Drop Dead on Recall

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  “What kind of class, Goldie?”

  “Oh, not a credit class. Adult ed. Lots of fun. That’s why I decided to plant my new garden, been thinking about it ever since, finally getting around to it. Small world, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.” Her new garden is a witch’s garden. I was starting to worry that I wouldn’t like what she was going to tell me, but I had to know. “Goldie, what kind of class? What was it about?”

  “The Witch’s Garden.” She waved an invisible wand through the air. “Taught it at that nursery out by Huntertown. Great stuff. Love potions, poisonous plants, medicinals, midwifery, all sorts of stuff.” She reached out and poked at some young leafy stems with her trowel. “Here we have some yarrow. When it blooms, I can make you a love charm if you like.” She batted her lashes at me.

  “No thanks. I’m charming enough.” She giggled, and I steered us back to the subject at hand. “So he taught you about poisons?”

  She laughed, a full-bellied Goldie laugh. “Not how to! But yeah, that was part of it.” She spoke a little faster. “As I told you, lots of garden plants are toxic, and wild ones too. Fine line, you know, between curing and killing. Like, oh, digitalis. Foxglove. Also called Dead Man’s Bells. Now, wouldn’t that name go over big in a suburban nursery? Anyway, you know, a little can help a bad ticker, too much can stop a good one.” She looked for something in the air over her head. “What was that show on Masterpiece Theater where the son knocked off his old mother with foxglove tea? Oh dear, let me think.” She scratched her left temple with the back of her wrist in a futile attempt not to smear her face with dirt. “When was that? It was years ago. You’d have loved it. The hero had a way with dogs, tried to stop dog fighting and bear baiting and such.”

  My own heart was sinking as she spoke. What is it they say is needed to pin a crime on someone? Motive, means, and opportunity? Tom had them all. He knew his way around botanical toxins, that was clear. He was at the obedience trial when Abigail collapsed. Revenge could be a motive, but Abigail didn’t disown Tom’s mother, their grandma Ellie did. Still, Abigail did inherit the family fortune, and people hang onto all sorts of grudges. But would Tom do such a thing? More to the point, did Tom kill Abigail Dorn?

  “Precious Bane.” Goldie’s voice pulled me out of my reverie.

  “What?”

  “That was the name of it. Precious Bane. Great story—it’s a book too. You should read it. Wonderful.”

  Wonderful indeed. The first man to make me blush since Chet hit the trail might be a real lady-killer.

  41

  The Tri-State Border Collie Rescue Group’s annual reunion cookout was the next day, and I had been invited to shoot photos. I drove into Foster Park from Old Mill Road, slowing to a crawl so I could savor the prismatic display of spring blossoms lining the roadway. Beyond the low beds of tulips, hyacinths, narcissus, and squill lay the perennial beds, now in various stages of spring growth. Grass walkways and graceful wooden benches backed by snowy dogwoods and cotton-candy cherry trees urged visitors to stroll, or simply sit and revel in the day.

  I pushed my yearning for a quiet, contemplative escape from the turmoil of the past week to the back of my mind and drove to shelter house number one, a sprawling affair of limestone blocks set amid towering sycamores and oaks some thirty yards from the bank of the St. Mary’s River. Two Border Collies, a smooth-coated black and white and a rough-coated tri-color, were tugging on the two ends of a long knotted rope, shoulders low, rear ends high, tails waving. A dozen or so other BCs and their people mingled among the five picnic tables that dotted the grounds in front of the shelter house. Beyond them, near the river, a young man and his small blue merle dog entertained a knot of spectators with fancy flying-disk stunts, the wiry little dog vaulting from his owner’s back, weaving between his legs, and racing away at a signal, always snagging the taxi-yellow disk in the air.

  I gathered my camera bag and tripod from the back of the van, and walked toward the shelter house, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. Marietta Santini waved to me from one of the picnic tables, where she was talking to several people I didn’t know. She came to greet me.

  “Need help?”

  “Sure, thanks. I have a few more things to bring over. Any idea where they want me?”

  “Angie!” Marietta beckoned with a hand as she hollered toward a pair of women who were taping butcher paper to the picnic tables. One of them, a lanky blonde, wore faded jeans and a T-shirt with a row of Border Collie faces looking out over lettering that proclaimed her a “Proud Owner of a Rescued Border Collie.” She stuck one last strip of tape to her project, and strode toward us as Marietta said, “Angie Yoder, Janet MacPhail.”

  Angie nudged a loose strand of hair away from her face with the back of her left hand, offering me her right. “Oh, the photographer. Great! People have been signing up for photos. I think about a dozen so far.”

  “Good to hear,” I set my tripod down so I could shake her hand. “So, where do you want me?”

  “Wherever. Pick a spot you like. I’ll help keep everyone in order when you’re ready.” She started to walk back toward her taping project. “Help yourself to the grub whenever you’re hungry, too. Gotta go finish the tables.”

  I picked up my tripod and explored the area, settling on a nice spot in light shade ringed by pink and white dogwood, a good backdrop for the mostly black and white dogs.

  Half an hour later I had pots of tulips, daffodils, and pansies, a few loose cut flowers, my Radio Flyer red wagon, a red checkered table cloth, picnic basket with cheese, bread, and wine, all arranged in stations around my photo area. I just hoped none of the dogs ate the edibles. Or the inedibles, for that matter. The last thing we needed was another emergency.

  I set off with my camera to get some candid shots and look around. I greeted a few people I knew, mostly by face or dog, not name, and a lot I didn’t. I went into the shelter house to check out what was happening there. Someone had set up a table with several albums of photos, letters, newspaper clippings, and other miscellany documenting the history of Tri-State Border Collie Rescue, which covered parts of Indiana, Michigan, and Ohio. Some of the adopters had brought their own albums and framed photos of their rescued dogs.

  A small table sat alone, draped in fabric printed with rainbows. A sign hung from the front that read, “In memory of those we couldn’t help.” I walked over there with some misgivings—nothing depresses me as quickly as the tales of wonderful dogs lost to negligence and cruelty. But whoever set up this memorial had kept it simple. An unmistakably Border Collie silhouette of black painted wood was fixed into a base at the back of the table. A small jar candle, ringed with tiny vases of dark blue pansies, flickered between the silhouette backdrop and a statement printed on creamy parchment held in a black wooden frame.

  The text was followed by the Tri-State’s logo—a Border Collie silhouette in a heart—and their phone number, web URL, and e-mail address. To the left were stacks of application forms for volunteers and potential adopters, and to the right a donation box and a pile of tri-fold brochures. I had shoved some bills into my pocket before I left home, so I pulled them out, extracted a twenty, smoothed out as many kinks and wrinkles as I could, and put it in the box. I stepped back from the table and took a few pictures of it. Then I turned to leave the shelter house, and found myself looking into Francine Peterson’s gold-green eyes.

  42

  Francine had come in, like Sandburg’s fog, on little cat feet, and she stood just beyond arm’s reach from me. Her red hair seemed to fluoresce under the lights of the shelter house, and her expression was somewhere between casual hatred and venomous rage.

  “Oh! Hi.” My first two words came out about twice as loud as they should have, but I reeled my vocal cords back to normal volume as I went on, switching my camera to my left hand and offering my right to Francine. “Hi. We haven’t met. Janet MacPh
ail.”

  “Yes, I know.” She apparently also knew that I knew who she was because she gave me neither her name nor her hand. “You took my dog.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Pip. You took him.”

  “You’d rather the police had impounded him?” Angry as I was, little jolts of caution poked at me as I took in Francine’s expression and body language. I squared my shoulders and straightened my spine—when faced with a predator it’s a good idea to look big and strong. “I took him home to be sure he was safe. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” I stepped past her and left the shelter house.

  The rest of the day found me looking over my shoulder from time to time, but everything went smoothly. I photographed some thirty dogs, ate more than necessary but less than I might have at the lavish lunch spread, and had a wonderful time meeting the dogs and the people who loved them. Then I bought a stretch of raffle tickets, dropping them into lunch bags numbered for toys, treats, and a copy of Rescue Matters: How to Find, Foster, and Rehome Companion Animals, which was getting great reviews and I’d been planning to buy anyway. Didn’t win a thing, but I did managed to avoid any further encounters with Francine, and saw her only once more, loading a dog into a beat-up van whose red paint had seen brighter days.

  Suzette’s absence was noted, although no one seemed to be sure whether she had planned to come or not. The only comments I heard about Abigail had to do with how much money and time she gave to Border Collie rescue and how much she’d be missed, confirming what Sylvia Eckhorn had told me about Abigail’s generosity, and reinforcing my regret that I hadn’t known her better.

  I took hundreds of photos and made a foolhardy promise about when the proofs would be posted on my website. The afternoon flew by with only one minor mishap. An adorable fuzzball of a puppy pulled her leash out of her owner’s hand, snagged a baguette from the picnic props, and ran in big fast loops known as “zoomies” among dog people. Bob Ziegler sent two of his working dogs after her, and they managed to corral her in the shelter house. Calm was restored, and the remains of the baguette split between Bob’s dogs.

  _____

  I was settling in at home about 6:15 when the phone rang. I let my electronic secretary get it while I called Jay back in from the yard and got a diet ginger ale from the fridge.

  “Janet! Tom Saunders here. Nothing real …”

  I grabbed the phone. “I’m here.” I hoped he couldn’t hear my stomach going boing boing!

  “Oh, good! How are you?” We went through the dog-fancier greeting ritual—how’s the dog, how’s training going …

  “Missed you at Dog Dayz on Wednesday.” Another obedience practice night. “Everything okay?”

  “I’m teaching a class on Wednesdays right now. Or was. That was the last class.”

  “What kind of class?”

  “How to photograph pets.”

  Tom Saunders has a delicious laugh. “Nice to know you have diverse interests.”

  “Uh-huh. And pray tell, what do you do when you aren’t at obedience training on Mondays and Wednesdays, agility practice on Thursdays, obedience, agility, and field trials on the weekends?”

  “You forgot field training. Tuesdays and some weekends. You’re not the only one with diverse interests.” My God, could this be my soul mate at long last? I had a tiny twinge of terror in deference to my brief, disastrous marriage to Chet, but the fact was, ours was more a marriage of youthful hormones than of, as the sonnet goes, true minds. Tom broke the short silence. “So, is it a good class?”

  “Class?”

  “How to Photograph Pets.”

  Duh. “Sure. Lots of fun. No homework to grade, interested students … I even have a Facebook page for it.” I gave him the URL. “But you teach non-credit classes, don’t you? So you know.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Starting one in a couple of weeks, as a matter of fact.”

  “Yeah? On?”

  “Edible plants. Three sessions, one on edible garden flowers, one on edible wild plants, and a field trip.”

  “Not the witchcraft plants this time?”

  “Have you been checking up on me?” There was a tease in his voice.

  “No, no!” Even I could see I did protest too much. Settle down. Yeesh!

  He let it go. “Actually, my training is in anthro with a botany minor. My research interest was—is—ethnobotany. But I think I already told you that.”

  “Plants in different cultures, right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Sounds fascinating. You should meet my next-door neighbor sometime. Oh, wait, you did, at the co-op. And it seems she took a class from you once. She has the most fantastic garden. You should see it.”

  “How about you give me a garden tour?”

  “We’d need Goldie if you want actual information.”

  “So, how about I buy you dinner tomorrow evening and we go from there?”

  Ho boy. That sounded like a slippery slope that I still wasn’t sure I wanted to slide down just yet. But Tom, it turned out, didn’t fight fair.

  “You like Indian food?” he asked.

  Better judgment aside, I never turn down Indian food. We agreed

  to meet at a little place on Coldwater Road. Its name changes about once a month, but the atmosphere is always relaxing and the food yummy. Stress makes me crave spices and carbs, and I had a hankering for chana masala and mango lassi. Janet Angel was tapping a toe on my right shoulder and giving me some nonsense about calories and heartburn, but Janet Demon outshouted her with her reminder that You only live once—go for the spice!

  43

  I exchanged instant messages with my online friend Randi, who offered a few observations about some of the characters we encounter in cyberspace. I always think of her as an “Aussie person,” but suddenly remembered that she has two Border Collies as well as the Australian Shepherds, so I asked if she knew anything about the conflict between Abigail and Suzette.

  Randogs: No. Not on any BC lists.

  JanetFoto: ?

  Randogs: Part of my 12 Step program.

  JanetFoto: Curing yourself of the Internet?

  Randogs: No. Toxic people.

  Randogs: Did you check the bitch on OFA?

  She was, of course, referring to Fly, not any of the human players.

  JanetFoto: Yep. She’s there, all clearances.

  Randogs: Did you check the dog?

  Meaning Pip, the dog, the male partner. Now why hadn’t I thought of that? It never occurred to me to check Pip’s records, but Randi’s question gave me an epiphany. Abigail must have had a reason for having him neutered and keeping his reproductive status to herself. When we’d finished our chat, I typed in www.offa.org and searched the database for Paragon’s Pip. There he was—hips OFA Good, elbows normal, other clearances in place.

  I moved on to his relatives. Inheritance is rarely straightforward, and good breeders and smart buyers check to be sure that as many relatives as possible also passed their screening exams. Trouble is, you can’t be sure what a lack of records in the database means. Some dogs are missing because they didn’t pass the tests, some because they were never tested. But I would be very surprised not to find some of Pip’s relatives there, considering his breeder’s long history of breeding titled dogs.

  I was very surprised. Pip’s parents weren’t in the database. I found only one sibling, and all that was listed for her was a clear thyroid exam. Could Pip have close relatives with hip dysplasia or other inherited health problems? Could Suzette have been the one who decided not to breed her bitch, Fly, to Abigail’s Pip rather than the other way around? Abigail certainly wouldn’t be the first stud-dog owner to retaliate with vicious gossip against someone who rejected her dog. If that were the case, I’m sure Suzette would be incensed. But enough to ki
ll?

  44

  By six the next morning I was wide awake. I’m not prone to regular fits of morning exercise, but although I wanted to ask Connie about some things, I knew at this hour she’d be feeding and exercising her dogs, so I took Jay for a walk. It had been too long since I’d been out at the start of the day with an animal and not driving to a dog event or photo shoot. My right brain was whirling bits of information around like berries in a blender, but the other hemisphere savored the glow of dew on early summer grass, the sweet scent of honeysuckle reaching out from a neighbor’s fence, the twitter and flit of finches, robins, and wrens. I almost forgot the inharmonious events that got me up so early in the first place.

  When we got back, Jay sucked up his cup of kibble, tanked up on water, and plopped down for his morning facial from Leo, who, as always, gripped both sides of the dog’s face in his paws and went to town with his raspy tongue. I knew that Leo would make sure that not a single crumb remained around Jay’s lips, and that every hair on the dog’s head was neatly licked by the time they finished. They were content, but I was getting more fidgety by the minute, and since Mr. Coffee was still dripping, it wasn’t from caffeine. I picked up the phone at 6:55.

  Connie declined at first, then agreed to meet me for breakfast. She had some grooming products I’d ordered—for Jay, of course—and would bring them along. She always orders my dog-grooming supplies at her discount price. I took a quick shower, arranged my curly wet hair into what I hoped would be a reasonable do when it dried, slapped a little eye shadow and mascara on, stuck some dangly silver and turquoise in my ears, and was out the door in twenty-three minutes.

  _____

  I read the menu for the sixth time. I’d been there for a quarter of an hour and still hadn’t decided between stuffed French toast, the farmer’s skillet, or biscuits and gravy. Connie finally joined me, and I made the virtuous decision to have the fruit plate with banana bread. After we ordered, we somehow got onto the subject of childhood memories.