Free The Dog Who Knew Too Much by Carol Lea Benjamin

had startled him. That’s all it was. She was lying on her mat, her head up, her front paws crossed, one over the other, looking at us, as if nothing at all had happened.” He put a hand on his chest and rubbed it, as if by doing so he could erase his grief.
    â€œWhat about the note, Avi? Where was the note?”
    â€œIt was on the desk, in front of the computer. ‘There’s a suicide note,’ the first detective said. I am not ashamed to tell you, the tears were flowing from my eyes that night, too, Rachel. I don’t know why, but the thought of her sitting at my desk and writing … Poor Lisa.”
    â€œDid you read it? Did they show it to you?”
    â€œYes, yes, I read it,” he said. “First the second detective read it. They each leaned over the desk to read it. No one touched it. They asked me to do the same. To read it, but not to touch it. I did. They asked me if it was Lisa’s writing. I told them it was.” Avi took a few breaths. When he had calmed himself, he continued. “Even then,” he said, “with all three of us in the room, Ch’an never moved. She just stayed on her mat, watching us. I guess she was in shock.”
    â€œShe was just being an Akita,” I said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    If he didn’t understand Ch’an after living with her, how could I explain her to him?
    I looked at my watch. “I have to get up early,” I told him. “I better go.” I tapped my leg for Dash, but then hesitated at the door. “Will you keep Ch’an, Avi? I don’t think Lisa’s parents want her.”
    The Akita had gotten up when Dashiell did. She stood quietly next to Avi, looking off to the side, as if she were in another world and none of this had anything to do with her.
    â€œShe belongs here, Avi, with you.”
    â€œGo home, Rachel,” he said. “It’s late. Let me not keep you any longer.”

11
    Was There a Message Here?
    I couldn’t remember if it had been the homeopathic veterinarian or the holistic dentist who had told me about Rabbi Lazar Zuckerman, but he hadn’t asked how I’d heard about him, so I hadn’t had to lie to a man of God.
    I had left a message for him yesterday afternoon. He had left one for me after sundown, when he could use the phone without breaking the laws of God. He said I could come the following morning. But since I hadn’t spoken to him, I hadn’t had the chance to say I was bringing a pit bull with me.
    He was seventy-five if he was a day, but crouching so that he could embrace Dashiell, he looked about eight. His eyes, behind rimless glasses, were a faded hazel, but wise and full of light. I think it’s a job requirement. He had a full head of hair, steely gray ringlets, a black yarmulke held onto the back of his head with a single bobby pin, and the obligatory rabbinical beard, long, full, and wonderfully unkempt.
    â€œRabbi Zuckerman,” I said.
    He stood and looked intensely into my face.
    All the way here I had been expecting short and stout, perhaps because of his deep, rich voice, but the rabbi was as tall and slender as a young tree, if not quite as lithe.
    â€œI hope it’s okay about the dog?”
    He waved his hand in front of me, as if he were saying hello, to stop the false apology. “Come, come, both of you,” he said, leading me into a dining room off to the right, “we have important work to do.”
    We sat at a dark mahogany table on chairs so huge I felt my feet wouldn’t touch the ground. Or was it the rabbi who made me feel as if I were a child? There were heavy velvet drapes on the windows, wine colored, swagged back with white curtains beneath, but still the light came into the room, showing the sheen of the much-polished table and the age of the faded, flowered wallpaper and worn oriental rug.
    Rabbi Zuckerman placed his hands on the table and waited. After the long walk, Dashiell