by Susan Union
Shane scrambled to sit and cocked an ear.
The Mustang parked and Kira and Mel spilled out. Two of Mel’s dogs followed. Emma, the Border terrier, and the black pug, whose name Randi couldn’t remember.
Kira was taller than Mel, with more meat on her bones, and her skin had the pallor of someone who spent too much time indoors, where Mel had a deep, golden tan. Other than that, with similar facial structure and the same confident stride, the two of them could have been sisters.
They met up at the gate. Mel tossed a sleek ribbon of flaxen hair over her shoulder. In the past, Randi had tried to straighten her own natural waves and lighten her chestnut-colored locks, but the dark roots grew back with a vengeance and her curls refused to be tamed. Waste of time, money, and self-esteem.
Mel lifted her chin, frowning at the crowd gathered around the low-slung white brick outbuilding half a football field past the fairground’s entrance. “I don’t know about this.”
“What’s wrong?”
“These people don’t like me.”
“We’ll protect you,” Kira said. “What’re they going to do? Bite?”
Shane strained at his leash, the way he did around smaller dogs. Assuming he wanted to test if they squeaked like his stuffed monkey, Randi shortened his lead. “You have as much right as anyone to be here.”
Mel planted her feet, mule-like. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Randi was doing her best to be patient, but more than anything, she wanted to get inside the gate and look for her mother. “What’s your dog’s name again?”
“Polly.” Mel crinkled her brows and scowled, like she was ticked off Randi couldn’t remember. “Pee Pee for short. She goes a lot, so the nickname fits.”
“Polly Pee Pee. Got it. I won’t forget again. Come on, let’s go.”
Mel sighed and started off. Randi led them through the turnstile and down the promenade to the fairgrounds conference room/clubhouse, where a line was forming at the door. She scanned the length of the queue. No Mom, no Steve Copeland or anyone else she recognized for that matter.
Kira tapped her foot on the blacktop. “I know I said I’d take the afternoon off to help you, Ran, but all I could squeeze out was about ninety minutes. Hope this shindig doesn’t last too long. It’s not like you can get up in the middle of a memorial and walk out.”
“Pretend like you’re hittin’ the ladies’ room. Nobody will care. While you’re in there, look for my mother.” In a weird way, being flippant eased Randi’s anxiety. Like the whole thing was a big joke.
“For sure.”
“Hey, remember when I called you at work and told you my mother skipped out? Do you remember who was in the bar?”
“Whole bunch of agility folks. I told them what happened. I assumed you wanted me to help spread the word.”
“That’s fine. I just wondered if you noticed anyone in particular, or if anybody stuck out.”
“The guy with dreads was there, along with about ten other people, but to me, all those doggy types kind of look alike.”
So Copeland knew her mother disappeared. Funny, he hadn’t mentioned it.
The building where the memorial was to take place bordered an estuary. A narrow strip of stagnant water curled around the structure’s white brick sides. Shorebirds skimmed and dipped along the surface, and clouds of insects moved as a giant mass.
Mel waved her hand in front of her nose. “Damn! That reeks. What’s in there? Fairground sewage?”
Others standing quietly ahead of them, adhering to normal pre-memorial service behavior, turned and stared. Mel didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t care. A surprise, considering she’d been reluctant to show up in the first place and worried about what those who recognized her might think.
The line moved at a snail’s pace. At Randi’s feet, a narrow planter filled with plastic philodendron ran the length of the wall. Fake flowers? Outdoors? Gina, with her worldly modeling glamour, no doubt would have preferred a venue with a smidgen more class for her send-off, although that, along with when and where one met up with the reaper, was out of one’s hands.
Randi rotated like a sprinkler head as she scanned the grounds for her mother. Her speed increased, as did her panic, and with each pass, her anxiety grew. She had felt this same way when she was six and lost her mother in JC Penney. If she could scream and cry now like she had then, without being hauled away in a straitjacket, she would.
A cardboard sign was posted near the entrance: One dog per person. Kira took Polly’s leash to even things out. The line started to move along and a minute later, they were standing in front of Valerie. Her eyes were red and her mascara smudged as she handed out a thick, single sheet stock card to each person at the door.
The cover picture had Gina standing tall and proud on a winner’s podium. Zoom, in all his silky black and white glory, sat next to her, bestowing upon her the same God-like trance he’d given her in the agility ring. Both Gina and Zoom had medals around their necks. Gina held hers high for the camera.
Poor Zoom. He had to wonder when Gina was coming back. Every time the door to Copeland’s motorhome opened, he likely stopped what he was doing and stood at attention. Would that lessen with time? Eventually stop? Or would Zoom be like the dogs you heard stories about, waiting for years at the same train station platform for their owner to come home?
Randi switched her concentration to the memorial program. Below the photo was Gina’s name and birth and death information. The card was elegant, yet simple. Like Gina herself. Well, maybe not simple. There had to be more to Gina’s life than met the eye. Someone wanted her dead and had achieved their goal.
On the other side of the card was a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye.
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there--I do not sleep.
I am the thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints in snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
As you awake with morning's hush,
I am the swift-upflinging rush,
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there--I did not die.
Randi blinked away tears, thinking about something she’d once read: “You never stop loving someone; you just learn to live without them.”
Her feet were heavy as she followed Mel and Kira inside. “If either of you happen to spot my mother, please let me know. Be discreet, though. I don’t want to spook her.”
Kira led the way into the next room. “Speaking of spooks, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. When was the last time you ate?”
“I don’t remember.”
Tables lined the walls and at the opposite side of the room were rows of folding chairs with a podium and a mic. A dozen or so people had already taken a seat, but the majority stood in the food line.
Kira made a clucking noise. “What’s going on? What is everybody doing? Don’t they know you have the service, then you eat?”
“I haven’t been to many memorials, but that’s the order I remember.”
Kira shook her head. “Americans. Oh well, in that case, if you can’t beat ’em…let’s get in line.”
Along the wall, somebody had put together a poster board chronicling Gina’s life from birth to her premature death, convenient for viewing while waiting to fill your plate. Computer printed photos of Gina with a big pink bow pinned to her hair, as a toddler asleep on her rocking horse, her years playing basketball, then dress-up and dates and high school. Toward the bottom of the page was a compilation of pure glossy glamour. Gina in a ski suit in the Alps, wearing business attire in New York City, donning a bikini in Fiji, and laughing as the rain poured down around her.
“Wow,” Mel sucked in a breath, “she told me she used to model, but I had no idea she was so terrific.”
Randi’s fingers traced the outline of the photos. How did you decide which one
s best commemorated a life that couldn’t possibly be reduced to push pins in corkboard? Then again, whose could? Her shoulders slumped. “What if I have to do one of these for my mother? I have no idea where all her old pictures are. Andrew and Valerie must’ve scanned these into a laptop.”
“Someday you might have to arrange something like this,” Kira said, “but not yet.”
“She wouldn’t approve of my choices anyway. She’d say it was too light on dog photos and too heavy on the days when the three of us were a family.”
Kira swatted a bug off her arm. “You never know; might be the other way around.”
“Unlikely.”
The main doors were propped open, allowing the sound of the fountain in the adjacent courtyard to fill the room. Seventy-five people or so milled around, and almost all of them had brought a four-legged friend. These dogs were used to being around each other, but not in such a confined area. Space bubbles were being broached and the tables of food didn’t help. Snarls and growls were quickly corrected by the human at the other end of the leash, but how long would it be before someone wasn’t paying attention and things got out of hand?
Randi lifted a red plastic plate from the stack and passed one to Kira, checking the line behind them as she did. She’d been so sure her mother would turn up. After all, surprises were her specialty.
“A bologna sandwich?” Kira held a triangle of white bread with a smear of mustard on the side. “Who does that?” She tossed it on her plate.
“Sheila said Andrew was being cheap with the food, though supposedly he sold Gina’s truck to fund this thing. I would have thought it at least brought in enough for a nice spread.”
Kira peered down the line. “I see fruit salad, celery sticks with peanut butter, and some pinkish-colored punch.”
Mel crinkled her nose. “Ugh.”
Kira held up a finger. “Hold on. All is not lost. There’s a plate of yummy-looking cupcakes at the end of the table.”
Randi placed a strawberry, two grapes, a wedge of yellow cheese, and two of the bologna sandwich triangles on her plate. She’d never admit it to Kira, but she was happy with the smushy bread and pseudo-meat.
Shane ducked under the tablecloth, leaving only the curled portion of his tail visible, crunching on something he found under there. Randi sidestepped toward the cupcakes. There must have been fifty of them on the tray. Caramel-colored icing topped with the cutest dogface decoration she’d ever seen. Gina would be pleased. She put one on her plate.
“I hope they came out okay.” The voice came from behind her.
Theresa, owner of the stately Belgian Tervuren. “They’re Bear’s favorite.”
“You made these?” Practically salivating, she raised a cupcake.
“Whoa!” Theresa held up a hand. Her eyes were huge. “You can’t eat that!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The cupcake was an inch from Randi’s mouth. She lowered it obediently and wiped her lips with the back of her other hand.
Theresa exhaled. “Whew. They’re for the dogs. Secret recipe.” She leaned over to whisper in Randi’s ear, her breath hot. “Been in the family since I was a kid.”
“Cupcakes for dogs?”
“She’s lucky I brought them for her party today, the way she treated me.”
Randi drew her head back in surprise. “Who’s lucky?”
“Her royal highness. Gina Thorton. Who else?”
“How did she treat you?”
“Inferior. She never considered Bear a serious agility dog. Only Border collies ranked in her book.”
“Is that what she said?”
“She didn’t need to. I could tell by the way she looked down her nose at us when she and Zoom went prancing by.” Theresa patted her pockets. “Hold Bear for me, will ya? I’ve got something up my sleeve.”
Randi held the end of the leather lead Theresa shoved in her hand. Had Gina changed that much? Or did these people cast her in a different light because of her quick rise to the top of their game? Maybe those not inside Gina’s circle had very thin skin. Gina had done something to piss somebody off enough to kill for it. If Randi could discover the what, it might lead her to the who.
She gave Bear a pat. Next to Shane, he was the most gorgeous dog she’d ever seen. Black face, gleaming white teeth and a deep brown coat tinged with black. There was no reason for someone who owned a dog like this to feel inferior about anything.
Shane came out from under the table, licking his chops. He stood squarely on all fours, tail raised, assessing his competition.
Theresa returned to the punch bowl looming at the end of the serving table, opposite the cupcakes. She stood over it, shoulders hunched. Twisting her hand upside down, she shook it. Finished, her fingers fumbled around in her pockets, reappeared and repeated the process. Airline shooters.
“There.” Theresa smiled. “That’ll spice this party up.”
“You can’t hide that. You need to tell people you put booze in there.” She thought of her father, the unsuspecting alcoholic.
“And wreck the fun? No way.” Theresa took possession of her dog, along with a cup of spiked punch, and proceeded toward the rows of chairs.
So far, this was the weirdest memorial service Randi had ever had the non-pleasure of attending. She shrugged and picked up the ladle. What the hell. She spooned two glasses of punch, one for Mel, who she knew had no qualms about tipping it back in broad daylight, and one for herself, who had qualms but was an expert at ignoring them. She made eye contact with teetotalling Kira and nodded toward the bowl. “Spiked. And don’t eat the cupcakes.”
“You’re one to talk, Ms. Sweet Tooth.”
“They’re for the dogs.”
“Figures. Story of my life. Grab us some seats, will ya?”
Balancing her plate and two full cups, Shane’s leash looped round her wrist, a tenuous situation at best, Randi found three chairs near the door where she could keep an eye out for her mother.
The chair was hard plastic, and she’d never quite mastered the art of holding a plate, cutlery, napkin and a drink in her lap, let alone a leash with a dog attached, too. Setting the plate on her thighs, she addressed the drink problem first. Tasted like a high school party punch. Grab whatever the parents had in the liquor cabinet and dump it in a bowl. She drank it anyway, looking out over the crowd.
Andrew lumbered up to the podium and gave the mic several thudding finger-taps. “Check, check, check.” Andrew and Valerie had donned T-shirts, matching, of course, silk-screened with a photo of Gina, arms wide open, waiting for Zoom to leap into her embrace. Maybe it was their way of paying tribute, but Randi found it disconcerting that the position was the same stance Gina had just before she died.
Andrew’s face was round and puffy, like he’d eaten too much salt last night. He tugged at his collar and loosened his tie. “Uh…hi, everybody. Thanks for coming.”
Randi pitied him. Anyone, actually, who had to stand up there and say what Andrew had to say. She had to face facts. If things took a turn for the worse, she might be the one filling those shoes. Her mother was an only child, her parents long gone, as was Lee Ann’s best friend. That left Randi and her dad as her sole living relatives, and the podium at an ex-wife’s funeral was no place for an alcoholic teetering on the lip of the bottle. Nope, it would be up to her to give her mother the kind of send-off she’d expect, and nothing less. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “If you make me plan your funeral before it’s your time to go, so help me, God, I’ll kill you myself.”
Kira settled in the chair to her right, Polly Pee Pee, sitting quietly at her side. Mel’s dogs had manners, that was for sure.
“What are you muttering about?” Kira asked.
“Nothing.”
“I still can’t believe we’re eating bologna triangles during the service. Seems so disrespectful, don’t you think?”
Randi started to answer but was cut off by a couple of quick snarls that morphed into growls in one of the rows be
hind her. A nanosecond later, the brewing conflict erupted into a full-fledged battle. A German shorthaired pointer and a Doberman had their mouths at each other’s necks and were fully going at it. The noise was horrific. Their sleek bodies twisted and reared, twining round each other like a two-headed, eight-legged beast straight out of Harry Potter. The yelling owners were completely ignored as cupcakes were pulverized beneath dog paws. Crumbs flew and trampled blobs of icing clung to the carpet.
The snarls and yells and yips escalated to a roar that continued to crescendo until somebody tossed a cup of punch at the dogs’ faces. Sneezing and shaking their snouts, they backed off. The Doberman licked his lips, looking smugly triumphant.
Kira grinned. “Damn Germans.”
Crisis temporarily averted, Andrew was back on the mic. “Can I have your attention please?” He surveyed the gathering with a scowl. “You all need to control your dogs or I’ll have to ask you to leave.” He gripped the edge of the podium like an angry schoolteacher. A few seconds later he made a visible attempt to sweeten his countenance. “That being said, I’d like anyone who feels the need to come up and say a few words about my sister. I’ve obviously never done anything like this before, so I need your help.” His eyes skimmed the crowd, locked on the door and narrowed. Steve Copeland entered the room and maneuvered to the end of the food line. He had a dog with him. A Border collie hidden behind a row of legs. Impossible to tell if it was Zoom or not. The man had a knack for sliding right in, smoothly and effortlessly.
Randi kept her sight on the empty space inside the doorframe, hoping her mother might show, but nobody followed him inside. Even from far away, Randi caught a whiff of Copeland’s cologne. He’d been far too liberal with the stuff. In high school, all the guys who smoked pot doused themselves in cologne. Reeking of it, they came spilling into class five minutes late. Who did they think they were fooling? She had to wonder if Copeland implemented a similar technique.
“Anyone like to come up?” The podium creaked beneath Andrew’s weight. “Say a few words about my sister?”
Nobody moved. Eyes downcast, they munched without sound. Every now and again a dog scratched itself, causing its tags to jingle, punctuating the scraping of plastic plates and the faraway tinkle of the fountain.