Watchdog

by Laurien Berenson

  John Monaghan lived in a traditional New England colonial about a mile from Frank’s store. Like most of its kind in Connecticut, the house was painted white with black shutters. It sat on a hill overlooking the neighborhood and was large enough to convey an air of solid affluence. Kate’s house was smaller but similar in style. She pointed it out as we drove by.

  “Nice neighborhood,” I said as I pulled into John’s driveway and parked the Volvo next to the garage.

  “‘Yeah, it’s pretty.” Katie gathered up her backpack and climbed out of the car. “My mom likes it here. And she sure doesn’t mind being right around the corner from John.”

  Alerted by something in her tone, I glanced over. “Is that a problem?”

  Kate’s shrug was a deliberate display of adolescent indifference.

  “Do you like John?”

  “He’s okay, if you don’t mind someone who’s totally wrapped up in his dogs. It’s nice of him to let me come over and help out. It’s just that ...” Kate walked to the edge of the driveway and stared off into the distance.

  “What?” I went over and stood beside her. Behind the house was a small kennel building, also painted white with black trim. A row of wire fenced runs extended outward on the far side, all of them now empty.

  “I just wish Mom didn’t think she always had to have a man around. We do all right on our own, just the two of us. But she can never see that. She was the one who got me started coming over here.”

  Kate tossed her head angrily. “I guess she figured it would be a good way for her to get to know John better. She thinks he’s some great catch because he’s single and has some money, and is retired and all. It never even occurred to her that I might actually like the dogs.”

  I thought about how to respond. Single motherhood wasn’t easy, but I was sure that wasn’t what Kate wanted to hear. I wondered if she’d ever told her mother how she felt.

  “I’m sorry—” I began, but Kate cut me off.

  “Don’t be.” She spun on her heel and headed back toward the house. “Forget I said anything, okay? Let’s go inside.”

  By the time we reached the front door, it was already open and John Monaghan was standing on the brick step. “Here you are. Becca started barking so I knew someone had arrived.”

  Becca was the trim Wire Fox Terrier at his heels. She greeted Kate first and then me, jumping up on each of us and sniffing us thoroughly before John called her back to his side. “You must be Kate’s teacher.”

  “Melanie Travis.” I took his hand and had my arm pumped up and down vigorously.

  John wasn’t tall, but he was strong. With a hairline that had receded to the middle of his head, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses balanced on his nose, I judged him to be in his fifties. His features were unremarkable, but he had a wonderful smile.

  “Kate tells me you’re interested in my dogs,” he said. “Are you looking for a puppy?”

  “Not exactly. I’m actually hoping to get some information.”

  “I’m heading back to the kennel,” Kate announced. I wondered if she was embarrassed at having revealed so much of herself. She couldn’t seem to escape my presence fast enough. “You two can take it from here, right?”

  We agreed that we could and John ushered me inside as Kate disappeared around the side of the house. “Come this way,” he said. “We’ll talk in the library.”

  We walked down the hall with Becca trotting along behind. As we reached the arched doorway, I heard the scramble of nails and a low growl. I glanced back in time to see the Fox Terrier emerge victorious from beneath a table, a small stuffed animal clutched between her teeth. Carrying it proudly, she ran to catch up.

  The library was a spacious room with dark paneling, two leather couches and a wonderful old cherry wood desk. Everywhere I looked there were pictures, framed eight by ten glossies of the Wirerock Fox Terriers winning top awards at various dog shows.

  Aunt Peg has a collection of win photos that spans more than three decades. This selection was perhaps more recent, but certainly no less impressive. One dog in particular had been showcased, with an entire wall devoted to her achievements.

  Picture after picture showed an alert, beautifully balanced little dog whose crisply styled wire coat was white save for a black saddle and the tan markings on her head. In nearly every photo the judge was holding a big red, white and blue ribbon indicating that the Wire had won Best in Show.

  “This must be Winter,” I said.

  “You’ve heard of her?” John sounded pleased.

  “My aunt told me she was a beautiful bitch and, coming from her, that’s high praise.” I turned to face him. “Actually, I have to admit my interest in Fox Terriers is somewhat peripheral. I was hoping you might be willing to talk to me about Marcus Rattigan.”

  “Marcus?” John walked over to a couch and sat down. Becca immediately jumped up beside him. “What a terrible tragedy. A senseless and unexpected loss.”

  “You and he were friends?”

  “Indeed.” John waved me to a seat. “We’d known each other for years. We campaigned Winter together. Without his support I never would have been able to give that bitch the career she deserved.”

  I’d heard Gloria’s version of what Rattigan was like. Here, perhaps, was someone who could show me another side.

  “Are you talking about financial support? Or was Rattigan a breeder, as well?”

  “No, not at all. Marcus knew where his strengths lay, and he played to them. He left breeding to the experts, which is how it should be. He was listed as co-breeder of Winter’s litter because of the lease arrangement, but that was a name-only thing. He left all the details to me.”

  “I heard that after Winter’s career was over, he dropped out of the dog show scene. Why was that?”

  “Why not?” John grasped the toy in Becca’s mouth and wrestled with her playfully. “Marcus had nothing left to prove. He’d been to the pinnacle, and there aren’t many people who can say that. After Winter retired, I gather the sport lost much of its appeal for him.”

  “What about Winter’s puppies?” I asked, enjoying the byplay as Becca made throaty noises and batted at his fingers with her front paws. “My Aunt Peg breeds Standard Poodles. She always tells me that the true measure of a dog’s value is not what it can win today but what it can produce for tomorrow.”

  “Your aunt sounds like a true dog person. But there you have the difference. Marcus was my friend, but even I have to admit that for him the dogs were merely the means to an end. He thought of them in terms of immediate gratification, not long-term results.

  “Unfortunately, Winter was only able to have one litter. Three puppies, all boys. After they were born, she developed acute metritis and I had to spay her to save her life. It was a terrible blow. After that, Marcus’s level of interest was never quite the same.”

  “Tell me about the puppies,” I said because I knew he would have been disappointed if I hadn’t. “Were they as gorgeous as their dam?”

  “No, they weren’t, but that was hardly to be expected. Winter was a once in a lifetime bitch. I was truly sorry never to have gotten a girl from her. Still, it was a sound, healthy, attractive litter and I kept all three. Once it became clear that they were the only progeny Winter would ever have, I didn’t want to part with any of them.”

  John glanced out the window, toward the kennel. “Every Fox Terrier I have today traces his or her pedigree back to Winter through that single litter. Even better, I have a young grandson of hers that’s about to make a big splash. Wirerock Summer Dreams. Watch for him.”

  “I will,” I said, smiling at his enthusiasm. “Had you thought of asking Marcus Rattigan to sponsor this dog, too?”

  “No. Marcus’s interest in the dog game was over a long time ago. Summer will be all mine to campaign and enjoy. I’m really looking forward to having fun with him.”

  “Have Wire Fox Terriers always been your breed?”

  “For the most part. I dabbled bri
efly in Welsh Terriers about a decade ago, but Wires were always my first love.” John ran a hand down Becca’s back and scratched in front of her tail. The little dog wiggled her body in appreciation. “It’s not hard to see why.”

  It was time for a graceful segue. Dog people can talk about their dogs forever, but I needed to get the conversation back on track. “Since you and Rattigan were close, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but do you have any idea why someone might have wanted to kill him?”

  “None,” John said firmly, then recanted. “Well, Marcus could be a bit of a bully at times, but murder? I’d never have anticipated anything like that. Why are you so interested in what happened?”

  “My brother was involved in a business venture with Marcus Rattigan. He was doing the renovations on the building where Rattigan was found.”

  “The proposed coffee bar.”

  “You know about it?”

  “In this neighborhood, it’s hard not to,” John said, frowning. “The project has generated a fair amount of local unrest.”

  “So I’ve heard. Do you know any of the protesters?”

  “I imagine I know just about all of them. I’ve lived in this house for twenty years.”

  “Did any strike you as angry enough to resort to violence?”

  “Over a zoning issue? That seems a little far-fetched to me. Although nobody around here is pleased with that conversion. You say that’s your brother’s doing?”

  “Yes,” I admitted unhappily. “It’s the first time he’s been involved with anything like that, and he’s gotten himself in way over his head.”

  “I can see why you’d want to help him then.” John set Becca aside and rose. “You let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

  “Thanks, I will. Maybe we’ll run into one another at a dog show someday. I have a Standard Poodle bitch that just got her first two points last weekend.”

  “With you handling?” John asked as he escorted me to the door. “You must be good. That’s a tough breed for an owner-handler.”

  “I have a couple of very experienced coaches,” I said modestly. “Faith is my first show dog. I’m a long, long way from accomplishments like yours.”

  “So was I, once. It took a lifetime of hard work to get where I am today in dogs. You just have to stay focused on your goals and work on taking things one step at a time.”

  I picked up Davey from the Brickmans and Faith from home, then drove downtown to run some errands. We stopped at the supermarket and the dry cleaner. On the way back I let Davey convince me that one scoop of ice cream apiece wouldn’t ruin our dinners.

  Faith took hers in a cup, which she balanced neatly between her front paws on the seat. She didn’t spill a drop. Davey’s cone, meanwhile, dripped from the top, the sides, and finally, a hole in the bottom. It’s a sad thing when your dog has better eating habits than your son.

  Back at home I was putting the groceries away when Gloria Rattigan called. “I’m glad I got you,” she said. “I thought of something I probably should have mentioned the other day. We were talking about people who weren’t too happy with Marcus, remember?”

  “Sure.” I shoved an armload of frozen vegetables into the freezer and pushed it closed with my hip. “Did you think of someone else?”

  “Roger Nye. He’s our next door neighbor here. Has been for years. He and Marcus got into a huge fight summer before last. And I mean, huge. Roger’s normally a pretty mild mannered guy, so this made a big impression on me. I don’t know what Marcus did, but whatever it was, Roger swore up and down that he’d never forgive him. As far as I know, they never spoke again.”

  “Do you think Mr. Nye would be willing to talk to me?”

  “I don’t see why not, especially if I call and ask him to. You haven’t forgotten about Liz Barnum, have you?”

  “No.” The secretary was next on my list.

  “If I think of anyone else, I’ll be sure and let you know.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  It was nice of her to be so helpful, but I couldn’t help but wonder why she was bothering. Considering how pleased she’d been by her ex-husband’s death, Gloria Rattigan hadn’t struck me as a particularly nice person.

  “Just one more question,” I said. “Do you happen to know who will inherit Marcus’s estate?”

  “I’ll say I do.”

  A burst of raucous laughter assaulted my ear and I held the receiver away as Gloria continued.

  “The lawyers contacted me yesterday. Bastard never got around to changing his will after we got divorced. Probably figured he’d live forever, that’s just the way Marcus would think. Aside from a few bequests, the rest of it comes to me. Isn’t that a hoot?”

  It was a hoot, all right.

  “I guess that means the search for a new husband is off?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m still looking, I’ve just changed the parameters. Thanks to my newfound prosperity, I’m going for less money and more muscles.”

  I hung up the phone and had a good laugh. It’s hard not to admire a woman who knows how to roll with the punches.

  Eleven

  On Fridays Howard Academy has early dismissal. According to the school brochure, which stressed the importance of family values, this was to enable students to get an early start on their homework so they’d be free to spend the rest of the weekend with their busy, hardworking parents. I didn’t believe it for a minute.

  Seven weeks into the school year, I was pretty certain that the real reason we got out early was to give Russell and Bitsy a head start on their getaway weekends to sun and snow. Not that I was complaining, mind you. Any system that allowed me to be finished with the week’s work by 2 P.M. on Friday afternoon was perfectly all right with me.

  Unfortunately, the weather that day was damp and drizzly. The chill of winter-to-come was in the air. I was supposed to go out jogging but, not surprisingly, I couldn’t seem to muster any enthusiasm for the chore. Instead I got in the car and drove to Marcus Rattigan’s office in downtown Stamford.

  Anaconda Properties was located in a new high rise office building, one of several that had sprung up near the railroad tracks during the development boom of the mid-eighties. The building was twelve stories of concrete and reflective glass and offered underground parking. A sign out front announced that office space was still available.

  I skimmed the directory, found Rattigan’s company listed on the tenth floor, and rode the elevator up. The office suite devoted to Anaconda Properties was on the south side of the building. Double doors were flanked by frosted glass windows and bore a small brass plaque with the company name and logo, an image of a coiled snake, ready to strike. How appropriate.

  The doors were unlocked and led directly into a small reception area that was sparsely furnished in modern, high-tech style. A woman with delicate features and lustrous chestnut hair was sitting behind a desk, talking on the telephone.

  “Please hold a moment,” she said as I walked in. She pressed a button on the phone and looked up. “Yes, may I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Liz Barnum.”

  Her carefully tweezed eyebrows lifted slightly. “I’m Liz Barnum. May I ask what this is in reference to?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Marcus Rattigan.”

  “Are you a reporter?”

  “No, I—”

  “You’re not with the police.”

  “No.”

  “Then I have nothing to say.” Liz glanced at the door expectantly, her hand hovering above the phone console as she waited to resume her call.

  I wasn’t about to give up that easily. “I think you’ve met my brother. Frank Turnbull? He was working with Mr. Rattigan on the conversion of an old general store in north Stamford.”

  “You’re Frank’s sister?” She looked at me carefully, as though searching for a family resemblance. What she saw must have been good enough, because she punched a button, said, “I’ll have to call you back,” and hun
g up the phone. “How is Frank?”

  It seemed I’d said the magic word. Interesting.

  “Naturally he’s very upset about what happened. He’s even more concerned about the fact that the police consider him to be a suspect.”

  “That’s crazy. Your brother doesn’t look like he’d hurt a fly.” Liz stood up and walked to a door in the back wall. She opened it to reveal a large office. “Let’s talk in here where we’ll have more privacy.”

  I followed her inside. The office was not only big, it was sumptuous. One entire wall was windows. Rain beat down against the glass now, but on a clear day the view of Long Island Sound must have been spectacular. A desk dominated one side of the room. On the other, three leather chairs were grouped around a glass-topped table.

  “Is this Rattigan’s office?” I headed toward the desk.

  “It was.” Liz pulled out a chair and sat down. “You won’t find anything useful, though. The police have already been through everything. They took Marcus’s calendar, his computer, and all his current files.”

  “Must make it hard to keep the business running.” I had a look anyway. Aside from a blotter and pen set, the desktop was empty. The credenza beside it held only a printer and a fax machine.

  “At the moment we’re just treading water, waiting until the estate gets settled and we see what happens next.”

  I wondered if she knew that Rattigan’s wife was his main beneficiary. If she didn’t, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.

  I left the desk and went over and sat down. Liz crossed her legs and smoothed the creases from her short skirt. Her nails were bitten back to the quick.

  “Frank tells me that according to Rattigan’s calendar, he had an appointment with my brother at the coffee bar on the evening that he died.”

  “That’s right.” Liz nodded. “I took the call myself.”

  “Except that my brother didn’t make that appointment.”