Drop Dead on Recall

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  Detective Stevens picked up her pen and began to doodle on her pad. “So, you and Ms. Dorn were friends?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. We knew each other from dog training and competition. We train—trained—at the same place and …”

  “Where is that?”

  I gave her the address and phone number for Dog Dayz. “Anyway, I knew her and Greg, her husband, really just in the doggy context, you know, from training and shows.”

  “And who do you know who didn’t like her?”

  I’m afraid I allowed myself to guffaw. “Sorry. Actually, I can’t think of many people who liked her. Greg, of course. And I think Giselle and Abigail were friends.”

  “Giselle?”

  “Giselle Swann. Remember the woman who wanted to take Pip home?”

  “Ah, yeah, Precious.” A barely perceptible tremor ran across her cheek. “And they were friends?”

  “Yes, I think so. I know they often set their crates up together at shows. To be honest, I don’t know either of them very well.”

  “And I take it there are people who actively disliked Ms. Dorn?”

  “Abigail wasn’t exactly warm and cuddly. Except with her dogs. Maybe Greg too, although I only ever saw her scolding him or ordering him around.”

  “Who else?”

  “Gosh, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know that I’d want to suggest that anyone I know hated her enough to kill her!” This conversation was not one I really wanted to continue.

  “I didn’t say anyone killed her.” She gave me that poker face.

  “Right.” I fought off the urge to squirm in my seat. “There was a long-standing rivalry between Abigail and Suzette Anderson. But I think they were reasonably friendly outside the ring.”

  “What sort of rivalry?”

  “They were both in the running for top national ranking in obedience with their Border Collies.” I pointed at Pip. He was rolled onto his back, leaning up against the wall, his head back and tongue lolling out the corner of his mouth. “Believe it or not, you’re looking at one of the top competitive obedience dogs in the country over the past two or three years.”

  “Yeah?” She gave me a look I couldn’t read, but it made the base of my skull itch. “And now you have him.”

  20

  “I have Pip temporarily, until Greg takes him.” Here I was in my own kitchen, the heart of my little house, my cat purring, no bright lights in my eyes, knowing I’d done nothing illegal, at least not lately, and yet Detective Jo Stevens’ questions were beginning to make me sweat. “In fact, with your permission I’ll take Pip back to Greg today or tomorrow.” Based on her non-reaction, I wasn’t sure Detective Stevens had heard me so I rambled on. “Besides, obedience is a team sport. Pip’s ranking is a result of their teamwork, his and Abigail’s. It takes years to build that rapport between dog and handler.”

  The detective nodded. “So, this Suzette Anderson and Ms. Dorn had conflicts over national competition?”

  “They were both hoping to qualify for the National Obedience Championship competition next January. Both their dogs were in the running for top-ranked Border Collie of the year. But obedience people generally get along fine outside the ring. I mean, it’s a sport where the results mostly depend on how you and your dog do on a particular day. Politics can enter in on some of the finer points, but mostly it’s do or die.” I sucked in a quick breath. “So to speak. I’m sure Suzette didn’t hate her enough to kill her.”

  “Who else?” Jo was madly scribbling.

  I was beginning to feel like a stool pigeon, but once I started to sing, I just couldn’t seem to shut up. “I’ve heard that Abigail and Marietta Santini had some problems a couple years ago over a puppy sale that fell through.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “She owns Dog Dayz, where we train.”

  She wrote it all down.

  “That was a while ago, and I don’t know much about it, but I don’t think it was that big a deal. I can’t think of anyone else. I mean, as I said, lots of people didn’t care for Abigail, but most didn’t have any real conflict with her.”

  “What about her husband?”

  “Greg doted on her.”

  “I heard they were separated.”

  “I heard that, too. But still … The guy followed her like a puppy. He was right there when she collapsed, and he sent me for the EpiPen.” Of course, if he did poison her, he knew the epinephrin wouldn’t help. “He looked devastated.” Yeah, a question nibbled at the edge of my brain, but if they really were separated, why was he there?

  “He shows dogs too?”

  “No. He has a little dog, but doesn’t compete as far as I know. But he was always there for Abigail.”

  Jo’s expression remained bland but for that slight tightening under her eyes that I’d seen before. It was enough to cast a new light on Greg’s presence, and light makes all the difference to the nuances of a picture. Picture this—estranged husband just happens to be at his wife’s side when she keels over. He’s a pharmacist. He’d know how to kill her. But Greg?

  We sat in silence for a moment as Jo wrote in her notebook. I was running my thoughts through a maze of images from the previous few days when one of them jolted me out of my seat. I reached for the pantry door, clearing my clenching throat.

  “Uh, I keep forgetting about this …” I lifted Abigail’s tote bag from the pantry floor and set it on the table in front of the detective. She took in the Border Collie and “Dorn” embroidered on the side of the bag. When she looked at me, the blue of her eyes had turned cloudy and cold.

  My cheeks went hot. “I’m sorry. I’m embarrassed. I, uh, I forgot I had it.”

  Jo shoved her chair back with her knees and startled the dogs onto their feet. She pulled a pair of gloves from a small pack on her belt and put them on. Jay and Pip watched me, no doubt waiting for the next game to begin. It wasn’t one I wanted to play.

  “This is Abigail’s?”

  I nodded.

  “And it was at the show?”

  I nodded again.

  Jo gave me a “you moron” look, then reached into the bag. The first thing she picked up was the plastic container that once held Abigail’s bagel spread. She pulled the lid open. “You washed this?”

  My power of speech had taken a powder, so I nodded once more. The dogs gave up on me and lay down again.

  Jo snapped the lid back onto the container and carefully laid it back in the bag. Then she fixed me with a new look. I wasn’t sure whether it said, “How stupid are you?” or “Aha! I’ve caught you!”

  “Get me a large plastic bag.”

  I did, and Jo carefully slid the canvas tote into the white plastic. She pulled off the gloves, shoved them into her pants pocket, and took a black marker from compartment on her holster and wrote something on the plastic bag. Almost as an aside, she asked, “Did you remove any other evidence from the crime scene?”

  Embarrassment and fear bowed to anger at that. “I didn’t know it was evidence or a crime scene. I was trying to help.”

  “I understand.” She didn’t sound like she did. “Did you remove anything else from the barn where Ms. Dorn’s property was besides her dog and this bag?”

  “No.” Our eyes met for an uncomfortable moment, and my outrage began to fade.

  We walked to the front door, and Jo pointed her pencil at three black leather bags stashed just inside the door. “Going somewhere?”

  “What? Oh. A photo shoot this afternoon.”

  “You take that much luggage?”

  I didn’t like the way I squeaked out my reply, but couldn’t seem to help myself. “Not luggage. Equipment. Two cameras, a tripod, some props.”

  She pocketed her pen and pad. “Don’t leave the county for a while.”

 
21

  The rain continued for the next couple of hours, one of those bright rains under a sky full of light. A heavy cloud unloaded over Suzette’s driveway just as I pulled in. The unsettled weather reflected the way I felt—sunny at first glance, a storm of anxiety raging within. I didn’t feel much like taking pictures, but knew somewhere deep inside that it was better to focus on beauty and work than on my impending and unjust incarceration for tampering with evidence.

  I gave the steering wheel a good whack with the heel of my hand, spat out an expletive, despite my efforts to clean up my language, and fished my cell phone out of my bag. Thus vented, I did manage to keep control of my voice when Suzette answered. “It’s Janet.”

  “Scared of a little rain?”

  “No, but my camera is. I’m in your driveway. I’ll be in when this gully washer quits.”

  “I know. We’re watching you.”

  Suzette and Fly were leaning over the back of a couch and looking out the window at me.

  “So you are.”

  “It won’t last long. Front door’s unlocked. We’re in the kitchen.”

  The rain put the Lassus Brothers’ Handy Dandy Car Wash to shame, so I was stuck for the moment. I’d read and reread all the print matter scattered around the back seat of my van, so I stuffed all the wrappers, scraps, and food crumbs I could reach into a CVS bag I found under the passenger seat. That took up a minute or so. Nothing else to do, so I popped the angle of the seat back a few notches, switched off the radio, leaned back, and tried to lose myself in the rhythm of the rain. Maybe this was a sign from the Universe to start that meditation practice I’d been contemplating for the past decade. Maybe I should sign up for a class. Right after the first aid class I wanted to take. But I couldn’t sign up for anything, trapped in the car as I was, so I just closed my eyes and listened as fat drops splatted against the windows and roof. I’d rather it didn’t arrive when I have photos to shoot, but I do love a good rain.

  How could I undo the damage I’d done to myself? I couldn’t blame Detective Stevens for being suspicious. Who but the guilty removes evidence and runs it through her dishwasher? Not that I knew at the time that it was evidence of anything but breakfast and dog brushing. My tear ducts threatened to self-activate from frustration so I squinched my eyes shut and beat the back of my head against the head rest.

  Nothing like a good pity party once in a while. A good short pity party. Three head whacks and two deep sighs later I was cured of depression. And angry. I didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m not going to sit around while someone says I did.

  As if to lend meteorological support, the rain let up as quickly as it had begun. Watery clouds raced east toward Ohio, and the sun popped out, setting the rivulets and drops aglitter, bright as crystal, on the windows. When I turned toward Suzette’s house, my heart leapt at the sight of a perfect rainbow suspended directly over the chimney. It took less than a minute to get my camera out, check the settings, and get a few shots. I half expected a flock of bluebirds.

  Fly met me at the front door and bent herself into a donut, whining, “Pet me, pet me.” The aroma of coffee drew me toward the back of the house, where I was nearly blinded by Suzette’s kitchen. It looked like a can of sunshine paint had exploded. The ceiling, the walls, the cupboards and molding, the linoleum floor, even the frilly café curtains were all brilliant yellow.

  “Cheerful,” I said.

  Suzette was standing on a yellow ladder-back chair, pulling a coffee cake off an upper cupboard shelf. “Have to hide all food items out of reach of Miss Counter Surfer there,” she grunted, stepping down from the chair. “Could you flip the light on?” The sun had retreated behind another bank of clouds, and despite its hue, the kitchen was a little dark. Suzette slipped the coffee cake into the oven and glanced around the room. “Awful, isn’t it?”

  “Well …” I sat down at the table. Fly rested her chin on my knee and I massaged the backs of her ears until she groaned and pressed first one ear, then the other, harder against my fingers.

  Suzette laughed. “Don’t worry, I hate it. It was my aunt’s place. She loved yellow. She died recently and left it to me, lock, stock, and barrel. I’m staying here until it sells. Already have an offer so I don’t plan to be here long.”

  “You’ve had a lot of losses lately.” Including one major competitor.

  “I just hope things don’t really come in threes.” As she spoke, Suzette pulled a ring from her left hand, and set it on top of a canister near the sink before she washed and dried her hands.

  “Well, it looks like you’re in for some good luck.”

  “Oh?”

  I told her about the rainbow, and she gestured toward Fly. “That’s my good-luck rainbow, right there.”

  The aroma of warm yeast and cinnamon had flooded the room, and Suzette pulled the coffee cake from the oven. Fly abandoned me and stationed herself at Suzette’s knee, a look of utter devotion and hope on her face as she fixed the coffee cake with a Border Collie stare as if trying to will it off the counter. “So, do you think you’ll be able to get some pictures without the sun?”

  “No problem. A little cloud cover is good. No shadows or squints.”

  Suzette poured the coffee into delicate bone china cups with rose buds lacing the rims. I have my own grandmother’s bone china dishes, but can’t remember the last time I used them. I wasn’t sure I ever had. They seem like relics of a more gracious time.

  “Beautiful dishes, Suzette.”

  “Oh, thanks. I’ve been collecting bone china since I was in high school.” She lifted her cup toward the light from the window. “I use them all the time. Don’t see much point in having nice things but not using them.”

  “I’d be afraid of breaking them.”

  “I’ve broken a few pieces.” She set the cup down. “But you can’t live well without breaking a few things, can you?”

  22

  I watched Suzette slip a pearl-handled silver cake server under a too-generous piece of coffee cake and wondered if she included people among the things that had to be broken from time to time in order to live well. She slid the gooey cake onto a plate with a different rose pattern than on the cups, and set it in front of me. That’ll be way too generous to your butt, nagged Janet Angel, but her evil twin reminded me that it would be rude to refuse. Especially when saliva was practically dribbling down my chin. Suzette told Fly to go lie down, which the dog did with a big “You don’t feed me enough” sigh.

  “I understand congratulations are in order.”

  Suzette had just put a big bite of cake in her mouth. She stopped mid-chew, alarm all over her face. She lifted her linen napkin to her mouth, chewed, dabbed, and asked, “Congratulations? How did you know?”

  “Everyone knows.” I meant, of course, everyone who trained at Dog Days. Suzette paled a couple of shades, which I thought odd. “It’s not every day that someone finishes an OTCH or a UDX, let alone both together.”

  “Oh, that.” Her face changed colors again, this time to a lovely pale pink.

  Oh, that? For two of the toughest, most coveted canine titles?

  I plunged ahead. “I hear Fly’s in the lead now for Border Collies?”

  Suzette wiped her mouth and regained her composure. “Thanks. Yes, I think she’s probably in first place. For now, anyway. It’s exciting.” Her voice was flat. “Really, I’m thrilled, but somehow it doesn’t mean as much with Abigail and Pip out of the running.”

  Janet Demon blew a big fat raspberry in my left ear. She was getting pretty good at them. I ignored her. “Really?”

  “Abigail and I were friends, you know.” I didn’t, nor had I realized until then what intriguing violet eyes she had. Contacts? “When they said she died … I froze, you know? It sounds crazy, but I was afraid to stop smiling.” I thought back to the big grin on her face when Tony
Balthazar announced that Abigail had died. Suzette sniffed and went on. “Like if I kept smiling, maybe it wouldn’t be true, and if I stopped, I’d completely lose it. Which I did when I got in my car. I wasn’t sure I could drive home.” She pulled her braid over her shoulder and brushed her jaw line with the end. “Abigail could be a snot, but she was loyal to her friends and devoted to her dogs.”

  Suzette studied her nails for a moment, then went on. “You know what Abigail told me would be the best send-off she could think of? A song of joy sung by dogs.” I thought back to Fly barking on cue during the supposed moment of silence at Dog Dayz. Suzette’s eyes softened and the corners of her lips turned up. “So during Marietta’s moment of silence, I decided to give Abigail what she wanted.”

  “Fly barking.”

  At the mention of her name, Fly walked over, glanced at me, and laid her satiny chin on Suzette’s lap. Suzette nodded, then bent and kissed the top of her dog’s head.

  We sat in silence for a moment. A song of joy sung by dogs certainly beat the socks off a dirge. I began to wish I had known the Abigail beneath the prickly shell. I flashed back to the Malamutes howling along with Abigail’s ambulance, and had the oddest sense that their song lifted the dying woman’s spirit in her final moments.

  Suzette brought me back to the moment. “Everyone thinks I was jealous of Abigail, but if it hadn’t been her and Pip, it would have been someone else. In fact, it is someone else by now. Several someones. I mean, if I didn’t like competition, I sure as heck wouldn’t show BCs in obedience.”

  “No, I guess not.” Border Collies, with their brains and nose-to-the-grindstone work ethic, are among the most successful breeds in obedience and agility competition. They are also far too eager to work to make good pets for most people.

  Suzette pushed a bit of coffee cake in circles around the cabbage roses on her plate. “I’m sure people will always think that Fly couldn’t have been number one if Pip were still competing.”