Pup Fiction

by Laurien Berenson

  To be fair, he did hear me out. Then, when it was his turn to talk, he offered me . . . nothing. Sturgill wasn’t impressed with anything I’d brought him. It was clear he still thought of Emily as a likely suspect in her ex-husband’s murder. I could only hope that one of the small nuggets of information I’d passed along might convince him to keep an open mind.

  * * *

  That night, Aunt Peg showed up just before dinner.

  “Did we know she was coming?” I asked Sam.

  I was guessing no. Because he looked just as surprised as I did.

  “I knew!” Kevin cried happily. “I invited her.”

  That was a pleasant change. Usually Aunt Peg invited herself.

  “When did you do that?” I asked Kev.

  “This morning before camp. She called on the phone. She wanted to talk to you.”

  “I was here,” I said, thinking back. Of course I’d been here. I lived here. “Why didn’t you bring me the phone?”

  “Apparently you were in the shower,” Aunt Peg said. Davey had let her in the front door, and she’d spent the next five minutes saying hello to the Poodles before moving on to engage the less important (i.e., human) members of her family. “He told me he wasn’t allowed to let the phone get wet.”

  “Smart kid,” Davey said.

  Kev grinned. He lived for praise from his brother. “I told her she should come to our house for dinner.”

  “And I agreed that was a splendid plan.” Aunt Peg looked around at us. “Except now it appears that nobody was aware of it except Kevin and me.”

  “No problem,” I said quickly. “I’m making pasta with fresh tomatoes, spinach, and mushrooms. I’ll just throw some extra stuff in the pot.”

  “Aunt Peg can have my garlic bread,” Kevin said. “Because. . . ewww.”

  I sighed. That child’s tastes changed weekly. “I thought you liked garlic bread. Last time I served it, you ate two pieces.”

  Davey began to laugh.

  I rounded on him. “What?”

  “Kevin didn’t eat it. Bud’s the one who ate two pieces.”

  “Really?” I glared at my family.

  Three heads nodded. Even Sam’s. That was a low blow.

  “You let Kevin give Bud garlic bread?” I asked my husband.

  “Believe me, there was no permission involved,” Sam said. “I just happened to catch a glimpse of the handover, and by then it was too late.”

  “That little dog is a menace,” I muttered. “I ought to ban him from the kitchen during meals.”

  “You can try.” Davey looked like he was already calculating the odds of my likely failure.

  “Speaking of Bud,” Aunt Peg said. “Where is he?”

  Oh good lord. She was right. Bud was missing.

  I headed straight for the kitchen. With my luck, he was probably swimming in the pot with the pasta.

  * * *

  Fortunately, the pasta did not have to be rescued from Bud. And he hadn’t even glanced at the vegetables that were simmering in olive oil and herbs. So dinner proceeded without a hitch—if you didn’t count the fact that the boys refused to set the dining room table because Aunt Peg was family, which to them meant that we should eat in the kitchen.

  Aunt Peg was no help in that regard. She insisted the boys were correct, that she most definitely was not company. Then she set the big round kitchen table herself. Sometimes there’s mutiny on all fronts in my house.

  After dinner, the boys went into the living room to play a video game. Sam, Aunt Peg, and I lingered at the table with our coffee and tea. Now that we were alone, Aunt Peg could finally broach the topic that had prompted that morning’s call. We were all in agreement that any conversation regarding Will Grace’s murder was only suitable for adult ears.

  “I’ve been doing a bit of sleuthing,” she announced. “And it turned out my guess was correct. The sire of Emily’s Dalmatians is a dog named Champion AllSpots Alistair. He belongs to Deborah Munch, who lives in Scarsdale.”

  “Good work,” I said. “Did she tell you how Will Grace ended up with the three puppies?”

  “No,” Aunt Peg admitted. “And you can’t jump ahead. Because after that, I ran into a bit of a snag. Deborah owns the puppies’ sire, but she wasn’t the breeder of the litter they came from.”

  “But she must have known who was,” Sam pointed out.

  Aunt Peg nodded. “That was Mr. Rory Scott from eastern Pennsylvania. Deborah said he had a lovely Dalmatian bitch and was very excited about the breeding. She looked forward to receiving rapturous reports from him about the litter. And in the beginning she did. Then, rather abruptly, all communication from Mr. Scott ceased.”

  “Did she ask why?”

  “Not immediately. Deborah didn’t want to be a bother. But she’d been thinking about taking a bitch from the litter herself—and eventually she decided that interest entitled her to exhibit a little nosiness as to how they were doing.”

  “And?” I prompted when Aunt Peg paused for a sip of tea.

  “In the interim, half the litter seemed to have vanished.”

  “Vanished?” Sam repeated. “Rory Scott told her that?”

  “Not in so many words. Indeed, not in many words at all. I gather Mr. Scott was rather curt with her. Whereas earlier, he’d been elated about the quality of the puppies and their future prospects in the show ring, later he would only say that the three bitches were already gone.”

  “Gone where?” I asked.

  “That is the salient question, isn’t it?” Aunt Peg gazed at the two of us. “Deborah was quite crushed by the outcome. She was sure she had made her interest clear to Mr. Scott. Indeed, she’d been planning a trip to Pennsylvania to see the litter. And then suddenly the bitches were no longer available.”

  “We need to talk to Rory Scott,” I said.

  “Of course we do,” Aunt Peg agreed. “And we shall do so on Friday.”

  “Friday?” I frowned. What was Friday?

  “The dog show in Rumson,” Sam supplied. “Coral’s entered to try to win another major.”

  Of course. How could I have forgotten that?

  “Do we know whether Rory Scott also has an entry?” I asked.

  “We do,” Aunt Peg told me. “And he does.”

  There was no point in asking where she’d gotten that information. Aunt Peg always had her ways.

  “Now,” she said, sounding pleased with herself, “on to the next topic.”

  There was more? Full credit to Aunt Peg. She might show up unexpectedly, but her visits were never dull.

  “That name you mentioned last week, Malcom Hancock? I remembered why it sounded familiar.”

  “Is that Malcom Hancock of Hancock Finance?” Sam asked. When I’d told him about Emily’s financial problems, I must not have mentioned who the leaseholders were.

  “Quite so,” said Aunt Peg.

  “He died last year,” Sam said. “I read about it in the paper.”

  “Yes, and the lease he held on Emily’s property transferred to his heirs,” I told him.

  “It was one of those heirs I remembered hearing about,” Aunt Peg said. “Quite a few years ago, one of Hancock’s children was arrested after a hit-and-run accident in Greenwich. A pedestrian was mowed down by a driver who immediately left the scene. The pedestrian later died, so it all became rather a big deal.”

  “It sounds as though it should have been,” said Sam.

  “Things were very different in those days. We told ourselves that crimes were committed by criminals, and not by teenagers who’d been raised in the lap of luxury and given every advantage.”

  I snorted under my breath.

  Aunt Peg looked at me and nodded. “Indeed. Evidence from the scene proved that Hancock’s teenage son was the person responsible. As you can imagine, the media had a field day with that.”

  “Did he go to jail?” I asked.

  “No, he did not. His father hired him an excellent lawyer, who made sure the boy did ev
erything right. He confessed to what he’d done, apologized to the grieving family, vowed to turn his life around, and threw himself on the mercy of the court. In the end, he was given probation and community service.”

  “He wouldn’t get off so leniently now,” Sam said.

  “No, he would not,” Aunt Peg replied crisply. “The tables have turned in that regard, and that’s all to the good. After the deal was struck, the media lost interest in the story. The teen—who, I’m sure, was strongly advised to keep his head down and his hands clean—faded from view. I hadn’t thought about him in years. He must be in his mid-thirties by now.”

  “What was his name?” I asked. “Do you remember?”

  “Yes, it stuck in my mind because it was unusual. The boy’s name was Peyton. Peyton Hancock.”

  Chapter 22

  “Wow,” I said.

  Sam and Aunt Peg both turned to look at me.

  “Peyton Hancock is the person Emily has been dealing with about her lease renewal. She told me to stay away from him.”

  “Oh pish,” said Aunt Peg. “That’s the last thing you should do. Peyton Hancock may well be the key to everything that’s gone wrong at Graceland School. Of course you should go see him. What have you been waiting for?”

  Good question. The truth was, I’d put off talking to Peyton because I was more than a little intimidated by the idea of bearding the scion of Hancock Finance in his den. And nothing Aunt Peg had said tonight made the idea seem any more appealing.

  She was right, however. It was imperative that I find out what Peyton Hancock had to say.

  “I’ll go tomorrow,” I told her.

  “Good.” Aunt Peg nodded. “Then there’s one last thing we need to talk about. The Graceland School benefit.”

  Oh right. As if I didn’t already have enough to do.

  “Emily and I have been busy making plans,” she told us. “We’ve chosen a date and a name. We’re calling the event ‘A Day in the Country.’ ”

  “I like that,” said Sam. “Except it doesn’t say anything about purebred dogs or responsible breeders.”

  Aunt Peg was unconcerned. “Don’t worry, we explain that part when we describe what the event is about.”

  “Describe it where?” I asked.

  “Emily is a whiz at social media. So far, she has us on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. As of this morning, the Facebook page has more than a thousand likes.”

  I shook my head. The mind boggled.

  “When’s the date?” asked Sam.

  “The first weekend of August.”

  “That’s just three weeks away.” Sam sounded just as surprised by that as I was.

  “No time like the present,” Aunt Peg said cheerfully. “Since we’re holding the event at Graceland, it made sense to fit it in between the end of the first camp session and the beginning of the second. I’ve already lined up nearly sixty tri-state breeders who want to participate. At least a dozen of them will be showcasing new or rare breeds. I expect we’ll draw quite a crowd.”

  “It’s great that you’ve found so many members of the dog community who want to take part,” said Sam. “But if the whole point of the benefit is to raise money—”

  “We’ll be charging admission,” Aunt Peg broke in. “Five dollars for individuals and ten dollars for families. With free parking. Plus, each breeder will be donating a sum that’s equal to a single dog show entry.”

  “That’s all good,” Sam tried again. “And I can see you bringing in plenty of Graceland parents who are eager to support the cause. But if you want the event to be a real success, you’re going to have to find a way to attract a much wider audience.”

  “Like television coverage, perhaps?”

  “If only that were possible.” I said.

  “It’s already lined up,” she informed us blithely.

  Sam and I both stared at her. “How did you manage that?”

  “Local TV stations are always looking for human interest stories. So I presented them with one. I called it, ‘Westminster Dog Show Judge Rallies Community to Save Beloved Neighborhood School.’ ”

  I started to laugh. Aunt Peg just kept talking.

  “The producer lapped it right up. An angle like that is right up their alley. The day before the benefit, a reporter is going to interview me on the six p.m. news. I’ll be sure to have a bevy of adorable dogs with me. Trust me, no one will be able to resist.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about this earlier?” I asked.

  “Why didn’t you ask?” she shot back.

  “Is there anything else you’ve lined up for the event that you haven’t bothered to mention?” Sam asked.

  Aunt Peg’s eyes were twinkling. “We also have three food trucks coming. Did I tell you about that?”

  Sam and I shook our heads.

  “How about the country western band?”

  I sputtered out a laugh. “Aunt Peg, where did you find a country western band?”

  “At a country western bar, of course. Where else would you look? Such lovely young men. They’ve agreed to donate their time and play for tips.”

  “I’m impressed,” I said.

  “As you should be,” Aunt Peg replied. “When I put my mind to something, there’s very little I can’t accomplish.”

  As if anybody doubted that.

  “The same is true for you,” she said into the silence that followed that pronouncement.

  “Pardon me?”

  “It’s time for you to get yourself in gear.” Aunt Peg removed Raven’s head from her lap and rose from the table. “I’m not the only one who has things to do. You. Peyton Hancock. Tomorrow. Don’t take no for an answer.”

  * * *

  So I followed Aunt Peg’s example and went for it.

  That meant stretching the truth a bit when I called Hancock Finance the next morning to make an appointment. I implied that I was representing Graceland School and told Peyton’s secretary I needed to discuss options that would be available to us going forward. He put me in the book for one-thirty that afternoon.

  After I dropped the boys off at camp and ran some errands, that still left me with several hours to kill. I filled them mostly by giving in to my nerves and pacing around the house. Faith tried to help. She had no idea what I was worried about, but her footsteps followed me quietly from room to room anyway. Faith’s unconditional support was always welcome.

  When it was finally time to get ready to go, I pulled a cream-colored linen suit out of the back of my closet. I hadn’t worn it in several years, but thankfully it still fit. I put a pink camisole underneath the jacket and matching pink sandals on my feet.

  When I studied my reflection in the mirror, I almost didn’t recognize myself. Sam must have felt the same way.

  He stuck his head out of his office as I was leaving and said, “That’s what you’re wearing?”

  “Yes.” I stopped in my tracks. “What’s wrong with it?”

  Sam didn’t answer right away. He was still staring.

  “It’s a suit,” I told him. “It makes me look businesslike.”

  “No, not really,” he said. “It makes you look like you arrived in a pink Cadillac that you earned by selling cosmetics door-to-door.”

  That wasn’t the first impression I’d been aiming for. Not even close.

  “I’ll change,” I said quickly.

  Sam checked his watch. “You don’t have time.”

  “I’ll have to make time.” I was already heading for the stairs. “You just told me I look like a popsicle.”

  “A very pretty popsicle,” Sam said. I paused again. “Besides, what do I know? I work in a home office and never see anyone. And women’s fashion is a mystery to me. I’m sure you look fine.”

  I turned to face him. “That’s not what you said a minute ago.”

  “A minute ago, I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Or, a minute ago you were being truthful. And now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

&nb
sp; “I hope it’s working,” Sam said. “I’d give you a hug, but I’m pretty sure that suit is linen, and I don’t want to make things worse than they already are.”

  I nodded. And looked at my own watch. I was out of time.

  “Go,” he told me. “You look terrific.”

  I swept my car keys off the side table, then reached down to give Faith a quick pat. “I should have just worn shorts,” I muttered as I let myself out.

  * * *

  Hancock Finance was located in a three story office building a block away from Greenwich Avenue. The building had a square concrete façade and three rows of large windows that sparkled in the summer sun. A directory inside the front door informed me that Hancock Finance’s offices were on the top floor.

  I exited the elevator directly into the company’s reception area. A young man seated behind a desk asked if he could help me. I gave him my name and expected to be asked to wait. Instead, he immediately stood.

  “Please come this way,” he said. “Mr. Hancock is expecting you.”

  We walked down a short hallway to a door that was partially open. The receptionist knocked, then motioned for me to step inside the room. When I had, he withdrew and closed the door behind me.

  Peyton Hancock’s office was large and furnished in a stark, modern motif. A rug with a geometric pattern covered the center of the floor, and a big plexiglass and chrome table served as his desk. Light poured in through the windows that filled one entire wall.

  Peyton Hancock looked younger than I’d expected. Tall and trim, he stood up and walked around his desk as the door closed behind me. A suit jacket hung over the back of his chair, and the top two buttons of his dress shirt were undone. His sleeves were rolled back, revealing forearms that were covered with a dusting of blond hairs. Peyton greeted me with the kind of smile that seemed calculated to inspire confidence in potential investors.

  We introduced ourselves and sat down in a pair of armchairs that faced each other across a low table. There was a full bar built into a nearby alcove.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Peyton asked. “Beer? Wine? Sparkling water? Or Hal can bring us coffee, if you’d prefer.”

  “No, thank you.” I realized that my fingers were clenched together in my lap. Pulling them apart, I smoothed the wrinkles from my skirt. “I’m fine.”