The Dog Who Knew Too Much by Carol Lea Benjamin Page A

meaning the standard approved by the American Kennel Club, the main U.S. registry of purebred dogs—says the ideal Akita should be “alert and responsive, dignified and courageous.”
    Whatever the truth was, whatever had happened that night, Ch’an was living proof of the beauty of the breed. If truth be told, Ch’an, with her deep-set, triangular eyes, her powerful, wedge-shaped head, her thick, dark coat, was breathtaking.
    And isn’t beauty what most of us go for anyway?
    Wasn’t it what was motivating my brother-in-law’s apparent indiscretion?
    Wasn’t beauty what killed King Kong? Just try telling any one of the single apes you know that you want to fix him up with a woman with a great personality. See how far you get.
    At least the Akita standard says something about temperament. Many of the AKC standards have nothing at all written about character, as if a dog were an assembly of parts covered with fur.
    Had Lisa been fooled by the words of the Akita standard, all that overblown, flowery stuff the national clubs write about each breed—loyal, dignified, courageous? Or, since she embraced things Eastern, had she merely wanted an oriental dog?
    I opened the bag and pulled out a second bialy, giving half of it to Dashiell.
    The same, the same, Rabbi Zuckerman had said.
    But who’s to say what its purpose was?
    I’m sorry. Lisa .
    It could have been about anything.
    I thought about stopping at the Sixth Precinct on my way home, but what would I say—that I’d made the astonishing discovery that Lisa Jacobs had actually written the suicide note they already knew she wrote? Or that, despite that fact, I had a strong feeling that she’d been murdered?
    You mean an intuition ? Marty might ask.
    Or would he say, “Handwriting analysis? Pretty flaky, Rachel, even for you. What’s next, a Ouija board?”
    Just thinking about it, I could almost hear them snickering.
    No way. If their motto was Cover your ass, well, so was mine. I didn’t need to be thought a fool by my local branch of New York’s finest.
    What, after all, did I have so far? Cops say the criminal always leaves something of himself at the scene, and that he always takes something away from the scene when he leaves. Could the note, written for another reason, be what was left? That could mean the killer had planned Lisa’s death. So what might he have taken away? A hair? A thread? The scent of her perfume? But so what? Whatever he took, whatever he left, a fingerprint, some dandruff, even his damn wallet, couldn’t he have been leaving things and taking things away from the scene for years? After all, he had the keys. Didn’t he?
    Or she?
    It was way too soon to talk to the cops. All I had was Lisa’s note. And the nagging idea that its purpose had been universally misconstrued.

12
    Are You Seeing Anyone?
    In the evening I walked Dash to where the car was parked and drove to Rockland County to visit my sister. Maybe there I’d discover something telling, like if my sister’s husband had suddenly started wearing turtlenecks to cover up the hickeys on his lousy, philandering neck.
    I made a mental note. Check bald spot for signs of hair transplants in progress. Check bathroom for Grecian Formula for Men. Get Lillian talking.
    The gate was open, and I parked just outside the two-car garage. What a different life from mine my sister had—two children, an expensive suburban house, a fully stocked and equipped kitchen, a washer and a dryer, even a freezer. And now, or so it appeared, a cheating husband.
    I walked down the long, skinny deck. The door was ajar. I called Lili’s name and walked in. She was in the kitchen making soup, her sleeves rolled up, the chopping board deep in carrots, celery, parsley, and parsnips, a cut-up chicken in a bowl to her right.
    â€œOh, I didn’t hear you,” she said, her face without makeup, her hair uncombed and