Catwalk (14 page)

twenty-nine

Clay called time, so
Tom and the others returned to where they had left their dogs in out-of-sight stays. Jay and I found a chair by the adjacent ring where heeling practice was already underway. My conversation with Tom had left dancers clogging on my skull, so I got a cola from the machine, took two aspirins, and sat down for a moment. Marietta was in the center of the ring calling commands. She waved at me, then asked someone to take over for a few minutes. She stepped over the accordion fencing that defined the ring and sat down beside me. Jay leaned into her leg and she scratched the sweet spot over his hips, freezing him in place.

“What a screwed up weekend.”

I nodded. “What happened with the johnny business?” I'd gotten so wound up in Rasmussen's demise that I had almost forgotten about the crazy portable-potty chase.

Marietta rolled her eyes. “Was that the stupidest thing you ever heard of ? I mean, sled dogs? I wouldn't hitch a Pomeranian to a portable toilet, let alone two malamutes.” She let out something between a laugh and a snort. “Served her right. And John is threatening to sue her for damages. He says the unit is ruined.”

“John?”

“John Johnson owns Johnny-Come-Early, if you can believe that.”

“What's in a name?” I asked. We both chuckled, and I went on. “At least no one was really hurt,” I said. “It's a good thing he had just switched out the johnnies.”

“Took an hour to wash that crap out of her hair and off her skin.” Marietta said and wrinkled her nose. “Well, not actual crap. But that blue disinfectant stuff is clingy. Yuch. Had to use dog shampoo and stick her in the grooming tub. I hope I get my clothes back. I loaned her my favorite sweat pants. Gad, people.”

“Speaking of people
…
How long were the police here?”

“Hours. They finally let Clyde Williamson off the hook.” She was referring to the agility judge. “He flew in Saturday night and didn't have a car, plus no motive. He was pretty cranky about the whole thing.”

“I noticed that.”

“Yeah, we won't be hiring
him
again.” She stopped scratching Jay and told him to lie down. He looked at me for confirmation, then lay down across my feet. “The cops talked to me and to Jorge. He was pretty shook up,” said Marietta, “but I think that was more about those cats he's been feeding than about what's-his-name. What
was
his name? Rapscallion?”

“Rasmussen.” I wanted to ask her what else the police wanted to know, but my phone started to ring. “Shoot. I thought I turned that off,” I said. I checked my pants and jacket, then remembered that I had dropped the silly thing into my training bag. By the time I fished it out from under my spare leash, spilled liver treats, a dumbbell, a tennis ball, and a couple of toys I use in training, it was quiet. I looked at the missed-call number and said, “Hutchinson. Maybe I should call him back.”

Marietta didn't seem to hear me. “Jorge was pretty mad at that guy, though. He saw him throw something at that little mama cat in the afternoon, and later in the evening, after you left, he said he saw the guy chasing the cat out near the agility ring.”

“No! He came back onto your property?” The image of Rasmus
sen sitting in his car across the street came back to me. At the time, I thought he was watching for Louise to leave. She was having pizza with Alberta and some other folks, and I had no idea how long that little
soirée
lasted. Maybe he got tired of waiting for her. “And chasing a cat? Why would he do that?”

“That's what Jorge said, but it was dark out there, so maybe it wasn't the guy, Ratsass or whatever. Maybe someone was out there running the course without a dog. Practicing their handling moves. Who knows?” Marietta stood and stepped back into the ring. “Jorge yelled at whoever it was, but he was bringing a forty-pound bag of dog food in from his truck so he didn't go out there right then.”

“That's so weird,” I said. “Who runs around an agility course in the dark?”

Marietta shrugged. “The main lights were off, but there was some
light from the back of the building and the parking lot.”

“But Jorge wasn't sure it was Rasmussen?”

“Oh, he seemed pretty sure. He sputtered and swore while he dumped the dog food into the bin. Then he went back out to police the yard and said he'd take care of it.”

“Did he see anyone out there?”

“He said he saw someone walking along the edge of the parking lot, but not on the agility course. It was odd, since almost all of the competitors had left long before that,” she said. “He did say it wasn't Rasmussen though.”

“How did he know?”

“Too small.”

Marietta resumed control of the practice ring and I just sat there for a few moments. I should have called Hutchinson right then, but I didn't think I could stand to hear about any more friends being murder suspects and I couldn't think of any other reason he would be calling. I closed my eyes and pressed the cold pop can against one temple, then the other, then my forehead. The icy pressure loosened the pain a notch, but the harder I tried to disentangle my thoughts, the tighter they wound themselves.

Jay whined softly and shifted off my feet.

“Okay, you're right, Bubby,” I said, looking into his hopeful eyes. I strapped on my treat bag, and picked up my leash. “Come on, let's work a little.” I'd say I did all this training and competing for Jay, to channel his high-energy mind and body into acceptable activities, but the truth is that I do it for myself. Working with my animals never fails to center me. Besides, they're both so gorgeous, they take my breath away.

There were only a dozen human-canine pairs working in the main ring. Rhonda Lake and Eleanor were there, and several people I didn't remember seeing before. Probably recent graduates of the basic obedience course, I thought. Collin Lahmeyer waved at me, his Chesapeake Bay Retriever, Molly, at his side. I stepped into a gap in
the line circling the ring and glanced down. Jay looked up at me, al
ready aligned in perfect heel position, a jaunty little bounce in his step.

“Fast!” said Marietta.

The people in the ring shifted to jog speed. The more experienced
dogs sped up and stayed in position, adjusting their strides as needed. One of the new dogs, a big brindle boy who appeared to be
some sort of hound cross, bounced up and down, started to bay, and took off at a run. His owner, a thirty-something blonde in desperate
need of more secure footwear for dog training, pleaded, “Stop, Billy Bob! Billy Bob, stop! Oh!” Her cute little ballet flats pitter-pattered on the ring mats but gave her no traction at all. Billy Bob let out a long “Awooo!”

“Halt!” said Marietta.

Everyone pulled to a stop. Except Billy Bob. He was in full cry now, although I had no idea what he was chasing. Pure joy, probably.

“Billy Bob! Oh, oh, oh …” Billy Bob's owner sounded like she might start a full cry of her own, but I had to give her credit for hanging onto that leash. Her dog probably weighed nearly as much as she did, and he had the advantage of two additional legs and a low center of gravity.

Marietta tried to intercept Billy Bob, but she was too far away and he seemed to be focused on something near the pop machine by the far wall of the room. A voice in my head wondered
What is this, runaway dog week?
I shifted my focus from the hound and spotted a display of collars and leashes and, just beyond, something new. A rack of stuffed dog toys. I turned my gaze back to Billy Bob just as he leaped, trying to clear the folding gates that defined the ring's perimeter. It wasn't much of a hurdle for a big, leggy dog. Billy Bob rose a few inches off the ground, but he was handicapped by the woman who still clung to his leash. “Awooo!” he cried, and crashed head-first through the gate. The diamond-shaped opening slid over his head and neck and caught against his shoulders. Billy Bob's momentum slowed, but he kept running, bowing the center of the gate like an arrow, his own body the point he aimed at his target. The ends lifted off the stanchions as they stretched and flapped behind him like wings. His owner took several tripping steps, stumbled to her knees, and let go of the leash.

Giselle had appeared from the back of the building. For an instant she stood slack-jawed between Billy Bob and the toy display. Then she let out a scream, scooped Precious up from the floor, and scampered back the way she'd come in. Tom and the rest of the group in the other ring were turning toward the ruckus with various levels of comprehension.

Billy Bob folded his front quarters in an obvious attempt to stop, but he was off the mats and his elbows skidded across the smooth concrete. He crashed into the toys, knocking the rack up against the wall, and his wooden wings flapped and stretched open around him, wobbled, and finally stopped. Billy Bob pulled his head out of the gate and loped back to where his person crouched weeping on the floor. He sat in front of her, his body cocked sideways onto one hip and one long ear flipped rakishly back across his neck. He put a big paw on the woman's shoulder, an oversized pink-and-purple octopus dangling from his mouth.

thirty

By ten o'clock I
was snuggled into Tom's big cushy armchair, a fleece throw tucked around me and an “Archeologists do it in the dirt” mug of Irish coffee warming my hands. Tom sat facing me on the couch, feet stretched onto a hassock and a dog cuddled up to him on each side. Drake had rolled part-way over for a chest-and-belly rub. Jay was snuggled up close with his nose nearly touching Tom's and a love-gaze locking them together. The rest of the world receded and I knew somewhere deeper than words could reach that this was everything I had always wanted—love, loyalty, and my freedom to boot.

Jay lay down and heaved an enormous sigh, and Drake rolled fully onto his back. The spell was broken, but the afterglow lingered, even when Tom said, “You goofy dogs.”

I swallowed some more coffee and licked the whipped cream from my lips. “Why do you have an archeologist mug?” I asked, enjoying the low buzz as the whiskey spread itself out from my center.

“Gift from a cousin who calls me Indiana Saunders. He thinks all anthropologists are treasure hunters.”

I cocked my head at him.

“It's true, we are. But not all treasures are buried under the ground.”

“I wish I'd had my camera tonight.” Billy Bob's great escape kept rerunning in my mind.

Tom laughed. “That was a pretty spectacular crash into the display. I felt sorry for Billy Bob's owner, but it was funny.”

“But did you see him when he went back to her?” I asked. “Those beautiful eyes, and the paw on her shoulder.” My voice broke
on the final word and I almost burst into tears.

“Hey, you okay?” Tom started to get up, but I waved him off. “Is this the ‘I love dogs so much I get all choked up' thing or something else?”

He knows me too well.
He knows you just right
, whispered my snarky little inner demon.
Besides, your dog and cat love him and trust him. What more do you need?
It was true. They would have brought him home and kept him months ago.

I smiled at Tom, squirmed deeper into the chair, sipped my Irish coffee, and screwed up my courage. “Tom, I've been thinking
…
”

Drake snapped his head up and knocked into the mug in Tom's
hand, sending an arc of coffee into the air. “Hey!” yelled Tom, pulling his other arm free of Jay and trying to get up from under the dogs.
Drake froze, his lip caught on his canine and one ear folded back, and rolled his eyes toward the front of the house. Jay bellowed, “
Boof!
” The two dogs launched themselves from the couch, their back feet shoving with a combined force of a hundred and fifty pounds. The couch, and Tom, slid a couple of inches, and another slosh of coffee rocketed out of the mug.

Tom was on his feet, swearing, holding the mug at arm's length. I was up and untangling myself from the fleece wrap. I took the mug from Tom's hand and stifled myself long enough to ask, “Are you okay? You didn't get burned, did you?” When Tom said he was wet but not scalded, I started to laugh. And laugh.

“What the hell was that?” said Tom, pulling his wet shirt away from his chest with fingertips. He started to laugh, too.

I was still laughing when I followed the dogs and opened the front door just as the man outside reached for the bell.

“Oh!” said Hutchinson. At first I thought he was just surprised
that I had opened the door, but when I saw that he was rigid and the dogs were jostling and sniffing all around him, I realized he wasn'
t completely cured of his fears.

“Come on, guys, let him in,” I said, tapping each dog on the fanny and signaling them into the house. “You, too,” I told Hutchinson, and he relaxed a tad and followed me in. Tom told the dogs to lie down, and then he disappeared into his bedroom. Hutchinson started to sit on the couch, but I aimed him at my chair and said “Hang on.” I got a towel and, as I blotted the coffee from the couch, said, “Little mishap when the dogs heard you coming.” I spread a second towel over the wet spot and sat down. “Thank goodness for microfibers.”

Tom reappeared in a dry sweatshirt. They shook hands, but Hutchinson declined refreshments. “I can't stay, I just …” He sat forward in the chair, elbows on his knees. “Alberta was picked up for questioning this afternoon. I tried to call you …”

The phone call.
I had meant to call him back, but between Billy Bob's escapade, my headache, and the rainy drive, I had forgotten about his message. “Sorry, I would have called …”

Hutchinson nodded. “No problem.”

“Wait. What do you mean ‘picked up'? They interviewed
me
at home.”

“No, it's fine,” he said, not really answering the question. “She asked me to see if you could go feed her dogs.”

“Oh!” I glanced at my wrist, but didn't have my watch. “Are they
…
I can go now …”

“I took care of it,” said Hutchinson. “Twinkle needed her medicine, and Alberta was worried.”

That took me up short. Alberta had four Welsh terriers, and their barking could be intimidating if you didn't know them. Maybe Hutchinson was more cured of his cynophobia than I thought. “You went and fed her dogs?”

“Yeah,” said Hutchinson. “They know me, you know, from my visits to see the kitties.”

“Where is she now? Is she okay?” asked Tom.

“Yeah, she's back home now.” His forehead was wrinkled up, but he said, “She's mostly ticked off. But a little scared, I think.”

I thought back to my own adventures in police interrogation and said, “You guys are terrifying.”

Hutchinson's eyebrows shot up, and he stared at me and finally said, “I guess. Anyway, she's not off the hook yet. They—we, I guess—just don't have enough to arrest her.”

“Oh, come on.” I said. “Alberta? She's five feet tall and can't walk three feet without wheezing. Rasmussen was a big guy. She couldn't have killed him.”

“You'd be surprised what people can do given the right weapon,” said Hutchinson.

“Do they have a weapon?” asked Tom.

“They might,” said Hutchinson.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Do they have an actual weapon, or do they think they know what kind of weapon it was?” I asked.

“They found something,” said Hutchinson. “On Sunday. They just aren't sure yet that it was used to kill him.”

Tom and I asked simultaneously, “What is it?” and “Where was it?”

“They sort of have two things,” said Hutchinson.

“What do you mean, sort of ?” I asked.

“Look, I'm not on the case, so I'm getting bits and pieces as I can. I'm still on the potential suspect list myself, so some of the guys are careful what they tell me.” He stopped talking and signaled Jay
to come to him, then continued to talk while he scratched behind Jay's ears. “Remember I told you the E.M.T. found shi
…
, er, feces in the guy, Rasmussen's, wound and hair?”

I nodded.

“They found one of those whaddyacallums, you know, for picking up dog, umm, droppings …”

“Pooper-scooper?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

Tom and I exchanged a glance. “There were pooper-scoopers all over at the trial,” I said, mentally taking stock. “At least five of them. Probably more.” But even as I said the words, I heard Giselle telling me how she had swung and hit with a pooper-scooper, over and over and over. At the time I had assumed she had been hitting the ground. Now part of me wished I had asked her, and part of me didn't want to know. The old Lizzy Borden jump-rope rhyme surfaced from deep memory, but in a new version.
Giselle Swann had a scoop, Hit Rasmussen with the poop, When she saw
…
Hutchinson's voice broke in and drew me back to the moment.

“No, yeah, I know. No, this one was in the garbage. They're pulling prints and checking for trace, you know, blood or whatever. The handle was broken. Snapped through.”

“That would take a pretty good force,” said Tom. “Skulls just aren't that hard. I don't think the handle would snap from hitting the guy.”

The voice of reason. I thought I might be able to breathe again.

“I don't know,” said Hutchinson. “Just telling you what they found.”

“But prints? They're going to find just about everyone's prints, you know.” I tried to remember whether I had used any of the scoopers over the weekend. I didn't think so. I rarely do unless my pockets are out of plastic bags.

“I suppose,” said Hutchinson. “But placement of the prints will say a lot. You know, how the person gripped the handle.”

Then I remembered something. “You said they had two things, possible weapons. What's the other one?”

“Yeah, they found blood on that table thing.”

Table thing?
I stared at him.

“You know, that thing the dogs sit on.” Hutchinson used his hands to shape a square.

“The pause table?” said Tom. “Where the dogs sit or lie down during their runs?”

“Yeah. The pause table,” said Hutchinson. “But they don't know that it's his blood. Could be from a dog, right?”

“Could be,” I said, although it seemed extremely unlikely to me. I tried to remember where the pause table was in relation to the tunnel where Rasmussen's body was found. As I recalled, it was about twenty feet out and just off a beeline to the tunnel's mouth. I'd have to check my photos, although I had only taken a few that morning. I wasn't the official photographer, but I had gotten a few shots of my friends' runs.

Tom said, “Nobody hit him with a pause table, that's for sure. So it if
is
Rasmussen's blood, he must have fallen.” He looked at me, then at Hutchinson. “And that would make it an accident.”

Unless someone shoved him,
I thought.
Or tripped him, as I had done during the kerfuffle earlier on Saturday. Or whacked him with the pooper-scooper so that he fell and hit the table.
My imagination went wild and a series of candidates lined up in my mind—Alberta, Jorge, Giselle, Anthony Marconi, Rasmussen's not-so-grieving widow, Louise. Even the police officer sitting here petting my dog.

“Here's something funny, though,” said Hutchinson, although he wasn't laughing. “There were odd footprints on the table.”

That didn't seem all that odd. The ground had been soft and damp in spots, and probably a hundred dogs had landed on that table on Saturday. But then a horrifying thought hit me and I asked, “Bloody footprints?”

“No,” said Hutchinson, and I let out my breath. “Just a little mud. But Gerald, you know, one of the other cops? He's taken a lot of tracking courses and he hunts, too. He's the one that noticed them among the others.”

“And?” asked Tom.

“Cat. He said they were from a cat.”

Marietta had said that someone had been chasing a cat across the agility course. Or at least that was what Jorge told her.

Hutchinson gave Jay a last chin scratch, stood to go, and said, “I hope she didn't do it. But Alberta really hated that guy.”

Who didn't?
I thought.