fifty-seven

Work called to me, and for the rest of the afternoon I did my best to focus on the business end of photography instead of murder and mayhem. Leo and Pixel were curled up together in a shallow box next to my big monitor and the sound of their purring was like a mental massage. Still, my mind insisted on wandering, and try as I might, I couldn’t keep the image of Ray’s body out of my head. It came to me at unexpected moments and left me slightly nauseated each time. When I realized I couldn’t push it completely away, I left my desk and lay down on the couch for, as my mother would say, a think. Jay was curled up at one end and his belly made a great foot warmer. I tucked one cushion under my head, hugged the one with the Aussie face embroidered on it, and returned to the scene of the crime.

I had been watching the sheep as they ate, and was startled by the clank of Evan’s bucket hitting the concrete apron outside the door. When I turned around, Evan was bent forward and moving away from the door. He’d been sick in the grass, as I recalled, after finding Ray’s body. If he was acting, the man had talent. Still, I could have overlooked something in the rush and horror of the situation, or he could have been responding to feelings of guilt rather than shock.

Jay lifted his head and cocked an ear toward the back of the house. It had been three-fifteen when I left my computer and I hadn’t been on the couch more than fifteen or twenty minutes. It wouldn’t be Tom. He had a meeting until four and then had to go home to pick up the Labbies and a few more boxes, so I didn’t expect him until a bit after five. A burst of panic shot me off the couch and into the kitchen. Did I lock the back door? On normal days, I didn’t lock it when I was home during the day, but ever since I’d met the boys from Cleveland, I had tried to remember to keep the house locked whether I was home or not.

The door was locked, and Jay was no longer interested in whatever had caught his attention. He was slurping water as if he hadn’t had a drink in days, his tags clanking against the water bowl. I patted his shoulders on my way to the fridge and said, “Pace yourself there, Bubby.” I stared into the refrigerator for a moment, looking for something to drink. I’d had the last diet root beer the day before. “Great, Janet,” I said, taking stock. “Three beers and two hard ciders. And a partridge in a pear tree.” Jay sat and watched me. “I don’t even have any milk. Can you believe it?” Judging by the look on his face, I’d say the answer was no.

As I was putting my shoes back on for a run to the store, I wondered whether Tom had anything planned for dinner. For about five seconds, I considered cooking something, but by the time I tied the second shoelace, I had come to my senses. I grabbed my tote bag, checked that all the doors were locked, and went out through the garage. A sharp wind had risen since morning, and the sidewalks were empty of dog-walkers and joggers.

As I backed up, something bumped under the back right tire and I heard scraping and grinding. What the …? I hit the brake and the back of the van slid an inch or two to the right. I stared at my ring, there on the wrong hand as a reminder. Now you tell me. The scraping and grinding was the sound of a seventy-four-dollar bag of premium dog food being pulverized into my driveway. Cha-ching!

I pulled forward to the sounds of more scraping and grinding and a thup-thup-thup from under the van. Several raindrops tapped the windshield for emphasis. I yanked the gear shift into what I thought was park, jumped out, and scurried around to the passenger side. Kibble and raindrops were strewn like coins a third of the way down the driveway. I’d been trying to clean up my vocabulary, but it seemed like the perfect time to use a few of those words, and I did. I’d gotten several out of my mouth when I noticed that the bag seemed to be moving up the driveway’s slope, toward the tire. At first, the image made no sense.

And then it did. My van was rolling backward. The tire bumpity-bumped again, tearing more paper and pulverizing more food. I hustled around the front of the van, raced beside it for a few steps, got past the open door, and jumped in. I hit the brake and jerked to a stop in the middle of the street. Something in my peripheral vision caught my attention and I turned just as a horn blared. A little red sports car waited for me to finish whatever I was doing. I mouthed “sorry” at the driver and turned to the gear shift indicator. The needle rested on N. I’d put it in neutral rather than park. Way to go, Janet.

The sound from under the van as I pulled forward was like a giant playing card in a bicycle’s spokes. In the spirit of closing the barn door after the horses had left, I put the van in park, turned off the engine, and removed the key before I got out to reconnoiter. What was left of the bag was caught under the bumper and a river of dog food ran down the driveway into the middle of the street. The red sports car ground about twenty bucks worth into the pavement
before wheeling up Phil Martin’s driveway and into his garage. The rain was serious now, and little rivulets were running down the driveway, rolling bits of kibble like edible river stones.

I got back into the van and tried to give the door a good therapeutic slam. Instead, it went thuk! and bounced away from the latch. I yanked the seatbelt out of the door and added more dog food to my list of errands.