Watchdog

by Laurien Berenson

  “He’s firing you?”

  “Of course not. At least not in so many words.” Liz reached up self-consciously and smoothed back her long hair. “He just said he wanted me to be prepared. You know, in case.”

  “In case Gloria decided to exercise her rights as chief stockholder?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You went to bat for Ben,” I mentioned. “It’d be nice of him to do the same for you.”

  “Yes, well, as I’ve discovered lately, Ben Welch isn’t exactly the nicest man I’ve ever known. Maybe I should thank you for that.”

  Her tone was brittle and there were spots of color in her cheeks. I decided not to hold my breath while I waited for gratitude.

  “How long have you worked for Anaconda?” I asked.

  “Since the very beginning, almost. Marcus decided to form his own company fourteen years ago. I was one of the first people he hired.” Liz’s eyes narrowed. “And if they think they can just dump me now without a fight, they can think again.”

  “Is there a chance you might remember something that happened about ten years ago?”

  “Probably,” said Liz. “There wasn’t much that went on around here that I didn’t know about.”

  Big talk. I wondered if she was trying to convince me, or herself. Or whether she really was stockpiling a list of grievances to fight back with.

  “Back in those days, Rattigan was involved with a number of show dogs. Were you aware of that?”

  “Are you kidding? When Marcus got interested in something, he threw himself into it whole hog. For a while he had pictures and ribbons hanging on the walls in his office. We even had some of those glossy dog magazines sitting out here on the table.” Liz chuckled, remembering. “I’ll tell you, some of the clients really looked twice at those.”

  “Did you ever see any of the dogs?”

  “You mean like real? In person?” She shook her head, and my shoulders slumped. “They didn’t stay with Marcus. Most of them had handlers or co-owners that they lived with. I don’t think Marcus even saw the dogs himself unless he went to a dog show.”

  “I was wondering about one dog in particular.” No point in stopping now. Liz was my last shot. “She was a Wire Fox Terrier named Champion Wirerock Winter Fantasy. Her call name was Winter, and she did a huge amount of winning one year.”

  “Sure,” said Liz. “I remember her. For a while it seemed like Marcus hardly talked about anything else. He said she was the top show dog in the United States and she had to fly all over the country to go to dog shows. I remember him saying it was a real shame she couldn’t qualify for frequent flyer miles.”

  “After Winter retired from showing, she had a litter of puppies,” I said. “She was living with her co-owner then, but somehow Marcus ended up with one of the puppies.”

  “Yeah, I know. He brought it with him to the office.”

  I straightened in my chair. “You just told me you never saw any of the dogs.”

  “I thought you meant the show dogs. You know, the ones all done up in those fancy hairdos? This one was just a baby, no more than eight weeks old. She was adorable.

  “Marcus came in one morning carrying her in his pocket. He put her down on the ground and the first thing she did was pee. Marcus started swearing, but I thought it was pretty funny. It was a good thing that little baby held it as long as she did.”

  “Did he tell you what he was doing with the puppy?”

  “He said he had to find a home for it. He couldn’t take it back to his house because Gloria would have had a fit. The puppy was really cute, though, so he figured it wouldn’t be too hard to find someone who’d take it. I was tempted myself, but my building doesn’t allow dogs.

  “I put down a couple sheets of newspaper and went out and bought some biscuits. I think she stayed here one or two nights before Marcus said he found someone who wanted her.”

  “That was his neighbor, Roger Nye. He still has her. But what I’m curious about is how Marcus came to have that puppy in the first place. Why didn’t she stay with Winter’s co-owner like the rest of the litter did?”

  “Wait a minute.” Liz screwed up her face as she thought. Creases fanned out from her eyes and mouth. One look in the mirror, and she’d never make that face again. “I remember Marcus saying something about that at the time. It didn’t make any sense to me. There was some particular word he used. Give me a sec. It’ll come to me.”

  A word? John Monaghan hadn’t kept the puppy because of a word? There was nothing to do but wait it out.

  After a minute Liz smiled triumphantly. “The other guy, the co-owner? Marcus said he wanted to cull the litter.”

  “Cull it? You’re kidding.”

  Liz gave me a scornful look.

  “Sorry. It’s just that that’s such a drastic move. Some breeders do cull litters, of course, but usually only when there’s a serious genetic problem. Occasionally you find people who’ll do it when there aren’t enough homes for the puppies they produce. But that wouldn’t have been a problem with Winter’s litter. So why would John have wanted to get rid of her?”

  I stopped as a sudden thought struck me. “What if he didn’t want to? What if Rattigan stole that puppy? Maybe there was a dispute over the terms of their co-ownership contract.”

  “That’s crazy,” said Liz. “Marcus wouldn’t have done something like that.”

  Sure he would have, I thought, if he’d figured there was something to be gained by it. Everything I’d learned about Marcus Rattigan pointed to a man who didn’t hesitate to put his own concerns above everyone else’s.

  “I’m telling you,” Liz said firmly, “Marcus saved the puppy from being put to sleep. She was sweet and adorable, but the other guy didn’t want her. I asked Marcus how anyone could kill a baby like that, and he said that was just the way some breeders are. If a puppy wasn’t perfect, they didn’t want anything to do with it. It was lucky for that puppy that Marcus was there, and that he was just too kind and caring to let such a terrible thing happen.”

  Kind and caring. Liz Barnum had to be the only person in the world who’d apply those particular words to Marcus Rattigan. Now that he was gone, I guessed she’d forgotten how he’d dumped her after his divorce. Or maybe, faced with the prospect of Gloria as her new boss, Liz’s memory of Marcus had taken on a rose-colored hue.

  I’d learned all I could from her; it was time to move on. “Is Ben here today?”

  Liz didn’t even hesitate. She waved a hand toward the hallway and said, “Third door on your right. I know he’s busy, so I won’t bother to announce you.”

  Right. Liz might say she wasn’t leaving Anaconda, but an attitude like that told me she already had one foot out the door.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  The door to Ben Welch’s office was closed. I knocked, then opened it without waiting for a response. Ben was hunched over a messy pile of papers on his desk. His face was twisted into a grimace, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses rode low on his nose. He was flipping pages with one hand; the other massaged his temples. He looked like a man who was working on a major headache.

  “Liz, I thought I told you—” He looked up and stopped.

  “Hi, I’m Melanie Travis.” I crossed the room quickly before he could tell me not to. “We met last week.”

  “Yes, of course.” Despite his words, Ben looked as though he hadn’t a clue who I was. Nor did he care. “Where’s Liz?”

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t at her desk when I came in.” It wasn’t really a lie, I told myself. More in the nature of damage control. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Not really—”

  “It’s about Marcus Rattigan’s murder.”

  “You’re a reporter, then.” Ben sat back in his chair and frowned.

  I couldn’t see any point in beating around the bush. Judging by his demeanor, Ben wasn’t going to allow me much time. “No, I’m what you might call an interested
bystander. Marcus Rattigan kept a copy of his will in this office. Were you aware of its contents before he was murdered?”

  Ben’s expression tightened. “I have no intention of answering that question.”

  “Did you know that Gloria was Rattigan’s chief beneficiary and that after they divorced, he never got around to updating the document?”

  “That was none of my business.” Ben got up and came around from behind the desk. “And it certainly isn’t any of yours.”

  He grasped my arm in a determined grip. Out-muscled and outweighed, I turned and went along meekly as he marched me toward the door. We were close enough that I could smell his aftershave, Geoffrey Beene’s Grey Flannel. Too bad, I’d always liked the scent before.

  “What did Gloria promise you in return for acting as her spy?” I asked in the few seconds I had left. “Did she tell you that someday you’d be running the company?”

  I’d hoped to shake him up, but Ben’s composure didn’t waver. “Gloria wasn’t in any position to make promises regarding this company,” he said firmly. “And I wasn’t in need of her backing. As to Marcus’s will, whatever decisions he made regarding the disposition of Anaconda Properties were entirely his own.”

  That wasn’t an answer, it was corporate doublespeak for butt out. Before I could tell him so, Ben propelled me the last few inches into the hallway and shut the door between us.

  As I strode down the hallway and let myself out, Liz was nowhere to be seen. The phone on her desk was ringing stridently. It didn’t sound as though anyone cared enough to pick up. I hoped the missed call was an important one.

  Twenty-one

  Thanks to the early dismissal, I still had time when I got home to change into my running clothes and take Faith for a quick jog around the neighborhood before Davey’s bus arrived. I passed the Brickmans’ house on my way home. Alice, who’d been standing in the doorway watching for the bus, came out to say hello.

  She looked at Faith and shook her head. “If that dog grows any more hair, you’re going to need a lawnmower to get through it. Isn’t she cold with her butt all shaved down like that?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The winter before, Faith had been in the puppy trim, which meant she had a blanket of dense hair all over her body. This would be the first time we’d faced the cold weather in the continental trim. So far, Faith didn’t seem to mind. As we talked about her, she jumped up on her hind feet and twirled in an exuberant circle.

  “Besides, the hair grows pretty fast so there’s usually some cover back there. The reason she looks so naked is that I’m showing her tomorrow so I just clipped her yesterday. Now I have to go in and give her a bath.”

  “Yikes,” said Alice, considering the possibility. “In the tub?”

  “In the tub,” I confirmed.

  “Better you than me. How long does it take?”

  “The bath isn’t so bad. For the blow dry, probably three hours.”

  “You’re nuts,” said Alice.

  I didn’t debate it. The heady addiction to the shows and the competition is hard to explain to someone who’s never experienced it.

  “Why don’t I take Davey when he gets off the bus?” said Alice. “At least, then, he’ll be out of your hair. Three hours?” She glanced down at her watch. “He’d better stay for dinner, too. It’s only meatloaf. There’s always room for one more.”

  I could have hugged her. Having done this job before, I knew it went a whole lot faster when I didn’t have to juggle Davey’s needs at the same time. Instead I settled for offering to reciprocate the next time she got stuck. These things always seem to even out in the end.

  Blowing a show coat dry is manual labor, plain and simple. It’s one of those jobs that requires lots of patience and minimal talent. So as I worked I had plenty of time to think.

  I pondered Marcus Rattigan’s relationships with his ex-wife, his co-breeder, his neighbor, and his secretary. I wondered how much of an impact localized protest groups had ever had upon his business and whether he was accustomed to taking his vice-president into his confidence. All in all, I had lots of great questions and no great answers to go with them.

  As a teacher, I found the situation doubly frustrating. I’m used to being the person standing in the front of the room who knows what’s going on. Not this time. If solving Rattigan’s murder had been a class assignment, I’d have been sitting in the back row with my head down, hoping desperately not to get called on.

  I finished Faith by seven and called down the block to see how Davey was doing. Alice said the kids were fine, and the happy shrieks I heard in the background were proof enough for me. When she told me to grab some dinner and come by to get him whenever I was ready, I didn’t argue.

  Instead I made another phone call. So far, I’d taken John Monaghan’s word that he’d organized the neighborhood protest group at Rattigan’s behest. Now I wondered if that was wise. Everything I’d learned thusfar said he’d lied about Winter’s litter. And if one topic was open to prevarication, why not another?

  Audrey DiMatteo picked up on the fifth ring. When I gave my name, she remembered me immediately.

  “You’re the lady with all the questions. The one who was so interested in Marcus Rattigan.”

  “Right. Tonight I’m interested in someone else.”

  “So what?” Her tone wasn’t encouraging.

  “So I’m hoping you might be able to help me.”

  “What are you offering in return?”

  She’d responded well to bribery the first time, but unfortunately, I didn’t have another tidbit handy. “How about a chance to help bring a murderer to justice?”

  Audrey laughed at that. “Who do you think you are? Wonder Woman?”

  I wish.

  “Look,” I said. “The guy that was in business with Rattigan on the coffee bar conversion is my brother. Right now he’s the number one suspect for a murder he didn’t commit. All I’m trying to do is offer the police some other options.”

  “You didn’t mention anything about that before.”

  “I didn’t think it was important.”

  “Maybe I would have.”

  Audrey was silent for a moment. I wondered if she was trying to figure out a way to use that information for leverage. If so, she was welcome to it. First I had to keep my brother out of jail, then I’d worry about his future business prospects.

  “I only have one question. It’s really simple.”

  “All right,” Audrey said grudgingly.

  “When you were protesting the development of the Waldheim property, did you ever think of coordinating your efforts with the other group, the one that was working against the coffee bar conversion?”

  “Monaghan’s people?” Her answer was quick and decisive. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Like I told you before, POW is just a group of concerned citizens who want to do our part for the environment. Those other people are way beyond where we wanted to go. Our members are not looking to resurrect the sixties and we’re sure not into destroying any property.”

  I took a deep breath before continuing. “And they were?”

  “What do you think? You told me yourself there’d been some accidents on the site. A man broke his leg, didn’t he? And that doesn’t even count what happened to Rattigan.”

  “Yes, but how do you know that Monaghan’s group was behind that stuff?”

  “If you mean do I have proof, the answer is no. But I heard things, and John Monaghan showed up at one of our meetings. Hey, it’s hard enough for a group like ours to get credibility, we sure weren’t looking to take on any fanatics. Monaghan said he had some ideas that might be helpful for us, you know, that would step up the action. I told the guy to take a hike.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Why didn’t you ask?”

  Good question.

  “Do the police know this?” I asked.

  “How the hell should I kno
w?”

  “Well, did you tell them or not?”

  “I might have. I don’t really remember. At the time I was a whole lot more concerned about how Rattigan’s death was going to affect us.”

  “And?”

  Audrey snorted. “As far as we can tell, the reins of power passed from a money grubbing developer to his money grubbing ex-wife. Life’s a bitch sometimes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I hung up the phone, fixed Faith’s food, and ate a salami and cheese sandwich while she picked at her gourmet kibble. If Detective Petrie didn’t know what Audrey had told me, he definitely needed to talk to her. I doubted he’d be happy to hear from me again, but that was his tough luck.

  I could call on him in the morning, I thought, but that would make me late for the show. I glanced down at Faith. Freshly bathed, clipped, and brushed out, she looked gorgeous. Better still, she looked like a winner.

  Petrie could wait, I decided. I’d get in touch with him tomorrow afternoon, when I got back from the show.

  I gulped as a sudden, unnerving thought hit me. Did this mean I was turning into a dog person?

  The Flushing Meadows Dog Show is held in Queens at an outdoor park that sits in the shadow of Shea Stadium. In late October, that means you’re taking a chance, weather-wise. Best case, there’ll be plenty of sun and cool autumn temperatures; worst case, you’ll wish you’d never gotten out of bed that morning. The year before this had been Faith’s first show and the weather had been beautiful. This time around, we weren’t so lucky.

  It wasn’t raining, but that was about the best you could say. The thermometer hovered around fifty, and a stiff wind blew through the park, toppling portable chairs and causing the tents to rattle and flap. Not the kind of day I’d have chosen to spend standing outside under a tent, grooming a dog.

  I’d already pulled socks on over my stockings and wasted ten minutes rummaging in the back of the closet for Davey’s parka from the year before. Predictably, when I found it, the sleeves were too short and the hem barely reached his waist. I zipped him into it anyway, and told him he looked fine. Better warm than fashionable.