Hot Dog

by Laurien Berenson

  As Peg and I had discovered in the past, missing dogs, even ones that have been stolen, don’t rank very high on the police priority list. Indeed, Officer Collins seemed to think I should be grateful that nothing else had been taken. Since evidence of the break-in—the shattered window in back door—hadn’t impressed him much, I declined to mention my earlier problems, with the exception of the missing wallet, which he dutifully noted.

  “I’ll write out a report,” he said. “You can come down and pick up a copy at the station. You’ll need it if you want to file an insurance claim.”

  I thanked him for his time and watched him drive away. Then I went inside and called the glass man. At least he might be able to make himself useful.

  As it turned out, Joey Brickman was home, and Davey spent Sunday afternoon playing at his friend’s house. I used the time to try to get my life back in order: repairing the broken window on the back door, closing my credit card accounts, and going back to the supermarket to shop for the week’s food.

  I also left a message on the answering machine of a local locksmith, saying I was in need of a consultation. The notion that a stranger could come into my house at will was more than a little unnerving. If my current locks weren’t up to the job of keeping people out, then I’d better find a new system that was.

  Before leaving, Aunt Peg had promised to contact Rose and tell her what had happened—sparing me, at least until the following evening, the necessity of making what was sure to be a painful explanation. Rose had entrusted me with Dox. All I’d had to do was keep an eye on the puppy for a month. Hardly an arduous task. So what did it say for the state of my life that I hadn’t even been able to manage that?

  The two people I didn’t call were George and Marian Firth, and you may feel free to file that omission under the heading of “Taking the Coward’s Way Out.” If either one of them had Dox, then the puppy was probably in good hands. If neither did—and consider that I had no other particularly hot leads on where else to look for him—well, think about it, what did we really have to discuss?

  Davey came home just in time for dinner. I’d made his favorite meal, hamburgers and macaroni and cheese, and we ate together in the kitchen as the sun set outside. Before it was fully dark, I’d already leapt up twice to check the locks and turn on more lights. By Davey’s bedtime, I had every room in the house brightly lit. All the outdoor floodlights were on as well.

  From the road, I was sure the house looked much the same as it had a week earlier when we’d returned from the dog show in Rhode Island. I wondered if that fact was significant or simply ironic. There was always the slight possibility that I was being stalked by someone who worked for the power company.

  After Davey was in bed, I sat in the living room and tried to read. Usually that’s a favorite pastime; that night, nothing could hold my attention for long. Every noise, from a car driving by on the road outside to the wind rattling against a shutter, had me leaping to my feet and looking out the window.

  I am not by nature a jumpy person. That night I couldn’t seem to sit still. Even the Poodles felt my uneasiness. Faith, who most evenings would have been asleep on Davey’s bed, kept prowling around the house. The faint click of her toenails on the hardwood floors was a reassuring sound when the quiet began to feel oppressive.

  Though I’d been involved in solving several mysteries, this was the first time trouble had followed me home. In the past, finding a murderer had been an intellectual exercise. I’d followed the leads, put the clues together, and eventually come up with an answer.

  The problems I’d investigated had belonged to other people. And much as I might have cared about the outcome, I had not, for the most part, felt personally threatened. I had not become a target. Now, for reasons I couldn’t begin to fathom, that had changed. Someone was coming after me, and I had no idea why.

  The sudden ring of the telephone sounded like a clarion call in the silent house. I shot up off the couch. The phone was only one room away, sitting on the kitchen counter. Even so, my breathing was short and jerky when I picked it up and heard Sam’s voice.

  “Melanie? I was just talking to Peg. Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” I said brightly. Models use that same tone to sell laundry detergent.

  “I see.” No doubt he did. His next words confirmed it. “Do you want me to come over?”

  Now there was a loaded question. Of course the answer was yes . . . and no. Would I have felt more comfortable if Davey and I weren’t alone in the house? Yes, definitely. Did I want Sam feeling that he had to rush to my side out of some misplaced sense of duty? Unequivocally no.

  “Davey and I are fine. Really. You don’t have to worry about us.”

  “I do worry about you.” Sam sounded frustrated. “Peg said someone broke into your house this morning.”

  “I’ve already had the back door repaired. And I’ll get a locksmith out in the morning. There’s nothing more you could do. . . .”

  Except perhaps keep the nightmares at bay, I added silently.

  Sam didn’t say anything. For a long moment—wavering—neither did I. Then he spoke again, and my chance slipped away.

  “If you don’t want me to come, I won’t. But you know you can call me any time. I’ll be here. I’ll answer. Even if you just feel like talking in the middle of the night. Call me, okay?”

  “Okay,” I whispered. It was all the sound I could seem to manage. “I will.”

  Unexpectedly, tears stung the corners of my eyes as I replaced the phone. I wondered if I’d made the wrong decision, given the wrong answer. Why did things always have to be so complicated? Would a little simplicity in my love life be too much to ask?

  I put the dogs out, brought them back in and turned off most of the downstairs lights. Then I took my book upstairs to read in bed. Davey was, of course, sleeping like an angel. Faith hopped up and found her usual place beside him on his bed. Without waking, Davey reached out an arm and curled it around trustingly the big Poodle’s neck.

  For this one moment at least, all was right with the world. If only I didn’t have such a hard time keeping things that way.

  20

  I woke up Monday morning in a bed that was unexpectedly full. At some point during the night two big Poodles, plus my seven-year-old son, had joined me under the covers. So much for thinking that I had things under control.

  “Hey!” Davey’s eyes opened as I gazed at him.

  “Hey, yourself. What are you doing here?”

  “Sleeping.” He rolled over and yawned. “Until you woke me up.”

  “Yes, but how did you get here?” I couldn’t remember Davey spending a night in my bed since the time when he was four years old and Joey Brickman had told him a ghost story.

  “You don’t know?” My son began to giggle.

  “Should I?”

  “You came in my room and got me. It was the middle of the night.”

  Oh Good Lord, I thought suddenly. He was right. I’m not at my best first thing in the morning, pre-coffee; and it took a moment for the memory to surface. When it did, it had the hazy, indistinct quality of a dream.

  The phone had rung, I remembered that. The clock by the bed read two a.m. when the sound had pulled me from a restless slumber. I’d reached across the bed to the nightstand, lifted the receiver to my ear, and heard . . . nothing.

  Groggy, barely half awake, I’d grumbled about a wrong number and gone back to sleep. Until ten minutes later, when the phone rang again. That time, I’d waited a beat before picking it up. I’d briefly heard breathing before the caller hung up again.

  I’d slammed the phone back down and dialed *69 with shaking fingers. The readout appeared all too quickly. “Access Blocked.” As if I couldn’t have predicted that. So I’d opted for some low-tech access blocking of my own. I took the phone off the hook and left it off.

  Then I’d gotten up and walked restlessly around the house. One by one, I’d checked all the doors and windows, performing the task
with the compulsive fervor of someone who wasn’t sure where to feel safe anymore. When that was done, I’d gone to get my son.

  “You said you wanted company,” Davey reminded me now as I reached over and hung the phone back up. “You said it would be like camping out with all four of us in the same bed.”

  That I had. Luckily Davey hadn’t asked any questions, and I hadn’t needed to admit that I didn’t want company so much as I wanted the complete and utter reassurance that my son was safe. In the dark hours of the early morning, keeping him tucked close in beside me had seemed the best way to insure that.

  “Uh-oh,” said Davey.

  “What?”

  “I think Eve needs to pee.”

  My head whipped around. Of course, Davey was right. The Poodle puppy had hopped down off the bed and was dancing in the doorway, trying desperately to get my attention. I need to go outside, she was telling me. Right now.

  Speaking Poodle is really only one step away from speaking English. The syntax is pretty clear.

  I tossed back the covers and went to do as the puppy had requested. Bladder control is tough for young puppies, but once they reach the age of six months or so, they should be able to make it through the night. Usually Eve didn’t have any problem waiting until I got up.

  As I passed the clock in the kitchen, however, I saw why she’d been so anxious. To my amazement, it was nearly nine o’clock. Thank goodness Davey and I were on spring break, or we’d have both been missing our first classes.

  Upstairs, I heard the shower begin to run. While that didn’t guarantee that Davey was actually standing beneath the spray of water, I decided to hope for the best. The Poodles were busy romping in the backyard. I turned on the coffeemaker, then picked up the phone and dialed Bob.

  “I need help,” I said when my ex-husband answered. Even to my own ears, my voice sounded tired, defeated. Any why not? I’d hardly gotten any sleep and my life was disintegrating around me. The decision to make this call didn’t thrill me, but neither did I seem to have any choice.

  “Anything. What’s up?”

  “I’ve been having some problems over here and I was wondering if you might be able to take Davey for a couple of days. He’s on spring break right now so you won’t have to manage getting him to school. Although, of course, that means you’ll have him with you all day. But you know what he’s like, he’s pretty easy, and he gets along with everybody—”

  Bob chuckled into the phone. “You don’t have to sell me on my own son, Mel. Sure, he can come and stay with me. I’d be happy to have him. But first, tell me what’s going on. What kind of problems are you having?”

  “Ummm . . .” I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to tell him; the last thing I needed was for Bob to start feeling protective. On the other hand, Davey was bound to blurt out the whole story as soon as he saw his father.

  I decided to start in the middle, rather than the beginning. “My wallet was stolen over the weekend, and somebody broke into my house yesterday while Davey and I were out—”

  “Holy smokes, are you all right?”

  “We’re fine. Both of us. We weren’t even here. The only thing that was taken was a Dachshund puppy I was keeping for my Aunt Rose. Still, I think I’d feel a lot safer if Davey was somewhere else for a little while.”

  “What about you?” asked Bob.

  “What about me?”

  “Who’s going to be keeping you safe? You’re welcome to come and stay too, if you want.”

  I appreciated the offer, especially since Bob hadn’t even hesitated to make it and I knew how much my presence would cramp his budding relationship with Pam. Where ex-wives are concerned, I believed that’s called going above and beyond the call of duty.

  “Thanks,” I said. “But running away isn’t going to help. If I don’t figure out what’s going on, the same problems will still be here when I get back.”

  Instead Bob and I agreed that I would drop Davey off at the Bean Counter around noon. He and Frank were thinking of extending the coffeehouse menu to include a few specialty sandwiches. With Mondays being the closest thing dog handlers get to a day off, Bertie would be stopping there for lunch.

  Not unexpectedly, Bob figured I’d make a good guinea pig, too. My family; what would I do without them?

  The Bean Counter is located in a vintage building that had once served as a general store for a North Stamford neighborhood near Old Long Ridge Road. In the eighteen months it had been open, the coffee bar had become a popular gathering place, frequented by businessmen, soccer moms, and local teens.

  Though it was barely lunchtime when Davey and I arrived, the small parking lot was nearly full. From the looks of things, Bob’s idea to expand the menu was a good one. Inside, there was a line at the counter. Luckily, Bertie had already staked out a small table near the front window and gotten coffees for both of us. As I went to join her, Davey scooted beneath the partition and ran into the kitchen to look for his dad.

  “I went ahead and ordered,” Bertie told me. “I’m having a Reuben. You’re trying something called a Mongolian chicken sandwich.”

  I slid into my seat. “Did I want that?”

  Her green eyes glinted wickedly. “Frank assured me it was terrific.”

  “Then why aren’t you having it?”

  “I wasn’t sure what Mongols ate, and I wanted to play it safe.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t mention it. Hey, did I understand Bob correctly? Are you really sending Davey to his house for spring vacation?”

  “Sort of.” I reached for my coffee. Cream, no sugar; just the way I liked it. “At least that’s the end result. Though Bob probably won’t find it to be much of a vacation.”

  I told Bertie about my missing wallet, the Dachshund puppy I’d managed to lose, the hang-up phone calls in the middle of the night, and the television and lights that I’d never turned on. By the time I was finished, our sandwiches had arrived. It turned out that Mongols ate coconut, raisins, peanuts, and pineapples with their chicken. At least in Frank’s and Bob’s world, they did.

  I looked at Bertie’s Reuben longingly. She caught my glance and curled her arm protectively around her plate. Like maybe she thought I was going to reach over and try to steal something from it.

  Good call.

  “You left your purse in one of my crates Saturday afternoon, didn’t you?” Bertie asked, thinking back.

  I nodded as I turned my plate from side to side, studying my sandwich from several angles, none of which improved the view. No doubt about it, if I picked that sucker up, everything was going to fall out.

  “Jean and Mike were awfully pissed at the show,” Bertie mused. “Although it seems pretty far-fetched to think that they’d stoop to stealing your wallet.”

  “I thought so, too. Unfortunately, I haven’t come up with any better ideas.” My teeth crunched down hard on a peanut. I sighed and reached for a sip of coffee. “Though that doesn’t explain what happened to Dox. I’m hoping one of the Firths has him. Or possibly Jill Prescott.”

  Since Bertie didn’t know about my connection to the Firths, or who Jill Prescott was, I continued with the explanations. Every so often, she’d let down her guard and I’d sneak a hand across the table. The third time I almost succeeded in making off with the other half of her Reuben.

  Bertie slapped my hand sharply. “Cut it out. In my condition, I need all the nutritious food I can get.”

  “Your condition?” I scoffed. Like a Reuben was going to help maintain that perfect-ten figure.

  Bertie smirked.

  After a moment, I stopped chewing. “What condition are we talking about?”

  The smirk widened into a grin. Bertie just looked at me, waiting for me to figure it out. Then all at once I did. “Oh my God, don’t tell me you’re pregnant!”

  “Why not? You’ve done it. So have millions of other women. Now it’s my turn.”

  “But, but—”

  “But what?”

&
nbsp; I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “You just got married. It seems so fast.”

  “Hey.” She shrugged. “What can I tell you? Sex happens.”

  Considering the way she and my brother looked at one another, that was no surprise. I’d always figured they’d have kids eventually, I just hadn’t expected things to happen so quickly. At times Frank still seemed like a baby to me; it was hard to imagine him with a baby of his own.

  “Congratulations,” I sputtered. “When?”

  “Not for months yet.” Bertie munched happily on her sandwich. “I just found out myself a couple of days ago. By the way, it’s not public knowledge yet. You’re the first person we’ve told.”

  I attacked my lunch with renewed enthusiasm. “I think I’m going to like being an aunt. I’m sure it’s a lot less complicated than being a mother.” Another thought hit me. “And Davey’s going to have a cousin to play with. He’ll be thrilled.”

  Frank came over to stand behind Bertie’s chair. He placed a hand on her shoulder and beamed at his bride. “She told you, didn’t she?”

  I nodded. “It’s great, Frank. Really great.” I’d never seen my brother look so happy, so exuberantly, over-the-moon, blissfully joyous. His smile could have lit the whole room.

  Then he glanced down at the table and his smile faded. “Is that a Reuben? Are you sure . . . ?”

  Bertie didn’t let him finish. “This baby likes corned beef. Besides, I felt like having sauerkraut. I’ve read the manuals. For the next eight months, I get to eat all sorts of things. I’m entitled.”

  “Of course, you’re entitled . . .” Frank struggled manfully not to say the wrong thing.

  “When I was pregnant, all I wanted was tomatoes,” I told him. “Dozens and dozens of tomatoes.”