Drop Dead on Recall

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I thought you guys sort of flip-flopped back and forth in the standings?”

  “Sure, we did, but Abigail and Pip were leading the past couple of weeks. We’ve had a little problem with straight sits.”

  “Well, jeez, as you said, it’s not as if there’s no other competition in Border Collies.”

  “True. But still. Abigail and I had our conflicts, that’s for sure. But we were friends long before we were rivals, and we did try to keep that in mind.” I was hoping Suzette would spill her guts, but she just waived a vaguely dismissive hand and laid her folded napkin beside her plate. “Whenever you’re ready, we can try for some pictures before the next downpour.”

  I carried my plate and cup to the sink. As I set them down, I couldn’t help but notice the ring on top of the canister. Who could miss the exquisite emerald-cut diamond snuggled between two smaller stones? My jewels pretty much come from the sales racks at department stores, so I’m no gem expert, but I’d hazard that the rock on Suzette’s counter was a couple of carats.

  I took nearly a hundred photos of Fly over the next three-quarters of an hour, and wrapped up the session with some terminally sweet candid shots of her smooching Suzette. A menagerie of thoughts had been frolicking through my mind the whole time, and as we were winding down I asked Suzette how well she knew Abigail’s husband, Greg.

  “Oh, Greg.” I thought she started to sigh, but if she did, she stifled it. “I love Greg. He’s a really sweet guy.”

  Whoa. Love? I was composing a follow up when Suzette diverted me with a question of her own.

  “So, did you get some good ones?”

  “I think so. We’ll know for sure when I download them, but I think we even have some calendar-girl shots.” I sell a lot of animal and landscape photos to calendar publishers. I clicked on the review screen and held my camera so that Suzette could see a few of the images.

  “Great. When the puppies arrive I’ll have you come take some more.”

  “Puppies? She’s expecting?”

  “No, not yet. But I’m planning to breed her after Nationals in January.” That would be the obedience national championship, making the puppies ready for their photo shoot in late winter or spring, assuming Fly’s hormones cooperated.

  Suzette helped me lug my stuff around the house, through the gate, and into my car.

  “So who’s the lucky fella?” I asked her as I slammed the van door.

  The high color she’d shown earlier flooded back into her cheeks. “Fellow?”

  “Yeah. The stud.”

  Her blush deepened a shade before she recovered and gave her head a shake. “Oh, you mean for Fly.”

  Hey, there’s your opening, so ask her about that big fat rock, whispered my little demon, but goody two-shoes on my right shoulder reined me in with a gentle Mind your own beeswax. I settled for a nod.

  “A dog in Virginia. Saw him last year at Nationals, and I like him a lot. Conformation champion, OTCH, MACH, working on his herding championship.” Which would make him a champion in the show ring and in the three performance sports of obedience, agility, and herding. I felt tired just thinking about the work that went into earning all those honors.

  “Well, let me know when the puppies are ready to model and I’ll be here.” I left her standing in the driveway, rubbing her engagement-ring finger as if it were missing something.

  23

  I contemplated Connie Stoppenhagan’s revolting ability to keep her hair and makeup pristine even after her early morning run as I savored my toasted snicker doodle bagel with cinnamon-honey butter. I really do try to keep the calories down, at least for my first breakfast, and I should have in light of the coffeecake Suzette practically force fed me the day before, but Abigail’s sudden departure reminded me that the future is an illusion. If I was destined to choke to death over my breakfast, it wouldn’t be on a whole-grain gluten-free thing with tofu spread. Nope, I want a tasty life. Besides, I had more important things than calories and fat grams on my mind. I swallowed and said, “I feel so bad for Greg.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Connie replied.

  I stopped mid-chew. “But he’s always been so devoted, and he put up with all her crap. ‘Greg do this, Greg do that.’ Even if they were separated, do you really think they’d split up for good?”

  Connie sipped her tea before answering, and I wondered again how she kept her nails so perfect. “Abigail wanted a divorce. She was waiting until after the Border Collie Nationals in October. She didn’t want her focus diverted since Pip was a serious contender for top national standing again this year.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I check the rankings every week.”

  That wasn’t really my question, but her comment surprised me. “You do?”

  “Sure.” She looked at me. “Not just obedience. All the rankings.”

  “Oh.” Of course she did. She was a seriously competitive dog person. “Anyway, I meant how did you know Abigail wanted a divorce?”

  “She told me. We were set up next to each other at the Auburn shows.”

  “That was March! They’ve been separated that long?”

  She shrugged.

  “So what was he doing at the trial? He was Johnny-on-the-spot when she collapsed.”

  “Must have come to see someone else, ’cause he didn’t come with Abigail. I saw her arrive. Poor thing had to carry her own crate and chair.”

  I winced at the sharpness of Connie’s remark, then winced again as I remembered thinking much the same thing on the day of the show. “I guess most people won’t miss Abigail all that much, but I can’t believe anyone wished her dead.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  I gave her a “What are you talking about?” look.

  “Greg, for one. He’ll be sitting pretty now, that’s for sure. The money was hers, you know, family money.”

  “No, I had no idea.” I’d never thought about it.

  “Her grandmother was Eloise Holtz. You know, Aunt Ellie’s pastries …”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Well, there was an article about her in Fort Wayne Woman about a year ago. It said that good old Eloise left her fortune to a son and a daughter, Abigail’s mother. Abigail told me there were actually three siblings, but the old lady had some sort of falling out with the other daughter and wouldn’t talk about her. That was Tom’s mother …”

  That woke me up. “Tom Saunders?”

  “Yep. The article didn’t even mention her. Anyway, the brother was killed in an accident of some sort not long before the old lady died, so Abigail’s mother got everything. She ran the business for a while, then sold it for megabucks. When she died a few years ago, Abigail got the money. And now it’s Greg’s.”

  “But Greg doesn’t need the money. He makes a decent living.”

  “He deserves it, living with that shrew all those years.” The venom in Connie’s voice pushed me back a few inches. “Don’t know why he chose a drill sergeant instead of a wife.”

  I thought back to my own marriage. If I’d believed the comments I heard when it ended, instead of my own insider’s view, I’d have thought I’d walked away from heaven on earth. “I don’t think anyone else really knows what goes on between two people. He stuck with her a long time.” Connie didn’t respond. “Anyway, I can’t see him killing her for her money.”

  “Who said he killed her?” Connie’s eyes opened wide.

  “Sorry. I thought you were suggesting that was a possibility.” I didn’t want to let Detective Jo Stevens’ cat out of the bag, since it wasn’t fully gestated. Still, Connie was always good for bouncing ideas around. “Anyway, I don’t think they have her cause of death yet.” I leaned across the table toward her. “But think about it. Abigail was you
ng and in great shape. How could she drop dead?”

  I watched in wonder as Connie wiped her mouth. How was it possible that her lipstick had stayed in place in spite of bagel, coffee, and napkin? “Happens all the time.”

  “It could, I guess. But still …” I thought of telling her about Jo Stevens’ reaction to Abigail’s totebag and its contents, but Connie went on before I could begin.

  “Abigail thought Greg was having an affair. She hired a private investigator, but he said Greg wasn’t fooling around.” She went to the counter to top off our coffees. When she got back, she continued that line of thought. “Not that he didn’t have opportunities to play around.”

  “He is a good-looking guy.”

  “Yep,” she echoed, “a good-looking guy with a really snazzy ride.”

  I pictured Greg in his sleek red car. I’d only seen it once, and couldn’t remember what it was. What do I know from cars? Something foreign and pricey.

  “Actually, though, if anyone was fooling around, my money would be on Abigail,” Connie said.

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “As soon as Greg moved out, Abigail got her hair cut and changed her whole look. Seems like new-guy behavior to me.”

  “Could be she just wanted a new look.” I knew I wanted a new look. I just had no idea how to go about getting one.

  “I suppose.” Connie seemed to ponder the possibility. “Or maybe she thought she was competing with someone else, like she said.”

  I sipped my coffee and thought about that. “Did Abigail say who she thought Greg might be fooling around with?”

  “She never mentioned a name, but if I had to guess …” She folded her hands together against the edge of the table. “No, I shouldn’t speculate about such a thing. It will come out soon enough.”

  I berated her for holding out on me, but she wouldn’t budge, so I said, “I still can’t believe Greg would kill Abigail.”

  “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe Su … uh, his girlfriend got tired of waiting and decided to get rid of the competition.”

  The image of a big fat diamond ring sparkled in my mind’s eye. “Suzette?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  But you almost did say, I thought. “Suzette must be, what, fifteen years younger than Greg?”

  “More like twenty. Not that most guys mind hooking up with younger women.” She sounded disgusted. “Abigail knew Greg wasn’t above cheating. That’s how she snagged him in the first place.” I wanted to pursue that little bombshell, but Connie preempted me. “Speaking of attractive men, Ms. MacPhail, what’s up with you and Tom?”

  “Tom Saunders? How do you know Tom, anyway?”

  “He went to school with my big brother. They had a horrible garage band in high school.” She crinkled her pert little nose in disgust. “Tom was at our house all the time. He making music with you now?”

  “Don’t be silly. I barely know him.”

  “Why, Janet, I do believe you’re blushing!”

  Before I could plead a hot flash, Connie glanced at her watch and started piling wrappers and cups onto her tray. “Gotta run.”

  I nodded, already drifting through a tangle of convoluted thoughts. Even if Greg were fooling around, why kill his wife? All those years with her acid words eating at him and he’d never strangled her. Why now? Then again, inheriting from a dead wife might be better than losing a wealthy one through divorce. But we don’t even know that she was murdered. And if she was, it might not have been Greg. What if Connie was right about Suzette? It wouldn’t be the first time a lover waiting in the wings knocked off a spouse who held center stage too long.

  24

  When I got home from breakfast with Connie, the little red light on my answering machine was flashing. I sent the dogs out the back door and pushed the playback button. The first message was from an editor at Dog Fancy who wanted me to call back about some photos for an article on rally obedience. Then a message from Greg Dorn. He was sorry he missed me the day before, and he’d be home the rest of the day. He’d like to get Pip, so could I call him?

  I brought the dogs in, checked their water, and sat down at the kitchen table with my cell phone. I punched in the number on Detective Stevens’ card, then waited while the dispatcher connected us.

  “Stevens!” The line crackled, then cleared.

  “This is Janet MacPhail.”

  “Ah, Ms. MacPhail. Janet.”

  “Greg Dorn called and said he’d like his dog back. You told me to check with you first.” She said that would be fine, then asked, “Do you have time to talk this afternoon? Say four o’clock?”

  Oh no, not again, I thought, wondering vaguely whether I’d be arrested after the “removing evidence” incident. “I teach a class tonight at six. That would cut it a little close, depending on how long you need me.”

  “Where’s your class?” I gave her the name of the junior high school. “You teach a junior high class at night?”

  “Heavens no! I wouldn’t want to teach a junior high class in broad daylight.” I heard her chuckle, which was something of a relief. “It’s a Neighborhood Connection class.” She wasn’t familiar with the Adult Education program of the Fort Wayne Community Schools, so I explained about the variety of non-credit classes they offer on everything from Windows to watercolors. We agreed to meet at the Firefly Coffee House on North Anthony at four o’clock.

  Next I called Greg’s number. On the fourth ring, a woman answered. The voice was soft, sultry, vaguely familiar. “Dorn residence.” I asked for Greg.

  “He’s unavailable. Perhaps I can help you?”

  “My name is Janet MacPhail. I’m taking care of Greg’s dog. Who’s this, please?”

  “A friend.”

  I was starting to get peeved when I heard a scuffle on the other end of the line, and whispering I couldn’t make out.

  “Janet! It’s Greg.” He sounded even more annoyed than I was. “Thanks for calling back.”

  “Greg, how are you?”

  “Not great. Getting by.” His voice cracked for a second, then he went on. “I’d like to bring Pip home.” Something scratched through the line and Greg said, “Hang on a second,” and I heard more muffled discussion. All I could make out was Greg snapping, “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary.” Then to me, “Janet, I hate to ask, but is there any way you could bring Pip to me? I, uh, don’t want to leave here right now.”

  I was more than a little curious about what was going on over there, and had a leash in my hand before he finished the sentence. “We’re on our way!”

  Twenty minutes later I pulled up in front of Greg’s house, behind the decrepit Yugo that had tried to eat my fender on my last visit. Its right front tire rested halfway up the curb and its tail end was not quite out of the street. A peeling bumper sticker claimed, “My other car is a broom,” and another boasted, “It’s hard to be humble when you own a Maltese.” No question whose car it was. I glanced in the open passenger-side window as I walked by. A book lay on the front seat, the top edge bristling with multi-hued slips of paper. Spells for Lovers. Another, Magick Love Spells, lay beside it. Ho boy.

  Pip was all wriggle and whine from the van to the front door, and could hardly contain himself as we waited for Greg to answer the bell.

  But it wasn’t Greg who opened the door. It was Giselle Swann. She was wearing black over-stretched pants and the biggest black lace teddy I’d ever seen with a black cable-knit cardigan hanging, unbuttoned, over it. Her eyes were rimmed with black liner that narrowed them more than was natural, and she had a silver ring I didn’t remember in her left nostril. It contrasted nicely with the brilliant raspberry gloss on her lips. Although my mouth may still have been agape, I was beginning to recover when Giselle reached for Pip’s leash.

  “Thanks so much, Janet. We
so appreciate your bringing Pip home and caring for him.” A blast of cheap powdery scent assaulted my nostrils and I reflexively lifted my hand to catch a sneeze, preventing Giselle from taking hold of the leash. We? The little demon was back at my left ear. What does she mean, “we”?

  25

  “Giselle! What a surprise!” I sneezed once, twice, three times, fished a semi-used tissue from my pocket, and blew the rest of her powdery perfume out of my nose.

  She ignored me and tried once more for the leash. “I can take Pip. Greg’s tied up right now.” I hoped she was speaking figuratively. Pip ducked backward, away from her hand, and let out a loud squeal as he rocketed through the door, bumped Giselle sideways, and pulled the leash from my hand.

  “Pipper! How ya doin’, guy?” Greg’s voice mingled with Pip’s whiney talk, and Percy the Poodle yipped in harmony. “Nice to see you, Pipper! Come on, want to go out and check your yard?” Greg fended off the bouncing Border Collie and invited me in. I squeezed past Giselle and followed Greg through an entrance foyer as big as my living room, emerging into a family room that easily accommodated the expansive leather sectional and chairs arrayed in front of a TV screen big enough for an IMAX. To the right a wall of rough-hewn pale gray Indiana limestone extended from floor to ceiling, with a fireplace nestled beneath an arched opening. An enormous watercolor painting of a Border Collie working a flock of sheep graced the wall over the mantle. Behind the seating arrangements was a billiard table, and there was more than enough room to ensure that no one sitting in front of the television would get clobbered by a cue in play.

  Two sets of French doors and the biggest window I’ve ever seen in a house made up the wall facing the fireplace. The doors opened onto a flagstone patio beyond which a lush lawn sloped to a pond that separated the Dorns’ property from their neighbors. Most of the yard was open, but a picket fence surrounded the deck off the family room and enclosed a square of grass maybe forty by forty feet. Lawn covered the inside of the fenced area, too, except for a large maple in the center. A wide border of irises and peonies softened the outer perimeter. A gate opened from that yard into another, larger area where obedience jumps were set up.