“Marcus Rattigan bought Haney’s General Store? Why would he be interested in a little place like that?”
“Dunno,” said Frank. “But he snapped the place up when Haney sold out. The way things have grown up in north Stamford, the store is surrounded by houses now. It’s a nonconforming property in a two-acre zone. He can’t build on the lot or enlarge the building that’s there. I guess that’s why he was happy to let me have the lease.”
“He knows you’re planning to turn the place into a coffee bar?”
“Sure he knows. I certainly couldn’t do it without his approval. He and I are partners on the deal.”
“Partners. You and Marcus Rattigan?” It was all a little much to take in.
“Sure. Fifty-fifty. He supplied the building. I supply the know-how.”
Interesting. As far as I knew, my brother didn’t have any know-how.
“He even co-signed my loan at the bank.”
“He did?”
“Yup. Happy to do it, he said. Seeing as we were going to be partners and all.”
I stared at Frank suspiciously. “If you have a bank loan, what do you need me for?”
“As it happens, I’m running a little low on funds. You know how it is with construction. Estimates never seem to cover the final cost. In the beginning—”
“The beginning? How long ago did you get involved in this project?”
“It’s been about six weeks.”
“And I’m just hearing about it now?”
Frank shot me a look. As siblings went, we weren’t close. Though he only lived one town away, we’d never spent much time together. Our temperaments were just too dissimilar for us to really enjoy each other’s company. In fact, now that I thought about it, bad news was much more apt to bring us together than good.
“It seemed like the right time,” said Frank. “You know, with the opportunity for you and all. It’s not like I need the moon. I figure five thousand should do it.”
“Five thousand dollars?” I’d always suspected he was daft. Now I knew. There was no way I had that kind of money lying around, and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t have trusted Frank with it. “Where on earth would you think I’d get five thousand dollars?”
“All right, so you don’t ask Bob. You’ve been living in this house for what, eight, nine years? You must have some equity—”
“No.” I cut him off swiftly. “This is Davey’s and my home. I’m not going to risk losing it when you decide to go off and tilt at another windmill. You said Rattigan’s your partner. Why don’t you go to him?”
“I can’t. No way. Marcus put me in charge and I told him I could handle it. How would it look if the first time there was a problem I went running back to him?”
Not great. Even I had to admit that. “Look, Frank, I’m sorry. I just don’t have the kind of money you need.”
My brother took one last meaningful look around the room, but didn’t argue. Instead he pushed back his chair and stood. “Okay, I figured I’d ask. It was worth a shot.”
I picked up my jacket and pulled it on. “What will you do now?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.” After a moment his expression brightened. “You’re not the only family I have, you know. Maybe I’ll talk to Aunt Peg.”
That would go over well, I thought, but didn’t voice the opinion aloud. As things turned out, I should have given him the money. It would have been easier than his next request.
Two weeks passed without another word from Frank. To tell the truth, I’d pretty much forgotten about his latest venture. My brother’s not above bailing out when times get tough. For all I knew, he might have gone back to reading the want ads.
Between the new job, taking care of Davey, and a dog show for Faith coming up on the weekend, there was plenty to keep me busy. I had twenty students from a variety of grades in the tutoring program, so my schedule was full. Just to keep things interesting, it also varied from day to day.
On Wednesdays I got out of school around the same time Davey did, so I swung by Hunting Ridge on my way home and picked him up. When I reached the elementary school, the buses were loading. Davey was waiting for me at the curb near the front door. His best friend, Joey Brickman, was with him.
The two of them were swinging their backpacks and shoving each other playfully. Any minute they were bound to fall off the curb and into traffic. I’m a mother, so that’s the way my mind works.
I slid the Volvo into an empty spot and tooted the horn lightly. Davey looked up and waved when he saw me. Both boys shouldered their packs and scrambled in my direction. Joey was pug nosed, freckle faced, and built like a linebacker-to-be. When he threw himself into the backseat, the car shuddered from the impact.
Davey was smaller and more slightly built, but what he lacked in heft, he made up for in speed. He moved with his father’s grace, and also had the same heavily lashed, chocolate brown eyes. Today they wore a serious expression as he climbed into the car and shut the door.
“Seat belts,” I said, although the boys hardly needed a reminder. They were already reaching around to get the straps in place before I’d even put the car in gear. “Everything okay? You two have a good day at school?”
“It was awesome!” cried Joey. “I lost a tooth. Wanna see?”
I looked in the rearview mirror, thinking he’d show me the tooth. Instead Joey was angling his head upward, mouth agape, pudgy finger pointing at an empty space.
“Pretty impressive. Aren’t you a little young to be losing teeth?”
“That’s what the teacher said,” Joey said proudly. “I’m the first in the whole class.”
I glanced back at Davey, who had yet to say a word. “How about you, champ? How was your day?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine? That’s all?”
“It isn’t fair.” Davey pushed out his lower lip in a pout. “I wiggled all my teeth and none of them are even loose. I want the tooth fairy to come to our house, too.”
“It’s so cool!” said Joey. “She’s going to take my tooth and leave me money instead.”
Davey crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the car window.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Your turn will come.”
“But I want my turn now.”
That’s my boy. He has many wonderful attributes, but patience isn’t one of them.
I switched on my blinker and turned up our road. Our house is a small, snug Cape; one of many that all look pretty much the same in a neighborhood that was built in the fifties. The homes have small yards, mature plantings, and streets that are quiet enough for children to ride their bikes. Considering the price of real estate in Fairfield County, I could have done a lot worse.
Joey’s family lives at the end of the street. His father’s a lawyer in Greenwich and his mother stays home with his two-year-old sister, Carly. Alice Brickman and I have been friends since the boys were small.
I pulled into the driveway, and Davey and Joey spilled out of the car. Faith, whose internal clock is more accurate than my Timex, was waiting just inside the front door. I could hear her excited yips as I fit the key to the lock. When the door swung open, she was dancing on her hind legs to greet us.
Problems forgotten, Davey gathered Faith into his arms and gave her a hug. His face disappeared into the thick ruff of her mane coat. Standing upright, the Poodle was taller than he was. Hopping together, they managed an awkward dance of greeting around the front hall.
“Sheesh,” said Joey. “She’s only a dog.”
“She is not.” Davey shook his head, and Faith’s ear wraps flapped around him. “She’s the best dog in the whole world.”
Joey was not impressed. “Big deal. What have you got to eat?”
The three of them headed for the kitchen. Davey knew how to unlock the back door and let Faith out into the fenced yard. The milk, glasses, and shortbread cookies were on shelves low enough for them to reach. Confident that they could fend for t
hemselves, at least for a few minutes, I headed upstairs to change my clothes.
A few weeks earlier, at Aunt Peg’s suggestion, I’d started roadworking Faith. It’s not easy being beautiful, even if you’re a dog, and especially if you’re a Standard Poodle whose grandfather won the group at Westminster and whose breeder has plans for you to finish your championship. Sixty years old and more autocratic than ever, Aunt Peg has a way of always getting what she wants. Certainly I’ve never figured out how to turn her down. Which was why Faith and I were now running two miles around the neighborhood several times a week.
The steady, rhythmic jog was developing Faith’s muscle and building up her hindquarter. As a nice bonus, it had also knocked a couple of pounds off of me. So far, my biggest problem had been finding the time to fit jogging into my schedule.
Luckily, Alice seems to think that having two six-year-old boys entertain each other is easier than having one at home by himself, and she’d volunteered to watch Davey while I ran. As soon as I was suited up in sweatpants, T-shirt, and trusty sneakers, I walked both boys down to her house and dropped them off.
Though I’ve heard of something called a runner’s high, I had yet to experience it. For me, jogging was hard work. Not so Faith, who completed the entire distance with head up and tail wagging. I guess that’s the difference between four legs and two. We stopped and picked up Davey on the way back, then walked the length of the street to cool down.
Davey was chattering on about a new board game Joey had just gotten, and I was thinking of a nice hot shower, when we let ourselves in the door. My answering machine is on the kitchen counter, and its message light was blinking. I pressed the button, then picked up Faith’s bowl and refilled it with fresh water while I waited for the tape to rewind.
“Mel!” Frank’s voice sounded tinny, but I could hear the urgency in his tone. “I’m at the coffee bar. You know, Haney’s old place? Where the hell are you? I need you to get over here right away.”
After a short break from crime solving, stay-at-home mom Melanie Travis has not become boring—no matter what her alarmingly opinionated Aunt Peg says. She still has a nose for sniffing up a good mystery, especially when it involves the life of a legendary dog breeder ...
Despite Melanie’s domestic demands—a toddler and a house full of Standard Poodles—helping Edward March pen his life story is an opportunity she can’t pass up. Of course Edward turns out to be a growly old man who wants his book—“Puppy Love”—to consist mainly of his amorous encounters with women from the dog show community. It’s juicy gossip, but not dangerous ... until Andrew, Edward’s son, pays Melanie an angry visit to stop her from working on the book.
When Andrew suddenly turns up very dead, the victim of a seemingly intentional hit-and-run, the police are looking at Edward as Suspect #1. There was lots of bad blood between Andrew and his father, but Melanie is looking at the bigger picture. Would some of Edward’s ex-trysts have gone after Andrew to shut Edward up? How about all of those husbands and boyfriends with bones to pick? And who is that woman who everyone is avoiding at the funeral?
Between getting caught up in the bafflingly dysfunctional March family, sorting out two generations of disgruntled ex-lovers, and uncovering a shocking case of secret hoarding, Melanie’s running into dead ends almost as fast as she’s running out of time. The longer the killer stays unleashed, the sooner she may end up in the dog house for good.
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Laurien Berenson’s next Melanie Travis mystery
GONE WITH THE WOOF
coming in September!
One
Life is made up of small moments, most passing by in the blink of an eye, unremarked and unremarkable. But every so often one of those small moments expands and time seems to stop. We’re faced with an occurrence so intense, so monumental, that the rest of life’s cluttered minutiae simply slip away like a passing wisp of breeze.
What remains is a haze of shock and emptiness, a void that we must somehow learn to negotiate. There’s an elemental shift in worldview and a lesson never forgotten: that nothing in life is as permanent as we once believed.
That was how I felt when a murderer whom I’d been chasing stood two feet away from me and looked me in the eye, then lifted a gun to his temple and blew his brains out.
It was an instant when everything changed.
Maybe clarity of vision is a sign of maturity. If so, I earned mine the hard way. But in that fleeting speck of time when I put my own life at risk and watched another life end, I knew with absolute certainty what was important to me and what was not.
I had a new baby, an almost new husband, and an eleven-year-old son, whom I loved more than anything. I also had a houseful of dogs and an extended family whose only goal seemed to be to drive me crazy. The thought that I might never have seen any of them again was beyond unbearable.
And yet in that single moment I had put all of that on the line. What was I thinking? I didn’t know.
One thing I did know. I needed a break.
“I just want to say that you’ve become rather dull.”
“Really?” My tone might have been a bit dry.
I was sitting across the kitchen table from my aunt Peg, a woman who in her first sixty-five years has stirred up more excitement and controversy than many South American dictators. Come to think of it, she also runs the members of her family like a small, somewhat unruly, junta. Peg stands six feet tall and has iron-gray hair and sharp brown eyes. Should a brawl erupt anywhere in the vicinity, my money’s on her.
“Yes, really. Don’t make me say it twice. I shouldn’t have to say it at all. You used to be interesting. Now ...” Aunt Peg stood up, walked over to the counter, and poured herself a second cup of Earl Grey tea. Her gaze slid pointedly to the window over the sink.
It was New Year’s Day, and we’d had six inches of fresh snow overnight. Eighteen months had passed since I’d made the decision to try to realign the balance in my life. I’d wanted to attain some sense of normalcy, and I liked to think that I’d achieved that goal.
What Aunt Peg saw in the backyard was my husband, Sam, and our older son, Davey, shoveling the new snow off the deck. From the way the pile was shaping up, I suspected there might be a snowman in the offing.
Younger son, Kevin, twenty-two months old and all but swallowed up by a snowsuit, boots, and mittens, was toddling unsteadily around the yard, accompanied by several big black Standard Poodles. That was what passed for normal at my house.
“Now I’m happy,” I said.
“So you think,” Aunt Peg sniffed. “You’re what? Thirty-five years old?”
I nodded warily. Not because her assessment of my age was wrong, but because Aunt Peg never begins a lecture without a purpose in mind, usually one that involves work for me.
“You need to get back in the game.”
“Excuse me?”
“For one thing, you need to figure out what you’re going to do with the rest of your life now that you no longer have a job.”
Aunt Peg was referring to the fact that after Kevin was born, I had taken a leave of absence from my position as special needs tutor at a private school in Greenwich, Connecticut. A single semester away had now stretched to three.
When Davey was little, I’d been a single mother. I’d had to work. This time around I had a choice. And the thought of leaving Kevin with a nanny or an au pair didn’t appeal at all. Even if my son’s current favorite word—from an admittedly limited vocabulary—was an emphatic and defiant no.
“I have a job,” I said calmly. “I’m a mother.”
“Oh, please. Hillary Clinton is a mother. It didn’t stop her from becoming secretary of state.”
“You want me to go into politics?”
Okay, that was immature. The verbal equivalent of sticking out my tongue. But give Aunt Peg the slightest bit of encouragement, and she tends to run roughshod over anyone in the vicinity. Speaking as the person mos
t likely to be trampled, what can I say? Sometimes I sink to my kids’ level.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I want you to use your brain. I want you to think. I have an idea.”
“Wonderful,” I muttered.
The back door came flying inward, bringing with it a blast of cold air, five scrambling, sodden Standard Poodles, and three rosy-cheeked, snow-covered men of varying sizes. Davey had his gloved hands cupped together. He was holding a snowball the size of a small globe.
Sam was just behind him, carrying Kevin. Even in chunky boots and a puffy down jacket, with a red nose and snow-tipped eyelashes, Sam looked like the kind of man most women would want to take straight to bed. Even after six years together, I’m no exception.
Sam lowered the toddler into my arms and, having heard my last pronouncement, said, “What’s the matter?”
“Aunt Peg has an idea.”
“Good day for it,” Sam said mildly. He and Aunt Peg are the best of friends. Sometimes that irks me, but mostly I try to rise above it. “New Year’s resolutions and all.”
Davey, who had pulled open a low cabinet and was rummaging around inside, stood up and spun around. “Are we going to make resolutions?”
“Sure, if you want to. Put that snowball in the sink, okay?”
“I can’t. I’m going to report on it for science class.”
Davey’s tall for his age. He takes after his father, my ex-husband, Bob. They’re both long limbed and graceful. But my son’s personality is all me. He could argue the spots off a Dalmatian.
Davey turned back to the cabinet and withdrew a large mixing bowl. “How long do you think it will take to melt?”
“It’s started already,” I mentioned. Between the five Poodles, the three sets of boots, and the water dripping from his hands, the floor was awash with melted snow.
Hair of the Dog Page 26
