Drop Dead on Recall (31 page)

101

The sun nestled into
the trees along the Maumee River, and flights of crows and smaller birds swooped over the brown water and called to the coming night. Barely a day had passed since Connie’s arrest, and the world along the river went on unchanged, indifferent. Jay and Drake drew their retractable leashes full length as they searched both edges of the Greenway path, back and forth, back and forth.

“I didn’t know Connie still carried that torch for Greg.” Tom spoke softly, and my eyes filled. We walked in silence for a few minutes, watching the dogs and reeling them in whenever anyone else happened along.

I elbowed Tom, trying to lighten my dark mood. “So, Mr. Toxic Plants, what do you think she used?”

“The police mentioned alkaloids?”

I nodded.

“And Abigail had coordination problems, and trouble breathing … Did anyone mention a funny smell?”

I thought back to Abigail’s gear at the show, “I found cheese spread that smelled sort of mousy.”

“Poison hemlock?”

“Very good. Yes. Goldie nudged that one out of her before they took her away. Connie made Abigail some ‘special’ spread for her bagels.”

“And Suzette?”

“And was Greg really involved with Suzette?”

“No. Yvonne filled me in on that, too. Seems Abigail introduced Suzette to an old family friend when they were in the Bahamas last year, and they fell in love. Yvonne said their parents opposed the marriage. Hers didn’t want Suzette going so far away, his had someone else in mind. So they were keeping their plans for a small summer wedding with close friends quiet.”

“What about the tickets?”

“Yvonne said Greg and Abigail always flew separately, so Greg and Suzette were going on one flight, Abigail and Yvonne on another.”

Tom guided me off the path to a bench overlooking a bend in the river. We sat, and the dogs lay down in the shade. Tom took my hand in both of his and traced the lines in my palm, sending a flight of butterflies spinning among my internal organs. I asked myself whether they were there because I didn’t want to get too involved, or because I did, and I had no answer. Jay rolled onto his back and leaned his ribs against a sapling, and I envied him the simplicity of life in the moment. At least that’s how we assume animals live, although I’m not always sure that’s right. My philosophizing was interrupted when Tom asked, “And I take it Connie hadn’t planned to kill Greg?”

“She seemed genuinely shocked that he wasn’t thrilled that Abigail was out of their way, and angry that he’d spoiled it by killing Suzette and, worse, wanting to come clean to the police. She said it was satisfying to stab the son of a bitch with his own tool.”

“Ouch.”

“A little Freudian, huh? And very Connie. You know, she even bought herself an engagement ring. She said Greg gave it to her, but the police found a credit card receipt in her purse.”

“What will happen to the dogs?”

Jay rolled onto his side, and Drake stretched himself so that one front paw touched one of Jay’s.

“I spent today on that. Connie’s dogs all have co-owners, so they’ll take them. They’re at the clinic in the meantime.”

“And the DNA business?”

“Ginny Scott, Fly’s breeder, talked to someone at the Border Collie registry and she said both they and the AKC were already investigating Francine. Apparently some of her puppies have been DNA tested and the results didn’t line up with the dogs she claimed were their parents.”

“What will happen to her?”

“She’ll no doubt lose her registration privileges and Border Collie club memberships. What reputation she still had among BC people is shot. And Ginny said there’s talk of a couple of lawsuits from other breeders who bought pups from her or bred to her dogs and now have pedigree disasters.”

“Her dogs?”

“Ginny said Border Collie rescue groups are standing by to take them if necessary. They’ll neuter them and find them new homes.”

“What a mess.” Tom shook his head and clucked softly. “And what about Greg and Abigail’s dogs?”

The man was gaining hundreds of brownie points in my book. To my surprise, few people had shown much concern for the fate of all the dogs affected by the murders and scandals. “They’re at my house for now. Ginny is going to find Pip a home. And it turns out that little Percy is a certified therapy dog and visited a nursing home every week. You won’t believe which one.”

“Not where your mom is?”

“You got it. Jade Templeton wants him. She’s wanted a dog for a long time, but didn’t think it fair to leave one alone for the long hours she works. She loves Percy, so she’ll adopt him and he’ll be her dog, and he’ll go to work with her. She has to clear it with the board of directors, but doesn’t think that will be a problem. Their resident cat has worked out really well.”

“Speaking of cats, is Leo happy to be home?”

I thought of my little orange man. “He curled up against my head and purred all night.”

“Lucky guy!” Tom grinned and stood. “It’s getting dark, lady and gents. We should head back.” The dogs jumped up, and I eased myself into a stand, trying to ignore my aches and bruises and wondering how people on TV bounce back so fast from getting punched and shot and run over by trains. I was a wreck from a little couch wrestling.

My thoughts were cut short when Tom pulled me close, searched my eyes, and traced my lips with a touch as light as a whisper. He laced his fingers into my hair and cradled the back of my head, and then kissed me, slowly and thoroughly. Warring currents of lust and panic surged through me, and I didn’t know whether to lie down right there or run like hell.

I barely felt the solid ground beneath my feet on the way back to the parking lot. My thoughts bounced around in my head like numbered balls in a lottery machine—
I don’t want to get involved with anyone. Why didn’t I shave my legs this morning? I can’t get close and
then go through the pain of losing him. This may be the man I’ve looked for all my life. I like my life the way I’ve created it. Change is
good.

Janet Angel and Janet Demon piped up in harmony, reminding me that life is like an obedience trial, and if I don’t send the entry, I’ll never get the title.
Of course
, I argued back,
I won’t lose, either
. I thought of my disastrous relationship with Chet and the few uninspiring flubs since then, and of a photo I took years ago of two paths diverging in a wood of shadows and light.

Once again, Tom grinned and brought me back to the moment. “By the way, you owe me some portraits of my dog, and I intend to collect. So don’t make a habit of putting yourself in harm’s way.”

Good thing I didn’t make any promises.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sheila Webster Boneham has been writing professionally for three decades, and writes in several genres. She has taught writing at universities in the U.S. and abroad, and occasionally teaches writing workshops. In the past fifteen years Sheila has published seventeen nonfiction books, six of which have won major awards. A long-time participant in canine sports, therapy, and other activities, Sheila is also an avid amateur photographer and painter. When she isn’t pursuing creative activities or playing with animals, Sheila can be found walking the beach or salt marsh near her home in North Carolina. You can reach her through her website at www.sheilaboneham.com.

Author photo by Portrait Innovations.