Gone With the Woof

by Laurien Berenson

  With effort, I tried to remember. It had been cold in the house when I arrived. Almost as cold inside as out. I knew I hadn’t taken my jacket off. I hadn’t even unzipped it. Now it was gone.

  How long had I been unconscious? I wondered. Slowly, I tipped my head to one side and looked up at a window. It wasn’t dark yet. That was good. Dusk arrived early in January, which meant that it must still be afternoon.

  I settled back on the floor with an involuntary groan. I had a vague memory of piercing pain. Now my head just throbbed.

  Cautiously, I reached a hand upward. My fingertips probed the spot on the side of my head where the blow had landed. My hair was sticky and matted together. My fingers came away stained with blood.

  Oddly, that discovery was almost a relief. At least it explained why I was having so much trouble putting two coherent thoughts together.

  Where was Maribeth? Gone, I hoped. Gone for good . . .

  I closed my eyes just for a minute.

  Once again, the cold woke me up. It had seeped into every corner of my body now, its progress as relentless as it was ominous. My fingers had stiffened, even my bones shook from the icy chill. It wasn’t just my head anymore: now my whole body hurt.

  I was still lying on the floor.

  I had to get up, I realized. I had to move.

  If I didn’t, I would die right there where Maribeth had left me.

  Just as she must have intended, I thought. That was why she’d had Charlotte lure me to this isolated cabin. Here it was possible that my death could be explained away as an accident.

  Maribeth didn’t have to kill me. The cold would do that. She only had to leave me. Just like she’d done with Andrew.

  Idiot, I told myself. You used to be smarter than this.

  That galvanizing thought helped me push myself up into a sitting position. Back braced against the table, I took several deep breaths, concentrating hard until the nausea passed. Now that I was upright, I hoped I’d be able to think better. Surprisingly, I actually could.

  Phone! There was a cell phone in my purse. I just had to find it.

  The light around me was growing dimmer. Outside, the winter sun was setting. There wasn’t much time before I’d be left in total darkness.

  Marshaling every bit of energy I could muster, I leaned heavily against the love seat and used the table to lever myself to my feet. For a minute I simply stood and swayed in place. The room swam wildly around me, colors and objects blurring together as they looped and whirled. I closed my eyes to blot out the sight and tried to find a centered spot.

  When I opened them again, I was still dizzy but feeling slightly steadier. Slowly, I turned from side to side and looked around the room. My purse, with cell phone and car keys, was nowhere to be seen. Like my parka, it had disappeared.

  Well, damn.

  There was a light switch on the wall near the dining area. Bracing my hands on passing furniture to maintain my balance, I shuffled across the room and flipped it up. Nothing happened. As I’d suspected, the utilities that powered the cabin had been turned off.

  I peered out a nearby window and saw my car, still parked in the driveway. But without my keys, the Volvo might as well have been missing, too. It was of no more use to me than the powerless light switch.

  Think! I told myself. Think of something. Anything. There had to be a way out of this predicament. If I could get my brain to work, I could find it.

  I had begun to shiver again. The vibrations shuddered through my body in relentless waves. I wondered how much time I had before the bitter cold succeeded in completely draining my ability to respond.

  Already I could feel myself starting to grow numb. I knew I needed to fight back, but the loss of sensation offered its own comfort, tempting me to give in. My addled brain felt lethargic, indifferent. It would be just that easy to lie down and go to sleep again.

  I gazed out the window once more. In the fading light, the accumulation of snow looked like a calm, unbroken sea. I could chart a course, I thought fancifully. I could leave the cottage and walk to the main house. There would be people there . . . and warmth.

  But even as I formulated the plan, I knew I’d never be able to make the trek. The cold, the dark, the distance, and my lack of adequate attire would all work against me. Add to that a bitch of a headache, which would muddle my sense of direction as surely as it was muddling my thoughts. If I left the dubious shelter of the cottage, who knew where I might end up?

  I turned away from the window and faced the room again. My eyes went immediately to the fireplace. Where there was one piece of firewood, there ought to be more, right? I knew how to build a fire. I lived in Connecticut. I’d done it all my life.

  Equilibrium slowly beginning to stabilize, I staggered back across the cottage. Skirting carefully around the love seats, I saw a small pile of firewood banked beside the hearth. Perfect. Now all I had to do was find a lighter.

  Ten frustrating minutes later, I was forced to concede that Maribeth had left nothing to chance. If the small abode had harbored a supply of matches or a fire starter, she must have taken them with her when she left.

  The disappointment felt like another blow. It sapped what little drive I had left. My head was still throbbing. My lips felt cracked and swollen. And I was quickly running out of options. Soon it would no longer matter if I came up with a good idea. I would simply be too cold to implement it.

  My gaze flickered in the direction of the narrow staircase that led to the second floor. Considering my precarious balance, I wasn’t at all sure I could navigate the steep steps without falling. But Andrew’s bedroom was up there. Surely, a bed would have a comforter or a blanket. Something I could wrap around me to ward off the biting cold a little longer . . .

  I should have been moving toward the stairway. Instead, my legs wobbled under me, then gave out. I sank downward and sat unsteadily on the floor. The hardwood seemed to tilt beneath me, and I closed my eyes. A pervasive feeling of weariness overtook me; I just didn’t want to struggle anymore.

  And then I heard it.

  Somewhere nearby a dog was barking. It was the joyous, deep-throated cry of a big dog on the run. I smiled faintly at the sound, my thoughts drifting contentedly with no particular ambition or purpose. Dogs always make me happy.

  Then slowly my eyelids fluttered open. The dog’s voice was carried clearly by the crisp, cold air outside. And suddenly I realized that it sounded familiar. It sounded like March’s Irish Setter, Robin.

  Surely, I had to be imagining things, I thought. Maybe I was dreaming.

  The dog barked again. Before the sound had even faded, I was already moving. With effort, I pushed myself up off the floor. Once more, the room spun. I swallowed heavily and kept going. Stumbling on feet I couldn’t feel, I crossed the cottage to the front door.

  My hand reached out and clasped the icy metal doorknob. My fingers, stiff and aching, wrapped around it. I took a breath, drew the door open, and stepped out onto the stoop.

  The frigid cold outside hit me like a shock wave. The biting wind I’d felt earlier was still careening through the trees. It swirled down into the hollow and slammed right into me. I hadn’t thought it was possible to be any colder, but I was wrong. The powerful gust knifed through my clothing like it wasn’t even there. My skin felt like it was on fire.

  I stumbled back in surprise, lost my balance, and ended up crumpled on the front step. Now that I was outside, the dog I’d heard only moments before had quieted. All around me was only silence.

  I stared hard into the murky darkness. A pale moon had begun to rise, and the winter night looked oddly peaceful. The only illumination was provided by the soft sheen of moonlight reflecting on the snow.

  Then, at the top of the rise, a movement caught my eye. It took me a few seconds to figure out what I was seeing. The shadowy motion resolved itself into a figure—a person approaching the crest of the incline from the opposite side. A moment later, a dog bounded up alongside.


  I saw her only in silhouette, but the outline of Robin’s elegant frame was unmistakable. The Irish Setter lifted her nose to the wind and gave a small woof.

  “Down here!” I yelled. “Help!”

  The slender figure turned to look toward the cottage, and I saw that it was Charlotte. She lifted her arm and trained the beam of a powerful flashlight in my direction.

  “Oh my God, Melanie!” she cried. “What happened to you?”

  Together, she and Robin half ran, half skidded down the icy slope. The setter reached the bottom first. She raced across the driveway and bounded right into me. Another day I’d have had the strength to meet her charge. That night, she simply bowled me over.

  The greeting was all I could have asked for. Robin felt warm and vibrant and everything I was not. She felt wonderful. Charlotte came running close behind.

  “Robin, get down!” She grabbed the setter’s collar and pulled her off. “Melanie, why are you still here? Aren’t you cold? What are you doing on the ground?”

  The barrage of questions was entirely too much for my muddled brain to process. I tried to speak, but it was difficult to push the words out.

  “We have . . . to talk,” I managed to say finally. “But first . . . but first . . . I’m freezing. I need . . . to get warm.”

  “Of course.” Charlotte sounded perplexed. “How long have you been out here? Where’s your coat? Where are your gloves? Why are you sitting in the snow?”

  “A long . . . story,” I said. “Help me . . . get up.”

  Charlotte extended a hand downward. It wasn’t nearly enough. I still couldn’t find the strength to propel myself to my feet. Beginning to look alarmed, she hunkered down beside me.

  “What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”

  “Yes.” My hand rose to touch the spot behind my ear. “Bleeding.”

  “Stay right there,” said Charlotte. As if I had a choice. She whipped out a cell phone and began to dial.

  “Call Detective Wygod,” I told her.

  “You need a doctor.”

  “That too. Wygod first . . . It’s important.”

  Charlotte didn’t look convinced, but she dialed the Westport Police Department. As she spoke, Robin returned to my side. The setter pushed her nose into my face and blew out a heated breath.

  I tunneled my hands in her coat and pulled her close. Robin climbed into my lap and pressed her body against mine. I had my arms around a big warm dog. Everything was going to be all right now.

  Chapter 27

  “Detective Wygod will meet us at the house.” Charlotte shoved her phone back in her pocket. “Let’s get you into your car.”

  “No keys,” I said. “They were . . . in my purse.”

  “Where’s your purse?”

  “Gone.”

  That earned me a hard look. “Your parka?”

  “Charlotte . . . we need to talk.”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she walked around behind me, looped her arms beneath mine, and hoisted me to my feet. Lighting our way with the flashlight, she walked me into the cottage and deposited me on a love seat.

  “Be right back.”

  With an agility I could only envy, Charlotte dashed up the stairs. A minute later she returned holding a large sweatshirt and a polar fleece jacket. A puffy down comforter, thrown over her shoulder, trailed along behind.

  She added the layers to my attire one by one, dressing me with brisk efficiency, as if I were a child who’d been left in her care. When she was finished, Robin hopped up onto the love seat and climbed back into my lap. The setter seemed to understand that I needed her there.

  Charlotte stepped around behind me. She trained the beam of the flashlight on the side of my head and sucked in a breath.

  “You were here with my mother.” Her tone was flat, devoid of emotion, as if she had already begun to think things through and knew what I was going to say.

  “Yes.”

  “She did this to you?”

  “Charlotte, there are things you don’t know—”

  “Obviously.” It was hard to tell in the unlit room, but it sounded as though her voice caught on a sob. She leaned down and gathered me into an awkward hug. “Melanie, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. . . .”

  “I know.” If my arms hadn’t been bundled up inside the comforter, I’d have hugged her back. “It’s not your fault.”

  “I shouldn’t have left you here with her. Maybe on some level I already knew that. But she’s my mother. . . .”

  “I know,” I said again.

  “She gave me Andrew’s phone and told me to bring you here and give it to you. I thought that was all she wanted. When she left the cottage, she called and told me that you were on your way home, too.”

  I nodded. Once again, Maribeth had been careful to cover all the bases.

  “So what brought you back?” I asked.

  “I didn’t understand what was going on. I asked her why she had Andrew’s phone, and she wouldn’t answer me. She was treating me like I was still a child, like she thought I should just take her word for things no matter what she said. But I couldn’t do that. Not anymore.”

  Charlotte lifted a hand and scrubbed it across her face. “I told Mr. March I was going to take Robin for a walk. I needed to be alone. I wanted to think about things and decide what I was going to do next. But as soon as we got outside, Robin took off. She came running down here to the cottage. All I did was follow her.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “Me too,” Charlotte said softly.

  After that, things seemed to move quickly. Although I probably wasn’t in the best position to judge. Considering the severity of the concussion I’d sustained, my perception of time was unreliable at best.

  Charlotte left Robin with me in the cottage while she ran back to the main house to intercept Detective Wygod. It must have taken longer, but it seemed like only minutes had passed before the two of them returned. By then I was considerably warmer and a good deal more lucid.

  Nevertheless, the detective took one look at me, bundled me into the back of his car, and headed for the hospital. We spoke along the way.

  I told him about Maribeth’s past connection with Edward March and the truth about Charlotte’s paternity. Then I skipped ahead to Julia’s pregnancy and the reason that Andrew’s callous behavior had so enraged Maribeth. I ended with the argument that had left Andrew lying in the snow by the side of the road.

  Some things about that conversation remain fuzzy in my mind. I’m pretty sure that somewhere along the way I informed Detective Wygod that my son had a new puppy named Augie. I might have also mentioned that my aunt believed in free love in the sixties.

  Despite the extraneous details, the detective seemed to take everything in stride. He had nearly all the same pieces that I did; he’d just been looking at them in a different order. But once everything was properly aligned, he immediately knew what I was talking about.

  By the time Detective Wygod delivered me to the emergency room, Charlotte was already giving a statement to another officer. An arrest warrant was issued for Maribeth, who hired a lawyer and turned herself in later that night. She claimed that Andrew’s death had been a tragic accident and that she had no knowledge whatsoever of what had happened to me.

  Perhaps having learned her lesson when she kept Andrew’s cell phone, Maribeth had left my parka and my purse, with phone and car keys, locked inside my car in the driveway. She insisted that I’d been fine when she left the cottage. It wasn’t her fault, she maintained, if I’d been stupid enough to stumble around in the dark and injure myself.

  I learned most of this from Sam the next morning. He had arrived at the emergency room as a doctor with very gentle hands was finishing putting four stitches in the side of my head. Luckily, I didn’t have a skull fracture. I was only slightly dehydrated, and my body had returned to the normal temperature without incident.

  Sam and the doctor shared a joke about my hard head, which I pretended no
t to hear. All of us were grateful that my injuries weren’t worse. Sam took me home, tucked me into bed, and watched me like a hawk for several days.

  By the time I surfaced again, Maribeth’s lawyer had gotten her released on bail, and she was proclaiming her innocence to anyone who cared to listen. In the spirit of confession, Maribeth had told Charlotte the truth about her father the night I went to the hospital. That revelation, coming on top of everything else, was too much for Charlotte to process and she quit her job as March’s assistant.

  Three days later she came to see me. Though I’d told Sam repeatedly that he didn’t need to treat me like an invalid, I found his desire to pamper me hard to resist. I was reading a book in the living room, Faith and Eve curled up contentedly on either side of me, when Charlotte arrived. Sam showed her in, then left the two of us alone.

  “I’m glad you came,” I said. “I wanted to say thank you in person.”

  Charlotte smiled wanly. “And I wanted to apologize.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “I appreciate your saying that.” Charlotte perched on the other end of the couch. Her hand reached out to stroke Eve’s back. The Poodle’s tail wagged gently in acknowledgment. “My mother . . . she’s always had issues. But even so, I can’t quite seem to wrap my head around everything that happened. She says Andrew’s death was an accident.”

  I nodded. Maribeth was the only family Charlotte had ever known. I wasn’t about to tell her what to believe or not believe.

  “So what now?” I asked.

  Charlotte shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to see. You heard I quit my job?”

  “I did.”

  “Under the circumstances, I figured Mr. March was going to fire me, anyway. But . . .”

  I pulled Faith over into my lap and waited.

  “He says he doesn’t blame me for what happened.”

  “Of course not,” I told her. “Nobody does.”

  Charlotte shook her head. She didn’t look entirely convinced.

  “Mr. March wants me to come back,” she said. “He says he needs help getting his house in order. That maybe it’s time to finally throw out some old baggage and start fresh.”