papers to be signed, details to clarify. I trust my timing is not too inconvenient.”
    His words hang in cartoon bubbles of frosty condensation. Oh yes, the last will and testament of one Dr. Robert Cobb, which arrived at my Charleston apartment ten days ago. Let’s be honest, in the twenty-first century, it’s strange to learn of your father’s death by tearing open a real paper envelope. Sure, it was a shock, but our relationship was, to put it politely, problematic. Still, where the discovery of my mother’s passing sucked all the air from my chest, the loss of Bobby Cobb did fill me with a certain sense of regret. Snail mail had taken a while to find me, and though the circumstances were totally different, for the second time in my life, I had missed burying a parent.
    The details of the will are quite straightforward. Cobb has left me Bedside Manor, the property and the business. And, despite the somber circumstances, the timing was fortuitous. Without my license to practice, I can’t get another job in South Carolina or anywhere else for that matter. In order to get my license reinstated, to defend my actions, prove my innocence, and restore my professional reputation, I need money for legal fees. I’d already blown through the contents of my 401K and was forced to sell my condo and move into a rental, so when Bedside Manor fell into my lap, there was nothing to think about—sell the building, sell the practice, take the money, and run back to Charleston as fast as I can, where I can resolve my license issues, clear my name, and start over.
    “No, come in,” I say and lead him upstairs to the