Catwalk (23 page)

forty-seven

My house was quiet.
If I hadn't been nodding off on the couch with Leo purring on my chest and Jay mostly on my lap, all fifty-five pounds of him, I might have said it was too quiet for eight o'clock. As it was, though, I probably needed a little down time after the bone- and spirit-chilling events of the afternoon. The van had warmed me up on the drive home, but once I was there, it took only
five minutes outside with Jay to set my teeth to clacking again, even bundled up with coat, hat, and mittens. I fed the critters and opened a can of chunky vegetable soup, but once I had it in a bowl in the microwave, I realized there was no way around it. I was still chilled.

Twenty minutes later I stepped out of a hot shower, dried off, pulled off the shower bonnet I had pilfered from a motel ages ago, and jumped into pink polar fleece pajamas with dancing penguins, two pairs of thick slipper socks, and my ancient thick-chenille bathrobe.
Warm at last. My face felt chapped from the wind, so I captured my
crazy hair in a headband and slathered on some moisturizer. I gazed
at the frump looking back from my mirror and told her, “Just look what that silly man is missing.” My phone was on the counter beside the sink, and for half a second I considered taking a selfie, but quickly came to my senses. What kind of advertisement would that be for my own photography?

The soup came out of the microwave way too hot to eat, so I treated
it as a sort of inhalant while I munched crackers and sorted my mail from the past couple of days. I couldn't help noticing a pattern in the messages plastered across the junk-mail envelopes.
Don't Miss Out! Act Now!
…
Before it's too late!
I gathered them up and chucked them into the recycle bin.

Leo strolled into the kitchen and lay down with Jay on the big red dog bed in the corner. They both watched me as if waiting for an explanation. “What?” I asked. Jay swiveled his head and Leo tucked his front feet under his chest. “Just lie down,” I said, which was ridiculous since they already were.

I hunched over my soup and tested a spoonful. It was tomato-y and rich, and I closed my eyes and tracked the heat slipping through
my throat and chest and into my stomach. I tried to shut everything else out and let eating become a mindful meditation. Lift the spoon, hold while the good, earthy fragrance of roots and leaves and the fruit of the tomato vine rises into your consciousness. Blow gently. Let the fire go but hold the warmth and take it in.

Jay sighed and I looked at the big red bed. He and Leo had apparently given up on me and were sleeping, my little orange cat snuggled tight against the side of my dog's head. Suddenly I realized that I missed the big black dog. It wasn't so much that Drake and Tom were absent tonight. That wasn't unusual, since we spent maybe half our nights together. But knowing they would soon both be gone for months, maybe a year, maybe even longer, created a gaping void in what had become, over the previous months since I'd met them, my life.

If that's what he wants, fine,
I thought. I cleared the table and pu
t the kettle on. Goldie's lights were on and there were two cars in her driveway and two more parked at the curb. Must be her book club night, or meditation, or
…
I was happy for her that she was back in the social swing that she had let go while she was ill, but a little disappointed that she wasn't available for a chat. I walked to the big red bed, squatted down, and stroked Jay and Leo. “At least we have each other, right boys?” Leo opened one eye, gave me the “I'm sleeping” look, and curled up. Jay stretched his back legs and relaxed back into his snooze.

I sat down at the table with a cup of Earl Grey and unwrapped a bar of dark chocolate, because if nearly freezing to death isn't a reason to eat chocolate, I don't know what is. As the bittersweetness spread across my tongue, my thoughts spread out as well, beginning with events of the afternoon. Who in the world had taped that odd threat to my windshield, and why? I had been threatened before for taking photos of things someone wanted to remain unseen, but images of dormant woods and wetlands in the bleakness of November didn't seem worth the trouble. Or was it because of my involvement, sparse as it was, with Alberta's cat colony? And who in the world was that creepy person who was, apparently, stalking me? There was something familiar in the posture, but I couldn't put the pieces together.

My thoughts traveled back, then, to earlier events. The thought of those ugly chunks of rock rendered even uglier by the orange spray
paint made me smile. I couldn't understand why anyone would think those bland bits of limestone made for a better pond's edge than the natural grasses and reeds, and the thought of destroying habitat that nurtured the trilling blackbirds and myriad other creatures filled me with fury and hollowed me out all at once. Did the people who made these decisions simply not understand the environmental impact, or was there more to it? I thought about the little group who had been there to survey the area that was at risk, and that led my wandering mind back to Tom.

Admit it
, said my Janet demon.
You think about Tom all the time, even when you're not thinking about him.

I moved on to thoughts of the police car, and Robin's friend being guided into it, handcuffs on her wrists, the police officer's hand on her head, and defiance on her face. Who else was in that car?
Someone had been arrested for vandalizing the rocks and the bulldozer. That would delay destruction of the pond's edge by a day or two at best, I knew, unless the activists were successful in their legal efforts. I decided to call a few people later and see whether my photos would be of any use to them. I wished I had gone out in summer as I'd talked about. The greens of summer are much more appealing than browns and grays.

Browns and grays. Tom flashed into my mind's eye again, the brown of his eyes, the gray edges of his hair.

Go away.

Dammit, come back
.

What time is it?
All my time-keeping devices were in the other part of the house, so I pulled my robe around me and padded off to the bathroom. In my half-frozen state when I got home, I had tossed my jeans into the hamper without emptying the pockets. I found them under several other articles of clothing and pulled out my cell phone and my watch. It was almost nine. I had two messages.

The first came in late afternoon, and I recognized the number. Giselle. I realized for the first time that I hadn't seen her with the environmental group at the pond. She had been pretty excited about the trip when I talked to her at Dog Dayz and I had expected her to be there. Something must have come up. I'd call in a few minutes.

The other message was from Tom. “Hi, you
…
Sorry we didn't get to talk today. It didn't seem like the right place
…
Anyway, I'm glad your mother is doing better.”
Oh, crap, I need to call Norm and Bill
, I thought, still listening to Tom's message. “So, call me when you get this, okay? It's, uh, seven p.m. on Wednesday. I
…
Okay, call me.”
There was a long silence, as if he might have wanted to say something else, before the message cut off.

Something told me I wasn't going to enjoy either conversation, and I had an almost overwhelming urge to turn off both phones and crawl into bed with my dog and cat and a good book.

forty-eight

Leo got up, stretched,
and strolled over to rub himself against my fleece jammies. One second he was on the floor, the next he was on the table, leaning toward me with his squinty “I love you” look. We bumped noses and I said, “So, Catman, we didn't get our practice session in today.”

He yawned, which I took to mean he could run the agility course
backward with his eyes closed. But his eyes were wide open and he was looking right into me. I stroked his head and he pushed the top of it into my palm. I glanced at Jay. He was on his back, hips rolled one way and front legs the other, like a loosely wrung towel. His head was tilted back and gravity had pulled his upper lips into a passive snarly face. I looked at Leo and said, “Your brother looks like a doofus.”

He said,
mmmrrrwwwwllll
.

“So, what do you think?” I asked my cat. “Should I return those calls?”

“
Mmmrrrwwl
.”

“Should I call Giselle first, or Tom?”

He kept his opinion on that to himself and jumped down, so I pushed Tom's speed dial button and was about to push “call” when my land line rang. I picked it up.

“Janet, I'm so upset? I don't have a lawyer, should I talk to your, Bill's
…
you know, I don't know …”

When she stopped, I said, “Giselle? What's happened? Why do you need a lawyer?” And suddenly I knew who was behind the tinted window in the back of the police car. I started to laugh, not because I wished her trouble with the police, but because it made me happy to know that Giselle was progressing from passive-
aggressive silliness to full-out civil disobedience.

“What's funny?” she asked, more than a hint of hurt in her voice.

“No, it's not funny,” I said. “Giselle, did you spray paint those rocks?
”

“Yes?”

“Well done!”

“Really?” her tone shifted to something like tentative satisfaction.

“O
h
yeah. Brilliant, really,” I said. “Although bummer getting caught.”

“I'm out on bail?” Her voice lost its confidence. “They have evidence, they say …”

I cut her off. “Right, the nosy old neighbor saw you do it. Call my brother-in-law Norm in the morning. If he can't handle it, he'll refer you to another good attorney. But I bet they'll back off. They aren't going to want the publicity.”

“No, Janet, I mean, yes, I need an attorney, but it's not the stupid rocks,” she said. “It's murder. They think I killed that Rasmussen guy.”

That shut me up for a few seconds. Finally, I said the only thing I could think of. “What?”

She described her arrest, and I asked, “Are you okay? I mean, if you want you can come over here, stay in my guest room. You and Precious are welcome.” I thought about her little dog and added, “And Precious is welcome here if you need a place for him, you know, for a while.”
Like twenty-five to life
, I thought with a jolt.

“No, I'm okay. My friend is here.” There was a long pause, and then she said, “Thank you for not asking.”

“Not asking what?”

“If I killed him.” She hung up.

I knew she didn't kill him. At least I knew it until I remembered her telling me about whaling away with the pooper-scooper in a fit of anger. Could Giselle actually have killed Rasmussen? I flashed back to another time and realized that I had suspected Giselle of murder once before. But I barely knew her then, and she had changed so much since those days that I had almost forgotten. But do people really change that much? I had thought her capable of murder at one time, so why not now? Then again, I had been wrong that other time, and besides, what real motive did she have? She hadn't liked the way Rasmussen treated his wife, or my mother and her beau Anthony Marconi, but that hardly seemed cause to kill the man. She was certainly angry when he yelled at her and—worse—at her dog, Precious. Still, it was a huge leap from there to murder.

Besides, there were more practical issues. I wasn't sure Giselle could have managed it physically. Rasmussen had not been a small man, and he had the power of intimidation on his side. I just couldn't imagine Giselle mustering enough confidence to attack the man and do him in.

What if Goldie was onto something with her
Orient Express
comment? What if several people, all bubbling over with motives and emotions, had teamed up to do away with Charles Rasmussen and his belligerent, evil ways? I didn't imagine some grand conspiracy, mind you, just a perfect storm of proximity, opportunity, and righteous anger.

“Come on, Jay,” I said, refilling my mug and padding off to the living room. My thick fluffy slipper socks made a satisfying
whoop whoop
on the carpet. I plumped a couple of pillows against one arm of the couch, stretch my legs out, and covered up with my old blue afghan. Jay didn't need a second invitation to hop up and sprawl with his chest on my thigh and the rest of him stretched toward my feet. I wriggled us both around until I was comfortable and picked up my phone.

Tom answered on the third ring. “Hi you.”

“Hi yourself.”

“Are you okay?”

Aside from insane from trying to make myself ask what you're up to and furious that I even have to?
“What do you mean?”

“You sound like you're stuffed up.”

“Oh.” He was right. I felt a bit stuffy. “Hang on.”

I tried to reach the box of tissues on the coffee table but they were just out of reach. “Jay, take it,” I said, pointing at the box with my vertically flattened hand. He leaped up, shoving a front foot into my gut for his launch off the couch and over the table. “Oww!” Jay took no notice of my pain. He was intent on the job at hand. He grabbed the new copy of
Outdoor Photography
from the table and brought it to me. “Thanks, Bubby, but that's not it.” He grinned, wriggled, and cocked his head. I pointed at the tissues again and said, “Take it.”

Jay tried to grab the box from the side but it was too big for his mouth, and the harder he tried, the faster it slid until it fell off the table. He tried a couple more times, then looked at me for help. I knew he would figure it out, so I just waited while he stared at the box for a few seconds. Then he grabbed hold where the slit for tissues is and brought it to me. The black of his nose was pugged up against the edge of the cardboard slot and he sneezed when I took the box. “You want one, too?” I asked him as I pulled out a tissue and blew my nose. Jay hopped back onto the couch and curled himself around my feet.

“Okay, all clear,” I said into the phone.

“What was all that?” asked Tom.

“Jay had a little trouble with the tissue retrieve.”

Tom chuckled, then asked about my mother. I was just going to tell him about the vandalism of the feral cat colony when he said, “I'm in Indy.”

But we're going to Indianapolis tomorrow
. “You are?”

“Yeah, I tried to call you earlier to see if you could get away.” He seemed to be waiting, but I couldn't think what to say. I was too busy trying to pick my heart up off the floor. “Tommy's flying in tomorrow afternoon. It was a lot cheaper to Indy, and since I was headed there anyway …”
You mean
we
were headed that way
, I thought.

“Okay,” I said finally. “We can go see the puppies next week.” I grabbed another tissue as my nose started to run.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh …”

“You're going to see them?” I worked at keeping my mixed emotions out of my voice. “That makes sense, I guess.” I blew my nose as quietly as possible.

“I already did. This evening. Are you catching cold?”

I'm not sure which was more disappointing, this awkwardness with Tom or missing the chance to play with a bunch of baby Labs. “No, I just got a little chilled out there this afternoon.”

He asked about both photo shoots, the woods and wetlands and the feral cats, and I gave him a very short synopsis, then asked, “So what did you think?”

Any other guy might think I was still talking about the after
noon's outing, but not Tom. He sounded like he could still feel those roly-poly little bodies all around him. “They were great.
B
arely
six weeks old, nine little yellow girls. And I really like the bitch.” Meaning the mother of the puppies.

“Who's the breeder?” I know a lot of the active dog people in Indiana, so there was a good chance I knew this one.

“Jill Peabody. She just moved here from North Dakota. She doesn't breed much, just a litter every three or four years so she can keep one for herself.” I knew Tom had walked away from a number of breeders for a variety of reasons, including some who he thought had too many litters. “You should have seen them, Janet.” I held the phone at arm's length and mouthed
seriously?
I missed a little of his tale, but he never noticed. Puppy talk does that to people. “Is your computer on? You have mail.”

“Ohmagosh,” I said. Each one was cuter than the next.

What I wanted to ask next was
Do you really think this is a good time to get a puppy, with your big sabbatical plans and all,
but what came out was, “I thought you were going to wait for a black male in the spring?” When he didn't say anything, I started to laugh.

“What?” he asked.

“About that list of possible names.” Tom had been throwing out potential names for a month or so. Names like Jim and Gander and the like.

“Yeah,” he said, and I could hear the smile that I knew was curling around the corners of his eyes. “Better start a new list.”