Free Drop Dead on Recall by Sheila Webster Boneham Page A

questions.”
    “You don’t think she died from a bee sting?”
    “What do you think?”
    “I don’t know what to think,” I didn’t add that the more I learned the more confused I got. “She was in great shape and as far as I know had no other health problems. The two doses of epinephrin should have snapped her out of an allergic episode. I guess I think it makes no sense.”
    “Did Ms. Dorn have any enemies?”
    I didn’t like the direction the conversation was going, but what could it hurt Abigail now if I passed on what little I knew? If someone did kill her, maybe something I said would help the police figure out who. “I don’t know about enemies. She wasn’t very popular.”
    She pulled her beat-up little pad and a pen from her breast pocket, wrote something, then looked me in the eye, her question clear if unspoken.
    I went on. “You know, there’s always gossip. I’ve heard little snippets. Abigail was well known among dog people, and it’s been a shock. Someone you know dies suddenly, people are curious. Concerned.” Nosey.
    “And what’s the gist of the gossip?”
    “I don’t know that there is a gist. People want to know what happened. Some think Abigail died of a heart attack or a stroke.” Or meanness.
    Jo didn’t seem very interested in that kind of gossip. “She had enemies?”
    Enemies again. I retrieved a couple of clean mugs from the dishwasher, and poured the coffee, using the time to think. Don’t say too much, Janet. You don’t have any real information. But I couldn’t rid my mind of the disembodied words I’d heard at Dog Dayz: “I didn’t think Suzette meant it when she said she’d like to kill her.” Or the memory of Suzette herself, signaling her dog to bark during Abigail’s moment of silence. I set the mugs on the table and pulled a pint of hazelnut creamer from the fridge door. “Sugar?”
    She shook her head. “Love this stuff though!”
    “Do they know what killed her?”
    “I can’t comment on the case.”
    I took too quick a slurp of coffee, burning the tender spot behind my upper incisors, and struggled not to show the pain.
    She jotted something on her pad. “Ms. MacPhail, were you …”
    “Would you mind calling me Janet? Ms. MacPhail makes me want to put my bifocals on and my hair in a bun.”
    That seemed to relax her, and she told me to call her Jo. She smiled, leaned back in her chair, and set her pen down on the table. “Could I have more coffee? I woke up this morning with a headache and I think this is helping.”
    I poured her a second cup and asked if she’d like some aspirin, but she said she’d already taken several more tablets than medically advisable. The caffeine would have to do.
    Jay barked outside the back door. I was halfway there when he and Pip exploded into the kitchen. “You’re too smart for your own good, Bub.” Jay danced around me. “I’m going to have to change this handle back to a regular doorknob. I just had it put on a couple weeks ago, and he’s figured out how it works. As you can see.”
    I looked out the door before I closed it. The sun was hidden behind a bank of thunder heads, the patio freckled with raindrops. Fortunately, the dogs had stayed under the awning and were dry, because they were soon mugging Jo. She stroked both heads, one with each hand. “Nice dogs. Border Collies?”
    “The black and white one is. That’s Pip. He’s—or he was—Abigail’s dog. The one I brought home from the show. The other one, Jay, is an Australian Shepherd.”
    “Beautiful color.” She ran her fingers down Jay’s shoulder through black and gray and silver waves.
    “It’s called blue merle.”
    “I miss having a dog.” She sounded wistful. “Wouldn’t be fair though. I’m gone so much.” She glanced at her watch.
    “Jay, settle.” Pip apparently knew the command, too, because both dogs sprawled on the floor, bellies flat to the cool vinyl, panting and grinning.
    Detective Stevens picked up her pen