Drop Dead on Recall (11 page)

31

The next morning,
I
stopped at the pet supply store in Northcrest Shopping Center for dog food, and what should I spot in the parking lot but Giselle’s beat-up old Yugo. A couple of new bumper stickers graced the hatch:
I
❤
my Maltese
and
If you can spell, thank a witch
.

I found Giselle examining tiny doggy duds. Precious popped his head out the v-neck opening of Giselle’s wrinkled orange, yellow, and red poncho, his black eyes sharp beneath the purple bow that held his silky white topknot.

“Morning, Giselle.”

Giselle flung a tiny denim jacket back at the shelf and clutched at Precious. She turned, took a step back, and peeked at me from under her bangs. “Oh, hi?” My fingers itched to get some grooming sheers from the next aisle and give her a trim.
Or you could get a big purple bow and give her a topknot so she could be precious, too
, suggested Janet Demon. Giselle probably thought I was smiling at
her
.

I left Giselle and wheeled my cart to the back of the store, where I wrestled a forty-pound bag of premium dog food into my cart and considered a visit to my chiropractor. I nearly ran over Giselle as I turned around. “Oops!”

“Oh, sorry, I’m sorry?” Why did everything she said sound like a question? Giselle still clutched Precious against her bosom with her left hand, but her right hand fluttered wildly. It patted her bangs against her brow, brushed something from her poncho, pulled Precious’s purple bow slightly askew, back to her bangs, all in about four seconds. She didn’t look at me.

“What’s up?”

“Huh?” Eye contact! But only for a half second.

“Did you want something, Giselle?”
Perhaps a book on self-esteem?
The good Janet on my right gave my dark side a whack, reminding me to
Be kind, even if she begs to be disliked.
I took a deep, balancing breath and leaned my elbows against the handle of my cart.

Giselle took a good half minute to gather herself, but finally she whined, “Can I talk to you?”

That was the last thing I expected, and I wasn’t keen on spending much time with Giselle, but something in her neediness got to me and I agreed to meet her at the Cookie Cottage across the parking lot.

_____

I was borderline high from the warm aromas of baked goods, cocoa, and coffee wafting around the Cookie Cottage, but I had decaf, black, and an oatmeal raisin cookie. Virtual health food. I had to lose ten pounds.
Okay, twenty.

“You sure Precious is okay?” It was too warm to lock a dog in a car.

Giselle deposited a large mocha with whipped cream and three big cookies—white chocolate and macadamia, double chocolate raspberry cream, and double chocolate mint chip—on the eat-in counter, then struggled onto the stool next to mine. I had a vision of Horton the elephant sitting on the bird’s nest in my vintage Seuss. Giselle glanced toward the woman at the cash register, and, when she was sure she wasn’t being watched, pointed down the front of her poncho. Precious was so quiet, I hoped he hadn’t suffocated.

“Aha!” I watched a third of the double chocolate raspberry cream disappear in one bite. “So, Giselle, I don’t have much time. What’s up?”

“Oomph, I mwant a tell oo about Agail …” Mercifully, she stopped talking, finished chewing, swallowed, swigged her mocha, and started again. “I wanted to tell you, uh, ask you, about Abi …, uh, ask what about Gre … um …”

I still felt rather sorry for her, but something in her eyes urged caution. Dogs aren’t people in fur coats, but our two species are more alike than you might think. Some individuals collapse in a submissive heap when frightened. Others bite. All my instincts told me I was looking at a fear-biter.

“What about them?”

“Um, uh, okay, Greg and I are, you know, friends?” Was she asking me? “I mean, you know, Abigail was my friend, too, so maybe it seems funny, but Greg and I are friends, you know, more than
friends
, and, okay, maybe you didn’t know that when you came over and all, but,” she broke off a huge hunk of the white chocolate and macadamia, “I thought you should, you know, know that so nobody gets, you know, embarrassed?”
Too late,
I thought as I watched her poke the cookie between her lips and tamp it in with her palm.

I finally got it. “Giselle, I have no interest in Greg other than as a friend and fellow dog lover.”

She munched on, staring at something in the vicinity of my navel. She didn’t look convinced.

Just to make sure she got the message, I rephrased. “Giselle, I’m not romantically interested in Greg, and Greg’s not interested in me.” I didn’t add that Greg didn’t appear to be interested in her either. In the immortal words of Elvis and the good Janet murmuring in my ear,
don’t be cruel.
I shifted the topic.

“Giselle, do you know anything about Suzette wanting to breed Fly to Pip?”

She washed the last of her cookies down with mocha and licked her lips, leaving a chocolatey smear at one corner. “Yes?”

“And?”

“Abigail wouldn’t?” Apparently she didn’t know that Pip couldn’t.
Was I the only one aside from the Dorns who ever gave the poor guy a belly rub?

“Do you know why?”

A little black nose poked out of the neck of Giselle’s poncho. Giselle checked the clerk, who was busy and hadn’t noticed, and patted Precious gently from outside the poncho. “All I really know is what was on the BC list.” She meant one of the online discussion lists for Border Collie lovers.

“They discussed breeding plans on the list?”

“Not really?” Her spidery bangs veiled her eyes. “Abigail posted that somebody wanted to breed to Pip, but there was some problem with OFA or DNA or bad hips,” meaning hip dysplasia. “She said it like, you know, disgusted that someone who should know better would breed like that.”

“Did Suzette reply?”

She nodded and swallowed a bite of cookie. “Not right then. But everybody knew she’d talked about breeding Fly to Pip for a long time, so later she posted that people should check facts before spreading rumors.”

“How come you’re on the Border Collie list?” In all the time I’d known Giselle, she’s had only tiny little boy dogs. Before Precious, the Maltese, she’d had Sweetie, the toy Poodle, and QT Pie, an ancient Yorkie.

“Oh, I dunno? I’m on a bunch of lists, maybe twenty or thirty? Just to, you know, learn stuff?”

Just to simulate a real life, you mean.

An hour later I was home and settled in to read my e-mail, but soon found myself on www.offa.org, the web site for the Orthopedic Foundation for Animals, or OFA. I hit the link to the searchable database and typed in what I knew about Fly. Her hips were rated OFA Excellent. So why would Abigail have claimed that she failed? I still had dial-up, and the search took a while, but I found Fly’s siblings, parents, and their siblings, all with very acceptable ratings.

And what about that significant little detail concerning Pip’s anatomy? Abigail had obviously kept his reproductive status to herself, which wouldn’t be all that hard with a dog with nice long furry britches. But why?

I had no sooner signed off the Internet than the phone rang. Caller ID displayed my brother’s cell phone number.

“Hi, Bill.”

He pitched his voice high and talked way too fast. “Janet! It’s Bill. Your phone has been busy for over an hour and your cell goes to voicemail. Is Mom with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m at her house. She’s gone!”

32

“Mom’s gone! I’ve looked
everywhere.”

Well, now, Bill, not
everywher
e or you’d have found her, huh?
“I thought she was going home with you.”

“She refused.”

Great
. “Did you talk to her this morning?”

“Yeah. Around 7:30. I was supposed to take her to Scott’s for groceries.”

A terrifying thought hit me. “Is her car there?”

“Yeah, yeah, the car is here, and anyway, I took her keys a long time ago.”

Thank God.
My mind flashed on the massive stock of tomato soup and cooking oils in Mom’s kitchen, but I decided now wasn’t the time to ask how she got Bill to go along with those purchases if he was ferrying her on her shopping trips. I also decided it wasn’t the time to ask why he left her alone in the first place, so I stuck with the essentials. “What time were you supposed to go shopping?”

“We said nine, but I didn’t get here until a little after ten.”

Two and a half hours. How far could a little old lady go on foot in a couple of hours?

I pulled up in front of Mom’s house twenty minutes later. There was no sign of her, and Bill was still whining, “How could she do this to me?” I ignored the question, told him to stay put in case she showed up, and hopped back into my van. A glance in the rear view showed Jay standing in his crate with a “What? We’re not getting out?” look on his face.

“Where are you going? Hey! She couldn’t have walked to Scott’s! It’s too far!”

Bill was right, of course. It was more than a mile to the grocery store so unlikely that she’d go on foot. Still, Mom had been acting pretty darn weird lately. I drove as slowly as I dared, ticking off a couple of drivers behind me and scanning the area as best I could without leaving my lane. Nothing. I parked in Scott’s lot, rolled all the windows down for Jay, and ran into the store. I made a quick tour, checking each aisle in turn, and started back to the door I came in.

“Morning!” came a cheery voice. Louise has been a cashier at Scott’s for as long as I can remember. I haven’t a clue what her last name is, but I do know that her son studies art at the University of St. Francis here in town, and her daughter is in the Air Force. Funny what we learn and don’t learn about people.

“Have you seen my mom this morning?”

“Don’t believe I have.” Her freckled forehead crinkled under her brassy yellow bangs. “Something wrong?”

“Long story. Look, here’s my card with my cell phone number. If she shows up could you please call me right away, and try to hang on to her until I get here?”

Louise lowered her voice and clucked softly. “She’s been having some problems, hasn’t she?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Sure, I’ll keep an eye out.” As I speed-walked to the exit I heard her add, “Let me know, okay, hon?”

I hit Bill’s button on my speed dial as I rushed back to my van and surveyed the parking lot again. “Anything?”

“No, no sign of her.” I couldn’t tell which he was now, pissed or scared. Probably both. “How could she do this to me? I have better things to do with my time!”
Okaaay, pissed on the outside, scared silly on the inside.

I opened the back of the van to check on Jay. Even with the windows wide open, I don’t like to leave him in the car on warm days. He lay quietly with his paws crossed, but stood when I opened the crate door. I clipped a leash onto his collar and put him in the back seat, something I rarely do. He’s safer in his crate. But I needed someone to talk to, and he hardly ever back-seat drives.

I turned south out of the parking lot onto Maplecrest. I was about three blocks short of Mom’s street when Jay started to bounce on the back seat, barking out the driver’s side window and scaring the bejeepers out of me. “Quiet!” He switched to a high-pitched whine that I thought Memorex could have used in one of their glass-shattering ads for audio tape, then realized with some surprise that those ads were ancient history. Jay danced on the seat, his tailless bum gyrating like a hula dancer.

When my adrenalin leveled off and my brain started to function again, I realized what Jay was telling me.
Ohmygod.
There was a church entrance to my left and no traffic in the oncoming lanes. The van’s tires protested mildly as I whipped them left into the parking lot. Jay bounced and wriggled and whined. I scanned the parking lot, lawn, and church entrance, but I couldn’t see a thing. I got out and grabbed the leash as Jay sprang into the front seat. He pulled me into a breathtaking run toward the church.

And then I saw her, prone and unmoving, as still as death.

33

A scattering of white
dogwood petals glistened against dark mulch beneath the tree, and a heady blend of lilac and exhaust filled the air. All my senses focused on the scene before me, and the rest of the world receded in a blur.

Mom lay in a semi-fetal curl on a circle of grass ringed by hedges of forsythia, her head pillowed by her purse, the picture of peace under the stony gaze of St. Francis and his sparrow. She wore slacks the color of a good summer lawn, brown leather flats, and a white cotton sweater festooned with embroidered flowers. I gave her the sweater for her birthday, and hadn’t seen her wear it before. She was so still.

Numb though I was, I felt the slack of the leash rise and go taut, the bite of leather against my fingers as Jay yanked me forward. Traffic whooshed and rumbled not twenty yards away, and birds murmured somewhere, not close, but not too far. We were moving fast, yet in my memory those seconds run long and languid. My heart expanded until it pressed all the air from my lungs, but still there was room for fear, and a forewarning of sorrow. Time stalled as I took in the prostrate form. Fear would have frozen me in place had it not been for my dog.

Jay had no qualms at all. He dragged me into the grassy circle, skidded to a stop, crouched low, and ran his velvet muzzle along Mom’s arm and neck. Still whining, he covered the side of her face with short, hot swipes of his tongue.

“Oh my goodness! Laddie, stop that, you silly boy!” She opened her eyes and struggled to sit up. Laddie was her Collie. He died before I was born.

The spinning in my head slowed and changed directions. Mom was alive. From all appearances, she was well, physically at any rate. I pulled Jay gently off and had him lie down, then laid a hand on my mother’s arm.

“Mom, what are you doing here?”

She flinched and swatted at me. “Who are you?”

I hooked my hands under her arms to help her to her feet. “Come on, upsy daisy.”

She tried at first to pull away, then cooperated, sort of, and made it to her feet, swaying and swiping with moderate success at bits of vegetation clinging to her pants. I picked up her purse and Jay’s leash, and off we went to the van. Once I had everyone safely locked into his or her spot, I called Bill at Mom’s house and Louise at the grocery store, and got behind the wheel.

Half an hour later Mom was snoring softly in her own bed, Jay was sprawled on the cool linoleum by the back door, and Bill and I were still duking it out in the kitchen. The only thing we agreed on was that Mom wasn’t safe on her own. Bill, of course, wanted me to take full responsibility.

“Look, I’ll do the legwork, but you’re going to have to help. If one of us is checking out nursing homes—that would be me—seems fair for the other to take care of her in the meantime.” I moved into his line of vision and made eye contact. “That would be you.”

I took his “Harumph” for agreement. The clock on the wall said it was 4:37, which meant it was probably about 5. Mom’s clock had been twenty minutes slow for as long as I could remember. I’d taken my watch off when I was at the computer and had forgotten to put it back on, so I had to go with the guesstimate. “I’ve been asking around a bit already. If I get going now, I can probably stop at one or two places, you know, nursing homes, on my way home, and do some more research tonight.” I neglected to mention that I had an agility class at 6:30. Dog-related activities had no status in Bill’s world view.

_____

Jay bounced and wriggled all over the kitchen in the hope of getting some dinner, while I changed into my running shoes and poured his rations into the fanny pack I use for training treats, adding some raw carrot slices and Colby-jack cheese cubes for variety. “You’ll have to eat on the run tonight, Bubby,” I told him.

I took a quick look at my e-mail, hoping the magazine editor had sent the contract for the photos she wanted. No such luck. I didn’t see anything else that couldn’t wait until later except one message from Greg Dorn’s e-address. I opened that one and read.

“Janet, it’s Greg. Greg Dorn.”
Well, yeah, Greg, I sort of got that from the address at the top of the e-mail
, I thought, then mentally smacked myself for lack of compassion. The man was, after all, grieving. I read on. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but please stop asking about Abigail’s personal affairs. Please. That’s a job for the police, not her friends. Just let Abigail rest in peace.”