Watchdog

by Laurien Berenson

  “Shut that off!” John’s face was purple. He lunged at Kate and tried to snatch the little machine from her grasp. “You taped me without my consent. That’s illegal!”

  “Tell it to your lawyer,” said Hank DiNardo, stepping between John and Kate. “You make one more attempt to hurt someone on my show ground and I’ll see to it that charges are pressed.”

  The wail of an approaching siren announced that the police were near. The show committee, obviously accustomed to working as a team, surrounded John until they could decide what to do next.

  Most of the crowd seemed eager to see what was going to happen. I just wanted to get out of there. Now that John’s confession was on tape, my presence was no longer crucial. It was easy to fade back to the edge of the circle. Aunt Peg and Davey came around to meet me and I took my son’s other hand.

  I watched Kate entrust the little recorder to Hank DiNardo and was about to intervene when Aunt Peg stopped me. “Don’t worry,” she said under her breath. “He’s a judge.”

  “Dog show?”

  “Federal court. He’ll know what to do with it.”

  As we walked away, Kate hurried to catch up. “I came with John. I guess I’m going to need a ride home.”

  “You’re with me,” I told her. “What about Summer?”

  We all looked back. Two officers had arrived. John was arguing vociferously. Others around him were chiming in with other opinions. With any luck, the police would have so many statements to take I’d be long gone before anyone thought to look for me.

  “Someone on the show committee will watch out for the dog,” said Aunt Peg. “You can depend on it.”

  “That was fun,” said Davey.

  Three pairs of eyes turned to look in his direction. “It was?”

  “Aunt Peg and I watched Best in Show. She bet me the Gordon Setter was going to win. I bet on the Afghan and won a dollar. Can we do this again next week?”

  Out of the mouths of babes, I thought.

  “Not if I can help it,” I said.

  Twenty-five

  In the car on the way home, I asked Kate why she’d brought a tape recorder to the dog show in the first place.

  She’d been staring out the window, but now Kate turned to look at me. I’d been concerned she might be upset. Not this girl. She was beaming. “I thought I might hear something interesting. John had said he was going to meet with Summer’s new sponsor and I knew he’d never let me stand there and listen. That’s the problem with being my age. Whenever adults have something important to say, they send you out of the room.”

  “The same thing happens when you’re my age,” said Davey, who had much of Faith’s body draped across his lap. Tired from the long day, he’d laid his head on top of hers and was almost asleep.

  I smiled at him in the rearview mirror, then went back to the teenager beside me. “I thought I told you not to do any more snooping around.”

  “Not exactly,” Kate said brightly.

  “I’m sure I implied it.”

  “That’s not what I inferred.”

  It’s a sad thing when an eighth grader can outtalk you.

  The next day I got the rest of the story from Aunt Peg, who’d been in touch with Hank DiNardo. John Monaghan had been arrested for the murder of Marcus Rattigan, and the Stamford police were holding Kate’s tape as evidence. I’d probably have to go downtown sometime soon and see Detective Petrie, but in the meantime I was more anxious to talk to Frank and let him know he was off the hook. It was Sunday afternoon before he returned the three messages I’d left on his answering machine.

  “Hey, Mel! Isn’t it great?” he cried. “The police found the actual murderer. It turned out to be some dog guy.”

  “The police found him?” My voice was heavy with sarcasm, but Frank didn’t seem to notice.

  “Yeah, a thirteen-year-old girl got him to confess and managed to tape the whole thing. As far as Detective Petrie is concerned, I’m in the clear. Starting tomorrow, I’m going back to work on the coffee bar. It looks like we’ll be open by Christmas, after all.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said loudly.

  “Now, Mel, don’t feel bad. I know you put some effort into this and I’m sure with a little more time you could have come up with the answer, too.”

  “I did come—”

  “Sure, you came close. You’re good, Mel. That’s why I asked for your help. Listen, Gloria and I have finally come up with the right name for the coffee bar. I want your opinion. Ready?”

  “Yes,” I said weakly. There didn’t seem to be much point in continuing to try and explain.

  “The Bean Counter.”

  So help me, I started to laugh. And once I started, I couldn’t seem to stop. I could faintly hear Frank’s voice squawking in the background. “You like it, don’t you? Laughing is good, right?”

  “Yes, Frank,” I agreed, when I’d finally caught my breath. “Laughing is good.”

  I made a few phone calls that evening and got to school early Monday morning. I wasn’t scheduled to see Spencer Holbrook until afternoon but I caught up with him outside his locker before first period.

  “How was your weekend?” I asked.

  “Great.” Spencer piled his supplies on the floor and slammed the locker door shut. “Big J and I hauled the sailboat out of the water. We spent the whole weekend scrubbing the hull and putting her to bed for the winter.”

  “It sounds like you wouldn’t have had much time to spend on your homework.”

  “No, we were pretty busy.”

  “Miss Kinney told me you had a history paper due this morning. Two pages on the Continental Congress.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” He patted his folder confidently. “It’s right here.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look at it?”

  For the first time Spencer hesitated. “I guess not.” He dug out the paper and handed it over.

  “Let’s step into my classroom, okay?”

  As we walked down the hallway, I skimmed the first page. The report had been prepared on a computer and was neatly typed, with Spencer’s name and class filled in on top. “This is good. Clear, concise, all your facts lined up. It looks like you must have done at least a couple of drafts.”

  “Yeah,” the sixth grader mumbled. “Sure.”

  We entered my room together. I switched on the light and walked over to stand beside my desk. Spencer put his books down on the nearest table and waited to see what would happen next.

  “I just have one question,” I said. “What’s the first sentence?”

  “Huh?”

  “Come on, Spencer, this should be easy. The paper was only assigned Friday. You must have worked on it over the weekend. And you just told me you did several drafts. What’s the first sentence?”

  “I don’t remember. I did that part Friday. That was awhile ago.”

  “Okay.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Then what’s the last sentence?”

  “Uhh.” Spencer thought for a minute. He hadn’t a clue and we both knew it. “It says, ‘That’s why the Continental Congress was so important to the history of America.’ ”

  I glanced down at the paper. “Not even close.”

  He closed his eyes briefly.

  “Do we have to discuss the rest of the facts that are in this paper, or do you want to confess now?”

  “All right. I guess my memory’s not too good.”

  “Your memory is fine, it’s your work ethic that bothers me.” I leaned back and sat down on the edge of my desk. “Who’s been doing your homework for you, Spencer?”

  “Nobody. Honest.”

  I just sat there and gave him the teacher’s stare. You know the one.

  Spencer’s gaze shifted wildly around the room. He was wondering whether he could get away with bluffing. I decided to make the decision easier for him.

  “I spoke with most of your teachers last night. I learned that none of them had ever received a piece of homework from you tha
t was handwritten. Your word processing skills are earning you very high marks for neatness, by the way. And your English teacher credits your writing with a remarkable degree of maturity.

  “You’re a smart kid, Spencer. I know it, and you know it. That’s why I couldn’t figure out why you were having so much trouble on your tests, especially when your homework clearly demonstrated that you knew the material.

  “Then on Saturday I got into a discussion about a man who had a very good dog that he hadn’t bred, or trained, or shown. Even so, he was delighted to put his name on the dog and take all the credit. And when I stopped and thought about that, something just clicked. So here we are. Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  “Parsons,” said Spencer. He was looking at his feet.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Parsons. He’s Big J’s butler. He majored in history and he likes doing homework—”

  “I’ll stop you now before you try and convince me this is his fault. How long has this been going on?”

  “About a year,” he said sheepishly. “Maybe two.”

  “And none of your other teachers ever caught on?” I was incredulous.

  “I guess they’re just not as smart as you.”

  “You’re not going to flatter your way out of this. Don’t even try.”

  “Are you going to report me to Mr. Hanover?”

  “That’s up to you. We’re only two months into the school year. I doubt that any irreparable damage has been done yet. However, I’ll certainly be keeping tabs on the situation. If I were to get the feeling that this was a continuing problem—”

  “You won’t!” Spencer’s relief was evident. “I promise you won’t.”

  “Great.” I reached over and dropped the history paper into the wastebasket.

  “But . . .” His face fell. “That was due today.”

  “Get an extension,” I suggested. “Tell Miss Kinney your dog ate it.”

  “I don’t have a dog.” Spencer picked up his books. Now that he’d weathered the worst of the storm, his cocky grin was back in place. “Maybe I’ll tell her your dog ate it.”

  He ran to the door and let himself out.

  Kate and Lucia came by later that morning. Though Lucia had done well at her horse show that weekend, Kate was the one who had a clipping from that morning’s newspaper with her name in it.

  Lucia looked suitably miffed. “I could catch a murderer, too, if I felt like it.”

  Kate and I exchanged a glance. To our credit, neither one of us laughed. “I need to talk to you later,” I said.

  Kate’s eyes lit up. “Is it another investigation? Do you need some more help?”

  Heaven forbid.

  “No,” said firmly. “This is about something else entirely.”

  After our session had ended, Kate hung back for a minute while Lucia went on to their next class.

  “I talked to a friend of mine last night,” I said. “Her name is Alberta Kennedy. She’s a young professional handler, just getting started. I know how much you enjoyed the work you were doing with John and I figured you’d probably miss it. Bertie can’t afford to pay you anything, but you’d learn a lot working as her assistant and you’d be able to keep going to dog shows—”

  “Oh, Ms. Travis, that’s perfect!” Kate threw her arms around my shoulder and hugged me tightly.

  “You’ll have to get your mother’s permission, okay?”

  “She’ll say yes,” Kate cried happily. “I know she will. Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome.” I could see how this might work out well for everybody. And with luck, Bertie would keep Kate so busy she wouldn’t have time to think about looking for any more mysteries to solve.

  Thursday night was Halloween. Sam arrived just before seven. Davey and I were cleaning up the dinner dishes and listening for the doorbell. Our neighborhood was filled with young children, and the trick-or-treaters would soon be out.

  Sam didn’t ring the bell, however; he simply opened the door and let himself in. The first notice we had of his arrival was when Tar came bounding into the kitchen. A long black cape had been fastened around his neck, and it fluttered and flapped in his wake.

  Faith, who’d been chewing on a fresh marrow bone, jumped up and began to bark. I didn’t know whether she was more flustered by the cape or embarrassed that an intruder had managed to make his way inside without her permission. Tar barked right back, then scooted under the kitchen table in case Faith decided to take offense.

  “Cool!” Davey jumped up out of his chair. His school had held a costume parade earlier in the day, and he’d been dressed as Batman ever since. “What’s he supposed to be?”

  “Bat Dog,” Sam answered, sounding chagrined. “Can’t you tell?”

  “He looks great,” I said.

  Tar had come flying out from beneath the table and was now circling the room at warp speed. Faith looked askance at this demonstration of puppy exuberance, picked up her bone, and carried it into her crate where she could enjoy it in peace.

  “Is he going to come trick-or-treating with us?” Davey asked.

  “Of course. But this is his first Halloween, so you’ll have to show him the ropes.”

  “Okay,” my son said happily. “I can do that.”

  Sam was staring at me with a goofy grin on his face. After a moment I realized why. I was wearing a black leotard, tights, and ballet slippers, along with a long black tail and small pointy ears.

  “Catwoman,” I said sheepishly. This was a side of me Sam hadn’t seen before. “At Howard Academy the teachers dress up. It’s one of those silly private school traditions. I thought there was a certain irony to this particular choice. . . .”

  “You’re babbling,” Sam mentioned. He was still grinning.

  “And you’re staring.” Now I was smiling, too.

  “I guess I like what I see.”

  “Hey!” cried Davey. “I think I hear someone coming!” The doorbell chimed and he went running out to the front hall.

  Sam and I followed. Since he seemed fascinated by the swinging of my tail, I made sure it covered a lot of ground. As we complimented costumes and handed out candy, I rubbed it up against his legs a few times for good measure.

  “Moves like that could get you in trouble,” Sam said when the goblins had disappeared down the steps and Davey had gone to look for the candy bag he’d made that day at school.

  “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  “And to think, I’ve always been a dog man.” He slid a hand down my back and over the curve of my hip. “What’s keeping that thing on there anyway?”

  “Serendipity and safety pins.” I wrapped my arms around him. “I’m hoping my luck holds.”

  “So am I.” Sam’s tone turned sober. “Peg told me what happened last weekend.”

  I stood very still. “And?”

  “I’m wondering why you didn’t tell me yourself.”

  “I didn’t want you to be angry,” I said carefully.

  “Do I look angry?”

  I studied his expression for a moment. “No. But you don’t look happy.”

  “Good. I’d hate for you to think I approve.”

  I eased back out of the circle of his arms. “I don’t need your approval.”

  “Yes, you do.” Sam sounded very sure of himself. “You need it just as much as I need yours, and there’s not a thing either one of us can do about it. I love you, Melanie, and I fell in love with you because of all the things you are, even the ones that make me crazy sometimes.”

  He reached out and took my hand. “I’m sorry, when I rehearsed this at home, I was much more eloquent. Do you want me to go down on one knee and start over?”

  “No, keep going.” It was hard to get the words out; I think I was holding my breath. “Don’t change a thing.”

  “Marry me,” said Sam.

  “Yes.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “It won’t b
e easy.”

  “Since when have I liked easy?”

  Sam groaned softly. I decided not to take it personally.

  Davey came racing back into the hall. He’d found his bag and a piece of red ribbon to tie in Faith’s topknot. “I’m all ready. Is it time to go yet?”

  “Just about,” I said. “Don’t forget your Batmobile.”

  “We’re going to be good together,” Sam said, smiling as Davey dashed away again.

  “Good?” I punched his arm playfully. “Don’t sell yourself short. We’re going to be great.”

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Laurien Berenson’s sixth Melanie Travis mystery

  HUSH PUPPY

  now on sale wherever mysteries are sold!

  One

  My mother always told me never to open a door unless I knew what lay behind it.

  Sound advice, perhaps, but a rule I had trouble adhering to. As an adult, I’d come to realize she’d been speaking metaphorically, attempting to temper my natural enthusiasm with a bit of useful caution. No matter; by then the habit of throwing open doors and rushing gleefully onward was already deeply ingrained.

  Being an optimist, I was always certain that whatever lay beyond each new portal would be a happy surprise, and the few bumps and scrapes I’d suffered along the way had done nothing to diminish that belief. Nevertheless, on that soggy March afternoon, as I hurried through the Howard Academy auditorium, climbed the half flight of steps, and went backstage to the prop room, I wasn’t expecting any surprises at all. Much less the one I found.

  I’d been sent to find an oil painting of Honoria Howard, sister of early-twentieth-century robber baron, Joshua Howard, and cofounder of the school. Commissioned portraits of the pair hung side by side in the front hall of the stone mansion that formed the nucleus of the private academy. This painting, said to be of lesser quality, apparently also suffered the secondary sin of being monstrously unflattering. It had been relegated to storage and eventually found its way to the prop room, where it was hauled out on occasion when a set required period atmosphere.

  Having seen the portrait Honoria favored, indeed having passed by it daily since taking the job as special needs tutor at Howard Academy the previous September, I was privately of the opinion that the woman had been lucky to find an artist who’d been able to record her countenance for posterity without flinching. If that painting featured her good side, I could readily understand why no one had wanted to find wall space for this one.