Jingle Bell Bark

by Laurien Berenson

  “You?” I said again.

  “Why not me?”

  “Why not the police? You didn’t even know Henry Pruitt.”

  “Neither do the police.”

  As if that was a salient point. “It’s their job to find murderers.”

  “You of all people should know they’re not always particularly good at it. Sometimes they overlook the most obvious things.”

  What Aunt Peg meant was that, due to our background in dogs, she and I had sometimes been able to interpret clues differently than they looked on the surface. Occasionally, we’d been known to beat the police to the punch. But while Aunt Peg had often been the instigator, she usually seemed to think that poking a nose into other people’s business was my job, not hers.

  “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said.

  “What is?” Bob, passing by with an extension cord, had stopped to listen in.

  “Aunt Peg wants to investigate a murder.”

  “Hey, great idea.” Bob held up my aunt’s hand and slapped her five. “Way to go, Peg!”

  “That,” I said sharply, “was not the appropriate response.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Aunt Peg was smiling. “For once, your ex-husband and I seem to be in complete agreement.”

  Somewhere in the world, I thought, pigs were flying.

  “What about me?” I asked.

  “You needn’t feel left out.”

  “I don’t!”

  “Then what’s the problem?” Peg asked reasonably.

  Bob moved on. He and Davey had all the strands of lights in place. When he plugged in the cord, hundreds of small white bulbs began to glow. The magic of Christmas was coming to life right before our eyes.

  “I know you’re busy,” said Aunt Peg. “That’s the beauty of this. I’ll handle everything myself. You won’t have to worry about a single thing.”

  Right. Like that was ever going to happen in my lifetime.

  14

  “All I need from you,” said Aunt Peg, “is a little information to get me started.”

  “There’s probably a book,” I mumbled. “Solving Mysteries for Dummies.”

  I knew I sounded surly and my own reaction surprised me. It wasn’t as though an investigation into Henry Pruitt’s murder was anything that I needed to be involved in. But still, Aunt Peg should have asked for my help. Aunt Peg always asked for my help.

  What was the world coming to when she didn’t feel a need to poke around and rearrange my life?

  All right, so maybe I was slightly miffed.

  “What kind of information?” I asked.

  “You know, like who might have had a reason to want to see him dead?”

  I sputtered a laugh. “If I knew that, I’d have told Detective Marley this morning, and he could be wrapping up this whole thing right now.”

  “Good point,” said Peg. “What did you tell him?”

  “About Robin and Laurel, for one. Beyond that, I didn’t have much to offer. Although here’s something interesting. According to Robin, Henry was romantically involved with the breeder of one of his dogs.”

  “ ‘Romantically involved,’ what a quaint way of putting-it. You mean they were shacking up?”

  “That’s my guess,” I said primly, “though I wasn’t told any details. All I know is what Robin said. That for some time now, Henry had been seeing a woman who bred one of his Goldens.”

  “Not Cindy Marshall,” said Aunt Peg. “She’s married.”

  “These days, that’s hardly enough to rule her out. Though I agree that Rebecca Morehouse seems the more likely candidate. It’s odd she didn’t mention anything about that when I talked to her about Remington yesterday.”

  “Nothing?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, then that makes her a suspect, doesn’t it? And here I thought solving a mystery was going to be hard. I’ll have this sorted out in no time.” Aunt Peg was almost giddy with satisfaction. “Don’t forget, Henry died after being poisoned with ethylene-glycol. There probably isn’t a dog person anywhere who doesn’t know about antifreeze’s sweet taste and toxic properties.”

  I really hated to rain on her parade, but it had to be done.

  “Motive?” I mentioned.

  “Pardon me?” Aunt Peg was so busy patting herself on the back that she didn’t hear what I said.

  “What about a motive? What reason did Rebecca have for wanting to kill Henry?”

  “There could have been any number of reasons,” Peg said blithely. “Especially now that I know they were a couple. Maybe they had a lovers’ spat.”

  “After which she convinced him to drink a half gallon of antifreeze she just happened to have around the house?”

  Aunt Peg’s hand waved through the air, brushing away my objections. If I hadn’t gotten out of the way in time, it would have slapped my cheek. The near miss was, no doubt, intentional.

  “Maybe they had a disagreement over Remington,” she said.

  “People don’t kill each other over dogs.”

  Aunt Peg’s deadpan look told me what she thought of that statement.

  I didn’t care; I was sticking to my guns. Though we’d both seen a number of people in the dog show world come to grief, in nearly every instance the arguments that seemed to have started over a dog had been symptomatic of larger issues. Usually much larger issues.

  “Work with me here,” said Peg. “I’m just throwing out ideas. Maybe she didn’t like the fact that he drove a bus, or that he didn’t get along with his daughters. Maybe he tried to break up with her.”

  “And so she killed him? That would stop him all right. Though it wouldn’t do much for the relationship. I think you need to consider other options. The daughters stood to inherit, and apparently Henry had some money.”

  “Not to mention two very valuable Golden Retrievers,” Aunt Peg snorted. “Believe me, I’ve heard all about their prospects. But you’re probably right, I should do some more digging. What we really need to do is talk to other people who knew Henry. People who could tell us what was going on in other facets of his life . . .”

  Her voice trailed away. She gazed past me at Davey and Bob. I turned to see what had caught her attention.

  While we’d been talking, they’d finished decorating the Christmas tree. Red ribbon bows, shimmering ornaments, and strands of cranberries and popcorn hung from every branch. Set beside a picture window and framed by the gathering dark outside, the tree sparkled and glowed. I sighed with appreciation.

  What can I say? I’m a sucker for a holiday.

  Aunt Peg, however, was frowning.

  The tree complete, Bob and Davey were now draping several yards of evergreen roping over the mantelpiece. The ends hung down to frame the natural brick fireplace where a fire had been laid but not yet lit. This being Bob’s house, there were twice as many logs in the andirons as there should have been, and no precautionary screen.

  Abruptly, Peg rose from the couch and strode over to help. “Give me that.” She held out a hand and Bob obeyed without comment. It was easy to see why her marriage had lasted so many years.

  “Davey’s a child, but you should know better,” she told him. “You can’t hang pine boughs right next to the fireplace. You’re going to set your house on fire.”

  It wouldn’t be the first time, I thought.

  “Honestly,” Peg muttered, but she didn’t look entirely unhappy to be called upon to rearrange the decorations.

  Once Aunt Peg and I were up and moving around, the Poodles came to see what was going on. Eve grabbed the dangling end of the roping and teased a pinecone loose. Prize clenched between her teeth, she dashed away with the other dog in pursuit.

  That pinecone would tear Eve’s tongue to shreds, I realized. Not to mention upsetting her stomach.

  Davey must have read my mind. “I’ll get it!” he cried. Dropping his end of the roping, he fled from the room.

  I grabbed the long strand of pine branching as it fell
, lifting quickly before the garland could swing free and dislodge everything on the mantel. Kneeling on the hearth below me, oblivious to the fact that half the decorations had just nearly landed on his head, Bob was poking at the kindling.

  “Since you two have taken over my job, I’ll go ahead and light the fire,” he said.

  “Wait!”

  Too late. Bob had already flicked a long wooden match against one of the stones. A small burst of flame appeared. He touched it to the kindling before glancing up to see what I wanted.

  “Did you open the flue?” I asked, as the fire caught and flared.

  “Damn,” Bob muttered.

  Davey shrieked in the other room. Eve began to bark. I wondered who was winning that engagement.

  Beside me, Aunt Peg arranged the last of the roping with a flourish. Then she raised her hand to her mouth and began to cough. “Is it just me or it is smoky in here?”

  Family; you know what I mean.

  “She’s going to do what?” Sam asked.

  “You heard me.” At least I thought he had. Considering how loudly Davey had the CD of Christmas carols playing, it was hard to hold a conversation without shouting.

  It was Sunday afternoon, and Davey and I, along with the Poodles, were in Redding. Having decorated Bob’s house the day before, we were now doing the same for Sam’s. This, too, was a bachelor pad, but other than that the two houses had little in common. Sam’s place was a soaring contemporary, all clean lines and sheer glass. Perched on a hillside, surrounded by trees, its cedar shingles blended perfectly into the stark winter tableau.

  Inside the differences continued. This house wasn’t an investment, it was very much a home. Recently Sam had come into a bit of money. He hadn’t moved, but he had redecorated. Rich oriental carpets covered the hardwood floors; butter soft leather furniture was grouped around a fireplace whose stone chimney took up an entire wall.

  There was a cedar dog bed on the floor next to the fireplace. One of Sam’s Standard Poodles was curled up inside. After a frenzied initial greeting, the five dogs—two of mine, three of Sam’s—had helped themselves to the most comfortable spots in the room and settled down to sleep.

  Sam had already hung a wreath on the chimney. There was another on his front door. Fresh greenery twined with twinkling lights swagged the doorways. Only the tree remained to be trimmed, and we were working on that.

  Was I the only person, I wondered, who wasn’t yet ready for Christmas? And when had everyone decided that no holiday was complete without acres of ribbon and garland and roping? As far as I was concerned, Martha Stewart had a lot to answer for.

  “Peg thinks she’s going to track down Henry Pruitt’s murderer,” I said again, just in case he hadn’t heard me. Davey, perched on a sturdy stepladder around the back of the tree, wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention, so I felt free to elaborate.

  “Why would she want to do that?”

  Good question. That was one of the things I enjoyed about Sam. He always asked good questions. Unfortunately, I didn’t always have equally good answers.

  “She wants the daughters to go home and leave Remington and Pepper’s fate up to her.” I explained about the plan to sell the two Golden Retrievers to the highest bidder.

  Sam knows plenty about dogs; he understood right away the lunacy of that idea. “I can’t believe Peg didn’t set them straight.”

  “She did. And so did I. But they didn’t believe either of us. And neither is leaving until they find out what happened to their father.”

  “The police . . . ?” He let the thought dangle.

  “Interviewed Aunt Peg and me both. Apparently, they didn’t take kindly to the fact that we’d been walking around their crime scene.”

  “I can’t imagine why not.” Sam’s tongue was planted firmly in his cheek.

  “If there was any evidence in the house, we certainly didn’t tamper with it. The police don’t have any leads. Aside from his family squabbles, Henry seems to have been universally liked.”

  I selected a shiny golden bell from the box of ornaments. Last year’s hook was still attached. Though Sam had already secured a satin-draped fairy to the top of the tree, there was still plenty of room left on the upper branches. I walked around to where Davey was standing on the ladder and handed him the bell. He took it and considered his options carefully.

  “I was thinking you might want to try talking some sense into Peg,” I said a minute later to Sam.

  “You were, were you?”

  “Yes.” The dammit I added silently. Clearly Sam—who’d been known to try and talk sense into me—was enjoying my discomfort.

  “You’ve already tried yourself?”

  “Of course, but she didn’t listen to me. Aunt Peg never listens to me, you know that. She respects your opinion.”

  “She respects yours, too.”

  “Only when it agrees with her own,” I grumbled.

  “Amazing,” said Sam. “Does that sound like anyone else we know?”

  Taking the high road, I declined to rise to that bait.

  Instead, I continued fishing through the Christmas cartons that were scattered around the room. Sam had enough holiday supplies to festoon a fleet of department store windows. Boxes of ornaments and trimmings abounded, as well as bells, Christmas candles, and several different kinds of tinsel. An oddly shaped wreath, fashioned of twigs, colored string, and glitter, was probably a contribution from his two nephews.

  Nestled in one carton I found three stockings, all carefully packed in tissue paper. The first, well worn, looked as though it dated from Sam’s childhood. The second depicted a trio of appliquéd Poodles dancing in the snow. A raffle prize from a Poodle specialty, I was guessing.

  The third stocking, made of velvet, was heavy and ornate. Its needlepoint design was intricately conceived; a golden-haired Christmas fairy lounged in indolent splendor against a plush, royal blue background. As I opened it up, Sam made a choking noise under his breath.

  He reached for the stocking. Curiosity piqued by his response, I angled it away and had a closer look. The fairy wasn’t your typical holiday sprite. For one thing, her features had a distinctly modern look; for another, her shimmering gown was nearly diaphanous. Only the careful positioning of her long golden curls kept her modesty mostly intact.

  “Anyone you know?” I asked.

  “It was a gift from an old friend,” Sam said unhappily.

  “Blond?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  There wasn’t a woman in the world who would have asked that question.

  “She posed for a Christmas stocking?”

  “She needlepointed it herself. Chris was quite handy.”

  “So I see. Also rather well endowed.”

  “Yes, well—” Sam started, then stopped. He saw my smile. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I nodded. “I can’t believe you kept this. Got any other mementos lying around?”

  “Maybe. I haven’t really kept track.” Sam hung the ornament he was holding and came around to my side. “Until I met you, there wasn’t any reason to.”

  Oh.

  “Hey!” said Davey. “Look what I found.”

  He’d come down off the ladder and was digging around in another box. When he raised both hands they were filled with strands of white beads. Linked together like pearls, they sparkled as he lifted them out, reflecting the lights from the tree.

  “These can go on next,” I said. “You’re in charge.”

  “Cool,” cried Davey. He ran back to the tree.

  “About Aunt Peg,” I said to Sam. “I’m afraid she doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into. People who have killed someone are desperate. They have secrets they don’t want exposed.”

  “You never worried about that when you were the one doing the poking around.”

  “When it was me, I knew I’d be careful. You know Aunt Peg. She thinks she’s invincible.”

  Sam laughed at that. “I’ve never
seen anything stop Peg yet. For all I know, she may be invincible.”

  Superwoman to the rescue? As if that would solve our problems.

  15

  Sometimes it seems as though Aunt Peg calls me on the phone every other minute. Now that I was on the other end of the equation, however, wondering what sort of trouble she might be getting herself into, I found I had to resist the temptation to do the same. The least she could have done was check in every so often and let me know what she’d found out.

  “Nothing,” Peg said huffily when I finally broke down and called her Wednesday during lunch break. “Not a blessed thing.”

  Well that was a relief.

  Apparently Aunt Peg didn’t think so. “It’s rather depressing when you think about it. I had such high hopes for myself. Then Monday my septic system backed up. And Tuesday I had three baths to give.”

  Heaven forbid Aunt Peg’s Poodles ever look anything less than perfect.

  “I did manage to put a call in to Cindy Marshall,” she said. “Cindy got back to me yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “I discovered that, over the phone, it’s nearly impossible to ask someone you barely know whether or not they were having an affair with a dead man.”

  No surprise there. “You think that would be easier in person?”

  “I’m about to find out,” Aunt Peg said with some satisfaction. “Cindy and I are having lunch tomorrow.”

  “I thought you and I both agreed that Rebecca Morehouse was more likely to have been involved with Henry.”

  “Yes, but from what I’ve heard about Rebecca, I can’t imagine I would like her at all. Why on earth would I want to eat lunch with her?”

  Okay. What we had here was a totally different animal than I was used to. Murder investigation as social event.

  “But since you’ve called,” said Aunt Peg. “There’s something you could do for me. Remember the office lady from Davey’s school who was quoted in the article about Henry?”

  “Michelle Raddison.”

  “She’s a friend of yours, right?”

  “I knew her when I used to work at Hunting Ridge.”