Chapter Thirty-Eight
We settled in the living room. Teague and I on the couch, with his arm around my shoulders, while Murphy sat pressed against his knee and Gracie rested her ribs on my feet and her chin on Teague’s.
Clara grinned briefly from the easy chair.
“Had you met the Swindells or Georgers before the first training class?” Teague asked us.
That reminded me I’d already given him background unintentionally.
“Not me,” I said.
Clara shook her head. “Can’t swear I haven’t seen them around town. I suppose especially Damon, since he grew up in the county. But if I did, it wasn’t memorable. They didn’t look familiar at that first class.”
“Let’s talk about that first class,” Teague said. “What were your impressions, if you can weed out what came later?”
“Mmm. First impressions.” I closed my eyes, remembering watching their entrance to the training area. No need to distract Teague with Berrie’s involvement. “Damon Swindell made me think of Gordon Gekko from those Wall Street movies.”
“Oh, Michael Douglas,” Clara murmured. “Uh-huh.”
I continued, “He wasn’t as distinguished as Douglas. Blander and without the intelligence behind the eyes. Not even the intelligence for evil like the Gekko character.
“It was like he was trying so hard to seem tough and powerful that it called attention to the fact that he wasn’t. I’d say he had a compulsive need to be admired.”
I opened my eyes.
Clara wiggled her shoulders. “Well, he wasn’t. Admired, I mean. As for the rest of what you said, that’s exactly right. All of it. You are good, Sheila. You caught him exactly.”
“What was your first impression of them, Clara?” Teague asked.
“None of them knew dogs,” she said immediately. She tipped her head. “The two men were more interested in their respective dogs than either woman was, but seemed like that was to score points off each other. Not for the dogs themselves.
“Neither of the guys was particularly adept with the dogs. Damon too harsh, Bryon too bendable. And the dogs knew it. Made them uncomfortable. They’re uncomfortable with Pammy and Zoley, too.”
That sharpened his attention. “How do you know that? I heard Donna had both dogs.”
“She did over the weekend, but Pammy and Zoley must have taken them back, because they brought the dogs to training last night.”
“Did they?’ He hadn’t known that.
“Not that they did much,” Clara said disapprovingly. “The humans, I mean — Pammy and Zoley. You know dogs pick up a lot about people—”
He made a noncommittal sound. Clara took it as agreement.
“—and truly are good judges of character.”
“Not enough studies yet,” I demurred. “Dogs can certainly read body language — human and canine. Likely faster and better than us.”
“Because the early dogs had to in order to survive,” Clara said.
“That’s one theory. They’re also way better than us at picking up pheromones. They have Jacobson’s organ — which we lack — for picking up chemicals that tell them about our emotions, hormones, health.”
“That’s how they can alert to medical issues?” Teague asked.
“Honed by training. Some theorize dogs aren’t as good at picking up psychopathic tendencies because that’s associated with diminished emotional states.
In other words, those with psychopathic tendencies tend not to give off the chemicals dogs pick up on, because they’re not feeling the emotions as much as non-psychopaths do. ”
“Kit?” Teague asked in shorthand for whether I’d learned this from my great-aunt.
“A couple research events she included me in.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Clara said darkly, “because Lucifer isn’t comfortable with Pammy and she showed psychopathic tendencies last night.”
“She did?” Teague asked.
“She kicked Lucifer.”
“She didn’t actually kick him,” I objected. “True, her foot came in contact with him and used that to urge him forward, but it wasn’t a kick the way it’s being talked about around town. The sheriff’s department shouldn’t read deep meaning into it. It was more a butt-scooch with her foot.”
Teague was watching me. “First, you don’t need to defend her against me or the department taking rumors of her kicking her dog as gospel or—”
“I’m not defending—”
“—assuming they mean she’s guilty of murder. Second—”
“—because she didn’t kick—”
“—I’ve seen you try to butt-scooch Gracie with your foot and not only don’t you hurt her, but she thinks the sole of your foot against her butt is a pleasure.”
He was right.
“What you do with Gracie is nothing like what Pammy did.” Clara was indignant. At me.
Her sticking up for me against me was getting to be a confusing habit.
“That settles it.” I caught a thread of amusement in Teague’s response. “What else? Clara?”
Slowly, she said, “There was tension between Damon and Bryon. Damon clearly thought he was better than Bryon.”
“Sheila?”
I looked up at Teague’s voice to find them both watching me.
“There certainly was tension. And Damon tried the I’m-better-than-you swagger. But . . .”
Snapshots of their interactions, especially at that class, strobed through my memory.
“Nothing concrete, but I’d say Bryon was irked and we all saw it, because it was on the surface. Damon’s reaction was all the stronger for being partially suppressed. One of those guys — and it tends to be guys — who try to show no insecurity, ever, because they have no true confidence.”
Both of them stared into space a moment, considering what I said — Teague in the abstract and Clara in regard to the interactions we’d seen.
Slowly, Teague lowered his head in acknowledgment. “I see what you’re saying. There are guys like that.”
“Damon was one,” Clara said emphatically. “Sheila’s right. That’s why she’s a great writer.”
All that came to the mind of this great writer at the moment was, Aw, shucks.
Me and Shakespeare.
It wasn’t entirely to take the attention off me, though that might have tipped the scale.
I sent Clara a look to let her know where I was heading.
“Damon Swindell and Zoley Georger, Bryon’s wife . . . there was something going on between them.”
“Something that could make Bryon jealous?” Teague asked. “Possessive? Volatile?”
Possessive. Volatile.
The very words Zoley used.
“Looks,” Clara said. “We both saw them. And the way he talked to her.”
“It was an impression. Nuance,” I said.
He huffed out an I-was-afraid-of-that breath.
“Not only that,” said Clara, “but Sheila astutely pointed to indications it was long past the honeymoon phase. He was dismissive of Zoley. Took her for granted.”
He raised one eyebrow at me.
“I completely agree with Clara.”
“Anything else?” he asked with more skepticism than was good for him.
Clara, possibly more forgiving of skepticism than I was, said, “Zoley Georger had a lot of makeup on her cheek at the second class. It was notable.”
“Why notable?”
He knew, but wanted one of us to state it.
Clara obliged. “It was thick enough to hide bruises.”
“Did you see bruises, Sheila?” Teague asked.
“I never got a close look at her.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was focused on Gracie, as I was supposed to be.” From that grand tone, I descended to reality. “And she was being a stinker.”
He barely suppressed a grin at that last word, but had it out of sight when he asked, “Did you get a better look, Clara?”
“Nope. LuLu wasn’t any better.”
He sighed.
Served him right. If he’d been in class, his eagle detective eyes might have caught all the possible clues . . . except Murph was as distractible as Gracie and LuLu.
“You said she had bruises, but you didn’t actually see bruises, did you, Clara?”
“Of course not,” Clara said. “That was the whole reason for the makeup, so we wouldn’t see bruises.”
Kit would say Clara had begged the question.
The formal definition of that phrase does not involve a question being made obvious. Yes, it’s been misused enough for many to define it that way, but don’t tell my great-aunt.
She sticks to the logic-based meaning of a response that includes an assumption and thus fails to address the question.
Clara’s assumption was that makeup preventing us from seeing bruises proved there were bruises, which was the core of Teague’s question.
“You’ve got to give me more than that if I’m going to take it to the department.”
Clara said cheerfully. “The easy answer is, don’t tell the department. I’m going to go have dinner with my husband since he’s home tonight before leaving town again. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sheila.”
She breezed out.
Teague frowned at me. “What are you two planning tomorrow?”
Cravenly, I shrugged. “Dog park, I suppose.”
That might not have sufficed, except he checked his phone, and left nearly as quickly as Clara had, except for a brief but satisfactory delay at the door.
* * * *
Teague tried not to wake me up, but I’d been alert to his arrival.
He was tired and taut, especially across his shoulders.
It felt so good to put our arms around each other and fall deeply asleep.