Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog

was he when I was sleeping in the bathtub?
    But what was I thinking here? Sure, someone could have used a passkey and gotten into Alan’s room, surprised him as he was getting out of the tub and knocked the radio, shelf and all, into the bath with him. But what about Rick? He’d died right in front of us. He’d choked on breakfast And it was Chip and Martyn who had worked on him and failed to save him, not Bucky. Or Boris.
    This was great. The more I learned, the less I knew.
    I’d told Chip that things weren’t what they seemed to be. So fine. What were they?
    What if Rick hadn’t choked? Was there something that could have made it seem he was choking? Some drug the killer could have slipped into his morning juice? And what a clever scheme that would be. Wouldn’t choking be the obvious thing for us to think, watching a man start to cough, turn pale, and be unable to breathe in the middle of a meal?
    Then there was Martyn. Was he competition for Bucky?
    I looked up his seminars. He was pulling twice to three times the crowd Bucky pulled in. As Bucky’s popularity went down, Martyn’s had ascended. Sure, Bucky got the media to show up. But when it came to black-and-white figures, he wasn’t doing as hot as he’d like everyone to believe.
    I felt a jab in my side and looked up.
    Audrey was speaking. “Yes, it was more difficult for a woman to get started in dog training years ago, but I don’t think that’s as true today.”
    “She wants you all to answer,” Chip whispered, his hand covering his mike. “The good old macho days of yesteryear versus politically correct today.”
    “I may barf,” I whispered.
    There was a ripple of movement in the audience, then laughter. Everyone was looking at me. That’s when I realized I hadn’t covered my microphone.
    “That’s what I get for eating before a panel discussion,” I told them. “Food’s not a great idea when you’re nervous.” I smiled ingratiatingly at the sea of faces, still intensely focused on me. “Well, as long as I have your attention,” I told them, “I don’t pay attention to the sort of thing you’re talking about.”
    The woman who’d asked the question was standing, taking notes at a furious pace. She was tiny, even smaller than Audrey, and dressed in pale violet, including the scarf that held her ponytail.
    “I figure out what it is I want to do with my life and then go out and do the absolute best job I can. You can’t ask more of anyone, male or female, can you?” I wondered if I should slow down so that she could record me verbatim, but I’m much too much of a New Yorker. I couldn’t do it. “I think by doing that,” I continued, “you can keep your choices open. Even in male-dominated professions, women have a good chance of succeeding, if they believe in themselves and don’t listen to what other people say.”
    “But what about the men?”
    “What about them?”
    “They don’t take women trainers seriously.”
    “So what? Take yourself seriously. No one else can prevent you from doing that. And the way someone else views you can’t hold you back or make you fail. Only you can do that. Or not do that.”
    I heard Bucky exhale loudly. He had little patience for anyone else holding the floor.
    “What Bucky is probably thinking is that you shouldn’t pay so much attention to what other people are doing. Or thinking.” I smiled down the table at Bucky. “That’s one of the reasons why he’s so successful. He uses his energy productively rather than worrying about what you or I are up to. There’s a wonderful lesson there.”
    With Beryl’s voice as a backdrop, I turned my attention back to the papers on my lap. And perhaps since it was Beryl speaking, I turned to the phone records from her room. She’d only made a couple of calls, both to the same number, probably telling her grandchild about Cecilia’s antics. It was a 718 area code. I circled the number to remind me to check it out later.
    Tracy was next to speak. I looked up as she began to answer.
    “I disagree. Things are no better today.” She looked even angrier now than she had when we all sat down to begin the panel. “This has always been a male-dominated profession, and as far as I can see, it still is. I’m reminded of the Ginger Rogers quote. You know, when she said she did everything that Fred did, but backwards and in high heels.”
    She waited for her laugh, but it didn’t come. No one wanted to hear that even today women