Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

by Berenson, Laurien

  “Too?”

  “I thought the clean garage was my surprise.”

  Briefly, Bob looked taken aback. “The garage? What’s romantic about that?”

  Little did he know.

  I walked through to the dining room and stopped beside the table, lowering my face to inhale the roses’ heady scent. “Is that what you were aiming for, romance?”

  The color in Bob’s ears spread to his cheeks. “Umm . . . I guess. Is it working?”

  “It’s working.” I turned to face him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He looked like a man who needed desperately to find something to do with his hands. “I have some wine chilling in the refrigerator. Would you like a glass?”

  “Sure.”

  Why not? I thought. This was Bob’s show. He could run it any way he liked. I followed him out to the kitchen. Whatever he had in the oven smelled wonderful.

  “What’s for dinner?”

  He pulled out a cold bottle of chardonnay and attacked the cork with a corkscrew. “You know I don’t actually cook.”

  “Still?”

  When Bob and I were together, hamburgers, charred on the grill, had been the limit of his culinary expertise. But he’d had years since then—most of them bachelor years—to rectify that situation.

  “Still.” He eased the cork out of the bottle and filled two wine goblets. “Frank told me about a little catering shop in Greenwich.”

  “Not Fabulous Food?”

  “That’s the one. He recommended the veal piccata.”

  “I love veal piccata.”

  “I know.”

  Bob handed me a glass, then held his own aloft. “How about a toast?”

  “To what?”

  “Old friends.” He cocked a brow. “New beginnings?”

  I found myself hesitating. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “Are you so sure it isn’t?”

  “No.”

  Bob reached over and gently raised my arm. “Then let’s just go with that for now.”

  The older I get, the more I’ve realized there are some things in life that maybe we aren’t meant to understand. Or to examine. Or to rail against. Sometimes you just have to let go and let fate take you for a ride. So I didn’t have all the answers. Maybe, for once, I could just stop asking so many questions.

  I lit the candles while Bob served the food. The veal piccata was indeed fabulous and we both dug in hungrily. Neither of us mentioned a word about sublimation. And since Davey kept whispering instructions to Faith to be quiet, we both realized that our son was eavesdropping from the top of the stairs.

  Some day when I look back on my life and think about the times I shared with Bob, I’m sure I’ll remember that night as one of the best. Even now, I’m not sure how the evening would have ended if we hadn’t been interrupted. Was the shrill ring of the telephone a kindness or a curse? A calamity or a good excuse? I’ll probably never know.

  Dishes piled in the sink for later, candles burned halfway down, we were lingering over coffee when the call came.

  “Leave it,” said Bob, reaching across the table to take my hand as I started to get up. “Let the machine get it.”

  I sat back down, but I was listening. So was he. Hearing the quick beep, I tensed slightly.

  “Melanie? It’s Bertie. If you’re there, pick up. I have to talk to you. It’s important.”

  I heard Bob sigh, felt his reluctance as he released my hand. I was already rising.

  I headed out to the kitchen and lifted the receiver. “I’m here. What is it? Is everything okay?”

  “I’m fine and so is Frank.” Bertie sounded relieved to have found me. “Bob, too, I think, though I don’t know where he is.”

  “He’s here.”

  “There?” Her voice squeaked. “With you?”

  “Yes, with me. We were eating dinner.”

  “Isn’t it kind of late for that?”

  I shrugged at Bob, who was frowning, and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Is that what you called me about?”

  “No, of course not . . . sorry. It’s Josh. You know, my cousin? He’s in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  In the dining room, Bob pushed back his chair and stood. I guessed he’d heard enough to realize that I wouldn’t be returning to the table any time soon. He carried my coffee cup over and set it next to me on the counter. I nodded my thanks.

  “Actually,” Bertie reconsidered, “it’s worse than that. I should have started at the beginning. Sara’s stepfather is dead.”

  I straightened abruptly, the last vestiges of my mellow mood slipping away. “What happened?”

  “He was murdered.”

  “When?”

  “I think around an hour ago. I just heard about it from Josh.”

  “What does he have to do with it?”

  “That’s the thing, he says nothing. But he was there.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Warings’, when Grant was shot. There was an intruder and a struggle. Grant was shot in the throat. He died almost instantly.”

  “Where was Josh while this was happening?” I asked. “Where were Sara and Delilah? And what was Josh doing at the Warings’ to begin with?”

  “I’m not sure.” Bertie’s voice was tight. “There are a few holes in what Josh told me. He called from the Warings’ house a few minutes ago. The police are there, and they’ve detained him for questioning.”

  “He called you and you called me?” I asked incredulously. “Bertie, are you nuts? You should have called him a lawyer.”

  “I thought of that, but Josh said there was no need. He’s just going to tell the police everything he knows about what happened. Josh said he’d come over here when he was done. I thought maybe you could come, too.”

  “I’m on my way.” A sudden thought struck me. “Bertie, did Josh mention if Sara was there?”

  “Yes, I guess so. He said that Delilah was nearly hysterical and Sara was trying to find a doctor to come and sedate her.”

  “So she hasn’t disappeared again or anything?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  That was a relief.

  “You’re going out,” Bob said as I hung up. The statement was devoid of censure, but he didn’t sound happy.

  “I’m sorry. I have to.” I slipped my arms around his shoulders and pulled him close for a hug. I was sorry. I knew how hard he’d worked to make the evening perfect. “Everything was wonderful.”

  “For me, too,” said Bob. “Do you want me to stay with Davey?”

  “Can you?”

  “Of course.” His smile was wry as he glanced toward the sink. “Besides, I guess I’ve got some more cleaning up to do.”

  If he was trying to make me feel guilty, he was succeeding. Unfortunately I didn’t have time to indulge Bob or the emotion. I grabbed my purse and keys off the counter and hurried out the door.

  It took me twenty minutes to reach Bertie’s place in Wilton. I sped most of the way. Murder is a rare occurrence in lower Fairfield County. Right then, I figured the New Canaan police had bigger things to worry about than whether or not I was breaking the traffic laws in their jurisdiction.

  Bertie’s house was in north Wilton, almost on the Ridgefield border. She was lucky enough to have a piece of land that was tucked in alongside a nature preserve, and due to the demands of her job, she usually had about a dozen dogs in residence. The basement of her home had been converted into kennel space to accommodate the lodgers.

  When I pulled up to the small frame house, all the outdoor lights were on. Bertie met me on the porch. She must have been waiting by a front window.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said. “I apologize for dragging you all the way over here, but I couldn’t think who else to call. Josh just phoned. He should be here any minute.”

  Bertie’s living room was cluttered and comfortable. Her furniture was overstuffed and often covered with animal hair. Be
rtie didn’t give a damn. She usually had a dog or two loose in the house, but that night they’d all been put away in their pens. As I sat down, a gray striped tomcat with white paws and a bushy tail sauntered into the room and hopped nimbly onto my lap.

  “Beagle, cut that out,” Bertie grumbled as the cat began to rub its head back and forth across the front of my sweater. Being a cat, Beagle ignored her.

  “That’s all right, I don’t mind.”

  Actually I thought their association was rather funny. Bertie, whose first love was dogs of all shapes and sizes, had found the scrawny, scrappy kitten abandoned by the side of the road, and nursed him back to health. Initially loathe to admit that she’d become a cat owner, much less a cat lover, she’d named Beagle after a favorite breed of hound. As if that somehow lessened the sting.

  “As long as he doesn’t try to sharpen his claws on me.”

  Bertie grinned. “He’ll work his way around to that once he gets you softened up.”

  We both heard the sound of an approaching car, and Bertie hopped up to open the door again. Josh walked in the house looking pale and tired, and more than a little shell-shocked.

  “Are you okay?” Bertie asked.

  Josh shrugged. He pulled off his leather jacket and wool muffler and handed them to his cousin. Since he didn’t seem surprised to see me, I figured Bertie had told him I’d be coming. He walked into the living room and slumped onto the couch, automatically lifting both feet and placing them on the scarred chest that served as a coffee table.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Josh raised a weary hand and rubbed it across his eyes. “Grant Waring’s dead. Shot.”

  “Do the police know who did it?” Bertie walked over and sat down beside him.

  “No. Right now, they probably don’t know a whole lot more than I do.”

  “Tell us about it,” I said.

  “According to Delilah, she was reading in the library. Grant was in his office. She heard some sort of crash, then she thought she heard someone yelling but she couldn’t make out any words. Next thing she knew, there was a shot. She went running into the office and found Grant bleeding on the floor.”

  “Where were you while all this was going on?”

  “In my car, heading down the driveway. I’d stopped by earlier to see Sara. She and I had talked, and I left. She called me on my cell phone as I was driving away.

  “At first I couldn’t make out a word she was saying. I thought we had a bad connection, but then I realized she was screaming and gasping for breath. She told me someone had broken into the house and shot Grant, so I immediately turned around and went back.”

  “So you weren’t actually in the house when it happened?”

  “No. I just told you that, didn’t I?” Josh’s voice held steady. “Nor did I see anyone outside. The police already asked me about that, too.”

  “Did Delilah have any idea who this intruder was?” Bertie asked.

  “Delilah wasn’t . . .” He stopped and shook his head. “She wasn’t really coherent. Not when I got there, and not for the police either. She and Sara both had blood all over them. Sara said they’d tried CPR, but I don’t know why. One look and anyone would have known—”

  “You saw the body?” Bertie’s eyes were wide.

  “What choice did I have? I went tearing back up to the house and ran inside. Sara and Delilah were both frantic. I didn’t know how bad things really were. I thought maybe I could help. . . .”

  Josh’s voice trailed away. He looked down at his hands. His fingers were clasped tightly in his lap.

  “I couldn’t help. Nobody could have at that point. Sara had already called 911, so we sat down and waited for them to come.”

  “Weren’t you worried that the killer might still have been around?” I asked.

  “To tell you the truth, I didn’t think about it. Looking at Grant, it just felt as though the worst had already happened. Besides, the French doors in his office were standing open like someone had just gone running out. We all noticed that right away because of all the cold air that was blowing in.”

  “Don’t tell me you closed them,” said Bertie.

  “Sara did,” Josh admitted. “The police weren’t happy when they found out. But at the time none of us was thinking straight. It didn’t occur to us that we ought to be preserving a crime scene.”

  The phrase rolled off his tongue quite handily, I thought, for someone who claimed not to have been thinking about it. These days the police weren’t the only ones familiar with investigative techniques. Almost anyone who watched TV quickly became well versed in what was important and what was not when a crime had been committed.

  “What about servants?” I asked. “Where were they?”

  Josh looked blank, but Bertie had an answer. “There’s never anyone there after early evening. The Warings like having their privacy. Aside from the kennel manager, the only other live-in is a housekeeper who has an apartment above the garage.”

  “What about Sara?” I asked Josh. “Where was she when all this was going on?”

  “She said she was still upstairs. I’d left her in her room five minutes earlier.”

  I thought back to Bertie’s and my visit the evening before. “Sara didn’t walk you out?”

  “No. Why would she? I could find my own way perfectly well.” He sounded defensive; I wondered why. Even Bertie noticed the subtle shift in his tone.

  “I thought you and Sara were over,” she said.

  “We are.” His gaze skittered away.

  “So what were you doing going to visit her?”

  “We had something to discuss.”

  Bertie went very still. “I knew it,” she said softly.

  That didn’t sound good.

  I looked back and forth between them. “Knew what?”

  26

  In the time we’d been talking, Beagle had made his way over to Bertie’s lap. She stroked the cat’s long, warm body and plucked absently at his bushy tail. Beagle responded by swatting at Bertie’s fingers with dainty white tipped paws.

  “After I got home last night,” Bertie said slowly, “I called Josh and told him about Sara being back. I guess I also mentioned that she was pregnant.”

  “You were right to tell me.” A hank of wheat-colored hair had fallen down over Josh’s eyes. Irritably he reached up and brushed the strands back. “Sara should have told me herself. I had a right to know.”

  “I thought you stopped seeing Sara last summer,” I said.

  “I did. But it’s not like we lost each other’s phone numbers, you know?”

  I supposed I did. It turned out I wasn’t the only one having a hard time setting physical boundaries on a relationship that should have been over.

  “So you thought you might be the baby’s father?”

  “I figured there was a chance. Enough of one that I needed to check it out, anyway.”

  “And?” Bertie demanded.

  “Is this something you need to know?”

  “Apparently so, since I seem to have put myself in the middle of all this.”

  It was petty of me, I know, but I enjoyed watching a family squabble that didn’t involve my own family for once.

  “Sara said the baby isn’t mine.”

  “Sara said it isn’t?” Bertie asked. “Or you’re sure it isn’t?”

  “I’m sure.” Josh let out a windy sigh. “First, because if she’s right about the due date, the timing doesn’t work; second, because we always used birth control; and third, because . . .”

  “Because?” I prompted when he didn’t seem inclined to continue.

  “Because when I tried to make her tell me who the father was, Sara blew up. She seemed really annoyed that I even knew about the baby. Like it was supposed to be a big secret. She said the only person she’d told on purpose was the baby’s father and that it was nobody else’s damn business.”

  “She has a point,” I said.

  “Like hell.”

/>   He seemed awfully upset for a man who’d claimed that their relationship had never been very serious. I wondered whether it was his heart that had been wounded when Sara dismissed him, or his ego.

  “So you went to talk to Sara and ended up fighting with her instead.”

  “Right,” Josh said glumly.

  I supposed that explained why Sara hadn’t walked him to the front door. It also gave her time to sneak down the back stairs, shoot her stepfather, go out the French doors, wait for Delilah to raise a fuss, and then call Josh as he was reaching the end of the driveway. If she’d been so inclined . . .

  Call me a cynic, but I tend to be skeptical of nameless, faceless intruder stories. There’d been three other people in the house around the time that Grant was shot. I had to assume that the police would check them out before doing anything else. For all Josh’s purported lack of concern, I knew Bertie was right to be worried.

  “How well do you know—did you know—Grant?” I asked.

  “Not well. We’d met once or twice when I was with Sara. You know, out by the pool or something. Sara used to talk about Delilah a lot, but she hardly ever mentioned Grant.”

  “So you wouldn’t have had any reason to be angry with him?” I probed carefully.

  Bertie glanced over in surprise.

  “None.” Josh was firm. “Why would I? I hardly knew the guy. My beef is with Sara.”

  “How about Carole Eikenberry?” I asked. “Did you know her?”

  “The girl who died in the fire? Yeah, sure. She and Sara met last summer, and right away they were good friends. When I was still seeing Sara, the three of us ended up spending a lot of time together. Sara’s idea, not mine.” He held up his hands as if absolving himself from blame. “Carole and I did not get along.”

  “How come?” Bertie asked.

  “She just wasn’t my kind of person. I don’t know, it’s hard to put my finger on the reason why. For one thing, Carole was really bossy. Always telling Sara to do this or do that, and Sara would.” The look of consternation on Josh’s face was almost comical. “I mean, it’s not like Sara ever listened to anyone else.”