Drop Dead on Recall

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  “I think so.” Dr. Douglas reached for the leash. “Call me this afternoon if you don’t hear from me and I’ll let you know whether he can come home tonight or not.”

  56

  I dug a tissue box out from under the back seat of my van, but it was empty, so I had to fish around in my tote bag for some tissue to wipe my eyes and blow my nose before I could drive. I’d hoped to bring Jay with me, but as it was, I arrived at Mom’s house alone. Bill’s car was nowhere in sight and I had to use my key, but I knew as soon as I walked in that she was home. Her purse was on the kitchen table, and the TV was blaring in the living room.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  She looked blank. “May I help you?”

  “Mom, what’s this?” I asked her, squatting beside her seat and touching the scarf that was knotted at one end around her boney wrist and at the other around the wooden arm of her chair.

  “Silk. And isn’t the color gorgeous? It’s on sale today. I can let you have it for $3.99.”

  “Lovely. I’ll take it.” I had to poke a pen into the knot to get it started, it was pulled so tight, but I got the scarf off my mother and then off the chair. Good thing Bill wasn’t there. I had a blinding urge to put the thing around his booth-tanned neck, pull it tight, and knot it like a Chinese puzzle.

  Mom picked up her knitting needles from the basket beside her chair. Clack clack clack, said the needles. This isn’t good, said little Janet Angel. Looney tunes, said little Janet Demon. I wouldn’t know a cable stitch from a purl, but I was pretty sure that she should have had those busy needles hooked up to some yarn. But then I’ve been known to make Mr. Coffee do his thing without benefit of water or ground beans, so who am I to criticize?

  “Mom, I think you should think about moving.”

  “Oh, that nice young man told me not to move.”

  “Bill?”

  “Was that his name?” The needles stilled and a stranger looked at me from behind my mother’s eyes. “I don’t believe we’ve met, dear.”

  “Mom, it’s me, Janet.”

  “No, don’t believe so.” She went back to her knitting, her mouth bowed gently up at the corners.

  My cell phone rang, saving me from my second desperate urge in so many minutes, this one to grab one of the knitting needles and ram it in my right ear and out the left. It was Tom.

  “How’s Jay?”

  I filled him in.

  “And how’s Janet?”

  “Well, I’m scared for my dog, and mad as hell, and now I’m here with a woman who doesn’t know me, planning to remove her from her home and lock her up and wondering what to do with her in the meantime. I was planning to take some of her things to the nursing home this afternoon, but I can’t leave her alone. Otherwise, I’m dandy. And you?”

  Twenty minutes later, Tom walked in the door, gave me a hug, and sent me on my way. “Don’t worry about it. I brought something to read, and I can always hold the yarn for her if I get bored.” If he didn’t quit winking at me, I thought, I was going to have a permanent hot flash.

  I arrived at Shadetree Retirement Home with a box of photos and knickknacks, a new bedspread in Mom’s favorite shade of violet, and a suitcase full of her clothes. Jade Templeton, Shadetree’s assistant manager, helped me arrange the room.

  “This will make it much easier for her to adjust.”

  “If she recognizes any of it.” The last three words came out in a squeak as all the emotions of the past few days surged through me in one great whoosh. I sat down on the bed and burst into tears. I hadn’t cried so much in years. Jade sat beside me and put an arm around my shoulder. “It’s okay, you know. She’ll be fine here, better than at home now. Safer. You’re doing the right thing.”

  I blubbered for another minute or so. Jade took my hands in hers, and part of my brain flipped to photographer mode as I studied her long, slim hands, at once delicate and strong, the elegant fingers unadorned, the smooth mocha sheen of her skin enhancing the soft peach of her blouse. Her voice brought me back to the moment.

  “Once she’s moved in, she’ll find friends, and she can play in the garden all she wants.”

  The garden was one reason I’d wanted to get Mom into Shadetree. There was a lovely atrium with raised flowerbeds where residents could dig and plant to their hearts’ delight all year round. This garden therapy program was overseen by the local Master Gardeners. Shadetree also had a resident cat and welcomed visits from several certified therapy animals. I’d have to start taking Jay for visits once he was certified. Other than having her mind back, what more could an old lady with green thumbs up to her elbows want?

  I took a tissue that magically appeared in Jade’s hand, wiped my eyes, blew my nose, and looked at the woman sitting beside me. Her nose was a bit doughy, her cheeks a tad too round, her forehead high and bare and creased, and her hair cropped tight to her head in a style more suited to a daintier, younger woman. But her eyes were the warmest shade of burnt umber, filled with humor and compassion and a hint of mischief. I wasn’t looking forward to locking Mom up, but I was delighted to know I’d be seeing a lot more of Jade Templeton.

  I looked around the room once more. “So, I’ll go home and get her ready and we’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

  Oh yeah, whispered Janet Demon into my left ear, and won’t we have fun.

  57

  Jay couldn’t come home. Dr. Douglas had been in touch with vet toxicologists at the Purdue vet school, and based on their advice, he wanted to continue fluids and vitamin K therapy overnight. I was already depressed, and now I couldn’t resort to my therapy of choice. Some people go to shrinks, some shop ’til they drop. I spend time with my dog, often in the company of other cynophiles and their own best friends. The Zen of dog ownership, as it were. Unfortunately, my spiritual guide was having fluid and vitamins pumped into him.

  I called brother Bill and told him a little white lie about a photo shoot, and he grumbled but agreed to spend the evening with Mom. I told him I’d be there about ten. “And if you tie her up again, I’ll make you eat the chair she’s sitting in.” Bill is a big guy, but I’m still the tough little sister who made him eat the spider he dropped down my shirt when we were kids.

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t tie her up!”

  “I suppose she tied her own arm to the chair with the scarf?”

  “Must have. She was wearing a scarf when I left.”

  I apologized for thinking the worst, and my fib about the photo shoot stirred up a little butterfly of guilt that fluttered around my brain but never landed. I needed to spend a few hours with people who knew what being dogless meant to me. I decided to take my camera along and snap a few pictures, so I’d be a fibber, not a big fat liar, a distinction that Bill and I honored as children.

  Marietta never gets to work her own dog in group sessions, so I offered to call commands for heeling practice to give her the opportunity. She liked the idea for the first half hour, then put her dog in her office and took over. I got a diet pop from the machine and looked through the door into the back room. Connie and several other people were practicing with their dogs for the conformation ring. It may look easy, having a dog stand still for the judge and trot around the ring, but trust me, it takes a helluva lot of skill and hard work to make showing a dog look effortless.

  I turned back to the obedience room and wandered over to the row of chairs along the wall. Giselle panted over to me. The chair she dropped onto heaved a metallic groan, but held. Giselle left a chair between us, and averted her eyes as she settled Precious on her lap.

  “Hi, Giselle.”

  “You sent the police to talk to me, didn’t you?”

  “They’re talking to everyone connected to Abigail.”

  “Not about Abigail. About your dog.”

  That got my attention. “What about my dog?
”

  “That police lady came to my house?” Her confidence seemed to flag, and she was back to inflecting statements as questions.

  “And?”

  The chair creaked as she shifted her weight, and Precious sat up and looked at her with big round eyes. “She asked if I knew anyone who’d want to hurt your dog?”

  “Do you?”

  “No?” She shoved her bangs from one side of her forehead to the other, and flicked a quick glance at me.

  “Did you leave a basket of dog biscuits on my porch?”

  “No?” She didn’t ask how Jay was doing. “But you should stop poking your nose into other people’s business. Someone could get hurt.”

  It occurred to me that an awful lot of people seemed to think it was okay to poke their noses into my business, and my hackles rose. “Are you threatening me?”

  She shrugged. “I’m just saying?”

  I glared at her. “When you have something sensible to say, come talk to me again.” I walked into the ladies room, crushed the pop can in my hands with a growl and slammed it into the trash, and gazed into the reflection of my own angry eyes for a moment. I splashed some cold water onto my face, and forced myself to breathe slowly through my mouth while I dripped into the sink. I patted my face with a paper towel, crinkling my nose at the smell of wet brown paper. Squaring my shoulders, I forced the corners of my mouth upward to pump some smiley-face endorphins into my system, fished the can out of the trash so I could put it in the recycling bin, and pulled the door open.

  The dogs in the group practice ring were sitting along one wall, their owners facing them from various distances, depending on how reliable the individual dog was. A few people, including Tom, were training jumps and retrieves in the other ring. I glanced toward the chairs where I’d been sitting, and there was Giselle, cuddling her tiny dog with one hand and shoveling chocolate chip cookies from the vending machine into her mouth with the other.

  A frenzy of color drew my eyes to a woman coming in the front door. Her fiery hair stuck out from her scalp in startled spikes made brighter by the aqua shirt below them. Her eyes were wide and searching, her lips narrow and tight. Francine Peterson, Pip’s breeder. What in the world was she doing in Fort Wayne on a Monday night? Marietta had told me Francine lived in Rochester, in the north-central part of the state, a good hour and a half from Fort Wayne.

  Go poke your nose in her business, urged Janet Demon. Ask if she needs any help, urged my little angel. Whatever, I thought, getting to my feet.

  “Are you looking for someone?”

  She fixed me with a reptilian stare, and screwed her lips even tighter as she studied my face. “Greg Dorn.”

  “Oh, sorry, he’s not here.”

  “Must be.”

  My scalp muscles contracted. “Don’t think so. I haven’t seen him this evening. He doesn’t come here much. Abigail did, but not Greg.”

  She was scanning the room again. “His car’s parked out back.”

  “Really?” I hadn’t seen it there when I pulled in.

  She didn’t bother to answer, just marched through the training room and out the front door. Tom and Drake strolled over to me, and Tom asked, “What was that all about?”

  “She was looking for Greg.”

  “Who is she?”

  I watched out the front window as Francine climbed into a beat-up cargo van. It was hard to tell if it was red or brown under the lights. I told Tom what I knew about who she was and where she lived. “She said she saw Greg’s car in the parking lot.”

  “I’ll bet she saw your car.”

  He shot me that damn smile. The ligaments in my leg joints loosened, but I managed to fend off the hormonal surge and stay upright. I was beginning to wonder if something was seriously wrong with me. To camouflage my reaction, I bent and gave Drake an ear scratch. “What are you talking about?”

  “Abigail drives, er, drove a dark blue Voyager, right? At least that’s what they always took to dog shows. You don’t think Greg would let the dogs ride in his Mercedes coupé, do you?” He drew out the two syllables of coo-pay.

  “Is that what he drives?”

  “Oooh, yeah.” His eyes looked like mine feel when I see a stunning photograph, or a stunning animal. “Silver-blue, black leather interior. Fine looking car.” He probably saw my eyes glaze over, because his voice went from dreamy to resigned. “A perk of marriage to a bread heiress, I guess. About seventy grand.” His eyes refocused on reality. “So anyway, I bet she associates him with the van, you know, from dog shows. Looks like your Caravan.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.” I glanced into the back room, thinking I’d say hi to Connie, but the conformation people had cleared out, so I walked with Tom toward a chair by the wall where he had left his training bag. Giselle must have thought we were heading for her, because she jumped up, grabbed her stuff, and bulldozed out the back door.

  “What did you do to her?” asked Tom.

  “She has an overactive imagination, that’s all.” We sat down, and Drake laid his lovely black head on my knee. His eyes were as soothing as warm dark chocolate, a shade deeper than his owner’s eyes. I was beginning to think of Tom and Drake as the chocolate-eyed boys, all warm and yummy, and the thought stirred a hunger that had nothing to do with food. I stroked Drake’s cheeks and silky ears to calm myself, and hoped I wasn’t as transparent as I felt. A quarter of an hour slid by in small talk, and I bade Tom good night.

  “Call me if you need me,” he said.

  58

  “I need you,” I told Tom, back inside Dog Dayz about three minutes later.

  “Wow, that was quick.” He faced me and opened his arms. “I’m all yours!”

  Anger overrode estrogen, and my pulse didn’t react at all. “I have four flat tires.”

  Tom followed me out the door and took a quick glance at my foundered van. “Yep, they’re flat all right. Hang on.” He took Drake to his car, came back with a flashlight, and made the rounds of the four useless tires. “Sidewalls have been slashed.” Tom remained calm while I ranted in clear violation of my moratorium on four-letter words, then drove me to Mom’s house.

  I called Jade Templeton first thing in the morning and told her I’d have to postpone Mom’s move until noonish. Then I called Detective Stevens and left her a message to call me. I knew it was a bit

  of a reach to expect a homicide detective to care about vandalism, but my gut told me this was linked to Abigail’s death, and autopsy report or no, I no longer thought that was due to natural causes. I called Goldie next. I needed her to drive me to Sears to see about new tires, but she didn’t answer either, so I called Connie. She said they had a light morning and her assistant could handle it.

  Finally I called Bill and told him what was happening. He showed up at Mom’s twenty minutes later and was still explaining how my tire situation inconvenienced him when Connie arrived. I placed one more call, this time to my road service for a tow, or rather a carry, since the poor car couldn’t roll on four flats. “They said they’d be at the Dog Dayz parking lot in half an hour, so let’s pick up some coffee on the way. I could use some caffeine.”

  We were getting back into Connie’s car with steaming lattes and fresh muffins when my cell phone rang.

  “Heard you had some trouble last night.” It was Jo Stevens.

  “How did you find out so fast?”

  “Officer Hernandez knew I was working on the dog lady deaths. Since your tires were slashed at the dog training place, he thought there might be a connection.”

  “The dog lady deaths?”

  “Cute, huh? Anyway, I want to come talk to you about it. Now a good time?”

  “But I didn’t call the police. Except for you.”

  “We know everything.” The detective waited a beat, then laughed and said, “T
he owner of the place called since it happened in her parking lot.”

  Of course, that made sense. “Wait, but … You’re investigating Abigail’s and Suzette’s deaths? I mean, officially?”

  She didn’t offer anything specific, but confirmed that there was now an official investigation. I told her where I was and where I was going, and she said she’d meet us at the Sears garage. She wanted to see the tires. “Don’t let them take them off the car until I get there—I want photos.”

  “If I’d known, I’d have brought my camera.”

  “Anyway, be careful. See you in a few minutes.”

  Jo was waiting at the garage when we pulled in behind the tow truck. She took her photos and the mechanic began pulling the dead tires off the van. We needed a place to talk. The waiting room wasn’t crowded, but there was a woman with four pre-schoolers and it was a tad noisy for conversation, so we walked into the mall and found a seat in front of Aunt Annie’s pretzel place. I was giddy from the aroma of yeast and cinnamon by the time we sat down.

  “Any idea who did this?” She studied Connie, who had popped a piece of gum into her mouth and now seemed intent on folding the wrapper into the tiniest packet possible.

  “Not strong enough to accuse anyone, no.”

  Jo shifted her attention back to me. “No idea at all?”

  I told her about my conversations with Giselle and with Francine Peterson. “But Francine wouldn’t know my car and she’d have no reason to go after me anyway. And I just can’t see Giselle doing it. Could have been random vandalism.” But even I didn’t believe that.

  “All four tires?” Connie tossed the paper on the floor. “I told you not to ask so many questions.” She folded her arms across her chest. “My money’s on Francine.”

  “Why is that?” Jo asked, picking the gum wrapper up from the floor and tossing it into a waste container behind Connie.

  “She looked pretty angry when she came in last night.” Connie leaned across the table and tapped my hand. “Maybe she thought it was Greg’s van, you know, Abigail’s van. It looks a lot like yours.” I recalled that Tom had said the same thing. “Or maybe she blames you for keeping her from picking Pip up at the show.”