Two slick young guys in suits looked up from their laptops across the room, no doubt wondering why I was out unsupervised. I smiled at them and they pretended they hadn’t noticed me. By the time I retrieved my pen and the shreds of my dignity, I no longer felt like doing anything constructive, so I went to the counter and ordered a large mocha latte. Caffeine and chocolate would do me good.
I was settling back into my booth when Jo Stevens walked in. “You’re early.”
“Yeah, I had the silly idea that I could get a little work done.”
“Get the dog back to Mr. Dorn?
“Safe and sound.”
Jo opened the file folder she’d brought with her and flipped a few sheets of paper over, exposing what appeared to be a printout of an e-mail. “I have a few questions I thought you might clear up for me.”
“Okay.” I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that.
“I have some e-mails from the victi … er, Ms. Dorn’s computer, and I don’t understand them. Dog jargon.”
“Okay.”
She picked up the e-mail printout and pulled a pen from her breast pocket. “What does ‘kurf’ mean?”
“Kurf?”
“C-E-R-F.”
I explained that the acronym is pronounced like surf. “Canine Eye Registration Foundation. It’s an organization that registers the results of eye exams on dogs and tracks genetic eye diseases in the different breeds.”
She nodded and made a quick note. “And ‘ofa’?” She made it rhyme with sofa.
I choked on my latte. “Well, that one we call by the letters. O-F-A. Orthopedic Foundation for Animals. They keep records on a number of inherited problems in dogs, but usually when people mention OFA they’re talking about hips. You know, evaluations of hip x-rays, testing for hip dysplasia.”
She looked blank.
“Malformation of the hip joint. Causes arthritis and leads to lameness.”
“That German Shepherd thing?”
“Not just German Shepherds. Lots of breeds, and mixed breeds, can have hip dysplasia.”
“Okay. And AKC I guess is American Kennel Club?”
“Right.”
“And NSDR?”
“National Stock Dog Registry. They register various stock dog breeds.”
The blank look again. I was guessing she wasn’t a dog person, though she had seemed comfortable enough with Jay and Pip bouncing around her.
“Border Collies, Australian Shepherds, English Shepherds … Breeds that traditionally work livestock on farms and ranches.”
“Okay.” She finished a note to herself, shoved the e-mail back into her bag, then set her forearms on the table and leaned into them. “So tell me about breeding dogs.”
“The birds and bees part, or the human social side?”
Jo smiled. “Human social. It can be a big deal, right? Big stud fees and all?”
“Some dogs do have pretty fancy stud fees, but not like, say, horses. Hundreds usually, not thousands. What are you getting at?” She didn’t answer. “You need to be a little more specific. Details vary from breed to breed, place to place, person to person.”
Jo let her shoulders relax and leaned back. “If the dog’s value is in stud fees, why would someone turn down a stud fee?”
“Ah, well, first, you’re starting from a faulty premise. To responsible breeders and stud dog owners, the dog’s value isn’t strictly financial. I mean, most people are happy when the dog brings in a little money, sure. For a dog with the right credentials, we’re talking six to eight hundred dollars, maybe a thousand or a little more, in most breeds, maybe once or twice a year. Some dogs breed a lot more than that, but it’s not the norm among responsible breeders. So we’re not talking a fortune.” I took another sip of latte, wiped the whipped cream off my lips, and went on. “Anyway, the bitch is important too …” The detective’s eyebrows rose a couple of notches, so I explained. “Bitch—you know, female canine? Proper terminology. Like, you know, mare, hen, woman … I’ve been around dog people so long I forget that definition number one for bitch isn’t canine for most people. But if we’re talking about dog breeding, female sounds silly to me.”
“Okay.”
“Not that there aren’t a few of the two-legged kind in the dog world.”
She smiled again. “I bet. So back to why someone might say no to
a stud fee on a dog?”
“If a responsible stud owner doesn’t think the bitch has anything to offer the breed, you know, if she has major faults in terms of the breed standard, or hasn’t passed the recommended screening tests for potential health or temperament problems, she’d probably turn her down. Or she might think the bitch is okay but not a good match for her dog. All dogs have faults, and you don’t want to breed two that have the same faults themselves or in close relatives.”
She scribbled furiously, and I went on. “Good stud dog owners also care about who owns the bitch and won’t breed their dogs to any bitch whose owner they don’t trust to do well by the pups.”
“So you think Ms. Dorn would have been fussy about all this?”
“I think Abigail would have been very fussy, but …”
She cut me off. “It all sounds pretty judgmental. Lots of room for hurt feelings?”
“Sure, that can happen. Why the interest in dog breeding?”
“Part of the investigation.”
“But Abigail wasn’t standing Pip at stud.”
“Must have been. That’s what this,” she tapped the paper with her pen, “is about.”
“About using Pip as a stud dog?”
“Right.”
Another little secret, whispered Janet Demon, ticking off all sorts of implications if that was the case. “When was it written?”
“Last week. Friday. The day before she died.”
“Now that is weird,” I said, mostly to myself and the table. Jo glanced up, then went back to writing in her notebook. So I told her, “Pip is neutered.”
She stopped writing. “He’s what?”
“The dog is a sucker for tummy rubs, and I’m telling you, he has no noogies.”
30
“Can I ask you a couple of questions now?” I was revved up on caffeine and sugar by then and feeling a bit more comfortable with Detective Stevens.
“Sure. But I can’t discuss the details of an ongoing investigation.”
I remembered her telling me before that she was just asking a few questions. “Is it an investigation now?”
“Not exactly. But something isn’t right.”
“And the men in charge think you’re hormonal for thinking that?” We shared a nonverbal female-bonding moment, and I said. “Windy and cool.”
“What?”
“It was windy and cool on Saturday. No bees.”
Jo’s pupils dilated a notch. “You’re very observant.”
“I’m a photographer. I see things.” I hesitated before asking, “What if she was poisoned? Would that show up?”
She sat up a little straighter and I swear I saw her ears prick forward like a terrier with a varmint in sight. “Depends. The effects of some toxins are obvious, but sometimes they have to know what to look for.” She turned those cop eyes on me. “Why would you ask that?”
“What else? She wasn’t shot or bashed in the head, and the bee-sting theory makes less and less sense.”
“Why did you remove Ms. Dorn’s bag from the crime scene and wash the contents?”
The blood raced out of my head, leaving me a little woozy. “I was trying to help Greg. I didn’t know it was a crime scene!” The women at the table next to us stopped talking and turned to check me out. I lowered my voice and leaned forward into the edge of the table. “I didn’t know it was a crime scene.” The blood rushed bac
k, and my temples began to pound.
“Of course not.” She glanced at her watch as she stood and gathered her things. “Thanks for your time, Ms. MacPhail.”
“Janet.”
“Janet. I may need to speak to you again. You’ll be around?”
“Sure, other than weekend dog shows. I have my dog entered in a couple that are coming up.” My head was settling down, but my stomach did a flipflop. “Am I a suspect?”
“There aren’t any suspects yet. We aren’t sure a crime has been committed. We won’t know that until we have a cause of death.” And then she left, my peace of mind tucked into her pocket along with her nice little notebook.
_____
My “How to Photograph Your Pets” class was a welcome respite—nary a word about murder. I showed slides of good and bad photos, and I reminded the class that I post tips online, including Janet MacPhail’s #1 Rule of Photographing Pets: Get down to the animal’s level. Don’t shoot a picture from above. As I always explain, if you shoot from above, you’ll get a big-head and teensy weensy paws. Your pet won’t look too great, either.
Remember that, Janet, whispered the helpful little angel on my right shoulder. Perspective makes all the difference.
31
The next morning, I stopped at the pet supply store in Northcrest Shopping Center for dog food, and what should I spot in the parking lot but Giselle’s beat-up old Yugo. A couple of new bumper stickers graced the hatch: I ❤ my Maltese and If you can spell, thank a witch.
I found Giselle examining tiny doggy duds. Precious popped his head out the v-neck opening of Giselle’s wrinkled orange, yellow, and red poncho, his black eyes sharp beneath the purple bow that held his silky white topknot.
“Morning, Giselle.”
Giselle flung a tiny denim jacket back at the shelf and clutched at Precious. She turned, took a step back, and peeked at me from under her bangs. “Oh, hi?” My fingers itched to get some grooming sheers from the next aisle and give her a trim. Or you could get a big purple bow and give her a topknot so she could be precious, too, suggested Janet Demon. Giselle probably thought I was smiling at her.
I left Giselle and wheeled my cart to the back of the store, where I wrestled a forty-pound bag of premium dog food into my cart and considered a visit to my chiropractor. I nearly ran over Giselle as I turned around. “Oops!”
“Oh, sorry, I’m sorry?” Why did everything she said sound like a question? Giselle still clutched Precious against her bosom with her left hand, but her right hand fluttered wildly. It patted her bangs against her brow, brushed something from her poncho, pulled Precious’s purple bow slightly askew, back to her bangs, all in about four seconds. She didn’t look at me.
“What’s up?”
“Huh?” Eye contact! But only for a half second.
“Did you want something, Giselle?” Perhaps a book on self-esteem? The good Janet on my right gave my dark side a whack, reminding me to Be kind, even if she begs to be disliked. I took a deep, balancing breath and leaned my elbows against the handle of my cart.
Giselle took a good half minute to gather herself, but finally she whined, “Can I talk to you?”
That was the last thing I expected, and I wasn’t keen on spending much time with Giselle, but something in her neediness got to me and I agreed to meet her at the Cookie Cottage across the parking lot.
_____
I was borderline high from the warm aromas of baked goods, cocoa, and coffee wafting around the Cookie Cottage, but I had decaf, black, and an oatmeal raisin cookie. Virtual health food. I had to lose ten pounds. Okay, twenty.
“You sure Precious is okay?” It was too warm to lock a dog in a car.
Giselle deposited a large mocha with whipped cream and three big cookies—white chocolate and macadamia, double chocolate raspberry cream, and double chocolate mint chip—on the eat-in counter, then struggled onto the stool next to mine. I had a vision of Horton the elephant sitting on the bird’s nest in my vintage Seuss. Giselle glanced toward the woman at the cash register, and, when she was sure she wasn’t being watched, pointed down the front of her poncho. Precious was so quiet, I hoped he hadn’t suffocated.
“Aha!” I watched a third of the double chocolate raspberry cream disappear in one bite. “So, Giselle, I don’t have much time. What’s up?”
“Oomph, I mwant a tell oo about Agail …” Mercifully, she stopped talking, finished chewing, swallowed, swigged her mocha, and started again. “I wanted to tell you, uh, ask you, about Abi …, uh, ask what about Gre … um …”
I still felt rather sorry for her, but something in her eyes urged caution. Dogs aren’t people in fur coats, but our two species are more alike than you might think. Some individuals collapse in a submissive heap when frightened. Others bite. All my instincts told me I was looking at a fear-biter.
“What about them?”
“Um, uh, okay, Greg and I are, you know, friends?” Was she asking me? “I mean, you know, Abigail was my friend, too, so maybe it seems funny, but Greg and I are friends, you know, more than friends, and, okay, maybe you didn’t know that when you came over and all, but,” she broke off a huge hunk of the white chocolate and macadamia, “I thought you should, you know, know that so nobody gets, you know, embarrassed?” Too late, I thought as I watched her poke the cookie between her lips and tamp it in with her palm.
I finally got it. “Giselle, I have no interest in Greg other than as a friend and fellow dog lover.”
She munched on, staring at something in the vicinity of my navel. She didn’t look convinced.
Just to make sure she got the message, I rephrased. “Giselle, I’m not romantically interested in Greg, and Greg’s not interested in me.” I didn’t add that Greg didn’t appear to be interested in her either. In the immortal words of Elvis and the good Janet murmuring in my ear, don’t be cruel. I shifted the topic.
“Giselle, do you know anything about Suzette wanting to breed Fly to Pip?”
She washed the last of her cookies down with mocha and licked her lips, leaving a chocolatey smear at one corner. “Yes?”
“And?”
“Abigail wouldn’t?” Apparently she didn’t know that Pip couldn’t. Was I the only one aside from the Dorns who ever gave the poor guy a belly rub?
“Do you know why?”
A little black nose poked out of the neck of Giselle’s poncho. Giselle checked the clerk, who was busy and hadn’t noticed, and patted Precious gently from outside the poncho. “All I really know is what was on the BC list.” She meant one of the online discussion lists for Border Collie lovers.
“They discussed breeding plans on the list?”
“Not really?” Her spidery bangs veiled her eyes. “Abigail posted that somebody wanted to breed to Pip, but there was some problem with OFA or DNA or bad hips,” meaning hip dysplasia. “She said it like, you know, disgusted that someone who should know better would breed like that.”
“Did Suzette reply?”
She nodded and swallowed a bite of cookie. “Not right then. But everybody knew she’d talked about breeding Fly to Pip for a long time, so later she posted that people should check facts before spreading rumors.”
“How come you’re on the Border Collie list?” In all the time I’d known Giselle, she’s had only tiny little boy dogs. Before Precious, the Maltese, she’d had Sweetie, the toy Poodle, and QT Pie, an ancient Yorkie.
“Oh, I dunno? I’m on a bunch of lists, maybe twenty or thirty? Just to, you know, learn stuff?”
Just to simulate a real life, you mean.
An hour later I was home and settled in to read my e-mail, but soon found myself on www.offa.org, the web site for the Orthopedic Foundation for Animals, or OFA. I hit the link to the searchable database and typed in what I knew about Fly. Her hips were rated OFA Excellent. So why would
Abigail have claimed that she failed? I still had dial-up, and the search took a while, but I found Fly’s siblings, parents, and their siblings, all with very acceptable ratings.
And what about that significant little detail concerning Pip’s anatomy? Abigail had obviously kept his reproductive status to herself, which wouldn’t be all that hard with a dog with nice long furry britches. But why?
I had no sooner signed off the Internet than the phone rang. Caller ID displayed my brother’s cell phone number.
“Hi, Bill.”
He pitched his voice high and talked way too fast. “Janet! It’s Bill. Your phone has been busy for over an hour and your cell goes to voicemail. Is Mom with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m at her house. She’s gone!”
32
“Mom’s gone! I’ve looked everywhere.”
Well, now, Bill, not everywhere or you’d have found her, huh? “I thought she was going home with you.”
“She refused.”
Great. “Did you talk to her this morning?”
“Yeah. Around 7:30. I was supposed to take her to Scott’s for groceries.”
A terrifying thought hit me. “Is her car there?”
“Yeah, yeah, the car is here, and anyway, I took her keys a long time ago.”
Thank God. My mind flashed on the massive stock of tomato soup and cooking oils in Mom’s kitchen, but I decided now wasn’t the time to ask how she got Bill to go along with those purchases if he was ferrying her on her shopping trips. I also decided it wasn’t the time to ask why he left her alone in the first place, so I stuck with the essentials. “What time were you supposed to go shopping?”
“We said nine, but I didn’t get here until a little after ten.”
Two and a half hours. How far could a little old lady go on foot in a couple of hours?
I pulled up in front of Mom’s house twenty minutes later. There was no sign of her, and Bill was still whining, “How could she do this to me?” I ignored the question, told him to stay put in case she showed up, and hopped back into my van. A glance in the rear view showed Jay standing in his crate with a “What? We’re not getting out?” look on his face.
Drop Dead on Recall Page 10