Murder at the Puppy Fest

by Laurien Berenson

  “That’s not our decision to make,” said Sam. “Not yet, at any rate.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it, Mel. We can’t just decide to keep this dog without making a good faith effort to locate his previous owners.”

  “His previous owners threw him out of a car!” I said hotly.

  “I know that’s what you saw.” As always, Sam was the voice of reason. “But there could be another explanation. Maybe those men stole Bud from someone else. Maybe there’s a heartbroken family looking for him.”

  “You’ve been watching too many Disney movies,” Aunt Peg sniffed.

  “Could be, but I don’t want to make a decision about keeping him until I’ve had a chance to contact animal control and the local shelters. He’s not wearing a collar, but I’ll have the vet check for a microchip. We probably ought to place a notice on Craigslist too.”

  “But—” I began to object. Then my voice trailed away.

  One of the things I loved about Sam was his sense of fair play. And now I knew he was right. But that didn’t make me feel any better about it.

  “Sorry,” he said. “But it’s up to us to do the right thing by him.”

  Even though I’d told Davey that Bud couldn’t stay without Sam’s approval, somehow I’d already begun to think of him as ours.

  “I guess so,” I grumbled.

  Chapter 3

  I like to think that if Leo Brody had known when he awoke on Saturday that the day would be his last, he’d have elected to spend it just the way he did—sitting on the floor of his home and playing with puppies.

  Puppy Posse Foundation was one of many charitable organizations Mr. Brody supported, but I’d read that it was his favorite. His affection for dogs was a well-documented fact. Leo Brody and I had that much in common. Unfortunately, after that, all similarities between us ended.

  I was a special needs tutor at Howard Academy, a private school in Greenwich. I spent weekends with my family, either at dog shows or on outings to kid-friendly places like Tod’s Point or the Norwalk Aquarium. Evenings I was home early. Most nights, I was in my jammies by eight, sacked out on a couch with Sam, the kids, and a passel of Poodles.

  By contrast, Leo Brody lived the kind of life that was covered extensively in the media. His financial dealings and social engagements filled the pages of the Wall Street Journal, Vanity Fair, and Town and Country. I wasn’t entirely sure where his money had come from—all I knew was there was a lot of it and he enjoyed giving it away to worthy causes.

  At ten o’clock the next morning, however, when I drove to the sheltered coastal neighborhood in Greenwich where Leo Brody lived, I wasn’t thinking about his fame and fortune. Rather, it was Claire who was on my mind. She had asked for my assistance and I was happy to comply. The previous December, Claire had spent an entire day at the Howard Academy Christmas Bazaar, dressed in an elf costume for me. By comparison, I was getting off easy.

  Leo Brody’s house wasn’t difficult to find. Due to its setting on a promontory of high, level, land overlooking Long Island Sound, I was able to see the mansion’s roofline from a quarter mile away. Tall brick gateposts, shaded by a pair of leafy dogwood trees, marked the entrance to the estate.

  The gates themselves were open, but a security guard was just inside, standing at the foot of the long gravel driveway. I knew that Puppy Fest was a huge undertaking; Claire had been working on the arrangements for several months. Between the TV crew coming to film the event, caterers who’d be feeding everyone, and the Puppy Posse employees who were bringing the event’s participants from the rescue, there would probably be people coming and going all day long.

  I stopped next to the guard, who checked my name against his list, then instructed me where to go. Slowly, I drove the length of the driveway, taking my time and savoring the view.

  The rambling, three-story house in front of me was constructed of red brick. Black shutters and white trim accented the dozens of windows that sparkled in the morning sun. The central portion of the home, already imposing in size, had two long wings reaching out from it on either side. A widow’s walk with a small, enclosed cupola stood sentinel on the gabled roof.

  As I neared the house, a smaller driveway angled off to one side. A discreet sign read SERVICE ENTRANCE and an arrow pointed to the back of the building. Out front, all was quiet. The rear of the palatial home, however, was a hub of bustling activity.

  Two white vans with the logo of a local TV station were parked side by side, and a crew was busy unloading their contents. A large cargo truck had commandeered the prime spot just outside the open door to the house. Half a dozen people were unpacking the large plywood sets that would make up the event’s playing field and backdrop. Two catering trucks were idling toward the back of the parking area. One driver was out of his vehicle, gesturing angrily as he complained about the entrance being blocked.

  Not my problem, I thought as I drove to the far end of the lot and parked beside Claire’s Honda hybrid. At least not until I’d checked in with Claire and found out what she wanted me to do first.

  I walked inside the house through the open door and immediately came to a stop. The narrow passageway in front of me was clogged with large men, stacked boxes, crates on dollies, and a jumble of assorted gear and equipment.

  Stuck at the end of the line, I raised my voice above the din. “Does anybody know where I might find Claire Travis?”

  Nobody answered. In fact, almost no one paid any attention to me at all. When one man glanced back and shrugged, I saw that he was wearing earbuds.

  Slipping past, I maneuvered my way to the front of the unruly crowd. There, a bottleneck had formed with people and paraphernalia trying to squeeze through in both directions. I spotted a small opening and slithered through.

  Almost immediately, I came upon a doorway that led to an enormous kitchen. Things looked slightly less hectic in there so I ducked inside. Anything was better than the chaotic hallway behind me.

  A quick scan revealed a swinging door on the other side of the kitchen. Dodging between a restaurant-quality stove and a center island whose gleaming steel countertop was piled high with everything from fragrant rolls to fresh raspberries, I made a beeline for the next exit. Nobody paid any attention to me as I went barreling by. I hit the door, pushed it open, strode through . . . and stopped again.

  Now I was standing in a beautifully appointed formal dining room. Visible through an ornate arched entryway was a grand, two-story foyer. In contrast to the area of the house I’d just left, here everything was peaceful. Too peaceful. Feeling suddenly like an interloper in Mr. Brody’s private space, I turned back to reenter the kitchen.

  Then I had a better idea. Away from all the commotion, I could hear what I was doing. I pulled out my phone and called Claire.

  She picked up right away. “Where are you? Are you here yet?”

  “I arrived five minutes ago. I’m near the kitchen. It’s a madhouse over here.”

  “It’s a madhouse everywhere.” I heard her sigh. “Thanks for coming early. I’ll take all the help I can get. Come to the ballroom. It’s in the west wing.”

  “There’s a ballroom?” I said without thinking. Then I looked around. Of course the house had a ballroom. “Right. I’ll be there in a minute. Do you want to give me directions or can I see it on Google Earth?”

  “Excuse me,” a male voice said from behind me. Whoever he was, he sounded annoyed. “Can I help you?”

  I looked over my shoulder. The man who’d spoken was standing in the foyer. Dressed in linen pants and a crisp button-down shirt, he had a pudgy build and thinning brown hair. The perplexed look on his face accentuated deep frown lines that bracketed either side of his mouth. I guessed him to be about ten years older than me, probably in his mid-forties.

  “Um . . .” I said. “No?”

  “No what?” asked Claire.

  “Are you lost?” asked the man.

  “Yes
. . .”

  “Yes what?” Now Claire sounded exasperated. I didn’t blame her.

  “Call you right back,” I said.

  I shoved the phone in my pocket, walked over, and introduced myself. “I’m here to help Claire Travis with Puppy Fest,” I said. “Except that I can’t seem to find my way to the ballroom.”

  “This house tends to have that effect on people. It’s in the other wing. Come with me. I’ll show you where you need to be.”

  “Thanks.”

  As we walked across the entrance hall, I didn’t know what to look at first: the marble floor in a geometric design beneath my feet; the wide, curving, staircase that led to a second-floor balcony; or the crystal chandelier that hung high above my head. A spacious living room, visible through open double doors, merited only a quick glance before I followed the man down another hallway, this one leading us past a library and a music room.

  “The west wing was added onto the original house fifty years ago,” my escort told me. “The home’s previous owner liked to throw parties and he wanted the ballroom situated so that it overlooked the Sound. That’s why it’s a bit of a hike.”

  Whoever the man was, he certainly knew his way around the place. “Do you work here?” I asked.

  “No.” He glanced over at me. The question seemed to amuse him. “Actually I used to live here. Leo Brody is my father.”

  He might have started with that information, I thought irritably. Maybe about the time that I’d introduced myself. Not only that, but he still hadn’t told me his name. Maybe I was just supposed to know?

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “No problem.”

  The man stopped and pointed to the left. “Just walk around the corner. The ballroom is the first door on the right. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate . . .”

  My thanks was delivered to empty air. Mr. Brody’s son had turned his back to me and was already striding away.

  I stared after him briefly. Maybe my remark about his working in the house had been a problem after all. Or perhaps the Brody family didn’t feel the need to worry about manners when dealing with the hoi polloi.

  “You’re here for Claire,” I said under my breath, then repeated the words like a mantra. “You’re only here for Claire.”

  “Oh my,” said Claire. “If you’re already talking to yourself, you’ll be absolutely insane by this afternoon.”

  I whirled around. Why did I always seem to be facing the wrong way in this house?

  Claire was taller than me, and also thinner. Her long, dark, hair was straight and frizz-free and her honey-toned skin and brown eyes gave her a vaguely exotic look. Standing side by side, we probably resembled Mutt and Jeff.

  “Some people might call me half-cracked even on my best days.” I would have given Claire a hug except that she had a phone in one hand and a clipboard in the other. She was holding the latter in front of her like a shield.

  Claire grimaced. “Please don’t make me discuss your Aunt Peg. I simply don’t have time today to do that topic justice.”

  “She did ask me to convey her disappointment to you,” I mentioned.

  “Of course she did. What now?”

  “You didn’t ask her to help with Puppy Fest.”

  “And that’s a problem why?”

  “Actually, I’m not entirely sure.”

  “Excellent,” Claire said briskly. “Then let’s move on. Are you ready to get to work?”

  “Of course. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  I followed Claire to the ballroom. Once inside, I immediately saw why that location had been chosen for the event. The room was vast and mostly empty of furniture. Between its high ceiling and the row of glass-paneled French doors that opened onto an outside terrace, the ballroom was flooded with natural light.

  Claire and I walked around the room, keeping to the edge of the floor and stepping carefully over scattered tarps and thick, black wires. A construction crew was assembling the rectangular playing field near one end of the hardwood floor. A group of technicians was working on a sound system. A row of freestanding lights had been pushed back against the wall. Beside them, two men were unloading even more gear.

  Despite the level of activity all around us, the mood in the room was calm and purposeful. Everybody had a job to do, and all were prepared to do their assignments well.

  My gaze stopped on an oversized folding table that was littered with old coffee cups and surrounded by empty chairs. A man wearing a suit and tie and wire-rimmed glasses was standing beside it. Brandishing a microphone in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other, he appeared to be repeating a list of football terms.

  “Who’s that?” I asked Claire in a low tone.

  “Trouble,” she muttered. Then she turned to me and her expression brightened. “Want to make him your first assignment?”

  “Maybe.” Based on her initial assessment, I wasn’t about to commit until I knew more. “What would I have to do?”

  “Convince him to put the playbook down and step away from the microphone. In fact, if you could get him out of the room entirely, that would be a huge bonus.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “Well, for starters, he won’t be easy to budge. He’ll probably pull rank and tell you to get lost.”

  I turned Claire around and steered her through the closest set of French doors. Outside on the terrace, we could speak without being overheard. “I’m guessing there’s more to the story than that. Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

  “The man with the mic is Fred Brody. He’s one of Mr. Brody’s sons.”

  Another one. Apparently the place was crawling with them.

  I spared a glance back inside. Mic Man was still practicing his elocution. “So Fred Brody is serving as commentator for Puppy Fest?”

  “Heavens no. And that’s the problem.”

  “Okay.” I waited for her to continue.

  Instead, Claire said, “How much do you know about Leo Brody?”

  “Mostly just what I read in magazines or see on TV. He’s a self-made millionaire who attends charity events, serves on boards, and donates money to worthy causes. He loves dogs. Is there anything else I need to know?”

  Claire lowered her voice to a whisper. “He also loves women.”

  That didn’t seem like a bad thing.

  “Good for him?” I tried.

  “He’s been married three times.”

  “He sounds like a busy man.” I found myself whispering as well. “Why do we care?”

  “Because those three marriages have produced nine children.”

  “Nine?” I might have shrieked a little at that.

  “Nine,” Claire confirmed. “And most of them have shown up today. As if I don’t already have enough to do, this place is suddenly overrun with Leo Brody’s relatives. It’s not just the children—who, by the way, are actually adults—there are grandchildren running around too.”

  “What are they all doing here?”

  “Sucking up, apparently.” Claire lifted a hand and raked back a strand of silky hair that had fallen forward over her face. “I’m sorry, did that sound rude?”

  “Kind of,” I admitted.

  Claire doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. Not only that, but her job routinely places her in high-stress situations. I’d seen her soothe difficult clients with more tact and aplomb than I could ever muster. Normally she breezes through challenging events without ever losing her cool. So this level of agitation was definitely out of the ordinary.

  “Puppy Posse is Mr. Brody’s pet charity, and Puppy Fest is their signature event,” she said. “Because of that, his whole family turns out to show their support. Unfortunately, nobody warned me about that aspect ahead of time. I was hired to plan and execute a large event with a lot of moving parts. But Mr. Brody never said anything about my having to wrangle a dozen of his relatives at the same time.”

  “I get that having them show up u
nexpectedly is a nuisance,” I said. “But this is their family home, so you can’t exactly throw them out. Can’t you just ignore them?”

  “I wish! None of them attended the advance meetings. Nor have they asked about arrangements that have already been made. Instead, they’re all just suddenly here, determined to pitch in and help out in whatever manner they think is best. Regardless of whether they know what they’re doing or not. Take Fred, for example. He’s decided that since he once performed in a high school play, he should serve as the announcer for the puppy bowl game.”

  “Is he any good?”

  “I have no idea. But the point is, I also don’t care. Mr. Brody has gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to produce this event. It’s the most important fundraiser and PR vehicle on Puppy Posse’s annual calendar. The puppy bowl will be broadcast live over local TV. This isn’t amateur hour, and we can’t afford for things to go wrong just because a bunch of family members want to make a good impression on Daddy.”

  “I see your problem,” I said. “Do you want me to have a chat with Fred?”

  “I’ve already tried that.” Claire frowned. “Like the rest of his family, he likes to talk and hates to listen.”

  “What if . . . ?” I stopped and considered.

  “Please tell me you have a good idea. I’ll love you forever if you take Mr. Brody’s relatives off my hands so I can get back to doing my real job.”

  “When the show opens, before the actual game starts, who’s doing the introduction?”

  “Oliver Gregson, the same man who’ll be doing the live play-by-play during the game. He’s a professional announcer.”

  “Mr. Brody didn’t want to introduce his own event?”

  “No. He was definite about that. The paparazzi take his picture all the time but Mr. Brody almost never appears on camera if he can help it. Besides, the intro is only a few scripted lines about Puppy Posse and all the wonderful work they do. The point is to get right to the game.”

  “So few lines that maybe even a non-professional could handle them without flubbing?”

  Claire stared at me for a moment. Her eyes widened. “Melanie Travis, you’re a genius.”