Paws For Death

by Susan Union

  She sank back into the pillow. Why couldn’t she have a normal mother? In elementary school, her friends’ moms made turkey and cheese, bologna, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch. Gave them shiny apples, corn chips, and homemade brownies. She, on the other hand, had crumpled bills hastily shoved in her pocket as her mother bent over to put on her pumps, hopping on one foot, before she ran out the door to show a house or attend a closing.

  Randi’s friends had envied her—she got to pick whatever she wanted from the vending machine—but she would have given her left leg for just one thing her mother put together with her own two hands.

  ****

  Saturday morning found Randi all twisted up in the covers. She unwound them from her legs and flung them off. Shane circled the kitchen, muttering for his breakfast. She climbed down the ladder, stiff and sore from her fall off Oro, wincing with each step. Her shoulder had taken the brunt of her spill, but her entire body hurt. Biting the dust at twenty-nine was a far cry from getting dumped at thirteen.

  She scooped Shane’s kibble into his bowl. He whined and twirled in circles, snapping at his tail. “Hold onto your britches, Shaney-boy. Your breakfast isn’t that late.” She bent over to put the bowl on the floor and a wrenching pain grabbed her lower back. Ouch. She was too young for this crap, right?

  Straightening, she stared out the window. Low, dense clouds, the color of dirty ice milk, were piling up outside above the orange grove. June gloom to match her mood. When she was young, with her life stretching before her, thirty had been a million years away. She was supposed to have it all figured out by now—mentally she’d be secure in her skin, financially—no worries, and her love life—the icing on the cake. Her existence would be exciting and vibrant. A thrill a minute.

  What would her thirteen-year-old self say to her? Would she be proud, or ashamed?

  Pretty sure she knew the answer. She whirled around and flopped into a chair. Oh hell, what did that pious little girl know about life anyway? Tucking her heels to her butt, she pulled her favorite V-neck T-shirt over her knees. Actually, the shirt belonged to Luke. He’d been gelding a colt one morning and had gotten blood all over it. He’d given the stain that helpless look men have when it comes to laundry, so she’d taken it from him, promising she’d work on the blood. The stain came out but she never returned the shirt. He hadn’t asked for it and, in the meantime, she’d become quite fond of it. Finders keepers, or a variation thereof.

  She opened her laptop. She hadn’t slept, but she’d done a lot of thinking. Not only about where her mother might have gone, but also where she’d been, and who she’d been with. One name kept popping up. Jordan. Problem was she couldn’t remember his last name. She typed Jordan into the Google search box then sat there hoping the rest of it would magically follow.

  It didn’t.

  She let Shane out in the yard and fixed herself a cup of coffee. There had to be another way to find the guy. What had her mother told her about him? He had a trust fund and, at thirty-seven, twelve years younger than her mother, mind you, considered himself a true Don Juan and had some sort of hobby—besides women.

  A hobby; she drummed her nails on the desk.

  That’s right. Jordan made things.

  Crafts.

  With knives.

  Woodworking. That was it! He sculpted wood. Mating animals. How could she have forgotten? Her mother had sent her photos of his art. Turtles, giraffes, rhinos, all going at it. Too bad she’d deleted the pictures.

  She added woodwork after Jordan and a myriad of sites appeared. She scrolled down and chose the one with a thumbnail of a good-looking guy. Jordan Woodcut. Seriously? What was it with her mother and guys with made up names?

  She scowled at the pairs of copulating animals, clicked on the contact button and began to type: Hi, Jordan. I don’t know if Lee Ann Sterling ever mentioned me, but I’m her daughter, Randi. My mother is missing. Please be so kind as to respond to this e-mail if you’ve seen or heard from her.

  The clock above the kitchen sink said 8:10. She’d wanted to be at the fairgrounds by seven. Unfolding herself from the chair, she poured another cup of coffee, pulled a bowl from the cupboard and filled it with shredded wheat. A little fiber in her belly and caffeine in her bloodstream and she’d be ready to face to the task before her—she hoped.

  ****

  The marine layer burned off early, pushing the temperature to the mid-seventies by nine. Randi knocked on Dainsworth’s door. A curtain flickered, but the door stayed closed. She waited, knocked again then a third time.

  Finally the door cracked open about an inch. “Yes?” Dainsworth used a voice reserved for butlers in horror movies.

  “I’m looking for my mother. Have you seen her?”

  “No.”

  Randi slid the toe of her boot into the narrow space at the bottom of the door. “She’s missing.”

  Dainsworth stared. Randi’s skin began to prickle. She needed to get inside the motorhome and see for herself if her mother was there. “Shane’s acting funny this morning.” She hoped she wasn’t giving herself bad karma. “He won’t eat. Didn’t even twitch when a mouse ran by on the windowsill. I was hoping you could take a look at him, since the two of you have such a deep connection and all.”

  The door widened another couple of inches. Dainsworth had on a silky smoking jacket. The kind a gangster might wear while partaking in a nightcap, but this was morning. He lifted his chin, peering at Shane standing with his front paws on the steps below. He whined and flopped his tail. Dainsworth looked down at Randi’s foot. “All my energy is tied up with another client at the moment.”

  Tied up? Literally? Is that how he maintains control of his clients? Shane climbed two more stairs, pushed past Randi’s legs and stuck his snout through the gap. A round of ferocious yaps blasted from the other side and a beige-colored ball of fluff leapt up and down. Visible, then not, over and over. At least such bouncy movement proved the dog wasn’t literally tied up.

  Dainsworth put the toe of his slipper against the toe of her boot, pushed it out of the way and shut the door in her face.

  Randi found a flat spot under a tree away from all the commotion. A quiet place to gather her thoughts. She spotted a nearby spigot with a community dog bowl underneath and filled it for Shane. He drank with gusto, water sloshing. She scratched his favorite spot above his tail and leaned against the wide, flat tree trunk. She’d only been out of bed a couple of hours, but mentally, she was already beat.

  Forcing herself to move, she collected Shane’s leash. Time to search the fairgrounds. What did she expect find? Her mother peering around a corner? The shadow of Jojo’s plumed tail sashaying between the vendor tents? Did it matter? What choice did she have? The dog trial was as good a place as any to start her search.

  She passed the grandstand. Seemed like months, not days, since she and her mother had climbed the benches with the anticipation of seeing Gina run Zoom. If she could turn back the clock, could she have stopped the monster who wanted Gina dead? Certainly not without knowing who it was.

  Randi found Earl and his French bulldog next to the big arena. Earl stood on the far side of a jump. The bulldog sat ten feet opposite. “Pierre, come!” Earl slapped his thighs. Pierre lumbered toward the jump and threw his front legs over, twisting his back so his hind end would clear the bar. It wasn’t pretty, but it got the job done. Earl smiled and called to Randi. “You see my boy? He sure is something, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is.” She closed the distance between them and patted Pierre on the head.

  He wagged his entire back end, breathing like a freight train, his bat-like ears perked.

  “How ’bout your guy?” Earl nodded toward Shane. “Nice-looking dog. Got some speed to him I bet.”

  She rubbed the top of Shane’s black and silver head. “Oh, yeah, he’s fast all right, but I don’t know if he’d be any good at agility. Speed’s not the problem.”

  “What is?”

  “H
e’s not wild about taking orders. He prefers ‘suggestions.’”

  Earl smiled through a row of tobacco-stained teeth. “Northern breeds. Got minds of their own. Not a bad thing when the dog knows the trail better than the musher does.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

  “You ever take him in the snow?”

  “All the time, when I lived in Colorado.”

  Earl snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Your mother’s visiting from there. I like her. She around?”

  “She packed her stuff and left my place yesterday without a word.”

  Earl shook his head. “Strange. You must be worried. Ask people. Somebody’s bound to have seen her.” Earl cocked his head. “I’m not a betting man, but I’d put down money she’ll turn up this afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re planning a service for Gina over at the reception hall. Everyone will show, believe me. It’s something to do around here, besides run dogs, I guess.”

  Earl had a point. No way in hell would Lee Ann miss her best friend’s memorial. Even if they hadn’t been close, Southern tradition said regardless of how long it’d been since you laid eyes on the deceased, you came and put on a smile and paid your respects to the family. Period. “Did Gina have a lot of friends?”

  Earl crossed his arms. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead or nothing, but not many people actually liked her. They hung around her because she was a winner. Everybody admires a winner, right? Problem is, she wasn’t the friendliest woman on the planet.” Earl raised an eyebrow. “You know her a long time?”

  “All my life.”

  He nodded. “She mighta changed when she got into this sport. People act all smiley and nicey-nicey, but it’s dog-eat-dog out there. No pun intended. ’Specially at the top. On any given day, Gina and Steve, the two best ones, were likely to kill each other. Acted all wacko. Sometimes they wouldn’t speak, like the other didn’t exist. Other times, like the incident I told you about, they were as thick as thieves.” Earl shook his head and scooped up Pierre. “Find Sheila. Remember her? With the blue Aussie? She’ll have the details on the service.”

  Find Sheila. Easier said than done. Between the dogs, exhibitors, merchants and spectators, the fairgrounds was a zoo.

  Shane forged his way through the crowd under brilliant sunshine, tongue hanging out. Randi wished she had worn a tank top. She spotted Sheila and her Aussie high in the grandstand, both staring intently at an exhibitor running a leggy black poodle around the course. Shane climbed the metal stairs slow and steady and, this time, he didn’t slip. Her dog was a quick learner.

  Randi focused on Sheila, not wanting her to disappear among the sea of heads, but when her phone rang, Randi’s eyes dropped to her pocket. Her mother! Had to be. Heart racing, she yanked it out and checked the screen. Kira. Damn.

  “What’s wrong?” Kira asked. “You don’t sound happy to hear from me.”

  “No, it’s not that. I still haven’t heard from my mother.”

  “And you were hoping I was her. Sorry.”

  “Not your fault.” Randi slipped the end of Shane’s leash over her hand and plugged her free ear to block the sound of barking dogs. “What’s up?” She considered it rude when people said that to her at the start of a phone conversation, but in this instance, it was necessary. Sheila was collecting her things and getting ready to head out and seventy-five people blocked the way.

  “I’m calling to tell you I took the day off to help you search for your mom.”

  Sheila stood. Randi raised her arm in desperation, but Sheila was already moving in the opposite direction.

  “Where are you?” Kira asked.

  “At the fairgrounds. There’s a memorial service for Gina this afternoon.” She bumped her way through the crowd, dragging Shane behind her.

  “Great. I’ll come with.”

  “Can you do me a favor and bring Mel?”

  “What for? Bait?”

  “Sort of. I made up a lie about Mel and Gina getting back together and Steve Copeland, Gina’s supposed fiancé, didn’t react the way I expected him to. I’d like to judge their reaction to each other. We might uncover a motive.”

  An uproar from the crowd stopped Randi in her tracks. “Well, well, well. Speak of the devil. Gotta go. See you soon.”

  Copeland’s dog Blast flew from the tunnel as Copeland cued him to the A-frame. Blast slithered up and down the obstacle in a zipper-like blur. Fascinated, Randi lowered herself onto a bench. Copeland thrust out his left hand and Blast flew over the next jump at warp speed. Copeland ran in front of the obstacle and sent Blast through the tire. They completed the rest of the course as flawlessly as Gina and Zoom. Copeland and Blast were a perfect team. So why does he need Zoom?

  Perhaps in time Copeland would miss his old rivalry with Gina and find it boring all alone at the top. Or, perhaps the next real challenge awaiting him was how to get away with murder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Time was running out, and so were Randi’s options. Like the newspapers always said when quoting the families of missing persons, it was the not knowing what happened that made her crazy. If her mother didn’t show up at Gina’s memorial this afternoon, Randi had no choice but to go to the police with the news she’d skipped town. Whatever happened after that had to be better than this awful limbo.

  Randi allowed her back to slide down along the trunk of a tree not far from the grandstand. The bark raked her skin until her butt hit the damp earth at the base. She closed her eyes, her stomach a hollow pit. The feathery part of Shane’s tail brushed against her cheek as he shook himself, rattling his dog tags.

  She opened her eyes. Sheila and her Aussie, Bess, stood five feet away. Sheila waved a section of the paper. Randi scrambled to her feet. News of her mother?

  Sheila scowled. “These people ought to be shot.”

  “What people?” Lightheaded from standing too fast, she leaned against the tree for support.

  Sheila thrust the newspaper at her. A section had been folded to show a photograph of large blue buckets filled with fur coats. Randi took a closer look. No…not coats. A dog’s head, maybe two, a pair of eyes and tiny ears. Puppies, piled on top of one another. The sides of the bucket were tall and slick so the poor little things couldn’t climb out.

  The text below the photo read: 97 puppies seized in raid of Oklahoma puppy mill. The puppies--Pomeranians, papillons, and French bulldogs—were found in buckets. Ten were dead, the rest severely dehydrated. Officers quickly rushed the puppies to a local veterinarian, where they are currently being treated.

  Randi passed the paper back to Sheila. “What kind of person would do that?”

  Sheila lifted her chin. “If Gina were around, you could ask her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sheila propped her hands on her hips. “It was Gina’s nasty little secret, in blatant violation of an unwritten rule among agility folk.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “We do not, under any circumstances, patronize puppy mill breeders or pet shops. Have you ever seen one of those mill operations? The conditions they house the dogs in? The way they’re treated?” She pulled Bess closer and stroked her fur. “Deplorable. Keeping those bastards in business is a crime in my book.”

  Randi stubbed her toe in the dirt. “No argument there.” The photograph was burned forever in her brain. Innocent puppies climbing over the bodies of their brothers and sisters, desperate to escape their slick-sided prison. For the life of her she’d never understand what kind of humans abused animals. “I don’t understand what Gina has to do with any of that. Could you please explain?”

  “Gina profited somehow. I don’t know all the details, but she was hiding something. Hard to keep secrets in the agility world, but that woman managed.”

  “You ever ask her?”

  Sheila pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “Lots of us tried to talk to Gina, but she had a br
ick wall around her.”

  “I’ve known Gina forever. I can’t believe she’d be involved in anything like that.” She rubbed her bruised shoulder, which was starting to ache.

  “Are you hurting? Try white willow bark. It’s a natural anti-inflammatory. You can get it at health food stores.”

  White willow bark? She preferred the harder stuff, like Advil. The only thing alternative medicines did for her was send her running for the bathroom. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You fell off Kira’s horse, right?”

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “Bunch of us were at the bar when you called to tell her about your mother being gone. Of course she shared the news with us, since we’re all in the loop. I heard her say something about riding to you and when she hung up I asked her if she had a horse.”

  Randi took a step back. Luke had said anyone could have come down his driveway and gone into his tack room, spiky seed pods in hand. “Did Kira tell you where she keeps her horse?”

  “No.” Sheila looked at her funny. “I didn’t ask. I was just making conversation because I used to ride jumpers. Gave it up for agility when I fell off at a six-foot oxer with a five-foot spread and broke my collarbone.” She put a hand to her neck, as if telling about it brought back the pain. “Hard to get hurt running your dog.”

  Unless you’re Gina. From the way Sheila’s voice fell away, Randi could tell Sheila was thinking the same thing.

  “Anyway,” Sheila jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Gina’s service is at the reception hall at the west end. Dogs welcome, but don’t come hungry. That cheapskate brother of hers didn’t want to serve a full meal. It’s light appetizers at two.”

  ****

  Randi sat on a bench near the fairground’s entrance gate, Shane passed out at her feet. He’d been so lethargic since his meeting with Dainsworth. Or was she just imagining? Hard to tell.

  The rumble of Kira’s yellow Mustang GT shook the wood beneath her thighs, preceding the sight of the car turning into the parking lot.