Maggie looked so distraught, none of her friends had the heart to push her for more answers about anything, even after they’d all finished their roast beef and Po’s classic salad. She almost always used a basic vinaigrette, a mix of high-quality olive oil, garlic salt and balsamic vinegar that she’d pour together over the salad without ever measuring. Sometimes she’d mix in some Dijon mustard, when she felt in the mood for a little extra zing. The result was consistently delicious.
“It’s all going to be fine, Maggie,” Kate said with certainty as she cleared the plates after the main course. “We’ll make sure of it.”
And with that declaration, they’d all finished off the apricot pie and said their goodnights. The two younger Queen Bees drooped, they were so tired after the emotional events of the day.
Even with the worries Maggie faced, she went to sleep right away—although she slept fitfully. But Po and Max spent awhile talking after they left about how they could help. And when she finally went to sleep herself, Po had an action plan prepared. Step one would commence at breakfast.
CHAPTER 4
Po got up early and went for a short run. Since the days when her kids were old enough to get themselves up on school days she’d sneaked out of the house quietly in the first light of the day to breathe in the crisp air and the sweet smells and enjoy what was often the only solitude in her day. Now for more than 20 years she’d been repetitively setting one foot in front of the other, and her treks through the small college town she called home gave her nothing but peace. She felt such serenity—and her travels down those same roads again and again gave her opportunities to be grateful for the time she’d spent raising her family in Crestwood, building a rich network of friends and living a life that she always enjoyed. She had considered moving when her dear Sam died. Her sister had extolled the virtues of living in Florida at a point when it seemed her world was falling apart. But she was glad she’d stayed where their family’s roots had sprouted.
Of course, the regular exercise also meant she could wear the flattering classic clothes she liked and still indulge in her favorite social engagements, which all involved food. Like the evening on the deck before. And the breakfast to come, post-run, at Marla’s Bakery.
For more years than she liked to tally, Po had met Leah Sarandon for omelets or scrambled eggs or sinful eggs Benedict on Sunday morning, a tradition born of their husbands’ lack of interest in eggs and love of early-morning golf. They discussed whatever book roused their always-vivid interest and imaginings, the progress or problem of the latest quilting project, and whatever else came up.
Leah’s contacts on campus, developed from 15 years as a professor of women’s studies, coupled with Po’s deep ties in the community, meant they often heard two different sides—or three or four—of the same story. Marla’s broad circle and unabashed enthusiasm for sharing information also helped keep the two in the know about local goings-on.
“It’s not a bad place to start the search for solutions,” thought Po as she walked in, thinking, as she had been almost without stop, about Maggie’s concerns about her clinic and the prized pooch who disappeared from there.
She lingered by the door, waiting for her friend and enjoying the warm smell of baked goods and rich coffee. Before she knew it, she saw Leah striding her way, her long skirt flowing around her boots and her arms swinging in her tailored leather jacket. Po thought, as she had hundreds of times before, how much she admired Leah’s strong personal style.
The bakery was hopping, and Marla didn’t have time to do anything but wave when they walked up to request a table. And once they were seated in one of the dark green booths—Po always preferred a booth to the small round tables—one of the wait staff filled their coffee cups, a sign that Marla was finally yielding to the growth her shop experienced and delegating some of the work. She simply could not take every order, fill every cup, and scrub down the tables and green-and-white tile floor every day all by herself. Although she tried. Tableside was, after all, the best place to learn what was happening in town. And she found the gossip at least as sustaining as the food she loved. Maybe more.
With weighty, confidential issues on her mind, Po was a little relieved to find herself in a table near the picture window, a long way from the kitchen, and with enough chatter around them to cover the conversation. Since the night before she had wanted to talk with Leah about the dog’s continued disappearance and Mercedes’ legal threat.
She just managed to let Leah start her coffee, and then she brought her up to speed on the previous day’s events. It wasn’t until the heavily laden plates arrived—eggs Benedict for Po and a rich quiche for Leah—that Po paused for breath.
“So, they haven’t found Fitzgerald yet?” Leah asked.
“I’m sure Maggie would have called if they had,” Po said. “And boy, that would have been great news to wake up to this morning.”
“I have to think the electrician let the dog out,” Leah said thoughtfully. “But I think John Cline is working on that job. And he is so reliable. He’s done all kinds of work for me. The last job was my upstairs bath, remember? That was last year. I gave him my key, and he came and went. I just can’t believe he wouldn’t say if he’d made a mistake.”
Po clearly remembered the bath. It had started as an old, traditional, small bath. Leah had gutted the room, taken over a closet from the guest bedroom next door, and transformed the space with a mix of bold color and clean white tiles and vintage fixtures. Leah was the only person Po knew who successfully mixed and matched dramatically colored towels. And plates. And chairs. It was a gift.
“How well do you know Mercedes?” Po asked.
“I really don’t know her well,” Leah replied thoughtfully. “I did have her daughter in class once.”
“What was she like?” Po asked.
“Gosh, that had to be more than five years ago. Mostly I remember her boyfriend waiting for her outside like clockwork. And I saw later that they got married.”
Just then Marla bustled up, unable to resist the temptation to chat with her longtime customers. “Hi, quilters. Staying busy with all your projects? And who got married?” she asked, curiosity, as always, getting the better of any slight instinct toward discretion.
“We were talking about Melanie, Mercedes Richardson’s daughter,” Leah replied patiently. It had long been a source of irritation to the Queen Bees that Marla so regularly insinuated that they spent “soo much” time (clearly she thought “too much”) on such an “old-fashioned” hobby.
“Oh, right. She and Jack Francis have been married for about four years, I think,” said Marla, thinking. “In fact, they were here yesterday. And they didn’t look that happy. I wonder if they’re having trouble.”
Now her voice dropped very low, and she looked around to see who was listening—a clear sign they were getting the juicy scoop now. “In fact,” she said. “Daisy Sample told me he canceled his regular flower order.”
She looked around again.
“That man sent his wife and his mother-in-law flowers every week for years. Until now.”
“Really?” Po said, despite herself. She really did try not to encourage Marla.
“Yes, really. And this morning, he and Melanie hardly said a word to each other.”
“Well, that’s hardly conclusive,” said Leah. “They may just be watching their budget a little more. Flowers once a week is pretty lavish.”
“Well, but Mercedes has lots of money,” rejoined Marla. “I’ve heard Melanie always got whatever she wanted. And Jack Francis has that dealership.”
“Really?” Po said again.
“Yes, the one out on Highway 32,” she said. “He sells classic cars. You know how he always drives that flashy red Pontiac GTO around town.”
The conversation was making Po think she hadn’t been paying enough attention to the various doings of Mercedes and her family. Or to the cars she saw around town. “Hmm,” she finally said with a smile. “I guess vehicle
identification isn’t really my strong suit.”
Leah laughed. “I can’t imagine,” she teased.
Over the course of the breakfast, the conversation turned to other topics, as it always did. The books they were reading. The new line of fabric they’d seen. Their progress on pet projects. But Po’s mind never entirely gave up chewing on the mysterious disappearance of a cherished champion from Maggie’s clinic. And Leah knew it was still on her mind.
“So, what do you think, Po?” Leah asked when they found themselves with the bill paid and out on the curb.
“Complicated question,” Po said, with a smile. “I think we need to find the dog. Mercedes is perfectly capable of suing dear Maggie. And I think we need to pretend to buy a car. I’m interested in Jack. Maybe he had a reason to steal Fitzgerald.”
“I never considered that the dog might be stolen,” Leah said.
“Well, I guess I think we need to start thinking that way,” Po said.
“OK, then,” Leah said. “You go to Maggie’s, and I’ll go to the dealership.”
“Sounds good,” said Po. “I just need to stop by Selma’s. Then I’ll go. But don’t go to the dealership by yourself,” she said. “Take Kate. She might even like looking at the cars. She used to drive a cute little car in high school. I can’t remember what kind. I do remember her mother was always worried about her driving too fast.”
Leah smiled. “OK,” she said. “I’ll try to track her down.”
“And then come for dinner and report,” Po said. “We’ll do something easy. Are you free?”
“What could be more pressing?” Leah asked. And with that, they each headed off.
CHAPTER 5
Po walked down the street six doors to Selma’s. When she’d made her cats for the benefit quilt, she’d made four extra. She wanted to make them into a little wall hanging. In fact, she always tried to make a memento for herself when they tackled a group project. When she saw these small pieces, she remembered the fun they’d had and the events they’d discussed during the project. Each one was oddly like a photo album or a scrapbook for her, it recalled so much.
She had been so distracted by the abrupt end of their meeting on Saturday that she hadn’t had time to think about what she needed to finish that smaller piece. She wanted a calm moment to wander around the store. When she was really ready to start something, she sometimes felt as if the right fabric would jump out and claim her. It was worth a walk through to see whether that kind of inspiration was at the ready. Even if it wasn’t, she needed some deep forest-green thread for her other project. So the trip wouldn’t be lost either way.
She sighed gently when she walked into the fabric store. It always gave her a sense of possibility and a calm peace to see all the fabrics arranged by color and materials.
She was just admiring a particularly bright batik in the window, a strong purple piece with a bright orange-and-white pattern, when she saw Mercedes’ husband, Jarrod Richardson, walk by. She was tempted to duck at first, dreading an overflow of anger given Fitzgerald’s uncertain whereabouts. But then she saw he clearly hadn’t noticed her. Why would he? They had only met a couple of times; he replaced her garbage disposal more than a decade ago. And he’d been very nice. He really wouldn’t expect her to know anything about the missing dog, either, she thought when her moment of panic had subsided.
And then she noticed that he seemed anything but angry or distraught. In fact, he seemed to have his head in the clouds. He strode through the Sunday morning passersby, intent on their coffees and strolls, with a smile and a bounce in his step.
“Interesting,” Po mused as she watched him walk up the street. And then she returned to the rack of fabric and the decision at hand. “I really never go wrong with purple …” she murmured, and she was lost to the thought. At least for a little while.
She carried her final choices to Susan at the cutting table.
“With all the excitement yesterday, I had to come back to think about what else I might need,” Po said.
“Poor Maggie,” Susan said. “I’m sure she is so worried.”
“You haven’t heard anything, have you?” Po asked.
“No,” Susan shook her head.
“I tell you what, though,” Susan said. “I’ve been wishing I could do something. I’m thinking I might stop on the way home and walk part of the river. It would be super long odds, but imagine if I found him.”
“That would sure be fabulous,” Po agreed.
“And at least that gives me something to do that could help,” Susan went on. “That always makes me feel better.”
Po left Selma’s with a yard of the purple batik; a subtle tan and white plaid that would contrast dramatically; a half a yard of each of the fabrics the group had originally chosen to work in; her forest-green thread; and the enthusiasm for a new project that she always got when she started to hold bolts of fabric together and imagine the final product. As she pushed open the door, she stopped for a moment and eyed the building across the street, wondering what Max was up to. His car was there, she saw.
Making a mental note to call him later, she walked out to her car, feeling relatively upbeat about her plan to head for Maggie’s clinic. Then she saw Jarrod suddenly emerge from the hardware store, on the other side of the street. Po hesitated, and then shut her door again and walked across the way to meet him. As she did, she thought, as always, what a handsome man he was. And it’s true, his unruly hair and tall, fit frame made him a striking figure.
“Hi, Jarrod,” she said. “I’m Portia Paltrow.”
“Of course,” he said with a ready smile. “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she said. “I heard that Fitzgerald is missing, though. I wanted to say how sorry I am. He hasn’t been found, has he?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” he said, his deep brown eyes clouding over a bit. “Mercedes is fit to be tied. She’s worrying about everything from whether to withdraw from the dog show next month to whether to cancel his grooming appointment tomorrow.”
“I feel so bad for her,” Po said. “I know how I’d feel if my dog were missing.”
“Well, I’m going to go look for him some more this afternoon,” Jarrod said. And then he suddenly smiled. “And don’t tell anyone,” he said with a conspiratory look, “but I’m going to sneak in a little fishing while I’m out by the river. I just picked up some bait.” He nodded back at the hardware store, and Po remembered vaguely that there was a fishing section in the back corner.
“What are you fishing for?” she asked.
“Catfish,” he said with a wide smile. “But next weekend I’m hoping to go to the lake and fish for trout. I bought some new lures, too. Trout season opened this week, and I’m hoping for an opportunity to go enjoy it.”
She smiled. “Well, that’s making the best of it, I’d say. I hope he turns up soon.”
“You and me both,” agreed Jarrod, loading the sack he was carrying into the back of his SUV. And with that he was on his way.
Po took the bridge over the river, admiring the view as she always did. The nights had just gotten cool enough to start turning the maple trees and the sumac to their rich fall orange and red, and Po thought again how nice it was to have the beautiful autumn colors and still be enjoying such sunny warm days. She pulled out of her reverie and into the drive of Helmers’ Animal Clinic in fewer than 10 minutes.
Po smiled to see Maggie’s name on the prominent new sign. She knew Angela had really twisted her arm to get it. Po agreed with the office manager. The sign, with a stone base and a lovely planting of blooming mums below it, complemented the new entrance to the clinic beautifully. The enhanced visibility and name recognition was worth the fight against the practitioner’s natural modesty. And business seemed to be booming. And yet …
Po put aside her troubled thoughts and pushed through the front door.
“Hi Po,” Angela greeted her with a smile. “Where’s Hoover today?”
Po walked up to
the counter, smiling at the warm receptionist.
“Oh, he’s probably napping on the sofa,” Po laughed. “A dog’s life. Slight jealousy on my part is the natural state of things.”
“Do you need food?” Angela asked clicking a few buttons on the keyboard in front of her to find Hoover’s record. “Hoover eats the senior diet, right?”
“You are so organized,” Po said with a smile. “You’re right; I should pick up a bag of food. But really, I came to check in on Maggie.” She looked around the waiting room, to make sure she wouldn’t be overheard. “There’s no news about Fitzgerald is there?” she asked quietly.
“No, I’m afraid not,” Angela said with a worried look. “Aaron’s been out looking again all morning.” She leaned in even closer. “And Mercedes called me last night. She was really angry. Maybe as angry as I’ve ever seen her, and that’s saying something. We just have to find Fitzgerald.” Angela suddenly stopped.
“Didn’t Maggie tell me you helped train him?” Po asked.
“Yeah,” Angela said with a small smile. “I’ve even shown him for Mercedes. I’ve been too busy here in the last year or so, so she’s been working with someone else. But he’s a great dog.” Her forehead wrinkled again. “I’m worried,” she admitted. “And not just for Fitzgerald. Mercedes could really cause Dr. Maggie a lot of trouble.”
Angela broke off suddenly as the door pushed open. “Hi, Mrs. Johnson,” she said. “I’ll be right with you and Betsy.” Betsy was a black miniature poodle with a pink “princess” collar and a cocky canine smile. And for the millionth time, Po was struck by Angela’s gift at remembering people and helping to build the bonds of Maggie’s clinic. She really did make it pleasant to visit. And she knew Angela had lifted a huge burden off Maggie in the time since she’d joined the practice, handling lots of day-to-day management so Maggie could focus on caring for pets, her mission since she was just a child.
Dog-Gone Murder Page 3
