“You go ahead,” the woman said.
Normally I would have thought that unfair, but my bladder felt ready to explode, so I accepted. When I came out, I asked, “Would you like some help with those guys?”
She stepped into the plastic tube and fiddled with her retractable leashes, letting the cords play out to full length and laying the plastic handles against the inside of the door frame. “No, we’re fine. We’ve done this before. But thanks.” She pulled the door closed over the leashes, anchoring the dogs to the johnny.
Bad idea, whispered the voices in my head. They were right. I wouldn’t have tried that stunt with my fifty-pound herding dog, let alone two hundred-plus-pound animals designed to pull heavy sledges across long miles of snow. I started to ask if she was sure, but the “Occupied/Occupado” indicator snapped into place, so I shivered, zipped my jacket to the top, and walked away.
The uniformed police officers were standing near the tunnel and a man with a bag was preparing to crawl into the tunnel.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Coroner, probably. Or forensics?”
The police had removed everyone else from the area, and I scanned the observers standing around the ring. Marietta was talking to Jorge near the opening that served as a gate, and the stewards were gathered a few feet away. To my surprise, Hutchinson was outside the ring, leaning against the stewards’ table.
I pointed toward Hutchinson and said, “What’s he doing?”
“Or not doing,” said Tom.
We approached from the side and Hutchinson turned.
“What’s up?” asked Tom.
“You know who that is?” Hutchinson gestured toward the tunnel.
“You mean the dead guy?”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” Tom and I answered together.
“I took myself out of the investigation,” said Hutchinson.
“Because of what happened yesterday?” I asked.
Hutchinson snorted. “That, and the complaint he filed against me.”
“Really?” It made sense, I supposed, for Hutchinson to bow out, but I thought back to my first uncomfortable encounters with Hutchinson and his former partner, Jo Stevens. Suddenly I felt a little less secure about what might be coming. Okay, a lot less secure. I pressed on. “But that isn’t that big a deal, is it?”
Hutchinson pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket and began clicking it with his thumb. “Could be a conflict of interest,” he said. “Jerk took it to the next level. Plays—played—golf with the mayor.” He stabbed the tip of his pen into the picnic table top and turned to look first at me, then at Tom. “I might have been heard to react with a comment about ‘dead meat.’ So, yeah, conflict of interest.”
“Probably a wise move,” said Tom.
“Something weird, though. I know the guy didn’t like animals, especially cats, but there’s fur all over the front of his slacks.” Hutchinson looked at me. “Like when Leo or Gypsy rub against my legs.”
I started to answer, but a movement over Hutchinson’s shoulder caught my eye, and I shifted my gaze. Jorge was standing near some shrubs near the front of the training building not far from where I had left the malamute owner. He bent over and reached toward the shrubs, and a small cat emerged from the evergreens and rubbed her head against his hand. I couldn’t see well at that distance, but assumed it was his little rainbow cat-mama. Jorge stood up, and I could see that he held something in his hand. He seemed to be talking to the cat, who was watching him closely, tail flicking. He started to walk toward the tree line where he had told me he thought the cat had hidden her brood of gatitos, and I smiled to see that the thing in his hand was a bowl. He was feeding the little family.
I turned back to Hutchinson and asked, “So what happens now?”
“They’ll want to talk to people, so don’t leave yet.”
I sighed and muttered something even I couldn’t make out. Tom started to say something, but a crazy loud banging and muffled yells and a duet of loud “awwooos!” snapped our attention toward the front of the training building.
Hutchinson jumped up, turned, and said “What the heck is that?”
For a long few seconds there was nothing to see other than the training building’s calm facade, but the racket was getting louder. Then the malamutes appeared, their gazes fixed on the two figures I had been watching. Both dogs were woowooing and, judging by their postures, pulling hard into their collars. The cords of their retractable leashes stretched taut behind them, and everything about them screamed “get the cat!”
twenty-two
The two malamutes were breathtaking, but my aesthetic appreciation quickly gave way to a more primitive primate response to the sight of predators in motion. I started to say, “This can’t be good,” but the scenario picked up speed as I watched and I never got the words out. Tom and Hutchinson turned to see what I was looking at and I felt all three of our bodies go rigid as the malamutes gained traction and speed and Johnny-Come-Early bounced into view behind them like an elongated ice cube skidding across a kitchen floor.
“What the …,” said Hutchinson.
Gives a whole new meaning to portapotty, giggled bad Janet. Good Janet warned that Someone’s going to get hurt, and urged me to act.
The white cube swayed a different direction with each bounce across the dormant lawn, and every sway knocked a screech out of the vents at the top of the thing. “Ohmygod,” I said, more or less to myself. “She’s still in there.” Then, raising the volume, I yelled, “There’s someone in there!”
I felt more than saw Tom start to run, and turned just as he veered toward a potential interception point. Beyond him, Jorge and the little cat had both turned toward the noise. For a couple of heartbeats they stood there, eyes wide. Then the cat doubled in size as her fur stood straight up. She leaped into the air and spun around and ran for the brush along the fence line. The dogs were still at least thirty yards from him, but Jorge flung his arms wide. The bowl was still clutched in his left hand, and whatever he had planned to feed the cat fanned out in front of him and fell to the ground.
I turned back toward the escalating racket. The malamutes appeared to be hitting their stride, and the leading edge of the johnny caught on something, bounced and teetered, and then keeled over onto its side. The leashes slipped along the door frame and realigned the cube so that it was sliding and bouncing more-or-less floor first along the ground.
Hutchinson started to run toward the cube, and without deciding to, I felt myself moving toward the dogs’ projected path. If they dodge around Tom, maybe I can stop them, I thought. They had closed the distance by half, but Tom was in place now next to Jorge, and if the dogs kept running in the same direction, they should run right into the men’s arms. I glanced at the johnny as I ran and saw it wobble wildly and then turn ninety degrees so that it bounced along with the door on top. One of the leashes snapped free of its handle under the pressure.
The bigger malamute was now free and gaining speed, the thin cord of the once-retractable leash dragging behind. The smaller dog was left with the full weight of the johnny, and the bizarre cargo slowed perceptibly. If he stayed on this path, the dog would pass between a big pin oak and a limestone bench, and I hoped faintly that the johnny would catch between them.
Still, I ran as fast as I could, hoping to intercept the second dog just beyond the tree and bench. Hutchinson, on my right, had almost reached the bouncing toilet, although I couldn’t imagine what he planned to do if he did catch it. I glanced to my left and saw that the first dog had stopped a few feet in front of Jorge to eat the cat’s dinner from the ground and Tom was slowly approaching, clearly intent on a catch. Thank heaven for smelly cat food, I thought.
Clunk! One end of the white cube hit the tree and, half a second later, the other whammed into the bench and yanked the second dog up short. His rear end swung a
round from the impact and he yipped, but if he was stunned by the sudden stop, it wasn’t for long. He turned back toward where his prey had disappeared and leaped forward. The johnny shifted and, just as Hutchinson reached for the door, it pulled loose, rolled a quarter turn, and began to trail behind the dog again, leaving a wake of fluorescent blue liquid.
I was in place, and the still-hitched dog had virtually no momentum. I called up my most commanding voice and yelled, “Down!” I’d like to say the command worked magic, but in fact the mal did not lie down. He did hesitate, though, and that was all I needed. I pulled a handful of treats out of my pocket and tossed them on the ground. The dog snarfed them up and looked at me with an expression that seemed to say, “If that’s it, lady, I’m outta here.” I reached into my pocket again and came out with the nearly empty tube of fish paste. Hoping it would be enough to hold the dog’s attention long enough for Hutchinson to open the johnny door, I squeezed a fishy inch of glop onto the only thing I could find—a dry leaf. I held it toward the dog and down it went, leaf and all. The dog was still eyeing his buddy, who was now fastened to Tom’s sturdy leather leash and walking toward us.
I heard the johnny door swing wide and bang against the side of the structure, then a thin, scratchy, “Oh my God! Oh my God!”
Hutchinson gave me the handle of the formerly retractable leash that still had a dog on the other end. He turned to help what appeared to be a seriously angry Smurf climb out of Johnny-Come-Early. The chemical stink coming from the johnny and the woman nearly knocked me down. Just be glad it was a fresh, clean one, I thought.
“Wow,” said Tom, gaping at the sputtering blue woman. He offered me a folded handkerchief in exchange for the leash handle in my hand and said, “I’ll manage the dogs. Why don’t you help her.”
The hankie removed the worst of the blue disinfectant water from the woman’s face, but did nothing for the rest of her body or her rapidly declining emotional state. Hutchinson had run off but reappeared with a bottle of water, which he held toward her.
“Oh oh oh! Get it off me!” she said, her voice somewhere between rage and despair. She held her hands in front of her and Hutchinson opened the bottle and poured water over her hands.
“What happened?” Marietta Santini took in the scene and quickly figured it out for herself. “Oh, honey, come on. Let’s clean you up.”
“My dogs.” The words came out like a whimper.
“They’re safe,” I said, gesturing toward Tom and the malamutes. The man must have been saying something fascinating, because the two dogs were sitting in front of him, apparently listening. Their owner told us where her crates were, and let Marietta lead her toward the training building.
I started to tag along to see if I could help, but Marietta looked at me over her shoulder and said, “Oh, I came over here to get you. The cops want to talk to you.”
twenty-three
Jay and Leo and I were home by five. They had plenty of pizzazz left, but I was completely wrung out, so I grabbed the essentials and decided that everything else could stay in the car until the next day. I dropped my tote bag on the kitchen table, exchanged my jacket for a warmer one, and went out the back door with Jay. The temperature had been slipping all afternoon, and the forecast was for a hard freeze during the night. Out of habit I checked that both gates were latched. Goldie wiped some fog off her kitchen window and we waved at each other. The air was rich with the fragrance of wood smoke and something delicious. Soup, maybe. And bread.
Jay tossed a tennis ball at my feet and bowed in front of me, tail wriggling. Who can resist an invitation like that? We played until I thought the edge was off his energy, and then I headed for the back door and heard the phone start to ring just as I pushed the door open.
“Wanted to catch you before you take your coat off.”
“Hi, Goldie.”
“And I didn’t want to bother with mine.” She asked how my day had been, and without waiting for an answer, said, “I have a nice big pot of soup and some homemade bread, just out of the oven. Is that handsome fella coming over?”
“Well, Jay and Leo are already here. Which handsome fellow do you mean?”
Goldie’s laugh wrapped me up like a hug, and I smiled. “Touché, my dear. Let me rephrase. Are Tom and Drake expected? Because they are welcome, too. There’s plenty.”
“Nope, not tonight.”
She sounded a tad disappointed when she said, “Then you come, with or without your boys.”
I glanced into the living room. Leo was curled into a ball on the recliner, and Jay was stretched out on his back on the couch. “They’re both sacked out. I’ll just leave them here.”
Goldie’s kitchen wrapped me up in the same rich fragrances that had been mingled with wood smoke outside, plus the mellow warmth of soup steam and candlelight. I handed her the bottle of Chardonnay I had brought and pulled off my coat.
“Oh, perfect!” said Goldie.
“Wow, smells great in here.” I closed my eyes and inhaled. “What’s the soup? There’s something …” I sniffed again, trying to place the scent. “It smells like … licorice?”
“Fennel.”
“Fennel soup?”
“Fennel and potato and white beans and leeks.” She poured the wine and raised her glass. “To friends!”
“To friends who are geniuses in the kitchen!” I said.
I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I tucked into Goldie’s bread and soup. I didn’t want to ruin the flavors with news of the day, so I held back and mostly listened to her report from the Fort Wayne Community Schools Clothing Bank, where she volunteers once or twice a month. “We’ve gotten good, warm coats and other clothes to nearly eight hundred young people already this year. I think that’s fantastic. Not charity to my mind, just community as it should be.” She cut another thick slice of bread and set it on my plate.
“I couldn’t,” I said, then picked it up and took a bite. “What do you do to this bread, Goldie? It doesn’t even need butter.” I took another bite. “I may explode.”
Goldie giggled. “So, now that your appetite has been dealt with, tell me about your weekend.”
I poured us each another glass of wine while Goldie cleared away the dishes, and when she sat back down, I told her about Rasmussen.
“Rasmussen?” she said when I had finished. “What’s his first name?”
“Charles.”
“Oh, him!” She made a rude noise. “I’m surprised it took this long for someone to knock him off.” Another rude noise. “Especially his wife.” Then her eyes went wide and she stared at me. “Louise didn’t kill him, did she?”
I shouldn’t be surprised at who and what Goldie knows anymore, but I was. “How do you … ?”
She cut me off. “I’ve known Louise since we were girls. We went to school together. And I’ve seen her a few times since I moved back. Not often, and it’s been, gee, maybe a year?”
“Did you know him, too?”
“No, not really. He’s not from here.”
“Hunh. I thought he was somehow.” I tried to remember why I thought that, but all I had to hang onto was a foggy memory. “I thought he had family money, you know, from a local business here.”
“Heavens no. Louise is the one with the money.”
“But her father …,” I started to say, remembering that my mom mentioned that Anthony had been an electrician at the GM plant. “Never mind, Mom gets things messed up.”
“No, dear, Louise made the money. Not her dad.”
Now that piqued my interest.
Goldie went on. “She invented some gizmo that helps slippery fabrics feed through sewing machines more easily. And some other thing, you know, I don’t sew, so I don’t recall the details. She had her own altering and tailoring business back in the sixties and seventies, and was clever at finding better ways to do things. She c
ame up with the ideas and her husband made them work. Then they sold them for a bundle.”
“So he did make the money? Or they did together?” I was confused.
“No, no. Not him. Not Rasmussen.” Goldie snorted. “No, her first husband. Nice guy, now what was his name?” She paused, then waved a hand in the air and said, “Well, anyway, he was a lovely man. Killed in that crash in Tenerife.”
I remembered that all too clearly. It was 1977 and I was scheduled to fly home from Paris the next day. I almost didn’t get on the plane.
“Phil.”
“What?” My brain had left the room briefly, and I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Louise’s first husband. Phil. Phil Smithson.”
“When did Rasmussen come along?” And how does a self-made woman get stuck with a bully like him?
Goldie studied something on the ceiling, then said, “I’m not sure exactly. She was dating him when I came back to Fort Wayne, and I think they got married a few years ago.”
“I wonder what she ever saw in him,” I said.
Goldie swirled her soup around, then said, “It’s a mystery, that’s for sure. He seems to have leverage in some quarters, but I don’t know anyone who likes the guy.”
“Yeah, Hutchinson mentioned that the guy has friends in high places,” I said, and told her about the complaints Rasmussen had filed. “Hutchinson says he isn’t worried, but I think he is.”
Catwalk Page 10
