Drop Dead on Recall (7 page)

19

I’d been home about
half an hour when the doorbell rang. The canine welcoming committee was in the backyard, so Leo trotted to the front door and meowed at me to see who was there. He’s not the most patient character in the world. I picked him up and pulled the door open.

“Ms. MacPhail. You never returned my call.”

“I, uh …” I gestured for Detective Jo Stevens to come in. “I meant to. I’ve been busy.”

“I have a few questions.”

Like why did you tamper with evidence?
I glanced at the magazines, books, videos, and unopened mail on the couch and coffee table in the living room, and suggested we talk in the kitchen. When I put Leo down, he promptly rubbed against the detective’s leg, leaving a streak of short yellow hairs on her navy slacks. She bent to pick him up and settled at the kitchen table, rubbing his head. “Nice cat.”

“His name is Leo. Thinks he’s a lion.” I picked up the carafe from the coffee maker in one hand and the teapot in the other and waggled them at her.

She asked basic getting-to-know-you questions while I set Mr. Coffee to work. I’m not particularly paranoid, but couldn’t help but wonder if this was her way of putting me at ease before the interrogation, or if she was genuinely interested in my work and my furry family. I sat across the table from her, and watched her reassemble her expression as she slid Leo gently to the floor. By the time she sat up she was all business again.

“Where’s your sidekick?” I asked.

“Hutchinson? He had other things to do.”

Like play tiddlywinks,
whispered Janet Demon. As if she knew what I was thinking, Jo added, “He’s not as dopey as he acted the other day.” I withheld further comment, and she got back to business. “What do you know about the circumstances of Ms. Dorn’s death?”

Something twisted in my chest, but I worked at staying calm.

“I saw her fall, but I don’t know anything else except what’s been on the news.” I studied her face, and decided she must be a heck of a poker player. “You’re investigating her death?”

“Just asking a few questions.”

“You don’t think she died from a bee sting?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” I didn’t add that the more I learned the more confused I got. “She was in great shape and as far as I know had no other health problems. The two doses of epinephrin should have snapped her out of an allergic episode. I guess I think it makes no sense.”

“Did Ms. Dorn have any enemies?”

I didn’t like the direction the conversation was going, but what could it hurt Abigail now if I passed on what little I knew? If someone did kill her, maybe something I said would help the police figure out who. “I don’t know about enemies. She wasn’t very popular.”

She pulled her beat-up little pad and a pen from her breast pocket, wrote something, then looked me in the eye, her question clear if unspoken.

I went on. “You know, there’s always gossip. I’ve heard little snippets. Abigail was well known among dog people, and it’s been a shock. Someone you know dies suddenly, people are curious. Concerned.”
Nosey.

“And what’s the gist of the gossip?”

“I don’t know that there is a gist. People want to know what happened. Some think Abigail died of a heart attack or a stroke.”
Or meanness.

Jo didn’t seem very interested in that kind of gossip. “She had enemies?”

Enemies again. I retrieved a couple of clean mugs from the dishwasher, and poured the coffee, using the time to think.
Don’t say too much, Janet. You don’t have any real information.
But I couldn’t rid my mind of the disembodied words I’d heard at Dog Dayz: “I didn’t think Suzette meant it when she said she’d like to kill her.” Or the memory of Suzette herself, signaling her dog to bark during Abigail’s moment of silence. I set the mugs on the table and pulled a pint of hazelnut creamer from the fridge door. “Sugar?”

She shook her head. “Love this stuff though!”

“Do they know what killed her?”

“I can’t comment on the case.”

I took too quick a slurp of coffee, burning the tender spot behind my upper incisors, and struggled not to show the pain.

She jotted something on her pad. “Ms. MacPhail, were you …”

“Would you mind calling me Janet? Ms. MacPhail makes me want to put my bifocals on and my hair in a bun.”

That seemed to relax her, and she told me to call her Jo. She smiled, leaned back in her chair, and set her pen down on the table. “Could I have more coffee? I woke up this morning with a headache and I think this is helping.”

I poured her a second cup and asked if she’d like some aspirin, but she said she’d already taken several more tablets than medically advisable. The caffeine would have to do.

Jay barked outside the back door. I was halfway there when he and Pip exploded into the kitchen. “You’re too smart for your own good, Bub.” Jay danced around me. “I’m going to have to change this handle back to a regular doorknob. I just had it put on a couple weeks ago, and he’s figured out how it works. As you can see.”

I looked out the door before I closed it. The sun was hidden behind a bank of thunder heads, the patio freckled with raindrops. Fortunately, the dogs had stayed under the awning and were dry, because they were soon mugging Jo. She stroked both heads, one with each hand. “Nice dogs. Border Collies?”

“The black and white one is. That’s Pip. He’s—or he was—Abigail’s dog. The one I brought home from the show. The other one, Jay, is an Australian Shepherd.”

“Beautiful color.” She ran her fingers down Jay’s shoulder through
black and gray and silver waves.

“It’s called blue merle.”

“I miss having a dog.” She sounded wistful. “Wouldn’t be fair though. I’m gone so much.” She glanced at her watch.

“Jay, settle.” Pip apparently knew the command, too, because both dogs sprawled on the floor, bellies flat to the cool vinyl, panting and grinning.

Detective Stevens picked up her pen and began to doodle on her pad. “So, you and Ms. Dorn were friends?”

“I wouldn’t say that. We knew each other from dog training and competition. We train—trained—at the same place and …”

“Where is that?”

I gave her the address and phone number for Dog Dayz. “Anyway, I knew her and Greg, her husband, really just in the doggy context, you know, from training and shows.”

“And who do you know who didn’t like her?”

I’m afraid I allowed myself to guffaw. “Sorry. Actually, I can’t think of many people who liked her. Greg, of course. And I think Giselle and Abigail were friends.”

“Giselle?”

“Giselle Swann. Remember the woman who wanted to take Pip home?”

“Ah, yeah, Precious.” A barely perceptible tremor ran across her cheek. “And they were friends?”

“Yes, I think so. I know they often set their crates up together at shows. To be honest, I don’t know either of them very well.”

“And I take it there are people who actively disliked Ms. Dorn?”

“Abigail wasn’t exactly warm and cuddly. Except with her dogs. Maybe Greg too, although I only ever saw her scolding him or ordering him around.”

“Who else?”

“Gosh, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know that I’d want to suggest that anyone I know hated her enough to kill her!” This conversation was not one I really wanted to continue.

“I didn’t say anyone killed her.” She gave me that poker face.

“Right.” I fought off the urge to squirm in my seat. “There was a long-standing rivalry between Abigail and Suzette Anderson. But I think they were reasonably friendly outside the ring.”

“What sort of rivalry?”

“They were both in the running for top national ranking in obedience with their Border Collies.” I pointed at Pip. He was rolled onto his back, leaning up against the wall, his head back and tongue lolling out the corner of his mouth. “Believe it or not, you’re looking at one of the top competitive obedience dogs in the country over the past two or three years.”

“Yeah?” She gave me a look I couldn’t read, but it made the base of my skull itch. “And now you have him.”

20

“I have Pip temporarily,
until Greg takes him.” Here I was in my own kitchen, the heart of my little house, my cat purring, no bright lights in my eyes, knowing I’d done nothing illegal, at least not lately, and yet Detective Jo Stevens’ questions were beginning to make me sweat. “In fact, with your permission I’ll take Pip back to Greg today or tomorrow.” Based on her non-reaction, I wasn’t sure Detective Stevens had heard me so I rambled on. “Besides, obedience is a team sport. Pip’s ranking is a result of their teamwork, his and Abigail’s. It takes years to build that rapport between dog and handler.”

The detective nodded. “So, this Suzette Anderson and Ms. Dorn had conflicts over national competition?”

“They were both hoping to qualify for the National Obedience Championship competition next January. Both their dogs were in the running for top-ranked Border Collie of the year. But obedience people generally get along fine outside the ring. I mean, it’s a sport where the results mostly depend on how you and your dog do on a particular day. Politics can enter in on some of the finer points, but mostly it’s do or die.” I sucked in a quick breath. “So to speak. I’m sure Suzette didn’t hate her enough to kill her.”

“Who else?” Jo was madly scribbling.

I was beginning to feel like a stool pigeon, but once I started to sing, I just couldn’t seem to shut up. “I’ve heard that Abigail and Marietta Santini had some problems a couple years ago over a puppy sale that fell through.”

“Who’s she?”

“She owns Dog Dayz, where we train.”

She wrote it all down.

“That was a while ago, and I don’t know much about it, but I don’t think it was that big a deal. I can’t think of anyone else. I mean, as I said, lots of people didn’t care for Abigail, but most didn’t have any real conflict with her.”

“What about her husband?”

“Greg doted on her.”

“I heard they were separated.”

“I heard that, too. But still … The guy followed her like a puppy. He was right there when she collapsed, and he sent me for the EpiPen.”
Of course, if he did poison her, he knew the epinephrin wouldn’t help
. “He looked devastated.”
Yeah,
a question nibbled at the edge of my brain,
but if they really were separated, why was he there?

“He shows dogs too?”

“No. He has a little dog, but doesn’t compete as far as I know. But he was always there for Abigail.”

Jo’s expression remained bland but for that slight tightening under her eyes that I’d seen before. It was enough to cast a new light on Greg’s presence, and light makes all the difference to the nuances of a picture.
Picture this—estranged husband just happens to be at his wife’s side when she keels over. He’s a pharmacist. He’d know how to kill her. But Greg?

We sat in silence for a moment as Jo wrote in her notebook. I was running my thoughts through a maze of images from the previous few days when one of them jolted me out of my seat. I reached for the pantry door, clearing my clenching throat.

“Uh, I keep forgetting about this …” I lifted Abigail’s tote bag from the pantry floor and set it on the table in front of the detective. She took in the Border Collie and “Dorn” embroidered on the side of the bag. When she looked at me, the blue of her eyes had turned cloudy and cold.

My cheeks went hot. “I’m sorry. I’m embarrassed. I, uh, I forgot I had it.”

Jo shoved her chair back with her knees and startled the dogs onto their feet. She pulled a pair of gloves from a small pack on her belt and put them on. Jay and Pip watched me, no doubt waiting for the next game to begin. It wasn’t one I wanted to play.

“This is Abigail’s?”

I nodded.

“And it was at the show?”

I nodded again.

Jo gave me a “you moron” look, then reached into the bag. The first thing she picked up was the plastic container that once held Abigail’s bagel spread. She pulled the lid open. “You washed this?”

My power of speech had taken a powder, so I nodded once more. The dogs gave up on me and lay down again.

Jo snapped the lid back onto the container and carefully laid it back in the bag. Then she fixed me with a new look. I wasn’t sure whether it said, “How stupid
are
you?” or “Aha! I’ve caught you!”

“Get me a large plastic bag.”

I did, and Jo carefully slid the canvas tote into the white plastic. She pulled off the gloves, shoved them into her pants pocket, and took a black marker from compartment on her holster and wrote something on the plastic bag. Almost as an aside, she asked, “Did you remove any other evidence from the crime scene?”

Embarrassment and fear bowed to anger at that. “I didn’t know it was evidence or a crime scene. I was trying to help.”

“I understand.” She didn’t sound like she did. “Did you remove anything else from the barn where Ms. Dorn’s property was besides her dog and this bag?”

“No.” Our eyes met for an uncomfortable moment, and my outrage began to fade.

We walked to the front door, and Jo pointed her pencil at three black leather bags stashed just inside the door. “Going somewhere?”

“What? Oh. A photo shoot this afternoon.”

“You take that much luggage?”

I didn’t like the way I squeaked out my reply, but couldn’t seem to help myself. “Not luggage. Equipment. Two cameras, a tripod, some props.”

She pocketed her pen and pad. “Don’t leave the county for a while.”

21

The rain continued for
the next couple of hours, one of those bright rains under a sky full of light. A heavy cloud unloaded over
Suzette’s driveway just as I pulled in. The unsettled weather reflected the way I felt—sunny at first glance, a storm of anxiety raging within. I didn’t feel much like taking pictures, but knew somewhere deep inside that it was better to focus on beauty and work than on my impending and unjust incarceration for tampering with evidence.

I gave the steering wheel a good whack with the heel of my hand, spat out an expletive, despite my efforts to clean up my language, and fished my cell phone out of my bag. Thus vented, I did manage to keep control of my voice when Suzette answered. “It’s Janet.”

“Scared of a little rain?”

“No, but my camera is. I’m in your driveway. I’ll be in when this gully washer quits.”

“I know. We’re watching you.”

Suzette and Fly were leaning over the back of a couch and looking out the window at me.

“So you are.”

“It won’t last long. Front door’s unlocked. We’re in the kitchen.”

The rain put the Lassus Brothers’ Handy Dandy Car Wash to shame, so I was stuck for the moment. I’d read and reread all the print matter scattered around the back seat of my van, so I stuffed all the wrappers, scraps, and food crumbs I could reach into a CVS bag I found under the passenger seat. That took up a minute or so. Nothing else to do, so I popped the angle of the seat back a few notches, switched off the radio, leaned back, and tried to lose myself in the rhythm of the rain. Maybe this was a sign from the Universe to start that meditation practice I’d been contemplating for the past decade. Maybe I should sign up for a class. Right after the first aid class I wanted to take. But I couldn’t sign up for anything, trapped in the car as I was, so I just closed my eyes and listened as fat drops splatted against the windows and roof. I’d rather it didn’t arrive when I have photos to shoot, but I do love a good rain.

How could I undo the damage I’d done to myself? I couldn’t blame Detective Stevens for being suspicious. Who but the guilty removes evidence and runs it through her dishwasher? Not that I knew at the time that it was evidence of anything but breakfast and dog brushing. My tear ducts threatened to self-activate from frustration so I squinched my eyes shut and beat the back of my head against the head rest.

Nothing like a good pity party once in a while. A good
short
pity party. Three head whacks and two deep sighs later I was cured of depression. And angry.
I didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m not going to sit around while someone says I did.

As if to lend meteorological support, the rain let up as quickly as it had begun. Watery clouds raced east toward Ohio, and the sun popped out, setting the rivulets and drops aglitter, bright as crystal, on the windows. When I turned toward Suzette’s house, my heart leapt at the sight of a perfect rainbow suspended directly over the chimney. It took less than a minute to get my camera out, check the settings, and get a few shots. I half expected a flock of bluebirds.

Fly met me at the front door and bent herself into a donut, whining, “Pet me, pet me.” The aroma of coffee drew me toward the back of the house, where I was nearly blinded by Suzette’s kitchen. It looked like a can of sunshine paint had exploded. The ceiling, the walls, the cupboards and molding, the linoleum floor, even the frilly café curtains were all brilliant yellow.

“Cheerful,” I said.

Suzette was standing on a yellow ladder-back chair, pulling a coffee cake off an upper cupboard shelf. “Have to hide all food items out of reach of Miss Counter Surfer there,” she grunted, stepping down from the chair. “Could you flip the light on?” The sun had retreated behind another bank of clouds, and despite its hue, the kitchen was a little dark. Suzette slipped the coffee cake into the oven and glanced around the room. “Awful, isn’t it?”

“Well …” I sat down at the table. Fly rested her chin on my knee and I massaged the backs of her ears until she groaned and pressed first one ear, then the other, harder against my fingers.

Suzette laughed. “Don’t worry, I hate it. It was my aunt’s place. She loved yellow. She died recently and left it to me, lock, stock, and barrel. I’m staying here until it sells. Already have an offer so I don’t plan to be here long.”

“You’ve had a lot of losses lately.”
Including one major competitor
.

“I just hope things don’t really come in threes.” As she spoke, Suzette pulled a ring from her left hand, and set it on top of a canister near the sink before she washed and dried her hands.

“Well, it looks like you’re in for some good luck.”

“Oh?”

I told her about the rainbow, and she gestured toward Fly. “That’s my good-luck rainbow, right there.”

The aroma of warm yeast and cinnamon had flooded the room, and Suzette pulled the coffee cake from the oven. Fly abandoned me and stationed herself at Suzette’s knee, a look of utter devotion and
hope on her face as she fixed the coffee cake with a Border Collie stare
as if trying to will it off the counter. “So, do you think you’ll be able to get some pictures without the sun?”

“No problem. A little cloud cover is good. No shadows or squints.”

Suzette poured the coffee into delicate bone china cups with rose buds lacing the rims. I have my own grandmother’s bone china dishes, but can’t remember the last time I used them. I wasn’t sure I ever had. They seem like relics of a more gracious time.

“Beautiful dishes, Suzette.”

“Oh, thanks. I’ve been collecting bone china since I was in high school.” She lifted her cup toward the light from the window. “I use them all the time. Don’t see much point in having nice things but not using them.”

“I’d be afraid of breaking them.”

“I’ve broken a few pieces.” She set the cup down. “But you can’t live well without breaking a few things, can you?”