Catwalk by Sheila Webster Boneham Page B

mere six dollars for a catnip mouse and two homemade ginger dog biscuits that smelled good enough to eat.
    I was halfway back to my van when raised voices near the ring caught my attention. The sun was hanging just above the tops of the naked trees clustered along the edge of the property, and I raised a hand to shield my eyes and squinted to see what was going on. Alberta and Louise stood shoulder-to-shoulder, and both seemed to be talking at once, but a low-slung blue spruce blocked my view of the rest of the players. Candace and Rudy Sweetwater walked over from their car. Candace stood beside Louise, Rudy off to the side. His habitual sullen disinterest had been replaced by a fixed glare and clenched jaw, but I couldn’t see who had inspired his change in demeanor.
    A man’s voice broke through the ambient sounds of people talking and leaves stirring in the wind. An angry voice. I had heard it before and knew its owner even before I rounded the spruce and saw Charles Rasmussen reach past Candace Sweetwater, making her recoil, and grab his wife by the arm.
    â€œStop this nonsense! You’re coming with me,” he pulled Louise two stumbling steps forward and I caught sight of Anthony Marconi. Rasmussen shook a finger in the older man’s face and shouted, “And you are moving to St. Agnes’s Home tonight. It’s all arranged.”
    Louise tried to pull away and Rasmussen shook her by the arm. Then everything seemed to happen at once.
    Alberta shouted something incomprehensible and shoved with both hands against Rasmussen’s midriff.
    Candace shoved Rasmussen’s shoulder with both hands. He called her a stupid bitch, and Rudy howled and flew at Rasmussen, both arms swinging. Rudy’s mother grabbed him around the waist and pulled him away from Rasmussen.
    Marconi threw a punch that missed Rasmussen’s chin and glanced off his shoulder.
    Jorge appeared, waving a water jug and yelling in Spanglish. All I could make out was “not wetback” and “little cat.”
    Rasmussen shoved Marconi, who took a dozen stutter-steps back ward before he found his balance.
    Louise flailed her free arm at her husband and screamed, “Let me go! You’re not doing this to me again! Not ever!”
    Tom ran in from somewhere and tried to pull Rasmussen away, saying, “Okay, calm down everyone, let’s ta …” He was cut short by the back of the bigger man’s hand to his cheek.
    I ran toward the fray, wondering vaguely how much clobber power two medium dog biscuits in a plastic bag might wield if I swung really hard.
    Rasmussen took a step toward the parking lot, dragging Louise by the arm. She stumbled and lost one of her shoes.
    Tom came back at Rasmussen, a look in his eye that I hope never to see again. Tom’s shoulder dropped back and I knew he was winding up a punch, so I was ready when Tom snarled, “Coward.” Rasmussen’s upper body swiveled toward Tom, but his feet were still moving in his original direction. Rasmussen still had hold of Louise, but he swung his free arm at Tom. Alberta brought her cross-body purse around at the end of the shoulder strap and caught Rasmussen in the ear. Marconi took a one-handed swing at Rasmussen with his fancy walking stick but came up short and knocked his own hat off. Tom’s arm shot toward Rasmussen’s face, but I ducked in close and kicked my foot into the oaf’s line of travel and the two men never connected. Rasmussen’s foot sent a burst of bright pain up my shin and his body seemed to rise off the ground, and then he fell, hard and heavy. Louise went down, too, but Rasmussen lost his grip on her and she rolled away from him. Her father and Alberta helped get her up and out of the way. Candace Sweetwater had a death grip on her wild-eyed son.
    â€œThe police are on their way!” Marietta Santini arrived at a run and I half expected her to pin Rasmussen to the ground with a chair as