Unleashed (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

by Berenson, Laurien

  “I didn’t realize you had a key until Brian told me,” I mentioned, following him inside.

  “Sheila made a copy and gave it to me. She figured I knew better than anyone how forgetful she could be. She thought people who stuck their spare under the mat or above the doorsill were crazy.”

  Sam stopped and sucked in a breath. “I guess you could say that’s ironic, considering how things turned out.”

  I started toward the living room and found myself hesitating in the doorway. With its faded hooked rug and stone fireplace, the room looked peaceful and cozy, the last kind of place where something sinister might take place. A ribbon of bright yellow tape crossed the kitchen door. Deliberately, I looked the other way.

  “Did you ever have to come and let her in?”

  “Once.” Sam smiled faintly. “Right after she got here.”

  Back in the days when Sheila’d still believed that all she’d have to do to win Sam back was ask.

  “Don’t tell me, it was after dark, right?”

  “After work,” Sam corrected.

  “Candles lit?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  Sheila had loved candles. Several fat, ivory wax globes sat, even now, on the mantelpiece and the sideboard.

  “Was she wearing a negligee?”

  Sam slanted me a look. “She was outside when I got here. That was the point, remember?”

  I shrugged. “Just trying to set the scene.”

  “She was wearing a suit. Navy blue jacket and skirt. No blouse. No stockings. High heels.”

  This from a man who took a week to notice when I got my hair cut. Obviously what had stuck in his mind was what she hadn’t had on.

  I watched him glance toward the open door to Sheila’s bedroom. The double bed hadn’t been made. Pale yellow sheets lay tangled around a burgundy patterned quilt.

  Sam must have felt my gaze. “She never made the bed,” he said. His voice sounded thick. “It used to drive me crazy.”

  Then you got over it, I thought. Then you got over her. Right?

  I knew it was normal for him to grieve. And that it was petty and selfish of me to resent the feelings he’d had for his ex-wife—especially under the circumstances. But the worst thing was, deep down inside, I knew I wasn’t sorry Sheila was dead. In some ways, I was even relieved. So how awful a person did that make me?

  “The pills should be in the bathroom,” Sam said. “Do you mind having a look? I’ll be along in a minute.”

  “Okay.” I wondered where he was going. And why he was trying to send me in the other direction.

  It took only a minute to find the Pug’s medicine. The vial was right where Sam and Brian had said it would be. Synthyroid, the label read. Prescribed for Blossom by Thaddeus Read, DVM.

  I walked back out into the living room. Sam had disappeared, but it wasn’t hard to figure out where he’d gone. The bedroom door was farther ajar than it had been a minute earlier and I could hear the sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor.

  “Sam?” I crossed the hall and stopped in the doorway.

  He was standing on the other side of the small room, between the bed and a window. His hands were clutching a silver picture frame that looked as though it had been on the nightstand. Sam was staring at the photograph with such intensity that he seemed to suck the very air out of the room.

  “What’s that?”

  He stiffened, and it took a moment for him to pull his thoughts back from where they’d been. “Just an old picture.”

  Judging by his stance, the memento he held in his hands wasn’t just an old anything. I watched his thumb rub back and forth slowly over the frame’s beveled edge. The caress seemed involuntary; I doubted he was even aware he was making it.

  “Of Sheila?”

  Sam nodded, and held it out for me to see. “Happier times.”

  It was hard not to feel a pang when I saw the photograph. In it, Sheila was laughing, her head thrown back with delight. Her sleek, dark hair, longer than she’d worn it recently, was gathered back in a ponytail. Sunlight glinted off its depths. She looked young, and happy, and very beautiful.

  Glare from the light filtering in through the filmy curtains obscured a portion of the glass. I tipped the photo so I could see it better. The image cleared and my breath caught.

  What Sam hadn’t mentioned was that he was in the picture too. This was Sam as I’d never known him—younger, more vulnerable; his T-shirt tight, his face unlined. His arm was slung casually around Sheila’s shoulders; her hand rested on his chest, fingers like slim arrows pointing toward his heart. He, too, was laughing.

  “Was this when you were married?” I asked.

  “Before. The day we got engaged, actually. We were hiking in the mountains. I’d just asked Sheila to marry me. She said yes just as another hiker came up the trail. We handed him the camera and asked him to take a shot. This was it.”

  Sam reached out to reclaim the photo, handling it gently as though it was very precious. “This frame belonged to my grandmother. She gave it to Sheila and me when we got married. This is the only picture we ever put in it.”

  “You looked so young.”

  “And felt it.” He sighed. “Back then, we thought anything was possible.”

  The wistfulness in his tone stung me like a slap. “It still is.”

  “On good days.” Taking the photograph with him, Sam strode from the room.

  I followed more slowly. We’d left the front door open and as we reached the hall, I heard the sound of a car bouncing up the rutted driveway. Together Sam and I walked out onto the porch.

  It wasn’t a car that approached, but rather a truck. A midsize Ford pickup that looked as though it had seen better days. The driver stopped in front of the house and got out.

  He was a good six inches shorter and two decades older than Sam, with heavy jowls and a sunburn on his cheeks and nose. His Levi’s jeans were faded; his boots, scuffed. He looked just as surprised to see us as we were to see him. Reaching back onto the seat of the truck, he slapped a baseball cap over his receding hairline before stepping forward warily.

  “Help you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Sam, eyeing the man’s stance. “Who are you?”

  “Chuck Andrews. This is my house.” He looked past us to the open front door. “Mind telling me how you got in?”

  “With a key. Given to me by the lady who rented the place.”

  “You knew Sheila?” Chuck squinted up at us. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

  It took me a minute to realize why his name sounded familiar. “You’re the son of the woman who rented the house to Sheila. The man who’s been doing repairs for her.”

  “That’s right.” He smiled slightly. “She mentioned me?”

  “Um-hm. Just last week, she told me what a big help you’d been.”

  All right, maybe I was overstating things, but Chuck seemed to be relaxing. Besides, anyone who’d fixed it so that Sam didn’t have to keep running to North Salem, was okay in my book.

  I introduced myself and Sam. Chuck hopped up onto the porch and shook our hands.

  “Sorry, but you can’t be too careful. Especially after ...” His gaze swung back and forth between us. “You know about what happened, right?”

  “Sam came here yesterday and talked to the police,” I said. “Sheila was his ex-wife. He and another friend took her dogs.”

  “Wondered about that,” said Chuck. “As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. I didn’t find out there was anything wrong ‘til last night. Took me ‘til this morning to remember those dogs. I hated to think they might be sitting over here, neglected. It wasn’t much, but I figured it was the least I could do.”

  “Thank you,” said Sam. “I appreciate your concern, and I know Sheila would have, too. Actually, that’s why we’re here as well. One of the Pugs needs some medicine. We came to pick it up.”

  “You say you have a key?”

  Sam took it out a
nd showed it to him.

  “You ought to know then that I plan on changing the locks. Probably tomorrow, which is about as soon as I can get a locksmith out here without paying overtime. Like I said, the way things are these days, you can’t be too careful.

  “It would just about kill my mother to see what things have come to. Thank goodness there’s no reason for her to get involved in any of it. She made an arrangement with Sheila before she went into the nursing home, but I’ll be handling things from here on in.”

  Chuck eyed Sam speculatively. “You say you’re a relative?”

  “Ex-relative,” Sam corrected.

  “Just wondering about the lease. I guess it’s terminated now. I’ll have to go about finding a new tenant.”

  “I don’t know anything about Sheila’s will. Or her estate. But I’m sure you’ll be compensated for your trouble.”

  “That’s good to hear. These days, with my mother doing as poorly as she is, I’m counting every penny.”

  “Do you want us to lock up?” asked Sam. He glanced at me, and I nodded. “We’re just about done here.”

  “Nah, I’ll take care of it. Now that I’ve come this far, I might as well have a look around. Don’t forget what I said about the locks, though. After today, your key won’t work, so if you think you’re going to need anything else, take it now.” Chuck looked pointedly at the silver-framed photo Sam still held in his hand.

  “We’re done,” Sam repeated. “I’m sure someone will be by eventually to pack up the rest of Sheila’s things. I assume her rent is paid through the first of the month?”

  “That’s right. Don’t worry, I won’t disturb a thing.”

  Sam stiffened at the inference we’d been snooping around, but before he could reply, Chuck walked past us into the house and closed the door behind him.

  “He’s pretty prickly for someone who doesn’t have any more right to be here than we do,” Sam said as we got in the Blazer.

  “There’s just been a murder committed in his mother’s house,” I pointed out; I could see how anyone might find that upsetting. “Under normal circumstances, he’s probably a decent guy.”

  Sam started the car. His expression said he wasn’t convinced. “Did Sheila mention him to you?”

  “Briefly. Last week when we had dinner together. She said that Chuck had been making some repairs. That was why she hadn’t been needing to call you nearly so often.”

  “That and because I stopped responding to all her ‘urgent’ messages,” Sam said wryly.

  “She was lonely,” I found myself saying, though the last thing I’d ever thought I’d do was defend Sheila’s actions.

  “And then she found Brian.”

  Judging by his tone, Sam still hadn’t come to terms with that. Oprah would have a field day with this mess.

  Scowling, he threw the car into gear.

  Next stop, combat zone.

  Ten

  Brian Endicott’s estate in Purchase looked just about right for a man who’d made millions in the computer industry. High stone walls, wrought-iron gate, curving, tree-lined driveway. Before I’d even seen the house, I was already salivating.

  Sam watched my reaction with amusement.

  “Let’s buy a place like this after we get married,” I said.

  “Yeah, sure. If we win the lottery.”

  “We could pool our incomes.” I grinned.

  “And just about afford to build that stone wall.”

  Right, he was. Have I mentioned that the dedicated professionals who educate your children are severely underpaid?

  The house was nice, too. Large enough to impress but not overwhelm, it was built of clapboard and weathered stone. The doors and shutters were painted ivory. Ivy climbed the walls, mature trees shaded the yard.

  The driveway divided at the house; one section leading back to the kennel and garage, the other, forming a turnaround by the door. Sam parked out front. The door opened as we were getting out of the car, and Pugs came spilling out into the driveway.

  “Want some?” Brian waved at the group as they ran circles around us, barking. “I’ve got Pugs coming out of my ears. Saint Bernards don’t get as much done in an entire week as these dogs do in an hour. I’d forgotten how active little dogs could be.”

  “I thought we put them in the kennel last night.” Sam reached down to scratch behind ears and in front of tails, both prime spots for getting the little bodies wiggling.

  “We did, but they weren’t happy. It’s one thing for the Saints, they’re used to it. But Sheila kept these guys as house dogs. And on top of that, they miss her. I figured bringing them inside might cheer them up.”

  “You’re a nicer man than you want to admit,” I said.

  The comment caught Brian by surprise. “No, I’m not. Ask Sam, he’ll tell you.”

  Sam ignored the invitation. “We’ve got the medicine you needed.”

  “Right. Thanks. Where are my manners? We don’t have to stand out in the driveway. Let’s go inside.”

  “I don’t think we have time—” Sam began.

  “Sure we do,” I overrode him.

  There was no way I was leaving so fast. First, I wanted to see the house. Second, I wanted to ask Brian about Sheila’s murder and hear what, if anything, he might have learned from the police. Third, and most important, I wanted to observe these two together and try to figure out what made their relationship tick.

  In the two years I’d known Sam, I’d never figured him for the reticent type. Yet recently I’d discovered there were whole chunks of his life that he’d simply declined to discuss. Like his marriage to Sheila. Like his friendship, and his rivalry, with Brian. Things he deemed to be part of his past.

  In the past maybe, but clearly not behind him.

  A decade earlier, I’d married a man I thought I knew and understood. Only after he’d left me, disappearing one bright summer day when Davey was ten months old, did I begin to realize how wrong I’d been.

  Sam and Bob, my ex-husband, were two entirely different people. But only an idiot wouldn’t learn from her mistakes. Whatever had gone on between Sam and Brian—whatever was still going on—I wanted to know more about it.

  “I guess we have a few minutes,” Sam said curtly.

  The three of us herded the Pugs up the steps and into the house. Boris, watching from the doorway, regarded our efforts with a bemused expression on his normally placid face. The Pugs’ antics seemed to have worn him out almost as much as they had his owner.

  We ended up in a kitchen that looked as though it had been designed for a magazine spread. Everything was black and white, and buffed to a high shine. No fingerprints anywhere; I looked. It was easy to tell Brian didn’t have kids.

  Even the mugs he poured our coffee into matched the decor. Glossy, black, ceramic tumblers that felt heavy and awkward in the hand; they seemed to have been chosen more for their looks than practicality. I wondered how often Brian actually used this room.

  In my house, the kitchen is the hub, the place where everyone tends to gather. Brian’s kitchen was much too clean, much too sterile, to encourage anyone to make themselves at home. As if he felt the same way, he picked up his mug and led us to a sunporch in the back of the house.

  Boris had flopped down happily on the cool kitchen floor. He didn’t stir when we left, but the Pugs trailed along after us, scattering around the new room like a collection of plump throw pillows.

  “What a mess,” Brian muttered. He sank down into a cushioned chair. Since the sunroom, with its glass-topped tables and wicker furniture, was spotless, I assumed he was referring to the situation with Sheila. “It’s hard enough getting the magazine off the ground without having something like this on top of it.”

  “Is that what Sheila’s death is to you?” I asked pointedly. “An inconvenience?”

  “Among other things.” Absently, Brian smoothed the edge of his mustache with thumb and forefinger. “Looking at it from a strictly business perspective, this
is really going to mess things up.”

  “You and Sheila were copublishers, right?”

  “Yeah, partners. That was the way the agreement was structured. If the magazine took off, we both stood to profit equally. If it tanked, both our investments went down the tubes.”

  “Usually when lawyers draw up a partnership agreement, they make sure you get some protection against a loss like this,” said Sam.

  “You mean life insurance?”

  Sam nodded.

  “We have it. And you’re right, the lawyers did insist. Sheila and I probably wouldn’t have bothered otherwise. Half a million apiece. Payable to the magazine.”

  Which Brian was now the sole owner of.

  He shrugged as if reading my thoughts. “Big deal. Financially, it’s a shot in the arm. Guess what? It’s not like we needed one. Woof! wasn’t started on a shoestring. I had money to invest and so did Sheila. As far as backing goes, we’re sound as a rock.

  “What the magazine needs is Sheila herself. Her enthusiasm for the project, the vitality she brought to the office. Not to mention her connections in the dog show world and her marketing savvy. I’ll have a hard time finding someone to take her place.”

  One of the Pugs snuffled next to my knee. I ran my hand over the top of its smooth head. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Woof! is intended to be a scandal sheet.”

  Brian’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

  “Is there any possibility that Sheila’s murder was connected to the magazine? Maybe to a story she might have been working on?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t say the thought hadn’t occurred to me. Hell, over the last twelve hours, I’ve considered all sorts of possibilities. It hardly seems likely, though.

  “Most of the stories we’re publicizing aren’t exactly secret. They’re just not very widely known. The news is already out there somewhere. In some cases we’re even dealing with public records. All we’re doing is exposing it to a wider forum.”

  “Maybe some people don’t want their dirty linen laundered in public,” Sam said. The phrase sounded like an argument he might have used before, perhaps with Sheila.