A New Leash on Death (Dog Lover's Mysteries Book 1)

by Susan Conant

  "Vicarious sedation," I said.

  "Right. It can be a matter of safety. Like some cats go berserk in a car, even in a nice dark carrier, howl and shriek. Now, if I've got an owner who's moving to Chicago and has to drive there with a nervous cat, I'll sedate the cat. Otherwise, somewhere around Buffalo, the owner's going to have an accident or strangle the cat or throw it out the car window."

  "So who's taken a trip with a nervous cat lately?"

  "No one that I know of."

  "Have you prescribed any Valium lately? Maybe you're not supposed to say."

  "I'm telling you, I don't like Valium. I hardly ever use it. Just when it's needed. The big plus is that it doesn't decrease blood pressure, so I'll use it for older animals, a dog with a cardiac problem."

  "You know who does use it?" I spoke softly. "On himself?"

  "Who?"

  "Vince. He left a jacket at my house, and when I checked the pockets to find out whose it was, I found a bottle."

  "Forget it."

  "Why?"

  "That was for back spasms, just a temporary thing. He told me about it."

  "Where was he when I was in the ring?"

  "Watching. So was Ron."

  "No," I said. "Ron was outside, patrolling."

  "Not then."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Absolutely. We talked about it later, how well you'd done. Look, what would he know about that thermos?"

  "He'd know it was mine. So would anyone else. It's got 'Winter' written on it in big letters on adhesive tape. And my parka was on top of it. Ron does know I carry the thermos a lot, I guess. Last spring he and I did some obedience run-throughs for that group in Brookline, and I used to take it. For Vinnie. I was worried she wasn't getting enough water, you know, for her kidneys. So he's seen it. But he's no murderer. Besides, he likes me."

  "Everyone loves you, Holly. Someone just thought you'd be more mellow with a little Valium in your system."

  "You have a point there."

  "Look," he said. "We're both going to have more brandy, and then we're going to think about this systematically." He signaled for another round.

  "Means, motive, opportunity," Steve said when the drinks arrived.

  "Right."

  "Let's consider Stanton's murder first. Means? Strength. Is there anyone we can eliminate?"

  "We're all strong," I said. "Except Millie, I guess."

  "Who's Millie?"

  "His housekeeper. If you want to think about motive, she had one, I guess, only she didn't, really. She's been with him for ages, and they were friends. But she's about four feet high and frail. She really couldn't have done it."

  "Let's forget motive for the moment. Who had the opportunity? Who was outside?"

  "Or," I said, "who wasn't inside?"

  "Right."

  "Ron, maybe," I said reluctantly. "Remember? He was in the men's room."

  "He said he was in the men's room."

  "Gerry could've been out there," I suggested.

  "No, he couldn't," Steve replied.

  "How do you know?"

  "I saw him, that's how."

  "Are you positive?"

  "Yes. What about that homeless guy?"

  "Hal," I said. "And Margaret. Avon Hill's what? A ten-minute walk from the armory? Fifteen minutes? And talk about motive."

  "Stop! Slow down! We're still on opportunity. We need some more brandy."

  We had more.

  "Then there's Roger Singer," I said. "He could have arrived there early. He's built like a gorilla. Can I talk about motive yet?"

  "Sure."

  "Motive. Money," I said.

  "He gets hardly any."

  "Maybe he was greedy. Maybe he just hated his uncle. Maybe all of those boring Sunday dinners drove him into a mad frenzy."

  "Murders do usually take place in families," Steve said.

  "That's usually husbands and wives, isn't it? Stanton was only his uncle. Great-uncle, actually. You don't see many headlines like that in the Globe. 'Man Kills Great-Uncle.' "

  "Motive," Steve said, ignoring me. "You want motive? Ron Coughlin. That guy has a practically pathological identification with the club. Look at the old cui bono: Who gains from Stanton's death? The obvious answer is the Cambridge Dog Training Club."

  "Ron knows he isn't the club," I said. "Sure he identifies with it. I do, too, sort of. But he's not crazy."

  "Then there's that guy Hal," Steve said. "Could he have had some irrational motive?"

  "Kevin thinks he didn't have anything to do with it. And who couldn't have some irrational motive? I could. You could."

  "We had no opportunity," Steve said. "Remember, we're being systematic."

  "You want to know who has everything? Margaret," I said, probably a little thickly.

  "You don't like her, do you?"

  "She hates my father, and she owns my dog."

  "Your father has nothing to do with this, Holly."

  "Fine," I said. "We'll talk about Margaret. We don't know that she wasn't there."

  "That's systematic," he said. "And how about you and Rowdy?"

  "We didn't do it," I said. "Rowdy wouldn't kill anyone."

  Steve exhaled and rolled his eyes. "I'm talking about the overdose. Means?"

  "Vince had the means," I said.

  "No," Steve said. "He was only on Valium for a couple of weeks, some minute dose. There's no way he had enough."

  "Okay. Forget Vince," I said. "Who else had Valium?"

  "That's something else we don't know."

  "Margaret," I said, "has been doping her dogs. I just know it. And let's talk about blackmail."

  "Blackmail isn't the right word."

  "Extortion. Whatever. Whatever Dr. Stanton was paying, because Kevin says he was paying, and it was enough so he was hurting for money."

  "Okay. I agree. And I agree that it must have had something to do with the dog, because that's what he cared about. That's what he'd have paid for."

  "Exactly," I said, but I think it didn't come out quite like that. "Janet Switzer's out. She'd have known in one second that Rowdy was one of her dogs, and I'm sure she'd have known he was the one she sold to Margaret. But, first of all, I don't think she ever saw him with Dr. Stanton. And, second, I really think she'd have paid to let him stay with Dr. Stanton."

  "Bobbi what's her name?"

  "Reed. I don't think she made the connection, though I could be wrong. And I don't think Ronni did, either. Bobbi just isn't the kind of person who wouldn't tell me. And, look they've spent a lot of money on their place, but I'm pretty sure that Bobbi has money from somewhere, and Ronni makes a lot. They did call him King, but so what? Anyway, I could swear that Bobbi believes that Margaret's King died. But that's the thing I don't get about Margaret. I mean, on the one hand, I'm almost positive she thinks that King died."

  "Or she used to think he'd died," Steve said.

  "Yes. In fact, I know that. On the other hand, she's suddenly got all this money. She's really campaigning those dogs. And would she ever have loved to watch Stanton squirm! Plus, I know you think my idea about Antarctica is crazy, but it could be a powerful motive for someone. Suppose her brother was the commander of that ship. She's a twisted enough character herself. Maybe her brother was, too, in a different way. And suppose Stanton knew or found out. And she wouldn't just be out to protect her brother's memory, would she? Though that could've been a big part of it. Buck says she adored him. The other part is, it would rub off on her, wouldn't it? I can't see her sailing into a show with everyone knowing that her brother was the one who nearly exterminated a breed. She'd die first . . . or kill."

  "Okay, maybe Stanton, just maybe, but what about you? She had no opportunity. None. She was not at the match. She was not in the armory. Practically everyone else was. She wasn't. You just don't like her. And if she was going to strangle Stanton, she'd have done it a couple of years ago. Why now?"

  "He had something on her," I said. "Her brother. Dope. Something.
He knew she was doping her dogs, and he was going to report her to the AKC."

  "Big deal."

  "It would be for her, believe me."

  "You're guessing."

  "Yes," I said. "But someone was paying her something. Or is paying her. You should see those kennels. And the dogs. She's been taking them everywhere."

  "Speaking of taking people places," he said, "we should take ourselves home. If we can."

  Fortunately, we hadn't driven to Harvest. The cold November air had a sobering effect. As we walked up Brattle Street past the Harvard Graduate School of Education and the Loeb and the Longfellow house, Steve held my hand and tried to persuade me that I was growing paranoid about the Navy and Margaret and that I should come clean with Margaret about Rowdy and then take my chances. He thought she might even give or sell Rowdy to me.

  "That's impossible," I said. "You don't know her."

  "What about seeing a lawyer? A court might decide that he's not hers. She hasn't been in possession for over a year. Get an ILP number. You hate handling in breed anyway."

  "But I don't hate owning a champion in breed," I said. "Besides . . ."

  "Besides?"

  Some things are almost too embarrassing to admit, even to Steve. "I know who he is. For an ILP, I'd more or less have to lie to the AKC." In case you haven't guessed, that's a mortal sin.

  "I think we need more information before I do anything," I said as I unlocked my back door. "You know what I want you to do?"

  "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you." He smiled. 'Tell me everything."

  I did.

  If I had a theme song, it wouldn't be "Show Some Emotion," but that doesn't mean I don't care about him. He's a great vet and an even better man.

  14

  The next morning, after three aspirin apiece, Steve and I embarked on our systematic program. We started with Hal Pace because we thought he might know something he hadn't told the police and we thought it was worth finding out whether he'd tell us. The Cambridge police are used to guys like Hal, but guys like Hal are also used to being hassled by the police My hunch was that as Hal had sobered up, he'd shut up in the hope of getting back on the street as fast as possible. We put Rowdy in the back of the Bronco—India was at Steve's clinic—and drove around to scan Hal's favorite spots. When Rowdy caught sight of an Australian shepherd running with a young couple on Memorial Drive, he roared and yelped so wildly that my head pounded. Otherwise, he wasn't too bad.

  We found Hal on Ware Street, which runs from Harvard Street to Broadway. He was dragging a big clear-plastic bag full of cans and bottles. I knew he was headed for the Broadway Supermarket, one of his favorite places to cash in his finds. We parked the Bronco in the supermarket lot across from the store and waited for Hal outside.

  "Hi, Hal," I said when he came out. "Remember me? Holly Winter? From the armory?"

  Hal must have had his colors done at the Society of St. Vincent de Paul. He had on a green down vest, a baby-blue plaid flannel shirt, baggy maroon pants, and brown work boots with crimson socks, but his clothes were cleaner than usual, and he'd shaved within the last two or three days. As always, those angles and planes in his face triggered the fantasy that he was the lost heir to some fortune or throne, but his clumsiness spoiled the image. He shuffled back and forth, examined the sidewalk, and studied the sky.

  "I'd like you to meet my friend Steve Delaney," I said. "Steve's a vet. He takes care of my dog. You like dogs, don't you?"

  He nodded.

  "I've got my dog with me, in my car. You want to say hello to him?"

  I didn't wait for an answer, but set off across the street in the hope that Hal would follow. Steve took the cue and walked with me, and so did Hal. I unlocked the back of the Bronco, opened its gate, took Rowdy's leash, and let him jump out. As always, he was bouncing and smiling, eager to ingratiate himself with everyone.

  "Don't touch the dog," Hal said.

  "It's okay," I said. "He likes to be patted."

  I made a show of running my hands up and down Rowdy's back. He must have thought he'd done something wonderful.

  "See? He likes it."

  Hal mumbled something.

  "What?" I asked.

  "Don't touch the dog," he said again.

  "Hal, did someone tell you that? Not to touch the dog?" Steve asked gently. "This dog doesn't bite. You can pat him."

  Steve joined in my little demonstration of the safety of patting Rowdy.

  "You know this dog, don't you?" I said. "You used to see him at the armory. With an old man. He was the old man's dog, the man who died."

  Hal pulled his shoulders into an exaggerated shrug, stretched his neck out, tilted his chin up, and rolled his head back and forth.

  "That was a bad night," I said. "Everyone was scared. And you had a really hard time."

  He quit the head rolls and, for once, looked at me.

  "We know you didn't do anything bad," I said. "We know you didn't hurt the old man. But we want to find out what happened, and we want you to help."

  I knew I was moving too fast, but I was sure that if I slowed down, he'd wander off or run away, and we'd lose him altogether.

  "Hal," Steve said, "we want you to come to the armory and show us what you saw. Just us. You and me and Holly and Rowdy. No police."

  "No police," Hal said suspiciously.

  One of the problems with trying to talk to Hal was total uncertainty about what he understood. For all I knew, we could have used ten-syllable words without losing him, but something about his expression made me keep it simple.

  "Right," I agreed. "No police."

  "We're all going for a ride," Steve said, "and then we'll take you wherever you want. It won't take long."

  On the way to the armory, Steve talked quietly to Hal about dogs and cats, about being a vet. He invited Hal to visit his clinic. Hal didn't say much, but I had the feeling that he understood the invitation. I parked beyond the armory, in front of the playground, close to the rain shelter where people wait for the Concord Avenue bus.

  The playground is really half park and half playground, with slides and a wooden climbing structure and jumping contraptions and also trees, paths, and benches. At that time, it was more of a blend than usual because the old fences had been torn down a few months earlier, and the new ones hadn't yet been installed. As a result, there was no barrier between the playground and the paths and benches, as well as no barrier between the playground and the baseball field that stretches along Concord Avenue and back to the Tobin School. It was fortunate in more ways than one that the city's renovation hadn't been total. Fresh fir bark had been spread around the bases of the maples, but the trees themselves hadn't been touched. They didn't need rejuvenation. They're thicker and taller than saplings, but still healthy young trees, and they hadn't needed replacement or pruning.

  All of us, including Rowdy, got out of the Bronco, and Hal headed directly down the right-hand side of the playground until he came to a heavily branched tree. He paused and looked expectantly at Rowdy, who stopped sniffing the fir bark and obligingly lifted his leg on the designated maple.

  Hal gave a gleeful laugh that actually sounded like "Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha," and I knew immediately, in some way that I can't explain, that his pleasure wasn't scatological. It was more primitive than that. What he liked was seeing something predictable, familiar.

  "Is that his favorite tree?" I asked, and Hal repeated the ha-ha routine.

  "I bet Dr. Stanton used to walk him here," Steve said. "Before class."

  The city of Cambridge doesn't encourage people to walk dogs in the playground. In fact, there's a fine for it. One reason is something called toxocariasis, which is caused by a parasite that can spread from dog feces to people and, in particular, to children's eyes, where it causes severe damage, as Dr. Stanton would, of course, have known. He'd also have known that Rowdy didn't have toxocariasis, so maybe he'd considered Rowdy exempt. Furthermore, before the recent improvements, there were no lights in t
he playground and few streetlights on Concord Avenue, and behind the park was the unlighted playing field, then, in the distance, the Tobin School. It was as dark as a city ever gets. He could have been almost certain that he and Rowdy wouldn't be caught. Still, it seemed peculiar that an ophthalmologist would have flouted a law, even a minor one, meant to protect children's eyes.

  "The old man used to bring Rowdy here?" I asked. "To this tree?"

  Hal nodded.

  "You used to talk to him? Did you talk to the old man?"

  Hal's eyes moved to the left and right as if he were thinking about taking off.

  "Did he know you were here?"

  Hal shook his head left and right.

  "You were in the playground," Steve said softly. "It's okay. Show me where you were."

  Hal looked a little nervous, but he walked toward the playground equipment and pointed to a boxlike part of the wooden climbing structure. Of course. This must be one of his thousand hidey-holes.

  "We need to know everything that happened, Hal," Steve said. "Everything. The night the old man died. You remember that night. Show me everything that happened, and then we can go visit my dogs and cats. You can help feed them if you want."

  That did it.

  "You were here," said Steve, pointing to Hal's refuge in the climbing structure. "The old man walked Rowdy in. This dog. And the dog went to the tree, the tree you showed us. Was anyone else there?"

  Hal shook his head left and right. "Don't touch the dog," he said.

  "It's okay to touch this dog," I said. "He's a good dog. He doesn't bite. Do you want to hold his leash? Take his leash, and show us what the old man did."

  Somewhat to my surprise, it worked. I held out Rowdy's leash, and Hal took it. Rowdy pulled on his end of the leash, and Hal trailed after him back to the big maple. Rowdy sniffed what was probably his own mark on the base of the trunk, and Hal reached up and stuck his hand in the lowest fork of the tree.

  "All the time," Hal said with a broad, empty smile.

  "He always did that?" I asked.

  "All the time," Hal repeated.

  Steve and I looked at each other.