Watchdog

by Laurien Berenson

  “About six months, I guess. He purchased the land in the spring and filed his plans almost immediately thereafter. Before he came along, we’d all held out hope that someone with tons of money would scoop up this place and restore it to its former glory. I guess we were pretty naive.”

  “What were your chances of preventing him from going ahead with his development?”

  “Fair.” Audrey frowned. “All right, not great. But we had a shot. Once we found out what he had in mind, we knew we couldn’t allow him to proceed without a fight.”

  “Legally, he was within his rights to build on the land, wasn’t he?” That’s what the newspaper had said, but I wanted to be sure.

  “As things stand now, yes. That’s why we initiated our suit. We’re also hoping to sway public opinion by taking our campaign to the media. With enough support from concerned citizens, the town of Stamford could have bought the land from him and turned it into a park or nature preserve.”

  It didn’t sound too likely to me. Like most small cities, Stamford ran on a tight budget. Any extra funds went for education or increased police and fire protection. The land we were standing on was worth millions. Raising that kind of money under any circumstances wouldn’t have been easy.

  “Feeling as strongly as you do about this land, I guess you weren’t displeased when you heard that Marcus Rattigan had been murdered.”

  “Not entirely.” She smiled thinly. “No.”

  “You said a moment ago that some of the people in your group were fanatics—”

  “No,” Audrey corrected me. “I said that we’d been approached by some outsiders whom I would have characterized that way. Environmental junkies, I started calling them. People who hear about a cause like ours and immediately want to get involved. We thanked them for their offer of help and sent them on their way.”

  She paused to gaze at the magnificent scenery that surrounded us. “Are you asking me if I think there are any murderers in my group?”

  I made my answer as blunt as her question. “Yes.”

  “It hardly seems likely. Until this came up, we were just any normal group of people—housewives, businessmen, doctors, teachers. We all care about what happens here, but the idea that one of us might resort to murder because of it seems ludicrous. Besides, the fact that Rattigan himself is gone won’t necessarily halt the process.”

  Audrey stopped walking and turned to face me. “I came here today because you told me you had some information that might help my cause. What is it?”

  “Are you aware that Marcus Rattigan was also involved in the conversion of another building in Stamford just before he died?”

  “That general store/coffee bar thing? The place where he was found?”

  “Yes. There was a neighborhood group objecting to what he was doing there, as well.”

  “That’s hardly surprising.”

  “Not on the surface. But what is surprising was that Rattigan himself was behind the protests. He had asked an old friend of his to step in and stir up trouble.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s not important,” I said, unwilling to betray John Monaghan’s confidence. “Apparently Rattigan was hoping to trade one building project for the other. By giving up the coffee bar conversion that he didn’t really care about, he thought he could gain enough goodwill downtown to ensure that his plans here were approved without a hitch.”

  “That’s very interesting,” said Audrey. “Considering that we’ve been pleading our case in the court of public opinion, you’re quite right, we might be able to get some use out of that.” She turned and started walking toward her car.

  “One last thing.” I hurried after her. “Before Rattigan was killed in the coffee bar, there’d been several suspicious accidents on the site. A member of the construction crew had been injured. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?”

  Audrey’s expression grew tight. “Despite everything I’ve said, you still seem to think that POW is some sort of militant group. Why is that?”

  “A murder’s been committed. Isn’t that reason enough to be suspicious of anyone who might have been involved?”

  “Trust me, the only land that interested us was right here. We didn’t care about what went on with Rattigan’s other projects. Actually, the fact that he had other things in the works gave us an advantage. It divided his attention.”

  Audrey started walking again and this time I let her go. Somehow I suspected that the members of POW were a good deal more savvy than she wanted to let on. And if they’d been looking to distract Rattigan’s attention, staging a couple of accidents at Frank’s place might have seemed like a good way to start.

  When Davey and I got home, there weren’t any messages waiting for us on the machine. On the plus side, that meant there were no new crises in Frank’s life, and Aunt Peg wasn’t clamoring for information. Unfortunately, it also meant that another day had gone by without a call from Sam. That made three and counting, in case you’re not keeping track.

  I know I could have called him and I’d certainly thought about it. Once that initial burst of righteous anger had cooled, I’d seen what had been so perfectly obvious to Aunt Peg. The only reason that Sam was butting into my life was because he cared about me.

  I’ve been single for six years, long enough to know that finding a good man is about as easy as teaching a Jack Russell Terrier not to chew. So I wasn’t about to give up this relationship without a fight. The problem was, right then, with my energies being channeled in so many directions, I just didn’t have enough to spare.

  Sam and I could figure out what to do about this problem, I was sure of it. But at the moment my brother had to come first.

  Lunchtime at Howard Academy is a decorous affair. The students sit at round tables set with linen napkins and china plates. A hot meal is served family style; and a teacher is assigned to each table, supposedly to ensure that the conversation is of a sufficiently high intellectual level.

  Sitting with the students is a rotating duty. Teachers usually have one week off after having served two. Practically speaking, however, most teachers avail themselves of the hot lunch. It didn’t take me long to figure out why. The food at Howard Academy is far superior to anything I could pack in a brown bag.

  The meal is followed by recess, which—for some reason—has always been monitored by male teachers only. It doesn’t seem fair to me, but it’s nice to have sex discrimination working in my favor for a change. For those who choose not to eat with the students, the midday break between classes runs nearly ninety minutes.

  On Tuesday, I used the time to zip over to Belle Haven and visit Gloria Rattigan. I’d called that morning and she’d sounded perfectly pleased to hear from me. Lunchtime would be no problem, she’d insisted. Perhaps she could throw together a shrimp salad for us to eat in the breakfast room?

  Either this woman was very lonely, or else she was more besotted with my brother than I would ever have thought possible.

  Gloria met me at the door dressed in a chic black pantsuit. I wondered if its color was meant to indicate that she was in mourning. If so, the look would have been more convincing without the jaunty red carnation she’d placed in her lapel.

  “Come right in,” she said. “Estella has lunch almost ready.”

  “Estella?”

  Gloria lowered her voice. “One of the perks of my new inheritance. You have no idea what a relief it is to go back to living in the manner to which I’d become accustomed.”

  The breakfast room was off the kitchen. It was small but sunny, with a tile floor, trellis covered wallpaper, and floor to ceiling windows on two sides. A glass topped table in the center of the room had been set for two and as soon as we were seated, lunch was served.

  “Wine?” asked Gloria. “I have a marvelous Pinot Grigio chilling. Estella?”

  “I’d better not,” I said as the maid filled Gloria’s glass. “I still have to teach this afternoon.”

  “Y
ou’re a teacher. I hadn’t realized that. It must be wonderful to have a calling.” She laughed lightly. “I’m afraid the only thing I was ever called to do was be a wife. Your brother’s darling.”

  I swallowed suddenly and choked on a piece of shrimp.

  “Drink some water, dear.” Gloria handed me a glass. “Your face is turning red.”

  It took me a moment to get my breath back. As soon as I could, I sputtered, “Surely you don’t ... that is, you and my brother aren’t . . .”

  “A couple?” Gloria looked vaguely shocked. “Of course not. Frank is darling, but he’s a little young, don’t you think? Not that I rule out younger men, mind you, just that I prefer ones who’ve already risen to a certain level of accomplishment. As it happens, I already have Marcus’s replacement in mind.”

  “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  “At my age, I should hope not! Estella, pour me another glass of wine, please.”

  The bottle was sitting on the table between us. I could have easily poured it myself. Estella walked in from the kitchen and refilled Gloria’s glass.

  “You said you had more questions for me. Detective Petrie has been back, too. I asked if he was close to making an arrest and he said they were still keeping their options open. If you ask me, that doesn’t sound terribly promising.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t been in touch with the police. The only information I have about their investigation, I’ve gotten through Frank.”

  “Isn’t he a dear? He and I are going into business together, did he tell you?”

  I nodded. “He’s very excited about the prospect. He told me you’d chosen a new name for the coffeehouse.”

  “The Coffee Klatch?” Gloria waved a hand dismissively. “I only came up with that off the top of my head. Afterward, I realized we should go with something younger, hipper. You know. These days I find I’m just brimming with ideas. So here’s what I was thinking.”

  She paused for effect. “Ready? We’ll call it, Bean There, Done That. Isn’t that just delicious?”

  Seventeen

  Luckily I was saved from answering when the phone rang and Gloria cocked her head and listened while Estella took a message. I didn’t know which was funnier: the thought of my brother operating a coffee bar named Bean There, Done That, or the notion of Gloria Rattigan trying to be hip.

  I waited until her attention had turned back to me, then said, “I went to see your neighbor, Roger Nye.”

  “Good old Roger. What did you think? Could he have murdered Marcus? You know what they say. It’s always the quiet ones who have hidden depths.” Gloria’s eyes sparkled. Thanks to Rattigan’s murder, she’d not only become rich, she’d also landed a ringside seat at the best show in town.

  “He was very angry at your ex-husband. Roger said the only good thing Marcus had ever done for him was give him a puppy.”

  “A puppy?” Gloria sounded surprised.

  “Yes, Asta. A Wire Fox Terrier. I gather she came from a litter Marcus bred out of a top winning show dog. Do you remember her?”

  “No, not in particular. We never had any dogs here. Marcus knew I wouldn’t tolerate it. But of course I was well aware when he went through his show dog phase. Marcus was like that, you know. He went through phases.

  “All sorts of things came and went, and each one interested him tremendously for a short while. There was his dog phase, his antique car phase, his golf phase. The trouble was, Marcus got bored easily. But even after he got tired of his toys, he could never bear for anyone else to have them. His golf clubs are still sitting in the basement, and his last two cars are moldering in a warehouse somewhere.”

  “From what I was told, he seems to have given this puppy away.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Gloria gave a delicate shrug. “I’m afraid I never paid any attention to those silly show dogs. I was perfectly pleased when Marcus’s interest moved on.”

  I finished the last bit of shrimp salad and set down my fork. The only way I’d have gotten the plate any cleaner was if I lifted it up and licked it. Across from me Gloria was picking at her food. Watching her chew each small bite methodically, I got the distinct impression she was counting the calories every time she swallowed.

  “Last time I was here, you told me you had a spy in Rattigan’s company. Were you keeping tabs on his business or his social life?”

  “Both.” Gloria smiled complacently. “That was one thing I figured out early on. Take all the information you can get. You never know when something useful might turn up.”

  “Does your spy still work at Anaconda?”

  “I should say so. These days he just about runs the place.”

  I thought back to my visit the week before: the harried, fair haired man who’d come striding out of his office and been introduced as Rattigan’s second in command.

  “Ben Welch?”

  “You know him?”

  “We met once, very briefly.” Interesting that Gloria had managed to co-opt Anaconda’s vice-president. I wondered if Rattigan had ever realized that he had a stoolie in his ranks, especially one that highly placed. “He seemed to be a very busy man.”

  “I should hope so. I’m planning to leave him in charge of the operation, and these days there’s a lot to do.”

  “His lack of loyalty doesn’t bother you.”

  Gloria’s expression hardened. “Ben was loyal to me, that’s what’s important. Besides, he and I understand each other. Let’s just say we have more than a working relationship.”

  No wonder she’d found a replacement for Rattigan so quickly; she’d already been grooming a successor. Gloria had painted herself as the victim in their divorce, but from where I sat it looked as though she’d planned all along on having her revenge.

  “Before Marcus died, did you know he hadn’t changed his will?”

  “Of course not.” Gloria laid her knife and fork neatly along the side of her plate, then waved to Estella to come and clear.

  “Did Ben Welch know?”

  Gloria didn’t answer. Her gaze slid discreetly to the maid, then back. I paused, waiting while Estella gathered the plates and left the room. Gloria used the time to reach for a small leather case beside her place setting, shake out a cigarette and light up.

  “It occurs to me that both you and Ben have benefited a great deal from your ex-husband’s death,” I said.

  “So what? I lived with Marcus for fourteen years. The way I see it, I did my time. I deserve everything I got.”

  “And Ben?”

  Gloria smiled as she pulled in a lungful of smoke. “I guess he just got lucky.”

  Maybe, I thought. Maybe not. I’m not a big believer in luck, good or bad. I don’t buy lottery tickets and I don’t avoid black cats. For the most part, I think people make their own luck.

  So how much of his current good fortune had Ben Welch stumbled into, and how much might he have manipulated to his own ends? I already knew he’d been willing to betray his boss. Had that been the sum of his treachery, or just the beginning?

  Back at school I practiced reading with a second grader and worked on a topographical map of South America with a little girl from fourth. It wasn’t the kind of work that kept my mind constantly engaged. I had plenty of time to mull over my one short meeting with Ben Welch and decide that I needed another.

  I slipped out twice during the afternoon to call Anaconda Properties, reaching Liz both times. Ben wasn’t there, she told me the first time. Would I care to leave a message? It was a good thing I hadn’t, because she hung up the phone almost before I had a chance to respond.

  On the second try I asked to make an appointment with Ben. Liz was ever so sorry she couldn’t help me. Due to the demands of his current schedule, Mr. Welch wasn’t seeing anyone unless it was absolutely urgent. Click.

  Feeling annoyed and increasingly frustrated, I waited until school got out and then did what any upstanding citizen would do. I drove down to the Stamfor
d Police Station and asked to speak to Detective Petrie.

  Actually, bearing in mind that I was a mother first and an upstanding citizen second, I also called Alice Brickman and asked her to nab Davey when the bus came by. To my delight, she offered to get my spare key out of the garage and take Faith for a walk, too. The combination cleared my way for a guilt free encounter with Stamford’s finest.

  The Stamford Police Station is located on Bedford Street, around the corner from the courthouse. The U-shaped brick building always looks busy, and parking space out front is minimal. Only the truly foolhardy would think of flaunting regulations in the police lot, and I ended up driving several blocks before finding an empty spot. As a concession to my destination, I didn’t even jaywalk on the way back.

  The reception area inside the wide doors was bustling. An officer hunched over a tall counter in the middle of the room and took a statement from a worried looking girl whose ex-boyfriend was calling her at all hours of the night. Youth Court was on the right, and the line for information on the left.

  The woman behind the glass barrier took my name and asked me to wait. Benches lined one wall, and I perched on the edge of one. I’d barely sat down when Detective Petrie came to get me. We rode the elevator up to his office on the second floor.

  The room he led me to was small and exceedingly neat. The desktop was uncluttered, the two chairs neatly aligned. A window behind the desk looked out over the street. Petrie’s coat hung from a hook on the back of the door. He pushed it out of the way as he closed the door and waved me to a seat.

  The detective walked around behind the desk and sat down opposite me. There was an air of calm deliberation in everything he did, and I could see how potential suspects might have found him unnerving. Detective Petrie didn’t move quickly, but he gave the impression that he always got where he wanted to go.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, folding his hands on top of the desk.

  “I came to talk to you about your investigation into Marcus Rattigan’s murder. I’ve uncovered a few things that I thought might be useful to you.”