Rottweiler Rescue (6 page)

“Of course,” said Susan. “I’ll only have the booth on Friday anyway. On Friday, everything is slower paced, and Rottweiler people are more inclined to feel generous to their own breed. Setting up at the all breed shows over the weekend is a waste of time. I learned that years ago.”

When I realized how early in the morning I’d have to meet Susan to be in Greeley on time, I almost balked, but it was too late, I’d been had.

Two weeks later, sitting in
Susan’s makeshift “booth” that was really just an area set off by a folding table under the shade of a tent canopy, I had to admit to myself I had been wrong. My only other venture to an outdoor dog show had been one held in the Denver area in mid-summer on a barren, dirt-surfaced area. The shallow shade from canopies had been little help against the intensity of the sun that day, even before a sudden windstorm tore them all apart.

The previous outdoor show had long stood out in my mind as a hellish experience, but this one was quite the opposite. The day was clear with a deep blue, cloudless sky, but the temperature was only in the seventies and the air was still. Greeley’s Island Grove Park was full of huge old cottonwoods that dappled freshly mowed grass with deep shade.

Several other breeds were also holding specialties in the park, so many dogs, their owners, handlers, and spectators milled around. Vendors’ booths were covered in canopies of bright reds, blues, and greens. Sections of portable white fence set off the show rings. In the Rottweiler ring, one shining black and tan dog after another strutted across bright green grass for the judge, then all but disappeared into a shady spot while the next dog took its turn.

Susan, elegant as always in a sleeveless cotton blouse of ice blue and white slacks that emphasized the silver of her hair, was one of many who added more color to the festive scene. Even so, my jeans and white T-shirt were the uniform of choice for enough people that I felt right at home.

Not only that, but for the first time, even though I didn’t have a show dog or aspire to acquire one, I didn’t feel like an outsider at a dog show. Having been the one to see Jack Sheffield’s murderer leaving the scene was a sad reason to be so popular, but the fact was one exhibitor after another introduced himself or herself and wanted the vicarious thrill of hearing my story. And I exchanged that vicarious thrill for a five or ten dollar bill stuffed into the donation jar sitting on the table. By the time the judge declared a lunch break, Susan was beaming, and it seemed everyone on the fairgrounds had heard my story. I’d certainly told it often enough to be sick of it.

“Will you be all right if I walk around a bit and visit some of the vendor booths?” I asked Susan.

“Of course I will. Don’t spend money on food. I have plenty of sandwiches and drinks in the cooler.”

“With any luck I won’t find anything to spend money on. I mostly just need to stretch my legs.”

The vendor booths set up for the specialty were fewer in number and far more specialized than those that would surround the show rings during the all breed shows over the weekend. Rottweiler images peered at me from T-shirts and tea towels, from tiny earrings and from four by six rugs. The display that made me stop and consider pulling out a credit card, though, was of customized collars. Bands of colorfully patterned cloth were sewn onto plain nylon collars. My hand was reaching for a black collar trimmed with a maroon ribbon patterned in gold when grasping fingers locked on my forearm.

“Dianne,” shrilled Marjorie Cleavinger. “You just have to tell me all about your horrible experience. I hear you saw Jack’s body. Did he suffer?”

Usually the sound of that voice made me find somewhere else to be. With Marjorie’s talons embedded so deeply in my flesh that flight was impossible, I panicked and knocked over the rack of collars. It was an accident. Even though apologizing to the vendor and helping to pick up her merchandise bought me enough time to gird myself to deal with Marjorie, it really was an accident.

I was acquainted with Marjorie because she often turned up at the events where we set up a rescue booth and spent time driving Susan crazy. Susan tolerated her because she also often left a donation, although in Susan’s place I’d have done without the small amounts and run every time Marjorie showed her face.

A short, heavy-set woman with bleached hair that contrasted badly with her pasty complexion and heavy, dark brows, Marjorie had on a white blouse that was stretched so tight across her ample breasts that a large section of yellow-tinged bra showed in the gaps between buttons. Orange culottes emphasized the breadth of her hips and showed way too much of thick legs webbed with heavy blue veins and dotted with dark stubble.

Marjorie showed dogs with dull coats that trotted unevenly around the ring and had never to my knowledge won a ribbon. The condition of her dogs put me off, her shrill voice made my skin crawl, and her know-it-all attitude made treating her as a valued supporter of rescue a chore.

“Marjorie, how nice to see you,” I said, hoping the lie wasn’t written all over my face. “It sounds to me as if you’ve already heard all about what happened.”

“I talked to Susan, but that’s not the same as hearing all about it straight from you. She says you had to go right in the house to get the dog out. Was it terrible? Was there a lot of blood?”

Susan was going to have a lot to answer for. In all my telling and retelling of the events of that morning I hadn’t mentioned going in the house or seeing Jack’s body to anyone. Arousing this kind of ghoulish curiosity was exactly what I didn’t want to do, and dealing with someone like Marjorie hadn’t even crossed my mind.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “I’m still getting nightmares about that day. I can’t bear to relive it.”

“Oh, so you did see the body.” Her voice dropped a few decibels to her version of a whisper. “I bet the dog was right in the blood, wasn’t he? I mean, we all love our dogs, but we know how they
are
.”

“The dog barely got in the door, and I was too scared to take in anything I saw,” I lied. “What gives me nightmares was seeing the killer, and I didn’t really even see him. He had a ski mask on.”

“Oh, but there are things you can tell, even with a mask. You saw his eyes — and his mouth. Don’t those things have nose holes for breathing? You saw his build. Did you help the police with one of those drawings? Do they do that on computer now, or was it an artist?”

At least I’d diverted her from blood. “I didn’t see enough to identify anyone, and the police know it.”

We had stepped back a bit from the collar display, and now another shopper was browsing through the rack. Inspiration struck me. “Marjorie, excuse me, but I saw a collar I really want. It’s so pretty I don’t want to stand here and watch someone else buy it.”

Without giving her any time to object, I stepped away quickly. With an apologetic smile at the woman looking at the rack I reached past her, grabbed the maroon collar and took it to where the vendor had her cash box and credit card machine set up.

Marjorie followed, unwilling to let me get away so easily. If she wanted to wait for me, she was going to have quite a wait.

“Do you make these collars yourself?” I asked the gray-haired saleswoman.

“Yes, I do. Every single one,” she said pleasantly.

With that opening, I set myself to learning everything possible about her collars. She patiently discussed the quality of the basic collars she bought and then customized, their sizes and adjustment. She explained how she applied the cloth inserts to the nylon collars and how long I could expect the collar to stay new looking if left on every day. When my questions led her to pull a book of sample fabrics out from under the table, Marjorie finally drifted away.

The collar lady was no dummy. “Your friend got bored and left,” she said. “I think the least you can do is buy that collar, don’t you?”

I bought two.

My trip to the restroom was supposed to be a quickie before getting back to the rescue booth, but I had just opened the stall door to leave when the outer door to the restroom opened. Marjorie’s distinctive voice echoed through the tiled room. Gritting my teeth, I slammed the stall door shut and for a brief moment actually considered sitting down and pulling my legs up.

Instead I just stood there, listening with horror as Marjorie went on and on, entertaining whoever was with her and everyone else in the ladies’ room with her very own version of my encounter with Jack Sheffield’s murderer.

“She saw him right up close, and as soon as the police have a suspect, she’ll get to pick him out of a lineup,” boomed Marjorie.

“That’s not what she told me,” said a far less distinctive voice.

“She probably told me more because we’re friends. I’ve been helping with rescue for years, you know,” said Marjorie.

I leaned my forehead against the front of the stall door fighting the urge to shout.
You’re not my friend and five dollars a couple times a year isn’t much help.

Stall doors closed and Marjorie continued her version of my story. Her voice, slightly muffled by the enclosure, still carried as if she had a bullhorn. “The worst thing is that she let the dog she brought with her loose and it went in the house. There was blood all over and you know how dogs are about that! By the time she got him out of there he was covered with Jack’s blood, and I bet she was too. I’d put that dog down, a dog that’s been in human blood like that. That’s what I’d do, but you know how those rescue people are.”

I was going to
kill
Susan. And if Marjorie didn’t shut up I was going to stop hiding in this toilet stall like a coward and storm out and put an end to what little support she gave rescue forever. By the time Marjorie and her companion finished and left, I was shaking — furious with myself for hiding, furious with Susan for telling that horrible woman things she shouldn’t have, and furious with Marjorie for shouting her ignorant exaggerations all over the show grounds.

When I got back to the rescue booth, Susan didn’t let me get a word out before she started apologizing.

“I’m really sorry, Dianne, but Marjorie Cleavinger showed up here a while ago. She was picking at me the way she does, and I really said too much to her about what you saw at Jack’s that morning. It was like throwing meat at a lion hoping you can fill him up and he’ll leave you alone for a while.”

Susan paused, took in the look on my face, and hurried on. “Oh, dear, it worked for me, but she left here looking for you, and from the look on your face, she found you. I’m so sorry. Go ahead and ream me out. I deserve it.”

I threw my purse and the bag with the collars out of sight under the table. Susan was taking all the steam out of my anger. “Did she mention to you that she thinks Robo ought to be put to sleep because he’s tasted human blood?”

“Oh, no,” Susan said. “Nothing like that. Did she say that to you?”

“No. I was in the ladies’ room and heard her going on about it.” I collapsed in one of the lawn chairs we’d brought to the show. “Part of why I’m so mad is that I’m ashamed of myself. She’d caught me earlier and I managed to give her the slip, and then when I heard her voice later in the restroom, I hid in a toilet stall. If she shows up here again today, I’m sorry, but I’m not running or hiding again. I’m going to tell her exactly what I think of her.”

“Don’t hold back on my account,” Susan said. “Enough’s enough. You
hid
in there to avoid her?”

I could see the laughter starting in Susan’s eyes. “Don’t you dare laugh!” I snapped.

Susan’s lips twitched, and all of a sudden we were both laughing.

“It is funny now,” I admitted once we’d wound down, “but it wasn’t at the time. Part of me wanted to jump out of there and smack her, but part of me didn’t want to have anything more to do with her, and the cowardly part won.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Susan said. “Think of it as prudence, not cowardice. Telling her off wouldn’t have any more effect than beating on a rock. So what did you buy?”

I pulled my sack back out and showed her the collars. The second one I’d purchased had a floral insert on pink nylon.

“Very nice,” Susan said. “That maroon will be good for a male dog, fancy but not too fancy. Now, how about some lunch?”

The show was over by two, and Susan and I had packed up and were heading home by three, feeling pleased over the successful fundraising. Except for the incident with Marjorie I’d enjoyed the day, and after all, what did Loudmouth Marjorie matter?

The weekend after the specialty
show was quiet. Millie was already housebroken and learning that chasing Bella was unacceptable entertainment. Why anyone would not jump at the chance of having Millie in their home was beyond me. When I’d angrily told Susan I’d fostered every dog she’d ever brought me, it was technically true, but the ones who wanted to kill Bella only stayed until Susan could place them in a foster home that had no cats.

Starting early Monday morning, however, I entered a freelancer’s nightmare. Not one but two clients had emergencies. I put in long hours cleaning up the mess a virus made of one system. The client admitted to an addiction to clicking on pretty much any offer that popped up on her screen and had finally found a virus that her anti-virus software couldn’t catch. Her excuses and regrets didn’t fix the system. I did. My other client had promised one of
his
clients work his current system couldn’t produce and needed an upgrade
right now
.

Crises like these were my bread and butter. If only they were considerate enough to come one at a time and on a regular schedule. By the time everyone was happy, I was a frazzled mess. I spent my first free morning on neglected household chores while the washer and dryer in the basement earned their keep.

My house was a small plain box with two bedrooms and a bath upstairs and living room, kitchen and half bath downstairs. I didn’t really need more space, but sometimes I dreamed of airy, open rooms. Mostly I was happy with what I had and contented myself with applying a new coat of paint in a slightly different shade of eggshell every few years.