What a Dog Knows Page 3

  The final touch is the sandwich board with what Madame Ruby offers: PSYCHIC READINGS, TAROT, TEA LEAVES, OR PALM. There is room at the bottom of the board to add Animal Communicator, if, indeed, this gift extends beyond the Hitchhiker and Boy. She’s hoping that someone with a dog will venture by and she can test the waters.

  Okay. All set. Bring on the crowds. Ruby pulls one of the two folding chairs into the sunlight, sits down, and busies herself with a knitting project she’s picked up and put down a million times over the past year. The knitting performs two purposes. One, it gives her something to do besides blankly stare at the slow-moving crowd, and two, by focusing on the work in her hands, it gives the impression that reading your fortune today isn’t the most important thing on Madame Ruby’s agenda. The cable-knit cardigan is. Not the twenty lovely bucks that she’d discreetly take from your hand. Never look hungry. Never look like the outrageous fee you’ve plunked down for the privilege of setting up a tent has depleted your ready cash to a concerning level.

  The Hitchhiker settles herself right into the scene, as if she has been Ruby’s familiar forever, not for two days. Ruby has sprung for a dog bed and the dog is curled up in it, just inside the tent. If Ruby had thought that she might bark, or otherwise be a nuisance, she’s pleased to be proven wrong.

  There is only one wrinkle. There are only a handful of strollers passing between the two rows of nonfood tents, the “Makers” tents where her neighbors offer wooden boxes and woven place mats, wind chimes and the ever-popular hand painted floor cloths. Everyone else on this June Saturday morning is intent on the fresh-baked pastries and the free trade coffee and the suspiciously out of season organic tomatoes and sunflower stems.

  Ruby lifts her eyes from her knitting and nods to anyone passing by, a knowing nod, not quite friendly, not quite hostile, very mysterious. Most avoid eye contact, but that is natural. She begins to play a game with herself, seeing if she can intuit which one of a trio of teens will pause long enough to laugh with her friends and say she’ll do it for fun. Ruby doesn’t really enjoy giving teenage readings, it’s too easy. It doesn’t take a fortune-teller to know that there will be body issues, parent issues, boy—or girl—issues, and the raging hormones sometimes broadcast things she really doesn’t want to mention. It was said that the girls of Salem fame were afflicted not by demons but by group think. The power of suggestion. Not only that, but if a reading takes place within sight of a teen’s companions, they telegraph the information that Ruby uses. Easy peasy but never pleasant. Jealousy. Bullying. Lost virginity. Plus, in recent years, they wanted to get a selfie with Ruby and she really detests that.

  The giggling trio, arms linked together, keep going. The central girl, built on the lines of a lacrosse player, is the one Ruby thought might be the most likely candidate. Indeed, the girl looks back over her shoulder at Ruby and smiles but does not try to break loose from her companions.

  The lovely scent of apple turnover wafts on the light breeze right into Ruby’s face. Well, no harm dashing over to Betty’s Blessings and then to Bob’s Free Trade Coffee. It isn’t like she’s going to keep anyone waiting. Ruby pulls her coin purse out of her knitting bag. The ground hasn’t yet dried from the night’s heavy mist, and the heels of her boots sink into the turf. Maybe it is time for a different style of footwear. Besides, these old boots are pinching her feet. The Hitchhiker leaps to her feet and toddles along beside Ruby, happy to be moving.

  The turnover is still hot and when she takes a bite, she burns her mouth. The coffee is hot as well and no help. She’s standing there, willing herself not to spit out the bite of pastry, waiting for the pain to lessen when a woman comes up to her. She has a faux smile on her face, as if she’s about to take great pleasure in imparting bad news. “Are you the one with the psychic tent?”

  “Ah, ah.” Ruby tried to mime that she’s in a bit of a crisis, but the woman doesn’t seem to notice.

  “I don’t think our policy is to have something like that. It’s not a craft.”

  The mouthful of hot apple has gone down. Tears in her eyes, Ruby shakes off the pain, dashes a finger beneath her heavily made-up eyes, and wipes away the tears. “Actually, it is a craft. Like being able to sing or build boats. Not everyone can do it.” She thinks, but doesn’t add, and the tent isn’t psychic. I am.

  “Cynthia Mann. Selectperson and member of the Farmers’ Market and Makers Faire committee. I disagree.”

  The Hitchhiker sits, points her nose at the woman, narrows her eyes. She’s too small to look aggressive, but she clearly is taking offence at the selectperson’s umbrage. “I don’t like this one.”

  Ruby hears the thought and agrees with the dog’s assessment. “I’m Ruby Heartwood and I paid my money.”

  “That was an oversight.”

  “That’s absurd. And, if you’ll excuse me, I have customers.” Ruby makes herself walk away from Cynthia, dignity and hauteur intact. Sometimes the magic works, and, miraculously, there are two twenty-something women in front of her tent.

  “I’m here. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Oh, we weren’t…”

  “Of course you were.” Ruby’s tone is carefully modulated to calm the reluctant client, much as one would speak to a frightened little bird not quite confident the crumb in the palm of her hand is worth the danger. “May I surmise that you are a soon-to-be-bride?”

  The shorter of the two nods her head vigorously; as if of their own accord, her little hands with the ginormous engagement ring clap together. “How did you know?”

  Points for the professionally observant. “You have a certain aura.”

  “That’s what everyone says. That I glow!”

  The bride’s companion, just behind her, grimaces slightly. A little jealous, perhaps? Or, no, she’s the pal who has already seen six of her closest friends walk down that aisle. She has the jaded look of a perennial bridesmaid, trying loyally to gin up enthusiasm yet again.

  “And you?” Ruby directs her attention toward the second young woman. “Glad your friend has found happiness and wondering when it will be your turn. Oh, no. Wait, am I sensing that there is,” dramatic pause, “someone on the horizon?”

  The second girl, blessed with a highly readable porcelain skin, shrugs even as her cheeks grow patchy with redness. “No.”

  “Still early days?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t tell me!” Bride-to-be smacks her companion’s arm. “You’re holding out.”

  “No. Maybe.” Little fireballs of emotion appear on her cheeks, but she’s smiling.

  Enough of giving this away free. “Why don’t you decide which one of you would like a reading. Or I can do both of you.” Ruby steps aside to let them talk about it. “Twenty for tarot or tea leaves. Or, I’ll do you both for thirty-five.”

  “Together?” they chorus, and Ruby can see that there are some details each would prefer to keep from the other.

  “No. That’s not possible.”

  “Okay. Thirty-five and don’t tell Rodney.”

  Presumably the groom.

  “What is foreseen in Madame Ruby’s tent stays in Madame Ruby’s tent.”

  After a lost three minutes of deciding who should go first, the bride enters Ruby’s tent.

  A slow trickle of customers becomes a respectable flow as the morning wears on. After the bride-to-be and her pal, Ruby counseled the jobless, the childless, and the tired; the hopeful, the confused, and the skeptical. All in all, a typical day in the life of a fortune-teller. The apple turnover is long since forgotten and Ruby thinks that a break is in order. There is a food truck parked on the perimeter of the grounds, a fairly long line suggesting that it’s a decent choice beyond the organic whatever the vendors are serving.

  Ruby slips off her boots, puts on her Skechers, and closes the tent flap. She is surprised to see that it’s already one o’clock. The market only goes until two, so maybe it’s enough that she’s had a good morning, maybe she can break early and trea
t herself to a nap. Reading stories fabricated out of body language is an exhausting pursuit. But a taco first.

  “Not yet. Talk to him.” The Hitchhiker is standing, her boxy little spaniel nose pointed toward a man with a golden retriever pulling him along.

  The Hitchhiker bounds out of the tent and right up to the golden, effectively stopping the dog in his tracks.

  “Nice dog,” Ruby says as the guy tries to get around the Hitchhiker.

  “Oh, thanks.” He gives her one of those half-smirk smiles that so many give her. The unbelievers.

  “I can read him, if you’d like.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re having trouble with him.” Not a question, it’s pretty obvious.

  “He’s just a little rambunctious.”

  No time like the present to practice a little persuasion. Ruby flicks the long skirt of her caftan aside and squats to put her hands on both sides of the dog’s large head. He smells of having just been bathed. “I want to go swimming.”

  Bam. That was quick and ever so clear. Ruby stands up. “When was the last time you took him to the lake?”

  “Um, I don’t. He stinks if he gets wet.”

  “Well, he’d like to go swimming.”

  The guy roars with laughter.

  “He’ll behave if he gets the kind of exercise he’s bred to have.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Like a sled dog heading for Nome, the golden yanks the man back into motion.

  “I tried.”

  “I know.” The Hitchhiker pokes her nose into the back of Ruby’s knee. “Trouble here.”

  “Not only isn’t this a craft, but your dog should be on a leash.” Cynthia Mann is fairly crackling with moral authority.

  “Ees not my dog.” Ruby wonders if this cranky lady remembers that Inspector Clouseau bit. Evidently not, as Cynthia looks pointedly at the dog in the tent and then at Ruby. In no way does Ruby feel like a dog owner. This dog is nobody’s pet. She’s an independent sort of beast. “I’m closing now, so I’ll bid you good day.”

  Cynthia, believing that she’s won the skirmish, marches off.

  Ruby is ready to call it a day, but first she’ll find the committee treasurer, Ariel Hippy Chick or something, who runs an essential oils booth, and pay for next week’s spot. She isn’t going to let that pretentious long drink of water with the sour puss derail her train. Even if it means staying in Harmony Farms for another week.

  With the Hitchhiker by her side, Ruby hands the dreadlocked white girl her fee for next week’s market. “Same spot if I can have it.”

  “Of course, we always like to have our vendors feel comfortable in their location. I’m so happy it worked out for you.” She has that wide beaming smile of a person who wants oh so sincerely for you to feel you have her entire attention.

  “Oh, it has. Very much.”

  Go ahead, Cynthia Mann, Ruby thinks, try to push me out now.

  5

  Thanks to a surprisingly lucrative morning, there is enough now in the coffers, that is Ruby’s cigar box, to afford a cheap motel. Ruby loves her van, but she has come to require the relative luxury of hot showers and standing upright, the mechanism for raising the pop-up roof long since failed. Of course, now she has the Hitchhiker and she may not be able to find a place willing to allow pets. Not that HH is a pet. A quick check on her smart phone suggests that Harmony Farms prides itself on keeping the long reach of Corporate America outside its boundaries, so the nearest chain hotel is ten miles away in another town. Ruby, having settled on making Harmony Farms her temporary destination, isn’t about to commute into it. That leaves a whitewashed motel, a vestige from the era of motoring vacations, when a family would pile into a Buick and go in search of fresh air. A circular drive curls around a garden that looks like it’s just been freshly mulched. Begonias and impatiens also look freshly planted, no blooms yet, with sufficient space between each plant to allow for a massive display in a few weeks. Standing tall in the center of the garden is a signboard: The Dew Drop Inn. It too looks freshened up, prepared for a new and hopeful season of lake visitors.

  A tiny central office is flanked on each side by six rooms, each of them boasting a picture window offering a stunning view across the busy road of a freight company and a used car dealership. Ruby pulls the Westie into a parking spot. She’s a little encouraged; so far, she hasn’t seen a NO PETS sign. Just a VACANCY sign. “Okay, Hitch. Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll do the talking?”

  The Hitchhiker wags her tail.

  A young brown-skinned man is sitting behind the reception desk and leaps to his feet as soon as Ruby pushes on the door.

  “Welcome to the Dew Drop Inn.” His accent is east Asian, but Ruby can’t tell if it’s Indian or Sri Lankan or something else altogether.

  “Do you have anything available for a few days?”

  “Of course.” He smiles and clicks a computer key. “Double or queen?”

  “Double will be fine. It’s just me.” Ruby toys with the idea to smuggle the dog into the room but thinks better of it. The young man’s aura is pure kindness and she would hate to take advantage of it. “What’s your policy on pets? Well-behaved small dogs?”

  The aura deflates a tad, and Ruby senses that he’s balancing the equation of a paying guest in an empty motel versus a small dog.

  “I could pay a little more.”

  “As we do not have a pet policy, I think that there is nothing to say against having a pet. As long as it’s quiet, of course.” He smiles at his own cleverness.

  “Perfect. She’s very quiet.” Ruby, of course, has only a couple of days’ experience with the dog, but so far she hasn’t been a barker. “She listens very well.” Speaks well too, she thinks with a smile.

  “I will put you on the end, closer to the woods.”

  “And I will clean up after her.”

  The room is clean, and the taps don’t drip. Ruby puts underwear and pj’s into the drawers, hangs up her caftan, and aligns her toiletries on the shelf above the sink. The moisturizer promptly falls over, and the flat case holding her blush slides off and into the sink. She looks around and notes that the awful landscape over the bed is crooked. She taps it, and it tilts right back into its dejected slump. The Dew Drop seems to be built on an angle or maybe is sinking into the earth, giving in to gravity. Nothing is plumb, which kind of increases its charm in her eyes. Her life has been out of plumb recently and a crooked little motel is just the perfect place to sort it out.

  The Hitchhiker has made herself comfortable on the double bed, nose between paws as if daring Ruby to scold her. The last couple of nights the dog has spooned herself against Ruby, a feeling not unlike having a toddler snuggled close. Ruby doesn’t make the dog get off the bed.

  Ruby takes the ham and cheese sandwich she picked up at the local deli, a place called the Country Market, and goes outside to sit in the afternoon sun. Each room is provided with a plastic chair and round table outside the door, and that’s where she settles. She picked up a copy of the local free weekly. It’s always been one of the first things Ruby does when pausing in a new place, read the local rag. She has a wonderful memory for names, and an instinct for detail, so often when a client, as she likes to call them, visits, she has a little insight already into their lives. An engagement, a funeral, a scandal. She takes in the news about funding the elementary school, the repairs scheduled for the town athletic fields, and the ongoing debate about whether a Subway franchise is truly considered a chain or an asset for the harried, hurried soccer moms in town. It isn’t quite put that way, but it doesn’t take a psychic to read between the lines. Harmony Farms certainly styles itself as special. In Harmony Farms proper, the pretty little main street sports pennants remind the slow-witted that it’s now summer. This other end of town sports one of those hideous flopping men reminding people that Watkins Motors offers the best deals in pre-owned cars.

  The Hitchhiker stares at Ruby, or more acc
urately, at the sandwich. Ruby makes her wait until the last bite, then “accidentally” drops a sliver of cheese. She’s pretty sure it’s a bad idea to encourage begging. She should make the dog work for the prize. Ruby folds up the paper, clears off the table, and checks her watch. There’s no Staples in town, so she’ll go visit the local print shop and get a few flyers made advertising her services. On her laptop is a template of her flyer, she just needs to add “animal communicator” to the list. Ruby isn’t sure that the term fits as, so far, it’s only dogs who have burrowed into her consciousness, but why be self-limiting?

  After lunch Ruby spends an hour on the internet—thank you, Dew Drop Inn, for free Wi-Fi—just seeing what animal communicators offer as services, how they describe their skills. The first word that pops out is telepathic. Good word. Another is translator and this feels right to Ruby. One claims to hear actual words, and maybe, with practice, that’s what Ruby will be able to do. Some help owners through their animal’s death, connecting later with the animal’s afterlife. Behavioral problems. Tracking lost pets. It’s a bit surprising that so many of them, the telepaths, don’t need to be anywhere near the beast. That one is confusing, given that it’s in the touching of the dogs that Ruby has “heard” them. The websites are pretty sophisticated, and Ruby suffers a brief moment of doubt that she can pull this off. Then she looks at the fees. Oh, yeah, this she can do.

  Ruby is suddenly aware that the Hitchhiker has her chin on Ruby’s knees. Ruby strokes the dog’s head, fingers her long ears, takes a slow cleansing breath and listens.

  “I would really like a walk now. Can we walk now? Outside now?”

  “Yes, we can.” Ruby closes the laptop. If she and this pup are going to be out and about, she definitely needs to get a proper leash and collar. Cynthia Mann’s rules notwithstanding, Ruby very much wants to keep this dog safe from harm.