But the headline over Paddy’s next story read “Forensic Analysis Reveals Cat’s Secrets,” a title that was quite civilized. There was a sidebar about Dr. Arbuthnot that was also respectful—“ASPCA Vet Ferrets Out Pet Cruelty.”
A picture of the note topped the front page. “Please bury my sweet cat. I want to bury her but we have no money and there’s nowhere to put her but here. I know he didn’t mean it. I know he loves me and he didn’t mean it.”
The message was written on lined paper by a childish hand. There were circles dotting the “i”s and balloons for the tails of the “y”s. The rest was simple block printing like a young girl’s. I could tell this without being a handwriting expert, but a police handwriting specialist had concluded the same thing.
Paddy’s sidebar went on to say that Dr. Rachel Arbuthnot had examined the cat, and the suitcase. She typed the blood and documented the DNA. In her opinion the murder weapon was a hunting knife. Fingerprints lifted from the handle could not be identified. The blood under the cat’s nails was human; so was the DNA. She also found a long dark human hair that could belong to the little girl, or the cat killer.
The sound of a hardball hitting a bat at a Little League game is one of the sweetest sounds in the world. A kid gets a chance to round the bases and the crowd cheers. I watched Jamie take practice swings and hoped he’d connect with the ball. One glance at Carl’s face next to mine spoke volumes about hope and pride.
“Ball two.” Our umpire said that a lot, along with “Outside!” or “Low ball.” Pitching is the hardest skill to learn.
It was the sixth inning and the pitcher from the opposing team appeared to be tiring. The score was tied, the bases were loaded, and this was the last inning for the eight-to-ten year old division.
“Ball three.” In a minute, Jamie would walk, a runner would go home, and the game would be won.
Across the diamond, the opposing coach slapped the back of his tallest player, propelling the boy onto the field. The current pitcher loped off the mound, and we all clapped. That’s how we teach sportsmanship in this League.
The relief pitcher wound up and let fly. “Strike one!” said the umpire.
This guy was good.
“Strike two.”
My heart sank.
Crack.
Jamie’s hit to centerfield bounced beyond the outfield player. Parents rocketed to their feet as our runners tore for home. My eyes pinned on Jamie as he ran for second base. The outfielder threw long and hard, but Jamie made it to third. The pitcher scooped up the ball and shot it towards the catcher, who whirled on Jamie and tagged him.
“Safe!” cried the ump.
Our crowd went wild. Fathers clapped Carl on the back. Players rubbed Jamie on the head. The game was over despite the fact there was one more batter up. No matter what happened now, the score was four points in our favor.
“Our son’s a winner tonight,” I said to Carl.
He draped his arm around my shoulders. “You are too. Guess what happened today?”
“What?”
“Charges came down in the Medicare fraud case.”
“I hope they threw the book at that crooked chiropractor,” I said. “Shelley thought her family was going bankrupt.”
“The chiropractor and his assistant each got four felony counts of Medicare fraud. That means they could go to prison for five to ten years for each count.”
I thought of FBI agent Rasheeta Jackson. She must be feeling satisfied, now that she’d finished all her “undercover energy work.” Annabelle Davina would be happy too, although she was not the gloating type.
“Harriet Carpenter turned state’s evidence against Barry Whiteside and is trying to trade her sentence down.” Carl shook his head. “I’ve seen plea bargainers before but she seems downright vindictive.”
I smiled into the bottom of the grandstand.
“She’s gone after him with a vengeance, as if they were never friends,” he said.
“Perhaps they weren’t friends.”
He cocked his head at me.
“Perhaps they were lovers, and he done her wrong.”
Carl got the picture.
“What about all the money his patients paid?” I asked. “Will Shelley’s family be reimbursed?”
“The prosecution will present all that during trial,” said Carl. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Whiteside’s required to pay restitution. The FBI discovered millions socked away in foreign accounts.”
The wheels of justice turned slowly but I could envision a time when the Protheros and others like them would be made whole.
“You done good, honey,” Carl said.
Our eyes returned to the field. “Strike three,” shouted the umpire. Our kids threw their hats in the air. We clambered down the metal benches as the teams shook hands.
“By the way,” Carl said. “Paddy Hamburger came to the station today. He knew all about the note in the suitcase even though we kept that under wraps.” Adrenalin spiked through my body. “I noticed he had a fresh haircut.”
Carl looked at me with a question in his eyes.
I took a deep breath. “Paddy’s such a conniver. He made it sound like he was going to accuse our local vet of killing the cat. I was so mad, it slipped out.”
“Why would Paddy think the vet did it?”
“Because of some cruelty case in Florida.”
“No wonder he asked about vets. I told him we’ve canvassed the vets in the area, to learn about any other pet abuse cases and inquiries about pet burial services.”
“You don’t suspect our veterinarians, do you?”
“No,” Carl said. “We’re focusing on the link between animal cruelty and domestic violence. I’ve been to the women’s shelter, and the youth resource officer is working with the Department of Child & Family Services and the schools to try to identify the note writer.”
“Dad!” Jamie rushed up beside us, all dust, sweat, smiles. “Did you see me, Mom?”
“Of course we saw you,” I said. “Congratulations, sweetheart!”
“You done good, Jamie,” his father said, Carl’s highest accolade for excellence.
Time passed with no movement on the case. Then Carl’s cell phone rang one Sunday when he was off duty: two llamas butchered at the historic Burbridge Homestead.
After Carl left, I placed the farm’s name. Heather Desmond and her husband had purchased the homestead five years before when the old dairy farmer passed away. Not her llamas—she’ll be crushed. I decided to stop by Monday on my day off. I could take Heather a gift to return the favor of the marvelous goat cheese.
The next afternoon, Heather met me on the spacious front porch of the Victorian farmhouse. “Tracy, how nice of you to come.”
“I’ve brought some Elégance products for your face.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
I gave her a sympathetic look.
“Life goes on, Tracy,” she said with a sigh. “Life goes on.”
“I’m truly sorry about what happened.”
She sank onto her sofa looking like a small, huddled child. “My poor Zoom, my poor Zelda. I raised Zoom from a little cria. I bottle fed him when he was born and he couldn’t stand to nurse. I watched him grow up. We called him ‘Zoom’ because he would zoom around the pen—so fast, Tracy. He was a joy to watch.”
“You’ve often talked about him.”
“And Zelda. She was a good mother. She dropped a baby every year. Imagine being pregnant all the time. Did you know a llama’s gestation period is eleven months? She gave birth all by herself and never complained.”
I wondered how a llama would complain but I didn’t think it was a good time to ask.
“They would eat out of my hand.” Heather offered me some imaginary grain with wonder on her face. “They’d pick it up with their finger lips. So soft, so sweet. And they didn’t spit.”
“Ever?”
“I never did anything to make them angry. They loved people. They wer
e curious about us humans. They would stand in the corral when we had parties and watch all my guests in the backyard having fun, gazing at us with their amazing big eyes and their long lashes.”
I gave Heather a hug. “I’m so sorry.”
“Tracy, it was horrible. I woke up Sunday morning and milked the goats as usual. The chickens had given us six fresh eggs for our breakfast. Then I went to fill Zoom and Zelda’s water bucket.”
She sniffed. I hung on her next words. They were long in coming.
“I looked into the back field and saw them on the ground. I could barely see them that far away but I could tell they weren’t moving. I thought they were just sleeping, so I filled the bucket and turned away, but just then my husband let our blue heeler out the back door. He rushed into the field and barked at them. They didn’t get up, Tracy, they just didn’t get up!”
Heather was weeping now. I gave her a tissue.
She buried her face in it. I waited until she resumed. “I opened the gate to the field. When I got close, I saw that their throats were slit. There was so much blood,” she whispered, “so much strange blood.”
“Strange?”
“Llama blood is bright pink-red, almost florescent. And it beads up in strange globs.”
I tried to picture this and couldn’t. “My husband Carl is working on your case, Heather. He’ll catch the person who did this.”
“But why, Tracy, why? It’s so senseless.” She lifted her face to mine and I could see the anguish there. “They didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t do anything to anybody. They were so innocent.”
Early that morning Rachel Arbuthnot had determined the llama’s throats were slit with a hunting knife, the same type of weapon as the cat in the suitcase. Carl was reviewing all the animal cruelty cases tried in adult court over the past five years, but the juvenile cases were sealed and hard to access. Carl and Rachel were extremely frustrated. They needed a break in the case.
“The police will find the killer,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel. “Now let’s get you fixed up. How about a soothing eye cream treatment and facial massage? That will make you feel better.”
As I directed Heather to lie down and began to clean her face with organic skin care cleanser, I thought about how much Heather deserved justice. So did Zoom and Zelda. So did the cat in the suitcase.
But how?
I wished I could review all the court cases myself. I wished I could question the school counselors and all the teachers. Surely some kid in the school system was in a world of hurt. All that negative stuff had to come out somehow. Children acted out their pain on the playground. Pre-teens had hurtful exchanges in hallways. High school kids bullied and taunted each other. Negative feelings like this needed some kind of release valve or they blew. If the cat killer was a teen, how would his actions at school tip a teacher off? If the note writer was a young girl, how would her pain reveal itself? A teacher or a counselor must have seen something.
But there were seven schools, thousands of children, and only one guidance counselor at each school. High school guidance counselors only saw a student for ten minutes twice a year, their focus on college placement. It was an unreasonable expectation to think that the school staff could see any warning signs because they only saw part of the picture.
After wiping off the cleanser I applied eye repair cream to erase the puffiness and redness caused by tears. With a fragrant probiotic moisturizer, I began to massage Heather’s chin and cheeks. The light repetitive motion made Rachel sigh with contentment while my mind wrestled with the problem.
Where were parents in all this? Maybe they were working too hard to see what their children were doing. Most people around here have three jobs just to make ends meet. Parents work all day, nights and weekends. There are lots of latchkey kids. The father could be absent; the mother could be a drunkard. Or there might only be grandparents.
The possibilities boggled my mind.
I moved to Heather’s ash blonde hair. A scalp massage is always soothing. Heather’s eyes were closed, her body relaxed, as I created swirls with the balls of my fingers, a light pressure all over her head.
My thoughts turned to hair color. Ash blonde dye is actually dark brown. Red hair dye is light pink. Dark brown hair dye is light tan.
Nothing was as it seemed, just like the case. The cat killer could be the most well-liked kid in the school. The note writer could be from a wealthy family, not a working class family. The llama killer could be a man not a boy.
We just didn’t know.
Heather was ready for toner to brighten her face. I wiped the moisturizer off with a soft serenity contoured pad. “Now I’m going to apply a spritz of chamomile tonic. You’ll feel a slight tingling sensation and you’ll love the fragrance.”
Heather kept her eyes closed as I pumped the aromatherapy finishing layer, and there was the wisp of a smile on her lips. Her face was no longer red and swollen but clear and rosy.
As I put the facial products away, we chatted about goat cheese, blackberry jam, sun-ripened tomatoes, apron making, and the difference between fresh eggs and store-bought. We stayed away from llama shearing, wool spinning, and sweater knitting which were Heather’s favorite topics. She appeared refreshed and tranquil, but I knew she was hiding her grief.
That’s what we do, we humans—we hide our grief, we hide our hurt, and we fool the world most of the time.
A few days later my one o’clock appointment was Tina White Horse. I mulled over that name before I remembered. Tina ran for Ms. Cowgirl. She made First Attendant and is related to Larry Big Pouch, who is a mover and shaker on the reservation.
Tina entered the salon looking radiant. She had long black hair stretching down her back with a hint of blue cresting in the waves. Her eyes were almond-shaped and her skin was flawless.
“Tracy Lemon,” she said, striding into the salon and shaking my hand. “I’ve always wanted to meet you.”
“I remember you from the Ms. Cowgirl contest. You look fabulous.”
“Thank you.” She dropped her eyes, then looked back into mine.
“So you’re here for a pedicure?”
“I’d like a pedi with a flower.”
I nodded. “Come pick out a color.”
I ran warm water into a footbath while Tina browsed through my polish selection. She chose light pink, perfect for a girl her age. I placed the bottle on my nail polish caddy, which I’d rolled out from the closet along with my pedicure stool.
This caddy contains everything I need to create a ground, refreshed and self-possessed person. My pedicures remove spent skin, groom the nails, massage the calves, relax the feet, strengthen arches, and dress toenails up so that a woman feels special. A girl could be pug-nosed, droopy-eyed or bed-headed, but when she looks at her painted toes, she feels pretty and feminine.
Tina removed her sandals, slid onto the recliner, and slipped her feet into the footbath. I let her soak for a few minutes while I readied my nail clippers and emery boards. I picked up her right foot and placed it on a salmon-colored terry covering the footrest.
“Your toes are so pretty,” I said, as I removed old polish.
“Thank you.”
I submerged the right foot and picked up the left. “You have wide, athletic-looking feet.”
“I ran barefoot on the reservation as a child. I think that builds up strength.”
“Foot doctors say so, too,” I said, swiping a cotton ball over the little toe. “That’s why those running shoes with the separate toes have become popular. They’re like skin. Have you ever tried them?”
“No, when I go home I still walk barefoot everywhere.”
I returned her left foot to the pool.
Tina selected a setting on the automatic back massager and round balls underneath the leather began to knead her lower back.
“I take it you’re not living on the reservation right now?”
“Just part time,” she said. “I have a job here in town
at an afterschool program.”
“Really? Where?”
“JR Ewing Elementary.”
“I didn’t think any of the elementary schools had an afterschool program. My son Jamie goes to a neighbor’s house when he gets off the bus.”
“This is the first year. JR Ewing has a lot of latchkey children so the district started a pilot program. I run the activities.”
I clipped each toenail and used an emery board to file the nails, then squirted pink cuticle softener on her toes. It looked like pink icing. I waited for the cuticle to soften.
“What kinds of things do the kids do?”
“Gymboree comes over to teach gymnastics and Yoga 4 U does stretching. Arts-Kids comes every week too.”
“What’s Arts-Kids?” I began to push Tina’s cuticles back with an orange stick.
“A professional artist gives the kids an expressive arts project. It’s intended to help kids release their frustrations through art.”
“Like art therapy?”
“Not exactly, because they don’t ask the kids to paint or draw how they feel. They give them materials let them be creative any way they want.”
I nodded. Jamie always feels good about himself when he’s free to create without any direction from me.
“A lot of these kids have trouble in school,” Tina said. “They’re told all day ‘Don’t do this, stop that, you’re wrong, do it this way.’ Some have dyslexia and ADHD; others are going through some tough life events—divorce, death in the family, alcoholism.”
I raised my eyes from her toes and looked at her. What about animal abuse?
“I suppose you see some interesting things in their art,” I said, “things kids won’t talk about but they might draw instead.”
She laughed. “One kid is obsessed with Ryu Hayabusa. I can’t even pronounce that name. He’s a ninja character in a video game. The boy made a Ryu mask, a Ryu light saber, and a Ryu jet pack. We had a cartoonist come and work with the kids, so he even made a Ryu comic strip.”
I laughed. “What about the girls?”
Petty Crimes & Head Cases Page 11
