Gone With the Woof

by Laurien Berenson

  “I should hope so!”

  “There are a lot of people I need to see. It turns out that the March men—father and son both—have more than their share of detractors.”

  “I could have told you that,” Aunt Peg sniffed. “And it wouldn’t have taken me two weeks to figure it out.”

  “Maybe you should do this for me,” I said.

  The offer wasn’t a serious one, but Aunt Peg stopped to consider. While she thought about things, I got up and walked over to the window to make sure that Augie and Tar were still getting along. The puppy was wearing a new coating of snow on his neck and back, but other than that, things seemed to be going well.

  “I’m free this morning,” Aunt Peg replied after a minute. “Let’s do it.”

  It wasn’t as if I didn’t deserve that. But if Aunt Peg said that she intended to solve Andrew March’s murder in the next several hours, I was not going to be amused.

  “Do what, exactly?” I asked.

  “How should I know? That’s for you to tell me. Surely, you must have a list of things to do or people to see. Who’s the next person on your agenda?”

  I didn’t even have to think about that.

  “India Fleming,” I said.

  “India?” Aunt Peg blinked. “Really?”

  “Really.” A chat with India was long overdue.

  “If you say so.”

  Peg reached inside her commodious purse, fished around, and pulled out a cell phone. Sam and I shared a meaningful glance. We couldn’t help but notice that she had India’s number on speed dial.

  I’ve been known to invent all sorts of reasons to get people to talk to me. Not Aunt Peg. She just pulled strings.

  Her conversation with India didn’t last long. Aunt Peg snapped the phone shut and tucked it away. “I told her it was important. India will see us in thirty minutes. She lives in North Salem. We’d better get going.”

  Sometimes I can only shake my head in wonder. In Aunt Peg’s world, it’s just that easy.

  Chapter 23

  Bucolic is a word I don’t get to use often, but in North Salem’s case, it applies. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to enjoy the scenery, however, because Aunt Peg was driving. As we zipped north along a succession of back roads that took us into Westchester County, I spent the majority of the trip with my eyes half closed and my hands clenched in silent prayer.

  Peg thinks that speed limits are for sissies. Not only that, but she seems to have a sixth sense concerning the location of speed traps and patrol cars. It’s a dangerous combination on a dry summer day. Midwinter, the end result can be positively hair-raising.

  We did, however, reach India’s home in record time. The judge lived in a trim town house in a wooded setting. No fenced yard, I noted automatically. In fact, not much yard at all.

  “Good thing it’s midweek,” Aunt Peg mentioned as she parked in the driveway. “Otherwise, India would be on the road.”

  The life of a successful dog show judge is a peripatetic one. The AKC mileage rule prohibits judges from accepting assignments within a two-hundred-mile radius more than once every thirty days. As a result, in-demand judges spend a good deal more time doing their jobs in distant locales than they do near home.

  Over a weekend, a top-tier judge like India might be anywhere from Florida to California. Which probably explained why her yard wasn’t fenced. Ironically, given the nomadic demands of their busy careers, many judges aren’t able to keep dogs themselves.

  India must have been waiting for us, because she answered our knock almost immediately. She was a petite woman in her late fifties, with sharp features and discerning gray eyes. In the show ring, she was known for her sense of fair play and her no-nonsense demeanor. She commanded respect from experienced exhibitors and neophytes alike, and heaven help the handler who had the temerity to question her authority.

  India invited us in, and she and Aunt Peg shared a quick hug. Then Peg stepped back and introduced me.

  Like all good judges, India had an eye for detail. “I’ve seen you in my ring,” she said as she took our coats and hung them up.

  “Yes, you have,” I agreed with a smile. “Several times.”

  “With a Standard Poodle, I assume?”

  “Of course.”

  India led the way to the living room. “If it was one of Peg’s, you probably won under me.”

  “I did. Thank you.”

  “I like what I like.” India bobbed her head in a sharp nod. “Consistency is a virtue in a judge. I wish more would cultivate it.”

  She waved us toward a deep red couch with a high curved back and plump cushions, then sat down in a wing chair opposite. Scattered across the coffee table between us were the latest issues of the Canine Chronicle, Dog News, and Show Sight Magazine. Framed win pictures on the walls of the room showed a several-decades-younger India handling a variety of dogs to Best in Show wins at top events like Westchester, Ox Ridge, and Montgomery County. Above the mantelpiece was an oil painting of a Smooth Fox Terrier who, even to my amateur eye, looked vaguely familiar.

  “Champion Tumblebrea The Terrorist,” India said, following the direction of my gaze. “He was the best dog I ever bred. But believe me, he well deserved that name.”

  “When Terror was on, he was unbeatable,” said Aunt Peg.

  “And when he wasn’t . . .” India rolled her eyes. “Oh my, that dog had a mind of his own. There were days when I just wanted to slink out of the ring and hide.”

  The mental picture made me smile. It also produced an unexpected feeling of kinship. I’d suffered through similar experiences myself, without ever suspecting that someone of India’s stature might have done the same.

  “I hope you don’t mind if we get to the point,” she said. “My schedule’s rather full, but Peg said it was important you see me. Something about Edward March . . . ?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about his book,” I said.

  “Proposed book,” India corrected me.

  “Right. I heard you weren’t very happy about the fact that he intended to include you.”

  “Not happy is an understatement. I’m mad as hell about the whole mess. What does that have to do with you?”

  “In theory, I’m Edward March’s coauthor.”

  India’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, in theory?”

  “I took the job before I knew what the book was going to be about. Once I found out, I was going to quit. But then March’s son was killed—”

  “Andrew,” India said with a sigh. “What a terrible accident. Furious as I am at Edward—and believe me, I may never forgive him—he didn’t deserve that.”

  “It wasn’t an accident,” I told her. “Andrew was murdered.”

  India looked surprised by the news. She glanced quickly at Peg, who nodded, then turned her gaze back to me. “By whom?” she demanded.

  “Presumably, someone with a score to settle against one of the March men.”

  She thought that through. It didn’t take her long.

  “Someone like me, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, India,” said Aunt Peg.

  I glared in her direction, willing her to butt out. That’s never worked in the past. Nor did it this time.

  “No one’s accusing you of murder,” Peg continued.

  “It seems to me that’s exactly what your niece is doing,” India retorted. “Although I can’t imagine why. Edward isn’t an easy man. No doubt he’s made more than his share of enemies. Surely, I wasn’t the only person who was furious enough to want to kill the old coot.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to rephrase that statement,” Aunt Peg said mildly.

  “No, I would not.” India’s tone was firm. “When I first heard what Edward intended to do, I could scarcely believe it. The extent of his hubris was unbelievable. The confidences he meant to expose, the secrets he planned to reveal . . . What gave him the right to make those decisions for everyone else? My God, if I could have gotten my hands a
round Edward’s scrawny neck, I’d have finished him off myself.”

  India took a deep breath and composed herself. “But then time passes. And tempers cool.”

  “It doesn’t sound as though yours has,” I said.

  “My fight is with the father, not the son. I didn’t even know Andrew. If I had wanted to strike out at Edward, I’d have attacked him directly. I wouldn’t have gone through someone else.”

  “Even though Andrew’s death is the reason the book has been put on hold?”

  “A fortuitous circumstance,” India pointed out. “But not necessarily one that I would have foreseen.”

  So she said.

  “Frankly, I’m surprised at you.” India shifted her gaze in Peg’s direction. “I’d have expected you to be every bit as angry as I am about this maelstrom Edward intends to create.”

  Aunt Peg lifted her chin. “Maybe I don’t take myself as seriously as you do, India.”

  “Maybe you should,” her friend retorted. “A reputation is a fragile thing. Once tarnished, it can never be entirely regained. Edward’s book will turn us all into laughingstocks. You must know that.”

  “Oh, pish,” said Peg. “That book, if indeed it ever gets written, will be nothing more than a trifle. People will read it and titter, and then everyone will move on.”

  “Perhaps you’re willing to take that chance, but I most certainly am not.”

  Peg and I shared a look.

  “India,” she said carefully, “what did you do?”

  “I’ve taken certain precautions, that’s all. Since Edward is the one who chose to open up this Pandora’s box, it seems only fair that he should share in the fallout with the rest of us.”

  India leaned back in her chair and chuckled softly, as if amused by her own private joke. “He never even saw it coming. And why would he? Edward has never appreciated women for who we truly are. To him, we’re just a means to an end. It probably never even crossed his mind that a woman’s accomplishments and good name could be every bit as important as his own.”

  “Even so—” I said.

  India held up a hand, the gesture a peremptory request for silence. “Humor me for a moment. Let me backtrack and put things in context for you. In my generation, women had to fight to be taken seriously. Rights and privileges that you take for granted weren’t even available to us.”

  Beside me, Aunt Peg nodded.

  “You probably don’t even remember when women’s rights—women’s lib, as it was belittlingly called—was a hot-button issue. You’ve grown up with the opportunities that women like Peg and I fought for. We marched on Washington. We burned our bras. . . .”

  I tipped my head in Aunt Peg’s direction, gazing at her with fresh appreciation. This was a side of my aunt I’d never heard about. “You burned your bra?”

  “I most certainly did,” she said crisply. “We had a point to make, and no one was listening.”

  “And the smell of burning underwear got their attention?”

  India snorted. “The act was symbolic. It let men know that we weren’t going to be subservient anymore.”

  “I am woman, hear me roar,” I said.

  “Just so.”

  India smiled with satisfaction. Whether it was because she’d enjoyed her own history lesson or because she’d succeeded so deftly in changing the subject, I wasn’t entirely sure. While I tried to figure out how to get her back on track, Aunt Peg stepped in and did it for me.

  “We’ve been friends a long time, India,” she said. “You know I’m on your side.”

  “Of course, Peg. And I like to think that I have your back, too.”

  “You need to tell us what you did to protect yourself from Edward March.”

  “Oh, that.”

  Yes, that, I thought. The reason why we’d come.

  “It was simple, really. I decided that Edward should also know what it felt like to have something to lose. So I threatened him.”

  Looking at the tiny woman sitting before me, I assumed she didn’t mean physically. “With what?”

  “Exposure. I told him that if he went ahead and violated my privacy, I would feel no compunction about doing the same to him.”

  Aunt Peg leaned forward. “Which secret were you going to tell?”

  A sly smile played around India’s lips. “Is there more than one?”

  “I don’t know any secrets,” I said impatiently. “Maybe someone would like to clue me in?”

  “In a moment,” said India. “First, I need your assurance that we’re speaking in confidence. After all, I can hardly use this information as a bargaining chip if it’s going to become common knowledge.”

  Aunt Peg and I both nodded. I don’t know about her, but I had my fingers crossed in my lap. If India had information that might point the way toward Andrew’s killer, there was no way I was going to keep it to myself.

  “Maribeth Chandler has a daughter,” said India.

  “Charlotte,” I agreed quickly, eager for her to move things along. “She works as Edward’s assistant.”

  “Maribeth got her that job. It’s always interested me that no one else ever stopped to wonder why.”

  “According to Charlotte, it was because she was at loose ends and needed something to do.”

  “Charlotte doesn’t know the whole story,” said India. “Maribeth never told her. That’s part of the reason that I’ve kept Maribeth’s confidence all these years.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  Just like that, another missing piece fell into place. It had been right in front of me all the time; I probably should have realized sooner. Now it was like slipping a new lens onto a microscope: suddenly everything became clearer. Edward March was Charlotte’s father. And that single fact realigned almost everything I thought I had known about the two of them.

  “Oh, indeed,” said Aunt Peg. “I guess the rumors were true.”

  “They were,” India confirmed. “I didn’t know Maribeth back then, but some years later she and I ended up socializing at a judges’ symposium. We were sitting in the bar late at night. We were miles from home.... You know how that is.”

  We all did.

  “She mentioned that she missed her daughter, whom she’d left at home in her mother’s care. I asked about her husband, and one thing led to another. Over a pitcher of margaritas the whole story came pouring out.”

  “I’ve spoken to Maribeth,” I said. “She’s quite open about the fact that she had an affair with Edward. So why is Charlotte’s paternity such a secret?”

  “Maribeth had no choice about that. Don’t forget, twenty-five years ago, when she got pregnant, Edward’s wife, Isabelle, was still very much alive. Andrew was a young child, and Edward was a married man. When Maribeth told Edward she was pregnant, he gave her money and told her to get rid of it.”

  Like father, like son, I thought again. It was not a complimentary refrain.

  “Obviously, she refused,” said Aunt Peg.

  India nodded. “Maribeth wanted a child. She was in her thirties, unmarried, and was having an affair with a man who was unavailable. She thought that pregnancy might be her only chance. She said she never even considered terminating it.”

  “Then what happened?” I asked.

  “When Edward found out she hadn’t done what he wanted, he went ballistic. He told Maribeth that he would never acknowledge the child and that if she tried to contact Isabelle or tell her about the baby, he would make her very, very sorry.”

  “What a jerk.”

  “My sentiments, as well,” Aunt Peg agreed. “How is it that none of us knew about this before?”

  “Maribeth was very careful to adhere to Edward’s dictates. You and I might have made different choices, but she was a single mother who was struggling to make ends meet. After Charlotte was born, she and Edward reached an agreement. He would contribute to the baby’s upbringing in return for Maribeth’s silence. He kept his word, and she kept hers.”

  “How much of that does C
harlotte know?” I asked.

  “Almost none,” India replied. “Maribeth concocted some story about a sailor or a traveling salesman. She said things were simpler that way.”

  I shook my head. “Simpler for Maribeth maybe, but not necessarily for Charlotte. I can’t believe she’s been working for her father for two years and doesn’t even know it.”

  “That was why Maribeth convinced Charlotte to take the job. She wanted father and daughter to get to know one another. I think she harbored a secret hope that once Edward realized how wonderful Charlotte was, he would finally acknowledge her as his own.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t see that happening,” said Aunt Peg. “Edward doesn’t have that kind of sentiment in him.”

  “But now Charlotte is March’s only remaining child,” I pointed out. “That has to make a difference.”

  “It would to me,” India agreed. “But with a man like Edward, who knows?”

  “Charlotte had a half brother,” I realized suddenly. “And she never even knew it. What a shame.”

  “That whole story is shameful,” Aunt Peg said sharply. “Edward’s behavior was reprehensible. I’m beginning to regret ever recommending you to him in the first place.”

  India sputtered a laugh. “That was your doing, Peg? You encouraged your niece to get tangled up with Edward March? That’s like sending a lamb into the lion’s den.”

  “I didn’t know that at the time. Now it’s beginning to look as though I may have made a small error in judgment.”

  It was as close to an apology as Aunt Peg had ever come. I reached over and squeezed her hand.

  “You meant well,” I told her.

  “I always do,” she replied.

  Chapter 24

  “Now where are we going?” asked Aunt Peg. We were back in her minivan, careening southward toward Connecticut.

  “Now you take me home and drop me off.”

  “That doesn’t sound very exciting.”

  “I should hope not,” I said. “After two trips in your passenger seat, I’m not sure how much more excitement I can stand.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Speed limits are just guidelines, not hard and fast rules. Nobody obeys them but you.”