Catwalk (10 page)

twenty

“What do you mean
dead
?” I heard a s
udden ringing in my ears and felt as if my head might explode.
It can't be happening again, can it?
I closed my eyes and tried to shake some clarity into my brain. My first half-century was completely murder free, at least among people I knew, but in the previous si
x months I had been close to several violent deaths.
It can stop now
.

“Janet, are you okay?” Tom put his hand on my shoulder. “I think
you need to sit down.”

“No, no, I'm fine.” I opened my eyes and looked at him, and my
recent first-aid training kicked in. I stepped around Tom and crawled
into the tunnel to see for myself.

Rasmussen was in there, all right. One arm stretched toward me, as if he had collapsed mid-crawl. Dark brown paw prints trailed along the vinyl floor from his head toward me, and a voice in my
head whispered
blood
. The dogs who had made it through the tunnel had stepped in the man's blood. My stomach heaved. I had learned a bit about crime scenes over the previous few months, and I tried not to touch the paw prints as I crept closer to Rasmussen.
Maybe he had an accident,
murmured a hopeful voice in my head, but as I closed in on the body, I knew that this was no accident. Besides, how the heck did he end up dead in the middle of a twenty-foot agility tunnel?

My instinct was to back out of that tunnel as quickly as possible, but another voice said
you have to make sure he's dead.
As soon as I
thought it, the macabre double meaning of the words hit me. I hadn't
wished violence on him, but I still didn't like the man, and Janet demon urged,
yeah, Janet, make sure he's dead.
I couldn't keep myself from laughing even as I fought down nausea at the horror of it all.
Reflex,
I thought, trying to assure myself that I retained a morsel of compassion even for Rasmussen. Just a self-protective reflex.

My hand shook and my gag reflex continued to operate as I reached
out to check for a pulse. Rasmussen's head was covered in blood that appeared to have sprung from several gashes in the back of his head
and his temple. Something about the shape of his skull looked odd, like the side of his face wasn't right. It was hard to tell in the light of the tunnel, filtered as it was through red vinyl. I withdrew my hand and slid my sleeves as far up my forearm as I could, then reached again and pressed my fingers up under his jaw. His skin was cool, and no life beat beneath the surface.

I backed out, stood up, and said, “Dead.” I took four steps backward and sank to the ground.

Tom knelt and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Janet?”

“How can this be?”

“Do you want some water?”

“No, I'm fine.”
I'm not fine at all.
“Tom, how
…
Again?”

Marietta Santini stepped in close to us. “Are you sure he's dead?” she asked, and I nodded. “Oh my God.” She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, and as she punched in a number, she windmilled her other arm at the judge.

He slapped his thigh with his clipboard and glanced at his watch. “We're already twenty minutes behind schedule,” he shouted. “Come on, let's get rolling.” Marietta just kept gesturing for him to come on over as she spoke into her phone. He looked again at his watch, shoved his pencil behind his ear, and stalked across the course to join us beside the tunnel. Once he was informed, he wanted to tell the exhibitors, who were now clustered here and there around the ring trying to figure out what was going on.

“I don't think we should say anything except that there will be a delay,” I said. “Not until the police get here.”

The judge glared at me. He had gone from annoyed to supremely annoyed, as if we had planned a death on course to insult him personally. “Why is that?”

“Because they won't want people to leave until they say so.” At least I didn't think they would, based on my limited but still too vast experience with murder investigations. If it was murder.

“I'm going to close the gate to be sure,” said Marietta, already headed toward the entrance. She signaled Jorge to help her.

The judge was still staring at me. He seemed to have one standard question. “Why is that?”

“Because, if this is a homicide, they will want to interview people.”

He rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, so you're a cop now.”

Tom started to say something, but I cut him off. “They'll want to talk to everyone. Including you.” I turned to Tom and said, “I need to see the boys.” A laying on of paws would, I knew, make me feel enormously better. Tom took my hand as we walked away from the tunnel.

Exhibitors and spectators were gathered around the ring, and there were questions from all sides as we left the fenced area.

“Is someone hurt?”

“What's in there?”

“What's the holdup? I have a three-hour drive …”

Tom finally said, “Please, just relax and play with your dogs. There's going to be a bit of a delay. I'm sure someone will make an announcement soon.”

We cleared the ring-side crowd and were half way to my van when Alberta spotted us and scurried over. She had a plastic bag filled with packages of cat treats in her hand. “What's happening?” she asked between wheezes. “I can't stay, have to replenish the cat-treat bowl, we've handed out a hundred and fifty of these already, can you believe it?” She swung the bag toward us with one hand and adjusted her glasses with the other. “So what's wrong with the tunnel?”

“Rasmussen. He's dead.”

Alberta's face went blank and her mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out. Finally she said, “Charles Rasmussen?”

Tom and I nodded.

“Couldn't happen to anyone more deserving.” Alberta sounded as if she were approving the High in Trial winner. I couldn't think of an appropriate response. I didn't like the guy, and I wouldn't miss interacting with him, but I couldn't rejoice in a violent death, either. Trite as they were, the words
it's complicated
were the only ones I could home in on.

A truck appeared from behind the training building and rattled over the sparse grass. His trajectory took him right by us, and I called to the driver's open window, “You're not taking them away already, are you?” In the bed, four plastic outhouses stood as if in casual conversation. Each of them, plus the door of the truck, sported the image of a dapper little man doffing his bowler under an arc of letters that spelled out “Johnny-Come-Early.” The tea and water I'd been drinking were starting to pressure me, and I was hoping the rest of the slogan wasn't “Johnny-Leave-Early.”

The driver stopped the truck and said, “No, ma'am. Just switched these out for nice fresh ones. Do that every Sunday for Ms. Santini.” He grinned at us and drove on.

“Too bad Charles didn't fall down in one of those instead of in the tunnel.”

“Alberta!” Okay, I admit that although most of me was horrified at her comment—a man was dead, after all—part of me loved the idea.

Alberta just shrugged and said, “Well, back to my display.”

Tom nudged me and pointed my attention back to the driveway
. A
police cruiser and a black sedan had pulled in. A third cruiser stopped
beside the departing truck, then parked across the end of the driveway. The officer, lanky and well over six feet tall, walked to the truck's driver, then waved him away. I turned to watch the other cars disgorge four more figures, three of them in uniform. The fourth, dressed in tan chinos, a plaid shirt, and a navy jacket, was Hutchinson.

“Oh, thank God,” I said.

“I thought you thought he was kind of a bumbler?” said Tom.

“But he's our bumbler,” I said, then thought better of it. “Besides, I don't think that anymore. He just works his own …”

A voice that needed no bullhorn said, “Excuse me!” We both jumped and turned. The officer who had spoken to the truck driver was coming up behind us. She gave each of us the once over and, without breaking stride, said, “Don't leave the premises,” and followed her colleagues to the competition ring.

twenty-one

“I think I need
to sit down for a minute,” I said. My legs felt rubbery, and my brain fluctuated between spilling over and completely
empty.

When we reached the van, Tom and I checked the big boys first, and I felt 200 percent better as soon as the two doggy tongues touched my fingers.

“You relax for a bit. I'll take these guys for a little walk.” Tom kissed
my forehead, then picked up Drake's leash and went to the back of the van.

Leo had come along again. He wouldn't be running agility, but I had offered to have him man, or cat, Alberta's information table for a while. I figured it would be good practice for his competition debut the following weekend. I got him out of his double-wide carrier and settled the two of us into the front seat. Whoever says cats don't care about people just never gave them a chance. Leo laid himself lengthwise along my torso and let his tail drape across my thigh. I looked into his eyes, all squinty with feline “I love yous.” He mewed so low I almost didn't hear, then pressed a paw against my cheek. We stayed like that, Leo purring and me, eyes closed, counting my breaths. Inhale one-two-three, exhale one-two-three.

When the sound of a dog jumping into the back of the van opened my eyes, the dashboard clock said eleven minutes had slipped by. Tom loaded Jay and Drake into their crates and got into the seat beside me.

“Better?” He said.

“Much.”

Leo meowed at Tom, and Tom ran the backs of his fingers down the soft orange body and let his hand come to rest on Leo's tail and my leg. We just sat like that for a few minutes, until I broke the silence.

“Everybody hated that guy, you know.”

“He was easy to dislike, that's for sure,” said Tom.

“What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Who killed him?”

“I'm sort of hoping he had some kind of bizarre accident.” Tom craned his neck for a look at the ring. “We should go find out what's happening.”

As soon as I stood up and the sharpening wind sliced into me, I realized I needed to make use of one of those newly refreshed portable facilities. “Getting colder,” I said, more or less to myself. I put Leo back into his carrier, excused myself, and walked across the parking lot toward the front of the training building. The “Johnny” set up in the L-corner of the building there was probably the closest one. A woman I didn't know was scurrying in a different angle and got there three steps ahead of me. She had an unfair advantage—two malamutes were pulling her along. I wondered how she planned to manage. There was no way she and those big dogs would fit into the telephone booth sized bathroom.

“You go ahead,” the woman said.

Normally I would have thought that unfair, but my bladder felt ready to explode, so I accepted. When I came out, I asked, “Would you like some help with those guys?”

She stepped into the plastic tube and fiddled with her retractable leashes, letting the cords play out to full length and laying the plastic handles against the inside of the door frame. “No, we're fine.
We've done this before. But thanks.” She pulled the door closed over
the leashes, anchoring the dogs to the johnny.

Bad idea
, whispered the voices in my head. They were right. I wouldn't have tried that stunt with my fifty-pound herding dog, let alone two hundred-plus-pound animals designed to pull heavy sledges across long miles of snow. I started to ask if she was sure, but the “Occupied/Occupado” indicator snapped into place, so I shivered, zipped my jacket to the top, and walked away.

The uniformed police officers were standing near the tunnel and a man with a bag was preparing to crawl into the tunnel.

“Who's that?” I asked.

“Coroner, probably. Or forensics?”

The police had removed everyone else from the area, and I scanned the observers standing around the ring. Marietta was talking to Jorge near the opening that served as a gate, and the stewards were gathered a few feet away. To my surprise, Hutchinson was outside the ring, leaning against the stewards' table.

I pointed toward Hutchinson and said, “What's he doing?”

“Or not doing,” said Tom.

We approached from the side and Hutchinson turned.

“What's up?” asked Tom.

“You know who that is?” Hutchinson gestured toward the tunnel.

“You mean the dead guy?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” Tom and I answered together.

“I took myself out of the investigation,” said Hutchinson.

“Because of what happened yesterday?” I asked.

Hutchinson snorted. “That, and the complaint he filed against me.”

“Really?” It made sense, I supposed, for Hutchinson to bow out, but I thought back to my first uncomfortable encounters with Hutch
inson and his former partner, Jo Stevens. Suddenly I felt a little less secure about what might be coming. Okay, a lot less secure. I pressed on. “But that isn't
that
big a deal, is it?”

Hutchinson pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket and began clicking it with his thumb. “Could be a conflict of interest,” he said. “Jerk took it to the next level. Plays—played—golf with the mayor.” He stabbed the tip of his pen into the picnic table top and turned to look first at me, then at Tom. “I might have been heard to react with a comment about ‘dead meat.' So, yeah, conflict of interest.”

“Probably a wise move,” said Tom.

“Something weird, though. I know the guy didn't like animals, especially cats, but there's fur all over the front of his slacks.” Hutchinson looked at me. “Like when Leo or Gypsy rub against my legs.”

I started to answer, but a movement over Hutchinson's shoulder caught my eye, and I shifted my gaze. Jorge was standing near some shrubs near the front of the training building not far from where I had left the malamute owner. He bent over and reached toward the shrubs, and a small cat emerged from the evergreens and rubbed her head against his hand. I couldn't see well at that distance, but assumed it was his little rainbow cat-mama. Jorge stood up, and I could see that he held something in his hand. He seemed to be talk
ing to the cat, who was watching him closely, tail flicking. He started to walk toward the tree line where he had told me he thought the cat had hidden her brood of
gatitos
, and I smiled to see that the thing in his hand was a bowl. He was feeding the little family.

I turned back to Hutchinson and asked, “So what happens now?”

“They'll want to talk to people, so don't leave yet.”

I sighed and muttered something even I couldn't make out. Tom started to say something, but a crazy loud banging and muffled yells and a duet of loud “awwooos!” snapped our attention toward the front of the training building.

Hutchinson jumped up, turned, and said “What the heck is that?”

For a long few seconds there was nothing to see other than the training building's calm facade, but the racket was getting louder. Then the malamutes appeared, their gazes fixed on the two figures I had been watching. Both dogs were woowooing and, judging by their postures, pulling hard into their collars. The cords of their retractable leashes stretched taut behind them, and everything about them screamed “get the cat!”