Catwalk (13 page)

twenty-seven

Goldie talked through most
of the drive home, beginning with variations on a theme of “aren't they amazing little creatures and isn't that black kitten the most perfect baby cat ever created?” I listened with half my mind while the other half teased apart a tangle of thoughts about motives, passions, and the potential for pretty much anyone to do things you don't expect. I knew all the potential suspects, some of them quite well. Did someone I knew and liked and basically trusted bash a man's head in?

No, of course not
, whispered one inner voice.
It was someone else. A stranger. Maybe an accident.

Then the other voice piped up.
It could happen.

And based on the past year of my life, I knew that was true. Someone I knew and liked and trusted may have killed Rasmussen.

Goldie seemed to pick up on my thoughts, and her shift in topic penetrated the partition in my mind. “So who
do
you think did it?”

“No idea.”

“Pfffttt. Come on, Janet. It's me you're talking to.”

My fingers began to cramp and I realized that I had the steering wheel in a death grip. I forced my hands to relax a notch, and said, “No, really, I don't know that I seriously suspect anyone. But …” I took a deep breath. “But the guy was so nasty, so threatening, that I could see someone striking out in fear or self-defense or …”

“Rage.”

“Yes, rage.” We were on State, approaching Anthony. “Do you mind if I swing by Shadetree for a few minutes?”

“No.”

“I'd like to check on Mom.”

“No problem.”

“It won't take long.”

Goldie gave my shoulder a little push. “Janet, why don't we swing by Shadetree? I'd love to see your mom.”

I turned south on Anthony and asked Goldie, “Have you ever been that angry? I mean, enraged to the point that you thought you could kill someone?”

“Yes,” she said. “Once. I saw a man spit on a child in Birmingham.” A strange hot thread wound through Goldie's voice, the anger still present all these years later. “The little boy was four or five years old. I thought he would be frightened, and I'm sure he was, but he just wiped his cheek and looked at the man and smiled. And the guy called him a string of filthy names, and the boy's mother started to pull the kid out of the way, and she screamed names of her own at the guy.”

I pulled into the Shadetree parking lot, turned off the ignition, and looked at Goldie, waiting for her to finish. When she didn't speak, I said, “Black kid?”

“No. White. He was with his mother, and she was there like I was, supporting the cause.”

“Pretty low, treating a child that way,” I said.

“That made me angry, of course, but it was nothing out of the ordinary, considering the setting. But then he pushed them. He rushed them and shoved his hand against the little boy and practically lifted him into his mother, and they fell back and I could see that she was hurt, you know, actually injured. And I wanted to kill him.”

“But you didn't.”

“I didn't. But I might have tried if the little boy hadn't spoken right then.” Goldie closed her eyes and took a long breath that I recognized as her centering technique.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He picked himself up and looked at the man and said, ‘I hope you find some happy peace, Mister.' I'll never forget those words. That was the last I saw of him. People sort of closed around him and his mother, and got her up and out of the way.” Goldie turned and seemed to look right into me. “So I understand that kind of rage. And I know you don't buy some of the things I believe, but I think that boy was sent to teach me, and I think he saved me from doing something evil, then and later.”

We sat in silence for a moment, then stepped out of the warm van into a stiff, cold wind. “Wow, it must be twenty degrees colder than when I walked Jay this morning,” I said. I had to hang on tight to keep the door into Shadetree from flying wide when I opened it.

The lobby was warm and bright and welcoming. Jade Templeton, the manager, was speaking to someone near her office door, but she waved and smiled at us.

“Let's check the lounge and garden first,” I said. “Mom is usually in one or the other this time of day.”

“I'd forgotten how cheery this place is,” said Goldie. “Oh, there's cute little Percy.”

She was right. The little gray Poodle jauntied his way to us, tail wagging. He wriggled and whined and rubbed my leg, and I squatted to return his greeting. “You look like you own the place, little man,” I said.

Goldie petted him as well, and said, “I'm so glad Ms. Templeton adopted him. A match made in heaven.” Percy had moved in with Jade when his owners were killed, and now he came to work with her, serving as one of the resident pets to the many residents who missed their own animals. The other was a pretty little gray-and-white cat who went by whatever names the residents called her. The little dog took his duties seriously, and soon trotted off to greet a little group of residents who were sitting in a nearby alcove.

My mother was nowhere in sight, but Anthony Marconi waved from a bench in the indoor garden room and we made our way to him.

“Good morning, Janet,” he said, then bowed slightly to Goldie. “And Goldie, I presume. Anthony Marconi.”

Goldie held out her hand and said, “It's so nice to meet you finally. How did you know?”

“I've heard so much about you,” Marconi smiled, but the look faded. “Your mother is, umm, not feeling well today. She just fell asleep a few minutes ago.”

Ah, shit,
I thought. I had hoped the Marconi spell would last.

“It's okay, Janet,” he continued. “I sit with her and, really, it's okay when she thinks I'm someone else, you know, your dad or your brother mostly. I mean, what difference does it make, really, if she still loves me?” He smiled again, but it was different. Bittersweet.

“Mr. Marconi, I'm sorry for your family's loss,” said Goldie.

For a moment, Marconi looked like he had no idea what Goldie was talking about, and when he recovered, he looked anything but grieved. “No great loss,” he said, and followed with, “Sorry. That's rude of me, and I appreciate your concern. It's just that Charles, well
…
hard to explain …”

“No explanation necessary,” I said. “I met him, and Goldie's heard about him.”

“Yes, well, I'd as soon have been shed of him years ago,” he said.

My judgmental left eyebrow wanted to grab my hairline, but I caught it in time. I couldn't resist a glance at Goldie, though, and she reciprocated, and I'm sure that the message going both ways was
Marconi could have done it.

By the time we walked back to the car, the wind had strengthened and the temperature had dropped enough to make us pull our coats tight to the throats. It was still sunny where we were, but the sky to the northwest was a wall of cold gray and it seemed to be coming our way. As soon as we were in the car, we both started to talk.

“You first,” I said, fiddling with the temperature and fan settings.

“What do you think?” asked Goldie, patting her own cheeks. “He was
there, right? And he had plenty of motive.”

“Oh, I don't know. I mean, come on, the guy is what? Eighty-three? Eighty-four? Besides, he wouldn't have been there that late.”

“Have you felt his grip?” She asked. “And did you look at his cane? It's not plastic, you know. It's brier. I have a walking stick made
of the same stuff. It's hard and it's heavy.” She held her hands in batting position and swung. “Bam!”

I looked at her, then back at the road. She was right. Marconi was there on Saturday, and I couldn't forget the look on his face when Charles Rasmussen manhandled Louise.

Goldie declined my invitation to come in. She gave me a hug and left me feeling pretty glum as I pushed the button to close the garage door. As always, though, stepping into the furry arms waiting inside the door made the world a brighter place. Jay bounced and wriggled in front of me, and Leo rubbed against the backs of my legs and chirped. I let Jay out the back door and ran to the bathroom with Leo right behind me. He hopped onto the side of the tub and I stroked him and said, “Hang on, Catman. I'll feed you in a minute.”

When I saw my hair in the mirror, I amended that. “Okay, Leo
mio
, hang on. Gotta tame this mess.” The wind had tied my curly hair into knots, and I think I left half of it in my brush, but I got it smoothed down enough to twist it around and jaw-clip it into submission. I was back in the kitchen warming Leo's home-cooked turkey dinner when the doorbell rang. Jay barked and banged into the back door, and Leo yowled impatiently.

“Okay, okay.” The doorbell rang again, and someone knocked. Loudly. “Hang on, will ya?” I shouted, setting Leo's food on his little table in the laundry room. I had created a cat station there and another in the garage to keep his food and litter box out of canine reach. I reset the baby gate to keep Jay out of there, and went to the front door. The knocking resumed as I unlocked the doorknob, and I had a mouthful of unfriendly things ready to explode from my lips. I did, that is, until I saw the two uniformed police officers on my porch.

twenty-eight

By the time I
got to Dog Dayz for obedience practice, my stomach had let loose some of the knots the police had inspired, but my head was starting to pound. I wasn't sure which was worse. Either way, I figured I'd work Jay a little since he had been locked up most of the day, and then go home early and abandon reality for a good book.

“Helloo, Miss Janet.” The voice was behind me, but I would know
Jorge's breathy “j” anywhere.

“Hola, Jorge.” The man was grinning like the Cheshire cat, and I couldn't help smiling back. “What are you so happy about?”

“You haff a minute? You come see?” He gestured a “follow me,” so I made sure Jay's crate latch was secure and said, “Okay, if it won't take too long.”

He was already walking toward the door to the office at the front
of
the building. There were two front doors, and the one he opened was not only locked, but had a sign that said “NO DOGS!” in big orange
letters. Marietta often left her own dog loose in the office, so it was off limits, absent an invitation. Jorge had a key, and free run of the place, so I considered myself invited. I stepped into the warm room and wrinkled my nose at a distinctly fishy smell.

“Come, you see,” he said, waving me forward with one hand and indicating a cardboard box with the other. “I find little Rainboo and her
gatita
.”

I squeezed between the big desk and an enormous battered green filing cabinet and looked into the box. The little tortoiseshell cat I had seen at the tree line on Saturday was stretched full length, licking a carbon copy of herself. This kitten was older than Gypsy's brood.

Jorge reached into the box, picked up the kitten, and held her close. “Is beautiful
gatita
, no, Miss Janet?”

“She is beautiful, Jorge. They both are.” The kitten had her blue-green eyes fixed on my face. They were fully open, as were her ears, and she was probably half as big as her mother, so I figured she was five or six weeks old. “Just one kitten?”

Jorge frowned. “There were more, but they disappear. Maybe
el gato
, you know, the male, maybe he kill the others.” He shook his head sadly, then brightened. “But
la linda
is safe now.”

“Her name is Linda?”

“No, no,” he laughed. “She is
linda
, you know, pretty.
Muy linda
.”

I reached out and stroked the side of the kitten's face and she pushed her cheek into my hand. “She's very comfortable with people for a feral kitten.”

“I been seeing them, holding like this, since she very small. Eyes still closed when I meet her.” I followed his gaze to Rainbow. She was still relaxed in the box and squinting cat love at Jorge. “Mamá Rainboo trust me.”

“I see that,” I said. “Jorge, are you okay? Yesterday was pretty tough.”

He looked at me, and I tried to read the look in his eyes, but he had
put them behind a curtain. “I ask Miss Marietta for bring Rainboo and
la linda
in here on Saturday. That man, he throw rocks at Rainboo and say he kill her she jump on car again.” The kitten was wriggling to get down, so Jorge set her back in the box and placed a little stuffed bear in front of her. “I tell him he sorry he do that again.”

“You might not want to tell the police that,” I said, thinking
I wish you hadn't told me.

Jorge laughed. “My English no
perfecto
, but I no stupid, Miss Janet. Police here today. They see my green card, ask questions. All okay.”

“That's good, Jorge.” To tell the truth, I was relieved to hear that he was a permanent resident. I knew he was from southern Mexico, from Oaxaca, but it had never occurred to me to ask about his legal status.

“My wife, she want
la gatita
, and we going to try Rainboo if she live inside happy.” He brushed some fur off his sleeve. “I like you come for dinner my house sometime, Miss Janet. Mr. Tom, too. Maybe after the Thanksgiving, yes?” He smiled. “I make special food for you, Oaxaca food.”

“You cook, Jorge?”

“I want Oaxaca food, I cook.” He laughed. “I want American food,
my wife cook.”

The pounding in my head was worse when I got back to my van and I thought about just getting in and driving home. I scanned the parking lot, saw Tom's “LABMOBIL” plate, and changed my mind. I dug some change out of the stash I keep in the ashtray, got Jay out of his crate, walked him to the tree line and back, and went inside.

Tom was standing behind a free-standing barrier on wheels that Marietta moved around the obedience area, giving trainers a mobile hideaway for training their dogs for the out-of-sight stays. As I walked toward him, I could see the dogs lined up along the far side of the ring at the other end of the building. Drake was two dogs from the end.

“Hey you,” said Tom.

“Hey yourself.” Jay wriggled up to him and got a chin scratch, and I kissed him, then said, “Your dog is up.”

One of Tom's endearing qualities is a mind as dirty as my own, and I had to laugh when he raised his eyebrows and said, “That's just my leash in my pocket.”

“No, I mean your Labrador Retriever. He's supposed to be in a down, right?” All the other dogs were lying down, but Drake was sitting.

Tom stepped to the end of the barrier and took a look. “Oh, man.”

“Want me to correct him?”

Tom held out his hand for Jay's leash and my training bag. The out-of-sight stays are very stressful for dogs and handlers alike, and sometimes a dog learns that if she breaks the stay, her person will come back. Having someone else put the dog back in place can break that pattern. I wasn't the best choice to correct Drake since I was his second-best person, but no one else was available, so off I went. When he saw me coming, Drake sank to the ground, put his chin on his paws, and conjured up his best Labrador sad eyes. I bent in front of him, put my hand around his muzzle, and, in my calm-and-in-charge voice, said “Down.” He was still in that position when I got back to Tom.

“He hasn't done that in a long time,” said Tom.

“Stress,” I said, taking back Jay's leash and my training bag.

“What's he have to be stressed about?”

“Not him. You. Me.”

“Right.” Tom asked Clay Philips how much longer they had, then asked me, “You still on for Thursday?”

Thursday?
“Yeah, sure.”

“You forgot.”

“No, I didn't forget.”
I did, but now I remember.
“Just a little preoccupied. So what time do you want to leave?”

Tom had been looking for a puppy for months. You would think it would be a snap to find one, since Labrador Retrievers have been the most popular breed in the U.S. for more than a decade. But Tom was determined to find a dog of type he loved—moderate size and build, strong work ethic, steady temperament—from a breeder who screened for inherited issues, socialized the puppies, treated the adults well, and didn't breed excessively. He had almost given up after several disappointments, but someone told him about a breeder they thought might fit the bill, so we were off to see her and her dogs.

“She has a litter on the ground, right?” I asked, meaning already born. I wondered whether we'd be bringing a puppy home with us.

“Yes, but they're only five weeks old. Anyway, this is just a look-see. I don't want a puppy until spring, and besides, this is a yellow litter. I'm thinking I should stick to black so all the dog hair on my clothes is the same color.”

I brushed some long white hairs from his pants and said, “Too late.”

When I looked back at his face, the muscles around Tom's eyes had tightened and he wasn't smiling. He said, “What?”

“What what?”

His right eyebrow rose, as if I should know what he was asking, but he didn't say anything.

Everyone else behind the barrier was so intent on their dogs' stays that they probably weren't listening, but I still wasn't comfortable talking openly about being a possible murder suspect. I edged Tom a few feet away from the others before I whispered, “The police came to talk to me this afternoon.”

“Me, too.”

“Really?”

“They didn't actually come. They offered to come to my office, or I could go to the station. So I went there after my last class.” My heart
went into sprint mode, but Tom looked like he'd just told me he went for bread and milk. He grinned and added, “I didn't want them
hauling me out of the university in handcuffs.”

“That's not funny.”

“Oh, come on,” said Tom. “More to the point, I didn't want the dean making a fuss about how bad it looks to have police questioning faculty.” He laughed. “Although on second thought, that might be kind of fun.” Tom and one of the deans had been sparring over
whether or not Tom could bring Drake with him to his office, some
thing he'd been doing for years.

I thought back to my own afternoon chat with the officers and felt a little sick. They must have called Tom right after they left my house. A scratch surrounded by fading blue bore witness to Rasmussen's backhand to Tom's cheek on Saturday, and I was sure the police would see physical assault as provocation. And Rasmussen's insinuations about making trouble for Tom with the university
could be construed as motive. What was it the cop shows say a
suspect needs? Motive, opportunity, and means. Tom had all three, at least from where the investigators stood.