“It isn’t much.” His hands fiddled with the folds of cloth.
“It’s perfect. What could be better than a ghost on Halloween?”
“I guess it’s okay.”
“Are you looking forward to the parade?”
“Not really.”
He looked so small and defenseless sitting there, I wanted to gather him into my arms. “How come?”
“When I walk, my sheet drags. Then the other kids step on it and it moves around and I can’t see.”
He stood so I could check out the extent of the problem. The sheet was definitely too big and its excess fabric pooled around his feet. I lifted the material and rearranged it over his narrow shoulders, but as soon as I let go, the ends still fell in soft folds to the ground.
I tried making some gathers at his waist. “How about a belt?”
Timmy made a disgusted sound. “Ghosts don’t wear belts.”
I thought some more. “How about a sword?” With all the pirates and knights and ninjas running around, there was bound to be an extra weapon somewhere.
“How’s that gonna help?”
“I was thinking that if you had a sword and waved it around a little bit and yelled ”Get back! Get back!” like you were a very fierce ghost, maybe no one would come close enough to step on your sheet.”
Timmy pondered that. “It might work. Do you have a sword?”
“I can get one.”
I stood up and went to have a look. I liked the idea that Timmy was willing to take positive action to solve his problem. I also thought there was a small chance that having a sword to wave around might bolster his confidence a little. At the very least it would force him to interact with the other kids. Bearing all that in mind, I figured I was going to come up with a sword if I had to knock the samurai down and steal his.
Fortunately that wasn’t necessary. Betty had a box of props in the closet and halfway down, I found a perfectly serviceable plastic lance. By the time I got back to Timmy, the kids were already forming a line. Predictably, he was near the end. I handed the weapon over.
“Don’t come too close,” he warned, shaking it at the sheriff behind him. “I wouldn’t want to have to poke you.”
“You poke and I’ll shoot,” the sheriff replied.
If these two kids grew up to be terrorists, I supposed they’d have their third grade special ed. teacher to blame.
“Go ahead,” said Timmy. “Make my day.”
Then the line lurched forward. As Timmy started to walk, the sheriff dropped back respectfully. Just before he reached the end of the hall, Timmy gave me a thumbs up.
At least I think that’s what it was. Mostly it just looked like a sheeted arm poked in the air. I returned the gesture and he turned the corner and was gone.
If only the rest of life’s problems could be solved so easily.
After two weeks off, handling class started up again that Thursday. I fed Davey an early supper, left him in the baby-sitter’s capable hands, and met Aunt Peg there. I’d expected there to be some initial awkwardness as the class had been very much Jenny’s domain; but Rick and Angie had obviously worked everything out ahead of time in an effort to make the transition go as smoothly as possible.
Angie was waiting by the door just as her sister had, taking the fees, marking attendance and joking lightly with the students. When the class started and the line split in half—big dogs in front, small dogs to the rear—Angie handled Jenny’s duties at the other end of the room as if she’d been doing it all her life.
At times, she’d lift her hand to make a correction just as Jenny had done, or use one of her sister’s phrases to make a point. Angie’s hair was floating loose around her shoulders and the family resemblance was suddenly much more striking than I’d ever noticed before. Or maybe it was just that this was the first time I’d seen her in a capacity I associated so strongly with her sister.
I looked around at the rest of the class. Everyone else seemed to be taking the switch in stride, and even I had to admit that Angie was doing a fine job. The problem was that as effortlessly as she slipped into Jenny’s shoes, Angie couldn’t make me forget her sister. Or the little black Miniature Poodle that should have been sitting on the stage, chewing on a stuffed rat and overseeing the proceedings.
As soon as class ended I rushed Faith out and locked her in the car. When I got back inside, Rick was over in one corner working out some aggression problems with an overeager Rottweiler. Angie had started to roll up the mats.
“Here,” I said, squatting down beside her. “Let me help you with that.”
Angie blew a cool stream of air upward to ruffle her bangs. “Thanks.”
The wide green rubber mats had been laid out in a square around the outside of the room, with one long mat bisecting the middle to form two triangles. Their purpose was to give the dogs traction on an otherwise slippery floor, and most handling teachers tended to bring their own. In theory the mats, once rolled, were portable; but only a longshoreman could have carried them comfortably.
I placed both hands on my side of the partially rolled mat and began to push. On the other side, Angie did the same.
“What did you think of class?” she asked.
“It went very well. You do a good job.”
Her smile was quick and pleased. “Thanks.”
“You seem to get along well with Rick.”
“Yeah.” The smile widened. “He and I are buddies.”
We reached the end of one mat, pushed the finished roll aside, then turned the corner to begin again. I waited until we’d got the new end tucked under and started rolling, then said, “I guess he and Jenny were having some problems, huh?”
“What makes you say that?”
“It just occurred to me during class. It seems easier now, you know? Like there’s less tension around.” It was a lie, but I was hoping Angie was self-centered enough to fall for it. She was.
“I guess there is,” she agreed. “Rick and I work together pretty well. And it’s different living together, when you’re not married.”
Interesting choice of words. Although Rick and Angie were indeed living in the same house, I hadn’t thought of them as “living together.” I couldn’t imagine Rick did either. He’d always treated her very much as a little sister.
“Being married is hard,” I said. “I was married once, briefly.”
“Yeah.” Angie looked up as we inched the mat along the floor. “I saw your kid at the show. He’s cute.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you divorced now?”
I nodded. “Four years.”
“That’s tough. Jenny and Rick almost got divorced once.”
I over-balanced, nearly fell, then managed what I hoped was a graceful recovery. “Really?”
“Yeah, it was supposed to be a secret, but I don’t see how it matters now. Jenny filed and everything, but Rick just went crazy. He said he loved her too much to let her go.”
We reached the end of another mat, shoved that one aside, and went on to the next. Now that I’d gotten Angie started talking, I was determined she wouldn’t get distracted. “Then what happened?”
“Rick convinced her to come back. He told her they could work everything out.”
“And did they?”
“I guess. I mean, they stayed together, didn’t they?”
“If Rick and Angie had divorced, what would have happened to the dogs?”
Angie considered before answering. “Things never got that far. But I think Jenny would have just left the whole thing to Rick.”
“But it was her business, too!”
“It was,” Angie agreed. “But Jenny was getting pretty tired of all that. Even way back in the beginning, she never became a handler because she loved it so much. She started handling because she was eighteen years old and out on her own and it was the only thing she knew how to do.”
I remembered the story. The version I’d heard hadn’t contained many details. “She left home pretty youn
g, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
I guess. That seemed to be Angie’s stock answer to just about everything. Maybe it was time to try shaking things up a little.
“You were even younger, but you moved out, too.” I waited a minute, but Angie didn’t offer any comment. “How come?”
I wasn’t looking at Angie, but I knew she’d stopped pushing when the mat suddenly became twice as heavy in my hands. I stopped too, and looked up.
“It was no big deal,” she said carefully. “It was just time.”
We finished rolling the rest of the mat in silence. Then Rick came to help us and I left the two of them to it. They hoisted the rolls and carried them out to their van. I sat in my car and watched, frowning.
According to Angie, Rick had told Jenny that he would never let her go. Now she was gone and in her place he had Jenny’s sister, a younger, more tractable version of the woman he had loved. A woman he was already living with in the house he’d shared with his wife. A wife who apparently had begun to rebel against some of the restrictions in her marriage.
It gave me plenty to think about.
Fourteen
Aunt Peg and Sam both had Poodles entered in the shows that weekend in Massachusetts. My puppy was staying home. At her age, she was only showing to get experience and once a month was plenty.
Saturday, Standard Poodles had been scheduled for early in the morning; but Sunday the judging time was at a reasonable hour and Davey and I had promised to take a ride up and cheer for the home team. There was little doubt in my mind that I’d feel vastly more comfortable with Sam inside the ring and me out. That way he could put on the performance while I carried the supplies and stood at ringside looking knowledgeable.
Saturday morning I called Alice Brickman to see if Joey could come over for the afternoon. The biggest problem with having an only child is the perpetual search for playmates. When they’re by themselves, they’re bored. Then when their friends come over, they spend half the time fighting. Your basic lose-lose situation. But I’m a mother, which means I keep trying anyway.
“Joey’s cousins are here visiting for the weekend,” said Alice. Judging by the noise in the background, he had a battalion of them at least. “Why don’t you bring Davey here instead? When you’ve got six kids to look after, what’s one more?”
Possibly the last straw, I thought, but who was I to argue with a woman who was clearly bucking for sainthood? I ran the idea past Davey and he thought it sounded great. That’s another truism of childhood. They would always rather go to the other kid’s house because, without fail, his toys are better.
That left me with the whole afternoon free, a luxury which doesn’t happen often. I thought about raking some more leaves, but that wasn’t nearly decadent enough. I checked the local movie listings, but the only Saturday matinees available were Disney cartoons and another sequel to the Mighty Ducks. I could have taken myself out to lunch, or soaked in a bubble bath with the newest Sue Grafton. But in the end, I got in my car and drove up to Ridgefield on a quest for knowledge. I liked the sound of that. It made it seem like I might actually learn something for a change.
The Ridgefield Police Department looked nothing like I’d expected. I’d been prepared for industrial gray cinder block, or functional one-story brick. But signs on the edge of town directed me down a small hill, then up a big one. At the top stood a big old Victorian House, painted white on white, with its lawns paved over for parking. Wow. Maybe they’d be serving tea in the front parlor.
Inside, those hopes were quickly dashed. The interior of the building had been transformed into a model of a suburban police department. There was a waist-high counter, large panes of bullet-proof glass, and a small waiting area where I sat after stating my business.
I didn’t have long to wait, which was good because the magazine selection varied only in age. Old editions of Field and Stream or slightly newer editions of Field and Stream. Take your choice.
A door led from the back of the station directly into the waiting area and I stood as it opened. The detective was of medium height and broadly built. He had dark eyes beneath bushy brows and darker hair that was neatly combed back and liberally sprinkled with gray.
“Ms. Travis? I’m Detective Petronelli. I understand you’re looking to talk to someone about the Jenny Maguire case?” He had large, beefy hands and he held one out to me.
I took it and had my arm pumped up and down. “Yes, I am.”
“Come on in back. We may as well sit in my office and get comfortable.”
His office was barely past cubbyhole size, though it did have a window. Stacks of papers covered the tops of two file cabinets, but the surface of his desk was scrupulously neat. The two chairs we sat in pretty much took up all of the remaining space.
“What can I do for you?” he asked when we were seated.
I hadn’t thought about what I was going to say. Now with the detective staring at me intently, I felt as though I should have prepared. “Jenny Maguire was a friend of mine,” I began. “I guess the reason I’m here is because I don’t understand how she died, or why. Rick Maguire told me you’d been investigating . . .”
“That’s right, ma’am. We have.” Petronelli opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a pen and a pad of paper. “Why don’t we nail down a few details, if you don’t mind?”
He led me through name, address, and phone number, and I was explaining about how I’d met Jenny at handling class before I realized how deftly he’d taken control of the discussion. Not that I minded. I was more than happy to share my information with him, as long as he’d share his with me.
I told him about Ziggy, presumably dead and now alive. I speculated as to whether Rick and Jenny had been happy together and wondered aloud why she’d filed for divorce then changed her mind. I stated firmly that I had not thought her to be a woman on the verge of suicide, and yet her sister had found a note that clearly contradicted my feelings.
Through it all, the detective took plenty of notes. And when I was done, he still didn’t say anything. Maybe he figured if he kept silent, I might just keep on talking.
“Well?” I said.
Petronelli looked up.
“I showed you mine. Aren’t you going to show me yours?”
At least I found out he could smile. Then he cleared his throat and we were all business again. “Ms. Travis, I’m sure you realize that I can’t give out a lot of information about an ongoing investigation.”
“Ongoing,” I said quickly. “Does that mean you don’t think Jenny’s death was a suicide?”
“At the moment we’re exploring several avenues—”
“What about the note?” I stopped as I suddenly thought of something. “Rick did give it to you, didn’t he?”
“Yes, ma’am, Rick Maguire did deliver a suicide note to us, one purported to be in his wife’s handwriting. We received it several days after Mrs. Maguire died. I believe it had been found by the deceased’s sister.”
“In a desk,” I prompted. “Under a pile of stuff. That’s what Angie told me. If you were going to kill yourself, wouldn’t you leave the note sitting out where someone could find it?”
“Well, Ms. Travis, I don’t like to speculate about something like that. However, I will tell you that in this case the possibility of suicide seems remote.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “Why is that?”
“According to the medical examiner’s report, Mrs. Maguire died of circulatory failure brought on by chronic arsenic poisoning.”
Petronelli paused as though that should mean something to me. It didn’t.
He stood up and picked up a folder from the top of the file cabinet, opened it and began to read. “Traces of arsenic were found not only in the victim’s digestive tract, but also the hair, fingernails, liver, and kidney.”
“So she died of arsenic poisoning.”
“Chronic arsenic poisoning.”
“What’s the differen
ce?”
“Acute poisoning would mean that she ingested a large quantity of arsenic and died as a result. Not the way I would choose to commit suicide, but an option people have chosen. In the case of Mrs. Maguire, however, traces of the element were found in her organs. Her red blood cells had been affected. It was the opinion of the medical examiner that the poisoning had happened slowly over a period of time. Now I’ve known people to do weird things but in my experience, someone who’s looking to kill themselves just does it. It’s quick and it’s done. Why cause yourself any more pain than you have to?”
“Slowly over a period of time,” I said, frowning. “Like maybe from handling the rat poison Rick said they kept in the kennel?”
“No, ma’am, we checked the product they had on hand. It contained warfarin, which is an anti-coagulant. A lot of the older rat poisons contained arsenic, but not anymore. Now it’s pretty hard to come by.”
I stared out his window. A squirrel, its mouth crammed with nuts, was running up the tree outside. “So she definitely was murdered.”
“Right now, it looks that way.”
“Jenny was at my house a few days before she died. She told me she hadn’t been feeling well. She had cramps, some nausea and headaches too, I think.”
Petronelli nodded and made a note in the folder. “That would be consistent with the medical examiner’s findings. She was probably suffering from the effects of the arsenic in her system.”
“What about the suicide note?”
“What about it?”
“If Jenny didn’t commit suicide, that might be a clue to point toward her killer.”
“I don’t think so. The note was written, not typed and we’ve had our experts look at it. For whatever reason, it was written by Mrs. Maguire. Maybe it was some sort of game she was playing, or a fragment of a letter she intended to send to a friend. She mentions the dog you spoke about earlier and says she has nothing to live for. It doesn’t say she was about to kill herself. It looked like a suicide note, true. But the contents are also open to other interpretations.”
I glanced past him. The squirrel was on the way back down for another load of nuts. “Who do you think killed her?”
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