Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

by Berenson, Laurien

  13

  Shock bounced me up off the chair. Carrying the phone, I ran out to the front hall. “Bob, what are you talking about? What newspaper are you looking at? How did you know about Sara?”

  Cradling the receiver between cheek and shoulder, I fumbled with the lock on the front door.

  “It’s called . . .” Pages flipped. “The Greenwich Time. Frank gets it delivered. It was outside the door this morning.”

  As if I cared where he’d gotten the paper from. Details! I wanted details.

  The dead bolt slid free. I yanked open the door and ran outside. Frigid November air knifed right through my flannel pajamas. Bare feet freezing, I hopped from one to the other on the concrete step and scanned the yard. My paper boy has an erratic arm. Some mornings we’re lucky he doesn’t break a window.

  The Sunday newspaper, rolled up in its plastic sack, was out by the sidewalk. I didn’t get the same paper as Frank, but if there was a story, the Advocate would have it, too. Still carrying the phone, I skipped down the steps and ran across the dry winter grass. Good thing it hadn’t snowed recently.

  “Bertie’s been talking about Sara all week,” Bob was saying. “Frank filled me in on the details. Anyway, it looks like there was a house fire last night. Do you want me to read you the story?”

  “No.” I reached down, grabbed the paper, and raced back inside. I could only hope it was early enough on a Sunday morning that none of my neighbors had been watching. There are days when it seems like the show going on at my house is better than cable. “In a minute, I’ll have it here. House fire? What house fire? Where was Sara?”

  “New Canaan, it says. Some big estate.”

  Shivering, I shut the front door behind me and ran back to the kitchen, where the Poodles were now waiting outside that door. The Three Stooges probably deal with crisis better.

  “You mean that whole huge house burned down?”

  “No, not the big place. A guest cottage.”

  I yanked open the back door. The two dogs raced up the stairs, happily anticipating their peanut butter biscuits. What choice did I have but to go to the pantry? On top of that, my feet were still freezing. At this rate, I’d never get the paper opened.

  “The cottage burned down?”

  “Almost a complete loss. According to the article, it wasn’t wired to any sort of smoke detection system, and nobody noticed the flames right away. By the time the fire department arrived, the place was already engulfed. The roof caved in as the first fire trucks were arriving. They never even had a chance to go inside. All they could do at that point was put the fire out.”

  “But Sara?” Now my teeth were chattering. Delayed reaction, probably. “What does it say about Sara?”

  I heard the sound of more pages being turned, as I pulled a couple of large dog biscuits out of the box.

  “Here it is.” Bob skimmed through the details. “Charred remains discovered by a closet in the bedroom . . . no immediate identification possible . . . medical examiner believes it to be the body of a young woman.

  “But listen to this. Here’s how it ends.

  Resident of the cottage, Sara Bentley, could not be reached for comment. According to her parents, on whose estate the house is located, Ms. Bentley’s whereabouts are unknown.”

  “Damn,” I said, sinking down into a chair.

  All at once, I was simply too heavy, too filled with the weight of the bad news, to stand. Despite Bertie’s fears, I’d held onto the hope that Sara would turn up. Now it looked as though I’d been wrong.

  “Mel, are you there?”

  “I’m here,” I sighed.

  “Don’t go anywhere. I’m coming over.”

  It was surely a sign of how deflated I felt that I didn’t even have the energy to argue. Instead, I called Aunt Peg. She’s an early riser. I wondered if she’d gotten around to opening up her paper yet.

  While the phone rang, I slid the plastic sleeve off my copy of the Stamford Advocate and spread the newspaper out on the kitchen table. There isn’t a lot of crime in lower Fairfield County. Like the Greenwich paper, the Advocate had carried the New Canaan fire as front-page news.

  I was scanning the article when Aunt Peg picked up on the fifth ring. It didn’t contain any more facts than Frank had already given me.

  “Melanie!” Aunt Peg sounded out of breath. “What’s the matter?”

  Despite the fact that I had other things to worry about, I was still piqued. “How did you know it was me?”

  “Nobody calls at seven a.m. unless there’s a problem.” Her inference was clear: obviously nobody had as many problems as I did.

  “I guess you haven’t looked at today’s paper yet.”

  “It’s still out by the mailbox. Shall I go get it?”

  “No, I can read you what’s in front of me. Sara Bentley’s cottage burned to the ground last night and the body of a young woman was found inside.”

  “Sara?” Peg gasped.

  “It says that the body was badly burned and the police haven’t been able to make an identification yet. They’re seeking dental records from the owner of the cottage.”

  “Poor Delilah,” Peg said softly. “I’ll have to call her and see if there’s anything I can do. Have you spoken to Bertie?”

  “No, she’s showing this weekend. I’m sure she left hours ago. I’ll talk to her tonight. I wonder . . .” I stared down at the paper, drumming my fingers on the page.

  “What?”

  “Where had Sara been for the last week and why did she suddenly decide to come back? And why on the night that the cottage burned down?”

  “Maybe she had something to do with the fire,” said Peg, voicing my thoughts aloud. “Does it say what started it?”

  “No.” I read the official wording. “Cause of the blaze has yet to be determined. That could mean anything.”

  “Including that the fire marshall knows what happened but they just haven’t released their findings yet.” Aunt Peg paused. “Here’s a gruesome thought.”

  “What?”

  “What if Sara didn’t return to her cottage last night? What if she’s been dead since she disappeared and the murderer brought her body back?”

  “Oh, Lord.” It was definitely too early in the morning for me to deal with possibilities like that.

  Not Aunt Peg. She was functioning on all cylinders. “I wonder if Delilah and Grant have more information,” she mused.

  “Aunt Peg—”

  “What? It’s perfectly natural for a friend to pay a condolence call at a time like this.”

  “Not if you intend to grill the bereaved about the circumstances surrounding the death.”

  “Please, dear. Give me some credit for subtlety. Besides, considering the strange things that led up to it, do you honestly think that fire started by accident?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “You see? We’re in perfect agreement. I’ll let you know what I find out. Bye!”

  This time, taking no chances on Bob arriving before I was ready, I hurried through my shower and was fully dressed by the time he got there. I had bacon frying on the griddle and slices of warm French toast stacked on a plate on the counter when he let himself in the front door. By now the Poodles were getting so accustomed to Bob’s presence that they didn’t even bark at his arrival.

  I wasn’t at all sure how I felt about that.

  “Good morning,” he said, walking up behind me and slipping his arms around my waist. His face nuzzled my hair. “Something smells great.”

  “Must be the bacon.” I edged sideways out of his grasp.

  Bob’s expression closed. “If you say so. Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Breakfast’s almost ready. All I have to do is go call Davey and get out the maple syrup—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said firmly. “And I think you know it.”

  “I’m fine, Bob. Really, I am.”

  My voice didn’t sound fine. It was skittering up and down. I picked up
a long fork and began to turn the slices of bacon. A piece of fat sizzled and popped, shooting off the griddle to land on my wrist.

  I sucked in a breath. Bob swore softly. Striding across the room, he grasped my arm and pulled me over to the sink. His other hand turned on the cold water. Reflexively I tried to pull my arm away.

  “Quit struggling. This will make it feel better.”

  I knew that just as well as he did. But it didn’t stop me from trying to pull away.

  “Fine, she says,” Bob muttered under his breath. He held my hand firmly as the stream of cold water did its job. “Everything’s fine. Everything’s always fine. For Pete’s sake, Mel. A friend of yours just died. It’s okay to let go a little. It’s okay to be upset.”

  “Sara wasn’t really a friend,” I said, but I could feel my throat starting to quiver. “We just met for the first time last week.”

  “No wonder you’re feeling stoic then. What the hell are you doing cooking breakfast, anyway?”

  “You said you were coming over. I thought you’d be hungry.”

  And I’d thought the meal would provide a distraction.

  “I didn’t come because I wanted you to feed me.” Now Bob sounded annoyed. He picked up a dish towel from the counter and dried the small red spot on my arm. “I came because I thought you might need me. But I guess that’s always been our problem, hasn’t it? You don’t need me for anything.”

  “That’s not true.” I yanked my hand. This time, Bob let it go without protest. “I needed you when we were married. I needed you when you ran away. Once, I’d have given anything to have you with me. But that time is long gone now.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.” Bob’s hands slid up my arms to my shoulders.

  I didn’t shrug him off. I could feel the heat of his palms through my shirt. I knew he was going to kiss me. I knew I was going to kiss him back. When he lowered his head, I rose to meet him.

  And when the kiss ended, there were tears streaming down my face. Tears of loss, I knew that with every fiber of my being. Though I’d have had a hard time pinning down which loss had prompted them.

  “Jeez.” Bob tried out a joke. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?” His thumb stroked my cheek gently, wiping the wetness away.

  I managed a feeble smile. “I guess maybe I’m just not as hard as you think I am.”

  “I never said you were hard. I said you were strong. There’s a big difference.”

  Behind me, I could smell the bacon beginning to burn. I turned away, swiping away the last of the tears with the back of my hand. “If I’m strong it’s because I’ve had to be, for Davey’s sake and my own.”

  “I know that.” Bob pulled several sheets off the roll of paper towels, doubled them, and spread them on the counter so I could lay the bacon out to drain. “You haven’t had things easy. All I’m saying is maybe you don’t have to go it alone anymore. You loved me once, Mel. And we were good together; you know we were.”

  He was right, we had been good together. Briefly.

  And I had loved him. With the sort of blinding, dizzying devotion that only first love can bring. I’d grown a lot since those days. I couldn’t go back there again. Nor would I want to.

  “If you need me,” Bob said softly, “I’m here for you.”

  I spoke without thinking. Words that should have come from my head came from my heart instead.

  “I’ll think about it,” I heard myself say.

  14

  Aunt Peg never did get back to me on Sunday night.

  I could have called her, but that probably would have involved admitting that I’d spent the day with my ex-husband. Which was not something I wanted to discuss—or even, particularly, to think about. Especially since I’d enjoyed myself a good deal more than I’d expected to.

  We didn’t do anything special. In a way, that added to the day’s charm. Seeing my son and his father together, engaged in such mundane activities as playing board games, making lunch, and throwing a ball for the dogs, tugged at my emotions in ways I never would have predicted. It was impossible not to see the resemblance between them; everything was right there in the set of a shoulder or the quirk of a brow.

  And even though I knew perfectly well that we weren’t a real family unit, it was nice, just for a little while, to pretend.

  Bob even went so far as to volunteer to drop Eve off at Aunt Peg’s on his way back to Frank’s place on Sunday night. I thought that might prompt a reaction from my elder relative, but instead, the person I found myself talking to was Bertie.

  I’d left a message that morning on her answering machine. She called Sunday evening as soon as she got back from the show. Actually, knowing Bertie, she’d probably already unloaded her van, fed and exed her dogs, then checked their water bowls before attending to her own needs. What she hadn’t done yet was see a newspaper.

  Briefly, I told her what had happened.

  “I don’t believe it,” Bertie said firmly.

  I’d expected shock, maybe anger. Not denial.

  “Bertie, it’s in today’s newspaper. Sara’s cottage burned down and they found a body in the rubble.”

  “How did the fire get started?”

  “It doesn’t say. I’m sure the police or an arson squad is investigating.”

  “It couldn’t have been an accident.” Bertie thought for a minute, considering the possibilities. “Someone did that to Sara on purpose. But when did she come back? And why didn’t she call anyone?”

  “That’s pretty much what I’d like to know. And think about this: since we didn’t know that Sara had come home, you have to wonder whether or not the person who set that fire did.”

  “You mean you think she might have been killed by mistake?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  Bertie swore, loudly and vehemently. I held the receiver out away from my ear and let her blow off steam.

  “Sara was a good person,” she said at the end. “Flawed maybe, not perfect, but still a good person. This whole thing makes me sick. So now what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You will keep asking questions, won’t you?”

  “Bertie, it’s not just our problem anymore. The police will be asking questions now—”

  “And we’ll never learn any more about what happened than we can read in the newspaper. Sara was worth more than that. She was a friend of mine and she was counting on me. You’ve met her parents. You know what they’re like. Sara needs someone to be on her side. Come on, just give it a couple more days.”

  I didn’t respond to her plea right away. Instead, I said, “Speaking of Sara’s parents, Aunt Peg went to New Canaan to pay a condolence call. She’ll probably have the latest news.”

  “Good. I knew you wouldn’t be able to just let things drop.” Bertie sounded pleased, as though she figured the matter was settled. She was probably right.

  “By the way, I spoke to my cousin Josh. He’d be happy to talk to you about Sara. He’s working in Greenwich, and when I told him you were at Howard Academy, he asked if he could stop by there tomorrow afternoon.”

  As tutor rather than teacher, my days tended to vary. It wasn’t unusual for me to have blocks of unscheduled time. On Monday we were in luck.

  “Tell him I’m free between one-thirty and two-fifteen. If I don’t hear back from you, I’ll assume it’s a plan.”

  “Got it,” said Bertie. “And Melanie?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I appreciate the help.”

  “You should.” I tried for a light tone, but didn’t quite pull it off.

  I wondered if Bertie was thinking the same thing I was. We weren’t looking for a missing person anymore. Now we were hunting a murderer.

  Howard Academy is a private school located on a beautiful campus just outside downtown Greenwich. Founded early in the last century by robber baron Joshua Howard, the school’s stated aim was to provide the best possible education for children of privilege. Not unexpectedly, in these po
litically correct days, headmaster Russell Hanover II tries to downplay that aspect of the institution’s charter. He has opened registration to all applicants, and a generous scholarship program is in place.

  What that means for me is that the children I work with at Howard Academy are a varied and delightful group. My official title is Special Needs Tutor; my purpose, to ensure that every student receives as much individual attention as he or she might need to excel. One of the perks of working in the private school sector is that the administration has some flexibility when it comes to making rules. In keeping with the theory that Howard Academy should foster a child-friendly environment, I’d been given permission the previous spring to bring Faith to school with me.

  The kids loved having her around, and I loved the fact that the big Poodle no longer had to wait at home all day for my return. Even the staid headmaster had been known to drop by my room occasionally and bring Faith a biscuit. The arrangement was working out beautifully for all of us.

  I had Faith with me when I walked out to the school’s front entrance at one-thirty on Monday afternoon. The class bell had just rung and the hallways were full. Even though the kids see Faith every day, she still caused a stir as we made our way through the upper school.

  Many of the students who were hurrying by stopped to give her a quick pat or a kind word. Some congratulated me on her new status, which, to my surprise, had been the subject of an announcement at morning assembly the previous week.

  “Champion Faith,” said a girl named Jane, one of my former pupils, who was now the undisputed star of the girls’ field hockey team. She leaned down to brush her hands through the Poodle’s hair. “Aren’t you something special?”

  “Special enough that all that hair is coming off in a few weeks. Pretty soon she’ll look like a normal dog.”

  “I like you just the way you are,” Jane told Faith, who wagged her tail happily. The feeling was mutual.

  Faith and I reached the reception area just as a green Mazda Miata was pulling up the driveway. Bertie’s cousin was right on time. Howard Academy’s main building, which houses the administrative offices as well as a number of classrooms, was originally designed to blend in with the other mansions in the neighborhood. Drawing rooms serve as meeting areas, and the front hall is furnished with antiques from Joshua Howard’s own collection.