Shepherd's Crook

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  Pixel is almost trustworthy enough to be loose in the house when I’m gone, but with Winnie there, I decided to shut the kitten into my bedroom. She would have access to everything she needed other than trouble. I left Leo with her for company and tossed a couple of felt rodents into the room for good measure. Tom was shutting Winnie into her wire exercise pen in the living room when I emerged from the bedroom.

  “Don’t you think she should be in her crate?”

  He clipped the final slide bolt into place to close the pen. “She’ll have more room in here.”

  “But she might get out.”

  “She never has,” he said, giving the corner a tug to show me the panels were securely connected. “Anyway, we won’t be gone all that long.”

  How long does it take for an eleven-week-old puppy to get into trouble? I bit my tongue.

  “Have you ever left her in the pen before? I mean, when you weren’t home?”

  He grinned and kissed my cheek and said, “You worry too much. She’ll be fine.”

  I wasn’t so sure, but decided to wait and see.

  The appliance store had some kind of mega super biggest-of-the-year power sale going on, and an army of salespeople hovered just inside the door. A perky brunette won the sprint to intercept us. “I’m Evelyn,” she said. “How may I help?” The low cut of her polyester top said she was in her twenties, but her face argued for mid-forties.

  She guided us right by the nearest row of stoves and into one with price tags that would have gotten me a very nice new telephoto lens. Then she began her pitch for the latest in sensory this and electronic that, all aimed at me. I wasn’t sure whether to find her assumption sexist or hilarious. Both, I decided.

  “Let’s see something a bit less precious, shall we,” said Tom.

  “Certainly,” Evelyn said, bustling around the end of the lineup and into the row we had passed by earlier. “Now here’s a nice unit,” she told me, and started to rattle off all the fancy features.

  “We don’t need all the bells and whistles,” Tom said. “Just a nice basic stove with a self-cleaning oven.”

  Evelyn shot me a quick glance of what looked a lot like sympathy, and I just couldn’t help myself after that.

  “Oh, really? We can have self-cleaning?”

  Tom looked at me like I’d lost my mind, but when Evelyn explained that a self-cleaning oven would reduce my exposure to toxic cleaners, he started to laugh. The poor woman started to say something else, but closed her mouth and took a step backward.

  “Evelyn, I’m the cook at our house, and I’ll be the one cleaning the oven.” Tom smiled at her, but she looked skeptical. Tom asked a few questions about two competing models, and picked one.

  As Evelyn held her phone and waited for delivery information, I smiled at her and said, “I hate to cook.” She seemed to have some trouble processing us.

  We passed Blackford’s Farm and Garden on the way home, and I wondered again about who might have killed Ray Turnbull and Mick Fallon. And where in the world was Summer? “Tom,” I said, but stopped because I couldn’t seem to shape my thought into words.

  “Janet.” He glanced at me and grinned.

  “Those two guys, the goons from Cleveland …”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve been assuming they came after Evan, you know, to collect the money he owes their boss. But what if once they got here, what if Summer and Ray …” I still couldn’t fit the pieces into a coherent whole, and the half-formed question just hung there for a few moments.

  “What if Summer or Ray—or both of them—had some history with the guy? Is that where you’re going?”

  “I think so.” I thought about the photo of Summer running away from the encounter between Evan and the two men. “What if they met him in Reno, you know, tried to con him, but didn’t really know who he was, what they were getting into? Maybe that’s why they left there in such a hurry.”

  “But why move closer to his home base?”

  We pulled into my driveway and Tom turned the engine off.

  “Maybe they didn’t know he was from Cleveland. Or maybe they thought, heck, it’s what, three or four hours from this area to Cleveland, and there’s nothing around here to make him likely to visit.” I popped my door open, but stopped to add, “They didn’t expect Evan to go borrow money from the same guy.”

  We were just approaching the door from the garage into the house when something hit it from the other side with a solid thunk. Tom and I looked at each other, and closed the overhead door and opened the other. I was not surprised to see a dog on the other side. I had figured the crash into the door was Jay or Drake skidding to a stop. The surprise was which dog it was, and the way she looked.

  Winnie was a moving collage. Bits of multicolored paper were stuck to her head, her body, her legs. She tumbled over the doorsill and ran two loops around the garage before skidding past Tom and back into the house. She disappeared into the kitchen and the sound of her little paws on vinyl stopped, telling me she was on the living room carpet. We hurried past the laundry room and into the kitchen, where we were met by Jay and Drake. They, too, had bits of paper stuck to their heads, but only a few. Drake held his ears pulled back and was wagging his tail in low, short, fast motions that looked a lot like an apology. Jay squinted his eyes and bared his teeth in a submissive grin. Behind them, the kitchen table was shoved out from its usual home against the wall. The salt and pepper shakers lay under it, and the teddy bear honey dispenser lay in the far corner. It seemed to be deformed.

  I pulled a bit of raggedy paper off Jay’s cheek. It felt sticky. I ran my finger over it and touched my tongue. Honey. I scowled at the paper bit and realized what it was at exactly the moment I heard “Ohmygod!” from the other room.

  Winnie’s pen lay where it had been knocked over, the wire panels collapsed but for the puppy toys caught between them. Tom was trying to catch Winnie, but she was too fast and too exhilarated, and small enough to get behind the couch to escape between gleeful circuits of the room. Nothing else looked out of place in the living room, but when my eyes took in my work area, my lungs seized.

  sixty-four

  A mound of confetti filled the space in front of the dining table on which I work. At first, I couldn’t make sense of it, but then I saw the plastic milk crate that I used to file and organize printed photos I planned to mail to clients. It had been pulled away from its spot between the table and the credenza, tipped onto its side, and relieved of its contents, which were now torn to bits and scattered across the floor and stuck to the dogs.

  I let my body sag into the wall as I took it all in. Jay leaned against my leg, and I looked at him and Drake and said, “Go lie down.” They both backed away and disappeared into the kitchen. Just then Winnie dashed out from behind the couch, leaped onto her pile of photo confetti, and lay down and panted with obvious satisfaction. Tom stepped forward and picked her up. Then he turned to me.

  “I’m sorry. You were ri—”

  I raised my hands, palms toward him, and closed my eyes. “Don’t.” Tornadoes are common in Indiana in spring, and I felt one spinning inside me as I took in the mess, the lost work, the cost of the prints, the time it would take to replace them and to let my customers know about the delay. All that now lay in tatters on the floor. And there was also the potential danger to the puppy who wasn’t ready to be unsupervised, and to the older dogs she took on her juvenile joy ride.

  Tom tried again. “I’ll clean up the dogs and then I’ll get the re—”

  “Why didn’t you crate her like I asked? You know x-pens aren’t—”

  “I thought she’d be fine. I used to leave Drake in his ex—”

  “—secure,” I said, a bit more loudly. “And stop interrup—”

  “If you didn’t leave your crap all over the pla—”

  “Crap?” I stopped picking up bi
ts of photos and whirled toward him. “Crap? That ‘crap’ is hours of work and hundreds of dollars in printing costs.” My cheeks felt so hot I thought they might blow the top of my head off. “And it isn’t ‘the place,’ it’s my place.”

  I realized suddenly that Jay and Drake had both come back into the room. They were between us, looking from me to Tom and back, ears down and back, worried looks on their faces.

  “This isn’t going to work. You haven’t even—” I was going to say moved in yet and who knows what else I’d have regretted later, but he interrupted again.

  “Come on, I’ll help clean up and Winnie will pay for the damage.” I knew he was trying to lighten the mood, but my mood didn’t want lightening. When I didn’t respond, he let out something resembling a laugh and said, “I think you’re overreacting.”

  “Just go.”

  “Janet, I—”

  I glared at him and he stopped, a stricken look on his face. My inner good girl, the one socialized to accommodate everyone else’s needs, pinched me and whispered, “You can’t tell him he can’t move in now. He’s sold his house for you. Where will he go? He’ll have to live in his car with his dogs.” But at that moment I didn’t care. I wanted him to be sorry. I wanted all my doubts to go away, and I wanted all the work I had put into those now-useless photos to be worth something. I wanted him to say he was wrong and I was right. I said nothing.

  “I’ll call you,” he said, and left with Drake and Winnie.

  I turned my back and knelt to pick up some of the paper. The first piece I touched had to be peeled from the carpet, and I wondered whether I’d be able to get honey out of the fibers without professional help. Feeling certain my brother-in-law would know what to do, I called and he talked me through sponging it up with dish soap and water. Then he reminded me of all my wedding duties coming up on the weekend, and checked that I had made the dreaded hair appointment. I didn’t mention that Tom might not be at the festivities.

  I thought about trading Wednesday-night training for a quiet evening at home, but a hot shower and a grilled cheese sandwich revived me. Besides, whispered Janet Devil, you never know when you’ll need an alibi. Jay had napped while I showered and ate, and he was ready to go again by the time we loaded ourselves into the van. I could swear he knows when a training night rolls around.

  Tom’s van was already in the Dog Dayz lot when I got there, and I considered going back home. I had spent the afternoon flip-flopping between how much I loved him and how sure I was that living together would be the death of us as a couple. We were going to have to have a long, serious talk very, very soon, but I didn’t want to start it that night. I was still too angry about the shredded photos, although my funny bone was starting to react to the memory of happy little Winnie sitting in the middle of her pile of confetti. She must have had a lovely time ripping all the paper to bits. The whole thing would be a great story in a few weeks, I knew, but not just yet.

  The parking area near the training building was mostly full, but I found a space about halfway between the back entrance and the exercise area. I went over Jay one more time to be sure I hadn’t missed any bits of paper in his thick fur, and led him away from the building along the line of dogmobiles. Most were mini-vans and SUVs adorned with stickers professing to ❤ this breed or that dog sport. Toward the back of the lineup a gray sedan was backed in. At first I thought someone had forgotten to turn their lights off, but then I saw movement in the car.

  Gray sedan. My heart sped up as I thought about the Cleveland goons in their gray sedan. Could this be Mick Fallon’s partner Albert Zola? I stopped and stared, then looked around. Get a grip, woman. How many gray sedan false alarms had I fallen for in the past few days? But people have died. I was alone. I’d arrived a bit later than normal, and everyone seemed to be inside. “Come on, Jay,” I said, backing up a couple of steps and watching the car before I turned and high-tailed it toward the building entrance. When I got there I encouraged Jay to relieve himself on a rock near the door. Marietta discouraged the practice, but I gave myself a pass this time and went inside. I slid into a shadow and watched out the back door for a moment, but nothing happened. I made a mental note to leave with other people, and hoped that Hutchinson might be there with Giselle.

  sixty-five

  Several people waved as I made my way through the training building, and I overheard a snatch of conversation about the murder behind Blackford’s Farm and Garden. That had to be a topic of conversation, since probably a third of the Dog Dayz crowd bought their dog and cat and other animal foods there. Giselle met me with a hug and whispered, “I meant to call you last night but I had class and got, um, busy afterward. I’m glad it wasn’t too bad at the police station.” She stepped back and looked at me. “It wasn’t too bad, was it?” I assured her it wasn’t too bad and asked whether Hutch was around.

  “Not tonight. He had to go buy his mom a birthday present.” She studied my face. “Do you need me to call him?”

  “No, no, it’s fine.” She looked doubtful, but I smiled and repeated myself until we were both convinced.

  I tried to ignore Tom as he worked with Winnie in one of the rings, but I couldn’t help admire, as always, his easy way of getting the best from his dog. He had staked out a space along the wall across from the rings, near the front door, for his two crates. He had brought the big folding canvas one for Drake, but didn’t trust Winnie to fabric and zipper at her young age, so she had a medium-size plastic airline crate with a heavy wire door for training nights. Oh, sure, now you use a crate, when there are plenty of puppy monitors around. He liked to keep puppy sessions short, and he wrapped this one up and put her in her crate, made sure the latch was secure—not that I was watching—and let Drake out.

  Next to Drake’s crate was a slightly smaller one with the name “Lilly” embroidered into the mesh front. Four more crates continued the lineup. Two of them were empty, one housed a sleeping Golden Retriever, another a Corgi who sat and watched. One of the empties was super-sized, and I saw by the nametag that it was for Eiger, Jim Smith’s Saint Bernard. Flanking the row of bigger crates was a tiny one I recognized as Giselle’s. I noticed that the nameplate had been changed. No more pink “Precious” on the little guy’s travel home. “Spike” was official.

  I found a chair on the other side of the room, as far from Tom’s stuff as possible, and put my jacket and tote bag on it. “Okay, Bubby,” I said to Jay, “let’s do a little work, shall we?” His whole rear end wagged an affirmative and we stepped into the center ring, where group heeling practice was already underway. I waved to Jean, who was on the other side of the ring with lovely Lilly. Giselle and Spike were in the “slow lane” toward the center, and Sylvia Eckhorn and her Cocker Spaniel, Tippy, were farther down on my side of the ring. Jay and I slipped into the line at the first opening, just before Marietta Santini hollered “about turn” in her drill-sergeant voice.

  A few minutes later Marietta lined us up for recalls, and Jean led Lilly back to her crate and zipped her in. A young woman I’d never seen before was sitting in one of the folding chairs along the front wall a few feet from Tom’s crates. She was wore dark leggings, a dark sweater, a dark beret, and a dark scowl. She hadn’t been there when I arrived, and I figured she must be someone’s angsty teenager dragged along to Mom’s dog-training class. Jean stopped and spoke to Winnie, petting her through the bars of her crate, and then headed toward the back of the building. I decided I could use a bathroom break, too, when Jean returned.

  As I pivoted back into line I noticed another new face. A young man, also dressed in dark clothing, sat outside the front-most ring where Tom was working Drake. He was in the chair closest to the outside wall, right next to another set of crates. Two were clearly empty, their front door-flaps unzipped and folded back across their roofs. The other one was occupied, but I couldn’t see the dog and didn’t recognize the crate.

  Giselle came up bes
ide me. “Oh, man, I have such a headache. I’m going to get some aspirin from my car.” Without waiting for an answer she went to her crate, deposited Spike, and walked toward the back door, massaging her temples as she went.

  I moved up behind the person ahead of us in line and looked over my shoulder toward the front of the room. Something didn’t feel right. One sulky teenager in black watching a training session made sense. I’d seen them here before. But two? You’re just overwrought. That thought raised the twin specters of two men dead at violent hands, and a slow shudder ran up my spine as I forced myself to focus on the training task at hand.

  And so it was that I had my back to the front entrance when I heard pop-pop-pop, and the screaming started.

  sixty-six

  Voices rose, shrill and loud. Everyone spun toward the sound. Several people dressed in black had burst into the building. They were chanting something, but at first all I could make out was “cruel.” Two of them held hand-lettered signs that read “Domestication = Slavery” and “Liberate All Animals.” As the group fanned out across the room, I was able to count them. Five. I knew I had been right about the two watchers in black. The figure in the lead seemed familiar somehow, but people—my people—were screaming, and dogs were barking and yelping, some lunging at the intruders, others pulling away from them.

  Jay stepped in front of me, teeth bared. I made out more voices, some of which I knew. Sylvia Eckhorn yelled, “Oh my God!” There was another loud pop, and then pop-pop-pop. Sylvia’s sweatshirt exploded in red. Are they shooting? Sylvia screamed and Tippy leaped to the end of her leash, yelping. I took a step toward Sylvia and saw her look down and touch a finger to the glistening crimson spatter across her chest. She rubbed her finger and thumb together and a veil of fury unfurled across her face. She must have read my fear when our eyes connected, because she yelled, “Paint balls!” She pressed her open palm against her breastbone and added, “Jeez, that hurts,” and turned her attention to calming her dog.