Catwalk

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  “I been seeing them, holding like this, since she very small. Eyes still closed when I meet her.” I followed his gaze to Rainbow. She was still relaxed in the box and squinting cat love at Jorge. “Mamá Rainboo trust me.”

  “I see that,” I said. “Jorge, are you okay? Yesterday was pretty tough.”

  He looked at me, and I tried to read the look in his eyes, but he had put them behind a curtain. “I ask Miss Marietta for bring Rainboo and la linda in here on Saturday. That man, he throw rocks at Rainboo and say he kill her she jump on car again.” The kitten was wriggling to get down, so Jorge set her back in the box and placed a little stuffed bear in front of her. “I tell him he sorry he do that again.”

  “You might not want to tell the police that,” I said, thinking I wish you hadn’t told me.

  Jorge laughed. “My English no perfecto, but I no stupid, Miss Janet. Police here today. They see my green card, ask questions. All okay.”

  “That’s good, Jorge.” To tell the truth, I was relieved to hear that he was a permanent resident. I knew he was from southern Mexico, from Oaxaca, but it had never occurred to me to ask about his legal status.

  “My wife, she want la gatita, and we going to try Rainboo if she live inside happy.” He brushed some fur off his sleeve. “I like you come for dinner my house sometime, Miss Janet. Mr. Tom, too. Maybe after the Thanksgiving, yes?” He smiled. “I make special food for you, Oaxaca food.”

  “You cook, Jorge?”

  “I want Oaxaca food, I cook.” He laughed. “I want American food, my wife cook.”

  The pounding in my head was worse when I got back to my van and I thought about just getting in and driving home. I scanned the parking lot, saw Tom’s “LABMOBIL” plate, and changed my mind. I dug some change out of the stash I keep in the ashtray, got Jay out of his crate, walked him to the tree line and back, and went inside.

  Tom was standing behind a free-standing barrier on wheels that Marietta moved around the obedience area, giving trainers a mobile hideaway for training their dogs for the out-of-sight stays. As I walked toward him, I could see the dogs lined up along the far side of the ring at the other end of the building. Drake was two dogs from the end.

  “Hey you,” said Tom.

  “Hey yourself.” Jay wriggled up to him and got a chin scratch, and I kissed him, then said, “Your dog is up.”

  One of Tom’s endearing qualities is a mind as dirty as my own, and I had to laugh when he raised his eyebrows and said, “That’s just my leash in my pocket.”

  “No, I mean your Labrador Retriever. He’s supposed to be in a down, right?” All the other dogs were lying down, but Drake was sitting.

  Tom stepped to the end of the barrier and took a look. “Oh, man.”

  “Want me to correct him?”

  Tom held out his hand for Jay’s leash and my training bag. The out-of-sight stays are very stressful for dogs and handlers alike, and sometimes a dog learns that if she breaks the stay, her person will come back. Having someone else put the dog back in place can break that pattern. I wasn’t the best choice to correct Drake since I was his second-best person, but no one else was available, so off I went. When he saw me coming, Drake sank to the ground, put his chin on his paws, and conjured up his best Labrador sad eyes. I bent in front of him, put my hand around his muzzle, and, in my calm-and-in-charge voice, said “Down.” He was still in that position when I got back to Tom.

  “He hasn’t done that in a long time,” said Tom.

  “Stress,” I said, taking back Jay’s leash and my training bag.

  “What’s he have to be stressed about?”

  “Not him. You. Me.”

  “Right.” Tom asked Clay Philips how much longer they had, then asked me, “You still on for Thursday?”

  Thursday? “Yeah, sure.”

  “You forgot.”

  “No, I didn’t forget.” I did, but now I remember. “Just a little preoccupied. So what time do you want to leave?”

  Tom had been looking for a puppy for months. You would think it would be a snap to find one, since Labrador Retrievers have been the most popular breed in the U.S. for more than a decade. But Tom was determined to find a dog of type he loved—moderate size and build, strong work ethic, steady temperament—from a breeder who screened for inherited issues, socialized the puppies, treated the adults well, and didn’t breed excessively. He had almost given up after several disappointments, but someone told him about a breeder they thought might fit the bill, so we were off to see her and her dogs.

  “She has a litter on the ground, right?” I asked, meaning already born. I wondered whether we’d be bringing a puppy home with us.

  “Yes, but they’re only five weeks old. Anyway, this is just a look-see. I don’t want a puppy until spring, and besides, this is a yellow litter. I’m thinking I should stick to black so all the dog hair on my clothes is the same color.”

  I brushed some long white hairs from his pants and said, “Too late.”

  When I looked back at his face, the muscles around Tom’s eyes had tightened and he wasn’t smiling. He said, “What?”

  “What what?”

  His right eyebrow rose, as if I should know what he was asking, but he didn’t say anything.

  Everyone else behind the barrier was so intent on their dogs’ stays that they probably weren’t listening, but I still wasn’t comfortable talking openly about being a possible murder suspect. I edged Tom a few feet away from the others before I whispered, “The police came to talk to me this afternoon.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Really?”

  “They didn’t actually come. They offered to come to my office, or I could go to the station. So I went there after my last class.” My heart went into sprint mode, but Tom looked like he’d just told me he went for bread and milk. He grinned and added, “I didn’t want them hauling me out of the university in handcuffs.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Tom. “More to the point, I didn’t want the dean making a fuss about how bad it looks to have police questioning faculty.” He laughed. “Although on second thought, that might be kind of fun.” Tom and one of the deans had been sparring over whether or not Tom could bring Drake with him to his office, something he’d been doing for years.

  I thought back to my own afternoon chat with the officers and felt a little sick. They must have called Tom right after they left my house. A scratch surrounded by fading blue bore witness to Rasmussen’s backhand to Tom’s cheek on Saturday, and I was sure the police would see physical assault as provocation. And Rasmussen’s insinuations about making trouble for Tom with the university could be construed as motive. What was it the cop shows say a suspect needs? Motive, opportunity, and means. Tom had all three, at least from where the investigators stood.

  twenty-nine

  Clay called time, so Tom and the others returned to where they had left their dogs in out-of-sight stays. Jay and I found a chair by the adjacent ring where heeling practice was already underway. My conversation with Tom had left dancers clogging on my skull, so I got a cola from the machine, took two aspirins, and sat down for a moment. Marietta was in the center of the ring calling commands. She waved at me, then asked someone to take over for a few minutes. She stepped over the accordion fencing that defined the ring and sat down beside me. Jay leaned into her leg and she scratched the sweet spot over his hips, freezing him in place.

  “What a screwed up weekend.”

  I nodded. “What happened with the johnny business?” I’d gotten so wound up in Rasmussen’s demise that I had almost forgotten about the crazy portable-potty chase.

  Marietta rolled her eyes. “Was that the stupidest thing you ever heard of ? I mean, sled dogs? I wouldn’t hitch a Pomeranian to a portable toilet, let alone two malamutes.” She let out something between a laugh and a snort. �
�Served her right. And John is threatening to sue her for damages. He says the unit is ruined.”

  “John?”

  “John Johnson owns Johnny-Come-Early, if you can believe that.”

  “What’s in a name?” I asked. We both chuckled, and I went on. “At least no one was really hurt,” I said. “It’s a good thing he had just switched out the johnnies.”

  “Took an hour to wash that crap out of her hair and off her skin.” Marietta said and wrinkled her nose. “Well, not actual crap. But that blue disinfectant stuff is clingy. Yuch. Had to use dog shampoo and stick her in the grooming tub. I hope I get my clothes back. I loaned her my favorite sweat pants. Gad, people.”

  “Speaking of people … How long were the police here?”

  “Hours. They finally let Clyde Williamson off the hook.” She was referring to the agility judge. “He flew in Saturday night and didn’t have a car, plus no motive. He was pretty cranky about the whole thing.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “Yeah, we won’t be hiring him again.” She stopped scratching Jay and told him to lie down. He looked at me for confirmation, then lay down across my feet. “The cops talked to me and to Jorge. He was pretty shook up,” said Marietta, “but I think that was more about those cats he’s been feeding than about what’s-his-name. What was his name? Rapscallion?”

  “Rasmussen.” I wanted to ask her what else the police wanted to know, but my phone started to ring. “Shoot. I thought I turned that off,” I said. I checked my pants and jacket, then remembered that I had dropped the silly thing into my training bag. By the time I fished it out from under my spare leash, spilled liver treats, a dumbbell, a tennis ball, and a couple of toys I use in training, it was quiet. I looked at the missed-call number and said, “Hutchinson. Maybe I should call him back.”

  Marietta didn’t seem to hear me. “Jorge was pretty mad at that guy, though. He saw him throw something at that little mama cat in the afternoon, and later in the evening, after you left, he said he saw the guy chasing the cat out near the agility ring.”

  “No! He came back onto your property?” The image of Rasmussen sitting in his car across the street came back to me. At the time, I thought he was watching for Louise to leave. She was having pizza with Alberta and some other folks, and I had no idea how long that little soirée lasted. Maybe he got tired of waiting for her. “And chasing a cat? Why would he do that?”

  “That’s what Jorge said, but it was dark out there, so maybe it wasn’t the guy, Ratsass or whatever. Maybe someone was out there running the course without a dog. Practicing their handling moves. Who knows?” Marietta stood and stepped back into the ring. “Jorge yelled at whoever it was, but he was bringing a forty-pound bag of dog food in from his truck so he didn’t go out there right then.”

  “That’s so weird,” I said. “Who runs around an agility course in the dark?”

  Marietta shrugged. “The main lights were off, but there was some light from the back of the building and the parking lot.”

  “But Jorge wasn’t sure it was Rasmussen?”

  “Oh, he seemed pretty sure. He sputtered and swore while he dumped the dog food into the bin. Then he went back out to police the yard and said he’d take care of it.”

  “Did he see anyone out there?”

  “He said he saw someone walking along the edge of the parking lot, but not on the agility course. It was odd, since almost all of the competitors had left long before that,” she said. “He did say it wasn’t Rasmussen though.”

  “How did he know?”

  “Too small.”

  Marietta resumed control of the practice ring and I just sat there for a few moments. I should have called Hutchinson right then, but I didn’t think I could stand to hear about any more friends being murder suspects and I couldn’t think of any other reason he would be calling. I closed my eyes and pressed the cold pop can against one temple, then the other, then my forehead. The icy pressure loosened the pain a notch, but the harder I tried to disentangle my thoughts, the tighter they wound themselves.

  Jay whined softly and shifted off my feet.

  “Okay, you’re right, Bubby,” I said, looking into his hopeful eyes. I strapped on my treat bag, and picked up my leash. “Come on, let’s work a little.” I’d say I did all this training and competing for Jay, to channel his high-energy mind and body into acceptable activities, but the truth is that I do it for myself. Working with my animals never fails to center me. Besides, they’re both so gorgeous, they take my breath away.

  There were only a dozen human-canine pairs working in the main ring. Rhonda Lake and Eleanor were there, and several people I didn’t remember seeing before. Probably recent graduates of the basic obedience course, I thought. Collin Lahmeyer waved at me, his Chesapeake Bay Retriever, Molly, at his side. I stepped into a gap in the line circling the ring and glanced down. Jay looked up at me, already aligned in perfect heel position, a jaunty little bounce in his step.

  “Fast!” said Marietta.

  The people in the ring shifted to jog speed. The more experienced dogs sped up and stayed in position, adjusting their strides as needed. One of the new dogs, a big brindle boy who appeared to be some sort of hound cross, bounced up and down, started to bay, and took off at a run. His owner, a thirty-something blonde in desperate need of more secure footwear for dog training, pleaded, “Stop, Billy Bob! Billy Bob, stop! Oh!” Her cute little ballet flats pitter-pattered on the ring mats but gave her no traction at all. Billy Bob let out a long “Awooo!”

  “Halt!” said Marietta.

  Everyone pulled to a stop. Except Billy Bob. He was in full cry now, although I had no idea what he was chasing. Pure joy, probably.

  “Billy Bob! Oh, oh, oh …” Billy Bob’s owner sounded like she might start a full cry of her own, but I had to give her credit for hanging onto that leash. Her dog probably weighed nearly as much as she did, and he had the advantage of two additional legs and a low center of gravity.

  Marietta tried to intercept Billy Bob, but she was too far away and he seemed to be focused on something near the pop machine by the far wall of the room. A voice in my head wondered What is this, runaway dog week? I shifted my focus from the hound and spotted a display of collars and leashes and, just beyond, something new. A rack of stuffed dog toys. I turned my gaze back to Billy Bob just as he leaped, trying to clear the folding gates that defined the ring’s perimeter. It wasn’t much of a hurdle for a big, leggy dog. Billy Bob rose a few inches off the ground, but he was handicapped by the woman who still clung to his leash. “Awooo!” he cried, and crashed head-first through the gate. The diamond-shaped opening slid over his head and neck and caught against his shoulders. Billy Bob’s momentum slowed, but he kept running, bowing the center of the gate like an arrow, his own body the point he aimed at his target. The ends lifted off the stanchions as they stretched and flapped behind him like wings. His owner took several tripping steps, stumbled to her knees, and let go of the leash.

  Giselle had appeared from the back of the building. For an instant she stood slack-jawed between Billy Bob and the toy display. Then she let out a scream, scooped Precious up from the floor, and scampered back the way she’d come in. Tom and the rest of the group in the other ring were turning toward the ruckus with various levels of comprehension.

  Billy Bob folded his front quarters in an obvious attempt to stop, but he was off the mats and his elbows skidded across the smooth concrete. He crashed into the toys, knocking the rack up against the wall, and his wooden wings flapped and stretched open around him, wobbled, and finally stopped. Billy Bob pulled his head out of the gate and loped back to where his person crouched weeping on the floor. He sat in front of her, his body cocked sideways onto one hip and one long ear flipped rakishly back across his neck. He put a big paw on the woman’s shoulder, an oversized pink-and-purple octopus dangling from his mouth.

  thirty
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  By ten o’clock I was snuggled into Tom’s big cushy armchair, a fleece throw tucked around me and an “Archeologists do it in the dirt” mug of Irish coffee warming my hands. Tom sat facing me on the couch, feet stretched onto a hassock and a dog cuddled up to him on each side. Drake had rolled part-way over for a chest-and-belly rub. Jay was snuggled up close with his nose nearly touching Tom’s and a love-gaze locking them together. The rest of the world receded and I knew somewhere deeper than words could reach that this was everything I had always wanted—love, loyalty, and my freedom to boot.

  Jay lay down and heaved an enormous sigh, and Drake rolled fully onto his back. The spell was broken, but the afterglow lingered, even when Tom said, “You goofy dogs.”

  I swallowed some more coffee and licked the whipped cream from my lips. “Why do you have an archeologist mug?” I asked, enjoying the low buzz as the whiskey spread itself out from my center.

  “Gift from a cousin who calls me Indiana Saunders. He thinks all anthropologists are treasure hunters.”

  I cocked my head at him.

  “It’s true, we are. But not all treasures are buried under the ground.”

  “I wish I’d had my camera tonight.” Billy Bob’s great escape kept rerunning in my mind.

  Tom laughed. “That was a pretty spectacular crash into the display. I felt sorry for Billy Bob’s owner, but it was funny.”

  “But did you see him when he went back to her?” I asked. “Those beautiful eyes, and the paw on her shoulder.” My voice broke on the final word and I almost burst into tears.

  “Hey, you okay?” Tom started to get up, but I waved him off. “Is this the ‘I love dogs so much I get all choked up’ thing or something else?”

  He knows me too well. He knows you just right, whispered my snarky little inner demon. Besides, your dog and cat love him and trust him. What more do you need? It was true. They would have brought him home and kept him months ago.

  I smiled at Tom, squirmed deeper into the chair, sipped my Irish coffee, and screwed up my courage. “Tom, I’ve been thinking …”