Catwalk (9 page)

eighteen

The euphoria I felt
after Leo's spectacular agility performance stayed with me through most of the afternoon. I served as leash runner for half of Tom's class, moving leashes from the start gate
to the end gate for competitors to collect on their way out. Drake had an all-but-flawless run in the excellent class. He lost a few seconds when he sat up part-way through the down-stay on the pause table, but otherwise ran clean and true. Tom did a little victory jig on their way out, garnering a wolf whistle from somewhere in the stands. Rhonda Lake and her lovely Eleanor had a clean run that finished
Eleanor's AX—Agility Excellent—title.

Jay's class was next and, not to be outdone by Leo, he ran fast but with a close eye on my directions and earned his first AX leg with third place. I dished out a half dozen quarter-size hunks of roasted chicken from the container in my ice chest and played a nice game of tug-the-bungee-duck, to Jay's growly delight. I took him for a short walk, then put him in his crate with a new marrow bone and fresh water inside and two bright new ribbons hanging on the door. I spent another three-quarters of an hour helping in the ring, and then Ray Williams, the chief ring steward, said he had plenty of people if I wanted to take a breather.
Time to shop
, Janet demon whispered. I checked Jay and Drake and Leo, then shoved a couple of twenties and my credit card into my pocket, locked my billfold in the van's console, and closed the door.

Something rustled in the tall grass across from my van and I stood still to see what was there. Nothing for a moment, and then a pair of bright yellow-orange eyes appeared among the dry brown stalks. “Hello,” I said, and knelt. “You must be Jorge's little rainbow girl.” The cat stepped toward me and made a meow-face, though I didn't hear anything. “Would you like something to eat?”

I rinsed out a plastic coffee-cup lid and filled it from the container of cat food I'd brought with us. “Here you go,” I said, moving slowly toward the cat. Her coat was, as I'd been told, a glorious mix of colors—black and orange and gray and white—all swirling and mingling in wild patterns. She mouthed another silent comment and watched me but didn't move away, and as soon as I backed off, she sniffed the food and took a bite. I left her in peace and set out to find Jorge, among other things I needed to do.

It was just after three, but we still had a nice crowd of spectators outside watching the final canine runs and inside looking at the various felicentric exhibits and, of course, the vendors. Alberta had five or six people at her table so I moseyed down to the local cat fanciers' table where a handsome Birman sprawled across a variety of handouts on everything from litter and scratching posts to cat training to health issues and care. A little girl just tall enough to reach comfortably across the table stood with her hand resting on the Birman's shoulder, fingers wedged in under the strap of his harness, eyes fixed on the cat's beautiful face. I swear he was smiling back at her, and I could hear him purring from the other end of the table.

My favorite vendor's booth featured gorgeous dog collars, leashes,
harnesses, and show leads bedecked with ribbons, fabric, and, in a few cases, charms and glittery stones. I didn't see anything I needed for my guys, but a navy-blue fabric collar embroidered with ducks —five different species—caught my eye. It would look great on Drake.
Yeah, until it soaks in lake water or snags a gezillion burrs,
whispered the voice of caution. I smiled at the booth's owner. “I'll think about it,” I said, and headed for the exit, amazed that I'd spent a mere six dollars for a catnip mouse and two homemade ginger dog biscuits that smelled good enough to eat.

I was halfway back to my van when raised voices near the ring
caught my attention. The sun was hanging just above the tops of the
naked trees clustered along the edge of the property, and I raised a hand to shield my eyes and squinted to see what was going on. Alberta and Louise stood shoulder-to-shoulder, and both seemed to be talking at once, but a low-slung blue spruce blocked my view of the rest of the players. Candace and Rudy Sweetwater walked over from their car. Candace stood beside Louise, Rudy off to the side. His habitual sullen disinterest had been replaced by a fixed glare and clenched jaw, but I couldn't see who had inspired his change in demeanor.

A man's voice broke through the ambient sounds of people talking and leaves stirring in the wind. An angry voice. I had heard it before and knew its owner even before I rounded the spruce and saw Charles Rasmussen reach past Candace Sweetwater, making her recoil, and grab his wife by the arm.

“Stop this nonsense! You're coming with me,” he pulled Louise two
stumbling steps forward and I caught sight of Anthony Marconi.
Rasmussen shook a finger in the older man's face and shouted, “And
you are moving to St. Agnes's Home tonight. It's all arranged.”

Louise tried to pull away and Rasmussen shook her by the arm. Then everything seemed to happen at once.

Alberta shouted something incomprehensible and shoved with both hands against Rasmussen's midriff.

Candace shoved Rasmussen's shoulder with both hands. He called
her a stupid bitch, and Rudy howled and flew at Rasmussen, both arms swinging. Rudy's mother grabbed him around the waist and pulled him away from Rasmussen.

Marconi threw a punch that missed Rasmussen's chin and glanced
off his shoulder.

Jorge appeared, waving a water jug and yelling in Spanglish. All I could make out was “not wetback” and “little cat.”

Rasmussen shoved Marconi, who took a dozen stutter-steps back
ward before he found his balance.

Louise flailed her free arm at her husband and screamed, “Let me go! You're not doing this to me again! Not ever!”

Tom ran in from somewhere and tried to pull Rasmussen away, saying, “Okay, calm down everyone, let's ta …” He was cut short by the back of the bigger man's hand to his cheek.

I ran toward the fray, wondering vaguely how much clobber power two medium dog biscuits in a plastic bag might wield if I swung
really hard.

Rasmussen took a step toward the parking lot, dragging Louise by the arm. She stumbled and lost one of her shoes.

Tom came back at Rasmussen, a look in his eye that I hope never
to see again. Tom's shoulder dropped back and I knew he was winding up a punch, so I was ready when Tom snarled, “Coward.” Rasmussen's upper body swiveled toward Tom, but his feet were still moving in his original direction. Rasmussen still had hold of Louise, but he swung his free arm at Tom. Alberta brought her cross-body purse around at the end of the shoulder strap and caught Rasmussen in the ear. Marconi took a one-handed swing at Rasmussen with his fancy walking stick but came up short and knocked his own hat off. Tom's arm shot toward Rasmussen's face, but I ducked in close and kicked my foot into the oaf's line of travel and the two men never connected. Rasmussen's foot sent a burst of bright pain up my shin and his body seemed to rise off the ground, and then he fell, hard and heavy. Louise went down, too, but Rasmussen lost his grip on her and she rolled away from him. Her father and Alberta helped get her up and out of the way. Candace Sweetwater had a death grip on her wild-eyed son.

“The police are on their way!” Marietta Santini arrived at a run and I half expected her to pin Rasmussen to the ground with a chair as she might an aggressive dog. Instead she pointed at him and snarled, “What's your name?”

He struggled to his feet, his eyes narrowed into a piggish squint and his breathing choppy and loud.

“I'm Charles Rasmussen.” His face was a shade somewhere between cranberry juice and grape jelly and his remaining hair stood away from his scalp at an odd angle. “You're all going to be sorry!” He squared off with Marietta. “And who the hell are you?”

Marietta snorted. “I'm the woman who's going to swear out as many complaints against you as I can. Now get off my property.”

Rasmussen swayed a little, though whether from fury or pain I couldn't tell. He cracked his neck to the side and brushed a leaf off
his sweater. “You people are pathetic. You,” he glared at Tom. “I know
who you are. I have friends at the university, you know.” Rasmussen looked at each of us in turn. “I have friends everywhere. Even,” he nodded toward the driveway, where Homer Hutchinson had just emerged from his unmarked car, “among the police.” He sputtered something incoherent at me, then turned his venom on Alberta. “I've taken care of those damned cats of yours. Filthy things. Cats and rats at one blow.” Rasmussen let out what might have been a laugh. He pivoted toward the parking lot, but turned back and shouted at his wife and father-in-law. “You'll get nothing. Nothing. And you, old man. Just wait.” He climbed into his luxury SUV and sent gravel flying as he gunned it onto the road.

Everyone stood in a stunned little cluster assessing the damage until Alberta broke the silence. “What has he done? What did he mean?”

We all looked at her and I asked, “What are you talking about?”

“He said he'd ‘taken care of' the cats.” Her hair seemed to be standing on end, and she turned wide eyes toward Louise. “Dear God, what has he done?”

Louise was a bit quicker on the uptake than I was, maybe because she knew the jerk so well. She fished her phone from her purse and
handed it to Alberta. “Call Sally Foster. Number 4 on my speed dial. Have her get some others to start looking.”

Alberta's eyes went wide, and she murmured “Oh no oh no oh no” as she waited for someone to answer. Then she spoke quickly. “Sally, please please. I'm on the other side of town. Please get some people and go check all the places the cats hang out. I think …” She made a strangling sound and burst into tears.

Louise grabbed the phone and spoke into it. “Sally, it's Louise. I think Charles may have put poison out for the cats. Please get some people out right now and check.” She looked at Alberta and listened, then ended the call. “Her book club is there. They're all going out to check everywhere. She'll call me back.”

“Oh no oh no.” Alberta's eyes were red. “I have to go …”

But Hutchinson wouldn't let any of us leave until he got statements from us. “I think we should have a paper trail with this guy,” he said. He interviewed Alberta first and she was about to leave when Louise's phone rang.

Louise listened, then told us, “They've looked everywhere they could think of, even under the shrubs around the golf course. No sign of anything.” Louise patted Alberta's shoulder and went on. “They picked up all the food that was out, and they've even emptied the storage containers. Sally's husband is cleaning them, and Chris Schneider is off to get more food to replace what they've tossed.”

Alberta blew her nose and said, “Oh, they're all so, so
…
Why would
he do such a thing?”

“Chris is a chemist. He's going to check a sample of the cat food, at least that's what Sally said. They'll dispose of it all just in case, but they want to know whether Charles actually put anything in it.”
Louise pulled herself up straighter, and said, “That's Charles for you. I doubt he really did anything. There was hell to pay last year when Beryl Reese's husband put rat poison in his shed and the neighbor's
dog ate some. Charles wouldn't risk the lawsuit. He just thought of it and said it to scare you. To hurt you.” She laid a hand on Alberta's arm. “Sally said they'll all take turns checking on the cats this evening, just in case. But believe me, Charles is just plain full of it.”

“I wouldn't put anything past him,” said Candace. She hugged Alberta and Louise and said, “It's going to be okay. He'll get his one of these days.” She put an arm over Rudy's shoulder. As they walked away, I heard Rudy say, in a tone that made the hair on my arms tingle, “I hate him.”

Hutchinson took the rest of our statements. He also asked around and took the names and emails of five people who had gotten some or all of the incident on video. When he was gone and the day's events were officially a wrap, Alberta, Louise and her father, and a few others decided to order a pizza and invited us to join them, but Tom and I were ready to go home. I started to get into the van, but passed the keys across the front seat and said I had something to tell Marietta.

I found her setting up the last of the obstacles for the next morning's class. “Don't look around or make a production of it, but be sure you lock everything up.” I nodded toward the empty restaurant across the street. Dog Dayz was well lighted, inside and out, but dusk was coming on fast and it was hard to see beyond the perimeter of lights.

“That's him? The car over there?”

“He came back about ten minutes ago. He's been there ever since.”

nineteen

The smallest dogs ran
first on Sunday morning. Roman Markoff's Toy Poodle, Monet, was on fire over the first three jumps, the dog walk, the tire jump, the weaves. Then he dashed into the tunnel, had a barkfest inside, and finally shot out the other end to finish the course just in time to qualify. He was followed by several Pomeranians, a Toy Poodle, Giselle Swann and her Maltese, Precious, and a long-haired Chihuahua.

“Do they seem slow through the tunnel to you?” Tom stood beside me, arms crossed and baseball cap pulled low against the sun.

“A little,” I said. The tunnel was set up with a ninety-degree bend
in
the middle, half of it running parallel to the dog walk, and the other part passing beneath the elevated horizontal board. “Maybe the light
inside is funny?”

The last dog of the eight-inch class skipped the tunnel entirely, so didn't qualify. Tom and I ran onto the course at Marietta's signal to reset the jumps to twelve inches for dogs eleven to fourteen inches tall.

The first dog on course was a Pembroke Welsh Corgi. I didn't know her, so assumed she was from out of town. She came in barking and earned an NQ—a non-qualify score—at the first jump, which she by-passed entirely. From there on, though, she ran as fast her as her short legs would carry her until she reached the tunnel. She entered it at a good clip but shot right back out the end she'd gone in, provoking pockets of laughter outside the ring. Her handler tried to send her back in, but no dice. They finished the rest of the course and left the ring.

Next up was Tess, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel from South Bend. I knew her and her owner, Joan something, from trials around
the state. Tess ran at a steady pace, tail wagging the whole way. She
seemed to take a long time through the tunnel, but at least she came out the correct end and finished her run within the time limit.

I was beginning to think there really was something wrong with the obstacle. Most dogs love the tunnel once they learn to run through it. A lot of agility people swear there's a suction effect because so many dogs add an extra tunnel or two to their runs. Then again, light, wind, and setting can make familiar objects look strange, for dogs as for us.

The twelve-inch class wrapped up ten minutes behind schedule. Two more dogs, a Dachshund and a Miniature Schnauzer, negotiated the tunnel, and five others skipped it one way or another. I thought about taking a peek inside as we reset the jumps, but the judge seemed impatient to keep things rolling, so I let it go.

The first dog in the sixteen-inch class was Caper, a little red-tri Aussie from Toledo. I needed to get Jay ready for the next height group, but decided to watch Caper run first. Her owner, Bud Monroe, was a fire fighter. He was also a member of a wilderness search-
and-rescue team, and Caper was his SAR dog as well as his agility teammate. I had photographed them during a training exercise a few months earlier, and I knew that Caper had recently found a missing four-year-old who wandered away from a campsite near Lake
Erie.

Caper waited at the start line with her front end down, fanny in the air, nubby tail wagging. Her whole body quivered and she let out a series of staccato barks. Bud gave the signal and she was off, her red coat flashing like sparks in the wind. She cleared the first three jumps, sped over the dog walk, sailed through the tire jump, whipped through the weave poles, and shot into the tunnel. And then she backed out the way she had entered, lay down, and started to bark.

Bud, who was sprinting to the next obstacle, spun around and stared at his dog. The judge muttered something I couldn't make out, and a collective sigh of regret rose from the spectators. If it had been any other dog, I would have seen just a performance slip-up, but I knew what Caper's behavior meant in other contexts. I felt a little chill and thought,
this can't be good.

“What's she doing?” Giselle had come up beside me.

Tom and I answered in unison, “Indicating.”

“What?”

Bud ran toward Caper. She stopped barking but held her position, flicking her gaze from the tunnel to Bud and back. Marietta Santini stood across the ring from me, one hand across her mouth.

I spoke just above a whisper. “She's indicating a find. There's something in the tunnel.”

“What do you mean?” asked Giselle.

“She's an SAR dog,” said Tom. “There's something in the tunnel.”

No
, I thought.
Not something.

Someone.

Bud signaled Caper to stay and knelt at the opening to the tunnel. He said something I couldn't make out and disappeared into the vinyl tube. Marietta climbed over the rope that defined the ring and ran to the tunnel. Tom did the same. Marietta bent to look inside, then straightened, patted her pockets, and shouted something at the judge, then at whoever might be listening.

“Phone! We need a phone!”

My first thought was that an animal was in the tunnel, injured or dead. It was possible, I supposed, since the equipment sat out all night. Someone's dog? One of the cats that lived in the alley?
Oh, please, not the little rainbow mama.
A raccoon or possum or
…
Vet
, I thought.
Marietta's going to phone the vet on call for the trial.

I climbed over the rope and joined the little group at the mouth of the tunnel. “Here!” I said, offering the phone. “What is it?” From the edge of my vision I saw Tom crawl into the other end of the tunnel and then back out.

Marietta pushed the phone back at me and said, “Call an ambulance.”

My breakfast turned over and I felt my knees start to fold.
Not again
, I thought. I sank to the ground. I managed to hit 9-1-1, but
when
I tried to speak, nothing came out. Marietta took the phone from me and gave the operator the information, then tossed it back at me.
The morning air was comfortable, but the night's frost hadn't completely left the grass and the cold seeped through my jeans and into my legs. But that wasn't what made me shiver.

“I can't believe this,” I said, mostly to myself. I'd been down this road twice in the past half year and as much I wanted—needed—to know who was in the tunnel and how badly hurt she or he was, I couldn't ask. I looked the questions at Tom.

His mouth was tight, lips narrow, and when he spoke it was not to answer my question. “Call the police.”

“Tom?”

“It's Rasmussen,” he said, his tone flat. “He's dead.”