Raining Cats & Dogs (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

by Laurien Berenson

  “For Pete’s sake, Minerva,” said Steve. “Let Melanie catch her breath. We haven’t even left the building yet. She may want to take a little time to digest the experience. Not only that, but she might have had more fun today if you hadn’t decided to be such a show-off—”

  Minnie’s expression darkened. She turned back to frame a retort.

  Then I heard the footsteps behind us and realized why Steve had stopped speaking. Paul was running after us down the corridor. Cora was at his side, her short legs pumping to keep up.

  Paul’s face was white; his features were drawn. He stopped beside us and thrust the Corgi’s leash into the trainer’s hands. “Take her, will you please? Something’s happened. I can’t leave right now.”

  “Of course,” said Steve. “What’s the matter? Is there anything we can do?”

  “It’s Aunt Mary.” Paul choked on a sob. “I went to tell her I was leaving and I found her in her room. It just doesn’t seem possible, but Aunt Mary is dead.”

  7

  “Trouble just seems to follow you around, doesn’t it?” Aunt Peg said.

  A sad fact, and undeniably true. I wished, however, that my aunt didn’t feel compelled to keep pointing it out.

  We were sitting in her living room in Greenwich surrounded by a bevy of black Standard Poodles. After Paul’s surprising announcement, I’d left Winston Pumpernill intending to drive home. Instead, with Aunt Peg’s house only a short distance away, I’d found myself going there.

  Talking to Aunt Peg is often helpful when I need to make sense of difficult situations. She’s a good sounding board; plus, having lived a very full life, she’s pretty much seen it all. Very few things shock Aunt Peg, and Mary Livingston’s death was apparently no exception.

  “We’re talking about a woman who was how old?” she asked.

  “In her early eighties, but she looked great. I was just talking to her half an hour earlier. There wasn’t the slightest indication then that anything was wrong.”

  “In the sunroom,” Aunt Peg said with a nod. I’d already described much of my visit to the nursing facility. “And yet shortly thereafter, she must have gone back to her room for some reason, even though the visit from your obedience club was still in progress. Was that normal for her—to leave in the middle like that?”

  “I have no idea. This was the first time I’d ever been. People did seem to be coming and going all the time, however. Some stayed in the room for the entire visit and others didn’t.”

  “But Mary Livingston had a family member present. A young man who was apparently responsible for the very fact that you were there. It seems unlikely she would have left unless she had a good reason. Perhaps she felt unwell and went back to her room to lie down.”

  That sounded like as good an explanation as any, especially in light of what had followed.

  “Paul didn’t say how his aunt died, although it was obviously sudden and unexpected. If he hadn’t gone looking for her before we left, we would never even have known.”

  Aunt Peg pondered that. As always, there was a Poodle within easy reach. Her retired stud dog, Beau, was lying on the floor next to her chair. Peg rubbed her foot back and forth across the big dog’s shoulders absently.

  “You never really knew your grandparents, did you?” she said after a minute.

  “No, they died when I was very young.”

  “You’ve probably never seen anyone you were close to grow old and have to deal with deteriorating health and the infirmities of advancing age. I know what happened today came as a shock to you, but to me it sounds almost like a blessing. To live to a fine old age and be in good health right up until the moment of one’s death? I’d certainly rather go that way than in any number of other scenarios I can come up with.”

  “I know,” I said with a sigh. “And it’s selfish of me to think only of my own reaction. But I can’t help it. I’d just met Mary and her friends. And I’d liked all of them. To have the visit end that way was unimaginable.”

  Aunt Peg settled back in her chair. Zeke, Eve’s littermate, whom she had handled to his championship the previous year, got up and padded over. Faith was lying beside me on the couch, her neck and head snuggled along the length of my thigh. Zeke touched noses briefly with his dam, then stepped over Beau and laid his muzzle in Aunt Peg’s lap.

  Now she had two Poodles vying for her attention. Aunt Peg gave equal due to both and didn’t miss a beat. She also had a question for me.

  “From what I’ve heard so far, your group sounds a little different than the therapy dog programs I’ve heard about. Are they affiliated with any of the official associations?”

  Aunt Peg is a wellspring of knowledge when it comes to anything having to do with dogs. Breeding and exhibiting in conformation are her first loves, but she also judges and does agility, not to mention serving on the boards of her local Poodle and all-breed clubs. With her vast array of experience in the dog world, I wasn’t surprised that she knew all about therapy dogs. Not only that, but in anticipation of my visit to Winston Pumpernill, I’d been doing some reading up on the subject myself.

  “For starters,” I said, “we’re not, at least in any way that I can see, a traditional therapy dog group. We’re an obedience club that, at the suggestion of one of our members, happens to visit a nursing home on the side. I’ve been told this is an informal arrangement; one that Winston Pumpernill, luckily enough, is happy to accommodate.

  “All the dogs have basic obedience training. They’re all outgoing and well behaved.” I paused, then amended that. “Well, all but one are, anyway. But as far as I know, none are certified as therapy dogs. We’re really just a bunch of volunteers.”

  “I believe the same could be said of most people who work with therapy dogs,” Aunt Peg said. “And I think it’s admirable that your group has undertaken such a worthwhile endeavor. I’d imagine some of the dogs in your class have passed the C.G.C. test?”

  C.G.C. stood for Canine Good Citizen. Dogs that wanted to earn the degree needed to be sociable, well socialized, and have some obedience training. Ten different exercises, mimicking those they might encounter in everyday life, were performed, and the dogs had to remain calm and friendly throughout. It wasn’t unusual for dog shows to offer C.G.C. certification. Faith had passed when she was younger, and so had Eve.

  “I haven’t talked to any of the other handlers about it,” I said. “But I wouldn’t be at all surprised. There’s only one dog in the group that looks as though it would have a problem. Or maybe he just looks as though he could be a problem. He’s an Akita named Boss.”

  Aunt Peg lifted a brow. The gesture spoke volumes.

  “I know,” I admitted. “Bad sign.”

  “Indeed. Akitas are strong dogs. And they’re strong willed. They need a determined owner who knows what he or she is doing.”

  “From what I’ve seen, I wouldn’t exactly call Kelly Marx determined. And she does seem to have some difficulty controlling the dog. But at least she had the good sense to sign up for an obedience class so she could get some help.”

  “I presume your instructor stays on top of things?”

  I nodded. “Steve Barton. I’ve only seen him in action twice so far, but he’s very good with the dogs. He’s also good at handling the owners. Except perhaps for Minnie Lloyd.

  “Standard Schnauzer,” I added automatically, before Aunt Peg could ask. Minnie’s age, height, or the color of her hair would be immaterial to Peg. But the woman’s preference in dogs would interest her enormously.

  “Why do you suppose she would take a class from someone she didn’t like?” she mused aloud. “There are obedience clubs all over Fairfield County. It shouldn’t be that hard to find another one.”

  “I don’t know. But I’m betting there’s some history there. Most of the people who are in the advanced class have been training with Steve for a while. Aside from me, the only newcomers to the session are Kelly, with Boss, and Paul.

  “It’s really too
bad you never got a chance to meet his Aunt Mary. She was a real dog lover. It was because of her that the visits came about in the first place. From what I was able to tell, the two of you would have gotten along famously.”

  “She does sound like someone whose company I would have enjoyed. Why don’t you follow up with Paul, and I’ll do some asking around of my own. Perhaps one of the local dog clubs would like to make a contribution in his aunt’s name to her favorite charity.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  I was just standing up to leave when the doorbell rang. Immediately, all seven Poodles that had been scattered on the floor around us leaped to their feet and ran from the room barking. They think of themselves as Aunt Peg’s guardians, and they take their job seriously. They hate it when someone manages to get all the way up the driveway without being announced.

  “Are you expecting someone?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Aunt Peg replied. The Poodles abruptly quieted, and we heard the sound of the front door closing. “Not everyone simply drops by whenever the mood strikes them. Most people call ahead and give me some warning of their intentions.”

  “At least I don’t take the liberty of letting myself in,” I said. I heard a low voice crooning in the hallway and greeting each of the Poodles by name.

  “You would if you had this much junk to carry around,” said my sister-in-law, Bertie. She appeared in the arched doorway, surrounded by the fawning pack of Poodles. Both her hands were full and a big bag was slung over her shoulder. I wondered how she’d managed to get through the door in the first place.

  “Part of what you’re so rudely referring to as junk is my new niece,” I said with a grin. “Hand her over.”

  “With pleasure.” Bertie crossed the room and plunked the sleeping baby into my arms. “In fact, if you’d like to hold her for the next three or four hours, I wouldn’t mind having a nap.”

  “Fine by me.” Since it didn’t look as though I’d be leaving anytime soon, I sank back down on the couch.

  Frank and Bertie’s baby daughter had been christened Emma Margaret and had spent the first week of her life being called Emma. The name hadn’t stuck, however. Frank kept tripping over it, and Bertie insisted that her daughter didn’t have near the amount of dignity that a name like Emma required. They’d tried calling her Margaret, which had been quickly shortened to Maggie. Mostly, Bertie seemed to call the baby pretty much anything that popped into her head.

  “Mags fell asleep in the car,” she said. “Don’t you just love it? The one time that I can’t nap with her, she finally decides to take a snooze.”

  At four months of age, Maggie had yet to sleep through the night. Both Bertie and my brother were beginning to look a little worn around the edges. For my sister-in-law, that meant being downgraded from absolutely stunning to merely beautiful. Despite her complaining, however, Bertie glowed with a newfound happiness that was undimmed by her lack of sleep.

  “Look at all this stuff.” She shrugged out of her jacket and dumped the supplies she’d been carrying onto a chair. “Diaper bag, baby seat, change of clothing. I can barely leave the house without loading myself down like a pack mule. How come nobody warns you ahead of time that having a baby changes your whole life?”

  “We did,” I said.

  “Well then,” Bertie grumbled, “how come you didn’t make me listen?”

  “Because in some ways you’re just like Melanie,” Aunt Peg said briskly. “You take other people’s opinions under advisement, but in the end you do exactly what you meant to do all along.”

  “Gee,” I said, looking at Peg. “I guess some traits run in the family.”

  As one, the three of us gazed at baby Maggie, who was sleeping blissfully in my arms. Right at that moment, she scarcely looked capable of causing any trouble at all.

  “Oh, yeah,” Bertie muttered. “Like she’s going to be easy.”

  “No possibility there.” I unwound the warm outer blanket Maggie had been wrapped in and set it aside. “But think of all the fun you’re going to have.”

  “Don’t listen to a single rotten word I say. I’m having a blast already.” Bertie sat down next to me on the couch and held out her arms.

  “No way.” I angled Maggie away. “I just got her. Wait your turn.”

  “While you two fight over the baby,” said Peg, “I’m going to go see if there’s any cake left in the kitchen.”

  “You can feel free to supersize my piece,” Bertie said. Post-baby, she’d returned to her normally svelte figure in no time at all. “One of the best perks of motherhood is this breast-feeding thing. I may not be sleeping, but I can eat like a horse and not gain an ounce.”

  “Plus you get boobs,” I pointed out.

  “I always had boobs. You’re the one who’s a little sparse in that department.”

  “Maybe I should give you your child back. Separation anxiety is making you mean.”

  “Ha!” Bertie retorted. “I’ve always been mean. It just took you a while to notice.”

  “That’s because we were so relieved to find someone who would even think of taking Frank off our hands, we didn’t dare say much for fear you might change your mind.”

  “Too late for that now.” Bertie settled back. “I guess I’m in it for the long haul. You look pretty good holding that baby.”

  “Hard not to,” I said, dipping my head down to kiss Maggie’s tiny pink nose. “I can’t believe she got your red hair.”

  “Frank loves it.” Bertie sighed happily. “Shows what he knows. But since we’re on the subject of babies…”

  I lifted my eyes. What else could we be talking about with Maggie in the room? Well, dogs, I supposed. With Bertie being a professional handler, that subject usually got a lot of play, too. But Bertie looked so serious all of a sudden that I decided to place the sleeping infant back in her arms and see what was on her mind.

  “You know I have to ask,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Everyone wants to know.”

  “Me, too,” Peg called from the kitchen. She has ears like a bat. “So wait until I get back.”

  “Know what?”

  Bertie stared at me as though I were being inordinately slow. “When you and Sam are going to start trying to have a baby?”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that!”

  “We’re newlyweds, Bertie. We try all the time.”

  “Of course you do. But is it working?”

  I laughed out loud. “What kind of question is that?”

  “The kind we all want to know the answer to,” said Aunt Peg. She reappeared with a tray holding three pieces of cake, two glasses of milk, and a cup of tea.

  “Milk?” I stared at the tray in horror. “You’re already giving me milk?” The tea, I knew, had to be for Aunt Peg. And she’d been forcing milk on Bertie for months now. This was the first time, however, that she’d served it to me. “Don’t you think that’s a little premature?”

  “I don’t know,” Peg said blithely as she handed the plates around. “Is it? And by the way, I hope you’re taking folic acid, too.”

  I looked at my plate. Predictably, the piece of cake Aunt Peg had served me was big enough for two people.

  “Has it occurred to you,” I asked, “that maybe you should mind your own business?”

  “Oh, pish,” Peg replied. “If this isn’t our business, whose is it? It took us three years just to get the two of you married off. Now we’re ready for the next step. Some of us aren’t getting any younger, you know.”

  “And some of us would like our children to have little cousins to play with,” Bertie mentioned.

  “Now you two are ganging up on me?”

  “You got it, babe.” Bertie stuffed an enormous piece of cake in her mouth and smiled blissfully. “So hurry things up, okay?”

  I guessed I had my orders.

  Like that hadn’t happened before.

  8

  Monday morning found me at work, as usua
l. For the last two and a half years, I’ve been employed as a special needs tutor at an upscale private school in Greenwich. Howard Academy offers classes for kindergarten through eighth grade. Upon graduation, most of our students go on to their parents’ alma maters, schools like Choate, Taft, and Ethel Walker.

  I love my job, and for the most part, I adore the kids I work with. They’re lively, sophisticated, and intelligent. Some of them are sweet, many are spoiled; and it always surprises me how many are being raised almost entirely by nannies and au pairs. One thing the majority of them have in common is that when there’s a problem with schoolwork, their parents don’t want to deal with it. In fact, according to Russell Hanover II, the school’s headmaster, they don’t even want to hear about it.

  It’s Mr. Hanover’s job to deliver only good news to those people who pay the bills for our hefty tuition, it’s my job to see that the good news is justified. Children who fall behind academically come to me during the course of the school day for additional tutoring, and we work closely together on the subjects with which they need help.

  Mostly, I’m supposed to teach, but more importantly, I’m supposed to get results. Consequently, depending on what’s needed, I might be called upon to assume the role of guidance counselor, mentor, best friend, or, occasionally, drill sergeant. At least my job is never dull.

  One of the best things about Howard Academy is that it is a dog-friendly environment. From the time Faith and Eve were puppies, they’ve accompanied me to school, spending their days lounging on a big cedar dog bed I keep in the corner of my classroom. Over time, the Poodles have become unofficial school mascots. It’s not unusual for kids to greet them before speaking to me upon entering the room.

  Their absentee parents might not approve of such manners, but I don’t mind a bit.

  Brittany Baxter was my first student Monday morning. A seventh grader, she was twelve going on twenty. Other girls in her class wore braces, had pimples, or were coping with awkward growth stages. Not Brittany. All blond hair and creamy skin, she glided into the room like a queen, effortlessly pulling off the difficult feat of looking sexy in the school uniform: a plaid wool skirt, white button-down shirt, and knee socks.