Jingle Bell Bark

by Laurien Berenson

  “Believe me, that dog will be much better off going to the pound. They’re the ones with the facilities and the means to find him a new home. A good-looking dog like Remington will probably get plucked up by some new family in no time.”

  Without waiting for me to answer, Rebecca turned away and strode to the back of the stage. A box of switches was on the wall. One by one, she shut down the lights.

  “That’s it?” I asked incredulously.

  Glancing back over her shoulder, she seemed surprised to find that I had followed her. “I’m afraid I have no idea what else you expect me to say.”

  Suddenly I was feeling somewhat speechless myself. I spun around and recrossed the now dark stage. A half flight of steps led down to the auditorium floor. I’d reached the bottom when Rebecca called after me.

  I stopped and looked back. “Yes?”

  “Did you . . . ?” Her face mirrored her hesitation. “I didn’t think to ask before . . . How did you know about Remington? Were you a friend of Henry’s?”

  “Henry drove Davey’s school bus. When he didn’t show up for work, a friend and I went to check on him. That’s when we found his dogs.”

  “He was already dead, then,” she said softly.

  “Yes.”

  Rebecca’s shoulders slumped. She nodded slowly.

  Too annoyed to feel any sympathy, I left her standing on the stage in the dark.

  It took me ten minutes to come to the realization that the children I was supposed to be in charge of were missing. By that time, I’d searched the lobby, the ballet studio, a half-dozen empty classrooms, and the parking lot. Of course Bertie, who was supposed to be in charge of the troops, was missing as well. I figured that had to be a good sign.

  I called her on her cell phone. “Where are you?” I asked when she picked up. Noise in the background made her almost impossible to hear.

  “Not speeding to the hospital, about to deliver a baby, more’s the pity. We’re at the Bean Counter. The kids got tired of waiting for you, so we came over here to see what kind of trouble we could get into.”

  The Bean Counter was Frank’s coffee house, a business he co-owned with my ex-husband, Bob. Also located in North Stamford, it was only a mile or so away.

  “Joey called his mom to tell her what was up,” Bertie said. “She’s on her way.”

  “Why? I was going to deliver Joey and Carly back home. Alice doesn’t have to come and get them.”

  “The kids wanted to stay and eat dinner here, you know, sandwiches and stuff. It’s Friday night so there’s live music. The kids think that’s pretty exciting. When Joey called Alice, she said Joe was working late—I gather that’s not unusual—and that she would come join us. So get in your car and get over here.”

  That sounded like a perfectly splendid idea to me.

  Of course, on the way to the coffee house I realized that I’d never gotten around to asking Rebecca the questions about genetic testing and puppy socialization that I’d meant to find out for Alice. Sad to say, she would probably be relieved by my omission. With her deposit already paid, if there was more bad news about Rebecca Morehouse’s breeding operation, I was quite certain Alice didn’t want to hear it.

  The Bean Counter was every bit as crowded as it had sounded over the phone. The small parking lot was full; I was forced to leave the Volvo at the end of a long line of cars that snaked along the street. I had to give my little brother credit. In less than two years, the business he’d started under less-than-ideal circumstances was definitely thriving.

  Originally, the coffee bar had been intended as a local hangout. But good reviews in area newspapers had started some buzz and positive word of mouth had done the rest. When Frank and Bob had hired a trio of musicians to come in and play on Friday and Saturday nights, receipts had shot up again. I knew Bertie had no intention of retiring from handling, but it was nice to know she could take a couple of months’ maternity leave without worrying about who was going to put food on the table.

  Frank was working behind the counter. He waved when I came through the door and pointed toward a back corner where Bertie and Alice had staked out a couple of booths. Threading my way between closely packed tables, I went to join them. Though the musicians were just starting to set up, the coffee house was already packed. By the time they began to play, there wouldn’t be a single empty seat.

  “Kids in one booth, adults in the other,” Alice said when I slid in beside her. “This way we can talk about anything we want and they can feel very grown up, sitting by themselves.”

  “Unless they all order themselves cake for dinner,” I said. With Davey, who had inherited Aunt Peg’s sweet tooth, that was a distinct possibility.

  “Don’t worry, we didn’t offer them that much freedom.” Bertie nodded toward a waitress who was delivering three tall glasses of milk to the next booth. “This is great practice for me. I need to learn how to do kid things.”

  Alice laughed. “I hate to say it, but the only kid things you’re going to need to know how to do for a while are go without sleep and wipe spit-up off your shoulder. When’s that baby due anyway?”

  “Any minute now,” said Bertie. She had to sit sideways to wedge herself between seat and table. “Yesterday would have been good.”

  “Oh,” Alice said sympathetically. “Been there.”

  “Go ahead. Tell me your horror story. I’m sure you have one—everybody does. As soon as I started looking pregnant, people I’d never even met suddenly felt obliged to tell me the story of their cousin Rachel or Aunt Debbie who was in labor for forty-eight hours and barely survived. Do your worst. I’m immune to it now.”

  “No, you’re not.” I reached over and patted Bertie’s hand. “You’re just feeling crabby because you’re ready for it to be over.”

  “You can say that again.” Her eyes lit up as the waitress arrived with our food.

  Three sandwiches, I noted, and three drinks. “What’d I order?” I asked.

  “Chicken salad on a croissant,” said Alice. “We figured we were better off getting our food before things got too hectic. If you hate that idea, get something else. Bertie said she could probably manage to eat anything you didn’t want.”

  Bertie, who’d just been delivered a Ruben sandwich and a side order of fries, looked at me and stuck out her tongue.

  “No way.” I pulled the plate close. “This looks great.”

  In the next booth, Davey had just been served a thick hamburger. Joey and Carly both had chicken fingers. All three attacked their food happily.

  “Boy or girl?” Alice asked, nibbling at a Caesar salad. It was her life’s goal to lose ten pounds. Nobody, including Alice herself, was holding their breath that this weight loss was actually going to take place.

  Bertie’s shoulders rose and fell. “We don’t know.”

  “Don’t you want to know?”

  “Nope. We talked about it and decided we’d rather be surprised. Either way is good.”

  Alice looked at me. “Did you know with Davey?”

  “No. Actually, I was quite convinced he was going to be a girl. I was utterly shocked when the doctor said I’d had a boy.”

  “I knew for both of mine,” said Alice. “It was a big deal for Joe. He wanted to know.”

  “Why?” asked Bertie. “It’s not as if finding out ahead of time lets you change anything.”

  “I know. But having a boy who would carry on the family name was very important to Joe. Luckily, we got that out of the way right off the bat, which was great. With Carly, I could just relax and take what came. I was glad she was a girl, though. I wanted one of each.”

  “How about you?” I said to Bertie. “Do you have a preference?”

  “Healthy.”

  “That goes without saying. But after that?”

  She thought for a minute, then shook her head. “Each sex has a different sort of appeal, you know? Kind of like with puppies. You know the temperaments are going to be different, but both have their
good points and their bad points.”

  “Really?” Alice fished a crouton out of her salad. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Alice is shopping for a puppy,” I told Bertie.

  “Alice has found a puppy,” she corrected me. We both glanced at the next booth. Aside from all the noise, the kids were totally absorbed in their own conversation. They weren’t paying any attention to us. “A Golden Retriever.”

  “Male or female?” asked Bertie.

  “Male,” said Alice. “We’re bringing him home for Christmas.”

  Bertie swirled a french fry through her mound of ketchup and popped it in her mouth. “That’s a terrible idea. I can’t believe any good breeder would sell you a Christmas puppy.”

  Alice sighed. “Not you, too.”

  “The puppy isn’t coming from a reputable breeder,” I said.

  “Does Peg know that?”

  I grinned at Bertie’s horrified tone. “Luckily for Alice, she’s my aunt and not hers.”

  “The puppies are very cute,” Alice said firmly. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so,” Bertie agreed. “So why’d you pick a male?”

  “Actually, I didn’t,” Alice admitted. “Ms. Morehouse told me that was what I wanted.”

  “It was probably what she had left,” I said.

  “Of course, I didn’t realize it made any difference, so I just said fine. I figured that would be easier because I wouldn’t have to get him spayed.”

  “Even a male should be neutered,” Bertie said. “Aside from the whole accidental reproduction issue, they stay healthier that way. Is this the same Ms. Morehouse that’s doing the play? She’s a dog breeder, too? Busy lady.”

  Mouth full, I simply nodded.

  “So which is better?” Alice asked curiously. “Male or female?”

  “It depends,” I answered.

  “Males tend to be bigger,” said Bertie. “And they usually have a more profuse coat. Think more hair in the house.”

  “Females are often smarter,” I interjected. “At least in Poodles. And bear in mind that we’re generalizing now. Though males can be sweeter and more affectionate.”

  “Boys can be harder to housebreak sometimes,” Bertie offered.

  “Now that I think about it,” said Alice, “I’ve heard that boy dogs are more likely to roam, aren’t they?”

  Bertie and I shared a look. “Only if you let them run loose. Which I assume you won’t.”

  “But dogs need to run loose to get exercise . . .” Alice’s voice trailed away. Bertie and I were both shaking our heads.

  “You don’t want your puppy to get hit by a car,” I said. “Or get lost.”

  “Or stolen,” added Bertie. “Or run around the neighborhood barking and making a nuisance of itself. Owning a dog is a big responsibility.”

  “I’m beginning to get that idea.” All at once, Alice looked glum. “It wasn’t this hard when I was little. We had a dog that lived its whole life outside.”

  “Times change,” I said.

  “Yes, but this puppy is just going to be a pet. Your dogs are show dogs—”

  “It makes no difference,” Bertie said firmly. Case closed.

  Alice went back to eating. A few minutes later she finished her salad and set her fork aside. “Speaking of running around the neighborhood, did you get a flyer in your mailbox recently asking if you want to hire someone to clean your house?”

  “Yes,” I said with a smirk. “From Merry Maids. What an idiotic name. As if we’re supposed to think that a bunch of women are going to get all excited about the prospect of cleaning for us. It sounds like a group that Robin Hood might have put together. I threw the flyer out.”

  “I didn’t,” said Alice. “I was thinking of giving them a call. Maybe having someone jolly around sweeping things up might not be a bad idea. Especially if the new puppy is going to be making a lot of messes. Apparently, the business is based right in the neighborhood.”

  “It is?” Our area is strictly residential, but people had been known to bend the rules when it came to small operations like tax preparation or pet grooming. I wondered which house the band of merry maids had been hiding out in, and the thought made me smile.

  “Finally,” said Alice. “Something you approve of.”

  “Hey, I never said being my friend was easy.”

  Bertie leaned over and whispered. “You think that’s bad, try being a relative.”

  10

  When Davey and I finally arrived home, Faith and Eve were thrilled to see us. They spun in circles and danced with their paws in the air until we were both laughing at their antics. People who’ve never owned a dog have no idea what they’re missing.

  Even in this era of ubiquitous cell phones, people continue to leave messages on my answering machine. Of course, the fact that I rarely turn my cell phone on could be responsible for that. As usual, the light on the phone in the kitchen was blinking. There were three messages: one from Aunt Peg, one from Betty Bowen, and one from Stamford Police Detective Ron Marley, all requesting a call back. Why am I never this popular when I’m sitting at home waiting for the phone to ring?

  Davey went out back with Faith and Eve, and I dialed Aunt Peg’s number first.

  “You’ve been out!” she said without waiting for me to identify myself. Aunt Peg now has caller ID.

  “It’s Friday night. Isn’t that allowed?”

  “Of course it’s allowed. It’s just unexpected.”

  A sad commentary on my social life, if ever there was one.

  “I was with Bertie and Alice having dinner at the Bean Counter.”

  “Oh.” Peg sounded disappointed. “I was hoping you were going to say you’d been at the hospital watching my newest niece or nephew arrive.”

  “Not yet. Besides, you just saw Bertie a couple of hours ago. Did she look like she was about to deliver a baby?”

  “Of course she did. Bertie’s looked like that baby was ready to pop out every day for the last month. The poor girl is as big as a house. I don’t know why Frank lets her go out running around like that all by herself. It can’t possibly be safe.”

  Knowing Bertie, I doubted whether my brother was allowed to have an opinion on that subject. “They’re together now,” I said to appease my aunt. “Davey and I just left them at the coffee house.”

  “And did you and Bertie together manage to talk some sense into Alice Brickman?”

  Aunt Peg was ever predictable. Tell her you’d been out socializing with friends, and she would assume you’d spent the evening discussing dogs. Of course, in this instance, she was at least partly right.

  “Not exactly,” I admitted. “Alice is still planning to get a puppy from Rebecca Morehouse. She’s already put down a deposit and I’m sure she doesn’t want to lose her money.”

  “Rebecca is probably counting on just that very fact,” Peg said huffily. “That’s how those operations work, making sure they get some money up front so that people can’t back out later if they change their minds.”

  “I’ll tell you something else about how Rebecca’s operation works. She couldn’t care less about the fact that Remington is now homeless. She told me we should go ahead and send him to the pound.”

  Aunt Peg sighed. “I’m disappointed, but not entirely surprised. Anyone who’s breeding to make money can’t afford to keep an eye on the welfare of their older dogs. It simply isn’t a cost-effective way to do business. Don’t worry, when the time comes I’ll find a good place for him. And by the way, thank you for contacting Cindy Marshall. She and I had an absolutely delightful conversation this afternoon. As soon as I get the go-ahead from Henry’s relatives, we’re going to make arrangements to meet.”

  “Thank Sam,” I said. “That was his doing.”

  The back door flew open hard enough to bounce off the wall. Child and Poodles came bounding through the doorway. “It’s snowing!” Davey announced gleefully.

  In the glow of the porch lights outside,
I could see the first flakes beginning to fall. With the temperature slightly above freezing, I doubted they’d last once they hit the ground.

  “Close the door,” I said to Davey. Cold air was wafting into the kitchen at an alarming rate.

  “Nah, we’re going back out. Come on, guys!” All three spun around and disappeared. I crossed the room and pushed the door shut myself.

  “Was that my nephew?” asked Peg.

  “And various assorted Poodle relatives. All now back outside trying to play in the snow.”

  “What snow?”

  “Therein lies the problem,” I said with a grin.

  “They’re not playing too hard? You’re not letting Faith destroy Eve’s hair?”

  As if. I’d been pampering that hair for nearly a year and a half now. By Eve’s first birthday in July she’d accumulated seven of the fifteen points necessary to complete her championship.

  Once the Poodle was an adult, however, her trim had needed to be changed; much more hair was required to balance the new look. Accordingly, Eve had spent the last five months out of the show ring. Her adult debut was to take place the following weekend.

  No way were there going to be any hair calamities now. Of necessity, both Davey and Faith were well versed in the proper procedure for playing with a Poodle in show coat. Nevertheless, I sidled over and had a look out the back window. So far, so good.

  “Here’s the reason for my call,” said Peg. “I had a visit this afternoon from a Stamford police detective.”

  “Ron Marley?”

  “He talked to you, too?”

  “Not yet, but he left me a message. I was going to call him back when we were done.”

  “He must have gotten our names from Betty Bowen, or maybe that boy, Johnny. He asked me what our connection to Henry Pruitt was and what we were doing inside his house.”

  “I assume you told him about Remington and Pepper?”