Sylvia Eckhart, her Cocker, Tippy, in tow, strolled over and asked after my mom. I filled her in, and she assured me that Mom’s right to her chin had caused her no serious damage.
I was packing up my dog treats and other equipment when I saw Giselle Swann charging me from the direction of the back door. Her head was thrust down and forward, her face was magenta, her shoulders slightly hunched and her two hands balled into fat fists. Look out, yelled the little demon on my left shoulder. She thinks your red sweatshirt is a cape!
I faced her straight on. “Evening, Giselle.”
“How could you?” She stomped her right foot as she pulled up in front of me. “How could you? How could you do that to me? Abigail was my friend!”
“Uh, what’s the problem, Giselle?”
I noticed movement in my peripheral vision. Marietta Santini was speed-walking our way, no doubt hoping to prevent an all-out bitch fight. I use the term in the canine sense. Every breeder I’ve ever talked to says that if a fight breaks out in a multi-dog home, they’d much rather it be among dogs—males—than bitches. Boys fight for status, and they can certainly hurt each other, but tend to do a lot of posturing and pushing and then forget about it. When two bitches fight, each wants the other gone, one way or another. I, on the other hand, had no desire to fight Giselle, and didn’t much care where she was.
She stood in front of me, puffing and shifting from one foot to the other, glaring not into my eyes, but somewhere in the neighborhood of my chin. I hoped it hadn’t sprouted a new hair. “The police came to my house again. They asked me a bunch of questions.”
“They asked me a bunch of questions too.”
“Everything okay over here?” asked Marietta.
“You sent them, didn’t you?” Giselle lowered her voice to a growl.
“Giselle, no one sent them.” Marietta crossed her arms and cocked a hip. “They’re investigating. They’re talking to everyone who knew Abigail and Suzette. They talked to me, too.”
Giselle shifted her glare to Marietta, then right back to my chin. “I know you told that detective to question me. You’ll be sorry.” She turned her head toward Jay for a moment, then charged out to the parking lot.
Marietta squinted and pointed the stiffened, splayed fingers of both hands at my face, cackling, “You’ll be sorry, you and your little dog.” She relaxed her limbs. “Weirdo.”
“What in the heck was that all about?”
“Fear. Jealousy. Guilt. Hallucinations.” She grinned at me. “Who the hell knows with Giselle?”
“Do you think she’d hurt a dog?”
“I doubt it.” Marietta pursed her lips. “On the other hand, if anybody looked at my dog that way, I wouldn’t let him out of my sight for a while.”
71
Thursday morning seemed to bring, for once, a normal day. I stopped by the nursing home, but Mom was sleeping, so I didn’t stay. Jade Templeton assured me that she was doing fine, and that it was sometimes better to let people settle in before visiting too often. What difference does it make, I wondered to myself, when most of the time she has no idea who I am?
Jade also said that Mom was enjoying the garden, and had assumed the role of garden director, telling the other residents as well as the staff how to plant, weed, water, and whatever. She might not know my name, but the Latin names of hundreds of plants were no problem. Other than that, it was business as usual for me—a five-mile walk on the River Greenway with Jay, phone calls, mailings, and miscellaneous. I skipped agility class, and by nine p.m. my brain was pooped.
I tried to focus on the boob tube before bedtime, but couldn’t find anything I could stand to watch that I hadn’t seen before, so I put on my old k.d. lang Torch and Twang CD, and lay down on the couch. I had my head propped on a couple of pillows, my feet tucked between Jay’s cozy belly and flank, and my own belly blanketed by Leo’s rumbling furry circle of heat. Despite my roiling thoughts and emotions, I must have been a picture of contentment as I opened my newly arrived issue of Nature Photography. But my brain wasn’t ready to abandon current events, and when I found myself rereading the same paragraph for the fourth time, I gave up on the magazine and closed my eyes, my thoughts on the troubles in our little community of dog lovers.
Was Abigail right? Was Greg having an affair? Was he going to leave her for Suzette? But Connie said Abigail had hired a PI who said Greg wasn’t fooling around. Maybe Abigail lied to Connie. I mean, if she was reluctant to say her dog was neutered, how would she feel about her husband’s philandering? And where did Giselle fit into all this? Did she really think she’d get Greg if Abigail and Suzette were both out of the way? And what about Francine Peterson? Why in the heck was she lurking around?
The telephone shocked me out of my meditations. My limbs jerked, Leo flew off my belly with a yowl, and Jay leaped off the couch with a “Bfff,” slid across the hardwood floor when his paws hit the throw rug in the center of the room, and gave me a “what the heck?” look. I made an effort to control my breathing, and picked up the receiver.
“Hiya!”
“Oh, Tom.”
“You sound disappointed.” He sounded disappointed.
“No, no! The boys and I were vegging out and the phone scared the bejeepers out of us. Sorry!”
We did the “how was your day” thing, and then Tom cut to the chase, inviting me to his place for dinner on Friday.
No, I thought. You don’t need that complication, not before these murders are solved, but I heard myself ask, “Can I bring anything?” Meaning something I could pick up and pop open to serve.
“Yes. Drake says to bring Jay. Otherwise we’re all set.”
I hung up, and Jo Stevens’s words came back to me. I had to watch what I ate.
I was halfway back to the couch when the phone rang again. Jay was already snuggled back into his corner cushion, and at the other end Leo was doing kitty yoga, back leg extended behind his neck, so it was just as well that I didn’t need my spot back for a few more minutes.
Connie didn’t waste any time on preliminaries. “I found out what Greg was up to at the travel agency.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember when we saw Greg at the mall? Coming out of Travelfair?”
It took me a moment, but I remembered.
“Okay, so, he wasn’t planning a trip. He was returning tickets.”
“That makes sense.”
“Yeah, it would if the tickets had been for him and Abigail,” she replied slowly, with a tease in her voice. “Who do you think was going to Bermuda with him?”
“Tell me.”
“Suzette.”
“Suzette Anderson?”
“You know another Suzette around here?”
“How did you find this out, anyway?”
“Old high school friend manages the place. I bribed her with Abby Brown’s chocolates.” My salivary glands went wild at the thought.
“You’re one devious woman.”
“I prefer to think of myself as practical.”
“You could have a bright future as a detective.”
“You never know. If my wrist gives out from one too many Poodle trims, I might need a new career.”
“You bring me anything from Abby Brown’s?”
“I thought you were dieting?”
“I’m always dieting. Chocolate could be on my diet.” Part of my brain was trying to recall whether I had any stashed anywhere. “So, anyway … Greg and Suzette?”
She didn’t say anything.
“What about the private detective that Abigail hired?” I asked. “You said he nixed her suspicions that Greg was having an affair.”
“Abigail could have been lying. Maybe she knew but didn’t want to let on.”
Someone was lying, that was f
or sure. “I had that thought too. Or maybe the detective had some reason to lie. Or maybe he was incompetent.”
When I got off the phone I went back to the couch and thought about the latest news, leaning back against the Aussie-face tapestry pillow, my right hand stroking Jay’s silky head, my left scratching behind Leo’s ears. Who says I can’t multitask?
72
I don’t think of myself as a morning person, and was shocked to find I was up with the sun again Thursday morning. Jay and I went for an early walk to beat the heat, which was intensifying by the day.
The River Greenway led us into the rising sun, which danced among the leaves of tulip poplars, sycamores, black walnuts, beeches, and several species of oak and maple. A fine gray veil drifted over the murky surface of the Maumee, and the wooded banks fairly screeched as bluejays and crows called each other names. A farm field to the north of the trail showed a faint scatter of soft green shoots over the surface of the dark soil. Corn or soy beans, no doubt. Last year it was beans, so this was probably corn. We met only a handful of early joggers and cyclists.
A splash in the river caught our attention and I watched a pair of wood ducks paddle out of sight under some low-hanging branches. Cerise redbud and ivory dogwood blossoms, luminous in the morning light, danced beneath the hardwood canopy along the riverbank. An Indiana May morning at its finest.
The sirens of the river and woods urged me to linger, but I had things to do. Breakfast for Jay, and a quick shower, and I was on my way once more to Shadetree Retirement Home.
Jade Templeton met me at the front door. “Janet! So nice to see you. Mama is doing fine. She’s out in the garden. I just came from there.”
We walked through the common area where my mother had behaved like a berserker. Was it only three days ago? Two men played checkers by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that flanked the French doors leading to the enclosed courtyard. An elfin little man with a fringe of white hair around his bald and spotted pate snoozed in a wheelchair toward the center of the room, and a cherry-cheeked woman with tightly curled too-black hair and an electric-yellow velour jumpsuit looked up from her book and fluttered her fingers at us. We exited the room through the French door.
Mom was busy at what appeared to be a brand-new flower bed. It was raised for easy access for gardeners in wheelchairs, or folding chairs like the one Mom sat in. Great idea, I thought. I could use a little less bending over in my own garden.
“Hi, Mom.”
She didn’t react, so I touched her lightly on the sleeve. “Oh, hello. I didn’t hear you come in, dear.” For a moment, I hoped she might be lucid. But then she carefully wiped the fresh soil coating her old, familiar garden gloves onto her light blue sweatpants before pulling her hands from the gloves and extending one in my direction. “I’m Elaine Jones.”
Jones was her maiden name. It hadn’t been her legal name for more than half a century. I worked to keep my voice upbeat. “Mom, it’s me, Janet.”
She went back to planting her bedding plants, gloveless now. She seemed to have this plot of raised soil all to herself. Two women and a man worked companionably at another bed, and at the third, a young volunteer aid steadied a gentleman whose hands shook too much to plant his tomato seedlings by himself.
Mom’s aesthetic abilities were intact, judging by the way she arranged the baby plants. I imagined the bed as it would be in a month. Plastic name tags identified the contents of the plastic containers, and there were no dainty pastels in mom’s selections. I knew there would be no symmetrical rows for my mom, either. I watched her anchor the center of the bed with purple and pink cleome and tall white cosmos. Around those she planted sweeps of crimson zinnias, electric-blue ageratum, and clear-yellow French marigolds. A froth of white alyssum played in the spaces where the colors met, and the borders were edged in vinca vine and blood-red, purple, and white trailing verbena that would soon drape the outer edge of the box like a curtain on a Gypsy caravan. This tiny garden promised me a glimpse of the mother I used to know.
I watched her work for a little more than an hour, enjoying the warm sun and the Big Band music playing softly in the courtyard. I felt calmer than I had in many days, reassured that my mother would be happy here, at least in the warm months.
By the time I left, Mom was focused on patting handfuls of mulch into place around the plants. She acknowledged my goodbye with a dismissive wave.
Jade called to me as I walked through the front lobby. “Wait, child, I’ll walk you out.” She caught up with me and asked what I thought.
“She seems as happy here as she was at home. And she’s safer.”
“Your mama is a sweet lady. I wish I’d known her before.”
I nodded.
“So, the reason I wanted to talk to you, your mama showed me some pictures of your dog, and she got all teary-eyed. Your dog and other dogs. She had a bunch of dog pictures, all in a little box. So I wondered—why don’t you bring him to visit sometime. Your mama would like that.”
“How strange.” Jade looked puzzled, so I went on. “Oh, the timing. I’ve been planning to do something along those lines. In fact, I’m taking Jay to Indianapolis on Saturday to be tested for his certification as a therapy dog. That will make him official, you know?”
“That’s great then.” Jade’s smile was back. “We have some other dogs that visit, and our resident kitty, Thomas, but it’s always nice to have one more. And your mama loves that dog. What’s his name? Laddie, I think?”
“His name is Jay. But she thinks he’s Laddie, a dog she had before I was born. Sad.”
“Oh, no, not sad.” Jade wrapped an arm around my shoulders as we walked. “Memories of love are a measure of grace.” She gave me a squeeze. “In the end, love is all that matters in our lives.” She was right, of course, and who better to love than those who love us as our dogs do?
73
A message to call Jo Stevens was waiting on my answering machine, so once I got squared away, I picked up the phone, tagged the detective’s voice mail, and thought about sorting and dumping some of the magazines and junk mail that had invaded my living room.
Thinking was as far as I got. Leo bounded in with a little yellow foam ball in his mouth and mrowled at me. I was bound by duty as a cat servant to sacrifice a tidy house in favor of play. Jay watched from the safety of the couch, more out of regard for his tender nose than for politeness. Leo is quite the defender of his little foam balls.
When the phone rang, I expected to talk to the detective, and was surprised by the voice at the other end.
“Janet, it’s Ginny Scott. You have a minute?”
“Ginny! Yes, sure. How’s Fly?”
“She’s a sweetheart. Moved in as if she’d never been gone. Seems to be looking for Suzette from time to time, but overall she’s fine. She’s eating, so that’s good.”
“Great.”
“I wanted first to thank you again for bringing her to me. I probably couldn’t have picked her up for another couple of weeks if I’d had to go to Fort Wayne. That would be an all-day trip.”
“Oh, no problem. I’m always looking for a good excuse to get to different places with my camera.”
She jumped ahead to what I suspect was the real reason for her call. “Something odd happened last night.”
“Oh?”
“Francine Peterson called. All friendly and gushy. Asked me ‘How’s that lovely bitch of yours?’ I must be slow, but I hadn’t a clue who she was talking about. I have six lovely bitches!”
Spoken like a true dog woman.
“She went on and on about how gorgeous Fly is. I was tempted to say something about all the trash she put out back when Suzette declined to breed Fly to Pip, but I held my tongue.”
“That must have been hard.”
“I guess I was curious about where Francine was headed. A
nyway, I didn’t say much. Just let her blather on.”
“Did she have a point?”
Her voice turned to a snarl. “She wanted to buy Fly.”
“Did she make you an actual offer?”
“Oh yeah! Very generous offer, couched in all sorts of crap about how hard it is being a responsible breeder and what a nuisance it is to take back an adult puppy that someone else has owned for several years, complete with a story about one she took back that caused chaos in her kennel.” I was dying to hear how much the offer was, but Ginny was wound up. “I told her I don’t consider my puppies to be nuisances, no matter how old, and that the only time there’s chaos among my dogs is when I have a tennis ball or food bowls.”
“I know this is rude, but I’m dying to know—how much did she offer?”
“Four thousand dollars.”
“Whoa! You’re kidding!”
“Nope. I was blown away. She talked about breeding her to Pip, so she must not know he’s neutered. I’m sure she figured she could sell puppies from Pip and Fly for a pretty penny.”
“I can’t see Greg agreeing to that.”
“She claimed she’s getting Pip back.”
I remembered the scene at Abigail’s funeral. “I doubt that.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“I take it you turned her down.”
“I’d as soon cut my arm off with dull thinning shears as let that woman get her hands on one of my puppies.”
That seemed perfectly rational to me.
“I’m really not such a big gossip, but I can’t stand Francine. I didn’t care for Abigail, either, God rest her soul, but at least she was good to her dogs and responsible about breeding. But you’re right there where the investigation is going on, and I don’t know why exactly, but I thought you should know about this.”
Drop Dead on Recall Page 21
