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

dining room and my unsightly pile of paperwork. “Sorry, but I don’t seem to be able to get Internet service up here.” I pull out my cell phone, flip it open—dead. I offer up an apologetic smile, flash him the blank screen. “Forgot to charge it again.”
    The bank’s attorney ignores my excuses. He’s focused on my Green State Bank envelope tower.
    “It’s … well … a little overwhelming,” I say, trying to ignore the contempt mounting in his twitching lips. “Please, have a seat.”
    Critchley is a gangly praying mantis of a man, all pointy knees and elbows as he tries to cross his legs and get comfortable. He keeps his coat wrapped tightly around him as he sits, as if he wants to insulate himself from this contagious fiscal irresponsibility.
    Frieda lets out a wary bark, begins to scratch, and Critchley turns toward the closed kitchen door.
    “It’s only the dog,” I say.
    “What kind of a dog?”
    Critchley places his briefcase on his lap, somewhat defensively. I wonder if he’s had a previous run-in with a canine in his job as a well-dressed repo man. After my close call with the owner of the black Labrador last night, best to be misleading with the truth.
    “Rottweiler.” I might have stopped there, but I’ve been dealing with snooty lawyers for months and his uppity attitude gets to me. “One hundred and forty pounds of pure steel. Hates strangers, but old … Typhoon … will be fine so long as he doesn’t catch a whiff of fear. And hopefully that kitchen door will hold up. You have dogs of your own, Mr. Critchley?”
    Critchley shakes his head. I can tell I’ve unnerved him. He pops the latch on his briefcase and lets me stew in silent discomfort before making a show of removing a single piece of paper. His features tend toward gaunt rather than chiseled and he sports a haircut cropped to near military specifications. It suits his take-no-prisoners coldness.
    “Before I get to the will proper, I thought it might be helpful to see, in actual dollars and cents, the enormity of the challenge that lies before you. This document summarizes the various liens against both this property and the veterinary business operated by the late Dr. Robert Cobb, the … Bedside Manor for Sick Animals?” He pretends to have difficulty focusing on the words.
    I shrug. “It’s a long story.”
    But Critchley eases back in his chair, like he’s got all the time in the world.
    I force a little laugh through my nose. “It’s stupid,” I say, willing him to read my discomfort as I try to fold into myself.
    “Now I’m curious.”
    I find that imaginary itch at the back of my head. Body language accounts for between 50 and 70 percent of all communication. Clearly, for Mr. Critchley, it may as well be Mandarin.
    “This house was originally going to be called Benton Manor after Jack Benton, the guy who wanted it built as his Vermont retreat. It was never completed.”
    “Jack Benton, as in Benton Copper and Gold Incorporated, the mining company?”
    I nod. “According to my mother, Benton had elaborate homes across the country, but he was a fanatical leaf-peeper, came up here every fall, always brought his Labradors. Inevitably his dogs needed a vet.”
    At this point I half expect Critchley to interject “Dr. Robert Cobb,” but the attorney says nothing. It seems I must continue.
    “This was back when Cobb had graduated from veterinary school. He was in debt, renting an apartment, and trying to earn a living making house calls. He and Benton hit it off . Benton gets sick, cuts back on his travels, decides to give the property away.”
    “For free?”
    “Not quite. He insisted it be used as a veterinary clinic and be named Bedside Manor.”
    Critchley appears more pained than confused.
    “That’s ridiculous. Nobody gives away substantial equity like this without ensuring recognition for the name of the donor at the very least.”
    “I don’t know what to tell you. All I know is, before he died,