Catwalk

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  “Right. I knew that.” The memory of Rasmussen’s bloodied and misshapen head sent a shudder through my shoulders.

  Hutchinson gave me a blank look, and the shudder repeated itself.

  “I saw him in the tunnel, remember?” No response. “On Sunday morning. I crawled in to see, you know, to check for a pulse.” Hutchinson nodded. “His head was, I don’t know, misshapen?”

  “How awful,” said Goldie, but her tone didn’t fit her content. She sort of crooned the words to “her” kitten.

  “It was awful,” I said.

  Alberta snorted.

  “I know he was an ass, but still,” I said. “I mean, I’d have been happy never to see him again, but I didn’t wish him dead.”

  “Well, I suspect a lot of people did,” said Alberta.

  “From what I saw, he gave lots of people lots of reasons. I …” I glanced at Goldie and she stared into my eyes, flicked her gaze toward Hutchinson and back to me, and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. She’s right, whispered my inner guardian angel. He may be a friend of sorts, but he’s still a cop. Logic argued that it made no difference since I had done nothing wrong, but I decided that Goldie was right, I should for once try not to blurt out too much. “Never mind.”

  Hutchinson’s lip twisted and he said, “So here’s the odd thing. This came from the EMT at the scene.” He paused to reposition his kitten. “He told me, you know, before I knew who the victim was, he said there was something mixed in with the blood on the guy’s head. You know, on the wound, where he got whacked.” Hutchinson repositioned his kitten. “So the guy, I mean the EMT, not Rasmussen, wondered what it was, so he touched it and smelled it, and he was pretty sure it was feces.”

  No one said anything for a moment, and then Alberta spoke.

  “Always said he had shit for brains.” Alberta looked at each of us in turn. “What?” No one said anything, and I confess that, although I felt guilty since a man was dead, I did have to agree with her. I didn’t dare look at Goldie. I could feel her trying not to laugh.

  When Hutchinson finally broke the silence, he just made it worse. “Isn’t that bizarre? How in the heck would he get poop in his hair?”

  I bit my lip and managed not to say what I was thinking about where Rasmussen seemed to have his head when I met him. I was afraid to look at any of the others, and then a strangled squeal snuck out of Goldie’s mouth, and Alberta started to titter, and Hutchinson laughed, and then we were all laughing. Finally Goldie said, “Oh, my. I am not laughing because a man is dead, but …”

  I laid a hand on her knee and said, “We all know that. We all know.”

  When we were calm again, Hutchinson spoke. “I didn’t see any dog poop, er, feces in there, you know, around the jumps and the tunnel and stuff, so I don’t think he could have fallen in it.”

  “No, I’ve almost never seen a dog poop in an agility ring, and if they did, the ring crew would clean it right up,” I said.

  Alberta added, “Marietta keeps that whole place very clean. Well, Jorge does.”

  “Yeah, they do.” I had been training at Dog Dayz for years, and she was right, the place was kept immaculate, other than the occasional gift from an antisocial dog owner. Even those got picked up quickly.

  “So any ideas?” asked Hutchinson.

  At first my mind was devoid of non-snarky ideas. Then, with the bite of ice water, a memory. Giselle. I had just left her a couple of hours earlier, and although I couldn’t recall exactly what she had said, the fragments that came to mind scared the bejeepers out of me. Pooper scooper … swinging and pounding … hitting and hitting … couldn’t stop.

  She couldn’t stop, but I had to. I pushed the half-formed accusation away and forced myself into the present. “I thought you were off this case?” I said.

  Before Hutchinson could answer, Alberta said, “Hello, sweetheart,” and I followed her gaze. Gypsy stood in the doorway, eyes wide and tail straight up and fluffed in alarm. Within seconds, though, she relaxed and strolled into the room, glancing from one kitten to another. I was closest to the door, so first on her list. She stepped delicately onto my thigh and leaned up and in toward her tabby daughter, saw that she was safe, and moved on to Goldie and then Hutchinson. When she was satisfied, she got into the carrier and began to wash her paws.

  “Ooh wook jus wike your mama, don’t ooh,” Hutchinson said. Then he seemed to remember that he wasn’t alone with his kitten. He pulled his shoulders back, cleared his throat, and said, “Yeah, the case.”

  “You’re off it?”

  “Yeah, for now. But my buddies tell me a little.” He looked me in the eye. “You have any ideas?”

  “How would I know?” It came out a little more high-pitched and whiney than I would have liked, but I wrestled my voice into submission and pressed on. “Everybody seemed to hate the guy. But not enough to kill him.” I hoped I sounded more convinced than I felt.

  “I did,” said Alberta. “I mean, I hated him enough to kill him.” She stared at Hutchinson over the top of her glasses. “But I didn’t.”

  “Be careful who you say that to,” said Hutchinson, and Alberta snorted.

  “Maybe it was an accident,” said Goldie. “I mean, what was he doing out there in the dark anyway? Maybe he tripped and fell.”

  “So what happens now?” I asked. “I mean, do they have a list of suspects or something?”

  “They’re waiting for forensics, I think, although I guess the lab guys are having a little trouble, considering how many dogs ran through that tunnel.”

  Goldie’s black kitten began to mewl and wriggle, and as if that flipped a switch, the other two did the same. Gypsy meowed back, and Hutchinson said, “Okay, wittle girl, time for your snack.” He placed her gently against her mother and stroked the older cat’s cheek with one finger. Goldie and I put our kittens beside the calico. All four humans in the room watched in contented silence. We may even have been purring.

  twenty-seven

  Goldie talked through most of the drive home, beginning with variations on a theme of “aren’t they amazing little creatures and isn’t that black kitten the most perfect baby cat ever created?” I listened with half my mind while the other half teased apart a tangle of thoughts about motives, passions, and the potential for pretty much anyone to do things you don’t expect. I knew all the potential suspects, some of them quite well. Did someone I knew and liked and basically trusted bash a man’s head in?

  No, of course not, whispered one inner voice. It was someone else. A stranger. Maybe an accident.

  Then the other voice piped up. It could happen.

  And based on the past year of my life, I knew that was true. Someone I knew and liked and trusted may have killed Rasmussen.

  Goldie seemed to pick up on my thoughts, and her shift in topic penetrated the partition in my mind. “So who do you think did it?”

  “No idea.”

  “Pfffttt. Come on, Janet. It’s me you’re talking to.”

  My fingers began to cramp and I realized that I had the steering wheel in a death grip. I forced my hands to relax a notch, and said, “No, really, I don’t know that I seriously suspect anyone. But …” I took a deep breath. “But the guy was so nasty, so threatening, that I could see someone striking out in fear or self-defense or …”

  “Rage.”

  “Yes, rage.” We were on State, approaching Anthony. “Do you mind if I swing by Shadetree for a few minutes?”

  “No.”

  “I’d like to check on Mom.”

  “No problem.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  Goldie gave my shoulder a little push. “Janet, why don’t we swing by Shadetree? I’d love to see your mom.”

  I turned south on Anthony and asked Goldie, “Have you ever been that angry? I mean, enraged to the point that you thought you could
kill someone?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Once. I saw a man spit on a child in Birmingham.” A strange hot thread wound through Goldie’s voice, the anger still present all these years later. “The little boy was four or five years old. I thought he would be frightened, and I’m sure he was, but he just wiped his cheek and looked at the man and smiled. And the guy called him a string of filthy names, and the boy’s mother started to pull the kid out of the way, and she screamed names of her own at the guy.”

  I pulled into the Shadetree parking lot, turned off the ignition, and looked at Goldie, waiting for her to finish. When she didn’t speak, I said, “Black kid?”

  “No. White. He was with his mother, and she was there like I was, supporting the cause.”

  “Pretty low, treating a child that way,” I said.

  “That made me angry, of course, but it was nothing out of the ordinary, considering the setting. But then he pushed them. He rushed them and shoved his hand against the little boy and practically lifted him into his mother, and they fell back and I could see that she was hurt, you know, actually injured. And I wanted to kill him.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t. But I might have tried if the little boy hadn’t spoken right then.” Goldie closed her eyes and took a long breath that I recognized as her centering technique.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “He picked himself up and looked at the man and said, ‘I hope you find some happy peace, Mister.’ I’ll never forget those words. That was the last I saw of him. People sort of closed around him and his mother, and got her up and out of the way.” Goldie turned and seemed to look right into me. “So I understand that kind of rage. And I know you don’t buy some of the things I believe, but I think that boy was sent to teach me, and I think he saved me from doing something evil, then and later.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, then stepped out of the warm van into a stiff, cold wind. “Wow, it must be twenty degrees colder than when I walked Jay this morning,” I said. I had to hang on tight to keep the door into Shadetree from flying wide when I opened it.

  The lobby was warm and bright and welcoming. Jade Templeton, the manager, was speaking to someone near her office door, but she waved and smiled at us.

  “Let’s check the lounge and garden first,” I said. “Mom is usually in one or the other this time of day.”

  “I’d forgotten how cheery this place is,” said Goldie. “Oh, there’s cute little Percy.”

  She was right. The little gray Poodle jauntied his way to us, tail wagging. He wriggled and whined and rubbed my leg, and I squatted to return his greeting. “You look like you own the place, little man,” I said.

  Goldie petted him as well, and said, “I’m so glad Ms. Templeton adopted him. A match made in heaven.” Percy had moved in with Jade when his owners were killed, and now he came to work with her, serving as one of the resident pets to the many residents who missed their own animals. The other was a pretty little gray-and-white cat who went by whatever names the residents called her. The little dog took his duties seriously, and soon trotted off to greet a little group of residents who were sitting in a nearby alcove.

  My mother was nowhere in sight, but Anthony Marconi waved from a bench in the indoor garden room and we made our way to him.

  “Good morning, Janet,” he said, then bowed slightly to Goldie. “And Goldie, I presume. Anthony Marconi.”

  Goldie held out her hand and said, “It’s so nice to meet you finally. How did you know?”

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” Marconi smiled, but the look faded. “Your mother is, umm, not feeling well today. She just fell asleep a few minutes ago.”

  Ah, shit, I thought. I had hoped the Marconi spell would last.

  “It’s okay, Janet,” he continued. “I sit with her and, really, it’s okay when she thinks I’m someone else, you know, your dad or your brother mostly. I mean, what difference does it make, really, if she still loves me?” He smiled again, but it was different. Bittersweet.

  “Mr. Marconi, I’m sorry for your family’s loss,” said Goldie.

  For a moment, Marconi looked like he had no idea what Goldie was talking about, and when he recovered, he looked anything but grieved. “No great loss,” he said, and followed with, “Sorry. That’s rude of me, and I appreciate your concern. It’s just that Charles, well … hard to explain …”

  “No explanation necessary,” I said. “I met him, and Goldie’s heard about him.”

  “Yes, well, I’d as soon have been shed of him years ago,” he said.

  My judgmental left eyebrow wanted to grab my hairline, but I caught it in time. I couldn’t resist a glance at Goldie, though, and she reciprocated, and I’m sure that the message going both ways was Marconi could have done it.

  By the time we walked back to the car, the wind had strengthened and the temperature had dropped enough to make us pull our coats tight to the throats. It was still sunny where we were, but the sky to the northwest was a wall of cold gray and it seemed to be coming our way. As soon as we were in the car, we both started to talk.

  “You first,” I said, fiddling with the temperature and fan settings.

  “What do you think?” asked Goldie, patting her own cheeks. “He was there, right? And he had plenty of motive.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, come on, the guy is what? Eighty-three? Eighty-four? Besides, he wouldn’t have been there that late.”

  “Have you felt his grip?” She asked. “And did you look at his cane? It’s not plastic, you know. It’s brier. I have a walking stick made of the same stuff. It’s hard and it’s heavy.” She held her hands in batting position and swung. “Bam!”

  I looked at her, then back at the road. She was right. Marconi was there on Saturday, and I couldn’t forget the look on his face when Charles Rasmussen manhandled Louise.

  Goldie declined my invitation to come in. She gave me a hug and left me feeling pretty glum as I pushed the button to close the garage door. As always, though, stepping into the furry arms waiting inside the door made the world a brighter place. Jay bounced and wriggled in front of me, and Leo rubbed against the backs of my legs and chirped. I let Jay out the back door and ran to the bathroom with Leo right behind me. He hopped onto the side of the tub and I stroked him and said, “Hang on, Catman. I’ll feed you in a minute.”

  When I saw my hair in the mirror, I amended that. “Okay, Leo mio, hang on. Gotta tame this mess.” The wind had tied my curly hair into knots, and I think I left half of it in my brush, but I got it smoothed down enough to twist it around and jaw-clip it into submission. I was back in the kitchen warming Leo’s home-cooked turkey dinner when the doorbell rang. Jay barked and banged into the back door, and Leo yowled impatiently.

  “Okay, okay.” The doorbell rang again, and someone knocked. Loudly. “Hang on, will ya?” I shouted, setting Leo’s food on his little table in the laundry room. I had created a cat station there and another in the garage to keep his food and litter box out of canine reach. I reset the baby gate to keep Jay out of there, and went to the front door. The knocking resumed as I unlocked the doorknob, and I had a mouthful of unfriendly things ready to explode from my lips. I did, that is, until I saw the two uniformed police officers on my porch.

  twenty-eight

  By the time I got to Dog Dayz for obedience practice, my stomach had let loose some of the knots the police had inspired, but my head was starting to pound. I wasn’t sure which was worse. Either way, I figured I’d work Jay a little since he had been locked up most of the day, and then go home early and abandon reality for a good book.

  “Helloo, Miss Janet.” The voice was behind me, but I would know Jorge’s breathy “j” anywhere.

  “Hola, Jorge.” The man was grinning like the Cheshire cat, and I couldn’t help smiling back. “What are you so happy about?”

  �
�You haff a minute? You come see?” He gestured a “follow me,” so I made sure Jay’s crate latch was secure and said, “Okay, if it won’t take too long.”

  He was already walking toward the door to the office at the front of the building. There were two front doors, and the one he opened was not only locked, but had a sign that said “NO DOGS!” in big orange letters. Marietta often left her own dog loose in the office, so it was off limits, absent an invitation. Jorge had a key, and free run of the place, so I considered myself invited. I stepped into the warm room and wrinkled my nose at a distinctly fishy smell.

  “Come, you see,” he said, waving me forward with one hand and indicating a cardboard box with the other. “I find little Rainboo and her gatita.”

  I squeezed between the big desk and an enormous battered green filing cabinet and looked into the box. The little tortoiseshell cat I had seen at the tree line on Saturday was stretched full length, licking a carbon copy of herself. This kitten was older than Gypsy’s brood.

  Jorge reached into the box, picked up the kitten, and held her close. “Is beautiful gatita, no, Miss Janet?”

  “She is beautiful, Jorge. They both are.” The kitten had her blue-green eyes fixed on my face. They were fully open, as were her ears, and she was probably half as big as her mother, so I figured she was five or six weeks old. “Just one kitten?”

  Jorge frowned. “There were more, but they disappear. Maybe el gato, you know, the male, maybe he kill the others.” He shook his head sadly, then brightened. “But la linda is safe now.”

  “Her name is Linda?”

  “No, no,” he laughed. “She is linda, you know, pretty. Muy linda.”

  I reached out and stroked the side of the kitten’s face and she pushed her cheek into my hand. “She’s very comfortable with people for a feral kitten.”