“Nothing. Not a damn thing. The dogwood trees were on my property and I had every right to have them there. I figured that would be the end of it.”
Asta had been sniffing around the yard. Now she came ambling back with an old tennis ball in her mouth. Roger took it from her absently and tossed it down the hill. The terrier ran off in pursuit.
“She’ll be stiff tomorrow,” he said, gazing after her. “I should know better than to throw that ball. Hell, I do know better. It’s just that she enjoys chasing it so much.”
We both watched as Asta lay down with the toy between her front paws and began to chew. “Where was I?” asked Roger. “Oh right, the trees. The following spring all three started doing poorly. I thought maybe they needed some fertilizer so I had a guy from the gardening center come out and take a look. He said the trees were already dying by the time he got here. It was too late for two of them, and he barely managed to save the third.”
“What makes you think Rattigan had anything to do with it?”
“Because we found the evidence right down in the roots. Someone had taken some of those tree spikes, you know, the kind people use to help trees grow? He’d emptied out the vitamins and nutrients, filled them up with turpentine and lodged them in the soil under the trees. It was plain as day that’s what killed my dogwoods.”
“I assume you confronted him?”
“I damn sure did!” Roger’s voice rose. “Marcus didn’t admit what he’d done, but he sure didn’t deny it, either. All he said was, it didn’t matter what I thought because I’d never be able to prove a thing.
“Those dogwoods were special to me and Millie. I’d told him that, but he just didn’t give a damn. That’s the way he was. It’s probably wrong of me to say so, but I’m glad he’s dead. The world’s a much better place without Marcus Rattigan in it.”
Trees, even special trees, didn’t necessarily seem like a motive to me. Then again, one thing I’ve learned is that almost everyone will go to great lengths to protect what’s important to them. “Have you seen Rattigan lately?”
“Just last month, as a matter of fact. I ran into him in the Town Center. I would have walked right by, but he was the one who stopped me. He asked how the Sound was looking these days. Of course, I didn’t answer.”
Roger’s hand clenched at his side. “Marcus just laughed and said if he’d known at the time that all he was doing was increasing the value of a house that would go to Gloria in the divorce, he wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. He made me so angry I couldn’t even see straight. The only thing I wish is that whoever murdered Marcus could have gotten to him sooner.”
Asta returned with the tennis ball and we headed back inside. Gloria had characterized her neighbor as a mild-mannered person, but based on what I’d seen that morning, I wasn’t ready to agree. There was definitely something about Marcus Rattigan that seemed to bring out the worst in everyone around him.
Inside, Davey was right where we’d left him. When he was younger he used to disappear whenever I wasn’t watching. This time he’d been so enthralled he hadn’t moved. The train came chugging through the tunnel, rounded a turn, and pulled to a smooth stop in front of the station.
“Time to go,” I said.
“Aww Mom . . .”
“Mr. Nye has been wonderful to let you play with his trains, but we can’t take up any more of his time.” I picked Davey’s denim jacket up off a chair and helped him into it.
“Just one last question,” I said as Roger escorted us back to the door. “You knew Marcus Rattigan for a long time. Who do you think might have wanted to kill him?”
He didn’t even have to stop and think. “That field’s probably wide open. If I were you I’d be looking for the last poor bastard Marcus screwed.”
Great, I thought. That would be Frank.
Speak of the devil. When we got home, my brother’s car was in the driveway. The garage door was open and Frank was in the front yard raking the leaves that had accumulated during the last week. Since he’s usually not the type of person to make himself useful, I saw this burst of activity as a potentially bad sign.
Faith was barking at the front window and probably had been since Frank arrived. Davey hopped out of the car and ran to let her out so she could bark at my brother in person. I knew Frank was expecting me to stop and see why he was there. Just to be perverse, I pulled the Volvo past him into the open garage and parked.
When I got back outside, Frank was on the ground. Davey was sitting on top of him, screeching as he was tickled mercilessly. Faith was bounding circles around the two of them, ears and topknot flapping, leaves sticking to her coat like burrs. My family, I thought fondly. We looked like a traveling circus had come to town.
“What’s up?” I asked Frank.
He stopped tickling long enough for Davey to make his escape. That gave Faith the opening she was looking for. She scooted in and ran her long pink tongue down the length of my brother’s face.
“Yeech!” Frank leapt to his feet. My brother is not a dog lover.
“She was only giving you a kiss,” Davey said reproachfully.
“I’ll confine my kissing to the human species, thank you.” Frank reached down and picked up the rake. The leaves he’d piled up had been pretty much scattered again by dog and child.
“If you want to keep working, feel free.”
“No, I was just killing time until you guys got back.” He leaned the rake against the side of the garage and we all went inside. “Got any beer?”
“In the fridge.”
Davey ran upstairs with Faith to dig out something he wanted to show Frank, and I followed my brother out to the kitchen. “Did you go to the funeral?”
“Yeah.” Head stuck in the refrigerator, my brother didn’t elaborate.
For the sake of advancing the conversation, I reached around him, plucked a can of beer off the door, and handed it to him. “How was it?”
“Pretty dreary. Smaller than I would have expected.”
“I guess Rattigan didn’t have too many friends.”
“Maybe not, but I’d have thought the business community would have managed a better turnout.” Frank popped the top on the can and took a long swallow. “The police were there.”
“Looking for likely suspects, I’d imagine.”
“Looking for me is more like it,” Frank complained. “It seems like every time I turn around, there they are.”
“That’s their job,” I said, though I was no more pleased about the situation than he was. “Did you get a lawyer?”
Frank nodded.
“A good one?”
He scowled in my direction. “I’m not a little kid, you know. I am capable of managing some things for myself.”
A week ago I might have debated that. Now, with Sam’s stinging appraisal of the situation still fresh in my mind, I didn’t say a thing. Maybe he was right, maybe I was being too over-protective. But under the circumstances, how could I help it?
Feeling decidedly grumpy about the whole mess, I crossed my arms over my chest. As any psychologist can tell you, it’s not a friendly gesture. “Did you come here for a reason?” I asked my brother. “Or are you all out of beer?”
“Of course there’s a reason. I have good news.”
What a pleasant change. “You’ve discovered an alibi? The skylight was defective? The police have found a witness?”
“Not quite.” Frank’s enthusiasm was undimmed by my recital of his current woes. “It turns out I’m going to be able to open the coffee bar, after all. I’ve found a new partner.”
Fourteen
Oh, lordy, I thought. Here we go again. “Who?”
“Gloria Rattigan. She’s Marcus’s ex-wife. I met her this morning at the funeral.”
“I know who she is,” I said with some exasperation. “How can you even be thinking of going into business with someone you’ve known less than a day?”
“Why not? Everyone was talking about the fact that she’s going to get ne
arly the whole estate. I figured she hadn’t had time to make any plans yet, so I pulled her aside and made her a little proposition.”
Unfortunate choice of wording, that. I leaned back and tried to assess my brother’s looks objectively. Not drop dead handsome certainly, but he did have a nice smile, a full head of hair, and an air of youthful vitality. Were there enough muscles under those clothes to satisfy an older woman on the prowl? Judging by Gloria Rattigan’s response, perhaps.
“Frank, Gloria’s looking for a new husband.”
“So? All the better. That means she’ll stay out of my way and let me do my job.”
Even for Frank, this was a degree of density beyond which I had come to expect. I thought again about what Sam had said and didn’t say a thing.
“We’ve already made our first joint decision and changed the name. Gloria didn’t like The Java Joint. We’re going with The Coffee Klatch. Cute, huh?”
Only to the seriously desperate. Like my brother.
“The police still have the building cordoned off,” I pointed out. “You’re not going to be able to get back to work until they solve the murder.”
“Or you do.” Frank finished his beer and rinsed the can in the sink. “I want to get things moving again. Hurry up, okay?”
He wasn’t kidding. Only my brother could throw out an outrageous statement like that and not be kidding. Times like this make me wish I’d been an only child.
“I’m doing the best I can—”
“I know that.” He crossed the room and tousled my hair. Frank started doing that the year he grew taller than me, and I’ve always hated it. “You’re a brick, Mel. The best detective I could have hired for free. Hey, where’s the kid? I thought he wanted to show me something.”
Lucky for him, he left the room. Otherwise I might have told him what I really thought.
When Frank and Davey reappeared, I was making lunch. My brother had already eaten but he still thinks of himself as a growing boy, so putting away another sandwich wasn’t a hardship. I sounded him out on his plans for the rest of the day and when it turned out he didn’t have any, Davey and I invited him to join us. Babysitting Frank isn’t my favorite thing to do but it is one way to keep him out of trouble.
The Stamford Nature Center was celebrating Octoberfest, and the three of us spent the afternoon enjoying the festival. We ordered Chinese food for dinner, then wasted half an hour arguing over movie choices. I was hoping for Jane Austen. Frank wanted Arnold Schwarzenegger. Davey required a non-violent plot. In the end we compromised on a Robin Williams comedy and laughed ourselves silly.
My brother can be decent company when he puts his mind to it. He listened when Davey talked to him and shared his popcorn without a quibble. I even saw him feed Faith a piece of Moo Shu pork from the tips of his chopsticks. It might not have been the evening I’d hoped to spend with Sam, but it was good enough to keep me from crawling to the phone and calling him first.
Sunday morning Davey and I feasted on a big breakfast, then worked off the calories playing Frisbee with Faith at the Greenwich beach. In the afternoon I dropped him off for a play date at the Brickmans’, then put Faith in the car and drove over to the coffee bar.
A trail of bright yellow crime scene tape criss-crossed the door and fluttered from the railing. Dry leaves blew across the steps; a shipment of wood sat forgotten on the porch. Though it had been empty less than a week, the store already had an air of desertion about it.
I got out of the car and walked around the building. A bright blue tarp covered the hole in the roof where the skylight had been, but no repairs had been made. There were woods in three directions but now with most of the branches nearly bare, I was able to see several houses in addition to the one across the street.
Since the neighborhood was zoned for two acres minimum, the chance that any of the residents had noticed something amiss had to be slim. Still, it couldn’t hurt to canvas the area. At the very least, I might get to talk to some of the protesters who’d been nailing up posters and filing complaints at town hall.
Faith likes an adventure as much as the next dog and she danced at the end of the leash as we crossed the road and made our way to the nearest house. Though most of the curtains on the front of the house were drawn, there was a minivan parked in the driveway. I rang the bell and didn’t have to wait long for a response.
Immediately the chimes were followed by the sound of excited yapping from inside the house. Judging by the high pitch, the dog wasn’t large. Nails skidded across the floor and there was an audible thump as the defender of the home crashed into the other side of the door. A moment later the barking resumed, this time accompanied by the sound of the nails scratching on wood.
Faith dipped her head from side to side and cocked an ear inquiringly. I reached down and cupped my hand gently around her muzzle warning her not to bark in case she’d been tempted to reply. She wagged her tail and continued to stare downward in fascination, seeking the source of the noise.
After a minute we heard a voice from within. “Kissy, get out of the way! Get out of the way, I tell you. How do you expect me to open the door if you won’t move?”
A lock drew back. The knob turned. The door had barely begun to open before a tiny orange missile launched itself furiously onto the steps.
Kissy, presumably. She was five pounds of apricot hair and sharp teeth. There were pink bows in each of her ears, and her long toenails were painted with a matching shade of polish.
I winced slightly, the reaction not entirely due to the fact that Kissy had fastened her teeth on my ankle. Anyone with Standard Poodles spends lots of time battling the stereotypical notion that all Poodles are small, loud, and useless. Here before me was the rare Poodle that fit the insult. Kissy was the dog that was giving us all a bad name.
Her owner was a large woman, not in height, but in heft. Her fleshy features were broad and flat, and her short brown hair had been permed to frizz around her face. “Cut it out! Don’t do that! You’re going to hurt somebody!” she cried, leaning down to scoop the little dog up in her arms. “Sorry, Kissy gets a little hyper.”
“That’s all right. I’m used to—”
The woman’s gaze moved past me and fastened on Faith. “Good God Almighty. What is that?”
“A Standard Poodle. Your dog’s larger cousin.” Luckily, Faith didn’t understand enough of what I’d said to realize how badly I’d insulted her.
“That’s no Poodle.” The woman leaned down for a closer look. Secure in her mother’s arms, Kissy felt brave enough to curl a lip at Faith disdainfully. “What’d you do to its hair?”
Considering that her dog had painted toenails and bows in its ears, I could hardly see that she was in a position to talk.
In the interest of goodwill, however, I refrained from pointing that out. “The trim is required for the dog show ring. The bands and wraps are there to keep the longer hair out of her way.”
“A show dog, huh? Kissy could have been a show dog. That’s what her breeder told me. She’s got AKC papers and everything.”
It’s a common misconception that any dog that’s AKC registered is qualified to be a show dog. Registration papers guarantee that the dog in question is purebred; they say nothing about the dog being a quality representative of its breed. Kissy was undoubtedly beautiful in her owner’s eyes, but with her rounded back skull, roached back, and splayed feet, I doubted there was a dog show judge in the country that would have been pleased to see her walk into his ring.
“Say hello, Kissy.” The woman held the little Poodle out, dangling her darling in front of Faith’s nose and making num-num noises that I supposed meant to approximate a greeting.
She was lucky Faith had a good temperament. Another dog might have taken a chunk out of Kissy’s face. Frankly, I was tempted myself.
“A giant size Poodle. That just about beats all.” The woman drew Kissy back and looked at me expectantly. “Something I can help you with?”
“Ye
s, there is. I’m trying to gather some information about the building conversion that’s going on across the street.”
The woman glanced in the direction of Frank’s store. “What about it?”
“Are you aware that a man was killed there last week?”
“Hard not to be. The police have been by asking questions and we had a couple of reporters, too.” Her expression brightened. “You a reporter?”
“No, I’m related to the man who’s been in charge of most of the work. He told me that some of the neighbors had formed a protest group to try and shut the project down.”
The woman’s eyes shifted back and forth. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Then you don’t mind the fact that a coffeehouse is going in across the street?”
“I didn’t say that. This is a nice neighborhood. Lots of kids around here. We don’t need any more traffic, or strangers driving around at all hours of the night. It just isn’t right.”
She hugged Kissy to her chest with one hand, then reached out and braced the other on the door. I pressed on quickly before she could decide she’d said enough. “Speaking of traffic, did you happen to notice any cars parked at the coffee bar last Monday night? Or see anyone climbing around on the roof?”
The woman glared. “Now how would I notice something like that? It’s not as if I have nothing better to do than stare out the window. I’m a busy person, you know.”
“I’m sure you are. It’s just that this is your neighborhood and you look like the type of woman who’d stay on top of what was going on.”
“You got that right. I hate to say it, but I didn’t see a thing. First time I knew something was wrong was when the police cars and ambulance came flying up here Tuesday morning. Good thing the buses had already been by. You wouldn’t want kids seeing something like that on their way to school.”
“Something like what?” I asked curiously, wondering what the neighborhood scuttlebutt had had to say about the scene.
“Like a dead body! I heard there was blood everywhere and he had a big piece of glass stuck right through his heart.” She shivered effusively and Kissy rocked back and forth with the motion. Clearly the details of this story had grown with each retelling. “Are you saying you know the people who were mixed up in that?”
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