Drop Dead on Recall

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  “Okay. I mean, I’m not involved in any investigating,” I ignored Janet Demon rolling her eyes and whispering, yeah, right, “but I’ll mention it to the police detective on the case. She’ll know better than I do whether it’s important.”

  74

  Jay and Leo and I went out to the backyard for a game of tennis ball. We each have our special plays. I try to fake Jay out, and he gives me his “How lame is that, trying to fake out a dog?” look. Then I throw it, and he races across the yard after the bouncing yellow fuzz, and another ball of yellow fuzz flies out from under the forsythia jungle in the corner, races after the dog, counts coup on Jay’s fanny, and races back to the leafy lair. Then Jay grabs the ball, spins toward the forsythia and charges toward the cat hunkered under its lowest branches, where he lets out a ball-muffled brrffff. Then he brings me the ball so we can do it all again.

  I heard the phone through the open window and ran for the door. As I picked up the receiver, I glanced out the window. Jay danced from foot to foot at the back door, panting. His expression pleaded, “Wait! Wait! The game isn’t over!” Leo was strolling along the fence line, showing how much he didn’t care.

  Jo identified herself. “We’ve confirmed that the chisel we found is the tool used to slash your tires.”

  “Did you catch the fiend who did it?”

  “Not yet. But we lifted fingerprints from the chisel.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Only if we identify a suspect. Or it’s someone with a record.”

  I must have looked disappointed.

  “It’s not impossible that the prints will lead us to the culprit.”

  “But not likely either, right?”

  “Turns out this chisel is really high quality. You know anyone who would have reason to have a good chisel?”

  “Not really.”

  Must have been something in my voice, because she pressed me, so I told her that I’d heard that Francine had a mobile repair business of some sort. “But judging by the beat-up old van she drives, I don’t know how much she’s into high-quality equipment.”

  Jo let a beat go by, then went on, her voice pitched slightly lower and faster. “Look, I have no hard evidence, but you and I both know that the tires are linked to the stuffed dog and that both are somehow linked to the two dead women.”

  My heart rate increased by half. “Wow. Hearing a cop put my thoughts into words makes them even scarier.”

  I excused myself to let the beasties in and to collect my thoughts. Jay guzzled from his water bowl, but Leo was nowhere in sight. Probably prowling the perimeter. I’d have to retrieve him when I got off the phone, but for now I got back to Jo. “It makes sense that everything’s connected, but I don’t know what I have to do with anything.”

  I heard a noise in the living room and walked to the doorway leading there from the kitchen. Leo was on the front porch, balanced on the ladder back of my rocking chair and patting the window with his claws. He’d have to wait a minute. My home is electronically challenged and I still have a phone with a cord. It didn’t reach to the front door.

  “You’ve had both the dead women’s dogs in your possession, right?”

  “Well, yes, but not for long. I had Pip for four or five days, but everyone knew that was temporary. And I had Fly for a couple of hours, in my car.”

  “Still a link. And you knew both of the women. And you seem to know all the other players.” She added, as if she’d just thought of it, “And you take pictures.”

  “Pictures. You mean that someone thinks I’ve taken a picture of something that I don’t even know I’ve seen?”

  “Look, you need to be careful, okay? And not just about what you eat.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to scare you, but the bloody dog toy and the attack on your tires suggest more violence is possible than simply poisoning.” Having watched Abigail suffer, I wasn’t sure I’d call poisoning “simple,” but I let that thought go and listened as Jo continued. “Whoever’s doing these things is getting more desperate, so maybe you’re on to something without knowing what it is. Frankly, Janet, I think we have a nutcase on our hands, so you need to take these threats seriously. Be careful, lock your doors, and watch Jay and Leo. And if you feel remotely threatened, call 911 first, then call me.”

  In my rush to get off the phone and go bring Leo into the safety of the house, I forgot to tell her about Giselle’s hissy fit or Greg’s travel plans or Ginny’s phone call. I really had to start making lists. I stepped out the front door, but Leo was no longer on the porch. I called his name, which usually brings His Excellency in at a leisurely stroll. He can’t appear to be obeying, of course, but he does come when called. Usually.

  Okay, sometimes.

  I went in, grabbed a can of salmon-flavored treats from the cupboard, and went back outside. I left Jay in the house—he was entirely too focused on the fishy smell coming from the can to be of any help. Why do cats have to pick the worst possible time to play games? Then again, Leo didn’t know there was a killer on the loose.

  I walked around the yard, peeking under shrubs and into other hidey holes, calling and rattling the treats, but no cat appeared. Today was evidently not a come-when-called day, and after a twenty-minute tour of the front, side, and back yards, I went inside. I popped a salmon treat between Jay’s slavering jaws and told him, “The little booger was probably hunkered down out there watching me and laughing his furry little butt off.”

  75

  The doorbell, followed by Jay’s deep “boofs” from the direction of the front door, jolted me out of bed the next morning. The one morning in recent history that I’d actually slept until a decent hour, mostly because I’d been up several times during the night calling for Leo, and now some fool was ringing my bell. I glanced at my watch, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and combed my hair back with my fingers. Turned out 6:49 was only a semi-decent time to get up, and obscenely early for a visitor. Panic clutched at my mind.

  I should have used the peephole before opening the door since no rational person would come calling at that hour, unless they bore devastating news. I mean, what’s the point of having a reasonably secure locking system that you open right up for bad guys? But it was way too early to think, so I slipped the chain, flipped the deadbolt, grabbed Jay’s collar, and pulled the door open.

  Detectives Stevens and Hutchinson were on my porch.

  “Ohmygod. Who’s dead now?”

  Hutchinson had his badge out, as if I wouldn’t recognize him. “Can we come in?”

  I took half a step backward, holding Jay’s collar and my breath. Jo Stevens smiled at me and shook her head. “It’s not that kind of a visit.”

  Jay stopped barking and leaned into his collar, stretching his neck toward the detectives, sucking in their scent while his body vibrated from his wriggling tail nub to his shoulders.

  Hutchinson glowered at Jay. “Call off your dog.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” Jo pushed past him and stepped into the house, giving Jay a scratch under the chin. Her partner followed, puffing up his chest as he glanced at Jay.

  “You don’t like dogs much, do you, detective? I’ll put him outside if he scares you.”

  “I’m not scared,” he lied.

  Jay was no longer interested in Hutchinson. He stood in front of Jo, eyes sparkling and fanny wriggling. She rubbed behind his ears.

  I peered out the door before I closed it. “You didn’t happen to see an orange cat out there, did you?” They hadn’t. “Leo’s been gone since I talked to you yesterday.”

  Hutchinson hitched up his pants. “Look, we’re not here to chat about your pets. We have a missing suspect to find.”

  76

  Jo glared at her partner but spoke to me. “I’m sure Leo will show up when he gets
hungry. Probably needed a night on the town.”

  I wanted to agree with her, but Leo wasn’t an on-the-town sort of guy. What would be the point, since he was neutered? “It’s not like him.” I led them through to the kitchen, let Jay out the back door, and surveyed the backyard. No Leo. “Coffee?” I asked, turning back to the detectives. My hands needed something to do that didn’t ruin my cuticles.

  “That would be nice,” said Jo.

  I got busy with the coffee scoop and asked, “Do you work every day?”

  “Seems like it. We’re covering for a couple guys who are off.”

  Hutchinson dragged a chair out. “Mrs. MacPhail, where is Greg Dorn?”

  “Ms.”

  He harumphed at me.

  “Why ask me?”

  “He’s wanted for questioning in the murders of his wife and his mistress.”

  I turned toward the detectives. “Mistress?”

  Jo glowered at Hutchinson, the look on her face suggesting that she’d smack him if she had to, and he shut up for a moment. “We need to find Mr. Dorn. He isn’t at home.”

  “We’re not really friends, just acquaintances.” I finished setting the coffee maker, moved a couple of photo boxes and some files out of the way, and signaled them to sit at the table.

  “Did Mr. Dorn plan to leave the country?” Hutchinson was nothing if not slow.

  “How would I know?”

  “So you’re not aware of any plans he might have had to leave the country?” Jo asked softly.

  “Look, I don’t know the guy that well. Saw him with his wife at dog events sometimes, and I took care of Abigail’s dog for a couple of days. That’s it. I’m not privy to his plans. I heard some rumors that he might have been planning a trip before….” Suddenly my mind was spinning. Why would Greg kill Suzette if they’d been planning a Caribbean tryst? “Before?” asked Jo.

  “Before what?” asked Mr. Charm.

  “Well, before Suzette died.” I sighed. “I heard that he cashed in some tickets he had for himself and Suzette. But I don’t think …” I let Jay back in and served the coffee. “I can’t imagine Greg killing anyone, especially his wife or Suzette.”

  Hutchinson pulled a beat-up spiral-bound notepad part way out of his shirt pocket. The end of the wire caught in the fabric, stretching out the bottom few coils and tearing the top hem of the pocket. He wrestled it free, tried to push the wire back into a coil, flipped the notebook open and scribbled something, and tried to pat the pocket flat against his chest. It defied his efforts, but Jay took the chest patting as an invitation and before I could intercede he had his front paws on the man’s shoulders and they were nose to nose.

  Everyone froze, and then I recovered enough to reach for my dog. “Jay! Off!”

  But Hutchinson surprised me. His hands came up tentatively to Jay’s cheeks, and he looked into the dog’s eyes, and he said, “Nah. It’s okay.” His shoulders relaxed, and he slowly ran his fingers along Jay’s copper cheek markings and, his voice softer, repeated, “It’s okay.”

  Jo looked away from her partner and shrugged at me, then cleared her throat.

  “Do you have any ideas about Greg’s other friends, anyone who might know his whereabouts?”

  “Sorry.” Hadn’t I just told them I didn’t know him all that well?

  “We haven’t been able to locate any of his family.” It was a statement, but there was a question in it.

  “I don’t think he has any family around here. I don’t even know where he’s from, now that I think about it. But how do you know he’s gone? Maybe he just wasn’t home when you were there.”

  “Oh, he’s long gone.” Hutchinson gently lifted Jay’s feet from his chest and lowered the dog to the floor, then shoved his partially wired notebook back into his torn pocket. Jay sat beside him and rested his chin on the man’s knee.

  Jo explained. “We executed a search warrant early this morning.” Early? Had to be the crack of dawn, I thought. “There’s no sign of him. It certainly appears that he’s gone out of town.”

  I watched several tiny bubbles spin in the whirlpool I stirred in my mug. “What about his car?”

  “His car was there, and the van.”

  Jo carried her empty mug to the sink. Her partner stroked the top of Jay’s head, and seemed reluctant to let the moment go. Finally he looked at me, his expression softer than I’d seen it. He seemed about to say something, then looked again at Jay, and stood up.

  No one spoke on the way to the front porch, where I told Jay to lie down. “Are the dogs there?”

  Jo looked at her partner, then at me, and shook her head.

  “If the cars were there and the dogs weren’t, I’d say he took them for a walk. How long were you there?”

  “Forty-five minutes, maybe. We just came from there.”

  “Well, I bet he was just walking the dogs before work.”

  Hutchinson pulled a battered business card from his inside jacket pocket. “Call if you hear from Mr. Dorn or learn his whereabouts.”

  “Are you going to arrest Greg?”

  Jo confirmed that there was a warrant for his arrest. Hutchinson’s phone chirped. He bent and stroked Jay again, then headed for the car as he opened his phone. Jo watched him, and said, “That was interesting.” She looked at me. “Cut him a little slack. His wife ran off last week with some biker dude.”

  “I didn’t want to admit this to your partner….” I said, and Jo turned and looked me in the eye. “I’m a tad scared. I mean, someone killed Abigail and Suzette, and I knew them both. I probably know the killer.”

  Jo completed the thought. “And the killer knows you, and doesn’t know how much you’ve figured out.” I nodded at her. “And whoever it is knows that you’ve been talking to us.” She glanced at the black sedan parked in front of my house. “So be alert and be cautious, okay? And again, if you think something’s wrong, call 911. Or me, if it’s not an emergency.” She bent and scratched Jay’s chest. “If I were you, I’d stick close to this guy for a while.”

  I watched her get behind the wheel of the black car before I stepped back inside the house with my dog. We started for the kitchen, but I backtracked to lock the door.

  77

  As soon as I was dressed I called the AKC’s Companion Animal Recovery and left them my cell number on the off chance that someone would find Leo and scan him for a microchip. He might even still be wearing his collar and ID tag. Then I set out to look once more for my cat. I drove first to Kinkos and copied a flyer I’d made with Leo’s picture and vitals. I handed them out at Animal Control, then the Allen County SPCA shelter, where I looked at the cats in the holding areas and filed “lost pet” reports. Then, consulting the pages I’d ripped from my phone book, I drove around to every vet office north of downtown and handed out more flyers. I’ve always thought that putting a distraught face with a report is better than just a phone call.

  I tacked more than a hundred flyers to every bulletin board and lamp post I could find, and handed them out to my neighbors. I even got permission from the principals of all but one school in the area to tape copies to the exit doors for a few days, since kids were more likely than most adults to notice an animal wandering around.

  I couldn’t think of anything else to do to help Leo find his way home, and I realized that I was close to Greg’s house, so I decided to run by and see if there was any sign of the other lost boy. Just as the detectives had said, Greg’s cars were both in the driveway. I parked on the street, and checked for lurking Yugos as I got out. Not a soul in sight.

  I went to the front door and rang the bell. No barking. A newspaper was lying in its plastic wrapper at the edge of the porch, and I picked it up and looked at the date. This morning. I tried to peek through the decorative glass of the door, but everything was distorted, so I didn’t learn
much. There was no sign of movement inside the house, though, so after a few minutes I set the paper back down by the door and walked around to the side of the house and through the gate into the backyard. No dogs, no Greg. I climbed the bluestone steps to the patio and tapped on the French door, just to be sure. The umbrella was up on the patio table, and a plate and half-full glass of diluted-looking tea sat under it. Odd that Greg would leave them out if he left, but maybe he was tidiness challenged. Like me.

  From the patio I stepped onto a lawn that felt like thick carpet beneath my feet, not a weed or errant leaf in sight. The flower beds looked as if someone had edged them inch by flawless inch with nail scissors. I walked toward a building about the size of a two-car garage at the back of the yard. Clay pots were neatly stacked along one side under a row of narrow windows, all in the shadow of an enormous ash that must have been on the property before the house was built. An overhang shaded a wooden porch along the front of the building. I stepped onto it and knocked on the door. As I expected, there was no reply.

  I stepped off the porch and went to the front-most window on the side and tried to see in, but the interior was too dark to reveal its secrets. I tried the other windows, too, but got the same results. I stood and looked at the lake behind the yard for a few moments, then headed back to the house. The blinds were closed on several windows, but I did manage to peek into the master bedroom. Nobody home.

  I was just rounding the front corner of the house when a cold spray of water hit me in the back and sent me scuttling forward. I turned and look, half expecting to see Greg standing behind me with a hose. Instead I found myself staring at an automatic sprinkler that had popped out of the ground and assaulted me.

  “Perfect,” I muttered, twisting as well as I could to wring out the hems of my pants and shirt. On a hunch, I opened the mailbox on my way by and sure enough, a hefty pile of mail hadn’t been picked up. I glanced up and down the street, not sure what I was looking for, but all was quiet. Too quiet, I thought. No kids out playing, no forgetful old ladies out gardening. No signs of life at all.