Drop Dead on Recall (28 page)

91

Neither my legs nor
my voice seemed to be working properly, so I let myself sink into a moment of silence on the concrete step while Jo once again scribbled in her little notebook. My vocal cords eventually recovered, and I told Jo that there was no sign of the Dorns’ dogs, and that wasn’t normal. I asked if we could check in the house, and offered to take both dogs home temporarily if they were there.

She called for Baker to clear the house before we went in, which was fine with me. I didn’t relish a chisel in
my
eye. Officer Baker came out a few minutes later. “No sign of the dogs, but someone made a mess of one of the rooms. Looks like a home office. Down the hall.” He pointed to the left, off the foyer.

I followed Jo through the glorious entry and down a wide hallway. I got a glimpse of my dream bathroom, complete with shower stall, huge Jacuzzi tub, skylight, and an antique fainting couch. Okay, the fainting couch isn’t in my dream. But then, my dream bathroom isn’t in my house. Now I knew why. The Dorns had it.

I almost bumped into Jo in the doorway to a room at the end of the hall. The Dorns’ home office looked like a spring windstorm had hit it. A drawer marked “Dogs” stood open in the rosewood filing cabinet next to an antique desk that commanded the center of the room. Books littered the oriental carpet in front of the now-empty built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Crystal paperweights, pens, framed photographs, a leather blotter holder, and pads of paper and sticky notes were heaped on the floor at one end of the desk. A burgundy leather wingback chair lay on its side in front of the room’s one window.

The top of the desk was hidden under file folders, some open, some closed, the contents spilling out. It looked a lot like my desk.

Beyond the mess on the floor was a wall covered with framed photos, many of them awards pictures taken at dog shows, obedience and agility trials, and, judging by the crook in Abigail’s hand in a few photos, some herding trials. A couple of the photos had fallen, and some hung askew, the glass in one of the frames radiating across the image like a spiderweb of shards as if something had scored a direct hit.

I squinted at that one. It was one of the few non-show photos, a shot of Abigail and Greg in hiking attire, smiling and holding hands against the rocky red architecture of Monument Valley. Pip and Percy sat in front of them.

“Either Mr. Dorn had serious housekeeping problems since his wife died, or someone was looking for something.” Jo followed my gaze to the photo. “Something significant about that picture?”

“Not really. But it must have been taken recently.”

“How do you know?”

“Abigail wore her hair long and straight for years.” I looked back at the short, curly style in the photo. “She just cut it, I don’t know exactly, but not long ago.”

“Well, if they weren’t getting along, they sure put on a good show for the camera.” She was right. They looked happy and relaxed with one another.

I looked back at the mess on the floor. “Can we see what the open
folders are?”

“We can’t touch the room until the crime scene techs finish with it.” She eyed the desk. “Stay here.” She tiptoed between the papers on the floor and read the label tab on a folder that lay open and empty on the desk. Then she retreated to the door. “It says ‘Pip’. That’s the dog, right, the big show star?”

“Yes, the Border Collie. Obedience star.”

“Also a scribbled note, looks like ‘DHA’ or ‘DNA.’ Any idea what that might mean?”

Several possibilities scurried through my mind, so I let myself think out loud. “Parentage verification. Or checking for markers for certain inherited diseases, maybe, but I don’t know the ins and outs of Border Collie DNA testing for disorders. I’ve heard that there may have been some question about the accuracy of Pip’s pedigree, that maybe his breeder lied about his parents, you know, who they are. Maybe Abigail had his DNA checked against his parents, or siblings, or even offspring if he had any.”

Jo listened intently. “You mean like paternity testing for dogs?”

“Exactly. Paternity and maternity. The AKC actually requires dogs who are bred a certain number of times to be DNA-ed so that offspring can be verified if a question comes up, or if a buyer wants to do that for some reason.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, just takes a cheek swab, you send it in and the lab compares certain markers to relatives, or supposed relatives. Or in some cases they can look for disease markers.”

“And if Abigail was doing this, it might worry someone?”

“Well, not if everything was on the up and up. But if his breeder falsified her application to register a litter or two, then yeah, if the DNA doesn’t confirm parentage, she could lose her registration privileges and be fined, and they’d publish her name so there goes her reputation.” I thought about Francine’s nutty, almost panicky, behavior. “I’ve heard that Francine invested a lot of money in importing two dogs, well, you know, a dog and a bitch, to revive her breeding program. If she did lie about Pip’s parents, and she was found out, she’d lose not just her rights and reputation, but a pile of money as well. And she’d be open to lawsuits.”

Jo wrote madly for a few moments, flipping a page, another. Then she asked, “What else would be in his file that isn’t there now?”

I thought for a moment. “Registration papers, health records, pedigree, his competition record, photos. Like that.”

“Papers. Those would be valuable? Like if someone wanted to sell him or use him as a stud dog?”

“Well, sort of. But the papers are registered to the owner, or owners.”

“And if someone wanted him for breeding?”

“But Pip’s neutered!” I reminded her.

“I know, but you said Abigail kept that a secret, right?”

“Oh, I see.” I thought about that for a moment. “But to register his puppies, the sire’s owner has to sign an application. So stealing the papers doesn’t mean much, unless someone forges the signatures. But Pip’s well known in Border Collie circles. Everyone knows who owns him, and who doesn’t, so … ”

“Right.” She wrinkled her forehead. “So what’s this all about?”

I had nothing more to offer out loud, but I planned to find out what I could about litters and puppies that Francine had registered.

Jo guided me back down the hall, past my fantasy bathroom, and out the front door. “I’ll put out an alert on the dog.”

“Dogs.” I corrected. “Greg also had a little Poodle named Percy.” I started to give her a description, then ducked back in the door and pointed to a framed photo of the curly little guy.

I got Jay out of the Caravan so he could relieve himself while Jo called in the descriptions of the dogs. She walked to the curb and gave Jay a scratch under the chin before he hopped back into his crate. Jo told me she’d notify the shelters, and I offered to get the word out to the BC and Poodle rescue organizations as well. She told me to let her know if I heard anything.

I drove home in a deep, dark funk. Did someone really kill Greg and steal Pip and Pip’s papers in hopes of using him at stud? Was Abigail about to reveal a more insidious secret entwined in the strands of her dog’s DNA? If so, Francine stood to lose her reputation, her registration privileges, and some serious money. Greg would have to know about Abigail’s suspicions, and Suzette may have been privy to Abigail’s hunch as well. Now they were all dead. And with a flash of panic it occurred to me that Giselle, too, might know about Abigail’s concerns, or the killer might think she did, and she might be in danger now. I pulled out my cell, found her number in my old calls, and left her a message to be careful.

It all seemed crazy. But then, anyone who kills three people is crazy by definition, right? Francine fit the crazy bill from what I’d seen. Did she have Pip and Percy? What about Leo? The thought made me shudder. And Greg’s death? She might catnap Leo to frighten me off, and that had to be her in the cargo van scaring me out of ten years’ growth. But why would she take Percy along with Pip? And if she didn’t have the missing pets, where were they? The dogs could have wandered off through an open gate, although I’d have expected them to stay as close to Greg as they could. Leo could have wandered off, too, for that matter. I didn’t want to believe that, but it was possible. I knew two things for sure. If I got him back, Leo was an indoor cat from now on, and I wasn’t letting Jay out of my sight until someone got to the bottom of this.

92

As eager as I
was to look into Pip’s DNA records, I had other things to take care of on Monday morning. Jade Templeton and I had agreed on Monday for Jay’s first nursing home visit, although his certification wouldn’t be official until I had the paperwork back from the Delta Society. Jade understood that, but a local magazine was doing a story on Shadetree Retirement Home, and Jade was hoping to spotlight several life-enrichment programs going on at the home, including animal-assisted activities, garden therapy, art and music therapy, and a fledgling program in which preschoolers visited a select group of residents two days a week. Considering how welcoming Jade had been despite Mom’s best effort to get herself expelled before she even moved in, I couldn’t say no.

I’d tried to reach Giselle several times during the previous evening with no luck, but finally got through to her mid-morning. She said she’d be watchful and careful.

The magazine’s photographer was supposed to be at Shadetree at 4:30, so in the morning I had tidied up the hair on Jay’s tail, ears, and feet with my thinning sheers, smoothed his nails with a Dremel, and bathed him. Then the two of us headed over to Mom’s house. Bill was already there, elbow deep in a beat-up cardboard file box.

“Gad, her files are like her cupboards.”

I glanced at the wastebasket sitting next to the file box, filled nearly to the brim with paper.

“I take it she kept everything?”

“Even the envelopes everything came in. In no particular order, of course.” He pulled a stapled packet of papers out, riffled through them, and got up. “Okay, finally, her long-term care policy.” He looked closely at several pages, took a deep breath. “Thank God, it’s paid up and current.” He looked at me, relief palpable in his eyes. “I was afraid she might have let it lapse.”

We spent the rest of the morning cleaning out files and putting together paperwork we might need soon. For lunch we had tomato soup and crackers on the patio, and caught up a bit. The tension of the past few months was gone, the decision about Mom made and action taken. It was nice to have my brother back, even if he could be a pain in the butt.

After lunch Bill mowed the lawn and tidied up the yard while I packed up the canned goods for him to take to the food bank, straightened the house up a bit, and finally headed home to prepare for our semi-official therapy debut. At four o’clock I made one final pass over Jay with a brush, tied a new red cowboy bandana around his neck, hooked up his leash, grabbed my tote bag, and we were on our way.

The sun hunkered behind a leading phalanx of gray thunder bumpers, and a hard southwest wind rippled the flag in front of Mr. Hostetler’s house across the street, holding the stripes almost horizontal. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees since noon, and when I stepped out the door, I decided I’d better take a jacket. I put Jay in the Caravan and ran to the front door. As I fiddled with my key, I noticed two startling reflections in the full-length window flanking the door. The first was my hair. I’d forgotten to comb it. That was scary enough, but the other reflection made me forget to breathe.

A cargo van crept along the street behind me. I almost turned around, but thought better of it. I stepped into the house, grabbed my camera from its case on the coffee table, and gently parted the sheer curtains with the lens. The vehicle was more rusted maroon than red in this light. As it surged ahead, I clicked off three or four shots.

It didn’t make sense, though. Why would Francine Peterson be hanging out in Fort Wayne, especially if she had killed Greg. She knew the police could be looking for her. And why harass me? I didn’t have Pip, or anything else she could possibly want. Then again, the woman did seem to be a few pixels short of a complete picture.

_____

“You did what?” Jo Stevens sounded angry.

“I followed it. Or tried to.” I sat in my Caravan, still looking around
as I spoke into my cell phone. “I couldn’t find it.”

“Are you
nuts
?” She scolded, then shifted to a lower-pitched, much scarier voice. “You see something, you call me or Hutchinson or dispatch, you got that?”

“Okay.”

“Seriously, Janet. What were you going to do if you caught the van? This isn’t funny—you want to end up like Greg, with a carpentry tool rammed through your brain?”

93

A huge raindrop splatted
against my windshield, followed by another, and another. Not exactly a downpour, at least not yet. Just enough to smear the film of road gunk when I turned the wipers on. I tried the washers, but got only a few bubbles at the base of the windshield.
Note to self: check the washer fluid more often.
I turned the wipers off. I could see better through rain than through smeared road gunk.

Ten minutes later I drove through the South Anthony railroad underpass, a stretch of road I’ve always hated. The street dips beneath the tracks, and stone pillars split traffic into lanes so narrow that I swear they scrape dirt from anything wider than a bicycle. Decades of exhaust have coated the whole affair with a stinking black patina. It always makes me want to get in and out as quickly as possible, even in bright daylight. Two blocks further south I turned into the Shadetree entrance and found a parking space close to the building—a good thing since the raindrop scouts were joined shortly by a cavalry of their friends. I didn’t care if I got drenched, but I didn’t want all my hard work on Jay’s coat ruined before his photo op.

Jade skipped my usual hug, squatting to greet Jay with an ear rub and an “Oh, what a beautiful dog.” Jay responded by gathering as many scent clues as possible from her face, and she giggled. “Those little whiskers tickle!”

“Is the rain going to ruin the outdoor shots?” I asked when she finished smooching my dog.

“All done except for the dog visit, and we’ll do that inside.” She led us into the common area, where fifteen or so residents were gathered. Their apparent awareness of their surroundings ranged from full to none. Mom was snuggled into a green high-backed armchair, flipping through the new issue of
Fine Gardening
. She glanced our way without any sign of recognition, and went back to her magazine.

Jay snapped his leash tight, his rear end wagging wildly. I let him take me to her, not a hint of hesitation in his step, though being a stranger to my own mother gave me pause enough for both of us. Jay laid his soft white chin across Mom’s arm. She let the magazine fall to the floor, and tenderly cradled the dog’s chin in her left hand, stroking his head with the other. “Laddie.” Her voice was love itself, and my eyes filled.

The moment was brief, lost to the arrival first of an old gentleman with bushy silver hair and eyebrows that extended like wings past his temples, followed by another old man and woman. They paid me no attention at all, just reached out to touch the dog. I felt a light fluttering at my elbow, and turned to see a wren-like little woman with wispy gray hair and a sharp little nose. She chirped, “I like your dog,” then turned and flitted away.

We made the rounds to visit other residents, and Jay tolerated wheelchairs, walkers, oxygen tanks, and palsied hands as if he saw them every day. Renee Koch, the reporter who was writing the article, followed along, asking questions of me, Jade, and some of the residents. The photographer clicked away, alternating his shots with peeks at his watch. I took a jab at conversation, but he didn’t seem exactly thrilled with the subject matter, or with a jabbering woman old enough to be his mother.

I was saved the trouble of a polite withdrawal when an old man playing solitaire at a table by the window squealed “Ooh-ee! Looka that!” He pointed out the window, where a premature dusk had settled in under a dome of indigo clouds. Sheets of rain pounded the sidewalk in front of the common room, and sporadic bursts of wind shot the rain, clattering like BBs, straight into the window glass. A jagged electric gash tore the dingy sky, trailed within seconds by a rolling boom that made my teeth rattle.

The photographer checked his watch one more time, yanked a green poncho over his head and camera, and looked at the reporter. “Time to go.”

Rene apologized to Jade for having another appointment.

“You could wait for the rain to let up, child!”

Renee turned to where the photographer had been, but he was already out the door. “It’s okay. He’ll pick me up under the overhang.”

We watched her go, and Jade turned to me. “I am not letting you take that dog out in that rain.” The emphasis of her concern didn’t escape me. “You sit down.” She steered me toward a couch next to Mom’s chair. “I’ll get us some coffee.”

Mom was engrossed in her magazine, although when Jay lay beside her and rested his chin on her foot she did bend over to stroke the top of his head. “What a good boy, Laddie.” I may as well not have been there.

The rain retreated to a sprinkle twenty minutes later and the clouds dispersed, although the light was growing dimmer as evening came on. To the west another battalion of angry-looking clouds threatened to move in. I said goodbye to Jade while several residents told Jay to come back soon. I stopped in front of Mom. She grabbed the hair on both sides of Jay’s neck, pulled him to her face, and kissed the space between his eyes. “I love you, Laddie.” She still didn’t look at me.