“Last summer. Someone poisoned him. I found him right there.” Indicating the front lawn. “They unlatched the gate and fed him meat laced with rat poison. That time, I did call your department, and they finally sent someone out. A detective. Allegedly.”

“Do you remember his name?”

Dr. Schwartzman gave a violent headshake. “Why would I? He barely gave me the time of day, clearly didn’t take me seriously. Didn’t even bother to go over there, just referred it to Animal Control, and all they offered to do was dispose of Sumi’s body, thank you very much for nothing.”

“They?” said Milo.

Schwartzman’s brush pointed at the party house.

“You suspect one of the Cossacks poisoned Sumi?”

“I don’t suspect, I know,” said Schwartzman. “But I can’t prove it. The daughter. She’s mad, quite definitely. Walks around talking to herself, a bizarre look in her eyes, all hunched over. Wears the same clothes for days on end. And she brings black boys home—clearly not right. Sumi despised her. Dogs have a nose for madness. Anytime that crazy girl walked by, poor Sumi would fly into a rage, throw himself against the gate, it was all I could do to calm him down. And let me tell you, Detective, the only time he responded that way was to stranger intrusion. Protective, Akitas are, that’s the whole point of an Akita. But sweet and smart—he loved the Cantwells, even grew accustomed to the gardeners and the mailman. But never to that girl. He knew when someone was wrong. Simply despised her. I’m sure she poisoned him. The day I found his poor body, I spied her. Watching me through a second-story window. That pair of mad eyes. Staring. I stared right back and waved my fist, and you’d better believe that drapery snapped back into place. She knew that I knew. But soon after, she came out and walked past me—right past me, staring. She’s a frightening thing, that girl. Hopefully that party was the last time we’ll see them around here.”

“She was at the party?” said Milo.

Dr. Schwartzman crossed her arms across her bosom. “Have you been listening to me, young man? I told you, I didn’t get close enough to check.”

“Sorry,” said Milo. “How old is she?”

“Seventeen or eighteen.”

“Younger than her brothers.”

“Those two,” said Schwartzman. “So arrogant.”

“Ever have any problems with the brothers other than parties?”

“All the time. Their attitude.”

“Attitude?”

“Entitled,” said Schwartzman. “Smug. Just thinking about them makes me angry, and anger is bad for my health, so I’m going to resume my calligraphy. Good day.”

Before Milo could utter another syllable, the door slammed shut and he was staring at teak. No sense pushing it; Frau Doktor Schwartzman could probably beat him in an arm wrestle. He returned to the car, sat there wondering if anything she’d said mattered.