The state defines a cemetery as ‘. . . any place dedicated to and used, or intended to be used, for the permanent interment of human remains” (emphasis added). Under this definition pet interments are not allowed on dedicated land in cemeteries. Disposition of pet cremains are allowed, subject to individual cemetery rules. The law is silent about pet memorial markers in cemeteries, but individual cemetery rules can allow, regulate, or disallow such markers.
I cleared my throat. “Martha, I can’t help but notice that you’re reading about pet cemeteries.”
“What a horror!” Martha’s voice reverberated throughout the salon as if she were addressing an assembly of one hundred. “Did you hear about that pet cemetery in Long Island? They found piles of dead animals. People said the smell was putrefying. They think the town’s water supply is contaminated. We don’t want a pet cemetery here!”
Martha, why don’t you tell me how you really feel?
“I can see why a pet cemetery might be troubling,” I said, “but we have so many pet lovers in this town. Wouldn’t a pet cemetery appeal to a lot of voters?”
“They can bury their pets on their own properties.” Martha’s ample chest rose.
I continued the bowl cut. Black and silver cascaded down on the icy blue, like sleet on a heaving sea. “We certainly do have a lot more condos and apartment buildings now, don’t we? Our town is really growing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” she said, “and that’s not a good thing. When I was a child, we didn’t even have stoplights.”
About a hundred years ago.
“Where are all those apartment dwellers going to bury their pets?”
“They can take ‘em to the vet.”
“And what does he do with them?”
“Incinerates ‘em,” she said. “All together.”
“Cremation?”
“Joint cremation. And if you want your pet’s cremains, you get two scoops!”
I started to laugh and ended up coughing.
“Have you ever been in a pet cemetery?” she asked.
“No.”
“I have. My sister buried her little Shih Tzu last year. She was gaga over that dog. ‘Come to mumsy wumsy,’ she would say. I had to go to the funeral where she gave this eulogy—
A little piece of heaven was you,
My very own angel t’was true.
I cherish the day you were mine,
I only wish God gave more time.
“I thought I would puke,” Martha said.
I was coughing again.
She plodded on. “The cemetery had sections with names like Sleepy Doggy, Kitty Corner and Feathered Friends. There were people weeping and carrying on about their pets. I wanted to tell ’em all to get a life.”
I remembered how hard Martha Farquhar was on Angelica Diego, the beautiful young Hispanic mother who died on the railroad tracks. Where were you, Martha, when the hearts were given out?
I placed my scissors on the counter, picked up my electric barber’s trimmers, and shaved the back of Martha’s neck. “All done,” I said.
She inspected the job. “Now do the mustache.”
I rolled my portable waxing station over to her chair. She tilted her head back and I applied the wax on the wide black area below her nostrils, then patted down the pull strip over top of the wax. Her eyes were closed, so she couldn’t see the glint in my own as I seized the end of the strip. I ripped the wax off.
“Ow!”
“It hurts to become beautiful,” I said, smiling wickedly. There are times when my job is supremely satisfying.
My afternoon schedule was heavy with teenage appointments. There is always much angst over teenage hair. It’s either too long, too short, too kinky, too straight, too brown, too limp, or too full. With all the doctoring teens want, it’s amazing their hair survives adolescence.
Carl called in the midst of all the mayhem, asking if he could send a police consultant over for a cut and blow dry.
“Male or female?” I asked.
“A woman, Rachel Arbuthnot. She’s here to help with the cat case.”
My ears perked up.
“She’s a veterinarian.”
I was about to ask why we needed a consultant when we have a perfectly competent vet in town, but Carl said, “Look, Tracy, I’ve got to go but can you help her out? She says she’s been on the road for weeks and when she found out you’re a hairdresser, she begged for an appointment.
“I’ll slip her in at six if you can relieve Jamie’s babysitter.”
“It’s a deal,” he said.
Rachel Arbuthnot turned out to be an attractive, athletic-looking thirty-something with a pearly white smile, light pink lipstick, and matching pink nail polish. Her hair was a mop of brown with caramel highlights that had grown out half way down.
“Thanks for fitting me in,” she said. “I’ve been away from home for weeks.”
“Would you like your highlights restored?” I asked.
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” she said. “It’s late and you need to get home.”
“No problem,” I said. “You’ll feel much better.”
Rachel looked relieved. “Well, if you’ve got the time.”
While I mixed her formula, she chatted amiably, asking me about my work, my family and my husband. I felt she was truly interested in my answers.
“So what do you do, Rachel?” I asked.
“I’m a forensic veterinarian,” she said. “I work all over the country for the ASPCA, assisting law enforcement in animal cruelty cases. That’s the main concern of the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, but sometimes I’m called in to do forensic analysis in human criminal cases.”
“Like what?”
“There was a case where a burglar was attacked by a pet cockatoo. The burglar killed the cockatoo with a fork but not before the bird took a big chunk out of the burglar’s scalp. My DNA test linked the tissue on the cockatoo’s claws with the suspect’s DNA.”
Rachel didn’t need much encouragement to say more.
“Then there was a murder case. The killer stepped in dog business on the way into the house and left traces on the floor. I was able to match the dog-do on his shoe with the dog-do in the house.
“There was also a case where a woman was walking her dog when a man stopped his truck and asked for directions. I’m sorry to say he abducted and raped her. She could not identify the guy in a police lineup, but she remembered that her dog had lifted its leg on his truck tire while they were looking at the man’s map. The police swabbed the suspect’s tire and I matched the specimen to her dog’s DNA.”
I wanted to give Rachel a high five, but her hands were under the drape and mine were busy brushing on hair color. After a while, I said, “The cat in the suitcase is an interesting case.”
“That’s why I’m here,” she said. “Tomorrow the medical examiner and I will try to determine what kind of weapon was used to cut the throat and check for traces of human DNA in the suitcase.”
“Could the murderer’s skin be on the claws?”
She nodded. “And likely blood if he was scratched.”
“Perhaps you’d find the note writer’s DNA too,” I suggested.
“Perhaps. What the detectives need to do is find the scene of the crime. I could tell them if blood at the crime scene matches the cat’s. Then we would know more about the perpetrator, provided the crime scene is a place where the cat killer hangs out.”
Cat Killer. I shivered.
The top of Rachel’s head was now covered with aluminum foil packets and she was ready for processing.
“At my salon,” I explained, “you have a choice of a chair massage and warm footbath or a warm massage table with cucumbers on your eyelids. These are both relaxing things to do while you’re processing.”
“I think I would just like to read a book,” she said, pulling a textbook called Clinical Pathology for the Veterinary Team out of her book bag.
>
“All right.”
I rinsed the brushes and put away the aluminum foil. After twenty minutes I peeked under one of Rachel’s wrappers. “You’re doing well. About ten more minutes.”
Rachel looked up from her book.
“Rachel?” I said. “I’m worried about something. There was a note in the suitcase.”
“I know, but I haven’t seen it yet.”
I described the note and the memorized words. I know he didn’t mean it. I know he loves me and he didn’t mean it.
“Those are classic words,” Rachel said. “Victims often try to excuse the actions of their abusers. And an abusive man will attempt to control his woman by hurting the animal she loves.”
“Do you think that happened to this little girl?”
“Very possibly. Do you have a women’s shelter in town? Maybe she and her mother are already there.”
The next morning, I finished marceling Mrs. Oscar’s hair and escorted her to the door, when Mrs. Argosy arrived for a cut and style. My Client Notebook said: 55+, husband in real estate, owns a duplex in the big valley, layered cut 4”. I rooted through my comb collection to find the one with inch measurements imprinted on the side.
Mrs. Argosy’s hair looked like bird feathers that had been mangled by a cat. “Oh, Tracy,” she said. “I needed to see you two weeks ago.”
“Why didn’t you call? I would have fit you in.”
“I didn’t have time. We’ve had the most awful experience.”
I sat her down in my chair and swathed her in turquoise. “Dry cut today, then wash, okay?” My brush curried her head with sure strokes; then I measured four inches with the comb and began shaping. “Now what’s been going on?”
“You know we have a duplex in the big valley.”
“Right.”
“One of our tenants was arrested.”
“What for?”
“Meth.”
“Meth cooking?”
“No, thank God, meth using. It’s the first time we’ve ever had to evict someone. I felt awful.”
“How did this happen?”
“About a year ago one unit was empty, so we advertised, and I got a call asking, ‘Do we accept housing assistance from the city?’ I wanted to do my part, so I said, ‘yes.’ We met the family—a young mother and her two children. They seemed very nice.
“I went to the Housing Authority where the caseworker explained the program. The tenant pays a small percentage and the city subsidizes the rest of the rent.”
“Sounds like a sweet deal.”
“Things went okay for a year, but then the rent from the mother didn’t come in on time. It was only ten dollars so I didn’t go after her like I should. Then it stopped coming entirely, so I called the housing authority. They sent the caseworker out and she discovered the mother stoned on crystal meth. Tracy, the children were locked in their rooms!”
“How awful.”
“I had to evict her, Tracy. My hands were tied. She’d violated the terms of the lease and I had to make them leave. Some tough-looking boys helped her move out. I think her brothers. We hovered over them until they cleaned everything up. The next day the front plate glass window was broken. I think they came back to give us their opinion.”
“Did you file charges?”
She shook her head. “I just wanted to be shut of them. Then the caseworker chastised me for not notifying her immediately when the rent payment was late. When she found out I hadn’t inspected the place for six months, she said I was lucky it hadn’t been turned into a meth lab.”
“Gee.”
“She went on and on about meth labs—the caustic chemicals, the explosives, the cat urine smell.”
“Cat urine?”
“They use some kind of ammonia. The fumes penetrate everything and ruin a property. She said an apartment with a basement was perfect for a meth lab and why didn’t I inspect more often?”
“You caught it from both sides, didn’t you? The punk brothers and the caseworker.”
“She made me feel as if I was the one who broke the law.”
Mrs. Argosy’s shoulders were slumped. Her mouth was turned down like the yoke of a divining rod quivering over the spot where a well should be dug.
“You deserve a scalp massage with almond, jojoba, and geranium oil,” I said. “You’ll feel like a tropical flower afterwards.”
Mrs. Argosy tottered to the sink and I tried to make those downturned lips point upwards with every stroke of my fingers.
No good deed goes unpunished, I thought. That’s the way of the world.
After lunch, I checked my computer calendar and saw that Paddy Hamburger had a four o’clock appointment. Patrick J. Hamburger is our town’s most feared news reporter. He lives to uncover wrongdoing, and if there’s none, imply there is. He has a nose for news and is a skilled writer, but his headlines rile people up.
Instead of saying “Proposed Playground Too Expensive,” his headline will say “Council Nixes Kiddie Fun.” Another reporter might say “City Staffers Go on Research Trip,” but Paddy’s headline will read “Taxpayers Pay for Costly Junket.” Paddy’s title for the cat story, which Chief Fort Dukes announced to the press the day before, was “Chief Flummoxed by Suitcase Murderer.”
Paddy had long hair which curled down his neck and sideburns that extended way below his ears. I draped him in a blood red cape with a black terry at his neck. I figured someone who provoked people as much as Paddy should be wearing a challenging color.
“Same thing as usual, Paddy?” I asked.
“Yup.”
“So what’s with the pet cemetery issue?” I asked, as I clipped Paddy’s wet curls. Last night’s city council meeting had turned into a free-for-all with two factions facing off—one group for the pet cemetery and one group against. The for people came with dogs and cats and hamsters. There was even a pet turtle. At one point, between the dogs barking and the cats yowling, no one could be heard and the mayor had to clear the room.
“It’s the old guard versus the newbies,” Paddy said. “People who’ve been here for generations have plenty of land and don’t see the need for a pet cemetery, but residents in the condos and apartments have no property and they need a pet cemetery. So do the wealthy at Blue Cliffs.”
Blue Cliffs was the first gated community built in our little western city. There are more pets in Blue Cliffs than there are maids.
“Every land parcel under consideration has a problem associated with it,” Paddy said. “This town is in the middle of a major river watershed and it’s against state law to bury an animal within a half mile of a dwelling or a quarter mile of a running stream. The councilors are grousing about the cost of the cemetery, too.”
“But wouldn’t this be an enterprise project that makes money for the city?” I asked. “Pet burial is big business. I bet you know how much a pet funeral runs.”
Paddy grunted. “Nearly a thousand for the plot plus a yearly maintenance fee. The cheapest casket starts at $250, and you’ll need to pay for the headstone, the flowers and the limousine.”
I grinned into the mirror, but Paddy didn’t crack a smile. He was a humorless kind of guy.
“What about cremation?”
“Dog owners pay by the pound. Cats are less expensive. Private cremation costs $150 to $300 and common cremation costs $60 to $150.”
Not cheap for working class families.
“The upper class can afford it,” Paddy said. “Our town is booming and they’ve got money to spend. We even have a national pet chain store now.”
“The old guard is going to have to suck it up,” I said.
“Over their dead bodies.” A glimmer of a smile disturbed Paddy’s lips. “They’re going to be as obstructionist as possible.”
I shook my head. “Their way of life is vanishing, isn’t it?”
“There are far fewer dairy farms and cattle ranches in this county now,” Paddy said. “And we’re getting a Hooters.”
I stop
ped cutting and stared at him. “No!” My head filled with visions of skimpily clad waitresses with mounded flesh in front and swishy butts behind.
“You’re right, I’m kidding. We’re going to have a Chili’s.”
First Walmart, then Petco, now Chili’s. All the open land taken up by development; all the Mom & Pop businesses taken over by chains. When I was growing up our small town had a population of 5,000. Now the city proper has 15,000 residents with just as many in the county. Was this progress? Maybe the obstructionists had a point.
“Do you have a pet, Paddy?”
“No. Do you?”
“Jamie would like a dog but Carl and I work too much.”
“What does Carl think of the cat in the suitcase?”
“Is this off the record?”
“Everything we talk about is off the record, Tracy.”
I didn’t believe that one bit. “I want to know what you think first,” I said.
“I’ve been researching veterinarian crimes on the internet. There was a woman in Florida who took her sick dog to a vet to be euthanized, but the vet kept the dog alive for days doing blood transfusions for other dogs.”
“Jeez.”
“This suitcase case could be a vet gone wrong.”
“But our vet is the nicest, sweetest guy in the world,” I said. “He runs the animal shelter—don’t tell me you suspect him of slitting the poor cat’s throat!”
Paddy didn’t say a word.
What a muckraker. He would give Mother Teresa the evil eye. “And how do you explain the note?”
Paddy turned so suddenly, my scissors poked his nose. “What note?”
“Forget it.” I bit my lip. There was no mention of the note in the newspaper.
“What note, Tracy?”
“No note. Never mind.” I wished I could cut out my tongue.
“Did Chief Fort Dukes hold out on me?”
I said nothing.
“Tracy?”
“It’s off the record, right?”
“Always.”
“There was a note in the suitcase with the cat.”
I clammed up and finished his hair in silence.
Let him go back to the chief and do his dirty work. I bet Paddy’s next headline would read: “Chief Withholds Key Evidence” or “Cat Wrote Note Before Slit Throat” or “Hairy Source Close to Cat Reveal’s Murderer’s Secret.”
Petty Crimes & Head Cases Page 10