Murder at the Puppy Fest

by Laurien Berenson

  Kevin was too sleepy for a bath. I carried him upstairs and sat him on his bed to exchange his T-shirt and shorts for pajamas. Brushing his teeth woke him up enough for Kev to demand a story.

  Dr. Seuss is a perennial favorite and Horton Hears a Who! was on top of the stack of books beside his bed. Kevin scooted up the mattress toward his pillow, then snuggled beneath the covers and pulled the Mickey Mouse quilt all the way up to his chin. I perched at the foot of the bed and began to read. It wasn’t long before we heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Sam and the dogs were coming upstairs to say good night.

  Three black Poodle faces appeared in the doorway. Then there was a sudden scrabble of nails on the hardwood floor in the hall. Bud threaded his way through the Poodles’ legs and came hurtling into the room.

  The spotted dog barely spared me a glance. In his mind, I was only an impediment to where he wanted to be. To where he seemed to think he belonged.

  Head cocked to one side, Bud looked for an opening between me and the low guardrail that ran along the side of Kevin’s bed. Seeing his spot, the dog crouched down, then sprang up onto the mattress. As if this was a routine they’d performed before, Kev patted his pillow and Bud scampered up to join him. Child and dog burrowed under the covers together.

  I was the only one in the room who looked nonplussed by this maneuver. Sam accepted Bud’s presence in Kevin’s bed without a quibble. Even the Poodles—whose standard of behavior was often higher than mine—remained unruffled. Apparently I was out of the loop.

  “When did that start?” I asked Sam.

  “A few days ago,” he whispered. Snug beneath the quilt with Bud, Kevin’s eyes were already closed. “Right after we decided that Bud was housebroken enough not to have to sleep in a crate.”

  “How did I not notice?”

  Sam beckoned silently. I lifted my weight off the mattress, put down the book, and turned off the bedside lamp. The Poodles followed us quietly out of the room.

  Sam waited until we’d reached the other end of the hall before speaking again. “You’ve been a little preoccupied lately.”

  “I know.”

  Even before I’d met Libby Rothko at the dog show, Leo Brody’s murder had been on my mind. I hadn’t stumbled over a dead body in a very long time. Now I couldn’t seem to banish the image from my thoughts. And I didn’t even want to look at a box of cookies.

  “I guess I’ve been neglecting you guys, huh?”

  “Don’t worry about us. It’s summer and the boys and I have plenty of ways to keep busy. Faith might be feeling a little left out though.” Sam knew just what to say to evoke a response. I felt an immediate rush of guilt.

  Faith had come to me when she was barely ten weeks old. Now she was well into middle age. Though I couldn’t bear to think about it, I knew I wouldn’t have her steady, loving presence beside me forever. No matter how distracted I’d been, it was stupid of me to waste even a minute of our time together.

  “You’re right,” I said.

  Faith wagged her tail. She’d heard her name. She knew we were talking about her.

  I squatted down, gathered her close, and spoke into her ear. “I promise I will do better.”

  Faith reached around and licked my cheek in forgiveness.

  Dogs make it so easy on us. Easier than we deserve.

  * * *

  Monday morning was the start of a bright, shiny, new week. Davey was due at soccer camp at nine so I called Caroline Richland at eight. She picked up right away.

  I introduced myself, reminded her that we’d met briefly at Puppy Fest, then asked if I was calling too early.

  “Oh please,” Caroline said breezily. “I have two teenage boys in the house and my husband takes the early train into the city. Nobody gets to sleep late around here. Anyway, I was expecting your call. Fred warned me that I’d hear from you.”

  I wondered what else Fred had felt the need to warn his half sister about. Not that I was about to complain. It probably helped that he’d smoothed the way for me.

  “So Libby thinks we should talk,” Caroline said. “Let’s get it over with. I have time this morning. How about ten o’clock—does that suit?”

  One thing you had to say for the Brody family. They didn’t beat around the bush.

  When I agreed and Caroline told me her address, I recognized the name of the road. Like Aunt Peg, the Richlands lived in backcountry Greenwich. I wouldn’t have any trouble finding my way there.

  I fed the kids, fed the dogs, and checked twice that Davey had everything he needed for camp crammed inside his backpack. Kevin was signed up for a Parent and Toddler Swim at the Y that morning. Sam, who swam like Aquaman, was planning to go with him.

  That freed me up go see Caroline as soon as I’d dropped Davey off at camp. Actually, it left me with half an hour to spare. I spent the time lingering over a mocha latte at Starbucks and pondering what little I knew about the various relationships within the Brody family. If Caroline was more loquacious than Fred had been—and her comment about getting our chat “over with” did nothing to reassure me on that point—I’d ask her to outline which siblings belonged where and who was related to whom.

  Caroline and Richard Richland’s house was set deep in the woods at the end of a long, winding driveway. Really. His name was Richard Richland. I looked it up. I have no idea why parents do that to their kids.

  Perched on the edge of a small lake, the house was a soaring masterpiece of contemporary architecture. It was constructed of glass and polished steel, and rose three stories into the air. The structure’s glistening surface both reflected and blended into the trees that surrounded it. With entire walls made up of windows, I could understand why the Richlands had chosen such a private setting for their dramatically designed home.

  I stared at the house as I made the final approach down the driveway. I was still looking as I parked my car and got out. Even so, by the time I’d crossed the macadam to reach a walkway whose crisscross pattern formed overlapping geometric designs, I still hadn’t managed to locate the home’s front door.

  That was embarrassing.

  Briefly I paused at the edge of the driveway, hoping for inspiration. None came. Instead I heard a grinding noise that sounded vaguely familiar. After a moment, I realized why.

  Way down at the other end of the house, a garage door was opening. As it slid upward, a black Porsche 911 Carrera came backing out. The sports car executed a neat two-point turn, then straightened on the driveway and came zooming directly at me.

  Zero to sixty in how many seconds?

  For a moment I was too shocked to react. Then, thankfully, survival instinct kicked in. I leapt up in the air and landed, none too gracefully, in a flowerbed packed with colorful blossoms.

  I’d jumped just in time. The Porsche sped by, passing so close to me that a draft of warm air raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

  As quickly as the nimble car had accelerated, it now slammed to a stop. Its wide tires left a trail of scorched skid marks on the blacktop. The driver’s-side window slid down and a teenage boy stuck out his head. He looked as though he might be tamping down a smirk.

  “Hey, sorry about that,” he said. “I didn’t see you standing there.”

  I drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. All my working parts seemed to be accounted for. No harm done, I told myself.

  “That’s all right.” I stepped carefully over a small cantilever ledge, back down onto the driveway. “My heart needed a good jolt. Nice car.”

  “Thanks. It was a birthday present. I turned seventeen last month.”

  Sure, I thought. That’s what a learner car ought to look like.

  The boy opened the door and got out of the Porsche. He had a slender torso and long, skinny legs. His brown hair was straight and badly in need of combing. Unruly bangs flopped down over his eyes. Black framed glasses gave his face a studious look.

  We hadn’t gotten off to the best start, but the teenager had a nice smile a
nd I couldn’t fault his manners when he held out his hand and said, “I’m Trace Richland. Are you here to see my mother?”

  “Yes, she’s expecting me.” My heart was still thumping like a wild beast in my chest. I hoped he couldn’t feel it when I took his hand and shook it. “I’m Melanie Travis. I was just . . . um . . .”

  “Looking for the door?” Trace asked with a grin. “You wouldn’t be the first. My father thinks that placing it flush in the wall like that was the architect’s private joke. My mother says it cuts down on visits from people she doesn’t want to see. When my parents hold parties, sometimes they send out diagrams with the invitations.”

  As he spoke, I found myself turning his name over in my mind. I knew it sounded familiar; I just couldn’t think why. Then abruptly the brain cells clicked together and illumination surfaced. Will from Puppy Posse had mentioned Trace when we were in the salon at the Puppy Fest.

  This was the guy Will had called Without a Trace.

  “You and I nearly met last week,” I told him. “I was helping out at Puppy Fest.”

  “Really?” The teen looked briefly startled. Considering what had transpired at the event, I wondered if it was a sore subject. “Yeah, I was there.”

  “I’m surprised I didn’t see you. I was helping out with the puppies too.”

  “Oh, wait.” Trace shook his head. “Sorry, I was thinking of something else. Man, that was a busy weekend. I meant to show up, but I never got there. Come on, let me take you to the door.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said, as Trace escorted me to the house. “Were you and your grandfather close?”

  “Well, sure.” He didn’t sound entirely convinced. “Although we didn’t really see him that much. He was the kind of guy who was always on the move. Leo had a lot of stuff going on. Sometimes family wasn’t as important to him as other things, you know?”

  I nodded.

  “Now I wish I’d had the chance to get to know him better—”

  Abruptly, a portion of the seemingly solid wall in front of us shifted.

  A glass door drew open and another teenage boy came flying out. He was dressed in white shorts and sneakers and carrying a metal tennis racket with an oversized head. This teen was younger than Trace, and there was no doubt that the two of them were brothers.

  In an instant, Trace forgot all about me. “Damn it, Nelson, what took you so long? Hurry up and get in the car. We’re gonna be late.”

  The two boys ran to the Porsche, hopped in, and slammed the doors. Tires squealed as the sports car went careening down the driveway.

  So there I was, standing by myself on the front walk.

  The younger boy had left the door partially open. I stepped up next to it and looked in vain for a doorbell. I supposed that was hidden too. The door was composed of a substantial pane of glass, so I reached up and knocked.

  Nothing happened. I waited, then tried again.

  “Coming!” a voice called.

  A minute passed before I finally heard the sound of approaching footsteps. If Caroline Richland was trying to convey the impression that our meeting wasn’t particularly important to her, she was doing an excellent job. Her brother, Fred, might have been supercilious, but at least he was prompt.

  Eventually she came gliding toward me across an open expanse that looked like it might be the living room. Then she saw the open door and stopped in surprise. “Oh my. What happened?”

  “Two teenage boys,” I said. “They were in a hurry.”

  Caroline was dressed better for a morning at home than I would have been for dinner at a fancy French restaurant. Her bright pink silk blouse was tucked into skinny white slacks and her sandals had five-inch heels. Her sleek blond bob hung in a shiny wave around her perfectly made-up face.

  She lifted her arm and glanced down at a slim watch. “Nelson has a tennis lesson at ten. They’re going to be late.”

  “That’s what Trace said.”

  Caroline looked up. “You know Trace?”

  “We met earlier.”

  I nearly added “when he almost ran me over with his car,” but then I thought better of it. No mother likes to hear criticism of her child—no matter how badly he might deserve it.

  “Sometimes I don’t know what’s the matter with that boy. He shouldn’t have left you standing out there. Please, come inside.”

  Caroline gestured me into a house whose interior was every bit as spectacular as it had looked from outside. The open floor plan and stark décor—blond hardwood floors and minimalist modern furniture—did nothing to draw the eye away from the panorama visible through the glass walls. Stepping inside was like walking into the most amazing tree house ever.

  I had to hand it to the Brody siblings. They sure knew how to create a great visual.

  Caroline paused to let me take it all in. She seemed to be waiting for me to comment.

  A different kind of welcome might have elicited some pretty effusive compliments. Now I just shifted my eyes downward and took a seat on a white couch whose straight lines and lack of padding didn’t seem too likely to offer much in the way of comfort.

  Caroline perched on the edge of a wooden armchair opposite me. She sat with her shoulders erect and her knees and ankles aligned. Her hands, with their perfectly manicured nails, curled into a tight ball in her lap. To my surprise, she looked nervous. For a woman who seemingly had it all, she was wound tighter than a spring.

  “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me,” I began. Hopefully easing into the conversation would help her to relax.

  “It’s not as if I had a choice.”

  All righty then. No relaxing.

  “Sure, you had a choice,” I said. “You could have told Fred no.”

  Caroline waved a hand in the air. “If you believe that, you don’t know a thing about my brother. Besides, it wasn’t Fred who told me I had to talk to you. That was Libby’s doing. She’s always thought the fact that she’s two years older entitles her to boss me around. Do you have siblings?”

  “One. A younger brother.”

  “Do you tell him what to do?”

  “I used to try. But mostly Frank just ignored me.”

  “That doesn’t work with Libby,” Caroline said. “She just raises her voice and insists.”

  “That doesn’t sound very pleasant.”

  She looked at me across the glass-topped table between us and sighed. “Believe me, it isn’t.”

  It had never crossed my mind that I might sympathize with Caroline—a woman with a fancy house, a designer wardrobe, and a teenage son who drove too fast—but suddenly I did. “Would you like me to leave?” I asked.

  “No. What would be the point? Libby would just be mad at me, and probably Fred too. We might as well just get this over with.”

  “You’re not what I expected,” I said.

  Caroline glanced around the room, as if she somehow thought that the magnificent setting had let her down. She probably wasn’t used to that. Maybe I should have offered up those compliments.

  “In what way?” she wanted to know.

  “I guess I thought that you would want to cooperate with your sister’s wishes.”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed Caroline’s face. “Did Libby tell you that?”

  “No.”

  “Fred?”

  “Actually,” I admitted, “he said much the opposite. Fred is certain that your father’s death was an accident. He told me you would agree with him. Before coming here, I thought that was a little odd. Now maybe I get it.”

  “You figured I’d take Libby’s side because she and I share the same mother while Fred and I are only half-siblings?”

  “I thought it was a possibility.”

  “That doesn’t give me much credit for independent thought.”

  I shrugged. I had seen her smudging lipstick all over puppies, after all.

  When I remained silent, Caroline said, “Libby and I are sisters, but we don’t have a lot in common. She
takes after our mother. I’m much more like our father. I was the quiet child, the one who always thought carefully about things before jumping in. In a family as boisterous as ours, that often made me feel like the odd one out.

  “Fred is ten years older. That seemed like a whole different generation to me then. Even when I was just a little kid, he noticed me when others didn’t. I guess he felt sorry for me because he took me under his wing.”

  “So Fred must be used to having you following his lead.”

  “I suppose. In his eyes, I’m still the little sister who wanted to tag along everywhere he went. But the hero worship I felt back then is long gone. I love Fred dearly, but I’m not immune to his flaws. No matter how much he might wish it, I won’t allow him to dictate what I say or do.”

  Chapter 15

  “Flaws?” My ears perked up.

  “How much do you know about my family?” Caroline asked.

  She was side-stepping my question but I didn’t mind. I needed a tutorial on the Brody family. I was pretty sure I could work my way back to Fred’s faults later.

  Even better, Caroline was finally beginning to relax. I watched as she settled back in her chair. Her shoulders still looked as though they’d been stiffened by a rod, but at least I no longer got the impression that she might spring up and dart away at any moment.

  “Only the basics,” I said. “I know that Leo Brody had three wives and quite a few children.”

  “There are nine of us.” Caroline shook her head at the number. “And despite our obvious common ground, we’re all very different from one another. Fred’s mother, Wendy, married my father just after they graduated from college. Their first child is my oldest sister, Nancy. Nancy is like her mother, sweet and unassuming. So much so that people are apt to take advantage of her.”

  I wondered if that was an oblique reference to Fred.

  “Nancy and her husband, Ike, have two children. They live on a farm in North Salem and lead a very quiet life. Truthfully, I don’t see them very often.”