Watchdog

by Laurien Berenson

  “Frank says no. He’s sure the skylight was installed properly. The police are investigating it as a murder.”

  She emerged carrying a box of cupcakes, strawberry with white icing and orange candy pumpkins on top for decoration. Just looking at them made my teeth hurt. “Don’t you have anything healthy to eat?”

  “Cupcakes are perfectly healthy. They’re made from eggs and flour.” She opened a drawer and took out a bag of rice cakes, holding them away carefully between thumb and forefinger as if their mere presence might contaminate. “You can try these if you want. Douglas brought them by. He claimed they’re edible, but I’m not so sure. I think they’re made of Styrofoam.”

  Douglas Brannigan was Peg’s new male companion. He was charming, intelligent, and probably much too tolerant of my aunt’s domineering ways. It seemed far more likely that he’d be adding cupcakes to his diet than he’d have her eating rice cakes any time soon.

  “Do the police have any suspects?” Aunt Peg asked as we took our mugs and sat down at the kitchen table.

  “At least one. Frank.”

  “They can’t be serious.” Peg sipped at her tea. “Frank wouldn’t be my choice for relative of the year, but anyone can see that he’s perfectly harmless.”

  “He and Rattigan have a business relationship that’s falling apart. Rattigan was killed at the building they’re arguing over, crushed by a skylight that Frank approved the installation of, and Frank’s the one who found the body.

  “In case that isn’t enough, Frank was up on the roof two days ago fooling around with the skylight, so his fingerprints will probably be all over it. Since he lied about that to the police, he figures it won’t be a problem. By the way, Rattigan’s death is the third accident at the coffee bar this week. A member of the construction crew fell through the floor yesterday and broke his leg.”

  “Is that all?” Peg asked dryly.

  “Actually, no. Frank thought the floorboards had been weakened when the pipe burst, but we went down to the cellar and had a look. The support column had been sawed nearly in half. The floor was sabotaged, just like the skylight.”

  Plenty of people would have been horrified by such a blunt summation of the facts. Not Aunt Peg. She rose to the occasion like a trouper. To shore up our strength, she started by breaking out the cupcakes.

  “I’ve heard that Marcus Rattigan’s ex-wife refers to him as ‘The Rat,’” she mentioned as she passed one my way. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s an accurate assessment.”

  I plucked the noxious looking orange candy off the top and set it aside. “Rattigan’s divorced?”

  Peg nodded. “There was one marriage, quite a long one I believe. No children. The divorce was rather nasty.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The man showed dogs, Melanie.”

  Her tone clearly conveyed the belief that this simple fact explained everything. Actually, it probably did. When exhibitors have finally exhausted all there is to say about their dogs, they talk about each other. Aunt Peg might not have kept up with Marcus Rattigan, but obviously there were other exhibitors who had.

  “What else do you know about him?”

  She sat back and thought. The pause gave her the per-feet opportunity to finish off her cupcake. When she let her hand drift down below table height, two obliging Poodles licked her fingers clean.

  “Mostly just that he had Winter.” The thought of the pretty Wire Fox Terrier bitch made Aunt Peg smile. “She did so much winning that Marcus got himself known rather quickly. The year that she was number one, he came to quite a few shows.”

  I nibbled at the icing around the edge of my cupcake. It was definitely too sweet to bite into. “Didn’t you say that Winter’s breeder was a local man? What was his name?”

  “You know, I don’t remember. Marcus was such a large presence, always right on hand to take all the credit. The other man, whoever he was, just faded into the background.”

  “It seems a shame, considering that he was her breeder.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Aunt Peg stood. “Let’s go look it up.”

  “How?”

  “Winter showed at Westminster several times. The information would have been listed in the catalogue.”

  “You keep dog show catalogues going back ten years?”

  “From Westminster, I do.” Aunt Peg left the kitchen and started down the hall toward her office.

  I placed my cupcake in the center of the table, where it would be less of a target for any long pink tongues in the vicinity, and got up and followed. The shelves of Aunt Peg’s office were filled with Poodle books and magazines. Old and new issues of Poodle Review and Poodle Variety sat side by side with The New Poodle, The Book of the Poodle and Poodles in America, a multivolume set that listed the pedigrees of every champion Poodle bred in the United States since 1929.

  Still, she didn’t have any trouble finding what she was looking for. By the time I reached the room, Peg was already thumbing through a thick purple catalogue with the silhouette of a Pointer on the front, and gold lettering on the spine.

  “Here it is,” she said. “Champion Wirerock Winter Fantasy. Breeder, John Monaghan. By Champion Galsul Excellence out of Champion Wirerock Ramada. Owner, Marcus Rattigan.”

  She flipped to the pages in the back and looked up the address. “Care of Anaconda Properties in Stamford. That’s no help. I’m sure Mr. Monaghan lived around here somewhere.”

  “I wonder . . .”

  “What?”

  “At the show last week, I ran into one of my students. A neighbor of hers shows Wire Fox Terriers, and Kate was there to help him out. She said his name was John.”

  “That’s probably him,” said Peg. “There aren’t many Fox Terrier breeders in the area. Why don’t you ask her about it tomorrow? If it is the same man, I would imagine there’s plenty he could tell us about Marcus Rattigan.”

  She left the catalogue on top of a tall stack and we walked back to the kitchen. The cupcake I’d left on the table was gone. All that remained was a long smear of greasy white icing on the floor. The Poodles looked up innocently as we came in. With eyes like that, no jury in the world would ever convict them.

  “Another cupcake?” asked Peg, digging a second out of the box for herself.

  “No, I’ll pass.”

  I glanced at the Poodles. Thanks to me, one of them was now courting tooth decay. Since they weren’t tempted to confess, I decided to keep mum, too. I sat down and picked up my mug. At least they hadn’t finished off my coffee.

  “So what are you going to do about this mess?” asked Peg.

  “What am I going to do? Why does everyone assume I’m going to do anything?”

  “Because you’re good at it. And because if your description of your silly, misguided brother’s involvement is anywhere near accurate, it looks as though he needs you.”

  Family responsibility. That made twice in one day that it had been thrust upon my shoulders. At times like this I could only think it was a damn good thing I didn’t have a bigger family.

  “I told Frank I might ask a few questions,” I admitted.

  “Good.” Peg looked pleased. “If I were you, I’d start with the obvious.”

  “Which is?”

  “Gloria Rattigan, of course. The bitter ex-wife. I should think she’d make a dandy suspect.”

  “I don’t suppose you know where she lives?”

  “No, but I can find out.” Aunt Peg opened a cupboard and pulled out a Greenwich phone book. “When she and Marcus were together, they lived in Belle Haven. If she kept the house, the address should be listed. Yes, here it is.” She wrote the information on a slip of paper and handed it over.

  “Do you think Gloria’s heard about what happened?”

  “I would imagine so. After all, she is his next of kin.”

  “Ex next of kin,” I pointed out.

  “All the better,” Peg said briskly. “She won’t be in mourning. Let’s see if she’s hom
e.” She walked to the wall phone, picked up the receiver, and punched out a number. “Mrs. Rattigan? This is Susie Smith calling on behalf of Save the Manatees and we’re hoping we can count on you for a generous donation to our cause.”

  The click was so loud I could hear it where I was sitting. Aunt Peg grinned. “The generous donation is out, but Gloria Rattigan is in. You’ve already taken the day off from school. Why don’t you go over there now?”

  In her rush to manage life to her own satisfaction, Peg has a way of overlooking the small details. “Don’t you think it’s a little soon? What if she doesn’t want to talk to me?”

  “Then she’ll tell you so. Marcus Rattigan was an important figure in Fairfield County. His death is hardly going to go unnoticed. Ten to one, a reporter will already have beaten you there.”

  To nobody’s surprise, Faith and I found ourselves being hustled out the door only a few minutes later. Aunt Peg requested frequent updates and gave me another cupcake for the road. Because it seemed easier than arguing, I got in the car and drove to Belle Haven. Faith ate the cupcake on the way.

  The town of Greenwich encompasses fifty square miles, bordering New York state in the north and Long Island Sound to the south. Much of the residential area along the coast is an exclusive enclave known as Belle Haven. Waterfront estates routinely fetch prices in the millions, and even a distant water view could increase the value of property significantly. Land values here are impervious to dips and surges in the economy. Like the old saying goes, if you have to ask how much, you probably can’t afford it.

  So as I drove beneath the thruway and turned up onto Fieldpoint Road, I was thinking that no matter how nasty Gloria Rattigan’s divorce had been, she couldn’t have come off too badly if she still had a house in Belle Haven. After only two wrong turns, I found the address. The house wasn’t a beachfront mansion but it was large nonetheless, a three-story Tudor with an expansive lawn and a circular gravel drive. And yes, I realized as I parked the Volvo in the shade and got out, I could see the Sound in the distance above a low band of trees.

  If any reporters had come to see Gloria Rattigan, they were gone now. The house looked quiet, almost serene, in the golden October light. At this time of day in my neighborhood there would have been toddlers riding tricycles down the sidewalk, a garbage truck making pickups, perhaps a teenager playing hooky with a boom box attached to his ear. Here there was only silence; as if wealth, the great protector, had cushioned the owners of these homes from the noise and mundane hassles of everyday life.

  I left Faith in the car, her nose pressed mournfully against the window, walked to the front door, and rang the bell. After a moment Gloria Rattigan answered the door herself.

  She was a slender woman in her mid-forties, with a long, bony face and hands to match. Her hair was the shade of frosted blond favored by women who need to camouflage a lot of gray, and her suit was from Chanel. Manicured fingers toyed with the equestrian themed scarf at her throat as she arranged her somewhat blank expression into a tentative smile.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “Hi, my name is Melanie Travis. I was wondering if you might have a few minutes to speak with me?”

  Gloria closed the door ever so slightly. “Are you a reporter? The police told me the press would probably come.”

  “No, but I am here about your ex-husband. My brother, Frank, was in business with Mr. Rattigan.”

  “Many people have business dealings with Marcus. What does that have to do with me?”

  I searched her face for signs of grief before continuing. For someone who’d just lost her ex-husband under suspicious circumstances, she looked remarkably composed.

  “For the last six weeks Frank had been renovating a building in north Stamford that was owned by your ex-husband.”

  A small line furrowed between her brows. “Is that the place where Marcus was killed?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’d like to talk to you about. You see, the police seem to view my brother as a suspect—”

  Unexpectedly, Gloria Rattigan smiled. “Your brother is the one who murdered Marcus?”

  “No, he didn’t. I’m sure of it. But the police—”

  “Why don’t you come in?” Gloria stepped back and opened the door. “I imagine I can spare a few minutes.”

  Let me get this straight, I thought as I followed her through an ornate foyer into a large living room. When I was the sister of a business partner, I could stand on the front step. As the sister of a potential murderer, I’d been invited inside.

  “Please sit down,” said Gloria. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

  Confused, I shook my head and sat. Gloria chose a spot on a love seat opposite.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem to be handling the news rather well.”

  “Only on the surface. Inside, I’m jumping up and down with glee.”

  Times like these, I can only wish I’d learned how to cultivate a poker face. Unfortunately, everything I was feeling was right there in my expression.

  “I see I’ve shocked you,” said Gloria. “There was no love lost between Marcus and me. If your brother’s the person responsible for his death, I’d be pleased to thank him personally.”

  I couldn’t see the point in declaring Frank’s innocence when his presumed guilt was buying me so much goodwill. “I understand that you were married to Mr. Rattigan for a number of years.”

  “Fourteen. And some of them were even quite happy.” Gloria reached over to an end table, picked up a pack of menthol cigarettes, shook one out, and lit the tip with a silver lighter.

  “And the divorce?”

  “That happened last year. It was Marcus’s idea. If you ever met him, you’ll know that he was the sort of person who always did exactly what he wanted to do, and the rest of the world be damned.”

  “Someone told me ...” I paused uncertainly, then pushed on. “That you refer to him as ‘The Rat’?”

  Gloria laughed, exhaling small puffs of smoke with each breath. “Why not? If I do say so myself, it was the perfect name for him. I can’t say that he liked it much, though. Bastard asked if that meant I thought of myself as a sinking ship.”

  I couldn’t help myself; I laughed along with her. The interview might not be going the way I’d planned, but it was certainly making me feel better. Obviously Frank was simply the first person the police had stumbled over, suspect-wise. Once they got hold of Gloria Rattigan, they would have to concede there were other possibilities.

  “The reason I came to see you was because I was hoping you might be able to tell me if there was anyone who might have wanted to harm your ex-husband.”

  Gloria tipped a long wand of ash into the ashtray. “Aside from me, you mean. How many names do you want?”

  I thought she was kidding. “How many do you have?”

  “Probably dozens. Marcus could be a real shark and it didn’t take most people long to figure that out. You can start with just about anyone who ever tried to do business with him. Marcus was tight with money and fond of iron-clad contracts. I doubt if anybody ever came out on the winning end of a deal with him.”

  Gloria drew in a deep drag of smoke and slowly let it out. “It’s no secret who belongs at the top of the list, though. Anyone could tell you that. Her name is Liz Barnum.”

  “Who is she?”

  “His secretary. And the bitch he was sleeping with throughout most of our marriage.”

  Nine

  Oh.

  That question had worked so well, I decided to try a follow-up. “Why would she have wanted to murder him?”

  “Because after working for Marcus for years, slaving for him actually, she finally discovered what a lying, conniving bastard he really was.”

  “When was this?”

  “When our divorce became final last year. My guess is that he’d been stringing her along, probably feeding her that nonsense men spout. You know, about how she was the only woman he’d ever really loved, and if
only he were free . . .”

  “Until he got himself free.”

  Gloria smiled tightly. “And dumped Liz like yesterday’s news. She thought she’d be getting a ring. Turns out she was lucky not to have gotten a pink slip.”

  “You mean she still works for him?”

  “Yes, crazy isn’t it? Supposedly she thinks he’s undergoing a period of emotional turmoil. That once he gets things straightened out, he’ll realize how much he misses her and come running back.”

  For someone who’d divorced her husband a year earlier, Gloria seemed remarkably well informed. “How do you know all this?”

  “Do I look stupid to you? Marcus has his spies. I have mine. That’s one thing living with him taught me. Always cover your back.”

  “You think your husband was spying on you?”

  “I don’t think so, I know so. He wasn’t what you’d call the trusting type. When Marcus was here, we had live-in help, a couple. The wife did the general housekeeping; the husband, the gardening and occasionally some driving. I found out later that their other duty was to report back to Marcus on my activities during the day.”

  “Is that what led to the divorce?”

  Gloria’s fingers brushed at the chintz covered cushion, whisking away an imaginary spot. “That was probably part of it. After a while it seemed foolish for me to adhere to my marriage vows when Marcus was so blatantly abusing his. Unfortunately, it turned out that his views on the subject weren’t nearly as liberal as mine.”

  I glanced around the room, noticing for the first time that one of the reasons it seemed so large was because it wasn’t fully furnished. “So the divorce was his idea.”

  “It certainly wasn’t mine.” Gloria ground out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Marcus thought he’d walk away with everything. I got myself a good lawyer and he fought like hell. Not that it did much good.”

  “You don’t seem to have done too badly.”

  “Looks can be deceiving. Do you have any idea what it costs to run this house? The mortgage and utility bills alone eat up half the payments I get. Not only that, but the judge went for rehabilitative alimony. It only runs for five years. At the end of that time, I’m supposed to have figured out another way to support myself, and the payments stop.”