Black Ribbon

ruse.
    Simply curious, Eric asked, “What’s that you got there, Elsa?” He sounded pleased.
    In response, Elsa—being Elsa—veered around and swam in the opposite direction, toward the middle of the lake.
    “It’s...” I stammered. “It’s... Eric, it’s important! I know what she has, and it’s... Is there any way to get her to bring it in?”
    Eric just laughed. I felt exasperated. Every once in a while, despite Rowdy and Kimi, I revert to my old rigid belief that, damn it all, dogs ought to do what they’re told. I had no idea whether a night in the lake would have removed Phyllis’s fingerprints from the table leg. A phrase came to me from a TV commercial for some kind of household cleaner: greasy finger marks. But what did it mean? That all finger marks were greasy, therefore hard to remove? Or that the product worked even on tough, hard-to-remove marks—greasy ones? And what did TV know about fingerprints, anyway? But I thought there was a chance that the leg of the pause table held a trace of evidence, and I damn well wanted Elsa to bring in that dab of proof.
    Digging in my pockets for the bits of old dog treats they usually contain, I demanded, “Eric, will she work for food?” Eric smiled. “You’re welcome to try.”
    “Elsa, come!” I called cheerfully.
    She ignored me, of course. No longer swimming toward the opposite side of lake, the Chesapeake had changed direction and was moving parallel to the shore, but away from us.
    “Elsa!” I called in my best obedience voice, the one that expects to be obeyed.
    Taking pity on my naïveté, Eric began a real effort to summon her. “Elsa! Elsa, come on! Come on, let’s go!” Suddenly inspired, I said, “Eric! Here, this’ll work. Or it’s worth a try.”
    “Elsa! Elsa, come!” he persisted.
    I ran back down the dock to the shore. “Eric, come on! This really is worth a try. All you have to do is...”
    Highly subject to contagious excitement and determined
    not to be left out, Rowdy was adding his voice and producing long strings of the typiest syllable in the extensive malamute vocabulary: “ Woooooo! Woo-woo-woo!”
    My tone of expectation worked better on Eric than it had on Elsa. Looking puzzled, he joined me on the pebble beach. “Lie down!” I instructed him.
    “You’re joking,” he said, or I think that’s what he said. Rowdy was making a tremendous noise, and from the cabins and the woods, three or four dogs were answering his call.
    “Rowdy, be quiet! Eric, really, lie down! Lie down and wave your arms or something. You have to do something she’s not used to, something that’ll get her attention and get her a little worried. It’s worth a try.”
    Shaking his head and giving me a you-don’t-know-Elsa smile, Eric ran his eyes over the sharp rocks, moved back to the dock, and spread himself out on it.
    “Now call her!” I ordered. “Wave your arms around! Kick your feet!”
    And once Eric caught Elsa’s attention, the ploy did work. Awakened by the din we’d been making and curious to see what the fuss was about, campers began to appear, among them, Phyllis Abbott. Her soft-red hair looked freshly brushed and styled, but she wore nightclothes, a blue-and-white striped kimono over white pajamas with long legs, and a pair of fuzzy blue slippers.
    Elsa was really close now, only three or four yards from where I stood on the pebble beach at the water’s edge. “Good girl, Elsa!” I murmured. “Eric, can you get this from her?”
    I should have done what Phyllis Abbott did, I suppose: I should have waded in. Without even removing her slippers, Phyllis beat me to it. Through the clear water, I could see that the wet pajama bottoms were clinging to her legs. When she was in up to her knees, she bent over and almost whispered, “What a good girl Elsa is! What’s that you’ve got there, sweetie? Bring it to me! Good girl! Come on!” Phyllis stretched out a hand.
    With rage, I realized that Phyllis didn’t even need to get that metal leg out of Elsa’s mouth to accomplish her purpose. To explain the presence of her fingerprints, all she needed to do was touch it.
    “ ‘A judge,’ ” I quoted loudly, “ ‘a tide that implies dignity and position.’ ”
    Out of the comer of my eye, I saw Eric get up off the dock. He must have assumed that I was making fun of Phyllis.
    I went on: “ ‘The manner in which judges exercise their authority has a direct impact on the sport.’ ”
    “Holly,” said