Catwalk by Sheila Webster Boneham Page B

done something to her. Again.”
    â€œWhat?” I thought she was still talking about Rudy Sweetwater.
    â€œCharles. I think he’s done something to Louise.”
    I remembered the frightened look in Louise’s eye the night before, and wondered again about the change in her when she came back to the studio later. That looked like a change for the good, but I couldn’t help wondering if she had done something later to bring the wrath of her husband upon herself.
    â€œDo you know her number?” I asked. “Let’s just call her now.”
    Alberta frowned. “No. And I didn’t bring my cell,” she said, patting all her pockets. When she hit the side pocket of her jacket, she gasped and pulled out an open envelope and waved it in my face. “And this! This is wrong! That man, I could just kill him.” Figure of speech or not, her phrasing turned a few heads our way.
    â€œWho?” I asked. Who are you kidding, Janet? You know who she means. Still, I had to ask. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œCharles! Charles Rasmussen, that’s who!” She shook folds from the paper and wheezed. “Just look at this!”
    So I did. I didn’t read it closely, just scanned it, but that was enough to make my whole body go cold.

eleven
    Tuesday morning found me cranky. Before I could get up, I had to unwind the sheet that had me swaddled into my bed, and Leo and Jay didn’t make the task any easier. Jay thought it was all a great new game and flopped on top of me to add to the fun while Leo grabbed my toes through the covers. “Oww! Get off!” Sadly for me, I couldn’t help laughing at the pair of them, which made Jay wriggle and Leo pounce all the more. “Come on, you big oaf! Let me up! I need to go! Oww, my toes!” When that didn’t work, I forced my voice into com mand mode and said, “Off!” Leo leaped from the bed and raced out the door. Jay stilled himself and looked at me as if he couldn’t believe I wanted to stop all the fun. I looke d into his eyes, trying to make myself all alpha bitch, but he knows better and slurped my face. I hate to made my dog feel bad, but I really needed to get to the bathroom. I softened my voice and said, “Come on, Bubby. Please get off.”
    He hopped off the bed.
    I freed myself, stumble-slid over a couple of magazines I’d dropped off the side of the bed as I finished them, and staggered out of the bedroom. My watch said eight-twenty. I hadn’t slept that late in months, maybe years. Not that I wouldn’t love to sleep late most days, but between Jay and Leo, and friends who call at obscene hours (because hey, don’t photographers get up to catch the early light?), it rarely happens. Even so, I hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours. Alberta’s letter and Hutchinson’s warning kept me tossing until the late wee hours, and then they infiltrated my dreams. I couldn’t decide whether the queasiness I felt was prompted by apprehension or last night’s leftovers.
    I glanced in the mirror and restored a modicum of sanity to my hair with a jaw clip. I decided to load up on caffeine before I attempted any other repairs, and felt even grumpier as I reached for the doorknob. A movement near my feet made me look down.
    When I replaced the carpet in the hallway with pet-friendly vinyl, the bathroom door was left with a two-inch clearance. I looked down at the toes of two white paws poked into the bathroom and a smaller orange paw and forearm feeling around the tile floor. Leave it to the critters to make me feel better.
    My cell phone played the Beatles’ “From Me To You” just as I started the morning kitchen routine. I decided this was a full-pot morning and set the coffee maker to work, fed Jay, fed Leo, let Jay out, toasted a bagel, let Jay in, and picked up the message. Tom said he was going to take Drake to Twisted Lake for a run and