Drop Dead on Recall by Sheila Webster Boneham

real. She’s been Goldie Sunshine ever since.
    Goldie had seen an article in the paper about Abigail’s death. “They didn’t say what she died of. Do you know?”
    “No, I haven’t heard anything except rumors and speculation.”
    “A shame, a young woman like that.” A dark cloud seemed to pass through Goldie’s expression, but it was gone before I was sure I saw it.
    “I know. And the more I think about it, the less sense it makes.”
    Leo hopped up onto the fence post, and Goldie bent toward him for a nose bump and nodded. “It’s hard to make sense of a friend’s death.”
    “We weren’t friends. Actually, I didn’t like Abigail very much. Didn’t know her well, never really wanted to. But I had the impression she took good care of herself. How could she just fall over and die like that?”
    “So, then, what? You think someone bumped her off?”
    “Bumped her off? You watching B movies again?” As if to vouch for the complexity of the human spirit, Goldie, passionately and loudly anti-war and pro-human-rights, loves murder and mayhem on the silver screen and has a huge collection of murder mystery tapes and DVDs. I returned to her question. “I don’t know. It’s possible, isn’t it? Maybe someone poisoned her.”
    Goldie raised her eyebrows. “Who’s been watching B movies?” She adjusted a pin in her braid and grew thoughtful. “It happens, Janet. Sometimes people just die. Death doesn’t have to make sense.”
    I met Goldie’s gaze and registered again that the circles underneath her eyes were darker than usual, and the sharp blades of her cheek bones more prominent, so I asked again, as I’d asked just about every day for a month or so, “Are you okay?”
    She let out an odd little sound that might have passed for a laugh if I hadn’t known her so well. “Oh, yes, just didn’t get much sleep last night. Stayed up late baking bread.”
    Meaning she wasn’t going to tell me what was wrong. But we’ve been friends long enough that I knew there was something. I’d have to try again later, or just wait until she volunteered the information. For the moment, I changed the subject. “So what’s new for this year in the garden?”
    “Witch’s garden.” She gestured toward a newly planted circle of earth in the middle of her yard.
    “Witch’s garden?”
    “Yep. Really another herb garden, but the ones used in witchcraft through the centuries. You know, belladonna, wolfsbane, that sort of thing. ‘Double, double, toil and trouble …’ ” She let out a silly cackle. “Maybe I could stock the garden with newts and bats.” Leo hopped up onto the fence post, and Goldie slipped a hand along the length of his body. “See? I even have a familiar.”
    “Long as you don’t use the stuff.”
    “Nah! I’m no witch, ’though I do like the Wiccan Rule of Three. See here—I’ve painted it onto a sign for the gate to the witch’s garden.” She pointed to a colorful wooden sign, rimmed with a garland of greenery and a smattering of raspberry foxgloves and some blue blossoms I couldn’t identify. Gothic letters spelled out: Whatsoever ye shall do for good or evil shall come back to you three-fold.
    I know a few witches who would do well to learn that rule.

14
    Monday night Jay and I went to Dog Dayz. It’s the biggest dog training school in northeast Indiana, and the busiest. I slipped my Caravan into the last available parking space, and decided when I walked into the building that every member was there with at least two dogs. News travels fast in the dog world, and the place was abuzz with rumors, facts, gossip, and questions about the weekend’s events. People seemed to think I had the inside scoop since I’d taken Abigail’s dog home, but honestly, Pip hadn’t told me a thing except that he enjoyed his dinner and really liked fetching tennis balls.
    Marietta Santini, owner and drill sergeant, called the group practice ring to order at seven o’clock. In the adjacent ring,