“Sabrina was bad at typing,” she said. “It was a joke in our family. Sabrina could do everything, but she couldn’t type to save her . . . ”
Allison reconsidered finishing the sentence, blinked, and reset the conversation.
“How is your research going?”
“Not great,” Stevie said. “Most people probably won’t talk to us because of Carson.”
“They will if I ask,” Allison said, her eyes bright. “Who do you want to speak to?”
“Anyone who will talk to me,” Stevie replied. “People who were there. Shawn Greenvale, Susan Marks, Paul Penhale . . .”
“Do you have to be back right away?”
“Not really?”
“Come on,” Allison said. “Paul’s practice is only a few doors away.”
The Barlow Corners Veterinary Hospital was actually four doors down, next to the Pilates and barre studio. It was a brightly colored office, intensely cheerful, with many children’s drawings of their pets in crayon, almost all with messages thanking Dr. Penhale for caring for them. There was a coffee station and fresh-baked cookies on the side. A man with tidily trimmed gray hair and scrubs covered in cartoon puppies sat behind the desk. Stevie vaguely recognized him from the picnic.
“Hey, Joe,” Allison said. “Is Paul in with a patient?”
“He is but should be done in a second.”
As he said that, a door opened and a man in maroon scrubs stepped out, carrying a small curly-haired dog in his arms. The dog looked a little loopy and had a bandage on his ear.
“You can take that bandage off before you go to bed this evening,” he said, passing the dog to a woman in the waiting room. “But he’s going to have to wear the cone for a week, until the stitches heal. And no dog park for a while.”
Once patient and owner were checking out at the desk, he came over to greet them.
“Hey, Allison,” he said, looking between her and Stevie with some confusion. “What’s up?”
“This is Stevie from the event the other night,” Allison said. “You remember.”
“Hard to forget,” he replied, but he nodded a polite greeting to Stevie.
“Stevie’s okay,” Allison said. “It would mean a lot to me if you would give her an interview about the case.”
Paul raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really?”
“Really,” she said. “She’s all right.”
The owner and the small dog left, and Paul waved his goodbye. Then he turned to the man at the desk, who was typing into a scheduling program with lightning speed.
“Hon, when’s my next?”
“You have forty-five minutes,” the man replied. “Your ten fifteen spaying appointment asked to bump to this afternoon.”
“Looks like I have some time now,” Paul said. “I could use
a coffee. That okay with you, Joe?”
“Fine by me,” Joe replied. “Gives me a chance to unpack the surgical supplies.”
“My husband,” Paul explained. “Keeps everything going.”
Joe did not deny it. He peered over the desk to regard Stevie.
“So the Box Box guy owns the camp now, huh?” he asked.
Stevie nodded.
“And he also wants to make a podcast about the . . . about what happened? Seems like a broad remit. Still, I have to admit I like those boxes.”