Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

by Berenson, Laurien

  “My memory is quite sharp,” she snapped. “And my knees are perfectly adequate for the job at hand. As to the breed standard, I’ll have you know I helped draft the most recent revision—”

  “Did you?” I asked innocently. “Then I guess you must be pretty well equipped to do the job.”

  “Better than most!” Aunt Peg announced.

  “That’s what I thought.” I stood up and gave her a quick hug. “See you Friday.”

  I love it when a plan comes together.

  My next stop was the supermarket, where I picked up the ingredients I’d need for dinner. More efficient women shop with a long list once a week, but I’ve never been able to get the hang of that system. Besides, planning ahead wouldn’t cover contingencies like tonight, when I suspected that I’d be cooking for four rather than two.

  There probably wasn’t a pair of bachelors on the planet who would pass up a meal of homemade meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and glazed carrots. Just to make sure I had all the bases covered, I threw a six-pack of beer in the cart, too.

  Faith had already eaten, and preparations for our dinner were well underway by the time the guys returned. I was setting the dining room table when the front door opened. Davey led the way, dribbling a basketball up the steps. A rumpled gray sweatsuit, bought big enough to fit for more than a few weeks, pooled around his waist and ankles. His face was wreathed in smiles.

  “Hey, Mom!” he cried. “I made the team!”

  “That’s great. Did you have fun?”

  “Uh huh.” His head bobbed enthusiastically. “And guess what? Uncle Frank’s going to coach. He volunteered.”

  “He did?”

  I glanced at my brother as he came through the door. Frank wasn’t the volunteering type.

  “Yeah, well, you know . . .” he said. “I thought maybe I’d get in some practice.”

  “Playing basketball?”

  Frank’s cheeks grew pink. He cleared his throat. “Uhh, no, with kids. You never know when it might come in handy.”

  The silverware I’d been holding clattered down onto the table. “Frank Turnbull, are you trying to tell me something?”

  For a moment he looked confused. Then Frank realized what I meant. “No!” he practically shouted. “Good God, Mel, bite your tongue. I’m just planning ahead, that’s all.”

  I retrieved the fallen knives and forks. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. Really positive.”

  “About what?” asked Bob. He hopped up the steps two at a time and closed the door behind him. “What’d I miss?”

  “Nothing important,” Frank assured him. “Melanie was just jumping to conclusions and I was setting her straight.”

  “Melanie? Jumping to conclusions? How out of character.”

  “Cut it out, you two.” I brandished a fork. “Or I won’t invite you to stay to dinner.”

  Frank wasn’t impressed. “It’s a little late for threats, considering you’ve already set four places. What are we having?”

  “Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and glazed carrots.” I added pointedly, “If you’re lucky.”

  “Ahhh,” Bob sighed, then sniffed the air. “There’s nothing like the siren song of a home-cooked dinner. It’s been years since I’ve had meals as good as the ones you used to cook.”

  This is what’s known as laying it on thick.

  I headed back to the kitchen. “What about Jennifer?”

  Bob and Frank trotted along after me like a couple of well-trained dogs. Davey, meanwhile, grabbed Faith and headed upstairs.

  “She meant well. But she did things with spices that you wouldn’t believe. Lots of spices.” Bob shook his head sadly. “All together in the same dish. Jennifer’s cooking was more in the grin-and-bear-it category.”

  “She’s young. She’ll learn.”

  “Not on my time.”

  I went to the refrigerator and got out two beers. There were frosted mugs in the freezer and a small wedge of Brie on a plate.

  “You’re an angel of mercy.” Frank didn’t wait for a mug. He downed half the bottle in his first gulp. “Those kids ran me ragged.”

  I pulled out a chair and pushed him down into it. It didn’t take much. “And the season hasn’t even started yet.”

  “You’ve got to get in shape.” Bob patted his own flat stomach. My eyes followed the gesture. Unexpectedly, I found my gaze lingering.

  Bob had looked good when we were married; he looked even better now. Maturity suited him. The boy I’d known a decade earlier had grown into a man who could hold his own in any company.

  His shoulders were broader, the breadth of his chest more pronounced. At the same time, his torso was leaner and he’d shed some puppy fat from his face. Once, Bob had barely needed to shave; now, his jaw was shadowed with stubble. The look suited him.

  Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, I lifted my eyes and found that Bob was staring at me with the same intensity I’d been training on him. Slowly his mouth widened into a sexy grin.

  Heat plummeted into my belly. I didn’t smile back. Instead, I spun away and bumped into my brother.

  Frank, head stuck in the open refrigerator and looking for another beer, was blissfully oblivious. Thank God.

  “Hey Mel, watch where you’re going.” His fingers closed over a cold bottle. He straightened, bumped the door shut with his hip and twisted off the cap. “A guy could get hurt around here.”

  Abruptly, inexplicably, Bob began to laugh.

  I shot him a dirty look. For some reason, it only made him laugh harder.

  “What’s going on?” asked Frank, looking at the two of us.

  I only wished I knew.

  19

  It’s a pretty good indication that your life is in turmoil when getting up and going to work in the morning begins to seem like a restful alternative. On Wednesday, it was a pleasure to pull up to Howard Academy and realize that all I had to do that day was educate the youth of America.

  Divine intervention, or something along those lines, had relieved me of my other responsibilities. Certainly I couldn’t take any credit myself. But now that Sara had resurfaced—almost—I no longer needed to look for her. And since she appeared to be keeping on top of the plans for Bertie’s wedding, I was off that hook, too. The dead body found in Sara’s cottage had turned out to be not only someone I didn’t know, but someone I’d never even heard of before.

  Clearly that was none of my business.

  All I had to do was hold that thought, and I’d be free.

  My light-headed feeling of liberty lasted until eleven-thirty, when a call was put through to my classroom. As Bertie had found out, the office doesn’t forward phone calls except in case of emergency. So when I realized it was an outside line that was buzzing, my first thought was for Davey. I snatched up the receiver.

  “Hi, it’s Debra Silver.”

  “Who?”

  Quickly, I shifted through the names at Davey’s school. Not his teacher, not the school nurse, not the principal.

  “Debra Silver. You know, we spoke last week?”

  Sara’s friend. Indoor tennis. Junior Showmanship. My shoulders sagged in relief.

  “Right.” I tried not to sound too surprised. I wondered how she’d known to find me at Howard Academy. “How did you get past the office?”

  Debra laughed. The sound grated on my ears. “Office help are all alike, no matter where they work. I just threw my weight around and told the secretary it was urgent. And it is. Listen, I have to talk to you.”

  “I’m teaching a class,” I said, amazed that such a thing wouldn’t have occurred to her. Considering it was what I did.

  Three second-graders were standing at the blackboard, struggling with long division. At the moment, there was more erasing than writing going on.

  “How about lunch? I’ll come and get you. We’ll grab something downtown. There’s a new Italian bistro I’ve been dying to try.”

  Briefly I considered the offer. Attendance at lunch wasn’
t mandatory for Howard Academy teachers unless it was their turn to sit in the family-style dining room with the students. I’d served my stint the week before. Today I could probably manage to slip away for an hour or so. To be honest, it wasn’t as though I hadn’t done it before. And I was definitely curious to know what sort of news Debra Silver would consider urgent.

  “Tell me where and I’ll meet you,” I said. Debra hadn’t struck me as the sort of person who worried about other people’s time constraints. I’d feel much better having my own ride back to school.

  She named a new restaurant on Lewis Street and told me she’d make a reservation for twelve-thirty.

  Parking’s a problem in Greenwich and has been for years. The spot I finally found was four blocks away. I was five minutes late for our appointment, but Debra hadn’t arrived yet. By the time she did show up ten minutes later, I’d already perused the menu and was sipping an iced tea.

  “Thanks for meeting me.” She slipped off a soft, butter-colored leather jacket and hung it over the back of her chair. Though Debra was speaking to me, her eyes scanned the room. Who was she hoping to find? I wondered. Kathie Lee Gifford?

  Debra slid into her seat. Her imperiously raised hand summoned the waiter. “I’ll have a glass of Pino Grigio.”

  The man hurried away to do her bidding. I’ve always envied people who have that ability to make waiters sit up and pay attention. If it’s genetic, I think I must be missing a few of the pertinent chromosomes.

  “So,” Debra said casually, “how’ve you been?”

  “Fine.” It had only been four days since we’d met. Was she expecting otherwise?

  Debra’s wine arrived. She sipped from the glass and nodded her approval. “We’ll need a minute before ordering,” she told the waiter who obediently melted away.

  “We can’t take too long,” I told her. “I have to be back at school in an hour.”

  “That’s right, you work.”

  I decided to overlook her tone, which did not imply good things about salaried labor. “Speaking of which, how did you know where to find me?”

  Debra shrugged. “I just called around.”

  “Around where?”

  “You know how small the dog show world is.”

  I did. But it was my impression that Debra had left that world behind a while ago. “I didn’t realize you were still showing dogs.”

  “I’m not. But I have friends that do. You’re right, we should order. Otherwise, we’ll be here forever.” Debra opened her menu and held it up in front of her face.

  I guessed she was hoping I wouldn’t notice the abrupt change of subject. I decided to let it go until after we’d made our selections. Pasta for lunch felt like a luxury to me. I ordered penne primavera and a small caesar salad.

  “You’re probably wondering why I called you,” Debra said after the waiter had come and gone. Her fingers toyed with the heavy silverware on her placemat. “This is a little awkward for me.”

  “What is?”

  “Spilling my guts to a private detective.”

  I stared at her for a minute. “First,” I said finally, “I’m not a detective, private or otherwise. I was looking for Sara because I was trying to do a favor for a friend. And second, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s good. You’re discreet.” She took a hefty swallow of wine. “I was hoping we could work this out.”

  “Work what out?”

  “You see . . .” Debra stopped and looked around the room, as though checking to see if anyone was listening.

  The notion struck me as slightly paranoid. Though the tables in the bistro were unconscionably close together, the noise level was high. No one seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention to us, and I couldn’t imagine why anyone would.

  “I have to consider my position.”

  I wanted to ask what position that was, but I was afraid it would make me look as dumb as I was beginning to feel. All I’d done since I sat down was ask questions, and none of them ever seemed to get answered.

  “My husband is an important lawyer in town. We’re very social. With his job, we have to be. His clients are very important people.”

  Wow, I thought. I’m impressed.

  The waiter brought our salads. Fortunately that gave Debra something to do with her hands. She’d already managed to shred two rolls on her bread plate.

  “What I’m trying to say,” she continued, “is that I probably shouldn’t have spoken so freely to you about Sara Bentley the other day.”

  “Oh?”

  “I know how easily things can get twisted around and taken out of context, and I would hate for that to happen in this instance. I really feel that everything we spoke about should be confidential.”

  I thought back to what Debra had told me when we’d met on Saturday. It wasn’t much. And considering what made news in today’s world, it was hardly inflammatory.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. As I recall, all you did was clarify some facts from an old story.”

  “Yes.” Debra nodded quickly. “That’s just what I’m trying to tell you. It was old news. It all happened a long time ago. Nothing that happened with Sara has any bearing on my life today.”

  “Okay.” I placed my salad bowl to one side as our entrees arrived. I still hadn’t figured out what all the fuss was about. “If you say so.”

  “Just because Sara and I were friends once . . .” Debra paused to sample a small bite of her lobster ravioli. I eyed the dish covetously, wondering if I should have ordered it myself. “. . . doesn’t mean that I want my name to be associated with hers in any way now. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

  Finally, yes. More or less. Though something about what she’d said didn’t seem quite right . . .

  “This is yummy,” said Debra. “How’s yours?”

  “Very good.” The fleeting thought that I’d almost grabbed slipped away again. Regretfully I let it go. “Excellent, actually. I’m glad you suggested we come here.”

  “I’m always on the lookout for new places,” Debra confided. “There are only so many times you want to eat at the club, with all those same dreary faces.”

  I wouldn’t know about that, but I was just as happy to take her word for it.

  “You haven’t heard from Sara, have you? I mean, since we last spoke?”

  “No,” Debra said firmly. “No, I haven’t. Why would I?”

  “No particular reason. I was just wondering. I assume you know about the fire that burned down her cottage.”

  “I read about it in the paper like everyone else. And the fact that there was a body involved . . . how perfectly awful! I guess everyone thought it was Sara for a while.”

  The correct identification had been reported in that morning’s papers. Lower Fairfield County doesn’t see many murders, especially not in towns like New Canaan. After four days, this one had yet to move off the front page of the local papers.

  “Did you?” I asked.

  “Did I what?”

  “Assume it was Sara?”

  Debra nibbled around the edges of a piece of ravioli. In ten minutes, she had yet to make a dent in the food on her plate. I guessed that and tennis was how she kept her well-toned figure. The Greenwich Matron Deprivation Diet.

  “Actually,” she said, “I tried not to think about it.”

  Like hell.

  “Must have been hard, considering your past history.”

  “Not as hard as you’d think.” A final gulp polished off her wine.

  “What the newspapers haven’t reported yet is that Carole Eikenberry, the woman who died in the fire, was a friend of Sara’s. I was wondering if maybe you knew her.”

  “No,” Debra blurted. She hadn’t even stopped to think. “I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t. Sara and I don’t travel in the same circles. There’d be no reason for us to have any of the same friends.”

  One repudiation I’d have bought. Two would have been plenty. With three, Deb
ra was pressing her luck.

  “Because you haven’t really kept in touch.”

  “That’s right. I’m sure I mentioned that on Saturday. Until all this started, it had been years since I’d even thought about Sara. If you’re trying to find out about Carole, you’d have to talk to Sara’s current friends, and that certainly wouldn’t be me.”

  So I’d gathered. Repeatedly.

  Debra pushed her plate away and caught the waiter’s eye. Immediately he came scurrying over. “Everything was delicious,” she told him. “We’ll have the check now.”

  “Perhaps a nice espresso?” he offered.

  “No.” Debra was already reaching for her purse. I was glad I’d eaten quickly. “Just the check.”

  We split the total down the middle after arguing over the tip. Debra, it turned out, thought twelve percent was more than sufficient. If anyone was going to be cheap, it should have been me. That lunch had cost more than I usually spend on two days’ worth of groceries.

  “You won’t forget what I said?” Debra reminded me as we parted at the door. “Confidential, right?”

  “Sure,” I agreed. Why not? It wasn’t as if I’d been about to alert the media.

  She seemed relieved. Debra’s stride was long and confident, and I watched the back of that pale yellow leather jacket until she became lost in the crowd.

  As she slipped from sight, I realized what she’d said that had been bothering me. The other day, Debra had spoken about Sara as if the two of them had never been anything other than competitors turned enemies. Today, she’d characterized them as old friends.

  Which one did she want me to believe? I wondered. More important, which one was closer to the truth?

  20

  That afternoon I got stuck in traffic on the Merritt Parkway and barely beat Davey’s bus home. The big yellow vehicle came lumbering down the street as Faith and I were getting out of the car. While the Poodle sniffed around the front yard, checking to see if any strange dogs had invaded her territory while she’d been away, I walked over to the sidewalk to wait.