Dog Eat Dog

by Laurien Berenson

  Aunt Peg looked from my face to Bertie’s, then back again. “What?”

  “It’s Monica,” I said, and stepped aside so she could see. “She’s dead.”

  The Beagle in her arms lifted his nose to the cold, pale moon and howled.

  Nine

  It’s a good thing Frank was staying with Davey, because by the time the police finished questioning all of us it was nearly midnight. They talked to us separately, but afterward we grouped together in a small pool of illumination provided by one of the overhead lights. Nobody seemed in a hurry to leave. I think we were all in shock.

  It just didn’t seem possible that Monica was actually dead. Even worse was the thought that had immediately crossed my mind: that the list of likely suspects began and ended with the members of the Belle Haven Kennel Club. One look at Aunt Peg’s face, and I knew she was thinking the same thing.

  The police had cordoned off the area around Monica’s van, firmly rebuffing Aunt Peg’s attempt to retrieve the Beagles’ leashes. She’d piled the two little hounds onto the back seat of the Volvo—without asking, I might add—where they were now scratching at the windows and howling mournfully. The windows, firmly shut, muffled most of the noise.

  One patrolman was videotaping the proceedings. Other members of the police force were in and around Monica’s van, gathering up bits and pieces of what they hoped was evidence. A stiff breeze blew in from over the water; but cold as it was, none of the club members recommended that we move inside the restaurant. Our comfort seemed a secondary consideration in the face of what had been done to Monica.

  “I just can’t believe it,” Joanne Pinkus said for what had to have been the tenth time. “How could this have happened?”

  “Easy,” Bertie snorted. “Someone snuck up behind Monica, bashed her over the head with a rock, then went off to join the hue and cry about the loose Beagles.”

  “A rock?” Aunt Peg and I asked simultaneously.

  Bertie nodded. “When I was speaking with Detective Shertz, one of the other policemen brought it over. I think he’d found it under the van.”

  “I saw it too,” said Cy. “The medical examiner was comparing it to the depression in the back of Monica’s skull. Of course when I asked about it, they wouldn’t tell me a thing.”

  “I think this whole business is positively horrid!” said Barbara. Snuggled into her mink, she was probably the only one among us who wasn’t feeling the cold. “In Greenwich, of all places. Is nowhere safe anymore? And then we’re all questioned as if we might have had something to do with it.”

  “We were all out here,” Aunt Peg pointed out, sounding as if she’d like to ask a few questions herself.

  “Surely you’re not thinking of us as suspects!” Penny Romano glared at Aunt Peg, and her husband slipped a comforting arm around her shoulder.

  “I’m sure that’s not what Peg meant,” Louis said soothingly.

  I thought that was exactly what Peg had meant. Wisely, I kept my mouth shut.

  Standing beside her husband, Sharon LaPlante spoke up. “If anyone saw anything, it was probably Peg’s niece. Melanie, isn’t it?”

  I nodded as all eyes turned my way.

  “You were the first to reach her. What did you see?”

  “Nothing,” I replied honestly. It seemed like a woefully inadequate answer. “The door to Monica’s van was open. I saw the leashes on top of a crate, and thought it was odd she hadn’t taken them with her. Then when I got closer, I saw her lying on the ground.”

  “There you go,” Lydia said firmly. “None of us saw a thing, which isn’t surprising when you consider how dark it is out here, and that we had the loose Beagles to distract us. For all we know, this was just a random act of violence, like we’re always hearing about on the news. It had nothing to do with any of us.”

  Baloney, I thought, wondering if Lydia actually believed what she was saying. She sounded sincere, but how hard was that? Unless I missed my guess, the murderer was standing in the circle among us.

  “What happened here was a terrible shame,” Lydia was saying. “Monica was a valued member of the Belle Haven Kennel Club, and we shall all miss her dearly. Perhaps someone would like to prepare a small tribute to Monica for the next meeting?”

  I never saw so many gazes drop so fast. Feet shuffled, mufflers were pulled more tightly around throats. Nobody stepped forward to volunteer.

  “We’ll all think about it. How about that?”

  That idea seemed to go over somewhat better. At least it was accompanied by a bit of eye contact. But it didn’t look to me as though Monica Freedman was going to be getting a tribute from the Belle Haven Kennel Club any time soon.

  After that, everyone began to drift away. Joanne, who ran the club’s rescue service, agreed to take the Beagles home with her. Monica had apparently lived in Banksville with her widowed mother, and nobody wanted to chance reaching Mrs. Freedman before the police could explain what had happened.

  “This is a fine mess,” Aunt Peg said unhappily, when we were finally alone in the Volvo. “As recording secretary, I’m in charge of writing up the minutes. You don’t suppose I have to put this in, do you?”

  It wasn’t funny, but she sounded so disgruntled I almost laughed. Right now, Aunt Peg’s defense mechanisms were in full gear. Tomorrow, she’d probably be horrified by what she’d said.

  “No.” I put on my signal and turned out of the lot. “The meeting was already over by then.”

  Peg lapsed into silence. Concentrating on the road a good deal harder than was necessary, I did the same.

  Aunt Peg didn’t speak again until we pulled into her driveway. She lives on a large piece of land in an updated farmhouse whose roots go back more than a century. It has a gabled roof and a wrap-around porch. A Japanese Maple, the same vintage as the house, stands stately guard near the front door.

  Six Standard Poodles, all retired champions, live in the house with her. Another six or so, in various stages of growing coat for the show ring, are housed in a small kennel building out back. Aunt Peg had left on plenty of lights and as the Volvo coasted to a stop near the front steps, I could see the house Poodles, their heads bobbing in the windows as they stood up on their hind legs and heralded our arrival.

  With that much activity going on, I thought Aunt Peg would go right in. Instead, she sat right where she was and said, “Random act of violence, my fanny!”

  I turned off the car and turned to look at her. “Why didn’t you say something when Lydia trotted out that preposterous theory?”

  “Why didn’t you?” she countered quickly.

  “It wasn’t my place. It’s not even my club. Besides, I was the one who found Monica. Under the circumstances, I figured the less I said, the better.”

  “That was just Lydia’s way. She’s the consummate politician—always trying to put the best possible face on things. I’m sure she thought it would make everyone feel better.”

  “Including Monica’s killer. He or she was probably standing right there among us.”

  “I know.” Aunt Peg gave a small shiver. She didn’t look frightened though. Instead, illuminated by the small amount of light coming from the dashboard, she seemed positively invigorated. “So who do you think did it?”

  “How should I know?” I threw up my hands.

  If I’d had any sense, I’d have held them up in self-defense; or maybe in the shape of a cross to ward off a curse. I knew what was coming next. I just knew it.

  “It’s obvious you’re the perfect person to figure this out.”

  “Why me? Two weeks ago, I’d never even met any of those people. I still know next to nothing about them.”

  “So you’ll be objective. With the added benefit that I can give you the inside scoop. You have to admit, we make a pretty good team.”

  She had a point. The truth of the matter was, we did work well together. The summer before, she’d plucked me up out of a serious case of single-mother, lost-my-summer-job, boyfriend-eloped-w
ith-somebody-else doldrums, dusted me off, and launched me out on a search to find her missing stud dog. I wouldn’t say that my newfound relationship with Aunt Peg had revitalized my life; but it had certainly given it an extra dollop of spice.

  Besides, nobody said no to Aunt Peg. She simply didn’t allow it.

  “Who do you think killed Monica?” I asked, throwing the question back to her.

  “If that woman annoyed everyone as much as she did me, I’d say the field is wide open.”

  “Because she talked so much?”

  “Monica didn’t just talk. She also knew how to listen. She had a way of offering just enough of a sympathetic shoulder that people opened up and told her a little more than they’d intended. She loved being the person who was in the know. She enjoyed having that sort of edge on everybody else.”

  “Do you think she knew more than somebody wanted her to?”

  “It’s just a guess,” Aunt Peg said with a shrug. “For all I know, Monica was having an affair with Cy and Barbara decided to take matters into her own hands.”

  “With a rock?” I laughed. “I doubt it. A pearl handled revolver seems more her style.”

  “See?” said Peg. She opened the door and slid out. “You might find you know these people better than you thought. In the morning, I’ll take a trip down to the police department and see what they’ve come up with.”

  “In the morning, I’ll be in school.” I turned the key in the ignition. The car had been stalling all day, and it took three tries to catch. “After that, I’ve got to figure out a way to tell Davey that his father’s coming this weekend.”

  “This weekend as in day after tomorrow? You’d better hurry.”

  Of course she was right. That was why, even though I still felt like I was floundering, I sat Davey down in the kitchen as soon as we got home from school the next afternoon, fortified him with a double dose of milk and his favorite shortbread cookies, and got down to business.

  Faith had already been out for a quick run in the back yard. Now she was dancing impatiently around Davey’s chair. Usually when we got home, she had his undivided attention. Clearly she couldn’t figure out what was holding him up. After a moment, she ran into the living room and returned with a soggy tennis ball that she dropped at Davey’s feet.

  “In a minute, Faith,” I said. Tail wagging, the puppy hopefully nudged the ball my way. I kicked and sent it flying into the dining room. Paws scrambling for purchase on the linoleum floor, Faith followed.

  “Davey, I have something important to tell you.”

  He stuffed a whole cookie into his mouth. “What?”

  “You know how your daddy had to go away when you were still a baby, even though he loved you very much. Right?”

  “Sure.” He washed the cookie down with a swig of milk. “You’re not going to tell that story again, are you?”

  “No. Not exactly. But it turns out ...” Stop waffling, I thought. At this rate, I’d never get the words out. “I heard from your father the other night. He’s coming to visit us this weekend.”

  “He’s coming to see me?” Everything he was feeling—delight, excitement, wonder—it was all there in his voice. Just the expression on his face was enough to break my heart.

  “Yes honey, he’s coming to see you-”

  “Hooray!” Davey leapt up and spun in an excited circle. “When will he be here?”

  When we’d gotten home from school Wednesday, there’d been a message on the machine. Bob knew I worked. He should have realized there’d be no chance of reaching me at home during the day.

  “He’s coming tomorrow, late in the afternoon.”

  “Tomorrow?” Davey yelped. Faith came flying back into the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about. He grabbed the puppy around the neck and the two of them went down on the floor in a heap. “Did you hear that? My daddy’s coming home!”

  “Honey,” I said quietly. “It’s just a visit—”

  “My daddy’s coming home!”

  “He wants to see you Davey, and he wants to get to know you, but he’s not going to be able to stay—”

  “I’m going to have a real daddy again!”

  Faith barked as if she understood. Giggling, Davey whispered something in her ear. No doubt they were already making plans for Bob’s arrival.

  Maybe I should have insisted that Davey listen to what I was trying to say, but I didn’t. Unfortunately, I imagined his bubble would burst soon enough.

  Damn.

  Ten

  Sam came over later that evening. Davey and Faith greeted him at the door with their usual exuberance.

  “Guess what?” my son demanded, before Sam had even had a chance to take off his coat.

  “What?”

  “My daddy’s coming to our house tomorrow. He called on the phone and everything!”

  Sam hunkered down until he and Davey were at eye level. “That’s pretty exciting, isn’t it?”

  “Sure thing!” cried Davey. “Do you think he’ll bring me a toy?”

  “I don’t know. He might.”

  Davey grinned slyly. “Did you bring me a toy?”

  “Enough,” I said, grasping my son by the shoulders. “You have plenty of toys. You don’t need to be begging for any more from our guests. Why don’t you take Faith out to the kitchen? Her food’s ready, and you can put it on the floor for her.”

  “Okay. Come on, Faith.” The two of them headed full-speed down the hall. It was already seven o’clock. I wondered if their batteries were going to run down any time soon.

  Sam enfolded me in a hug. “A guest? Is that all I am?”

  “A welcome guest?” I cocked one brow and insinuated my body close along the length of Sam’s, hips pressing firmly to his. “A very welcome guest?”

  “That’s better.” He chuckled softly, his fingers tangling in my hair.

  My body felt as though it were floating, filled with millions of tiny champagne bubbles. I slipped my hands inside Sam’s sheepskin jacket and circled them around his waist. Then I tipped my face up and lost myself in his kiss.

  “Gross,” said Davey.

  We pulled apart slowly.

  My son was standing beside us, hands on his hips. “Are you going to kiss daddy, too?”

  I felt Sam start, ever so slightly; but my gaze was trained on Davey. “No honey. Your daddy and I are divorced, remember?”

  “You’re not married to Sam, and you’re kissing him.”

  Things were so much easier when he was three. Come to think of it, they were even easier before he could talk at all.

  “Kissing’s fun,” said Sam. He stepped back, shrugged out of his coat and threw it over the banister, then held out a hand. Davey slipped his much smaller one inside. “People like to do it whether they’re married or not. But first they have to be really good friends.”

  Together, they headed off toward the kitchen. “What’s your mom cooking us for dinner?”

  “Chicken. It’s in the oven. But there isn’t any stuffing.”

  “No stuffing?” Sam asked gravely. “What should we do?”

  Did they want to hear from me, these two males who were the most important part of my life? I supposed not. Otherwise, I might have mentioned that I’d all but witnessed a murder less than twenty-four hours earlier, spent a full day in school, broken the news to Davey about his father’s imminent arrival, then felt guilty enough to take him and Faith for a walk around the neighborhood.

  They were lucky to be getting chicken, much less stuffing.

  “Try complaining,” I grumbled under my breath, trailing along after them. “Just try it.”

  “Smells great,” Sam said when I reached the kitchen. He was getting two beers out of the refrigerator and his grin told me he knew exactly what I was thinking. “I hope you haven’t worked too hard.”

  “I’ll survive.”

  Faith’s food bowl had been licked clean and she was standing by the back door. While I let her out, Sam dug around in the cabinet
for glasses, popped the tops on the beers and poured. Davey had wandered back into the living room where he was building a city out of Legos.

  “So tomorrow’s the big day?”

  “Apparently so.” I took the glass Sam offered and sat down at the butcher block table. “Davey’s been wild ever since he found out.”

  “This is a big deal for him.”

  He sounded as though he was feeling his way, trying to say what he thought I wanted to hear. That irritated me. As well as we knew each other, did he really think I needed to be coddled that way?

  “Of course it’s a big deal. I just wish I had a better idea what Bob had in mind. He said he wants to get to know his son, but after all this time, why now?”

  “You’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “I guess.”

  “Do you want me to be here?” His hand reached across the table and covered mine. “I’m good at moral support.”

  All right, maybe a little coddling wasn’t a bad thing. I squeezed his fingers gratefully. “I know you are. And I appreciate the offer. But I think this is something Bob and I had better figure out for ourselves.”

  “Whatever you think is best. But if you change your mind, let me know.”

  “Will I be calling you?” I asked in a sultry tone. “Or nudging you?”

  Sam grinned. Tiny lines radiated outward from those oh-so-blue eyes. “Did I mention I’ve been looking into getting a pet-sitter who could spend the night with my dogs?”

  “No, you didn’t.” I thought for a moment. The idea had definite merit. And it gave me something to look forward to. “Keep me posted.”

  “I will,” said Sam. “Believe me.”

  Stuffing or no, the chicken was a success. I’m not a great cook, but I have a repertoire of half a dozen meals that I’ve cooked so many times, I could probably prepare them blindfolded. Sam is a great cook. He’s also very diplomatic. So far, he’s eaten everything I’ve put in front of him.

  I waited until Davey was in bed—bathed, pajamaed, and accompanied by his favorite Standard Poodle puppy—before bringing up the subject of Monica Freedman’s murder. I can’t protect my son from everything, but he doesn’t have to be privy to a discussion of violence that took place almost in his backyard.