Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

by Berenson, Laurien

  Let me set the record straight. I think Bertie’s great. I’ve always wanted a sister and I loved the fact that she was about to become part of my family. But whenever someone tells me they need my help, things never seem to work out the way I hope they will.

  “Doing what?”

  Bertie must have heard the suspicion in my voice. Lord knows, I made no effort to hide it. It didn’t even slow her down.

  That was not a good sign.

  “The way I look at it,” she said, “we’ve got two options. I hired Sara to plan my wedding, and now she’s gone. Vanished into the wild blue yonder. It seems to me we’ve either got to find her, bring her back and make her get the job done like she promised, or we’ve got to plan this shindig ourselves.”

  We? I thought. We who?

  “Go ahead,” Bertie invited. “Your choice.”

  “My choice? When did this become my problem?”

  “About a week ago.” Bertie paused for effect. “The day your ex-husband blew into town.”

  For the second time, she’d managed to surprise me. Sheesh, I thought, I needed to be quicker on the uptake. When I assumed we were talking about Bob, we weren’t. And when I assumed we weren’t, apparently we were.

  “What’s Bob got to do with this?”

  “He wants you back, babe.”

  “No, he—” I stopped.

  There was no point in denying it just because the news was unwelcome. After all, that certainly seemed to be what he’d been leading up to at Aunt Peg’s on Sunday. Probably the only reason he’d never finished his pitch was because I hadn’t given him the chance.

  Then again, aside from his speaking on the phone with Davey several times, we’d barely heard from him since—which had left me as confused as I was relieved.

  “It’s not going to happen,” I said firmly. “Besides, you could be wrong. As it happens, I haven’t heard from him all week.”

  “As it happens,” said Bertie, “you have me and Frank to thank for that. We’ve been running interference on your behalf. Frank even has Bob filling in over at the Bean Counter.”

  “Oh.” Well, that explained a few things. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, but actually I was hoping for more than words. I’m thinking along the lines of compensation. How about this? I’ll continue to keep Bob out of your hair, and you find Sara for me.”

  Of all the sneaky, underhanded offers.

  I hated to admit it, but Bertie was going to fit into our family just fine.

  “That’s extortion.”

  “Just what I was aiming for,” she said cheerfully. “Do we have a deal?”

  I let her wait half a minute, ratcheting up the suspense. Yeah, right, who was I kidding?

  “You know we do.”

  I heard Bertie chuckle, savoring her success. But then she quickly sobered again. “I’m really worried, Mel. Sara can be capricious at times, but once she makes a commitment to a friend, she honors it.”

  I wondered if that meant she hadn’t counted all those ex-fiancés as friends.

  “Also, she was really psyched about working on the wedding. She told me so. I just can’t imagine she just suddenly disappeared of her own volition.”

  “I guess we’ll find out. And I do mean we. You’re going to have to help me, you know. I don’t know Sara at all. I don’t even know where she lives.”

  “New Canaan,” Bertie said. “She lives in the guest house on her parents’ estate. Gorgeous place. I’d go down a cup size to be so fortunate.”

  While others of us might have counted ourselves fortunate if we’d had a cup size to spare.

  “What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?” I asked. Howard Academy had early dismissal on Fridays, and I could probably convince Frank to pick Davey up at school and take him over to the Bean Counter for a couple of hours.

  “Getting ready for the weekend shows, but I can free up some time.”

  “Good. Why don’t we meet at Sara’s place? Maybe we’ll get really lucky and find her there.”

  “Maybe,” Bertie agreed, but she didn’t sound very optimistic.

  New Canaan is one of my favorite towns. Located east of Stamford and north of Darien, New Canaan has worked hard to retain its charm and New England ambiance in an area that’s teeming with growth. While most of the surrounding Fairfield County towns have allowed chain stores, fast food outlets, and, in some cases, skyscrapers to change the unique flavor of their landscapes, New Canaan continues to resist such advances nobly.

  The downtown area is small and picturesque. Nearby Waveny Park draws joggers, kite flyers, and scores of soccer players; every Fourth of July the town hosts a gala fireworks celebration there. Strict zoning laws insure that once you leave the center of town, you see more greenery than houses. As in Greenwich, estates abound; many of them fine old, stone homes, built to last and situated on a sumptuous amount of acreage.

  Following Bertie’s directions on Friday afternoon, I took Weed Street out to West Road and found that Grant and Delilah Waring lived in just such a manor. From the street, the main house wasn’t even visible. Instead, all I could see was a post-and-rail fence enclosing a vast meadow, a long tree-lined driveway, and a copse of tall trees in the distance.

  Bertie had gotten there ahead of me. Her maroon Chevy van was parked just inside the gate. I pulled up beside her and she rolled down her window and waved.

  “There’s a back way around to the guest house,” she said, gesturing toward a spot a hundred yards up where the driveway forked. “Actually it’s the service entrance, but Sara always uses it so she can come and go without her parents knowing what she’s up to.”

  “I’m surprised she doesn’t find it restrictive, living at home at her age. I know I would.”

  “Sara seems to manage pretty well. And once you see this place, you’ll know why she isn’t in any hurry to leave.”

  I waited while she pulled out in front of me, then followed her up the driveway. Even approaching from the back, the Warings’ estate was impressive. The house wasn’t huge, but it had beautiful lines. Built of red brick that had weathered to a soft shade of rose, the home had three parts: a main section and two ample wings that angled outward at either end. A grotto-like swimming pool was nestled within their embrace.

  A garage big enough to accommodate at least half a dozen cars was on the other side of the driveway. Beyond lay a tennis court and a kennel building, with banks of covered runs jutting out from either side. Following Bertie’s van around behind the garage, I saw that the long driveway forked again, leading into another small grove of trees. Almost immediately we came upon the guest house, which turned out to be a delightful ivy-covered cottage nestled in a private clearing.

  “What a gorgeous place,” I said as I parked beside Bertie’s van and got out.

  She was already starting up the flagstone walkway. “Told you.”

  “I guess I can see why Sara wouldn’t want to move. She’s pretty far removed from her parents out here, too. In fact”—I turned around and had a look—“I bet they can’t even see back here from inside the house.”

  “Supposedly, that was the idea. This guest house was added to the property by Roger Bentley, Sara’s father and Delilah’s first husband. According to Sara, he used it as a hideaway to meet with his various mistresses when Delilah was busy with her dog shows or her bridge club.”

  “How old was Sara when her father died?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Bertie. “Thirteen? Maybe fourteen?”

  As she stepped forward to knock on the door, I found myself picturing Sara as a little girl, sneaking out of the big house and following her father into the woods. I imagined her pulling herself up and gazing in the cottage’s darkened windows. What a way to lose your innocence.

  “No one’s home,” Bertie announced. Unlike me, she was concentrating on the business at hand. “If Sara was here, we’d have heard Titus by now. Somehow I knew it wouldn’t be that easy.”

  “Me too,”
I admitted. “Let’s go inside and have a look around. Do you have any idea where Sara might keep an extra key?”

  “The cottage isn’t locked. It never is.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  New Canaan isn’t a high-crime area, but it’s still a place where front doors are expected to be secure.

  “Nope.” Bertie turned the knob and pushed the door open. “What can I tell you? That’s just the way Sara is. She always wanted to be a flower child, but unfortunately, she was born too late. The hippie movement had already gone by. Peace, free love, good karma. That’s Sara all over. She claims not to believe in the ownership of material things.”

  I wasn’t impressed. “Easy for someone who grew up rich to say.”

  “I’m sure that’s probably part of it. Nearly everything she does seems to be a conscious repudiation of her mother’s values and lifestyle. Some might say that she’s carried the notion of teenage rebellion to its absolute extreme.”

  I walked past Bertie and stepped into the cottage. A table next to the door held a small, blue porcelain bowl. Inside was a stack of mail and a cell phone, turned off.

  “There’s one reason you haven’t been able to reach her,” I said, pointing to the phone. “Wherever Sara went, it looks as though she wanted to be out of touch.”

  “If she had a choice,” Bertie said ominously.

  The living room was to our left. In keeping with the rest of the cottage’s cozy dimensions, it wasn’t very large. Still, the room looked comfortable and well lived-in.

  A stone fireplace dominated one wall. There was a tall pile of ash beneath the andirons, and three fresh logs had been stacked on top. The kindling was already in place, and a box of long matches sat ready for use, as if Sara had laid the fire and intended to be back any minute to light it.

  Lifting my gaze, I saw a collection of silver-framed photographs on the mantelpiece. All were of Sara and many included Titus. Other than the Sheltie, however, her partners differed in almost every picture. Sara had been captured, smiling happily, with nearly a dozen assorted men. Bertie was right: the woman must have had a very full social life.

  The matching chairs and couch in the room were made of dark burnished leather. Bertie walked over to the closest one and sat down, sinking deep into the plump cushion. “This is a dead end. I’m wondering if we ought to call the police.”

  “It isn’t dead yet. We haven’t even begun to snoop around. Besides, what are you going to tell them? That your adult friend, who by the way is known for her flightiness, has been out of touch for a few days? Somehow I don’t think they’ll be too concerned.”

  “I don’t care,” Bertie said stubbornly. “Something’s not right. Sara must be in some kind of trouble, or she wouldn’t be missing. And what was up with that note anyway?”

  “I have no idea.” I stepped in closer to have another look at the photographs on the mantelpiece. “Who are all these guys up here? Do you know?”

  “Old boyfriends, I think.” Bertie got up and came over to see for herself. “With maybe a few ex-fiancés thrown in for good measure.”

  She stopped in front of one frame, her finger reaching out to poke at the glass. “That one’s Josh. Funny she’d keep a picture of him around.”

  “Who’s Josh?”

  “My cousin. Actually I was the one who introduced them. At the time it seemed like a great idea. But what started as a hot romance ended up fizzling pretty quickly.”

  “Flattering photo,” I said, picking it up. Josh was a good-looking guy. His fair coloring and chiseled features provided a pleasing contrast to Sara’s darker, more exotic looks. The picture had been taken on a sailboat, probably out on Long Island Sound. “Sara seems to have chronicled a whole bunch of romances up here. Why are you surprised she’d keep Josh’s picture?”

  “I don’t know.” Bertie shrugged. “What I heard was mostly Josh’s side, so I guess my feelings were colored by that. But I know he thought things ended badly, and he was pretty bitter about it. Let’s just say you won’t find any pictures of Sara, flattering or not, sitting out at his place.”

  I glanced back down the row of photos. “I wonder if any of these guys are more current. Do you know if Sara has a boyfriend now?”

  “Probably. Only because there always seems to be somebody. But as to who it is, I wouldn’t have any idea.”

  “Maybe we’ll find an address book,” I said, walking out of the living room. A small kitchen, with a dining area off of it, was in the rear of the cottage. Passing a narrow staircase that led up to a sleeping loft, I headed that way. “Or if we’re really lucky there’ll be a message on the answering machine.”

  “Declaring undying love and leaving a phone number?” Bertie laughed. “Only if you lead a charmed life.”

  The first thing I noticed about the kitchen was that nearly the entire back wall of the room was made of glass. A large picture window looked out over the clearing, and several bird feeders hung from the branches outside. Considering that it was November, business was brisk: some sparrows and a blue jay were currently enjoying Sara’s largesse.

  The second thing I noticed were the dog bowls on the floor. There were three altogether, one for water and two filled with dry kibble. Though Titus probably weighed less than half what Faith did, his stainless-steel bowls were huge—easily larger than the ones I used to feed my Poodle.

  Bertie followed the direction of my gaze and guessed what I was thinking. “Who knows? Maybe Sara leaves food out like that all the time so she won’t forget to feed him.”

  “Forget?” It was hard to keep the censure from my voice. I’d no more forget to feed Faith than I would Davey.

  Bertie gestured toward the back door. “I know she had that doggie door installed so she wouldn’t have to be bothered letting him in and out all the time.”

  Aunt Peg would have been happy to tell Sara that dog ownership was a privilege, not a bother. Since neither of them was there, however, I decided not to comment.

  “At any rate, it looks as though Sara must have taken Titus with her. That’s probably a good sign, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe.” Bertie still wasn’t convinced. She walked over to the answering machine on the counter. Not unexpectedly, its light was blinking. “That’s strange.”

  “What?”

  “I left several messages on this machine, and I know there were a bunch of others. It’s one of the older models. You can tell how many messages there are by how long you have to wait for the beep.”

  “So?”

  “It says there’s only one message on here. I called Sara on Monday and Tuesday, then left a third message yesterday.”

  Diverted from the dog bowls, I walked over and had a look. “Well, either the machine is broken or else someone has come in and wiped the messages clean.”

  “See?” said Bertie. “I told you something was wrong.”

  I reached over and pushed the play button. “Unless Sara’s been here since yesterday and deleted them all herself. Let’s see who this one’s from.”

  The tape began to spin and almost immediately an angry voice rang out. “Sara, you creep, this is Maris. Call me, do you hear? I’m tired of being the one who always has to bail you out, and I’m not going to stand for it anymore. It’s Friday morning now. Get back to me today or you’ll be sorry.”

  9

  “Maris,” I said, turning to Bertie. “That’s an unusual name. Any ideas?”

  “Maris Kincaid. Lives in Norwalk. Breeds Soft Coated Wheaten Terriers and shows a few every now and then. She has a grooming business that she runs out of her basement to pay the dogs’ expenses. She and Sara are friends.” She glanced down at the machine and grimaced. “Or not.”

  “I wonder what Sara did to her.”

  “Who knows? One thing I learned pretty quickly with Sara is that it tends to be feast or famine. Either she’s your bosom buddy or you want to kill her. At first I thought it was just me, but it seems to be the way she treats everyone.” />
  “Didn’t you tell me last week that Sara was doing some grooming, too? She must have records around here somewhere. I wonder if any of her clients have heard from her this week.”

  “There’s a desk up in the loft,” said Bertie.

  “Computer?”

  “Laptop. We can take a look, but if it’s not here, she probably took it with her.”

  Upstairs, in the top drawer of Sara’s desk, we found her business records, such as they were. Actually what we found was a calendar, with names and times stuffed into some of the date boxes and an occasional arrow pointing out to the margin, where several phone numbers had been scribbled.

  “You must be insane,” I said to Bertie. “This is the woman you hired to plan your wedding? No wonder all her businesses have fallen apart.”

  “Sara’s usually very organized.” Bertie sounded defensive. Also annoyed. I would be, too, if this was what I had to defend. “Her businesses fell apart because she didn’t take them seriously. I’m sure Sara has better records than that somewhere. She has to. They’re probably on her laptop.”

  Which was, as we’d suspected it might be, missing.

  I flipped through the calendar to the second week of November. “Sara was supposed to groom three Poodles, a Maltese, and two Cockers this week. Plus, she was pet-sitting a Siamese cat in Rowayton. I may as well call these people and see if any of them heard from her. Maybe one of them can give us a lead on where she went.”

  “Good idea.”

  Bertie crossed the room and opened the door to Sara’s closet. The small cupboard was a mess. Its hanging bar and shelves were jam-packed with a jumbled assortment of shoes and clothing.

  “It figures.” She sighed. “I was hoping we might be able to tell if she’d packed some things, but with this much junk, how would we ever know if anything was missing?”

  I tucked the calendar under my arm and headed for the bathroom. “Maybe we’ll have better luck in here.”

  The bathroom off the sleeping loft was utterly charming, with a claw-footed bathtub, half a dozen hanging plants, and a lace-curtained window overlooking the clearing. It didn’t, however, reveal any clues to Sara’s whereabouts. A toothbrush sat in a holder next to the sink, and I found deodorant, moisturizer, sunblock, and dental floss in the medicine cabinet above.