Dog Helps Those (Golden Retriever Mysteries) (30 page)

I managed to drag him home and into the car for the drive upriver. When I got to work, Mike MacCormac was pacing around the reception area that led to our offices. His navy suit hugged his broad shoulders, and his white shirt looked uncomfortably tight around the neck. His Eastern college tie, light blue with a pattern of yellow sunrises, wasn’t long enough to reach all the way to his waist.

“There must be something we forgot,” he said. “What is it?”

His secretary said, “If we knew what we forgot, it wouldn’t be forgotten.”

“Get everybody in my office for a meeting,” he said. “Everybody except Rochester, that is.”

He leaned down and scratched the scruff of Rochester’s neck, and his tie dangled in front of the dog’s face. “You’re the only one who can relax today, boy.”

I wanted to check my email and voice mail, but I had to spend the next hour in Mike’s office as he obsessed about everything that could go wrong with the graduation festivities. It wasn’t even his responsibility—but any screw-up could lead to a dip in alumni contributions, and reunions were one of the best times to solicit donations.

I got back to my office at ten. Rick called while I was struggling to answer at least a few email messages before the graduation festivities began. “Hey, I know that Matthew Durkheim is an Eastern alum,” he said. “You think there’s any chance he’ll show at the college this weekend?”

“No idea,” I said. “But if you hold on I can see if it’s his reunion year.” I checked his record in the college database, then returned to the call. “It’s not. But I remember him saying something about getting together with his buddies at reunions.”

“I’ll head up, just in case.”

“All right. I’ll keep an eye out for him, but I’m going to be pretty busy.”

I hung up, and spent the next hour scrambling to finish whatever I could before I had to leave the office. Just before eleven, I took Rochester out to pee. I had to keep him on a short leash because there were so many people milling around outside Fields Hall, and he was acting wild—he wanted to go up to every person and say hello and I kept having to rein him in. I was grateful to get back through the french doors into my office, pull off his leash and toss him a rawhide chew. “Stay out of trouble, boy,” I said. I realized that was becoming my mantra with him.

The campus was jammed with students and their family groups. Beaming parents, elderly grandparents, younger brothers and sisters in their special-occasion best. Eastern’s colors were everywhere, white and the light blue of a summer sky. Graduates wore custom gowns in slate blue, and many of them had decorated their black mortarboards with the letters of their fraternity or clever messages in masking tape. Loudspeakers placed throughout the campus were playing a brass-band version of Eastern’s fight song, complete with the “rah, rah, rise up Suns” chorus.

Had I ever been that young? That enthusiastic about the future?

I recalled my own graduation. My father took a million pictures—most of which my mother and I never saw. I did remember a photo of my mother adjusting the hood of my gown, showing off the rising sun crest imprinted on the fabric. My mom had it printed and framed, along with my diploma, with matting in light blue and white. I wondered where that picture was—probably in one of the boxes of my parents’ stuff I had never unpacked, still in my garage.

As I hurried toward the tent area, I started to sweat in the heat. There was no breeze to speak of and I felt sorry for the graduates in their heavy gowns, and the college administrators, like Mike, in their coats and ties. I only escaped the formal attire because I could wear my reunion shirt.

I paused for a moment in front of a roped-off play area where slim, pony-tailed moms in Eastern polo shirts gossiped and watched their kids play with future classmates. As I did, I felt a sharp pain in my side. Was I still so hurt by Mary’s miscarriages that seeing little kids playing was painful? By the thought that I probably wouldn’t ever have kids of my own?

Then I realized it was a physical rather than metaphorical pain. “Ow!” I said, rubbing my flank. My skin hadn’t been pierced, but an ache radiated just above my waist.

A boy no older than twelve or thirteen, holding his pants up with one hand, had poked me in the side with a long pointed stick he carried in the other.  A congratulatory banner hung from the end of it, the bottom dragging in the grass.

A gym-toned blonde whose taut skin belied a face lift rushed up behind him. “I told you to wear a belt, Justin!” she said. “And to watch where you’re going with that thing!”

She looked at me. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

Rubbing my side, I tried to smile. “It’s all right.” Justin trooped on ahead, followed by a legion of family members. “Try and hold the point up, Justin,” I called after them, as his mother hurried to catch them.

I threaded my way past red-faced alums already hoisting beers, alert for any more errant jousters. Every class seemed to be playing music from the era when it had gone to school; Jan and Dean competed with Nirvana, The Who with Katy Perry. It was enough to give you a headache if you listened too closely.

A group of twenty-something former lacrosse players tossed a ball back and forth as I passed. Then I heard a loud bark and looked to my right. There were my people, I thought. A group of dog lovers had thrown together their own makeshift puppy park, using one wall of Harrow Hall, a couple of folding tables laid sideways, and a row of picket fencing it looked like someone had been carrying in their trunk. I wished I had Rochester with me; he’d love to play. But he was locked up back in my office.

A rhythmic knocking sound drew my attention to the left. Another group of alums, this one from a class a few years before mine, had obviously been on the crew team together. As they beat their paddles against each other they began to chant. Right in the middle of them was Matthew Durkheim.

Like many of his former teammates, he was wearing a class outfit of running shoes, cargo shorts and a muscle shirt with the Eastern logo. Even from that distance, I could see they all had matching tattoos on their upper arms. I flashed back to that moment at Rita’s farm when I had first noticed Matthew’s. If only I’d been able to have Rick arrest him then, Rita would still be alive.

But he hadn’t committed a crime then, so there was nothing to arrest him for. Such are the questions philosophers obsess over.

The sound of the chanting and knocking grew in intensity and volume, drowning out everything else. I had to keep walking backwards, glancing around me to avoid knocking into anyone, yet keeping Matthew and his buddies in sight, until I got somewhere quiet enough to call Rick.

“I knew it,” Rick said, when I told him I’d spotted Matthew. “I knew he’d be there. God damn it.”

“Where are you?”

“Still in Stewart’s Crossing. Bethea’s tying up traffic again. I was supposed to be out of here a half hour ago but I just hit River Road.”

“Get here as fast as you can,” I said. “The parade of classes starts in an hour. I’ll bet he cuts out before then.”

“The parade of what?”

I explained that groups of alumni organized to march into the stadium for graduation. “I’ll do my best,” Rick said. “Keep an eye on him.”

He hung up and I looked around. Though plenty of people were in the area, they were all with their class groups. Mine, unfortunately, was too far away, and since I was wearing a shirt with my class slogan on the back, I couldn’t easily fit in with any other.

Matthew and his pals mercifully stopped banging their paddles and I could hear the rest of the crowd again, including the barking dogs. I realized the puppy park had a perfect view of his class tent. I’d have to get Rochester and use him as camouflage.

But I didn’t want to leave Matthew unattended. What if he slipped out while I was gone? What could I do? Call Lili? Someone else from my office?

Then I spotted Yudame, my tech writing student, wandering aimlessly through the crowd. He was hard to miss, with his huge dandelion puff of curly blondish-brown hair. Today’s T-shirt was a flag in the shape of the island of Puerto Rico, with its single white star against a blue pennant, with a little tree frog, called a
coqui
, perched in the corner of a field of red and white stripes. Underneath was the slogan, “Hire me, I’m a
Boricua
!”

Don’t ask me how I know all this stuff. Years of trivia quizzes, watching Jeopardy! on TV, and reading student papers. I waved him over to me. “Can you do me a huge favor?” I asked.

“No probs, my Prof. What you be needing?”

“See that guy?” I pointed to Matthew. Because his classmates were dressed so much alike, it was hard to identify him. I had to wait until he picked up a plastic beer mug, tilted his head back, and drained it. “There,” I said. “That guy, pounding back the brew.”

Yudame laughed. “You old guys talk funny, my Prof. Yeah, I got eyes on him.”

I filed the ‘old guy’ comment away, in case Yudame was ever in my class again. “I’ve got to run back to my office for a minute. If he starts to leave, will you give me a call?”

“So I gots a requestion, though. Who is he? Some rich alum?”

“Exactly. We’re going to ask him for a big donation later and I’m supposed to know where he is.” I pulled my business card out of my wallet and scrawled my cell phone number on it, then handed it to him.

“Coolio.” He nodded and accepted the card, and I took off for Fields Hall, dodging between crowds of people.

It was slow going, and even slower returning with Rochester, because kids wanted to pet him and old people wanted to take his picture. I should have taken off the stupid bandanna and left it at the office, but Rochester loved it.

I kept checking my cell phone to make sure neither Yudame nor Rick had tried to call. By the time I had Yudame in sight I was drenched in sweat and my heart was racing. I made a brief detour to buy two bottles of cold water—one for me, and one I’d pour out for Rochester once we got settled.

Then we walked over to Yudame. “Your man’s still there,” he said, nodding toward Matthew’s class tent. “He’s totally crunked. I bet he be giving you whatevs.”

“Hope so,” I said. “Thanks.” I took the bandanna off Rochester’s neck, though he jumped on me and tried to take it back, then used it to wipe the sweat from my brow. Then I opened up one of the water bottles and took a long drink. It was so good.

Yudame reached down to scratch behind Rochester’s ears. “No probs, Prof. Keep on chillaxin’.”

“Will do.” I tugged on Rochester’s leash and led him over to the makeshift puppy park. He began jumping up and down, and I had to make him sit before I could pull open a space in between the picket fence and one of the tables and let him in. He immediately went wild again and started romping with a Rottweiler. I smiled at the other doggie dads and moms, and checked once again to make sure Matthew was with his friends.

I couldn’t see him.

I dodged around. Were those his shins? His lower arms? What if he’d already taken off? How could I explain that to Rick?

Then I got a better view, and yes, that was him. Relief. But where was Rick?

Rochester jumped and rolled with the other dogs, and I made casual, if distracted conversation with their moms and dads. It was hot, with only the shade of a single spindly elm, and eventually people rounded up their dogs and left. Time ticked on.

The marching band struck up the chords to begin the parade. I called Rick’s cell. “Where are you? The parade’s about to start.”

“The campus is parked up. I had to leave my car a couple of blocks away, and I’m on foot. Where are you?”

“Right now? There’s a whole bunch of tents set up on the flat area on the south side of the campus. But once the parade starts, we’ll be marching up the hill, past Fields Hall, and then back down the other side toward the football stadium. Your best bet is to stay on Main Street and call me when you get to the campus.”

“Roger that.” He hung up and I noticed Matthew’s class beginning to move into place for the parade. I had no choice but to leash up Rochester and follow them. I couldn’t join the parade, because I had the dog with me. I had to stay on the outskirts as a spectator, struggling to keep Matthew in sight.

The crowd was loud and boisterous, and kept moving and shifting, and I had to dart and elbow and push. Fortunately I could pretend that Rochester was just dragging me along, and apologize as I followed him.

I also wasn’t going to be able to march into graduation with Lili and the rest of the faculty as she and I had planned. When Rochester and I reached a relatively clear area along the parade route I called Lili. “I can’t march in with you. Something’s come up.”

“Are you sure? I can wait until the very end of the procession.”

“No, you go on and walk with your department. We’ll walk together next year.”

Assuming we were both still at Eastern by then, I thought, as I hung up. My job in the alumni relations office was only a temporary one; if the campaign faltered, or money otherwise got tight, I’d probably be among the first to be let go.

But I couldn’t worry about that; I had to keep an eye on Matthew Durkheim. It was tough to keep track of him, because he looked so much like his former teammates. A half dozen of them had all maintained their figures, and all wore identical sleeveless Ts and cargo shorts. A couple had lighter hair than he did, and a couple were balding, but those were small differences in a moving crowd.