Ruff Justice

by Laurien Berenson

  The sunroom was tiny, really just a porch with glass enclosed walls. Two wicker chairs sat across from each other with a small, square table in between. Sadie and I bumped knees as we sat down. It was that close.

  “You’re off to a good start getting things organized,” I said.

  “I wish,” Sadie grumbled. “I’ve barely had time to do a thing around here yet. This place is pretty much as Jasmine left it.”

  “You’ve already removed her paintings though.”

  “Yeah, I got a jump on that.” She stared at me across the small space. “You were here that day. Did you ever find that girl you were looking for?”

  “No, not yet,” I admitted. “Though I talked to a friend of hers yesterday who said she knew you.”

  “Oh? Who’s that?”

  “Tamryn Klein.”

  Sadie frowned.

  “Short black hair, pierced ears? Jasmine was getting her dog-sitting jobs?”

  “You don’t have to describe her,” Sadie snorted. “I know who Tamryn is—a kid who was always hanging around for no good reason. She said she was looking for work. Anyway that was the excuse she gave for being here.”

  “Tamryn told me that she helped you move Jasmine’s paintings. She seemed to think you might have been taking things from her.” Okay, last part was a little spin of my own. But I was curious to see how Sadie would respond.

  It didn’t take long. Sadie shot to her feet. Her knees knocked into the table between us. It wobbled and nearly fell.

  “What kind of a crazy story is that?” she demanded. “I never took a single thing that I wasn’t entitled to. Why would you listen to what some punk kid has to say? You want to hear the truth?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Tamryn was moving paintings around all right, but she wasn’t doing it for me. She’s the one who was stealing from Jasmine. I had to keep an eye on everything whenever Tamryn was around. You never knew what that girl would get her sticky fingers on next.”

  “You’re saying that Tamryn stole some of Jasmine’s paintings?”

  “That’s right.” Sadie nodded firmly. “Mostly small stuff. Older pieces she probably thought wouldn’t be missed. But Jasmine knew right away they were gone. I told her she should keep an eye out on eBay and Craigslist. Maybe we could catch Tamryn in the act.”

  “And did you?”

  “No. But it didn’t matter. Jasmine knew who was responsible. She confronted Tamryn and the two of them had a huge fight about it. I thought they might come to blows, it was that bad.”

  “It sounds like Jasmine had a temper,” I said.

  “Not all the time. Only when it was justified.”

  “I heard she had a fight with Amanda’s boyfriend, too. A guy named Rick Fanelli?”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Sadie suddenly looked nervous.

  She hadn’t retaken her seat. Instead she was fidgeting on her feet. I stood up as well, and stepped back to put a little distance between us. It didn’t help. Sadie was looking like she wished she was anywhere but with me.

  “Rick and Jasmine were doing business together, weren’t they?” I asked.

  “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “It’s just something I was told.”

  “Like I said before, you don’t want to pay attention to everything you hear.”

  Sadie walked out of the sunroom. She crossed the kitchen, heading toward the front of the house. I didn’t have much choice but to follow. When we reached the door, Sadie opened it and waited pointedly for me to walk through.

  I stopped outside on the step. “Jasmine was your friend. I hope you’d want to help me find out what happened to her.”

  “I do. That’s why I told you everything I could.” She closed the door sharply between us.

  I often do my best thinking when I’m in the car. And a couple of things were niggling at me—like tiny sparks blinking in the back of my brain, begging me to pay attention. On the way home, I realized what they were.

  Sadie said that Jasmine’s house was just the way she’d left it. But Jasmine was a talented and prolific artist. So why hadn’t I seen any art supplies lying around? Had Sadie removed those too? And if so, why?

  Not only that, but Sadie had clearly become uncomfortable when I’d asked her about Rick Fanelli. Now I replayed Sadie’s parting words in my mind. She’d said she told me everything she could. Not everything she knew. Had I found yet another person who was afraid of Amanda’s boyfriend?

  Chapter 15

  Friday morning, Chester Bronson, my eight-thirty student, arrived with a plate of cookies he’d baked the night before. That automatically elevated him to my favorite student of the day. Chester was a proponent of fusion cuisine. He’d made chai-spiced sugar cookies with white chocolate and dried cranberries. The combination didn’t sound like it should work, but they were delicious.

  Chester was a bright kid. If he’d paid half as much attention to his schoolwork as he did to his experimental recipes, there would have been no need for our tutoring sessions. I’d already sent home two notes praising his culinary aptitude. But with a father who worked on Wall Street and a mother who was a member of the state senate, Chester was being pointed toward the Ivy League rather than the Culinary Institute of America.

  So while he pleaded his case at home, Chester and I worked together at school to keep his grades up. Our sessions were always a blast, and I was happy to serve as his gastronomic guinea pig whenever inspiration struck.

  As Chester went out the door at nine-fifteen, Francesca came in. Faith immediately stood up, anticipating an effusive greeting and a biscuit. She wasn’t disappointed in either regard.

  I waited until they were finished, then walked over and gave Francesca a quick hug. Earlier in my career, I used to greet all my students that way. But times had changed, and now an excessive show of affection was frowned upon. In other words, I was supposed to keep my hands to myself.

  I loved my job, so for the most part, I did. But there was something about this girl that brought out my maternal instincts. Every time I saw her, I wanted to gather her into my arms and hold on tight.

  “Look.” I gestured toward the plate Chester had left sitting on our worktable. “I have cookies.”

  Francesca’s eyes lit up. She started to reach for one, then hesitated. Slowly she withdrew her hand. “No, thank you.”

  “It’s okay. Chester brought them.” I pulled out a chair and sat. “He made them himself. He’s a very talented cook.”

  “I know he is.” The girl eyed the cookies wistfully. “But I better not. I already had breakfast this morning.”

  “I had breakfast too,” I told her. I picked up a cookie—my third, but who was counting—and nibbled around the edges. “But these are too good to pass up.”

  “You should be careful,” Francesca said. “If you eat too much, you’ll get fat.”

  “You’re right about that.” I felt a twinge of guilt. Surely there was no way she could know about my recent cake binge? “But thanks to my kids and my dogs, I get plenty of exercise. So far, that seems to be keeping things in check.”

  “Maybe that’s my problem,” Francesca mused. “I should sign up for an exercise class.”

  “What problem?”

  She glared at me balefully. “I’m fat.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  She was pleasantly plump, with rounded cheeks and some curves on her still-immature body. But she was also twelve years old. Those few extra pounds were nothing that the next growth spurt wouldn’t take care of.

  Francesca’s mouth thinned. “I look like a blimp.”

  “You do not,” I said firmly. “Why would you even say such a thing?”

  “I see what girls look like on TV and social media. That’s how I’m supposed to look. And I don’t.”

  “Girls on TV are built like twigs. That’s not natural. It’s not healthy. Most of them starve themselves to be that skinny. Nobody looks like that in real life.�
��

  “Brittany and Taylor do.” Francesca named two other sixth-graders. Girls whose mothers looked like supermodels and who were being raised to fit the same mold. “And Alicia does, too.”

  I reached across the table and covered her hand with my own. “Francesca, sweetie, listen to me. Just because a couple of girls in your class are super thin doesn’t mean that you have to be.”

  “That’s not what they say.”

  “Oh?” Abruptly my best teacher’s voice asserted itself. “What exactly do those girls say?”

  “That I’m fat. That I look like Porky Pig. Or the balloons in the Thanksgiving Day parade. Or the marshmallow man in Ghostbusters.”

  I stared at her in horror as the words came tumbling out.

  “Taylor says I need to lose twenty pounds. And Alicia told me that I was too fat for my uniform. She said I should get my mom to buy me a bigger size. But I can’t do that. Because if I ask her to, she’ll want to know why. And my mom looks just like me. . . .” The words sounded like a long wail. “So I can’t tell her that.”

  Oh my. Oh damn. Deliberately I kept the anger that was pulsing through me out of my tone. “Your mother looks perfect, Francesca. And so do you.”

  She shook her head. “Everyone in my family loves to eat. Even my father, and he hardly weighs anything. Nobody ever told me I was fat before. Nobody cared about it until now. I tried eating less. Even a lot less. But it isn’t working. I only lost two pounds.”

  “Francesca, stop. Look at me.” I waited until we were eye to eye. “I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m going to say. Can you do that?”

  Silently, she nodded.

  “First of all, you are not fat.”

  “But—”

  “No,” I said firmly. “I don’t care what Taylor, and Brittany, and Alicia are telling you. They’re wrong. And their view of the world is seriously out of whack.”

  “But then why do they say those things?”

  I wished I had a good answer for her.

  “Sometimes girls can just be mean for no reason. It makes them feel superior to gang up on someone like that. They get satisfaction from making you feel bad about yourself.”

  “But why me?” Francesca asked plaintively.

  I wanted to say it was because those girls were idiots, but I stopped before the words came out of my mouth. “Maybe it’s because you’re new here. Or because you react to the things they say. I’m so sorry, Francesca. I wish I could offer you a good explanation, but there isn’t one.”

  “It’s not fair,” she said in a small voice.

  “No, it isn’t. What they’re doing is horrible. And I’m going to put a stop to it.”

  Francesca’s head lifted. “How?”

  “First I’m going to talk to Mr. Hanover—”

  “No,” she cried. “Please don’t tell anyone. If you do, everyone will know I said something. And that will only make things worse. It’s bad enough that they don’t like me now.”

  “Listen to me,” I said. “I promise you that whatever steps I take will not make things worse. Howard Academy is not the kind of school that will tolerate behavior like that. And now that I know what’s going on, we can make it stop. And as for those girls not liking you, I don’t see any reason why you should even care about that.”

  Francesca looked surprised.

  “Do you like them?” I asked.

  “Well . . . no. Not really. I thought I did at first. But not now.”

  “Just because you’re at a new school doesn’t mean that you have to be friends with everyone you meet here,” I told her. “But what everyone does have to do is treat each other with respect. And kindness.”

  “I tried to do that,” Francesca replied. “I just wanted them to like me.”

  “I know you did, because you’re a nice person. And those girls took advantage of that. What they’re doing is their fault, not yours.”

  “But they’re right,” Francesca mumbled. “I don’t look anything like them. Or the girls I see on TV.”

  My heart ached for her. It had to be insanely difficult to be a young girl growing up in a world that exposed her to so many frivolous and destructive influences.

  “No,” I said gently. “You look like your mother. And what a wonderful thing that is. Your mother is one of the most famous sopranos in the world. Her appearances sell out shows at the Metropolitan Opera House. People swoon when they hear her sing. Who wouldn’t want to look like her?”

  Francesca smiled reluctantly. “Nobody swoons,” she said.

  “They should,” I told her. “I would.”

  I lifted my arm and pressed the back of my hand to my forehead dramatically. Then I pretended to go limp in my chair. My performance was so stirring that Faith got up and came over to see what was wrong. Well, either that or she came to laugh at me.

  Because that’s what Francesca was doing. She was giggling uncontrollably. “You’re not very good at that.”

  “That’s why I get to be a teacher instead of having to swan around a stage. And then I’m lucky enough to get to meet great kids like you.”

  Francesca blinked. She thought for a few seconds. “I am a great kid,” she said.

  “Well, finally we agree on something.” I held up my hand and we high-fived. “Now let’s get down to work, okay?”

  Francesca nodded. She reached for her notebook.

  “As for the other thing, I’m going to fix it. I promise.”

  Howard Academy had a strict code of ethics and an equally strict code of behavior. As soon as I could get in to see Mr. Hanover, I intended to invoke both. I knew that our illustrious headmaster would be just as outraged on Francesca’s behalf as I was.

  I’d seen Mr. Hanover on the warpath before. It was a fearsome sight. I couldn’t help smiling at the idea of seeing his wrath directed at somebody else for a change.

  * * *

  Even though Augie had just been clipped, bathed, blown dry, and scissored for the dog shows in Massachusetts, the entire process had to be repeated for Saturday’s upcoming show in Dutchess County. Midweek his hindquarter, legs, and the base of his tail had been shaved to the skin. The following day, his face and feet were clipped and his nails were shortened with a grinder. On Friday afternoon, Augie’s coat would be bathed and meticulously blown dry. Yet again.

  As soon as Davey got home from school, he and Sam went to work. The process would take about three hours to complete. When they were halfway through, Kev and I started making spaghetti sauce for dinner. My own cooking skills were sadly no better than competent, but I was determined that both my sons would grow up knowing their way around a kitchen.

  Of course, the job would have proceeded more smoothly without Kevin’s help. But what he lacked in proficiency, my son more than made up for with enthusiasm. By the time he finished chopping up the tomatoes with a suitably dull knife, the counter and sink were both awash in red juice.

  I was standing at the stove, browning some ground beef and sausage when Kev hopped down from his step stool and announced that the tomatoes were ready. I turned around and had a look.

  The first thing I noticed—aside from the fact that Kevin’s T-shirt, his hands, and his hair were all stained and sticky—was that Tar was licking his lips. His nose also had a suspiciously red cast.

  “Kev, honey,” I said. “What’s Tar eating?”

  My son grinned. “S’ghetti sauce. He likes it!”

  Right. Tar liked everything. He would eat a chocolate bar, a spool of thread, or a stuffed animal if you didn’t keep an eye on him. The dog had no sense of preservation.

  “How many tomatoes did you give him?” I asked pleasantly.

  “Just one.” Kev looked sorry about that. Then he brightened. “I gave one to Bud too.”

  “Bud?” I glanced around the room. I didn’t see the spotted dog anywhere. “Where is Bud?”

  “He took his tomato in the living room.”

  Seriously? How had I not seen this happening? My b
ack had only been turned for a minute.

  “The living room,” I repeated faintly. I turned off the burner and moved the frying pan to the back of the stove top.

  “He’s probably behind the couch,” Kevin informed me. “That’s where he takes all his best things.”

  “Hey,” Sam called from the small grooming room near the kitchen. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the whine of the blow dryer. “I see red all over the hallway. Is somebody bleeding out there?”

  “No blood,” I called back. “Just a runaway tomato. Don’t worry, I’m on it.”

  “Just checking,” said Sam. I couldn’t see him around the corner, but I was pretty sure he was shaking his head.

  * * *

  The next day’s show was back outdoors. Fortunately no April showers had been forecast and it was a beautiful day. This time there wasn’t a separate grooming tent for handlers. Instead there were two rows of back-to-back rings, with a wide tent running along the outside of each row. In a smaller space, the layout was more compact. It also enabled exhibitors to groom beside the ring they’d be showing in, a convenience we all appreciated.

  The majority of Bertie’s entries were herding dogs. She’d set up under the other tent. And Aunt Peg wasn’t showing her puppy, so when we arrived we unloaded our equipment beside Crawford and Terry’s setup.

  “Long time, no see.” Terry blew me a kiss as we put everything in place. He was brushing out a Coton de Tulear. Crawford was in a nearby ring showing an Affenpinscher, so Terry stopped to chat. “Did you find that girl you were looking for?”

  “Not exactly,” I told him.

  He waggled his auburn brows. “Which means what? You sort of found her? You found half of her? What?”

  “Eww,” said Davey. “That’s gross. You can’t find half of somebody. Or at least you really wouldn’t want to.”

  “I didn’t find her at all,” I admitted. “But Amanda texted her sister and told her she was all right.” It didn’t sound like much, so I added, “So that was good.”

  “All right but . . . still missing?” Terry’s brows were working overtime.