Unleashed (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

by Berenson, Laurien

  “Did he tell you that several of the people Sheila had written stories about had made threats against her?”

  “We spoke about the magazine briefly. Mr. Endicott was of the opinion that there was no way that their business could be connected to Ms. Vaughn’s death.”

  “Well, the receptionist at his office has a different opinion. Also Sheila’s neighbor, Nancy Benning? She has twin daughters who saw someone they called a mean man visit Sheila on more than one occasion.”

  “How old are these girls?”

  “I’m not sure. Five or six.”

  “And did they have any idea who this man was?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Is that it?”

  I sank down into a kitchen chair, feeling deflated. “Yes.”

  “In that case, thank you for your interest. I’ll have someone look into these issues you’ve raised.”

  I hung up the phone, frowning.

  Let’s just say I wouldn’t be holding my breath.

  Sixteen

  Promptly at five-thirty, Aunt Peg blew in like the gale force she is. A jumbo-size canvas tote was slung over one of her shoulders, and she carried two big plastic bags in her hands. The aroma of Chinese food filled the hallways as she neatly sidestepped the inevitable onslaught by dog and child, marched to the kitchen, and set our dinner down on the counter.

  “Much better,” she said, turning to Davey. “Where’s my hug?”

  “You had your chance.” Davey pouted.

  “I had my hands full. What good is a hug if you can’t hug back? Come on, don’t be shy.”

  She gathered my child into her arms and squeezed him hard. Davey’s eyes bulged. A squeak emitted from between his lips. Aunt Peg laughed at his theatrics. For a moment, I didn’t know whether to join in the merriment or call the paramedics.

  “Harder!” Davey cried gleefully.

  I guess that settled that problem.

  “There’s my girl.” Aunt Peg released Davey and turned to Faith. “Don’t you look splendid! It won’t be long now.”

  “One more week,” I said.

  “If she’s right on time. Sixty-three days is the average gestation period, but bear in mind that’s only an average. It’s not uncommon for dogs to be a few days early, or even a day or two late. That’s what taking her temperature can help you predict. You have started, haven’t you?”

  “Not exactly.” With everything else that was going on, I’d forgotten.

  Aunt Peg sighed, loud enough to make the point that her relatives were no source of comfort in her old age. “You have to establish a base temperature now. Otherwise, you won’t notice when it drops.”

  That sounded vaguely familiar. It had probably been part of the copious lectures she’d delivered on the art of whelping puppies eight weeks earlier when Faith had been bred. I knew I should have been taking notes.

  “We’ll talk about it over dinner,” I said. “Do you mind eating right away? Davey’s starving. He’s been playing soccer all day.”

  “Fine by me,” Aunt Peg said, then turned to Davey. “I want to hear all about camp. Don’t they feed you anything? Maybe your mother should pack you a lunch.”

  “I did.”

  Davey’s eyes shifted away.

  “A sandwich, an apple, and three cookies. They were supposed to give you a carton of milk.”

  As if we weren’t talking about him, my son busied himself rolling a tennis ball across the kitchen floor for Faith.

  “Davey, what happened to your lunch?”

  He shrugged.

  I sat down on the floor beside him. “You didn’t eat it, did you? That’s why you’re so hungry.”

  “I guess I lost it.”

  “You had it this morning when I dropped you off. Didn’t you put it in your locker?”

  Aunt Peg was frowning. She pushed me aside and took my place. “Did you lose your lunch or did someone take it from you?”

  Davey rolled the ball again. “Maybe someone took it.”

  “Someone like who?”

  “Randy Bowers.” He thrust out his lower lip. “He said I had to give him my lunch or he would punch my lights out.”

  “Punch your lights out?” I was outraged. Aunt Peg poked me in the shoulder.

  “Is Randy bigger than you?” she asked.

  “No,” Davey admitted with a small sniffle. “Just meaner.”

  “We’ll just see about that!” Aunt Peg reached for a chair and levered herself up.

  “Aunt Peg, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But no bully is going to run roughshod over my nephew. Give me a chance to think about it. In the meantime, let’s get out some plates and eat.”

  True to form, Aunt Peg had brought enough food to provision the Mongol hordes: spring rolls, egg drop soup, chicken lo mein, curried beef, and roast pork egg foo yung. Davey showed off his proficiency with chopsticks, shoveling food into his mouth as though it had been days since his last meal. While we ate, Aunt Peg got back to her original topic.

  “The normal temperature for a dog is higher than that of a human. It ranges from one hundred point five to a hundred one point five and is usually higher in the evening, which is why you should be checking twice a day. When a bitch is due to whelp, her temperature will drop by a degree or two twenty-four hours ahead of time. After that happens, you shouldn’t leave her alone at all.”

  “I’ll start tonight,” I said, helping myself to more lo mein.

  “Yes, you will. We’ll take Faith’s temperature after dinner. Then we can set up her whelping box. I’ve brought you mine; it’s in the van. You and Davey can help me bring it in and decide where to put it. I’m thinking your bedroom will probably be the best place. And I’ve got bedding as well.”

  Aunt Peg was relishing this. She’s at her best when she’s taking charge of other people’s lives. But for once I wasn’t complaining. I was the one who’d chosen to place Faith in a delicate condition; now it was my duty to do my best for her. Aunt Peg’s expert guidance was more than welcome.

  Davey gobbled down two fortune cookies and helped unload Peg’s van. Then he and Faith removed themselves to another part of the house where they wouldn’t be subjected to adult conversation and could, presumably, have more fun. That was Aunt Peg’s cue to ask me what I’d found out so far about Sheila Vaughn’s murder.

  “I started this morning in White Plains,” I told her as we decided which corner of my bedroom to place the low-sided, wooden whelping box in. “I went to visit the Woof! offices. Brian wasn’t there. According to Tim, he’s traveling on business.”

  “Interesting. I thought the police always told their chief suspects not to leave town. Or am I watching too many cop shows on TV?”

  “Probably. But the police don’t seem to view him as a suspect. I talked to Detective Holloway this afternoon. They’re still holding pretty tight to the notion that Sheila surprised a burglar in her home.”

  Aunt Peg looked exasperated. “Didn’t you explain about the dogs being outside and what an important clue that was?”

  “I tried. He didn’t seem impressed. I also told Holloway that he should take a trip down to White Plains and talk to Carrie, Brian’s receptionist.”

  “About what?”

  “She fields most of the calls that come in to the office. Apparently, Sheila researched and wrote several stories that their subjects weren’t too happy about.”

  “Let me guess. Kenny Boyle is probably one.”

  “You’re good.”

  “Of course I am, though it wouldn’t take a genius to figure that out. Did you read the article about him in the first issue?”

  “I meant to.” Unfortunately, reading Woof! had gone the way of taking Faith’s temperature. As soon as I had a free moment, I planned to get to it.

  “Really, Melanie. If you expect to figure out who murdered Sheila, then you have to try and stay on top of things.”

  “I am trying.”

  Aunt Peg snorted. R
udely. “I don’t imagine you’ve ever met Kenny Boyle, have you?”

  “No.”

  “He handles mostly working breeds. You know, Dobermans, Rottweilers, Bernese Mountain Dogs? He has a wonderful hand on a dog, and over the years, his clients have enjoyed a great deal of success in the show ring.”

  “It doesn’t sound like Sheila would have had much to say about that.”

  “That’s just background, so you’ll have a context for what came next. It seems to be a truism in the dog show world that the more people win, the more they want to win. Someone has the top working dog on the East Coast, and the following year they want to be number one in the country.”

  “That makes sense, I guess.”

  I watched as Aunt Peg spread out a waterproof tarp over the corner of the rug near my bed. The wooden whelping box had four sides, but no bottom or top. Once the tarp was in place, Peg maneuvered the box on top of it, then pulled out a thick bundle of newspapers. Together we began to lay down the next layer.

  “The more you show, obviously, the higher the bills get. And with the way some of those specials dogs travel these days, it can be very hard to keep track of which expenses are legitimate and which have been padded. I gather from the article that one of Kenny’s clients simply issued him a credit card.”

  “One of Kenny’s very rich clients,” I muttered. I had a hard time mustering sympathy for people who had so much money they didn’t even notice when some of it disappeared.

  “I think we can assume that,” Aunt Peg said dryly. “Apparently nobody was scrutinizing the bills very closely. By the time the client’s financial advisor actually sat down and had a look, Kenny had bought himself a new van and financed part of his son’s private-school education at the client’s expense.”

  “It sounds like Kenny is a pretty industrious guy.”

  We’d finished with the newspaper, and Aunt Peg went back to her canvas sack. Watching her unpack was like watching clowns spill out of a Volkswagen at the circus. Now she pulled out a stack of cotton-backed, waterproof pads. Placing six in an overlapping pattern filled the floor of the whelping box, and I thought we were done. Instead, Peg unfolded another eight.

  “This is the actual surface you’ll use when the puppies are being born. Whelping is a messy business, and you want the newborns to stay as warm and dry as possible. As each pad gets wet and soiled, you simply slip it out from under the bitch and go on to the next.”

  “Got it.” Once again, I found myself wondering if I should be taking notes.

  “Kenny is industrious,” Peg went back to our earlier topic. “But as I said, he’s also an excellent handler. So while he may have been charging his client plenty, he was also getting results. I believe this supposed breaking story Sheila wrote about is actually a year old. In the meantime, Kenny and the client have come to terms and continued their relationship.”

  “Even though the client knew that Kenny was stealing from him?” I asked incredulously.

  “Kenny was winning with the man’s dog, didn’t I just tell you that?”

  “And winning is everything?”

  “Close enough,” Peg said crisply. “Kenny apologized and promised to clean up his act. And the client’s Doberman was the number one working dog, all systems, last year. In the end, everybody went home happy.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “If that’s how things ended, what was Kenny so upset about? Why did he threaten Sheila?”

  “Sheila took a story that a few people had gossiped about privately and made the whole thing very public. I imagine Kenny could make a case that she had cost him a bundle in future business. He and his client had a long-term relationship which, obviously, both felt was worth salvaging. But suppose you were new to the dog show game and shopping around for a handler, would you even think twice about hiring Kenny Boyle? I know I wouldn’t.”

  “Me either,” I agreed, rocking back on my heels and surveying our handiwork. “Now what?”

  “We’re just about finished.” Sheepskin pads were the last thing to emerge from the tote back, and Aunt Peg laid them on top. “Leave these here until she goes into labor. You want Faith to get used to being in the whelping box. I’d like to see her sleeping here at night, so make it as comfortable and appealing as possible. After the puppies are born, you’ll put the pads back. They make a wonderful surface for baby puppies to keep warm, and they offer good traction besides. Where’s your heating pad?”

  I thought for a moment, then got up to check in the linen closet. “By the way,” I said, returning a minute later, heating pad in hand. “Do you know a man named Marlon Dickie?”

  A frown creased Peg’s brow briefly. “The name doesn’t sound familiar. Who is he?”

  “A photographer Brian used sometimes for the magazine. Carrie said he was awfully interested in Sheila. Used to call her a lot, though she didn’t seem to return his interest. How about Alida Trent?”

  This time Aunt Peg nodded. “Shih Tzus,” she said. “Been in dogs forever. She’s a client of Crawford Langley’s.”

  “According to Carrie, Sheila was researching a story about her, and Alida had threatened to sue.”

  “Over what? I don’t recall hearing about any scandals that had to do with Alida. What was the story about?”

  “I’m not sure. A lease, I think. Or maybe a co-ownership? I was hoping you could give me an introduction.”

  “Crawford would be a better bet, if he’ll do it. Alida and I have crossed paths occasionally, but no more than that. I think she lives somewhere in Duchess County. Maybe Millbrook? There’s lots of old money there.”

  “And there isn’t in Greenwich?” I teased.

  “Actually”—Peg harrumphed—“it feels like we’ve begun to specialize in new money.”

  I cocked a hand on the side of my ear. “What’s that? Are those violins I hear?”

  “You might be more sympathetic.” Peg gathered her things and stood. “And since we’re on the subject, how’s Sam doing?”

  I felt a pang. All day long, I’d tried to keep thoughts of him at bay. I hadn’t been entirely successful. I hadn’t expected to be.

  “Gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Illinois to visit Sheila’s family. He didn’t phone you?”

  “No.” Aunt Peg looked bemused. “I take it he did call you?”

  “He left me a message,” I admitted.

  “I hope he’s all right.”

  Tell me about it, I thought.

  Seventeen

  As I got Davey ready for camp the next morning, it occurred to me that Aunt Peg hadn’t followed through on her promise to solve the problem of Davey and the lunchtime bully. I offered to write a note for him to give to the counselors—an idea my son firmly rejected in the belief that it would make him look like a wuss. Speaking as a mother, I wasn’t sure that was an all-bad thing.

  But when Davey rolled his eyes and assured me that a girl would never understand, I capitulated; instead packing a spare sandwich and extra cookies in his bag, in the hope that he could use the additional food to negotiate a truce.

  As soon as he was gone, I took Faith’s temperature, adding the morning’s normal reading to the chart Peg and I had begun the night before. Earlier, Faith had begun to exhibit the first signs of nesting. I heard her burrowing beneath the dining-room table and trying to slip into the narrow space behind the couch. Her nails scraped as she dug furiously into the carpet, attempting to ready a spot for her puppies’ arrival.

  She’d been introduced to the sumptuous accommodations Aunt Peg and I had prepared in my bedroom, but so far her only response had been to sniff the box disdainfully and walk away. In her own doggy way, she was rolling her eyes just as my son had. A human, she seemed to be saying, just wouldn’t understand.

  I spent the next hour browsing through the inaugural issue of Woof!. Aunt Peg had been right about Sheila’s story on Kenny Boyle. There was scant mention of the fact that he and his client had resolved their differe
nces, and the facts were presented as sensationally as possible. Not only would the tone of the article keep future clients from seeking him out, I could see how some of the ones he had might be tempted to jump ship.

  Several photographs accompanied the article. One, of course, was of the top winning Doberman. Kenny was a tall man, built along the same elegant lines as the dog he was handling. In the picture, taken to celebrate a group win at the prestigious Tuxedo Park show, they seemed to complement each other well.

  The second photo was considerably less flattering. It was a candid, snapped under the handlers’ tent. Kenny was leaning over a grooming table, talking to someone. Judging by the sneer on his face, he wasn’t very happy. The tone of the photograph matched the article it accompanied, and when I checked for the credit, I wasn’t surprised to find Marlon Dickie’s name.

  I got up, walked over to the phone on the counter, and dialed the magazine’s office. When Carrie answered, I identified myself and reminded her that we’d spoken the day before. Even so, it seemed to take her a minute to place me.

  “Oh yeah,” she said finally. “You’re the lady that ticked off Aubrey.”

  I was? Interesting.

  “What was she mad about?” I asked.

  “Like I would know. When Brian’s not around, nobody tells me anything. They treat me like a piece of furniture. All I know is after you left Aubrey spent the next hour in a ferocious snit. Even Tim had to stay out of her way, and he’s usually her favorite.”

  Before her tone degenerated into a complete whine, I interrupted. “Listen, I was calling to find out where Marlon Dickie lives. And could you give me his phone number, too?”

  “Sure,” Carrie said.

  I heard the sound of pages being flipped.

  “It’s in the Rolodex. D . . . d . . . d . . . Oops.” She giggled. “It’s not here. Hang on a minute. Sometimes I try to get a little creative with my filing system. It livens up the day, you know? I’ll try the M’s. Hold on.”

  Carrie was young, I told myself as another minute passed. Very young.