“Damn! Not here either. Maybe P.”
“For photographer?” I asked.
“No.” Carrie chuckled again. “Pain in the butt. Hey, what do you know? Here it is. Marlon Dickie, 319 West River Road, Stamford.”
Stamford? That made life easy. Carrie reeled off the phone number, and I wrote it down. I thanked her, hung up, and dialed again.
Marlon Dickie answered his phone on the first ring, and seemed delighted by the prospect of having me stop by his studio. I should probably confess that I might have left him with the impression I was looking for a photographer to record my upcoming wedding. He gave me directions, and River Road turned out to be only a few miles away.
Once again I opted to leave Faith home, the knowledge that she would be safe and cool winning out over the pleasure of her company. I took her upstairs, stepped her into the whelping box, and told her to lie down. Obligingly, Faith did.
Now came the tough part. Her stay command is a little iffy. Besides, stay is an absolute. If I used it, it would mean she was to remain in the box until I got home. I was hoping Faith would regard the whelping box as a haven, not a prison. Instead, I patted the comfortable sheepskin surface encouragingly and left her.
Faith reached the bottom of the stairs before I did. When I shut the front door behind me, her nose was pressed against the window next to it. So much for good intentions. If things didn’t improve soon, she was going to be popping out these puppies under the kitchen sink.
Marlon’s studio was located on a side street off Long Ridge Road where small houses sat on small lots, and once-quiet neighborhoods were now disrupted by the deluge of commuter traffic heading toward the overdeveloped areas to the south. I found the house by the number on the curb, then saw a small sign he’d posted in his front window. “Marlon Dickie, Professional Photographer for All Occasions. WalkIns Welcome.”
The house itself was a raised ranch, dark red in color with black shutters and white trim. The style and color screamed fifties. Was it just me or would most people be turned off by a photographer who didn’t have enough of an artistic eye to see that his house had been in its prime nearly a half century earlier?
Steep concrete steps led up to the front door; black paint flaked off the spindly wrought-iron railing that accompanied them. I had to ring the doorbell three times before Marlon appeared. Maybe he spent his days sitting by the phone.
“You must be Melanie,” he said cheerfully, extending a hand. “Glad to meet you.”
Perhaps because of Carrie’s less-than-flattering assessment, the image I’d formed of Marlon Dickie wasn’t very complimentary. I certainly hadn’t expected curly black hair, mischievous green eyes, and an infectious smile. I reached out to shake his hand and Marlon’s fingers curled possessively around mine.
“Come on in,” he said. The front door opened onto a small landing, which faced two staircases. One led up to a combination living room/dining room. Marlon pointed down the other way. “Studio’s down there. Come on, I’ll show you some of my work.”
He skipped down the steps, turning lights on as he went. The bottom half of the house was refreshingly cool and consisted mostly of one large room. A small grouping of furniture filled half the space. The rest was taken up by the tools of Marlon’s trade: a backdrop, lighting, reflectors, and several cameras.
“Have a seat. You said a wedding, right? Let me get the right book. I also do birthdays, bar mitzvahs, anniversaries ... You name it, I’m game for it.”
As he dug into a cabinet on the side wall, I sat down on a couch that was pushed against one wall. The cushions were old and soft; they sucked me in like quicksand.
“Dog shows?”
Marlon glanced back over his shoulder. “Those, too. How’d you know?”
“That’s how I got your name. From Woof! magazine.”
“Sheila recommended me?” He sounded pleased.
“Not exactly.” I struggled to sit up straight, pushing myself to the edge of the cushion. “You have heard ... ?”
“Oh yes, of course.” An aggrieved expression settled on Marlon’s face. He didn’t look so much grief-stricken as determined to play the part well. “What a shock! It makes you wonder what this world is coming to. I saw a story about it on the news.”
“How awful for you, finding out that way. I heard you were a friend of Sheila’s.”
Marlon found the scrapbook he was looking for and placed it on the table in front of me. Then he sat down on the couch as well. Maybe it was because he had longer legs, or maybe he was just used to the couch. It didn’t seem to swallow him as it had me.
“Don’t tell me,” he said, flipping to the first page. “You’ve been talking to Aubrey. That woman spends so much time minding other people’s business it’s a wonder she ever gets anything done.”
“No,” I said, “Aubrey didn’t mention you.”
To keep up the pretense, I let my eyes skim over the first few pages of the photo album. Eight-by-ten color glossies showed a succession of brides; and much to my surprise, the pictures were gorgeous. Marlon was really talented.
“Tim then?”
“No, I—”
“Carrie, that little minx behind the desk? I always thought she had it in for me.”
I looked up. “Then you weren’t Sheila’s friend?”
“Not like I wanted to be. And not for lack of trying either. God knows she needed someone to be on her side.”
“Did she? Why?”
“If you knew Sheila, then I imagine you knew her life was in a bit of turmoil. First there was the bit about the awful ex-husband.”
“The ... what?” Quickly I lowered my gaze before he read something in it I didn’t want him to see. The pages of the scrapbook flew by.
“My words, not hers. Poor Sheila never had a bad word to say about anybody.”
“You must be joking.”
He was, I realized, when I saw the grin on his face. I flushed slightly. Marlon didn’t seem to notice.
“Let’s just say she was deluded where he was concerned. Always thinking she was going to get him back.”
“She talked to you about that?”
“Why not? I make a pretty good listener. And I’ve been married myself. Trust me, once you get out, stay out. You can’t go back, and you shouldn’t want to.”
Marlon stopped suddenly. He gulped heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his neck. “Sorry. I guess that’s not the right tack to take with a bride-to-be.”
“Don’t worry about it. I can be pretty cynical myself about some things. Your photographs are beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“They’re not at all like the others I’d seen, the pictures you took for Woof!.”
“Give the client what he asks for,” Marlon said breezily. “That’s my motto. You want someone to look stupid and snarky, I can do that. You want to look beautiful ...” His hands came up to form a frame around my face. “I can do that, too. In your case, it would be easy.”
Flatterer, I thought. Hadn’t I just told him I was a cynic?
“So Sheila hired you to make people look ugly and stupid?”
“Not Sheila. Those were Brian’s instructions. You know him?”
I nodded.
“Mr. Perfectionist. Mr. Nothing You Ever Do For Me Is Right The First Time.” Marlon grinned. “Not that it matters now. I expect I’ll be having the last laugh shortly.”
“Why is that?”
“High-and-mighty Woof!, the tome that was going to revolutionize the dog fancy’s reading habits? It’s on the verge of going bankrupt.”
Eighteen
I sucked in a breath. “Where did you hear that?”
“From the lord of the manor himself. Not that he said so in as many words. No, Brian’s explanations were all couched in accountant-speak. You know, bottom line, cost-effective, maximizing the investment. Let’s just say that the bottom line for me was that Brian wouldn’t be needing my services anymore.”
“But the
y just published their first issue,” I protested. “Everyone was wildly enthusiastic about it.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but that’s the way it is.” Marlon shrugged, looking anything but apologetic. “I imagine they’ll struggle along for a while, while Brian tries to put the best face on things. Heaven forbid one of his projects doesn’t turn out to be a huge success.
“My guess is, in about six months, he’ll see the light. Realize in a very public way that the dog show game isn’t really as nasty and underhanded as he thought it was. Sorry, folks, we’re going to have to close down now. We’ve plumb run out of bad news.”
I found myself smiling. “Maybe in six months time, he’ll have been able to pull things back together.”
“With Sheila there, maybe. That lady was working her tail off to make the magazine a success, and I wouldn’t have bet against her. But now? I don’t think it has a chance.”
I spent the next fifteen minutes looking through the rest of Marlon’s scrapbook and checking out his price list. When I left, I had one of his cards tucked in my purse. But delighted as I’d been with his work, I couldn’t decide what to make of what he’d said.
I wondered if Sheila had known about Woof!’s financial straits when she’d signed on. With all her supposed business acumen, I was sure she would have checked things out pretty thoroughly. Perhaps she’d thought her own investment would be enough to turn things around.
Or maybe Marlon was just plain wrong. The fact that Brian had said he didn’t want to work with the photographer anymore didn’t necessarily mean that the magazine was going under. Maybe Brian had found someone whose work he liked better.
Or maybe Marlon had been let go after the two men had had an argument over something else entirely.
Or someone.
Marlon hadn’t made any secret of his antipathy for his ex-employer. I wondered if he knew about the insurance policies the two copublishers had taken out on each other. Or that his version of things gave Brian the strongest motive I’d found so far.
That afternoon my brother, Frank, dropped by. He lives in Cos Cob, a small town on the coast between Greenwich and Stamford. From the amount of time we spend together, however, he might as well live in Timbuktu.
At twenty-eight, Frank is four years younger than I, and if you think Peter Pan is charming, you’d love my brother. He doesn’t want to grow up either. Usually an unexpected visit means he wants something, and this one was no exception.
“Mel!” he cried expansively, throwing open the front door and letting himself in.
Faith and I were in the kitchen, baking brownies as a surprise for Davey when he got home from camp. Startled by the unexpected intrusion, the Poodle leapt up and galloped into the front hall. I went running after her.
With her recent weight gain, Faith’s not nearly as balanced as she thinks she is. I had visions of her skidding into a wall and falling, but when I caught up a moment later, everything was fine. She was sniffing Frank’s leg, and he was frowning at her. Just like usual.
“Hey, Mel. Hi, dog. Do I smell brownies?”
“Her name’s Faith,” I said, a fact I was sure I’d mentioned at least a hundred times before. “And the brownies won’t be ready for twenty minutes.”
“Faith, of course. I knew that.” My brother tried out an ingratiating grin. “Twenty minutes it is. I’ve got time. Where’s Davey?”
“Soccer camp. He’ll be back around four-thirty.”
Frank walked past me down the hall. In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and helped himself to a soda. “Camp, right. He told me about that. Is it going well?”
“Davey loves it. You should see him dribble.”
“I bet the kid’s a natural. He probably gets it from me.”
As I recalled, my brother had played basketball desultorily in high school and joined an occasional game of pickup softball since. What is it about men that they all remember themselves as former sports stars?
“How’s the Bean Counter doing?”
Just before Christmas, my brother had opened a coffee bar in north Stamford. He was manager and part-owner and I’d heard nothing but good reports. Before that, Frank’s employment history had been pretty spotty. Half-afraid I would jinx his new endeavor, I’d tried not to check up on him. I hoped the coffee bar wasn’t the reason he’d stopped by.
“Terrific. Couldn’t be better. Starting next week, we’re going to have live entertainment on Friday and Saturday nights.”
“Sounds great,” I agreed, then added casually, “Do you need a permit for that?”
What can I say? Old habits die hard. I’d been looking out for my brother since we were children and, as subtle queries sometimes go right over his head, I’d learned not to beat around the bush.
“Don’t worry. Everything’s in order. This is real life, Mel. A real business. I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“I know that.” I pulled out a chair and sat down. “So why’d you stop by?”
“Does there have to be a reason?”
Answering a question with a question wasn’t a good sign.
“No...”
“You see?” said Frank. “That’s the whole problem with our family. We’re not close. We hardly ever get together.”
Funny, he’d never thought of that as a problem before.
“I was thinking we ought to do something about that.”
This was getting interesting. “Like what?”
“I was thinking of a big family dinner, sometime soon. Maybe a week from Saturday. Are you free?”
I thought for a moment. “If you don’t count the fact that I should have a litter of very young puppies in my bedroom by then, yes. But what do you mean by a big family dinner? I’m sure this won’t come as a shock to you, but we don’t have a big family. Who are you planning to invite?”
Frank’s finger traced a circle around the rim of his can. “You and me, of course. And Davey. And Bertie.”
His voice dropped as he said the last name. I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. “And who? Did you say Bertie?”
My brother nodded.
“As in Alberta Kennedy?”
Now he looked exasperated. “Do you know any other Berties?”
“No, but since when did she become part of our family?”
Bertie Kennedy was a professional dog handler whom I’d met eighteen months earlier when Aunt Peg had tried to convince me that I needed to join the local all-breed kennel club. She was bright and vivacious and gorgeous to look at. Not unexpectedly, my brother had been entranced. The one date I knew they’d been on seemed to have gone well enough, but I’d never heard that anything further had come of it.
I guessed I should take this as a gentle reminder from the fates that I should have been staying on top of things. “Frank, what are you trying to tell me?”
His face grew pink. “Don’t start jumping to conclusions. It’s not like we’re getting married or anything.”
“Well what exactly are you doing?”
“We’re seeing each other.”
“Seriously?”
“I guess.”
“Don’t you know?”
He shot me a look. “Men never know these things. It’s the woman who figures out where you stand. If you’re lucky, she might clue you in.”
I bit back a smile. “And has Bertie done that?”
“Kind of.”
“Meaning?”
“Her parents are coming to visit next week, and she thinks we should meet.” Frank paused. “Over dinner.”
It only took a moment for the implications of that to make themselves felt. “This is the big family dinner you were talking about?”
“Come on, Mel. Be a good sport. You don’t have to do anything fancy. Maybe we could just throw some steaks on the barbecue.”
“Wait a minute.” I stared at him. “Are you saying you want to bring Bertie’s parents over here?”
“Sure.” The ingratiating smile was back. “Why
not?”
“Because they’re coming to meet you, not me.”
“They’re coming to meet my family, Mel. And you and Davey are it. Unless you’d like to add Aunt Peg and Aunt Rose to the guest list.”
Not if I could help it. Every time those two women got together, something seismic happened.
I glared at my brother. His eyes shifted away. “You’ve already told Bertie I’d have her parents to dinner, haven’t you?”
“Sort of,” Frank admitted. “I said I’d have to check and make sure.”
More likely Bertie had been the one to insist that he check on the arrangements before making any promises.
My brother and Bertie a couple, I thought. Who’d have guessed? I didn’t know Bertie well, but what I knew, I liked. She was smart and hardworking; and I had no doubt she’d make a mark in her chosen profession. I supposed it was no use wondering what she saw in Frank.
I glanced up. When I’d stopped talking, so had Frank. Sensing he might be winning, he’d prudently decided not to push things. He was leafing through the issue of Woof! that I’d left on the table earlier.
“This guy’s an idiot,” he said.
I leaned over and had a look. “Who?”
His finger poked at the win photo accompanying Kenny Boyle’s article.
“You mean Kenny?”
Frank nodded. “He’s Bertie’s ex. Thinks he’s some real hotshot because he has some dogs who’ve done a bunch of winning. He’s always trying to lord it over her, saying she had her chance to be somebody when she was with him.”
I rocked back in my seat. “Bertie was seeing Kenny Boyle? I didn’t know that.”
“It was a while ago. Last fall, I think. Bertie doesn’t talk about it much, but I think he gave her a pretty rough time of it.”
“Do you think she’d talk to me about Kenny?”
“Sure. Why not?” Frank flipped the magazine shut. “Give her a call. Then you two can make some plans for the dinner, too.”
“Right.” I glanced at my watch. The brownies were just about done. “You owe me, Frank.”
My brother only shrugged. “So what else is new?”
Unleashed (A Melanie Travis Mystery) Page 14
