Murder at the Puppy Fest

by Laurien Berenson

  Sam nodded. “The news outlets are going to be all over this.”

  “Like moths circling a flame. Virtually everything Leo Brody did was news, and this is guaranteed to be more of the same.”

  “I’m glad you’re well away from it,” said Sam.

  “Me too,” I agreed.

  Chapter 9

  Aunt Peg has more skills than most people can claim, but cooking isn’t one of them. So when she showed up late Sunday morning bearing lunch for all of us, I knew something was up.

  Then again, it was Aunt Peg. Where she’s concerned, something is always up.

  It was the best kind of summer day: warm and sunny with a light breeze. Fluffy white clouds floated across a clear blue sky. Davey and Kevin were playing in their tree house. The Poodles and Bud were entertaining themselves in the backyard.

  When Aunt Peg arrived, Sam and I were on the deck. I was settled on a chaise longue with a book. Sam was polishing his outdoor grill. Aunt Peg let herself in the back gate, greeted the dogs with more enthusiasm than she lavished on the human members of the family, then went inside the house and set about unpacking the supplies she’d brought with her.

  What choice did we have but to follow?

  Now, with the back door open so we could keep an eye on things outside, Sam and I were sitting at the kitchen table. Faith was lying at my feet. The three of us were watching Aunt Peg with some bemusement.

  “She must have heard about Leo Brody,” I whispered to Sam.

  He nodded. “The story was on last night’s news and in the Sunday papers. Peg probably wants the inside scoop.”

  “What’s that?” Aunt Peg asked. She has ears like an owl. Standing at the counter, she looked back at us over her shoulder. “What did I miss?”

  “Not a thing.” Sam laughed. “You never do.”

  I started to rise. “Would you like some help?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. I’ve brought sliced roast beef, rye bread, and something called quinoa salad. It doesn’t look like much, but the man at the market said it’s supposed to be good for you. Come and make yourself useful.”

  I should have expected that. And what happened next. I’d barely reached the counter before Aunt Peg had taken my seat at the table. Now I was in charge of lunch duty.

  “Did I hear you say something about an inside scoop?” she asked.

  “We assumed you want to talk about Leo Brody. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “Perish the thought,” said Aunt Peg. “I came to check on your progress with Bud.”

  If anyone was fooled by that declaration, I had a racehorse I wanted to sell them.

  Aunt Peg leaned around so she could see out the back door too. The mismatched canine crew was playing tag in the yard. “He appears to be fitting in rather well, doesn’t he?”

  Two days earlier, Aunt Peg had recommended we drop Bud off at Puppy Posse. So let’s just say that I wasn’t entirely convinced by today’s turnaround. Life with Aunt Peg has made me suspicious of everybody’s motives, particularly hers.

  I grabbed tomatoes and mayonnaise out of the refrigerator, set out plates, and opened up the bread. “What changed your mind?” I asked. “On Friday, you thought we should get rid of Bud.”

  “Friday he had fleas,” Aunt Peg replied. As if that made all the difference. “I take it he passed his vet check?”

  “Flying colors,” Sam told her. “Assuming no one shows up to claim him, I’ll make an appointment in a couple of weeks to get him neutered.”

  Racing in pack formation, the Poodles came flying up onto the deck. They zoomed across the wood floor, dodging nimbly around lounge chairs and a picnic table, then jumped off the other side. His short legs pumping like pistons, Bud scrambled along behind.

  “I can see some Boxer in that dog,” Aunt Peg mused. “And maybe a dash of Whippet.”

  “We guessed Cattle Dog and Bull Terrier,” I told her.

  “Don’t forget Beagle,” Sam added. “And we’re probably all right. I bet there are at least ten different breeds in Bud’s lineage.”

  I formed a tidy mound of sliced tomatoes. “It doesn’t matter who Bud’s ancestors are. The important thing is that he found his way here to us. When I came downstairs this morning, Kevin, Bud, and Davey were curled up on the couch together watching cartoons.”

  “There’s nothing so grateful as a dog who’s been rescued from a bad situation,” Aunt Peg said. “That little dog has landed himself in deep clover. Don’t doubt for a minute that he’s aware of that. And speaking of Davey, I trust he’s prepared to face some tough competition next week?”

  The following Friday and Saturday, Augie was entered in back-to-back dog shows in Carmel, New York. Both shows had drawn major entries in all three Poodle varieties and the competition was expected to be top-notch.

  “He and Augie are as ready as they’ll ever be,” Sam said easily.

  Aunt Peg approached dog show competition with impassioned enthusiasm that bordered on zealotry. And she would love to be able to inspire a similar do-or-die fervor in Davey. So far he had resisted her efforts—once even going so far as to quit the sport when the pressure became too great. Sam and I were equally determined that Davey’s dog show experiences should be fun rather than stressful. As a result, Sam and I spent a lot of time running interference.

  “I could give Davey a handling lesson this afternoon,” Aunt Peg proposed.

  “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary,” I said.

  “I’d be happy to come by and help scissor Augie on Thursday—”

  “We’ve got it covered,” Sam told her.

  “In that case, you’ve given me no choice.”

  I put down the knife, stepped away from the tomatoes, and turned to face the kitchen table. Now what?

  “Since we’ve exhausted all other possible topics of conversation, I shall be forced to discuss Leo Brody’s untimely demise.”

  Aunt Peg crossed her arms over her chest and looked unbearably smug. You’ve brought this on yourself, her expression said.

  Maybe I’d been outmaneuvered. Or maybe it was simply time to bow to the inevitable. I set aside the lunch supplies and joined Sam and Aunt Peg at the table. This was a conversation I wanted to have behind us before we called the boys inside to eat.

  Noting my return, Faith stood up and moved around the corner. When I was seated, she settled in beside me. I reached down and scratched behind the Poodle’s ears. Now I was ready to talk.

  “Start at the very beginning,” Aunt Peg ordered. “And tell me everything.”

  “For that, you’d be better off talking to Claire,” I pointed out. “She was the one in charge yesterday. I bet she knows more than I do.”

  I stopped speaking as Davey suddenly appeared in the open doorway. To my surprise, Claire was with him. My son was grinning like a magician who’d just conjured a rabbit out of a hat. Considering our topic of conversation, I felt pretty much the same way.

  “Hey, Mom, look who just arrived.”

  “I was going to ring the front doorbell,” Claire said. “But Davey saw me drive in and brought me back here. I hope that’s okay?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Come on in. We were just talking about you.”

  Claire looked stricken. “Oh no. It’s because I need to apologize, right? I am so sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” Davey asked brightly. He likes it when someone’s in trouble and it isn’t him. “What’d you do?”

  Quickly, I stood up and stepped between them. “Davey, where’s Kev?”

  “Digging in the sandbox.”

  “Why don’t you go help him?”

  “Because things sound more interesting in here.”

  Of course they do.

  “Out you go.” I shooed him through the door. “Lunch in twenty minutes.”

  “Lunch?” Claire blinked. She started to backpedal out the door. “This is even worse. I didn’t mean to disturb a meal.” Then her gaze found Aunt Peg and she wailed, “And you
have company too!”

  “Nonsense,” Aunt Peg said firmly. “I’m not company. And neither are you. Now step inside and join us before I’m forced to chase you around the yard and bring you in here myself.”

  Fortunately, the threat of that potential mayhem did the trick.

  Sam stood up and pulled out a chair. Claire came inside and sat. Her nose twitched up and down. “I smell roast beef.”

  “Aunt Peg brought it,” I told her. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, not particularly. But I’ll make the sandwiches, if you like.”

  “Sit,” Aunt Peg answered for me. Her outstretched hand forestalled Claire’s rise. “We’ll eat later. Right now I want to hear what you have to say about what happened yesterday.”

  I’d seen grown men quake when directed to perform by Aunt Peg. But Claire just let that stuff roll right off her. Perhaps because she didn’t show dogs and felt no reverence for Peg’s years of accomplishments, Claire was about the only person I knew who wasn’t intimidated by Aunt Peg.

  Or maybe it was because Aunt Peg actually likes Claire.

  Sometimes I wonder what that would feel like.

  Claire began the recitation. I broke in every so often to add details and embellishments. Though we’d been separated for much of the previous day, it turned out that our stories jibed remarkably well. Aunt Peg listened mostly in silence—a rarity for her. Apparently, Claire’s narration merited a level of respect that one coming from me did not.

  “So you’re the one who found the body,” Aunt Peg said to me when we were finished.

  “No. Becca Montague was in Mr. Brody’s office when I got there. She found the body.”

  Aunt Peg looked thoughtful. “Or maybe that was what she wanted you to believe. Suppose Leo was alive when she arrived? Indeed, she might have brought those cookies with her and shared them with Leo herself. When you walked in, maybe she was checking to make sure that the peanuts had produced the desired effect before making her escape.”

  We all pondered that for a minute.

  Finally I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Becca was very upset about what had happened. Almost hysterical.”

  “You would be too, if you’d just killed somebody,” Sam pointed out.

  “And don’t forget, she tried to stop you from calling for help,” Aunt Peg added. “I find that most odd.”

  “But what would she have had to gain?” I asked. “She’s Mr. Brody’s girlfriend, right?”

  I glanced over at Claire, who shrugged. “I only ever met the man in a business capacity. I never ran across that Becca woman. And I’m pretty sure I would have noticed someone wandering around in a leather suit.”

  “Maybe she took out an insurance policy on Leo’s life,” Aunt Peg speculated. Once she gets hold of an idea, she hates to let go without a fight.

  “Then that would make things easy,” I said. “Detective Young will be all over her, and we’ll be able to read about the conclusion of his investigation in tomorrow’s newspaper.”

  “Speaking of Detective Young . . .” Claire’s expression sobered. “That’s why I came to talk to you. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t asked you to help out at Puppy Fest, you wouldn’t be involved in this terrible mess at all.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” I said firmly. “I was happy to help and I’m glad you asked me. Besides, I’m no more involved in what happened than anyone else who was present in Mr. Brody’s house yesterday. I wasn’t singled out for special treatment. I’d imagine the police talked to everybody who was there.”

  “Yes, they did,” Claire agreed. “Detective Young made sure of it. But I was surprised by some of the questions he asked me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Of course I was happy to help in any way I could. Not that I had anything useful to tell him because I was working all the way on the other side of the house. So I figured that the detective and I would have a short conversation. Except that we didn’t.”

  Aunt Peg’s fingertips began to drum on the tabletop. She was impatient for Claire to get to the point.

  I was too. “Claire, what did Detective Young want to know?”

  “Well . . . mostly about you.”

  “Me?”

  Claire nodded. “He asked me why you’d taken part in the event. And what you were doing at various times of the day. He was particularly interested in why I had picked you to send to Mr. Brody’s office.”

  “That’s no big deal,” I said. In truth I found the detective’s level of scrutiny a little alarming.

  “That’s not all,” Claire mumbled.

  “There’s more?” So help me, Aunt Peg sounded pleased by this turn of events.

  Once again, my hand left my lap and drifted downward. My fingers tangled in the dense curls on Faith’s head as I patted her for reassurance. She gazed upward and our eyes met. How bad can things be when your dog loves you?

  “I told Detective Young he was being nosy,” Claire said stoutly. “That was when he asked me if I was aware this was the third time that someone you knew had died under suspicious circumstances.”

  The third time was putting it mildly. Thank goodness the detective didn’t know the full extent of my previous adventures.

  “But I didn’t know Leo Brody,” I pointed out. “I never even met the man.”

  “But you were there,” Claire said unhappily.

  “If I were Detective Young, I’d probably wonder too,” Aunt Peg reflected.

  “You are not helping,” I told her.

  “So I’m really sorry,” Claire finished. “I hope I haven’t gotten you into any trouble.”

  Sam reached over and patted Claire’s shoulder. “None of this is your fault. Nobody needs to get Melanie into trouble. She attracts problems like this all on her own.”

  Aunt Peg turned to address me. “So what are you going to do about that?”

  I gazed out the open doorway. Davey and Kevin had left the sandbox and were engaged in a lively game of tag. Several Poodles and one small spotted dog were playing along too. In another minute, that hungry crew would come bounding into the kitchen looking for lunch. It was time to make the sandwiches.

  I stood up and walked over to the counter.

  “Well?” Aunt Peg demanded. She wasn’t about to let me get away that easily.

  When I turned back to the table, all three were staring at me. Faith was watching, too. “I don’t intend to do anything. Leo Brody’s death is not my problem.”

  Somebody snorted derisively under their breath. It might have been Sam. It could have been Aunt Peg. At least it wasn’t me.

  Chapter 10

  I managed to keep my word for almost a week.

  Between Gymboree classes for Kevin, soccer camp for Davey, and two dog shows for Augie, coming up on Friday and Saturday, it was a busy week. Nevertheless I still managed to keep a close eye on the local news. Okay, to be perfectly honest, I made sure that I read anything and everything having to do with Leo Brody’s death.

  Surprisingly, there wasn’t much.

  An obituary in the Greenwich Time newspaper lauded Brody’s achievements in the business world and his dedication to philanthropy. The Puppy Posse Foundation even got a brief acknowledgment. I learned which schools Leo Brody had attended, what clubs he belonged to, and about his military service during the Vietnam War. The obituary listed the names of Brody’s three ex-wives, nine children, and six grandchildren. There was no mention of Becca Montague anywhere.

  A small private funeral was held in Connecticut. Those who wished to contribute to their favorite charity were asked to make a donation in lieu of flowers. A memorial service for Leo Brody was scheduled to take place in New York City at the end of the month.

  What I didn’t see—despite some rather diligent searching when I thought no one was looking—was any mention of a police investigation. I probably should have been relieved by that. And yet the omission left me with a vague feeling of dissatisfaction instead.

  *
* *

  We awoke Friday morning to the sound of rain lashing against the roof of the house. Even worse, the forecast predicted that the showers would continue throughout the day.

  Sam and Davey had already devoted a considerable amount of time and effort to making Augie show ring ready—first clipping, then bathing, and then a meticulous blow-dry of the Poodle’s thick coat. Add that to the necessity of keeping all that hair smooth and dry until the moment Augie stepped into the ring, and the prospect of a downpour at an outdoor dog show was definitely something to dampen the mood.

  That being the case, it was a good thing that one of us had the resilience of a twelve-year-old. Davey flatly refused to be discouraged by the bad weather. Between the end of the school year, a vacation we’d taken to the mountains, and the start of the boys’ summer activities, nearly two months had passed since we’d last been to a dog show. Impatient to compile the remaining points needed to finish Augie’s championship, Davey was eager to get his dog back in the ring.

  We packed up the car and set out early. Augie came with us, obviously, but we left the rest of the crew at home. The Poodles had the run of the house; Bud was currently locked inside a large crate in the kitchen. We’d discovered the hard way that the little dog loved to chew.

  Owning Standard Poodles had obviously spoiled us in that regard. Told to leave something alone, they did. Bud had other ideas. Not only that, but he was a sneaky little dog. He’d snatch up a prize, drag it behind the couch, and destroy it there. My favorite pair of loafers had been the first casualty of Bud’s clandestine activities. Now we crated him when we were out of the house. It just made things easier.

  The trip to the show ground in southern Putnam County took just over an hour. Dog show exhibitors are a resolute and determined breed. We have to be because it’s not unusual to drive hundreds of miles in search of good judges, elusive points, and major entries. By those standards, this show was taking place virtually around the corner.

  Three enormous tents had been set up on the field in Veterans Memorial Park where the show was being held. Two of the tents formed wide center aisles for long rows of show rings that extended outward on either side of them. The third was the handlers’ tent, where exhibitors congregated to ready their dogs to compete. Crammed with grooming tables, crates, generators, chairs, and ex-pens, it was also the best place on the show ground for socializing, hearing the latest gossip, and rehashing the day’s results.