Wagging Through the Snow

by Laurien Berenson

  “And that worked?”

  “I got the answer, didn’t I? Now tell me what else Mr. Smith said.”

  “I’ve already told you everything. He said he’d last seen Pete Saturday afternoon, and that there was no way Pete got drunk that night.”

  “Despite the empty bottles we found?”

  “Despite everything apparently. John Smith was quite adamant about what he knew.”

  “With a name like John Smith, I suppose you’d have to be an adamant sort,” Aunt Peg decided. “Otherwise you’d get lost in the crowd.”

  “What if the gin the EMTs smelled was on Pete’s clothing?” I’d been thinking about that on the way there. I paused to let her consider the possibility, then said, “Somebody might have spilled it on him. Maybe on purpose.”

  “Somebody like who?”

  That was the $64,000 question. If indeed it was a question we should be asking at all.

  “Pete was homeless,” I said. “He had few belongings and not even a fixed address. Who would want to harm a man who had nothing?”

  “I have no idea,” Aunt Peg replied. “But I’m beginning to think that it might not be a bad idea to find out. An accidental death on a piece of property recently acquired by the family is a misfortune. A murder on that same land has the makings of a catastrophe.”

  “Pete froze to death in the snow,” I pointed out.

  “After being bonked on the head—by a conveniently falling tree branch, no less.” Aunt Peg frowned. “Why did we ever believe that was an accident?”

  “Because the police told us it was?”

  “Oh pish. The police don’t even know who Pete was or where he came from. Why should we believe everything they say?”

  Her eyes lit up with a familiar fervor and I knew what she was thinking. Especially when the alternative was so intriguing.

  “We don’t know anything about Pete either,” I said.

  “Then clearly we should attempt to remedy that. It seems to me that the only clue we possess is the ring we found in Pete’s cabin. What did you do with it?”

  “I have it here. I put it in my purse for safekeeping.”

  “Let’s have another look and see what it tells us.”

  I produced the chunky ring and handed it over. Aunt Peg nestled it briefly in her palm. “SCHS. I would think those are the school’s initials. With luck, it will be somewhere in Connecticut. At any rate, that’s where I’ll begin my search. We’ll see what we can discover, shall we?”

  There was a laptop sitting on the counter. Aunt Peg brought it over to the table. While she went to work, I reached down and lifted Snowball into my lap. Each of our Standard Poodles weighed more than fifty pounds. And Bud was close to twenty. Though I was accustomed to having dogs in my lap, I wasn’t used to handling one who could be cupped between my two hands.

  Snowball stood up on my legs, braced his front feet against my chest, and gave my sweater a very thorough sniff. No doubt he was checking out the scents my dogs had left there. When I returned home, I was sure the Poodles would subject me to the same treatment.

  On the other side of the table, Aunt Peg was hunched over and frowning at the computer screen. Loathe to break her concentration, I reached around Snowball and picked up the ring. I held it between my thumb and forefinger and lifted it up to the light.

  Immediately I saw something neither Aunt Peg nor I had noticed earlier. There was writing on the inside of the band. I lowered the ring and squinted at the tiny print. One side was engraved with a set of initials: PCD. The other had a date, presumably the year of graduation: 1994.

  “I’ve found something,” I said.

  Aunt Peg looked up. “So have I. There’s a good chance that the initials on that ring stand for Stonebridge Central High School.”

  Stonebridge was a small town located on the Connecticut coast between Fairfield and Bridgeport. I’d seen the Stonebridge exit on the Connecticut Turnpike, but I’d never had a reason to go there. I suspected that was about to change.

  I passed the ring back to Aunt Peg. “Look inside.”

  She did, then smiled with satisfaction. “How did we miss this the first time around?”

  “Because we weren’t looking. I was planning to give the ring to the police, remember?”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t. Obviously the P is for Peter. The C, maybe Charles? D . . . d . . . d . . .” She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Dalton? Dreyer? Dunleavy?”

  “I bet somebody at Stonebridge Central High School can tell me what those initials stand for. Or if not, I’d imagine they’ll let me have a look at their 1994 yearbook. I’ll pay the school a visit on Thursday afternoon.”

  “That’s two full days from now!”

  I looked at her askance. “What’s your point?”

  “I should think you’d be more eager to uncover Pete’s backstory.”

  “Yes, but I’m also eager to keep my job. I have classes all day tomorrow at Howard Academy.”

  “I suppose that’s a decent excuse,” Aunt Peg grumbled.

  Indeed.

  * * *

  Thursday morning, I told Sam that I’d be making a side trip to Stonebridge after school.

  My husband was standing at the stove, scrambling eggs. I was checking to make sure that all of Davey’s homework was inside his backpack, and looking for Kevin’s missing sneaker. Since both the shoe and Bud had disappeared at approximately the same time, I was pretty sure I knew where to start my search.

  “What’s in Stonebridge?” Sam asked over his shoulder.

  “A high school with the same initials as the ones on Pete’s ring. It’s possible he was a former student there, and I’m hoping I can get information about him.”

  I had told Sam what John Smith had said during his visit to the tree farm. I’d also mentioned that Aunt Peg and I were troubled by this new information. Then I’d left the rest to Sam’s imagination. We’ve been around this block before. He had to know what would happen next.

  Now he simply turned back to the stove and said, “Stonebridge isn’t far. I assume you’ll be home in time for dinner?”

  “Of course.”

  “Because if not, I can take the boys out for pizza.”

  “Pizza?” Kevin looked up with interest.

  “Not now,” I told him. “Later.”

  “Found it.” Davey entered the kitchen, holding Kevin’s sneaker. Predictably, Bud was nowhere to be seen. “It needs a new lace.”

  “I have spares. Where’s your math homework?”

  Davey handed me a shoe that was wet with slime, but otherwise mostly intact. “I finished it at school yesterday. History was boring. I needed something to do.”

  “History isn’t boring,” Sam told him. “It’s the foundation upon which civilization is built.”

  “Says the man with a degree in computer science.” I sniffed the air delicately. “Are those eggs burning?”

  “No.” He leaned in for a closer look. “They could be a little well-done. Who’s ready for eggs?”

  “Me!” cried Kev.

  He jumped in the air and knocked over a wooden bowl that was filled with unshelled walnuts. The bowl went careening off the counter and the nuts hit the hard wood floor with a splatter that sounded like gunfire. Dogs came running from all directions.

  Davey and I both dove to the floor. We scooped up nuts as fast as we could. Kevin squealed with laughter. Sam dished out the eggs.

  Mealtime is an adventure around here.

  Chapter Eight

  I hated taking a Poodle somewhere with me, then making her wait in the car. Especially Faith. But that afternoon she was out of luck, because when I left Howard Academy, I drove straight up the turnpike to Stonebridge.

  GPS directed me to the town’s high school and we arrived while classes were still in session. Even though it was December, I chose my parking space with care to ensure that the temperature inside the car would remain comfortable while I was gone.

  Then
I had to explain to Faith that not all schools were as understanding as Howard Academy about big black dogs roaming through their hallways. She sat and listened in stoic silence. When I locked the car, Faith was lying across the backseat with her head nestled sadly between her front paws. That Poodle knew a dozen different ways to make me feel guilty and she wasn’t above exploiting every single one of them.

  Stonebridge Central High looked like any number of other public schools I’d seen. The single-story building was long and rectangular. Constructed primarily of brick and concrete, its stern façade was softened only by a long row of classroom windows. A sidewalk that wrapped around the parking lot led me to the portico-covered front door.

  I walked through the door into a large lobby. Wide hallways on either side led to classrooms. Directly across from the entrance was a well-lit display case whose shelves were filled with sports trophies, team pictures, and a big red banner reading GO ROCKIES!

  Rockies? Stonebridge? I supposed that was cute.

  Next to the display case was a door marked OFFICE. Easy peasy. I knocked once, then opened the door and let myself in. A woman seated behind a metal desk popped her head sideways around a computer screen.

  “Can I help you?”

  I introduced myself and explained that I was seeking information about a possible former student.

  “Mrs. LaRue is our assistant principal. She might be able to help you. Let me see if she’s busy.” The woman got up and went into a side room whose door was sitting partially open.

  While a murmured conversation took place in the other office, I surveyed my surroundings. I was pleased to see a long shelf holding a row of SCHS yearbooks that appeared to date back through several decades. If Mrs. LaRue wasn’t able to help me, hopefully I could get permission to peruse the yearbooks for clues.

  After a minute, both women emerged from the inner office. Sharon LaRue walked straight over to me. We introduced ourselves and sized each other up.

  Sharon was a solid woman in her early forties who looked like a former college athlete. She had broad shoulders, a direct gaze, and a grip that was strong enough to make my fingers tingle. Her brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and she had a cardigan sweater draped across her shoulders.

  “Carol tells me you’re trying to locate one of our former students?” she said.

  “Yes. If you have a few minutes free, I’d love to ask you about him.”

  Sharon nodded, ushered me deftly into her office, and shut the door behind us. Her manner was both stern and approachable, a combination of traits that must have been useful in her current position. She waved me into a seat and walked around behind her desk.

  “What’s the student’s name?” she asked.

  “That’s part of the problem. I don’t know. In fact, I’m not even sure he was a student here. His first name was Pete and this ring was found among his belongings.” I withdrew the piece of jewelry from my pocket and handed it over. “I’m hoping it’s a 1994 class ring from your school. The initials PCD are engraved on the inside.”

  Sharon glanced down at the ring, then back at me. She closed her hand, wrapping her fingers firmly around the heavy bauble.

  Something in her expression prompted me to say, “You know who he is, don’t you?”

  “I might,” she allowed. “But before we go any further, I need you to explain why you’re interested in this information.”

  “My brother recently purchased a piece of property in Wilton. After the fact, he discovered that Pete was a squatter who sometimes made use of a cabin there. Last Sunday morning, Pete’s body was found on the property. He’d frozen to death in the snow.”

  Blood drained from the woman’s face. She clutched either side of the desk for support, then slowly sank into her seat. “Dead?” she choked out the word. “Pete is dead?”

  “Yes.” I nodded slowly. “I’m sorry to have broken the news to you so bluntly. I’m assuming you knew him?”

  “Oh yes, I knew Pete.” Sharon’s expression was bleak. “Years ago, I knew him quite well. He and I were high school sweethearts, right here at Central High. As soon as you handed me the ring, I knew it had to be his. Peter Charles Dempsey. We grew up together in Stonebridge. His family still lives here.”

  She opened her hand and extended it toward me. I took back the ring.

  “You’re sure it’s his?”

  “Yes, there’s no doubt. This isn’t a huge school. I’m quite certain it was the only ring with those initials made that year.”

  “How long had it been since you’d seen Pete?” I asked.

  Sharon thought back. “It must be at least five years since he left town. Nobody seemed to know where he went.”

  I sat back in my seat. “Why did he leave?”

  “For several years before that Pete had been having. . . problems.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  Sharon didn’t answer.

  “Professional problems?” I prodded. “Personal?”

  After a few seconds, she gave a small shrug. “I suppose under the circumstances, it doesn’t matter if I talk to you. Especially since everything I have to say is already common knowledge around town. Stonebridge isn’t a large community. There are families who have been here for generations. At times it seems like everybody knows everyone else’s business.”

  “Where did Pete fit in?” I said.

  “The Dempseys are one of the older families in town. Pete’s parents and grandparents were successful and well-connected. He was raised with the expectation that he would succeed at any endeavor he put his hand to. In high school, Pete played football, he was on the debate team, he got good grades. It seemed like he could do no wrong.”

  Her eyes became misty. I wondered if she was remembering her former beau the way he’d been. I gave her a minute, then said gently, “What happened?”

  “He grew up. I guess we all did. Even those of us who went away to college, came back.” Sharon glanced around her cozy office. “Stonebridge is just that kind of place.”

  I nodded encouragingly.

  “Pete married Penelope and they started a family. He and two of his friends, Larry Potts and Owen Strunk, started an executive search firm. There’s plenty of business to be had in Fairfield County and it took off right away. The three of them were flying high.”

  “That all sounds great,” I said. “So what changed?”

  “Bit by bit, things began to fall apart. Pete’s father passed away and his mother went into a deep depression. Then Pete began quarreling with his business partners. I suspect the dissatisfaction at work affected his home life too. Pete had always enjoyed tossing back a few beers, but over time it became more that that. He’d start drinking and then it was as though he didn’t know how to stop.”

  “Pete became an alcoholic,” I said.

  “I guess that’s what you would call it,” Sharon agreed reluctantly. “All I know is that the man he became had little in common with the boy I’d thought I’d known.”

  “Life changes everyone,” I said. “Some people learn to roll with the punches. Others fall down.”

  “Pete didn’t fall down, he just . . . disappeared. One day he was here and the next he was gone.”

  “Didn’t anyone look for him?” I asked curiously.

  “Oh sure. I’d imagine Larry and Owen must have. Although by that time I wouldn’t be surprised if they were relieved not to have to deal with him anymore.”

  “What about his wife, Penelope?”

  “Ex-wife,” Sharon corrected me. “He left shortly after their divorce became final. Penelope said he’d told her he needed a change of scenery.”

  “What about his friends?” I asked. “Any other family?”

  Sharon just shrugged. “It’s not like I was keeping tabs. Pete and I were over a long time ago. What he did and where he went wasn’t any of my business anymore.”

  And yet, I thought, she seemed remarkably well-informed about Pete’s adult life. Perhaps that wa
s a function of living in such a close-knit community.

  “Are you saying you don’t care that he ended up as a vagrant, living on the streets in Wilton?”

  Sharon frowned. “I’m sorry Pete’s dead. He deserved a better end than that. But it’s not as though he and I were still close.”

  “Is Pete’s mother still alive?” I asked.

  “Yes, although I gather Betty Dempsey is not well. Pete’s younger brother, Tyler, has moved back home to take care of her.” She stopped and swallowed heavily as a sudden thought struck her. “They must not have heard the news. Otherwise everyone would be talking about it.”

  “The police might not have been able to identify Pete yet,” I said. “On Sunday, all they had to go on was his first name. No one knew who Pete was until you recognized his ring a few minutes ago.”

  Sharon stared at me across the desk. “Tyler needs to be told about what happened to his brother. You have to go see him and do that. Then he can break the news to his mother.”

  I was already shaking my head. “The Wilton police—”

  “The Wilton police aren’t here. You are. Nobody asked you to come to Stonebridge but you did. I answered your questions; now you need to do your part. Betty and Tyler are Pete’s family. They deserve to hear the news from someone who was there.”

  Sharon opened a computer that was sitting on the side of her desk. She typed something, waited a minute, then turned the screen in my direction. “Is this the man you found?”

  I’d only glanced at Pete’s body for a moment before quickly looking away. Even so, I hadn’t been able to forget what I’d seen. An image of Pete’s face had stayed with me. Now I saw that same face staring out at me from the computer. The man in the picture on the screen was younger, sleeker, healthier looking. But the two were undeniably one and the same.

  Sharon didn’t wait for me to answer. Instead, she snapped the computer shut and said, “That’s what I thought. The Dempseys are at one-eighty-three Meadow Lane. It’s just outside of town. I’ll call Tyler and tell him to expect you.”

  * * *

  Faith was delighted by my return and not at all amused when I drove three miles, then left her behind in the car once again.