Let Sleeping Dogs Die Page 3

  “Why two chests of drawers?”

  “I needed both of them. I read that babies need to be changed up to a dozen times a day in the beginning. That’s a lot of onesies.”

  “I think they meant diaper changes, Bobbi Jo. Not necessarily outfits.”

  Bobbi Jo waved a perfectly manicured hand. “I know, but still it can’t hurt to have extras. And I’ll just end up giving them all to Jasmine anyway.”

  “Good point.” It wasn’t like the room wasn’t big enough for the two chests, a crib, bassinet, changing table, diaper holder, swing, gliding rocker, upholstered chair with matching footstool, and twin bed with canopy.

  “The room is beautiful. You did a great job.”

  “I painted it four times,” Bobbi Jo admitted. “It was so hard finding just the right shade of green. Anyway, I painted it once with Lily; the other three times, I hired a painter because Lily said she wasn’t going to waste her time. You know, Skye, I love Lily and all, but sometimes she can be a little testy.”

  I smothered a laugh because Lily had told me on several occasions that Bobbi Jo was having a rather high-maintenance pregnancy. Probably they were not the best match for a gestating woman and a doula, but at the bottom of it all, they loved each other and that would get them through it.

  “Ohhhhhh.” Bobbi Jo groaned and sank down onto the upholstered chair.

  “Are you all right?” It wasn’t unusual for women to deliver three weeks early. And even if the doctor had said she wasn’t effaced yet, I knew it could happen in a matter of hours in some cases.

  “I think so.” Bobbi Jo grunted again.

  “Are you in pain? Where? What does it feel like?”

  Bobbi Jo wrapped her arms over her expanded belly and grunted again.

  “Bobbi Jo! Answer me!”

  “I don’t know. It hurts, but it’s weird.”

  “That’s it; we’re going to the hospital.” I held an arm out to help her up. “Lily!”

  Lily appeared in the doorway in a matter of seconds. “What? Is she in labor?”

  “I don’t know. But I think we’d better get her to the hospital.”

  Bobbi Jo gasped and looked up, her green eyes wide with surprise. “I’m wet,” she wailed.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Bobbi Jo is fine and she’s not in labor,” the doctor said. “It was just a false alarm.” “I should have known,” Lily said. “We’re so sorry to have bothered you, Dr. Simmons.”

  “No bother at all. I’d rather you bring her in than to wait too long. I don’t like to take any chances with older women. Especially when it’s the first child.”

  “But I thought her water broke,” I said. Bobbi Jo’s pants had been visibly wet, so I knew she hadn’t imagined it.

  “The test showed that it wasn’t amniotic fluid.” Dr. Simmons shook his head. “The baby was pushing against her bladder. She just urinated.” The doctor sounded so matter-of-fact that I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “She’s getting dressed now. Should be out in a few minutes.” He turned to leave, and Lily and I looked at each other. She laughed first.

  “Bobbi Jo’s going to be humiliated. We can’t say anything about it.” But I laughed, too. “And did you hear him refer to her as an older woman? I hope he never says that in front of her.”

  “Oh, dear. Just thinking about Bobbi Jo wetting herself.” Lily’s ample bosom heaved with the laughter she failed to suppress.

  “Stop laughing. She’s going to be out any minute. Besides, we’ve all had a little accident or two at the end of pregnancy.”

  “Oh, I know.” Lily waved her hand. “It’s just that every time I try to tell her anything, she brushes me off. She’s sure that her pregnancy is different from anything any other woman in the world has experienced. You should have been there for the hemorrhoid discussion. There weren’t going to be any hemorrhoids in her precious—”

  “There you are.” I elbowed Lily when I saw Bobbi Jo emerge from the examination room.

  “Oh, gawd. I am totally embarrassed.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Every pregnant woman has embarrassing moments.”

  “I don’t even know what happened. I mean, I understand about the Braxton-Hicks contractions. As soon as they mentioned them, I remembered reading about them, but I was wet.” Bobbi Jo’s hand reached around to feel her bottom. “I’m still wet. When the water breaks,

  you only have a short time to deliver the baby. I read that. So, what happened?”

  Lily and I looked at each other. One of us had to say something, and I was really glad it ended up being Lily.

  “One word, Bobbi Jo,” Lily said. “Depends.”

  Bobbi Jo’s eyebrows arched in a look of confusion, then her eyes widened and a hand flew up to stifle a gasp.

  “Oh, my gawd! I peed my pants?”

  “It’s not that big a deal. The baby was pressing against your bladder. It happens a lot,” I offered.

  “I peed my pants!” Bobbi Jo wailed. “And now everybody knows about it ‘cause I just had to come to the hospital. Oh, gawd, I hate being pregnant. I can’t wait until this is all over.”

  “Lily and I insisted on bringing you to the hospital. And besides, Dr. Simmons said we did the right thing.”

  “Now, Bobbi Jo, this is just a normal part of pregnancy,” Lily said, giving her a stern motherly look. “You’re almost at the end. This is no time to turn into a wuss. You’re a woman, for Goddess’s sake. Now, act like one.”

  Bobbi Jo stopped grumbling, although she didn’t look all that happy about it. Minutes after getting into the car, she fell asleep. I remembered Hillary Clinton’s comment that it takes a village to raise a child. What would it take to get Bobbi Jo through childbirth? At least a village. Maybe more than one. And Lily and I were the head villagers.

  A mocha latte with two extra shots of espresso can almost make up for five hours of sleep when eight are really required. I sipped on the latte as I made the half-hour drive from Portland to Hillsdale. I pulled into the long driveway to Frank Johnson’s house and drove past a long, low structure in the back to the large building we’d be using for the photo shoot. I could hear dogs barking as my car moved over the paved driveway. It sounded like I’d accidentally driven by Animal Control.

  Steinhart wouldn’t allow the dogs into his studio, and it was easier to do the shoot right where the dogs lived anyway. That was my theory, and I’d almost convinced myself I was right. It wasn’t that I’d never done a location shoot before, but this wasn’t exactly models wearing the latest fashions standing on the beach. I shoved the transmission into park and guzzled the last of my coffee drink. I hadn’t seen the building until now, and I had to start shooting tomorrow. I hoped that it wouldn’t take a lot of work to create a temporary photo studio.

  Peter Machio was supposed to meet me here. Peter would be the handler for the dogs and I’d heard he and Frank were partners but Frank had only referred to Peter as his associate, which seemed a little strange. I could only wonder about what had happened to cause Peter to slip from partner to associate, because I was too chicken to ask. I walked to the door and started to knock before I realized the door was open a crack.

  “Hello? Anybody here?” I called.

  “Hey, come on in.”

  Peter was as polished and attractive as the first, second, and third times I’d met him. Dressed in a white shirt, khaki pants, and three-hundred-dollar sneakers, he was the poster boy for Northwest Cool. He spread his arms and turned in a circle.

  “So, what do you think? Will this do for the shoot?” He trotted over to a raised platform and slapped his hand on it. “I built this for you. I figured it would be better to have the dogs elevated.” He laughed. “Easier on your knees, anyway.”

  “And I very much appreciate that.” I walked around the raised platform he’d built. It was sturdy and the floor of the three-foot-high platform had been done in a smooth plywood, which would make it easy to do the set changes. It was
the perfect height for my camera. If we had the dogs on the floor, I would have been down on my knees almost all day. The only thing that would make it better would be a mechanism to raise and lower the huge rolls of seamless I’d use if I were shooting in Steinhart’s studio. But, unable to use those, I’d have to come up with some alternatives. I had almost a whole day to come up with an idea that would work and a way to implement it. No pressure at all.

  “This is great.” I walked around the eight-by-eight-foot platform he’d built. One side had a ramp, which I supposed would be for getting the dogs onto the platform, and the whole thing was on wheels. “I can even move it around.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased. I figured you might like to move it to take advantage of the skylights. I don’t know how you like to work, so if there’s anything else you need, anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

  “Thanks a lot. This building is huge. What’s it used for?”

  “We used to train our show dogs here. Before Frank decided he’d rather be a talent agent.”

  “I see. Did you show dogs very often?”

  “I still do. Presently, I’m training four dogs for showing. I’ve shown dogs at a lot of the smaller shows and a few of the bigger ones. Frank was never very interested in that end of the business. It takes a lot of time and patience to train a show dog.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “We’ll be shooting in half-day sessions, right?”

  “That’s my understanding. Frank said you were the only handler at the moment.”

  Peter nodded. “I need some time to do my real estate business and work with the show dogs, but I can be pretty flexible about which hours. Just let me know what the schedule will be.”

  “Great. I thought we’d probably do the photography in the mornings, but it’s good to know you can be flexible. And if you need me to change the times, I can do that, too.”

  “Thanks.” Peter grinned. “Sounds like everything will work out fine. Which shots will we be doing tomorrow?”

  I moved to the table where my stylist, Lionel, had spread out the layouts and looked at them. I had no idea how many shots I could get done in a half-day session, but I selected two of the layouts and placed them side by side on top.

  “Let’s start with these two shots. If we have time, we’ll try to squeeze another one in.”

  “That sounds good,” Peter said. He looked closely at the layouts. “Frank said you hadn’t asked for a go-see with any of the dogs. Did you want to see them now?”

  I was used to go-sees with human models. Generally, the models would be interviewed by the art director, and Connie had often asked me to sit in on go-sees. I hadn’t even thought about a go-see for the dogs, and now seemed rather late in the process.

  “I don’t think that I really need to. You’re familiar with the dogs’ sizes and colors, so why don’t we just go over the layouts?”

  “Sure. This one looks like you need one of the larger dogs and either a small dog or a puppy. I have Ruff, who’s a lab mix with a nice golden coat, and we could use one of the lab puppies or I have LeRoi, who’s a Beagle.”

  “The lab’s coloring would look good with the blue background. Could you bring both the puppy and the beagle?”

  “Sure, no problem.” Peter pointed to the next layout. “This one needs small dogs, right?”

  “Yes. Something about this big?” I moved my hands around to indicate the general height and length I thought would work. “Connie talked about the cute little dogs that women seem to love so much.”

  “I’ve got the perfect dogs. Fifi is a small Pekinese and Snoozie is a Shih Tzu. Together they’re so cute, it makes you want to cry.”

  “That should work. Both of those breeds require a good amount of grooming, don’t they? We’re highlighting no-tear shampoo and conditioner and some combs and brushes.”

  “Great. Fifi and Snoozie definitely require a lot of grooming.”

  “Sounds like we’re all set, then,” I said.

  “I’ll have the dogs ready to go. They’ve all been groomed but I like to give them a good brushing before they’re photographed. If you need me just call my cell phone and I’ll come running. Otherwise, I’ll plan on having the first dogs here tomorrow at nine.”

  As Peter left, my stylist, Lionel Tyler, came in. He carried a large box over to the raised platform and set it down.

  “This is it, huh?” he asked, looking around the building. Lionel was in college and supplementing his grants and student loans with stylist work. He looked like most of the other college students I’d seen lately. Messy hair covered most of his eyes, and he wore baggy pants with a drab shapeless sweater, a canvas messenger bag slung across his chest, and a paper cup of coffee in one hand.

  “We’re roughing it,” I said. “All the ease of a location shoot with none of the charm. I need to find some way to duplicate some seamless.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “You’re supposed to have some kind of brilliant idea about how we can accomplish that.” I’d worked with Lionel several times and we’d developed a relationship that included a lot of teasing.

  “I’m going to need a lot more coffee for a brilliant idea.” Lionel unloaded the box, placing a variety of items on the platform. “How big are the dogs that I need party hats for?”

  I dug the head sheets out of my briefcase and handed them to him. “I haven’t decided which dogs we’re using for that shot yet. But you can probably get an idea of what you’ll need from these.” Lionel shuffled through the photographs that showed each dog in several poses along with their individual stats—height, weight, coloration, breed, and what stunts and tricks they were specifically trained to perform. They weren’t much different from the head sheets or comp cards for human models and for some reason, I found that a little disturbing.

  Lionel thumbed through the layouts and pulled out the party shot. “Man, there’s half a dozen dogs in this shot and they’re all different sizes. I’ll have to make party hats to fit each of them. Damn, there’s cats, too.”

  “Don’t you like cats?”

  “They’re all right, I guess. But you can’t train a cat like you can train a dog.”

  “Cat people say that’s because cats are more intelligent,” I said.

  “I’m sure they do, but I don’t see it.” Lionel studied the layouts. “Aren’t cats and dogs enemies or something?”

  “Not necessarily. I guess it depends on how they’ve been raised. We only have a few shots with both cats and dogs together.”

  “That ought to be fun.” Lionel grinned.

  “I just hope it’s possible. The Cat Lady can be really picky about how her clients work.”

  “Don’t the Pet Place people realize we’re talking about animals here?” Lionel pointed to one of the layouts. “I mean, I don’t get why you’d want to dress them up like people. I like dogs, and some cats are okay but, really—they’re animals.”

  “Not everyone would agree with you. A lot of people are bonded to their pets. They have as much affection for them as they would for a human companion.”

  “Yeah, well, that still doesn’t explain dressing them up like people.”

  “Tell you what. You help me with the lighting and I’ll help you with making the party hats.”

  “You would? Cool. I’ve never had a photographer offer to help me with anything.”

  I still got a little thrill hearing someone refer to me as a photographer. I mean, that’s my job and everything, but it still doesn’t feel real sometimes. I grinned at Lionel. “You don’t know what’s involved in the lighting yet.”

  For the next five hours, I ran Lionel all over the building while I took readings with my light meter. Unfortunately that meant I had to run all over the place, too. The building had some skylights and big windows and I was hoping to get some shots with natural lighting. Of course, we were in Portland, Oregon, which meant the light could change several times a day. Especially in March. The readings I
took would only be good if we had the same weather during the shoot. I’ve seen rain, snow, sleet, hail, and bright sunshine within the span of an hour or two in March. Probably my readings would be useless but I had to do it, just in case I got lucky. By the time we finished, Lionel was giving me dirty looks and mumbling under his breath.

  “Okay, we’re done.” I packed the light meter into my case.

  “Really? Are you sure there’s not a few square inches somewhere that you need a light reading on?”

  “Very funny,” I said.

  “What time are we shooting tomorrow?”

  “Nine. Which means I’d like you to be here by eight thirty. No, make it eight. I’m going to need help with some stuff.”

  “My social life goes to hell during a shoot. Especially one of yours. You’re a perfectionist.” Lionel waved and walked out.

  I finished packing up my stuff and locked the door behind me. It was already six, I still had to stop at a department store, and I was tired to the bone. My evening plans included a frozen dinner, fuzzy slippers, and a good book. That seemed to sum up all too many evenings lately. Two months earlier my evening would have most likely included some time with Detective Scott Madison of the Portland Police Bureau. If not actual face time, then at least a long phone conversation where he would tell me how attractive he found me and maybe what he was planning on doing to me the next time we were together. I really missed those conversations.

  Scott and I had been dating since last fall. It was mostly good, but between me being recently divorced after twenty-two years of marriage and his job demands, there had been some rough spots. A couple of months ago everything had come to a head and we’d decided we needed a break. The break was going on a bit longer than I’d thought it would. We’d talked a couple of times, but Scott had always been hurried and preoccupied. He blamed it on his caseload, but of course, I had my doubts. Scott thought I involved myself in his investigations, but I thought I was just showing an interest in his work. And it was interesting. Scott worked in the robbery and homicide division as a detective. I enjoyed hearing about the crimes he investigated. That’s all it was, really. Of course, we’d met when he was investigating the death of Bobbi Jo’s husband and I was marginally involved with that, but only because Bobbi Jo was a suspect. How could I just sit back and do nothing when one of my best friends was suspected of murdering her own husband? I couldn’t. Evidently, that had left Scott with the belief I wanted to be involved in his work.