Doggie Day Care Murder

by Laurien Berenson

  Steve passed through a door at the end of the hall and I followed. We exited the clapboard building and went down two steps to a gravel path that branched out in several directions. Steve paused and looked out over the facility with pride.

  “Two years. I can’t believe we’ve accomplished as much as we have in such a short amount of time. There was definitely a huge, untapped market for the services we provide to the community. We like to think of ourselves as a full-care facility. Anything your dog needs or wants, we’ll find a way to make it happen.”

  In front of us was another building, this one much larger than the one we’d just left. Off to the right were a number of fenced paddocks, most containing a variety of durable outdoor toys. I saw everything from big, bright rubber balls to open canvas tunnels.

  Several of the pens were occupied. In one, a Dalmatian was chasing an Irish Setter carrying a large, hemp-colored chew toy in his mouth. In another, two Vizslas and a Scottish Deerhound were resting side by side in the shade. Their heads were up, their gazes intent, and I realized that the three of them were watching a man who was working in an adjoining paddock, making repairs to a wooden climbing set.

  He, too, was wearing the Pine Ridge uniform. In his case, however, the polo shirt he wore was grimy and untucked, and the spread of his stomach strained the seams of his rumpled khakis. As I watched, the man paused in what he was doing, pulled a kerchief out of a back pocket, and ran it up over his balding head. Noticing us standing across the way, he lifted his hand in a desultory wave.

  Steve returned the gesture with a brief wave of his own before turning back to me. “That’s Larry. He does maintenance for us. Of course, it’s vitally important to us that all our equipment be kept in perfect working order.”

  “Of course,” I echoed under my breath. While I appreciated Steve’s enthusiasm, the nonstop hyperbole of his sales pitch was beginning to wear a little thin.

  “These are the outdoor play areas,” he explained, as though I couldn’t have figured that out for myself. “We have indoor playrooms as well, but weather permitting we like all of the dogs that are physically able to spend at least part of the day outside. Many go out in groups of two or three, according to their owners’ preference, and of course they’re always supervised.”

  “What do you mean physically able?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately, some of the dogs that come here are with us because they require special care and it’s impossible for their owners to be there for them during the day. Some have chronic illnesses and require medicine, others are simply geriatric. Nathan, for example, who’s one of our regulars. He’s everyone’s favorite.”

  Steve started walking again. He was heading toward the second building and I hurried to catch up.

  “Nathan?” I said.

  “An eighteen-year-old Wirehaired Dachshund. Still spry for his age and as endearing as he can possibly be. He’s been here with us from the very beginning. All the staff have grown so attached to him, he feels like a member of the family.”

  “That’s a great age,” I said.

  “Nathan’s a great dog. And of course his owner is wonderful too. She wants nothing but the best for him. This business . . .” Steve paused for a moment before continuing, “Well, it is a business, but let’s just say it doesn’t always feel that way. We become very fond of the dogs that come and stay with us. They’re such a part of our everyday lives, how could we possibly help it? We’ve formed our own little community here. Everyone works in harmony with everyone else. It makes for a peaceful, low-stress environment, both for the dogs and for everyone else, and that’s just the way we like it.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” I said honestly.

  Steve was quite the salesman, but that wasn’t the reason that my impression of Pine Ridge was growing increasingly favorable. More important than what he had to say was the fact that all the dogs I’d seen thus far had appeared contented and well cared for. It wasn’t hard to imagine that Berkley would be happy here.

  “Let’s go into the Dog House,” Steve said, heading toward the bigger building. “I’ll show you the rest of the accommodations.”

  I stopped myself just short of laughing.

  “I know, I know.” He caught my eye and smiled. “The name does sound a little silly. But we didn’t want to call it a kennel. That word seemed to convey such negative connotations about confinement and isolation. Which is the opposite of what we’re aiming for.”

  As we approached the entrance, I realized there was a square, cut-out seam in the door’s lower panel. The Dog House had its own doggie door. Its presence seemed superfluous under the circumstances. Considering the amount of supervision I’d seen, it was hard to imagine that dogs might be allowed to come and go at will.

  “Use that much?” I asked as Steve drew the door open.

  “Not at all, unfortunately. As you can probably guess, its function is strictly decorative. Just another small attempt on our part to make the dogs feel more at home while they’re here. Indeed, we like to think that our facility is more like a doggie spa than what you might picture as your typical boarding situation.”

  If the term spa implied that the accommodations would be luxurious, then Steve’s description wasn’t far off the mark. Inside, the building didn’t even remotely resemble any kennel I’d ever seen.

  Instead of pens, the dogs were housed in individual rooms that were large enough for several compatible dogs to share comfortably. Most contained furniture, usually low chairs and couches that were easily accessible from the floor. Television sets were mounted on the walls.

  Peeking in through the viewing windows as we walked past, I saw a Maltese watching Animal Planet and an Afghan who seemed fascinated by the flashing lights and screaming contestants on a game show.

  “Who controls the remote?” I asked.

  I’d been joking, but Steve took the question seriously.

  “There are foot pedals on the floor beneath the screens,” he informed me. “It doesn’t take most dogs long to learn that if they step on them, they can change the channel. There’s also an on/off switch if they would prefer quiet.”

  Speaking of quiet, in a building that housed such a multitude of dogs, it was somewhat surprising not to hear any barking. Either the walls of the individual compartments were soundproof, or else the occupants were too content to stand around making noise.

  Score another point in Pine Ridge’s favor.

  “How many dogs do you have here on a usual day?” I asked.

  “As you can imagine, it varies. The number is usually somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. Most of our business is made up of regulars, dogs whose owners live in the area and work full-time jobs, so we see those clients every weekday. But we also get the occasional drop-in. People are supposed to make reservations in advance, but if they show up and we have space available, we try to be accommodating.”

  Steve and I were standing in a wide, brightly lit aisleway situated between two long rows of rooms: individual compartments on one side and multidog playrooms on the other. Abruptly, a door toward the end of the hall burst open and a woman came hurrying out.

  She was small and dainty, and wearing the outfit I’d come to expect: a pristine white polo shirt and pressed khakis. Frizzy blond curls bobbed around her head like a halo. Her face was tipped downward; she was studying something written on a clipboard she held in her hand.

  “Good news,” she said without looking up. “I finally got Bingo Johnson squared away, and I’ve just placed a second call to the Abernathys. When do you want me to—”

  “Candy.”

  Steve’s voice was low, his tone moderate. It stopped the woman in her tracks.

  “Oh, hello,” she said, finally lifting her eyes and taking in the two of us. “I didn’t realize you were busy.”

  “Obviously not. This is Melanie Travis. She’s taking a tour to see if she would like to become a client.” Steve lifted a hand to motion me forward. “Melanie, meet my sister
, Candy.”

  Steve and Candy Pine, the receptionist had said. I’d just assumed the owners were husband and wife. Really, you’d think I’d know better.

  Candy’s handshake was firm and brisk. My fingers throbbed a bit when she released them. Maybe she was compensating for her small size.

  “So what have you already seen and how do you like the place so far?” she asked.

  Steve shot her a look. “You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to,” he said quickly. “My sister can be very direct. Some people find that off-putting.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said. “I think your place looks terrific.”

  Candy smirked at her brother. I didn’t have to be a relative to know she was saying, I told you so.

  “We’re always happy to meet new people and new dogs,” she said. “Tell me about yours.”

  The surest way to make friends among the crowd I ran around with was to ask exactly that. Of course in this case, Candy wasn’t asking about my Poodles. Alice’s Berkley was the dog she was interested in.

  “He’s an eighteen-month-old Golden Retriever named Berkley. Beautiful, smart, very well-meaning. Great with kids, but he needs his exercise. I’m glad to see that you have outdoor paddocks. He loves to run around outside.”

  “Most of them do,” Candy said with a quick nod. “We want happy dogs here, and happy dogs are ones that aren’t bored. We think happy dogs lead to happy owners.”

  Good lord, I thought. Another cheerleader. Between the two of them, Steve and Candy generated enough intensity to power a hot-air balloon.

  “I should mention,” I said, “that Berkley isn’t actually my dog. He belongs to a friend, Alice Brickman. She’s the one who’s looking for a day care situation for him. But she’s not particularly knowledgeable about dogs and she was afraid she wouldn’t know what to look for, so she asked me to come and see what I thought.”

  “So that makes you, what . . .” Candy said with a smile, “a surrogate dog owner?”

  “Not at all.” I laughed at the idea. “I have my own dogs as well. Five Standard Poodles. You know, the big ones?”

  “I love Standard Poodles! They’re the best. Do you put them in those crazy clips? The ones that make them look like they belong in the circus?”

  “Sometimes,” I admitted. “When they’re showing, they have to be trimmed that way. But once they retire, I just keep them in a regular sporting trim.”

  “You have to meet Bailey,” said Candy. “She’s going to love you.”

  “Our in-house groomer,” Steve explained. “Bailey’s in charge of keeping all our dogs’ ears clean and nails trimmed. And of course, if a client wants a full bath and trim for their dog, she can do that too. But I’m afraid she never gets to work on anything quite as exotic as your Poodles.”

  Candy grabbed my hand and pulled me down the hallway. “Come on. The grooming room is down here. Bailey’s going to be thrilled to meet a real Poodle expert.”

  “I’ll leave you now,” said Steve, lingering behind. “Once Candy has you in her clutches—”

  “Surely you meant capable hands, didn’t you?” she threw back over her shoulder. Our headlong progress didn’t slow down in the slightest. “Don’t worry, if Melanie has any more questions, I’m sure I’ll be able to answer them for her. Go on back and lock yourself in your office and do whatever it is you do when I’m out here working.”

  It didn’t take an expert, or a relative, to discern the edge in that comment.

  “I’m doing accounts payable this morning,” Steve said mildly. “I’d be happy to trade jobs if you like.”

  “Me, do the books? Not on a bet. I’d be comatose inside of fifteen minutes. Here we are.”

  Candy stopped in front of a glass-paneled door. Sadly, when we paused, I had to catch my breath. What can I say? I used to be more fit before I had a baby.

  “Nice meeting you, Melanie.” Steve turned and headed back toward the door.

  “Likewise,” I called after him.

  “You’ll like Bailey,” Candy said, as she pushed open the door. “She seems all shy and quiet at first, but once you get to know her, she never shuts up. Plus, she absolutely loves dogs. The two of you are bound to get along splendidly.”

  4

  Shy and quiet was an understatement, I thought, ten minutes later, as I walked back around to the front of the compound where my car was parked. Bailey had barely said more than a dozen words the entire time we’d been together. Of course, Candy’s constant stream of happy chatter had left few opportunities for either of us to get a word in.

  Thanks to Candy’s volubility, I now knew that Pine Ridge offered a host of extra services such as pick-up and drop-off for busy clients, scheduled disc-dog playtime, and classes in clicker training. Not only that, but plans for a custom line of canine couture were in the works. It was all a little much to take in.

  While Candy had been talking, Bailey had been grooming a chocolate Labrador Retriever. I’m using the term loosely, because in actuality the part of the process we were watching involved her lifting the dog’s heavy lips and brushing his large white teeth.

  True to his breed, the Lab was placid and good-natured. He also had all his teeth and a correct bite, I noted absently. Apparently, he loved the taste of the toothpaste Bailey was using because he kept swabbing his long pink tongue around the long-handled brush and trying to pull it out of her fingers.

  The attempts made Bailey giggle, and the giggling made the Lab’s heavy tail thump up and down on the rubber-coated tabletop. The two of them looked as though they were sharing a joke they’d enjoyed together before.

  “You have a nice hand on a dog,” I said to Bailey when Candy stepped across the room to check on an Afghan Hound that was sitting in a crate under a blow-dryer.

  “Thank you. I love my job.”

  Bailey’s round face creased in a happy smile. She was older than Madison, perhaps in her early twenties, and had the pale complexion and bland features of a German milkmaid. She hummed softly under her breath as she worked.

  “Candy said you show your dogs,” she said, her tone tinged with awe. “I’d love to be able to do that someday.”

  “It’s a great hobby. My husband and I have Standard Poodles. Lots of people who show them also groom professionally. I’d be happy to—”

  “Right, then,” Candy said, swooping back in to join us. “I’m so glad you two had a chance to get to know one another. But now I’m afraid we really have to let Bailey get back to work. She’s busy, busy, busy all the time, and that’s just the way we like it, isn’t it, Bailey?”

  The groomer nodded.

  “Don’t forget you have Mrs. Parker’s Cockers to do this afternoon,” Candy continued, checking the list on her clipboard. “Six P.M. pick-up, right?”

  We were out of the grooming room and on our way before Bailey had time to reply.

  “So—have you seen everything you wanted to see?” Candy asked as she escorted me out of the Dog House. “Do you have any more questions I can answer before you go?”

  “No, I think I’m good.” I took a last look around. “This really is a nice setup you have here.”

  “We think so. Steve and I work very hard to make sure everything runs smoothly. And of course, our prices are very reasonable for the array of services we offer. You won’t find another facility like Pine Ridge in all of Fairfield County. I’m sure your friend, Alice, will be very pleased with what we can do for her and Berkley.”

  My initial skepticism had disappeared, and I had to agree. The facility really was nice. I’d be passing along a favorable recommendation to Alice, along with the advice that she try not to get suckered into buying Berkley any designer clothes.

  I followed the path around the front building and had just reached the parking lot when a gold Lexus came flying up the driveway. The driver overshot a parking space and braked abruptly when the car rolled onto the grass. The car was still rocking when a scrappy-looking older man shoved the door
open and climbed out.

  He glared in my direction. At least that was how I read his body language. Dark, mirrored sunglasses covered his eyes.

  “Do you work here?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then who does?”

  Rudeness irritates me. Especially unnecessary rudeness. I thought about ignoring him, but decided I’d probably get rid of him faster by just answering the question.

  I waved a hand toward the office door. “There’s a receptionist right inside. I’m sure she can help you.”

  I suspected fireworks would be forthcoming, but I didn’t wait around to find out. Sometimes it was nice just to mind my own business for a change.

  Back on the road, I pulled out my cell phone and called home. Predictably, Sam had everything under control. He and Davey were outside, shooting hoops. Kevin was nearby, napping in his baby seat in the shade.

  When I’d met Sam five years earlier, he was a freelance software designer. In the intervening time, he’d unexpectedly regained the rights to a video game that he’d designed while in business school. The game had since gone on to sell millions of copies to ardent teenage fans.

  Sam still worked, but now he chose his own projects and adjusted his schedule to suit himself. When I’d arranged to take time off after Kevin was born, Sam had decided to do the same. Having waited until his late thirties to become a father, he was eager to enjoy every aspect of the experience. And having been forced to raise Davey as a single mother, I knew enough to appreciate his input and his involvement for the blessing that it was.

  Since I wasn’t needed at home, I got on the Merritt Parkway and headed down to Greenwich instead. Margaret Turnbull, my Aunt Peg, has a house on five acres in the “back country” north of the parkway. At one time, she and my Uncle Max had kept a whole kennel full of Standard Poodles on the property, and their Cedar Crest line had been known nationwide for the beauty, health, and tremendous temperament of its dogs.

  When Max died, however, Aunt Peg scaled back the scope of her breeding and showing operation. She still had half a dozen Poodles, but the kennel building behind the house now sat empty. The dogs shared her home like the members of the family they were, and Aunt Peg delighted in their companionship.