Drop Dead on Recall (22 page)

69

Detective Stevens made my
heart skip a beat or three when she told me they’d found my fingerprints on Abigail’s food container, but I tried to calm myself. “Of course they did. I gave it to you.” Then another thought hit me. “How did you know which fingerprints were mine? I’ve never even had a parking ticket!” I considered putting my head between my knees, but the urge to black out faded and curiosity, spiced with a dash of anger, to charge.

Detective Stevens’ voice softened a tad. “Hutch, er, Detective Hutchinson, snagged a pop can you tossed. Anyway, we know how your prints got there. The question now is how the poison got there.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment, and I could hear computer keys clacking through the receiver. A realization that had been flitting around the dark forest of my mind emerged into the light and landed with a whump. Someone I knew was a murderer. And there was something else.

“Am I a suspect?”

“Officially, yes, it’s a possibility. But,” her voice softened, “not really. And in view of the whole picture, especially your dog, I thought you should know about the possibility of poison.”

“Thanks. Thank you.” I thought I might have to run to the bathroom, but the feeling passed. “Sorry, I just … I guess we all suspected something, but having it confirmed …”

“It gets worse. That was indeed blood on the stuffed dog. Bovine.” We were both silent for a moment. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, but in the meantime, watch yourself, and your pets. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Wait! Do you have any serious suspects?”

“We’re looking at some people. I can’t go into that.”

I had a couple ideas of my own. Too many, in fact, and I didn’t like most of them one little bit.

Goldie waited, eyes wide, arms wrapped around Leo and chin resting on his back. I filled her in.

“Did she say what kind of poison?”

“Alkalines?”

“Alkaloids?”

“Sounds right.”

“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm?”

“Oh, you know, alkaloids are what make a lot of poisonous plants poisonous. Deadly nightshade, the hemlocks, Jimsonwe …”

“Hemlocks?”

“Yes, water hemlock and poison hemlock. Both are actually poisonous.”

“Ohmygod! You showed it to me at Greg’s house!”

“Not at his house. In the empty lot. But Janet, the stuff grows all over the place. Fields, along roads.”

“I can’t believe Greg …” The rest of the thought lingered, unspoken.

“Don’t jump to conclusions. Besides, the policeman didn’t say it was poison hemlock, right? Just an alkaloid.”

“Woman,” I answered, distracted by my muddled thoughts.

“What?”

“The policeman is a woman.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Goldie chirped, “Did you get to go on your photo safari on the way home from Valpo?”

I told her about my side trip to Potowatomi Wildlife Park. She went back to looking through the box of photos while I talked, and pulled one out of the box as my saga wound down. “Whoa!”

“What?”

“Who’s this woman with the daggers in her eyes?” She leaned toward me, pointing at a face in the photo.

“Giselle Swann. Why?”

“Oh, the look on her face stopped me. Could stop several big clocks, I’d say!”

I studied the photo more closely. Giselle did look angry. Or was that hatred on her face? Definitely more than her perpetual misery. I went to my desk and came back with a magnifying glass. “I want a better look.” I focused on the enlarged image of Giselle. She was in the background, as usual, in the center of the photo. Abigail was in the forefront, looking at something or someone out of the frame to the left.

Greg was at the front right of the photo, near Abigail but facing the other way, smiling at another someone I’d mostly cut out of the shot except for the arm of a cable knit sweater and the end of a blonde braid visible at the shoulder seam. I scanned down the arm to the hand, held slightly away from the body, flexed upward, fingers reaching backward toward Greg. His own hand in turn reached out, the index finger nearly touching the back of the sweater owner’s hand. And Giselle’s ocular daggers were aimed outside the photo, just where the blonde braid must originate.

“Goldie, did you see any photos with this person in the frame?” I showed her the sweater and braid. I knew who it was, but wanted to be sure.

“I think so. Hang on.” She flipped through several photos, pulled one out, and handed it over. Suzette was in the foreground, her blonde braid resting against the cable of her sweater. Two slightly out-of-focus figures stood in the background. Abigail and a red-head. Francine Peterson. I hadn’t realized I had a photo of her, although how I’d missed her with that hair was a good question.

“Who’s that?” Goldie tapped Suzette’s image.

“Suzette Anderson.”

“Oh! Isn’t she one of the dead women?”

“Right. And this is the other one. Abigail Dorn. And,” showing her the first photo again, “this is Greg, her husband.”

She took it all in. “I’d say there was a love quadrangle here.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“You know, I think I’ve seen that one.”

“Which one?”

“Her.” She indicated Francine. “Who could miss that hair?”

“When?”

She pursed her lips and shut her eyes for a few seconds. “I can’t remember when it was, not long ago, but I’m sure I saw her at your house, when was that?” She tapped her fist against the top of her forehead. “Yesterday?” Another tap. “Yes, I’m sure it was yesterday.”

“When?”

“Why, you didn’t see her? I’m sure you were home. Your car was in the driveway.”

70

After Goldie went home
I nuked a frozen dinner and sat down to eat and check my e-mails. The pile of unread discussion-list digests
was depressing, so I deleted them all unread, along with several opportunities to donate my life savings to Nigerian widows and to assist a friend who had lost her wallet while traveling in Europe between last night, when I saw her at Dog Dayz, and now.
Do people really fall for these schemes?
I wondered. Then I googled
poison hemlock
.

Goldie had been correct. The active toxin in poison hemlock was an alkaloid related to nicotine.
Coniine
to be precise, in case I ever made it onto
Jeopardy
. I didn’t find much about hemlock killing people other than Socrates, but there was plenty of information on livestock poisonings. Assuming that it affects most mammals in similar ways, the signs of poisoning by poison hemlock sounded all too familiar. Within a couple hours of eating the plant, the animal becomes nervous and uncoordinated. Didn’t Connie say that Abigail was a regular jitterbug before her class, and that she was stumbling around on her heeling pattern? Eventually the animal becomes unable to breathe, and its heart rate slows. A vision of Abigail’s stricken face filled my mind.

The sites I checked also said that while the plant’s toxicity is lower in the spring than later in the growing season, it’s probably also more palatable when young, although they mentioned a “mousy smell” from the crushed leaves. So it would be easier to slip it into some … “Oh my God,” I mumbled. “The cream cheese.” I pictured the flotsam of Abigail’s breakfast, including the remains of a bagel and remnants of a spread full of … what? I’d assumed it was spinach or dill or something. Yes, dill, I smelled dill, I remembered. And mice. The spread had made me think of mice.

I dialed Jo Stevens’ number.

As her phone rang I read that the ancient Greeks considered hemlock a “humane” means of execution. How civilized. I wondered whether Abigail would agree.

_____

Dog Dayz was hopping with people and dogs preparing for upcoming obedience trials, and all the usual suspects were there. Unless they were top ranked, and dead. Jay was full of energy and not so full of attentiveness, so we had a happy but not exactly accurate session. But what the heck, we do this for fun. If my dog sits a little out of position but acts happy, that’s a perfect performance to my mind.

Sylvia Eckhart, her Cocker, Tippy, in tow, strolled over and asked after my mom. I filled her in, and she assured me that Mom’s right to her chin had caused her no serious damage.

I was packing up my dog treats and other equipment when I saw Giselle Swann charging me from the direction of the back door. Her head was thrust down and forward, her face was magenta, her shoulders slightly hunched and her two hands balled into fat fists.
Look out
, yelled the little demon on my left shoulder.
She thinks your red sweatshirt is a cape!

I faced her straight on. “Evening, Giselle.”

“How could you?” She stomped her right foot as she pulled up in front of me. “How could you? How could you do that to me? Abigail was my friend!”

“Uh, what’s the problem, Giselle?”

I noticed movement in my peripheral vision. Marietta Santini was speed-walking our way, no doubt hoping to prevent an all-out bitch fight. I use the term in the canine sense. Every breeder I’ve ever talked to says that if a fight breaks out in a multi-dog home, they’d much rather it be among dogs—males—than bitches. Boys fight for status, and they can certainly hurt each other, but tend to do a lot of posturing and pushing and then forget about it. When two bitches fight, each wants the other gone, one way or another. I, on the other hand, had no desire to fight Giselle, and didn’t much care where she was.

She stood in front of me, puffing and shifting from one foot to the other, glaring not into my eyes, but somewhere in the neighborhood of my chin. I hoped it hadn’t sprouted a new hair. “The police came to my house again. They asked me a bunch of questions.”

“They asked me a bunch of questions too.”

“Everything okay over here?” asked Marietta.

“You sent them, didn’t you?” Giselle lowered her voice to a growl.

“Giselle, no one sent them.” Marietta crossed her arms and cocked a hip. “They’re investigating. They’re talking to everyone who knew Abigail and Suzette. They talked to me, too.”

Giselle shifted her glare to Marietta, then right back to my chin. “I know you told that detective to question me. You’ll be sorry.” She turned her head toward Jay for a moment, then charged out to the parking lot.

Marietta squinted and pointed the stiffened, splayed fingers of both hands at my face, cackling, “You’ll be sorry, you and your little dog.” She relaxed her limbs. “Weirdo.”

“What in the heck was that all about?”

“Fear. Jealousy. Guilt. Hallucinations.” She grinned at me. “Who the hell knows with Giselle?”

“Do you think she’d hurt a dog?”

“I doubt it.” Marietta pursed her lips. “On the other hand, if anybody looked at my dog that way, I wouldn’t let him out of my sight for a while.”

71

Thursday morning seemed to
bring, for once, a normal day. I stopped by the nursing home, but Mom was sleeping, so I didn’t stay. Jade Templeton assured me that she was doing fine, and that it was sometimes better to let people settle in before visiting too often.
What difference does it make,
I wondered to myself,
when most of the time she has no idea who I am?

Jade also said that Mom was enjoying the garden, and had assumed the role of garden director, telling the other residents as well as the staff how to plant, weed, water, and whatever. She might not know my name, but the Latin names of hundreds of plants were no problem. Other than that, it was business as usual for me—a five-
mile walk on the River Greenway with Jay, phone calls, mailings, and miscellaneous. I skipped agility class, and by nine p.m. my brain was
pooped.

I tried to focus on the boob tube before bedtime, but couldn’t find anything I could stand to watch that I hadn’t seen before, so I put on my old k.d. lang
Torch and Twang
CD, and lay down on the couch. I had my head propped on a couple of pillows, my feet tucked between Jay’s cozy belly and flank, and my own belly blanketed by Leo’s rumbling furry circle of heat. Despite my roiling thoughts and emotions, I must have been a picture of contentment as I opened my newly arrived issue of
Nature Photography
. But my brain wasn’t ready to abandon current events, and when I found myself rereading the same paragraph for the fourth time, I gave up on the magazine and closed my eyes, my thoughts on the troubles in our little community of dog lovers.

Was Abigail right? Was Greg having an affair? Was he going to leave her for Suzette? But Connie said Abigail had hired a PI who said Greg wasn’t fooling around. Maybe Abigail lied to Connie. I mean, if she was reluctant to say her dog was neutered, how would she feel about her husband’s philandering? And where did Giselle fit into all this? Did she really think she’d get Greg if Abigail and Suzette were both out of the way? And what about Francine Peterson? Why in the heck was she lurking around?

The telephone shocked me out of my meditations. My limbs jerked, Leo flew off my belly with a yowl, and Jay leaped off the couch with a “Bfff,” slid across the hardwood floor when his paws hit the throw rug in the center of the room, and gave me a “what the heck?” look. I made an effort to control my breathing, and picked up the receiver.

“Hiya!”

“Oh, Tom.”

“You sound disappointed.” He sounded disappointed.

“No, no! The boys and I were vegging out and the phone scared the bejeepers out of us. Sorry!”

We did the “how was your day” thing, and then Tom cut to the chase, inviting me to his place for dinner on Friday.

No
, I thought.
You don’t need that complication, not before these murders are solved,
but I heard myself ask, “Can I bring anything?” Meaning something I could pick up and pop open to serve.

“Yes. Drake says to bring Jay. Otherwise we’re all set.”

I hung up, and Jo Stevens’s words came back to me. I had to watch what I ate.

I was halfway back to the couch when the phone rang again. Jay was already snuggled back into his corner cushion, and at the other end Leo was doing kitty yoga, back leg extended behind his neck, so it was just as well that I didn’t need my spot back for a few more minutes.

Connie didn’t waste any time on preliminaries. “I found out what Greg was up to at the travel agency.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember when we saw Greg at the mall? Coming out of Travelfair?”

It took me a moment, but I remembered.

“Okay, so, he wasn’t planning a trip. He was returning tickets.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yeah, it would if the tickets had been for him and Abigail,” she replied slowly, with a tease in her voice. “Who do you think was going to Bermuda with him?”

“Tell me.”

“Suzette.”

“Suzette Anderson?”

“You know another Suzette around here?”

“How did you find this out, anyway?”

“Old high school friend manages the place. I bribed her with Abby Brown’s chocolates.” My salivary glands went wild at the thought.

“You’re one devious woman.”

“I prefer to think of myself as practical.”

“You could have a bright future as a detective.”

“You never know. If my wrist gives out from one too many Poodle trims, I might need a new career.”

“You bring me anything from Abby Brown’s?”

“I thought you were dieting?”

“I’m always dieting. Chocolate could be on my diet.” Part of my brain was trying to recall whether I had any stashed anywhere. “So, anyway … Greg and Suzette?”

She didn’t say anything.

“What about the private detective that Abigail hired?” I asked. “You said he nixed her suspicions that Greg was having an affair.”

“Abigail could have been lying. Maybe she knew but didn’t want to let on.”

Someone was lying, that was for sure. “I had that thought too. Or maybe the detective had some reason to lie. Or maybe he was incompetent.”

When I got off the phone I went back to the couch and thought about the latest news, leaning back against the Aussie-face tapestry pillow, my right hand stroking Jay’s silky head, my left scratching behind Leo’s ears. Who says I can’t multitask?