Murder at the Puppy Fest

by Laurien Berenson

  “I don’t have to deny anything. I’m done here.” Trace spun around and stalked away. He was quickly swallowed by the surrounding darkness.

  I stared at the two remaining Brodys. “So you expect me to believe that the fire is all Trace’s fault and that you tried to stop him?”

  Both girls nodded sullenly.

  “But apparently he didn’t try to stop you two from baking those cookies and delivering them to your grandfather’s office.”

  Ashley started to reply. Megan quickly forestalled that by speaking up herself. In the time we’d spent focusing on Trace’s role in this debacle, she’d regained much of her composure.

  “You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are. We’re not going to let you trick us into admitting something we didn’t do.”

  “It’s too late to worry about that now. You two have already owned up to what you did.” Strictly speaking, that wasn’t entirely true but I figured it was close enough.

  “If you’re angry when you say something, it doesn’t count,” Ashley informed me in a superior tone.

  “You can try using that excuse with the police,” I said. “I doubt that they’ll be any more impressed by it than I am.”

  “We’re not talking to anyone and you can’t make us.” Megan looked at her sister. “This is a waste of time. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Whether you come with me or not, I’m going to tell the police everything that happened here,” I said before they could turn away. “It would be better for both of you if we talked to them together.”

  Megan spread her lips in a feral grin. “You should stop and think very carefully about those lies you’re planning to tell. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to find yourself defending a lawsuit for slander and harassment. The Brody legal team knows exactly how to squash people like you. You’ll be lucky to own the shoes on your feet by the time they get done.”

  Okay, I’ll admit it. This time, that threat sounded like it had real teeth. Enough to cause a flutter of alarm in the pit of my stomach.

  I nudged the feeling aside and said, “It’s not slander if I’m telling the truth.”

  Megan stopped in her tracks. “The truth according to whom, you? What you think doesn’t matter. Nobody’s going to confirm your version of events. You know what that means? It didn’t happen.”

  “You still don’t get it,” Ashley said. “We’re the Brody family. Nobody takes us on and wins.”

  The two girls linked arms and strolled away. Unlike their cousin, Megan and Ashley took their time making an exit. The unhurried departure served to reinforce their previous message. The twins weren’t even slightly intimidated by me. Or by what I might know.

  Frowning in frustration, I watched the pair walk away. I still intended to get in touch with Detective Young, but the girls’ parting words had had their desired effect. All at once I was swamped with doubt. My word against that of the Brody family and their legal machine? It wasn’t difficult to guess how that might end.

  I drew in a deep breath and flooded my body with oxygen. What I really needed right then was for my inner avenging angel to awaken, rise up in outrage, and propel me onward with a demand for justice. That seemed like a lot to ask at the end of such a long stressful day, but I waited a hopeful minute anyway.

  Nothing happened. Not even a spark. Right now, my life felt more like a fizzle. It figured.

  “Excuse me, miss?”

  I spun around as someone tapped my shoulder from behind. The older man was pudgy and unshaven. Dressed in blue jeans and a rumpled shirt, he looked as though he’d recently woken up. Then a second look revealed the shrewd gleam in his eyes and the small notepad in his hand.

  Oh joy. The press had arrived. Now my day was complete.

  “My name is Harley Jones. I’m a reporter with The Stamford Advocate. Maybe you’ve seen my byline?”

  Maybe I had. I couldn’t remember and I didn’t much care.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “I heard about the fire on my scanner. This part of Greenwich, pretty much everything that happens is news so I came right over. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. One of those girls mentioned the name Brody. Would that be Leo Brody she was talking about?”

  My first thought was to send him on his way. Then I stopped and reconsidered. “How much did you hear?”

  “Just about everything they said.” His gaze was speculative. “I took good notes too. I left the house in a hurry and forgot my recorder, but don’t worry, I’m old school. I got it done.”

  The pad in his hand was flipped open. The pages were covered with neat dark script.

  A spark of hope flickered inside me. The avenging angel unfolded her wings. Suddenly I felt reenergized.

  “How long have you worked for the Advocate?” I asked.

  “Twenty years. Before that, the New York Times. I’ll be coming up on retirement soon, but I still hate to miss a story.” Harley looked at me and smiled. “Especially one as interesting as this sounds like it might be.”

  I couldn’t help it. I smiled right back at him.

  “There’s someone I’d like you to talk to,” I said. “His name is Detective Young, and he’s going to want to hear what we have to say.”

  Chapter 26

  Aunt Peg’s kennel was a total loss.

  Several hours passed before the blaze was finally extinguished. By then even the diehard gawkers had moved on. When the emergency crews left, Aunt Peg brought out her Standard Poodles and loaded them in Sam’s SUV. They all came home with us to spend the night. The next morning, we returned to survey the damage.

  A portion of Aunt Peg’s fence had been dismantled. Her previously lovely lawn was trampled and muddy. In the field behind the house where the tidy kennel building had stood for forty years, there now remained only a smoldering heap of rubble and ash.

  Wire pens, half-melted by the intense heat, had twisted into grotesque shapes. A wink of silver amid the debris identified the former location of the trophy room. An improbable flash of red turned out to be a piece of a Best in Show streamer that had somehow survived the fiery destruction. The acrid aroma of the remains made me want to pinch my nose shut.

  For a long time nobody spoke. We simply stood and stared at the wreckage.

  Sam, holding Kevin in his arms, was the first to offer an opinion. “You were lucky,” he said.

  “Lucky?” Aunt Peg’s head reared back. There might have been tears in her eyes. Either that or the stench was making them water. “I’d like to know how.”

  “It could have been much worse. You’re safe and so are your dogs. Imagine what might have happened if you had been here alone when Trace arrived to do his dirty work.”

  The previous evening after Davey and Kevin had gone to bed, I’d told Sam and Aunt Peg everything that had transpired while they were busy elsewhere. Sam was relieved that we finally had answers. Predictably, Aunt Peg was annoyed to have missed the imprudent argument that revealed the Brody cousins’ true colors.

  Now she said stoutly, “I like to think that I’d have knocked that stupid boy on his ear.”

  “Or maybe he’d have done the same to you,” I pointed out.

  Sam was pragmatic about the loss. “You can always rebuild if you want. It’s been a while since you used that kennel, though.”

  “I haven’t used it to house dogs.” Aunt Peg continued to gaze at the pile of smoking debris. “When Max was alive and we had more Poodles to care for, he and I spent hours there each day. There was nowhere else we would rather have been.”

  Far be it from me to point out that Aunt Peg’s husband had also died in that building.

  “I know it’s been years since those pens were full,” she said with a sigh. “But I still liked to go out and visit sometimes. The kennel was a wonderful place to sit and reflect upon everything that had gone before.”

  “I bet you looked at all your trophies,” Davey said.

  “No, not really.” Aunt Peg glanced at
her nephew. “It was the photographs that drew me back time and again. I remember each and every one of those wins. I know the Poodles’ names and how they were bred. I think about the competition that Max and I had faced. Generations of Cedar Crest Standard Poodles were born and lived their lives within those walls, and I still feel a connection to every one of them.”

  Aunt Peg turned away, deliberately averting her gaze from the destruction in front of us. “The kennel might have looked like just another building, but it was home to many wonderful memories. Now it feels like they’re gone too, as if they were just as fleeting as the smoke that carried them away.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  Aunt Peg’s spine stiffened. “This wasn’t your fault.”

  I wasn’t entirely convinced of that. “There were hints I should have picked up on. And clues I should have noticed sooner. It never should have taken me so long to realize how toxic that family is.”

  Aunt Peg managed a grim smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Leo was looking down on us right now and thinking much the same thing.”

  Harley Jones and I had an appointment with Detective Young later that morning. Harley even shaved and put on a suit and tie for the occasion.

  The detective listened intently as I outlined everything I’d learned over the past week. Then Harley and I described the previous night’s encounter with the three Brody teenagers. When we were finished, Detective Young promised to put the information we’d given him to good use.

  I didn’t know if he’d be able to get an investigation opened, but at least I knew I’d done all I could. Harley, meanwhile, was sitting on the story of the decade. I didn’t ask what he planned to do with the material and he didn’t offer to tell me. He was probably considering which of his media connections to approach first. At least I hoped he was.

  That afternoon, Aunt Peg had a long talk with Libby Rothko. It ended with Libby proposing that the Brody family pay for replacement of the kennel and other related costs. The offer sounded suspiciously like a bribe to me and Aunt Peg rebuffed the offer politely but firmly.

  Though Libby was the one who’d initiated the process, now that it had reached its conclusion she seemed to remember that she was a Brody too. Either that or they’d purchased her cooperation. In any case, the family had closed ranks and mostly disappeared from public view.

  Ron Brody filed for divorce less than a month after his father’s death. Libby mentioned to Aunt Peg that the split had come as a surprise to her. She wondered whether the turmoil between their parents had been the catalyst that had led to Ashley and Megan’s acting out.

  I thought that was an incredibly insipid euphemism to describe a joint, premeditated action that had led to the death of a very good man, but I told myself that I’d already devoted more than enough time worrying about the Brodys and their issues. I needed to get back to the things that really mattered: my family, my Poodles, and the fact that summer vacation was passing by in the blink of an eye.

  At the end of August we held a small party for Bud and declared him officially ours. By then the little spotted dog was beginning to look like a new man. His eyes were bright and curious, his ribs were covered with flesh, and his coat had begun to shine. Even better, Bud no longer cringed when he heard loud noises or hid behind the couch when our family life became too hectic.

  He’d adopted Kevin as his child and followed him everywhere. Once—not by parental design—the two of them had even shared a bath. That had been a bit of a mess.

  So I was surprised when Davey came to me one day and told me he thought we might want to make some changes. Specifically with regard to Bud’s name.

  “It doesn’t suit him anymore,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Davey and I were sitting outside on the deck. Kevin and Bud were rolling around on the lawn. “I thought you chose that name because compared to the Poodles, Bud’s a bit plain. So you gave him a name to match.”

  “No, you have that all wrong. I named him after a bud. You know, like in your garden?”

  Davey looked at me and grinned. I’m a terrible gardener and we both knew it.

  “You named that dog Bud to remind me of my failures?”

  “No, I called him that because when we found him, it felt like his new life was just beginning. I knew he was going to grow and develop and become a totally great dog. And now he’s almost there.”

  “Darn it, Davey.” I sniffed loudly. “Don’t make me cry.”

  “Geez. Why would you want to do that?”

  I gave him a watery smile. “Because even when I think I know almost everything about you, you still manage to surprise me.”

  Davey looked perplexed. “Is that a good thing?”

  “It’s a very good thing.”

  “So do you think we should change his name?”

  “No way. Bud is just the right name for him. In fact, it’s perfect.”

  The little spotted dog heard us talking about him. His head lifted and his tail began to wag. He opened his mouth in a doggy grin. Kev hates to be ignored. He stood up and stamped his foot. Then he added a loud squeal.

  Davey winced slightly. He looked at me and shook his head. “I hope you’re planning to train those two.”

  Not me. I knew when I had it good.

  “I’m not going to change a thing,” I said.

  When her Aunt Peg lands a gig as judge at a Kentucky dog show, Melanie Travis welcomes the opportunity for a road trip. Once there, Aunt Peg reconnects with an old friend, Ellie Gates Wanamaker, a former Standard Poodle exhibitor and a member of a well-heeled Kentucky family. Miss Ellie has been out of the dog show world for more than a decade, but when Melanie invites her to spectate at the Louisville Kennel Club dog show, she’s eager to accompany her.

  Miss Ellie’s presence at the expo center, however, provokes mixed reactions from exhibitors she hasn’t seen in years, including some outright animosity. The following day Melanie learns that Miss Ellie has suffered a fatal accident while exercising her dogs. Aunt Peg, however, suspects foul play. Wishing to avoid any scandal, Miss Ellie’s pedigreed family prefers to let sleeping dogs lie, but as Melanie begins to sniff around, she discovers Miss Ellie had many secrets, both in the dog show world and amongst her Kentucky kin . . .

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  Chapter 1

  I was moving fast.

  The ground below me was little more than a blur. Scenery flew by with astonishing speed. I was running....

  No, not running . . . riding. I was on the back of a horse. I could feel the smooth motion of the muscular body beneath me. I could hear the creak of the leather saddle, and the steady, rhythmic sound of hoofbeats striking the turf.

  Their pounding cadence pulsed through me. It drew me in and made me one with the motion. It propelled me onward, as if this heady race was the only thing in the world that mattered.

  Where was I? I wondered. What was happening? Was I racing toward something—or was I running away?

  I had no answers. All I knew was that I could feel the sharp bite of the wind on my face and a sensation of freedom humming deep inside my bones.

  The feeling was heavenly.

  It was addictive.

  One thing I was sure of—I wanted more.

  All at once a pale mist rose on the path ahead of us. Its silvery tendrils lifted and swirled, obscuring all view of what was to come. I found myself leaning forward in the saddle. I gazed in vain between the tips of two dark, pointed ears.

  I could see nothing. The vista before me was still blank . . . and suddenly forbidding. In the space of a second, the breakneck speed at which we were traveling lost its appeal.

  Frantically I reached for reins, but couldn’t find them. My fingers felt thick and stiff. Useless. I screamed into the wind. I told the horse to stop but my words had no effect.<
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  Then the mists shifted and drew apart and I saw that behind them lay only darkness. A void of nothingness. It looked as though my steed and I were racing toward the edge of the world.

  Abruptly my stomach plummeted as the ground disappeared from beneath us. My hands flew upward, groping in the air, grasping desperately for purchase that wasn’t there. My heart pounded with the sudden knowledge that I couldn’t save myself. And then I was falling, helpless as I plunged downward and tumbled into the unknown below . . .

  I awoke with a gasp and bolted upright in bed.

  My heart was beating wildly in my chest. Mouth open, I was desperate for air. Fire clawed at my lungs. My insides still churned with the sensation of falling. Though my eyes were open wide I couldn’t see a thing. Everything around me was black: inky and impenetrable.

  I still had no idea where I was.

  Clutching the bedcovers in frantic fingers, I swiveled my head from side to side. A moment later, my gaze alighted on the amber numbers of the bedside clock. Three-oh-two, it read.

  Slowly my mind processed the number. With effort I made the connection to what it meant. Compared to my recent speed, I felt dull and sluggish as I worked to reorient myself. I gulped in a breath of cool air and shifted my shoulders, trying to ease their tension.

  There was no horse. There was no wind. There was no yawning crater waiting to suck me down into its gruesome depths.

  I’d been having a nightmare. That was all.

  I gazed around again. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness now. I could see the familiar bedroom surrounding me. I could feel the slight dip in the mattress caused by the weight of my husband, Sam, who was sound asleep beside me.

  Relief washed though me and I blew out a long breath. I was safe. I was home in my own house, with my husband, my two sons, and my six dogs.

  I heard a soft creak and turned to see the bedroom door nudged slightly ajar by a long black muzzle. My Standard Poodle, Faith, the dog who understood everything about me and who knew my thoughts almost before I did, was standing silently in the doorway.