Drop Dead on Recall (3 page)

7

Rumors raced around the
show grounds like whippets in a field of bunnies. A woman from Illinois told me that Abigail had a stroke. Heart attack was a popular option, and aneurysm got a few votes. Some people thought Abigail had an asthma attack. Several who were ringside when Abigail went down suggested diabetic shock, thinking the injections were insulin, although no one remembered ever seeing Abigail with any medical paraphernalia. Anaphylactic shock from a bee sting got only one vote (not that I was keeping track). Oddly enough, no one asked me what was in the syringe I had retrieved for Greg. I guess they didn’t want to confuse themselves with facts.

Suzette Anderson strolled over with Fly and asked what I’d heard. Her eyes and nose were red and moist, and she fiddled with a sodden tissue while I told her about the epinephrin. “That’s odd. I was with Abby when she had to use her EpiPen a couple of times. It worked really fast.” Suzette dragged the back of her hand across her wet cheekbone.
Give me a break,
I thought, recalling the potshots she’d taken at Abigail earlier. She went on, “She probably died of plain old hard-headedness. I’ll miss her, though.”
Yeah, right.
She stroked Fly’s cheek with the backs of her fingers as they walked away, and although I was skeptical about Suzette’s claim to sorrow, I was also surprised to feel a wave of sadness and regret wash through me. For a moment my sense of generalized loss was so sharp that I couldn’t move. I took several deep breaths as memories of my own lost loves and opportunities beat and prodded the folds of my heart. Jay, always alert to my moods, uttered a low whine and brought me back to the present, and I got him out of his crate to warm up.

Our class went off without a hitch, and Jay earned the second of the three legs required for his novice obedience title. I hoped he’d get the third one, and the title, the next day. Then on to the fun stuff, jumping and retrieving.

By 2:30, the obedience classes were finished and the stewards were tallying scores for special awards. The temperature had climbed into the low seventies and the wind had softened, so I stripped off my sweater in favor of my newish lime-green T-shirt. I put Jay in his crate and asked the people seated next to me to keep an eye on him for a few minutes. They were from Indianapolis and I didn’t know them well, but had seen them at enough shows to know they wouldn’t let anyone mess with my dog. Then I headed for the calf barn to check on Pip.

Various thoughts drifted around my mind like fog as I tried to make sense of Abigail’s sudden death, but the instant I stepped onto the concrete floor of the barn they made way for a new concern. A woman stood by Pip’s crate with a leash in her hand. I recognized her yellow-gold sweatshirt, and the improbable red hair I’d mistaken for a hat when I saw her leave the building earlier. She struck a momentary deer-in-the-headlights pose, then hustled out the other side of the barn. “Hey!” I yelled, picking up my pace as I passed the crated Malamutes, but she vanished between two motor homes.

Everything around the Dorns’ equipment seemed to be the same as when I was there earlier. Still, people lurking around other people’s dogs give me the willies. Especially when they act weird about it. Dogs are stolen occasionally, and certain extremist groups have been known to “liberate” dogs at shows, as if the life of a stray scrounging for food and dodging traffic and coyotes and other hazards of “freedom” were better than regular meals, a warm bed, and love. Not much I could do except be sure that Pip was secure, but I’d find out who she was.

I took Pip out for a quick pee, then crated him again and started organizing the Dorns’ belongings. The scant remnants of Abigail’s breakfast—a few bits of bagel, a plastic container with the remains of a creamy spread chock-full of green twiggy things—sat on top of Pip’s crate alongside a half-finished bottle of organic apple juice.
As opposed to inorganic apple juice
, I mused. There were also some crumpled bits of paper towel and a slicker brush with black fur captured in the aluminum tines. I looked for a trash can as I pulled the fur from the brush. Failing to find one, I tossed fur, bottle, and towels into a large fuschia and yellow canvas tote bag stowed under Abigail’s chair. Like the little bag Abigail carried to the ring, this one had a Border Collie and “Dorn” embroidered on the side.

I opened the plastic container and sniffed at the spread. It smelled strongly of dill, and something else, something I couldn’t identify and not all that appetizing. It reminded me vaguely of a mouse nest I’d once pulled from an unused electrical box in my grandfather’s garage. I crinkled my nose and assumed it was one of Abigail’s famous health foods. Then I remembered that I hadn’t eaten, and wondered whether the vendor by the grandstand had any bear claws left.

There was no place to rinse the plastic container, so I made sure the lid was tight, and tossed it into the tote. In my jacket pocket I had a padlock that I sometimes use on Jay’s crate if I’m worried about someone opening it. I slid it around the bars of the door and frame of the crate and snapped it shut, then slipped a bit of freeze-dried liver to Pip and told him I’d be back as soon as I collected my own dog, equipment, and van.

Most competitors had cleared out by the time I got back to the obedience ring, but a few were watching the final awards ceremony. I stepped up beside Tom and was surprised to feel another little flip-flop in my gut. “What’s up?” Suzette and her dog were in the ring, Fly’s leash in one hand and a nice big blue and green rosette and stainless-steel water bucket stuffed with dog biscuits in the other.

Tom filled me in. “Suzette and Fly got High Combined.” That’s for the dog with the highest combined qualifying scores from the Open and Utility classes. “We’re waiting for High in Trial. Probably Suzette.”

“And High in Trial is …” I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Suzette pulled the corners of her mouth back even further as Bob Bradley slid his glasses halfway down his nose and searched his score sheet. Her face froze, though, when Bob announced that the High in Trial dog was Rhonda Lake’s Golden Retriever, Eleanor.

Rhonda had given the sweet young Golden to her husband of thirty-two years Christmas before last, barely a week before a drunk driver made Rhonda a widow. For a time, Rhonda was paralyzed by grief, but training and loving Eleanor helped her focus on life and the living again. The whooping and clapping from the spectators who knew the story announced how thrilled nearly everyone was for her.

Everyone, it seemed, except for poor Suzette, knocked out of High in Trial by a rank beginner and half a point. I heard someone behind me stage whisper, “Ooh, she didn’t see that coming. Got rid of Abigail and still got whupped.”

I was turning toward the voice when Tom diverted me. “Will we see you tomorrow?” He grinned at me, and I surprised myself by wishing I’d put on some makeup. I couldn’t seem to find my tongue, so I nodded, then watched him and Drake walk away, not sure whether that tingle under my waistband was disappointment or relief that he was leaving.

It took two trips to get Jay and all my stuff back to my van so I could get back to the calf barn. Pip was stretched out on his back, legs akimbo and neck bent around the corner of his crate, but he flipped himself over and gave a hello woof when he saw me. I unlocked the crate and fastened the leash to his collar. As I shut the crate door, the big fuschia and yellow tote bag caught my eye, and I decided to take it home and run the container with the smelly spread through the dishwasher. No point letting it turn green and fuzzy, a metamorphosis known to occur distressingly often in my refrigerator.

Tom’s smile stretched bigger than life across the screen of my memory as I loaded Pip and the tote bag into my van, but the soundtrack in my mind didn’t match the picture. All I could hear was,
got rid of Abigail and still got whupped.

8

My class was first
in the ring at 8:30 Sunday morning, so I was back at the fairgrounds early. Pip was enthusiastically sucking cheese out of a hollow sterile bone when I snapped the padlock onto his crate in the calf barn. Then I got Jay and a chair from my van and arrived at the obedience ring in time to warm up and watch one performance before I took my customary three deep breaths and we stepped into the ring.

We got through all the individual exercises in good shape. Jay’s heeling wasn’t perfect, but I’ve seen uglier. He kept all four feet planted for the stand for examination, letting the judge’s hand touch his head, shoulders, and croup as I stood six feet away and watched. And his recall was snappy, although he forgot to sit in front of me and circled behind me into heel position a little ahead of schedule, losing a couple of points. Unlike Abigail and Suzette and other stellar handlers who strive for perfect 200s, I consider a passing score to be good enough.

We were on the home stretch, two and a half minutes into the three-minute down-stay, when a baby started to cry somewhere off to my left. Jay works with kids in the Allen County Public Library’s Paws to Read Program, and unhappy children distress him. He stood and turned toward the sound, then looked over his shoulder at me, turned again, lay back down, and let out a long sigh as he rested his chin on his crossed paws and apologized to me with loving brown eyes. I longed to touch him, and to tell him that there was always the next trial, and did just that as soon as the judge sent us back to our dogs. Compassion outranks competitiveness in my book.

Connie Stoppenhagen stopped by to see how I’d done. She looked spectacular as ever, her pale lime jacket setting off her strawberry-blonde coloring to full advantage. She was helping me squeeze my folded chair into its canvas bag when I asked, “Do you know who that woman is with the crayon-red hair?”

Connie gave the chair a final shake and turned to find the object of my curiosity. “Oh, her. Francine something. She’s Pip’s breeder. Abigail introduced us last year.”

“I saw her in the barn yesterday, looking at Pip. I guess that explains why.” I thought about Francine’s startled reaction to my arrival. “It was kind of odd, though. She had a leash in her hand, and took off when I showed up. I padlocked Pip’s crate after I saw her there.”

Connie leaned toward me and lowered her voice.
“She’s
kind of odd. Abigail seemed to get on with her okay, but she’s, I dunno, cold. Sneaky.” Connie adjusted the rubber band holding her entry numbers on her arm and continued. “Peterson, that’s it. Francine Peterson. I’ve heard she’s very competitive, and hard on her dogs if they don’t do well.” She looked at something behind me and raised her chin as if to point. “You have company. Call me later.”

“Leaving already?” Tom and Drake had come up behind me, and that unsettling flutter went off inside me again when I heard Tom’s voice. I was beginning to get tired of myself.

“Yep. We’re done. Jay broke the down stay, so we NQ’d.” Meaning we had earned a non-qualifying score.

“I’m sorry.” He signaled Drake to lie down. When he smiled at me, the tanned skin around Tom’s eyes crinkled into happy lines. “Are you sure you won’t hang around for awhile? We could grab a bite to eat.”

I swear, I got my tang toungled and started to stutter. “I, uh, …”
Get a grip, woman!
“I’d love to, but I promised to shoot a friend’s kids this afternoon.”

Tom’s eyes sparkled. “Is that legal?”

I smiled. “It is when you use a camera.”

“Ah, so you’re a wildlife photographer.”

I could fall for this guy if I wasn’t careful. Nice rear view and a sense of humor to boot. He went on. “I should have Drake’s portrait taken.” He bent toward his dog, and Drake squinted his eyes and shoved his glossy black head into his best friend’s hand. “We’ll have to set something up. If you’re willing, of course.”

That goofy tingle somewhere south of my belly button cried
ready, willing, and able, and I could even take some pictures
, but I kept my mouth in line and mumbled what passed for assent. Then I bade him farewell and took my dog, my blushing face, and my dirty mind to my van. From there I set off to get Pip and the Dorns’ belongings from the calf barn. Since the place had been thoroughly cleaned after the baby bovines left the 4-H fair the previous summer, I never expected to step in deep doodoo.

9

When I got to
the calf barn to collect Pip and the Dorns’ equipment after my class on Sunday, show chair Tony Balthazar was talking to a guy in rumpled tan chinos and coffee-stained shirt. The knot of his tie was tipsy and the day’s growth of whiskers so fashionable with some actors these days just wasn’t working for him. He was scribbling in a little notebook as he talked to Tony, but when I reached for Pip’s crate he started toward me. “Hey! Whaddya think you’re doing?” Tony tagged along, worry lines etched into his face. Tony must have inherited his chronically wrinkled brow from his wife’s Pugs.

I was about to reply when Giselle Swann huffed into the building. “I’ll take Greg’s things home with me!” she wheezed. In contrast to her lithesome name, Giselle was about five-foot-one whichever way you measured. She was fond of stretch pants a size too small and three shades too bright, and huge tent tops with ruffles or fringes. Her hair always had that not-quite-clean lankness of a day too long between shampoos, and she peeped furtively from under brown bangs that straggled like spider legs over her eyebrows and into her lashes. I’m not exactly svelte and stylish myself, but Giselle takes frump to a whole new level.

“’Fraid not.” Scribble Man shoved the notebook and pen into his pants pocket. Giselle narrowed her eyes at him and twisted the fringe of her day-glo yellow poncho into tight little wads, and Scribbles hooked his thumbs into his front belt loops as he rocked on the balls of his feet. “I can’t authorize release of this property to either one of you.”

I’d had enough. “Excuse me, but who
are
you and how is this dog your business?”

He parried, and upped the volume. “And you are?”

“Wondering who
you
are and why you’re yelling at me.” I was also trying to ignore the indigo stain that was expanding with astonishing speed over his pants pocket.

“Detective Homer Hutchinson. Call me Hutch.”
As in Starsky and?
Janet Demon whispered into my left ear, meaning David Soul, the first Hutch, not the recent what’s-his-name remake.
In his wildest dreams!
Her angelic counterpart cautioned,
Shhh. He’s a boob, but he’s probably armed.

“Detective Hutchinson, this ‘property,’ as you call him, is a living, breathing dog. You can’t just put him on a shelf somewhere until you’re ready to deal with him.”

“And your name …” He reached into his pocket. “Aw, shit!” He shuffled backward, gaping at the pen, notebook, and hand he’d withdrawn from his pants. All three glistened dark blue. He pinched the pen between the thumb and index finger of his other hand and threw it into the aisle of the barn.

Giselle clasped her hands to her breast, and Tony wove from foot to foot and coughed. I was rather proud of my self-control when I asked, with barely a snicker, “Who
can
authorize release of the dog?” I wasn’t leaving Pip with the cops, and I wasn’t leaving him with Giselle. She has enough trouble managing her own teensy dog. I don’t know what she’d do with a bundle of Border Collie energy.

“I can,” said a voice from behind me. “Detective Jo Stevens. What can I do for you?”

Jo Stevens was about my height, 5'4", but a good forty pounds lighter at maybe 115 dripping wet. She was also twenty or so years younger. Her hair was brown, like my own, but unlike mine, her short do was tidy. She probably doesn’t have to fend off gray with monthly touch-ups, either. She wore navy slacks and a white broadcloth shirt, the cuffs folded neatly over the sleeve hems of a fine-gauge navy cardigan and hitched toward her elbows, baring strong, tan forearms. Her badge hung from a black cord around her neck, and a holster bulged against her right hip. I knew in a heartbeat that in a dicey situation, I’d want her on my side.

Detective Stevens glanced at her colleague, a twitch playing along her lip. “Go clean up, Hutchinson.” Scribble Man shuffled off, muttering something about brand new pants and dangling his inky hand and notebook out to his right to dry.

I introduced myself and explained about Pip. Giselle gave her name as well, and insisted again that she could and should take everything with her.

Detective Stevens pulled a cell phone from a black leather holster and hit the speed dial. “Hold on,” she nodded at me, and walked away a few steps. Giselle schlumped over to her grooming table, the one bearing the Maltese I’d chatted with earlier, and lifted the crate and captive dog onto the floor. Still puffing, she began packing up the grooming table and other stuff scattered around her setup.

I stepped closer to Tony Balthazar. “What’s going on?”

Tony dabbed about a quart of sweat from his forehead with a wrinkled hanky, then wadded it up and stuck it back in his pocket. He looked like he needed to get back to sitting on his golf cart. “I don’t know. They didn’t really say. I guess they need to be sure nobody steals anything.” He cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the detectives, and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “I don’t like having all these cops around. It doesn’t look good.”

And having someone drop dead at a dog show does?
“No one knows they’re cops, Tony.”

Before I could ask any more questions, Detective Stevens rejoined us. “Ms. MacPhail, my lieutenant checked with Mr. Dorn. You can take the dog with you.”

Giselle piped up, “Did you tell him I could take the dog?”

“Yes, ma’am. He said Ms. MacPhail should take the dog.” Giselle scrunched up her crimson face but didn’t say anything more, and the detective turned back to me. “I’ll need your name, address, and telephone number.” I fished a creased business card out of my jacket pocket, smoothed it as best I could, and handed it over. She jotted something on the card, slipped it into a notebook she carried in her breast pocket, and handed me her own card. “Okay, Ms. MacPhail, you can take the dog, but nothing else. We need to hold the decea …, uh, Ms. Dorn’s property until cause of death is determined.” Her face softened. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”

That took me by surprise. I hadn’t thought of Abigail’s death as a personal loss, but realized that it was in an odd way.

Stevens continued. “Don’t touch anything as you get the dog out.”

I thought about that for a moment. “Nobody touched her, you know. She just sort of fell over.” She had an unwavering gaze that undoubtedly served her well in her line of work. It was all I could do not to confess to my one flirtation with larceny, nicking that Milky Way from the Waynedale Pharmacy when I was eleven. Instead, I squatted next to Pip’s crate and opened the door. Forty pounds of Border Collie bowled me over and straddled me as I lay on my back in the dirt, whole body wagging and tongue slurping at my face. By the time I got him off me, stood up, and brushed some of the dirt from my backside, I felt a whole lot better.

Detective Stevens laughed and started to walk away, but turned back, glancing quickly at Giselle and then at me. “Ms. MacPhail, don’t let anyone else have that dog without my go-ahead.”

I was halfway home when Detective Stevens’ directive to “take the dog, but nothing else” echoed in my head, and I pictured Abigail’s tote bag resting in my living room, and her plastic food container, now spiffy clean and drying in my dishwasher.