Drop Dead on Recall (15 page)

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.

“Oh, you know what?” I had just finished recounting what I’d learned about Tom’s background, none of which was news to Con
nie. She patted her fork against her scrambled eggs, “That brings back a vague image.” She took a bite, chewed slowly, and made me nuts.

“What?”

“Nothing definite. But I have this sort of image of overhearing my mom talking about how sad it all was, something about Tom and his mom and …” Her pupils dilated a notch. “Yeah! I remember—she called old Aunt Ellie ‘that mean old bat,’ and there was someone else there, someone who said it wasn’t right, no matter what, to cut off an innocent child that way.”

45

Connie nibbled a piece
of bacon and I chewed on the possibility that Tom Saunders might have had a hand in Abigail’s death.

“But why would Tom kill Abigail? He wouldn’t inherit from her, and besides, why now? He’s what, fifty? Has a great job, nice house, good life, great dog. It makes no sense.”

“More like fifty-five.” Janet Demon and Janet Angel whispered in quick succession,
Oh, good, he’s not a younger man,
and
What do you care? You don’t want to get involved, remember?
I half ignored both of them and tried to pay attention to what Connie was saying about Tom. “Graduated with my brother.” She leaned into the table and her eyes opened wide. “Maybe to avenge his mother? Deep hurts and all that?”

People do things you don’t expect all the time, but the idea of Tom Saunders killing Abigail in cold blood over a generations-old family feud just rang off key, and I told Connie, “Possible, I suppose, but I still don’t see it.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Come on, Connie, you know the guy better than I do. It would take a real nutcase to hold a grudge that long.” I knew I was talking a little too fast, hoping I was right without much real data to go on, and I felt my cheeks heat up. “Does Tom seem like a nut to you?”

“No, you’re right, he isn’t. I guess I watch too many movies. You know, screwed-up son raised by mother from dysfunctional family turns serial killer.” She examined one well-groomed nail. “But you don’t have to be crazy to want revenge. Happens to the best of us. Actually, if I were a detective I’d be looking at people linked to Abigail by dogs. She rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.”

“Yeah? But that much? I mean, she wasn’t very nice to be around, but murder?”

“Who knows? She hurt a lot of people’s feelings, and attacked reputations, or sat back and watched other people attack them when she knew better, you know?”

“Funny that.” I was thinking about what people had said at the Border Collie rescue picnic. “The rescue crowd seemed to really like Abigail.”

“Yeah, well, they weren’t competition, and they stroked her a lot because she donated gobs of money.”

“I just wonder if some of us had the wrong impression. I know I never talked to her all that much, to be honest.”

Connie set her coffee down with a thunk. “Okay, take Marietta. A couple years ago, Marietta was supposed to buy a pup from Pip’s breeder, that woman you asked about at the show.”

“Francine.”

“Right. Pip sired the litter and I’m sure Abigail recommended the pups.” I wondered if that was accurate in light of Pip’s current reproductive status, but he could have sired a litter before he was neutered. Connie went on, “Marietta backed out of the purchase. She never said much, at least not to me, just that she wasn’t comfortable with some things about the breeding. I think Francine got pretty nasty about it, kept the deposit and badmouthed Marietta. Abigail and Marietta were pretty good friends up until then.”

“I heard a little about a puppy purchase falling through, but I didn’t know Abigail was involved.” I thought about it for a moment. “It’s hardly a reason to kill someone.”

“Abigail liked to spread crap around. Lots of accusation by in
nuendo, you know?” She crinkled her nose. “She and Francine both.”

“And that’s what she did to Marietta?”

“Someone posted on the Internet that Marietta was away from home day and night, and supposedly had a lot of dogs at her place. I always thought Francine was involved in that. Maybe Abigail too.”

“Well, duh! Marietta runs a training school and boarding kennel.” I was outraged. “She only has two dogs of her own, and they go to work with her.”

Connie folded her napkin and laid it on the table. “Pay attention, Janet. It’s the half-truths that matter.”

I thought about that. “Okay, so she implied that the dogs Marietta boards are her own?” Marietta runs a lovely small boarding facility along with the training school, and usually has anywhere from five to twenty dogs in temporary residence. “But that’s just silly!”

“Sure, if you know about Marietta’s place. But you know how the Internet is. People get some half-baked accusation in their teeth and shake it forever. Marietta was pretty upset.”

“I’m surprised she still let Abigail train there if she was involved.”

“She had no grounds to give her the boot. Abigail’s membership was undoubtedly paid up, and besides, Marietta used Pip’s standing in obedience to promote the place. It all died down eventually. Anyway, Marietta wasn’t the only one who didn’t like Abigail. Suzette hated her guts.”

Suzette didn’t sound like she hated Abigail when I talked to her, I thought, but Connie knew them both better than I did, so I didn’t comment. “Conflicts over obedience standings?”

“Nope. Okay, sure, I guess, but that wasn’t where the real venom showed up. More breeding issues, I think.” Her forehead creased. “Although what sort of breeding issues I’m not sure. I mean, dog or human, if you get my drift.” Her left eyebrow lifted a notch and she went on. “I don’t know too much, but I’ve heard things. I do know Suzette was angry about something to do with Fly. I think she asked Abigail about breeding Fly to Pip a while back, and Abigail had a rather public tantrum about it on one of the Border Collie lists.”

There was that Pip-as-stud-dog problem again. “You know for sure that Pip’s ever sired a litter?”

The space between Connie’s eyes puckered. “Sure he has.” Her tone suggested it was a really dumb question. “I told you, the pups Marietta looked at were his.”

At least that’s what Francine said.

I decided to let the subject drop. “Okay. So why did Abigail have a fit?”

Connie relaxed into the back of her chair. “Abigail claimed Fly had something shady in her genetic past and would sully Pip’s reputation by producing pups with problems. I don’t know the details, never looked into it. Not my breed, you know? But I heard that Suzette was fit to be tied.”

“This was on the obedience lists?”

“I don’t think so. I think it was on some BC list? Actually, though,
I could be wrong. I heard about it from Giselle, so Abigail probably told her. They were friends.”

“You talk to Giselle that much?”

“I groom her dog every few weeks, so yeah, we talk. Anyway, Giselle wouldn’t be on a Border Collie list.” But Giselle had told me she was indeed on the BC list and I was about to correct Connie about that when she laid a tip on the table, gathered her belongings, and stood to leave. “Hey, I forgot the shampoo and stuff. I need to run home before work anyway, so I’ll bring it by your place in a bit.”

I thought about our conversation while I fished out my credit card and decided I wasn’t at all convinced that Abigail was the Dorn who held Giselle’s interest.

46

I made a couple
of stops, so it was half an hour later when I pulled into my driveway and spotted something on the porch. That wasn’t unusual—I’m always getting packages of photos, publications, and what-have-you related to my work. But I could see from the driveway that this delivery had nothing to do with photography. It turned out to be a basket wrapped in crinkly pink cellophane and filled with what appeared to be homemade dog treats. A cluster of purple grosgrain ribbon ringlets hung from the rattan handle, and a tiny white envelope with “Janet” typed neatly in the center dangled from one curly strand.

I was unlocking the door when Connie’s car pulled into the driveway and she hopped out with a plastic bag in her hand. She pointed at the basket. “Whatcha got there?”

As soon as Jay was out the back door, I pulled the gift card from the envelope and read the note typed there: “A small token for all you’ve done. G.”

Leo stood on the table, leaning over the edge toward Connie, meowing and nosing around her pants pocket. Connie nudged him away. “I had some salmon treats in there earlier for training. The dogs love ’em.”

I pulled off the elastic band that held the cellophane closed and took a whiff. Garlic and cheese—also very popular with the canine set.

“Who’s it from?”

“Must be from Greg. I mean, he’s the only one I’ve done anything for recently.”

I pulled the cellophane down and picked out a biscuit. Definitely homemade, cut in the shape of a heart, and very fresh judging by feel and fragrance.

“Smells good enough to eat.”

Jay popped the back door open and bounced into the kitchen. He made a beeline to the table, dancing around, nose twitching, little bubbles of drool glittering along his lips. “Just one, Bubby!” I signaled him to spin to the right and twirl to the left, and rewarded him with the cookie heart. And a second one. I can be easy.

“I know Greg has a lot on his plate, but he’s acting really odd. Why would he send me a ‘take a hike’ e-mail, then act like everything’s fine and send me a gift?”

Connie’s right eyebrow arched and I couldn’t read the look in her eyes. “It’s not all about you, Janet.”

My jaw dropped and I stared at Connie as she pulled a tube from her pocket and freshened her lip gloss, oblivious to my reaction. “Greg’s a nice guy. He probably just wanted to thank you.”

She didn’t seem to think he was so nice when she talked about his philandering earlier, but I didn’t trust myself to say anything. I pulled the cellophane up and stashed the basket in the pantry closet, out of reach of Australian Shepherd jaws, then emptied the bag Connie had brought. Shampoo, conditioner, and finishing spray. “That’s more gunk than I use on my own hair.” I tried to smile at Connie, but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate. She wasn’t looking at me anyway. “Be right back.”

It took me a minute to push bottles and toilet paper around to make room for Jay’s new beauty supplies. By the time I got back to the front of the house, Connie was halfway out the door

“Hey! I need to pay you for the stuff.”

She waved me off, calling “Later” over her shoulder.

I went to the kitchen and lifted Leo into my arms. What was that all about? Was I really self-focused enough to deserve the “not all about you” comment? And why
would
Greg give me a gift now? Ah, well, the Doors sang it long, long ago.
People are strange
.

47

Tom was already ensconced
at a table and reviewing the menu by the time I got to the restaurant, whose name had changed again. It was the Bombay Inn this week. He stood, smiling, and sat back down across from me once I was seated. The sleeves of his chambray shirt were rolled to just below his elbows, and the blue fabric intensified the brown of his eyes. We went through the usual greeting ritual. At least I think we did. I was too busy trying to remember the steps to this dance. Besides, all I could think, if
think
is what I was doing, was
hubba hubba
.

A waitress, who spoke so softly I could barely hear her, interrupted us, setting a basket of black-pepper
pappadams
and a bowl of mint chutney on the table, and we ordered. Then Tom asked me about Abigail’s funeral. “It was actually very nice. For a funeral.” I filled him in on the details, including people’s comments about Suzette’s absence.

“It’s not as if they were all that friendly,” he said. “I suppose she could have come as a gesture of respect for Greg, but I doubt he even noticed.”

“Abigail and Suzette were better friends than people realize. At least that was the impression I got from Suzette.”

“Really?” He focused those milk-chocolate eyes on me. “Well, I’m sure Greg was preoccupied with other things, plus I imagine his own friends were there, and family from both sides.”

Right. Of course, Abigail’s cousin didn’t show up,
I mused during the momentary lull while we both nibbled
papads
and chutney.

“Did you know that Abigail and I were cousins?” How come everyone seemed to be reading my mind these days? What could I say?
Yeah, now I have been checking up on you.
Or maybe this would be a good time to ask if he killed her?
Nah!

“My mom and Abigail’s mom were sisters. But you knew that, didn’t you?” I had an almost irresistible urge to squirm in my seat as if I’d been caught looking through his dresser drawers. “I’m sure Connie told you.”

“I saw an obituary.”

He raised one eyebrow. “For?”

“Okay, I Googled you.” Why did that sound so sexy? I swore inwardly as I felt another warm red glow light up my face, and hoped it didn’t show in the subdued light. “Your mother’s obituary came up. But heck,” I heard my delivery speed up but couldn’t seem to rein in my mouth, “I barely know my own cousins. Just from Christmas cards and occasional phone calls, you know? They’re scattered all over the country, hard to get together.” I dished out some more verbal sedative until I noticed that Tom was leaning against the back of his chair and grinning at me. “Sorry.” I took a big gulp of water to shut myself up.

“We were all here in town, but I didn’t even know about Mom’s family until I was pretty much grown up. She never mentioned them, and when I was a kid I never asked. Not sure why, although I have a hazy image of someone calling my grandmother an uptight, hypocritical old bag or something like that. I guess that killed my interest for a while.” It didn’t sound like anyone had anything very nice to say about old Aunt Ellie.

Our food arrived, and Tom leaned forward. “Sorry. Don’t want to bore you with ancient family politics.” He picked up a piece of
naan
, tore off a hunk, and scooped up a mouthful of
mattar paneer
, the peas and white cheese poking through the rich, savory sauce, and we embarked on other topics.

He talked about his fieldwork in Mexico and Peru. I talked about teaching in North Africa in the seventies, photo trips to Europe, Asia, the Arctic, one I hoped to set up to photograph feral dogs in Egypt. He told me about his son, Tommy, who would be starting graduate school in the fall. I realized later that neither of us mentioned spouses, and that I had no idea what had become of Tommy’s mother. I found myself talking to him about things I hadn’t thought about in years, and more than once I had to suppress the urge to shove the table out of the way and jump his bones right there in the restaurant.
Good thing I’m so disciplined
, I thought.
I’d like to be able to eat here again.