Raining Cats & Dogs (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

by Laurien Berenson

  By the time I joined Michael on Stacey’s front step, he’d already rung the doorbell. He looked at me in surprise. “Where did you come from?”

  “I’ve been following you since you left Bruce Park.”

  “You have?”

  The man really was oblivious.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to talk to Stacey, too.”

  “Me first,” said Michael. He looked as though he thought I might want to fight him for the privilege.

  So he wouldn’t get the wrong idea about that, I took a step back. At that moment, Stacey opened the door. Her eyes widened. Mouth slightly agape, she stared out at the two of us. Bubbles, standing on the floor beside her, began to bark. The little Papillon bounced up and down in place.

  “May I come in?” Michael asked.

  He didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead, he simply pushed past Stacey and walked into the house. Precedent set, I followed suit. It was nice not to have to be in charge for a change.

  “Melanie?” Stacey asked, sounding confused. “What are you doing here?”

  “Following Michael,” I said. How simple was that?

  She closed the door and turned in place. Michael had kept going; he was heading toward the living room. “You two know each other?”

  “We met a couple of weeks ago, after Mary Livingston died.”

  Stacey seemed frozen in place, stuck in the hall next to the door, as if she was hoping that Michael would come back and she could open it and push the two of us out. Since that didn’t seem likely to happen, I decided to continue following his lead.

  I walked into the living room; reluctantly, Stacey came after us.

  “I wasn’t expecting visitors,” she said.

  I wondered if that was supposed to be a comment about her housekeeping. Compared with my place, her home looked immaculate.

  The living room was decorated in Early American, with dried wreaths on the walls and a hooked rug on the floor. The curtains were sprigged cotton, and the upholstered furniture was covered in denim. The fireplace had been neatly cleaned for spring; logs and andirons had been replaced by a big brass urn that held a spray of dried flowers. There were knickknacks on the mantelpiece and on nearly every other surface in the room, mostly Hummel figurines and small vases holding more dried blooms.

  The place must have been a bitch to dust.

  “Don’t worry,” said Michael. “We won’t be here long.”

  I clasped my hands behind my back and smiled. This really was rather pleasant, I thought. I didn’t have to do any work at all.

  “I want the truth,” said Michael. “And I want it now.”

  He sounded ominous. Stacey began to look a little concerned.

  “What the hell happened between you and my mother?”

  “Oh, dear.” Stacey collapsed into a nearby chair.

  Michael was unimpressed by her dramatic turn. “We’d like some answers,” he said.

  At least, I noted, he’d begun including me in the discussion. Maybe he was hoping I might have something to contribute. Not that I needed to. Things seemed to be going pretty well without me.

  “Maybe you should sit down.” Stacey gestured toward a dark blue love seat with plump, overstuffed cushions. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No,” Michael snapped, answering for both of us. “What I want is for you to tell me what’s really going on here. I thought we met up by accident that day on Greenwich Avenue. What a bit of serendipitous good fortune it seemed like at the time. Now I’m thinking maybe it wasn’t an accident at all.”

  “Of course it was,” said Stacey. “Just a bit of good luck, that’s all.”

  “Then how is it that I find myself wondering why you didn’t seem nearly as surprised to see me as I was to see you. And while you’re explaining that, you might want to rethink your claim that you had remained friends with my mother all these years. Even at the time that struck me as odd considering that she never liked you.”

  Stacey’s eyes blazed. “She did too like me! I told her once that I thought you and I were the perfect couple. That when we got married, our children were going to be beautiful, and she agreed.”

  Michael raked a hand through his hair. “My mother always agreed when people said outrageous things to her; it was just her way of trying to be polite. It didn’t mean anything.”

  “I wasn’t being outrageous! I was telling her the truth.”

  “Except that we didn’t end up getting married,” Michael pointed out. “And we don’t have any children.”

  Stacey frowned in obvious annoyance. “There is that.”

  This was good stuff, I thought. Since it was beginning to look like we were going to be there a while, I went to the love seat and sat down. Bubbles ambled over and sniffed my ankles. Checking out Faith’s scent, no doubt.

  “How did you find out I was back in Greenwich?” Michael asked.

  Stacey mumbled something under her breath.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Paul told me. He told half the class. That obedience club is worse than Melrose Place with all the gossiping that goes on. He was bitching about you coming back to try and coerce money out of his family, and I listened. Paul’s young enough to be from a different generation. He didn’t even know that you and I had once been—”

  “Friends?” Michael supplied.

  “Lovers,” she corrected.

  “For Christ’s sake, Stacey, we were eighteen years old. I doubt that either one of us knew the meaning of love at the time.”

  “We were old enough to make a baby together,” Stacey said quietly.

  Michael stared at her for a long moment. “And mature enough to figure out what to do about that.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  “It had to be done.”

  Both of them seemed to have forgotten I was even in the room.

  “You moved on,” Michael said. “We both did. You got married.”

  “I got divorced.”

  “It happens.”

  Michael walked over to a nearby table and picked up a figurine, a plump shepherdess holding a lamb in her arms. “You always did like trinkets,” he said.

  Stacey’s expression brightened. “See? Even after all these years, you remember. You might have tried to forget me, but you didn’t.”

  “What I remember is your proficiency as a thief,” Michael said coldly. He rubbed his thumb up and down, caressing the cool china curves. “Did this come from a jewelry store in town? Did you slip it into your pocket as you were walking out the door? Or maybe you picked it up in some patient’s room over at Winston Pumpernill.”

  Stacey shrank back as if she’d been slapped. “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I know exactly what I’m saying.” He nodded in my direction. “Melanie tells me there have been a number of incidents at Winston Pumpernill recently. Things have begun to disappear. Now to me, that sounds a lot like old times.”

  Stacey braced her hands against the arms of the chair and rose. “It’s time for you to leave.”

  “Not yet,” said Michael.

  “Get out!”

  She strode forward. Though Stacey tried her best to look threatening, she was smaller than either one of us. Michael could have subdued her easily. If it came to that, I probably could, too. Nevertheless, I stood up and moved to one side as a precaution. As full of surprises as Stacey was proving to be, I didn’t want to be caught flatfooted.

  Michael wasn’t intimidated by her in the least. Instead of retreating, he walked toward her. “Did my mother catch you in the act?” he demanded. “Or did she hear her friends complaining about things that were missing and put two and two together? Either way, I’ll bet she confronted you. That’s just what she would have done. Once a thief, always a thief, right, Stacey?”

  She glared at Michael venomously. Stepping suddenly sideways, she whipped a poker out of the stand of tools beside the fireplace. St
acey spun back around swinging the weapon in a wide arc.

  Michael jumped back just in time to prevent the heavy metal bar from smashing into his side. Even though it was several feet from me, I jumped back, too. My reaction was reflex coupled with a quick reassessment of the situation.

  Momentum from Stacey’s powerful swing carried the poker into a lamp. It flew from an end table and crashed into the wall. The base and the bulb both shattered; shards of glass sprayed toward us.

  Michael looked at the carnage, incredulous. “Are you crazy?”

  “Of course not. I asked you to leave my house, and you didn’t. You were yelling at me. I was afraid for my life and I acted in self-defense.” Stacey’s gaze shifted my way. “You heard him. You saw how he was behaving. I was acting in self-defense.”

  Not by my book, but I wasn’t about to offer any commentary.

  Michael had gone very still. His face was white, his lips drawn in a thin line. “I didn’t really believe it before,” he said. “I couldn’t imagine it was true. But it is, isn’t it? You killed her, didn’t you?”

  “You don’t know anything,” Stacey snapped.

  “Tell us what happened,” I said quietly.

  “Yeah, right. So you can go running straight to the police?”

  “We’re going to the police anyway,” Michael said. “And we’re taking you with us. You may not have to tell us anything, but you will have to talk to them.”

  He advanced toward her. Stacey had lowered the poker. Now she raised it again and took a step back. “Stay away from me!”

  “Like hell.”

  She reached around behind her and grabbed the nearest object, a dainty vase filled with dried flowers. Stacey flung the vase and it hit Michael’s shoulder. She had quite an arm. The blow stopped him in his tracks.

  “Don’t come any closer,” she said, snatching up a china statue.

  Michael reached up and rubbed his shoulder. The vase lay broken at his feet. Bits of dried petals and stems clung to his sweater. He brushed them away.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Your mother was going to tell on me.” Stacey lobbed the statue. Michael ducked to one side. It broke against the wall behind him. “She was going to have me arrested. I would have been booked and prosecuted. And for what? For helping myself to a few small items that none of those old people needed anyway?”

  “You should have tried to reason with her,” said Michael.

  “I did, but she wouldn’t listen. You have no idea what she was like. She said I’d been a wicked girl, and now I was a wicked woman. Who the hell did she think she was to talk to me like that?”

  Stacey swept up another figurine and sent it flying. Michael, distracted, didn’t get out of the way in time. It struck him a glancing blow to the forehead. Blood beaded up on the spot; he didn’t seem to notice.

  Bubbles was pressed up against my legs. Now she began to whine anxiously. I reached down and scooped her up so she wouldn’t step on any broken glass.

  “Why?” Michael asked again. He still sounded as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “She was old,” said Stacey. “She had a weak heart. Her life was almost over anyway, what difference did it make? She’d ruined things for me once already, all those years ago with you. I wasn’t about to let her ruin my life again.”

  “You don’t even sound sorry,” I said.

  Stacey glanced over and saw me holding her dog. The little Papillon was shaking in my arms. Stacey sighed, and her shoulders drooped. She dropped the poker and held out her hands. I placed Bubbles in them.

  “Of course I’m sorry,” she said. “But it still had to be done.”

  28

  Once my hands were free and the china had stopped flying, I pulled out my phone to call the police. It turned out to be unnecessary. You know Aunt Peg. She couldn’t not meddle if her life depended on it. Of course, she’d already contacted the authorities and directed them to Stacey’s house.

  Only minutes passed before a knock sounded at the door. By that time, Michael and Stacey had started arguing again. At least they weren’t throwing things. I stepped carefully through the debris and went to let the officers in.

  There were two of them, unusual in a small town like Darien, and both looked wary. I knew they could hear the yelling behind me. They exchanged a glance.

  “Domestic dispute?” asked one. The older of the two, he looked barely mature enough to shave.

  “No,” I said. “Murder.”

  The younger officer—short, stocky, blonde—cracked a smile. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I took a breath and told myself to bear with them. Darien was a lovely, quiet town. These two probably had no experience with violent crime. Maybe they didn’t even watch crime dramas on TV.

  “A woman named Mary Livingston was murdered at the Winston Pumpernill nursing home in Greenwich two and a half weeks ago,” I told them. “The woman who lives in this house just confessed to that murder. The man inside with her is the murdered woman’s son.”

  “Holy shit!” breathed the younger patrolman.

  I have to admit, it felt good to exceed someone’s expectations for a change.

  The other officer’s hand dropped to his holster. “Are either of them armed?”

  “Only with a fireplace poker and a whole lot of breakable china.”

  As if to punctuate my point, we heard a crash from within. It sounded as though another Hummel had hit the wall.

  They looked at each other again. “We better call for backup.”

  “Your choice.” Now that I’d reported what I knew to the proper authorities, none of this was my problem anymore.

  I slipped around them and down the steps. Looking down the block, I could see Faith sitting in the Volvo, waiting patiently for my return. She spied me through the windshield, stood up, and began to wag her tail. Her whole body wiggled with the effort, and my heart lifted. Being loved by a dog does that to you. It’s an oasis of sanity in a sometimes crazy world.

  I called out Faith’s name and ran the last few steps between us. As I opened the door, she launched herself into my arms, knocking me back a step before I could steady myself. I buried my face in her warm coat and felt restored.

  Once in the car, I called Aunt Peg and filled her in. Then I reminded her about Bubbles and told her there was a good chance the little dog would need short-term rescuing. She thanked me for the heads-up and promised to get right to work. There’s nothing she likes more than a project.

  Midweek, I paid another visit to Winston Pumpernill. I went on my own this time as I had a debt to repay. Before leaving home, I had stopped next door. Anyone with seven cats, I reasoned, had to have at least one that was little and fluffy and cute. Thankfully, I was right.

  Amber lent me a six-month-old kitten named Bosco and a traveling bag to put him in. I carried it tucked under my arm like a purse when I walked into the nursing home and nobody even looked twice. I’d called ahead, and Mrs. Ellis was expecting my visit. Even so, she didn’t look pleased to see me.

  “You again,” she said when I knocked, then waited in the doorway of her room to be admitted.

  “I’m Melanie,” I said, just in case. “Remember?”

  “Of course I remember.” The room was large and had a sitting area on one side—two chairs with a small table between them. Mrs. Ellis was seated in one of the chairs. She’d been reading a book, which she set aside. “I’m not daft, you know. Where’s the big Poodle?”

  “I left her home.” I slipped inside and shut the door. “I brought a different kind of visitor today.”

  I crossed the room and placed the bag on the older woman’s lap. When I unzipped the top, Bosco popped his head out. The kitten was the color of cream, with ears and a mask that were tipped in brown. He looked around alertly and batted at Mrs. Ellis’s fingers with his paw.

  “Oh, my.” Her eyes softened as she gazed at the kitten. “Where did you come from, little man?”

  “I bor
rowed him for the afternoon. His name is Bosco.”

  “Is he a Siamese?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. He belongs to my neighbor. She tends to be a little vague about things like that.”

  With a graceful leap, the kitten launched himself up out of the bag and onto the tabletop. He examined Mrs. Ellis’s reading glasses carefully, then climbed up one side and down the other of her hardcover book. She laughed with delight at his antics.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “Thank you.” I sat down in the chair opposite her.

  “For what?”

  “For pointing me in the right direction. Mary Livingston’s murderer has been arrested. Have you heard about that?”

  Holding out a hand to lure the playful kitten back to her lap, Mrs. Ellis nodded.

  “I think you’ll find that people’s belongings are going to stop disappearing, too.”

  “Aha. So there was a connection?”

  “There was.”

  Bosco skittered off the edge of the table and landed on Mrs. Ellis’s legs with a gentle thump. Her gnarled fingers reached up to stroke the smooth, soft fur. The kitten arched his back and flipped his tail, then rolled his shoulders into the caress. After a minute, he began to purr, his tiny engine rumbling with pleasure.

  The older woman leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and smiled faintly. “Can you stay long?” she asked.

  “I’ve got all afternoon,” I said.

  So we traded houses with Bob. Who would ever have thought that such an unlikely idea would actually come to fruition? Certainly not me. But then, all sorts of things in my life have been coming together lately.

  Maybe my karma is changing for the better. Or maybe it’s Sam’s doing. Or, what the heck, maybe I’m just having a run of good luck. Whatever was responsible, I’m not about to complain.

  The school year is drawing to a close, but while classes are still in session, I’m keeping an eye on Ed Weinstein. I know it and he knows it, and so far his behavior has been above reproach. The minute I get an inkling it isn’t, I’ll shut him down so fast it will make his head spin.