Drop Dead on Recall

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  “Pip was the problem?”

  “Pip’s whole family tree.”

  “So what? Hips? Eye problems? Epilepsy?”

  Marietta said, “No no no. Worse,” and paused. Those are pretty bad. What’s worse? Then she told me. “Abigail didn’t think the pedigree was right. She had him DNA-ed, and something was screwy, like his markers didn’t align with supposed relatives. She was pretty sure that Francine was misrepresenting puppies as being from dogs she imported. You know, asking more for them, like that. Abigail said she was trying to nail it down, but since she had put me in touch with Francine in the first place, she gave me a heads up. Just asked me to keep it under my hat until she figured it out.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, plus she said Francine could be a vindictive bitch, so she wanted me to be careful.”

  “Someone around here certainly is.” I told her about Jay and the biscuits.

  “Oh Janet! Oh no! Is he okay?”

  “The emergency vet says he will be.” I choked out the last three words as the emotional whirlpool sucked me down again. There wasn’t much more to add, so I said goodbye to Marietta, then called Connie and told her what had happened. I barely registered that she’d be right over.

  I closed my eyes, opened them, walked around, sat down on the couch, but I couldn’t erase the images that cycled through the theater of my mind. Abigail on the ground, trying to live. The delicate pink skin of Jay’s shaved leg, the IV needle stabbed into his vein. Greg’s face, twisted by awareness that his wife might be dying. Suzette’s beautiful diamond. My mom losing her faculties. Yvonne, finding her dead sister. Yvonne. Me. I closed my eyes to stop the tears, but they squeezed between my eyelids and ran like hot wires down my cheeks.

  A soft presence materialized again on my lap, followed by light pressure on my chest and a bump to my chin. I opened my eyes. Leo lowered his chest to his paws and tucked his rear end down, letting his tail drape across my thigh. He snuggled into me, eyes half closed, motor revving, purrr purrr purrr. A smidgen of the tension gently rose from my heart like steam from a nice cup of tea.

  53

  I had pulled myself together by the time Connie arrived ten minutes later, but the glue holding my emotions was far from set, and when she came in and patted my shoulder, I reverted to a blubbering heap. Half an hour later we were hugging mugs of hazelnut cream coffee at my kitchen table, Leo gazing at us slant-eyed from the counter across the room.

  “Who would do such a thing?” I wondered for the umpteenth time.

  “Someone who doesn’t like you. Or doesn’t like you nosing around.”

  “I’m not nosing around.”

  “Sure you are.” She blew on the surface of the steaming liquid in her mug and to a tentative slurp. “Need more cream.” She stepped toward the fridge and started to reach for the door. She must have startled Leo out of a dream, because he arched his back and hissed at her, lifting a paw an inch off the counter and flexing his claws toward her. Connie hesitated. “What’s with the cat?”

  I jumped up and scolded. “Leo! What’s the matter with you?” He settled back down, folded his paws under his chest, and stared up at Connie while she ran her hand over his head and down the back of his neck. “He’s upset about Jay not being here. And he knows I’m upset.”

  Connie sat back down in her chair. “Anyway, you are nosing around. You’ve been asking a lot of questions.”

  “A lot of people have been asking a lot of questions! Someone died. Now two people are dead!”

  “But Suzette killed herself.”

  The more I thought about it, the less inclined I was to believe it. My face must have given me away.

  “Why are you such a skeptic? For all we know, Suzette might have killed Abigail to get Greg.”

  Anything was possible. Probable? I had no idea. The longer I live and the more I see, the less I seem to understand why people do anything.

  “Anybody tell you what the note said?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe she confessed. Maybe the guilt was too much. Maybe she was afraid she was going to get caught. Who knows?”

  I sure don’t.

  “Anyway, Janet, I’m worried about you. Suppose someone else is involved. If they think you’re on to them, you could be in danger. I mean, somebody already poisoned your dog!” My eyes filled, but I got control before I fell into another crying jag as Connie continued. “Everybody’s curious. But most people ask rhetorical questions. You ask like you really want to know. And you’ve been talking to the police a lot.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  Connie lifted an eyebrow.

  “Okay, I have, but not a lot, and only because Jo … Detective Stevens … had some questions about the dog fancy. It’s not like I know anything else!” I leaned across the table toward Connie, but she was apparently fascinated by something in her cup. “But why go after my dog?” Outrage straightened my spine and squared my shoulders. “I mean, that really pisses me off. He didn’t do anything to deserve poisoned dog cookies. What kind of coward does that to an animal?”

  “What better way to get your attention? You see it all the time. Not poisoned biscuits, but poison pen letters on the Internet, poison gossip in various groups. Somebody doesn’t like somebody else, so they attack the person’s dogs for being too big or too small or too hairy.”

  I stabbed the tablecloth with my spoon, inflicting a dribble of coffee on the blue cotton. “True. Every time she can’t win an argument with me, Giselle posts snotty things about Jay to a couple of training lists.”

  “That note on the basket wasn’t actually signed. ‘G’ could be ‘Giselle’.”

  “She wouldn’t!” I thought about Giselle at Greg’s house and set my mug down a little too hard, sloshing more coffee onto the tablecloth. “I mean, why would she? It makes no sense.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, Giselle’s not the most secure and balanced of individuals. And you know she has a crush on Greg Dorn.” She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Like that’s gonna happen. But maybe she thinks you’re in the way.”

  I thought about my Cookie Cottage conversation with Giselle and her claim that she and Greg were more than friends. “Okay, but how is poisoning Jay connected to Abigail and Suzette’s deaths? I mean, I can see Giselle doing something dumb to scare me, but kill Abigail and Suzette?”

  “Who knows? The woman’s a little off. And she’s into all that witch stuff.”

  I had to admit that Connie made some sense. And wasn’t poison supposed to be a woman’s weapon? But then again, Greg’s a pharmacist. The more I thought about the possibilities, the more confused I grew. “Maybe it really was Greg.” I told her about his e-mail telling me to butt out. “But it doesn’t make sense. Even if Greg had reason to knock off good old Abigail, why would he kill Suzette? You said they were in love.”

  “He didn’t. She killed herself. Or, if not, maybe Suzette found out Greg killed Abigail and didn’t approve and he had to kill her too.” Connie seemed to consider the idea, then went on. “But I don’t see Greg doing anything violent. I mean, he spent all those years with the shrew without killing her.” While I digested that little morsel, Connie stretched and stood up. “I have a Standard Poodle and a couple of mixed-breeds waiting.” Connie has a grooming arrangement with my vet’s office. They rent her space, and she keeps their clients looking spiffy. She has three assistants and a two-week wait for appointments. “That’s my morning.” And off she went.

  54

  When I got home, I made arrangements to transfer Jay to my regular veterinary clinic. Then I found Detective Jo Stevens’ card under a pile of unopened mail on my kitchen counter, dialed her number, and was surprised when she picked up. I expected another machine. I wasn’t sure she’d be interested in attempted dog poisoning, but she said that under the circumstances, she
’d see me at my vet’s office so she could take a full report. Leo rejoined me in the kitchen and wove himself in and out of my legs, rumbling like an Indy car. When I didn’t pay sufficient attention, he sprang onto the counter and shoved his furry feline face against my cheek.

  “What in the world got into you this morning?” I ran my hand down the silky path from his neck to the tip of his tail. “Are you worried about Jay?” He rumbled a reply, gently stroking my cheek with one soft paw and gazing at me squint-eyed. “Me too, buddy, me too.”

  I decided to do something mindless to pass a half hour, so I nuked a cup of leftover coffee, set Leo on the floor, and pulled out a box of miscellaneous photos I’d taken over the past several years. I’d been meaning to sort them for months. Okay, longer than that. Ah, well, no time like the present.

  I made several piles—toss, file, give away, not sure. The giveaways were mainly candid shots of people and dogs, or just dogs. People are always tickled to get little photo surprises so I often keep prints like these to give away. After the fourth or fifth shot of folks from Dog Dayz, a half-formed thought began tapping at the back of my skull. I pawed through the toss and give-away piles and retrieved several photos.

  Three of them were group shots taken at annual picnics sponsored by Marietta Santini for her Dog Dayz students and instructors. One was a shot of Greg and Abigail Dorn sitting together at an obedience trial. It must have been in Terre Haute. There was a Ferris wheel behind them and that’s the only dog show I know of around here where you compete with carnival rides for your dog’s attention. And there was one more photo.

  It was a head shot of a Golden Retriever, and in the background, to the left, Greg Dorn and Giselle Swann stood side by side, their heads tipped toward one another as if they were talking. I picked up the photo of Greg and Abigail again. Someone had been standing behind and off to the right. All that was visible was a heavy leg clad in black and the angled and fringed selvedge of a brown wooly poncho. Giselle. I fanned the Dog Dayz photos out in front of me. One of them was of Marietta and Suzette mugging for the camera. Abigail was behind and to the side of them. She looked like she was sucking a sourball. The other two photos were group shots taken in the training building. Greg was in both of them, and so was Giselle, right beside or behind him.

  The telephone shocked me right out of my chair. It was brother Bill.

  “You have to do something about Mom.”

  “Hi to you, too.”

  “Hi. Happy now? She’s nutty, Janet. You have to do something.”

  “I have to do something? She’s your mother too, if I remember correctly.” His barb had scored a direct hit, though, and I was struck by guilt for my failings as a dutiful daughter.

  “Look, I’m in the middle of a big deal at work. I have to go out of town next week, I told you that. So yeah, you have to handle this.”

  “Right. Okay, then. Talk to you later.” I didn’t bother to tell him that Shadetree Retirement Community had sent a letter saying they had a vacancy, and Mom was next up. I couldn’t imagine how she’d moved to the top of the list so quickly, but I wasn’t about to argue with the whims of fate and exquisite luck. I figured he was winding up for “Bill Maneuver #46: Explain once again why it really is all about him, and hang up,” so I beat him to the disconnect. I’d fill him in later, after I cooled off. I grabbed Leo, who had hopped up in front of me, and rested my face against his furry skull. “I guess I’ll have go stay with her or bring her here for a few days, huh, big guy?”

  Leo bumped my chin with the top of his head. He poked at a pile of photos, rearranged them with a few quick pats of his paws, and flicked one onto the floor. “Oh, no you don’t.” I lifted him off the table again and picked up the photo. It was an old one of Suzette’s Sheltie, Mimi, standing on a grooming table at an indoor show. Where was that? I flipped it over, but I hadn’t labeled it, so I studied the background again, focusing on the concession stand in the background. It was the Fort Wayne show, in the Memorial Coliseum.

  Mimi had been gone at least three years, so how old was this photo? I looked for a historical time line on the ceiling, but all I saw was a cobweb mature enough to reproduce, so I started calculating on my fingers instead. I must have taken this shot at least eight years earlier, when Mimi was four or five.

  Leo was back on the table. I scratched lightly behind his ears, mulling over the memories the photo brought back. Suzette was standing in front of Mimi, fluffing the dog’s white ruff with a brush. Abigail and Connie stood behind the table, and all three women seemed to be laughing. I lay the photo back on the table. I dumped my cold coffee into the sink and put the mug in the dishwasher, thinking about the fragile natures of friendship and happiness.

  When I turned back to the table, Leo said, “Mmrrowwwlllll,” and placed a paw in the center of the photo of Mimi and friends. He flexed his toes just enough to touch the tips of his claws to the glossy surface and swept the picture off the table once more and chirped. This was, I assumed, a comment on my failure to acknowledge his right to toss bits of paper wherever he liked. He glided from the table to the chair to the floor, where he gave his paw a little flick. Then he trotted through the door and into the living room.

  55

  Jay walked into the examining room looking glum, but when he saw me, he crossed the remaining eight feet in one big wriggle-and-whine, telling me all about the weird things they’d done to him. He was a sight for dog-lonely eyes.

  “How are you, Bubby?” I knelt in front of him and braced myself against the wall when he popped up, put his paws over my shoulders in a doggy hug, and slurped my face.

  The emergency vet gave me some paperwork for Dr. Douglas, my regular vet, and raved about what a sweet dog Jay was while the technician removed the tubing from the IV catheter in Jay’s right foreleg. “We’ll leave the catheter in case they need to administer more fluids. It’s taped down tight.” I glanced at the tech, who was making kissy faces at Jay as she added another layer of tape to hold the catheter against his leg. “He’s been leaving it alone, but if you want an e-collar, we can send one with you.” E-, or Elizabethan collars, named for the big ruffled collars worn during the reign of Queen Liz number one, are used to keep animals from licking or biting at injuries.

  “I have one in the car. Sometimes I need it for foster dogs. But I think he’ll be fine until we get to Dr. Douglas’ office.” I was almost out the door when I had another thought. “Listen, don’t destroy the mouse or the biscuit. The police may want them.”

  The vet said it might be too late, but she’d check.

  Jay was elated to get out of that place, and not so keen on walking into another House of Sharp Implements and Offensive Odors. I had to coax him through the door, and he slunk down the hall to the examining room, dragging as far behind the vet tech and me as his leash allowed, head hanging and eyes as much like a Basset Hound’s as an Aussie can manage. I sat down on the cold vinyl floor of the exam room and put my arms around my unhappy dog. We communed for a few minutes, Jay telling me all about his terrible night while I explained that he might have to spend another night here to make sure he was okay. I’m not sure I convinced him that it was the best option.

  Both doors into the exam room opened. Detective Jo Stevens entered from the public part of the clinic and Dr. Paul Douglas came in from the behind-the-scenes part. I stood up, and Jay leaned against my leg.

  When the introductions were made, Dr. Douglas began. “The mouse ingested an anti-coagulant, probably warfarin. According to the report from the emergency clinic, it bled out internally.” He peered at me over the top of his wire rims. “You have mouse poisons out?”

  “No, never. It had to be the biscuits.”

  Jo looked up from her notes. “I’m going to need the report on that mouse, and the biscuits and everything that came with them, especially the note. I also need a copy of your notes and lab tests.” I e
xplained that the mouse and biscuit were—hopefully—still at the other clinic, and the basket and note were at home. Dr. Douglas offered to photocopy the paperwork.

  “You’ll pursue this?” I asked Jo after Dr. Douglas left the room.

  “I’ll try. If we find that the biscuits are poisoned, I’ll do what I can to find whoever did it and see that charges are filed. Don’t know that the prosecutor will do anything, but …” She looked up from her notes. “This is related to the deaths of Ms. Dorn and Ms. Anderson, isn’t it?”

  My eyes began to sting. “I guess it must be, but I can’t believe anyone who loves dogs would try to poison Jay, no matter how much

  they hate me.”

  “Uh-huh.” I had the distinct impression that Detective Jo Stevens thought people were capable of anything. “So why come after you?”

  “No idea.” But of course I did have some idea, courtesy of Connie. “Maybe whoever it is thinks I know something I don’t.” I stared at the detective for a moment while a spark of anger flared into flame. “But I think it’s time I did.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid. That’s our job.”

  As soon as it was out of her mouth, Jo and I both started to laugh, and the release that brought kept us laughing longer than the joke really warranted. Finally, she said, “You know what I mean. Whoever tried to poison your dog was telling you to back off whatever you’re doing. You could be next, so just be careful, and let us do the investigating.”

  Right.

  Dr. Douglas came back into the room with several photocopies clipped together. “I’ll have my tech fax you the rest of the lab reports when they come in.”

  Jo stroked Jay’s cheek. “So he’s going to be okay?”