A Pedigree to Die For

by Laurien Berenson

  “Sorry,” Kim apologized. “I think everybody’s wired today. Why don’t you stay here and I’ll see if Randy’s out back in the pens. I know he was expecting you, and with Boomer on the table, he wouldn’t have gone far.”

  As it turned out, she was right. He’d gone almost nowhere at all. Passing an open closet door on her way out of the room, Kim reached automatically to shut it. Then stopped.

  “Oh,” she said, and I heard the horror in her voice. “Oh no.”

  Hands over her mouth, Kim was backing quickly away. I skirted around the table to have a look. I shouldn’t have, but I did. It was one of those scenes that in the space of seconds etches itself within memory forever.

  It was a big, walk-in closet, and Randall Tarnower was lying on the floor. For the briefest of moments I thought he had spilled something and slipped. Then I realized that the thick dark pool on the linoleum underneath him was blood. Tarnower’s blood. His eyes were open, the pupils opaque. He’d fallen on his side, and I could see his back. The handle of a pair of grooming shears protruded from between his shoulder blades.

  The mind is an interesting thing. Stressed, it processes that which it has to deal with and filters out the rest. It took me a while to realize that someone was screaming. For a moment, I thought it was me. Then Boomer joined in, his howl raising the noise level another notch, and I realized it was Kim.

  Well, you couldn’t blame her. But we had to think of something better to do than stand around and scream.

  “Where’s the phone?” I asked.

  Kim gestured into the closet. It was a sure bet neither one of us was going in after it.

  “Besides that one.”

  “In the office.” The screaming had stopped; now she was hiccuping. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “I think so.” I didn’t see how he could look that bad if he wasn’t. I guess I should have felt for a pulse; but this was the first dead body I’d seen. I wasn’t about to go any nearer.

  “Go call 911,” I said. “And try not to touch anything.”

  Kim hurried out the side door as the back one opened. Her screaming had summoned another assistant. A chunky young man in his early twenties called out Randy’s name, then stopped dead at the sight of feet protruding out of the closet.

  “I don’t think you want to come in,” I said. “There’s been . . . an accident.” All right, so that wasn’t strictly accurate. I wasn’t about to go into details.

  “Who the hell are you? Where’s Randy? Where’s Kim?”

  I ignored the first two questions and answered the last. “She’s gone to the office to call the police.”

  Behind me, Boomer began to growl. His agitation had been growing by leaps and bounds. Now he was pacing like a caged panther. “Can you take him out of here?”

  The assistant nodded. As he sidled past the closet, he had a good look inside. What he saw made him run to the nearest bathtub and throw up. He couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned.

  “Damn,” he said when he was once more upright. “The Japanese scissors.” He hopped Boomer off the table and left. I followed him out and shut the door behind us.

  I found Kim in the office. She was slumped in the corner of a tattered couch, pale and sobbing.

  “Who else was here this morning beside you and Randy?” I asked.

  She looked up, thought for a moment. “Just Ben.”

  “He’s the other assistant?”

  “Yes.”

  “No other visitors? Deliveries?”

  “No.”

  “Phone calls?”

  Kim lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “This place is like Grand Central Station. The phone rings all the time. Sometimes I pick up, sometimes Randy does. I don’t really pay attention.”

  “But you knew that I was coming this morning?”

  “Yeah, Randy said so.”

  “Was he expecting anyone else?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Would he have mentioned it if he was?”

  She thought again. “I guess. I mean, he told me about you.”

  “Do you know what he wanted to see me about?”

  Kim shook her head and lapsed into silence. I could hear sirens in the distance. The police were on the way. Maybe their questions would shed some more light. All I knew was that Randy Tarnower had had something important he wanted to tell me about Max’s death. Something urgent, he’d said.

  And someone had stopped him before he’d been able to.

  The police and paramedics arrived in a flurry of flashing lights and blaring sirens. The coroner’s van slipped in silently twenty minutes later. Kim, Ben, and I were fingerprinted and questioned at length. I told the police what I knew, which wasn’t much and didn’t impress them at all.

  The only new bit of information I picked up was that Kim was separated from her husband and had moved in with Randy six months earlier. She insisted their relationship was platonic, but I saw the two officers exchange a look.

  Finally they decided I could leave. Up at the house, I spent ten minutes in the bathroom washing my hands. Though I hadn’t touched anything, the smell of blood still lingered. Or maybe it was my imagination.

  Kim walked me out. “What will you do now?” I asked her.

  Only a couple of hours had passed, but I could tell she’d been pondering the question. “Ben and I will have to talk. We might be able to make a go of it on our own.”

  “I thought people sent their Poodles here for Randy to show.”

  “They did. And we’ll probably lose a few clients right off the bat. But I bet we’ll be able to convince the others to give us a try.” The look in her brown eyes was shrewd. “It was Randy’s operation. That didn’t mean he was the only one around here with talent.”

  Yes, well. I was glad I wasn’t the one standing between Kim and something she wanted.

  There was little traffic on the drive home. That was good because the trip passed by in a daze. I needed to pick up Davey, but Aunt Peg’s was on the way, and I decided to stop there first. I could let the Poodles out and make sure they all had fresh water. Even more importantly, I could use the time to wind down and try and clear my mind of all that it had seen.

  I wanted the comfort of holding my child in my arms, but not until I was clean, fresh, ready. Even half an hour could make a big difference. But when I pulled up to Aunt Peg’s house, I saw that I wasn’t going to be able to put the whole thing behind me just yet. Sam’s Bronco was parked in the drive. The car was empty, but then I spotted him.

  He was lying in the hammock Uncle Max had hung from the limbs of a Japanese Maple. His eyes were closed, but he opened one as I approached.

  “It’s about time,” he said.

  Twenty-two

  “If I’d known you were coming, I might have tried harder to be here.”

  Then again, maybe not. He was wearing jeans so old the denim was soft as tissue. His topsiders were scuffed and worn; his tee shirt was plain heather gray. I’ve seen men who don’t look that good in Armani. I know I’m in trouble when I notice a man’s hands. Sam’s were large and strong, long fingers tapering to blunt-cut nails. I’d seen him use them to stroke the dogs. It wasn’t hard to imagine . . .

  Well, you get my drift.

  I strode past him, up the walk, and into the house. There was no point in closing the door behind me, so I didn’t. The Poodles escaped, and I let Sam round them up. That kept him busy while I saw to the dogs out in the kennel. All too soon, we both ended up in the kitchen.

  Sam had already put on a pot of coffee. I’m barely at home in my own kitchen. How did he function so well in someone else’s?

  “Want to tell me about it?” he asked.

  “About what?” I was staring out the window over the sink. It overlooked the fenced backyard where the Poodles were now gamboling happily.

  “Whatever’s bothering you.”

  “No.” Eventually I supposed I’d have to. But I wasn’t ready to relive the whole thing just yet.
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  “Okay. Want to hear about Will Perkins?”

  “Sure.”

  We filled two mugs with coffee, added milk for me, sugar for Sam, then sat down at the kitchen table. I tried to pay attention to what he was saying, I really did. But I kept seeing Randy’s face with its chalky skin and blank, staring eyes.

  Sam finished telling me about the Poodles he’d seen at Will Perkins’s, then paused, waiting for my response.

  “Randall Tarnower’s dead,” I said.

  His mug came down on the table hard. Coffee sloshed up and over the side. “What?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I heard that.” Sam grabbed a napkin and mopped up the spill. “How? When?”

  “This morning—”

  “While you were there?”

  God, what a thought. And one I hadn’t even considered until now. I’d been assuming that the murder had happened before my arrival. But maybe not. Maybe while Kim and I had been calling around the front of the kennel, the killer had been slipping out the back. I wrapped my fingers around my mug and began to shiver.

  Sam took one look and left the room. He returned moments later carrying a thick cardigan sweater of Aunt Peg’s, which he wrapped securely around me. “Did you see him?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I did and I didn’t. But not talking about it wasn’t helping. Maybe this would.

  I told him the story from start to finish, no editing, no glossing over. Aunt Peg would have said I was finally beginning to trust Sam. I’d have told her I was merely desperate.

  “So you have no idea what it was Randy wanted to tell you?” he asked at the end.

  “No. He said he wanted to talk in person. How was I to know an hour and a half would make such a difference?”

  “You weren’t,” Sam said firmly. “And you saw nobody else there but Ben and Kim?”

  “Right.”

  “How about cars?”

  “What about them?”

  “You said it was farm country, isolated. So the killer must have had his own transportation. I would think an extra car would have stuck out.”

  I knew he was trying to work out the details in his mind. I’d been doing the same thing myself ever since. Applying logic to the situation was a much better alternative than sitting there and wallowing in shock.

  “Not necessarily. I looked around on the way out and lots of the fields were bounded by dirt tracks. If I’d wanted to slip into Randy’s kennel without being seen, I probably would have parked behind the neighbor’s corn field and hiked in.”

  “You have to wonder . . .” Sam said thoughtfully.

  “What?”

  “Was Tarnower killed because of what he knew about your uncle, or was it something else? It’s not as if he didn’t have enemies.”

  “I know. I’ve been wondering about that, too. In the few shows I’ve been to I’ve seen him fight with everyone from other handlers to the animal-rights protesters. And yet, he’d just tried to call Aunt Peg. You can’t discount that.”

  Sam frowned. “What a choice, coincidence or conspiracy. Damn it, you’re sure he didn’t give you a clue?”

  “Nothing.”

  We sat in glum silence for what seemed like a long time. Whichever way I approached the problem, there simply wasn’t enough information.

  “I wonder what his clients will do,” Sam said finally.

  “Kim said something about carrying on herself.”

  “She can try certainly, but she doesn’t have Tarnower’s skill. That kennel will be largely empty within a month.”

  “Too bad,” I said, picturing the big clean rooms and skylighted ceilings. “It’s a beautiful setup.”

  “Somebody will snap it up, don’t worry. Places like that with room for the dogs, plus zoning permits already in place are really at a premium these days. I’ve heard of grandfather clauses that upped the price of kennels by as much as a hundred thousand dollars. There are probably half a dozen handlers with their eye on Tarnower’s place already.”

  I went out back and opened the door so that the Poodles could come in if they wanted to. Of course, they did. Poodles are people dogs. Roughhousing in the yard is fun for a while, but basically they want to be where their people are. According to Aunt Peg, that’s why they make such great pets.

  I counted noses as they came in. By now I knew them well enough to greet each one personally. Simba would push to the front, while Chloe always hung back. Gracie had her nose on the floor looking for food. Watching them race into the kitchen and line up next to the counter in the hope that biscuits would be offered, it was hard to think of these playful pets as being part of the big business Sam had been talking about.

  Not that I was skeptical about what he’d said. Once you’ve accepted the possibility of Poodles wearing makeup, mascara, and wigs to be shown, I guess you’ll believe almost anything.

  “Where’s your son?” Sam asked as I handed out treats all around.

  “At a friend’s house. I’m about to head over and get him.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  I was fitting the lid back on the canister, but that stopped me. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t think you should be alone.”

  Half of me was surprised, and maybe even a little pleased, that he would care enough to make the offer. I hadn’t known a lot of men whose strength I’d been able to lean on. For a moment I was almost tempted to let myself be taken care of.

  Then I gave myself a mental shake and got real. I was an adult and I’d been running my own life—quite handily—for years. Who was Sam to say whether or not I ought to be alone?

  “I don’t recall asking what you thought,” I said, scooping my car keys up off the counter.

  “All right, here’s the deal. Does Davey like pizza?”

  “Do pigs fly?”

  Sam stared at me, perplexed. “Actually, no.”

  Unexpectedly I felt like laughing. “I can tell you haven’t been around enough four-year-olds.”

  “Precisely my point.” Sam and I were walking out the door together. “Here’s your chance to remedy that. We drive over to . . . ?”

  “Stamford.”

  “. . . right, Stamford, and pick up Davey. There’s a pizza parlor on Hope Street that makes the best sauce you’ve ever tasted.”

  He was smooth, I had to give him that. Even more amazing, he was right about Hope Street. “What if I’d said Darien?”

  “Then we’d be heading for the Post Road.”

  Right again, I thought. Damn. “You’ve only been here a couple months. How have you managed to scope out the best pizza parlor in every town?”

  “I work fast.”

  That’s what I was afraid of.

  Sam opened the car door, and I slid behind the wheel. I know when I’ve been outmaneuvered. I also know when I’ve allowed it to happen. But I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes it’s best just to go with the flow and not agonize over every little eventuality.

  Besides don’t forget, he was still wearing those jeans.

  Davey is my litmus test. Any man who doesn’t get along with him is history. But when he and Sam got together after our stop at the Brickmans’, I was the one who never stood a chance. Before we even arrived at the pizza parlor, they were well on their way to being best buddies.

  Not only that, but I couldn’t even fault Sam’s methods. He didn’t take credit for the pizza, nor the ice cream sundaes that followed. He didn’t attempt to be current on silly riddles or cartoons. Nor did he slip my son a five dollar bill when I wasn’t looking.

  Instead he simply treated Davey as a somewhat younger, and slightly smaller, friend. He asked his opinion on dinner and listened carefully while Davey listed the eight most important reasons why he didn’t like mushrooms. They discussed baseball and dodge ball with equal solemnity and included me in the conversation as often as they remembered I was in the room.

  And I’d said Sam
didn’t spend enough time around four-year-olds.

  After we drove back to Aunt Peg’s and I snuggled my sleepy child off to bed, I asked Sam what his secret was.

  “Brothers, younger. Two of them. Both married now and both with sons of their own. I have a nephew almost Davey’s age, and two that are younger. Unfortunately one brother lives in San Francisco and the other, Atlanta. I don’t get to see either of them as often as I’d like.”

  We were having the conversation on the doorstep. Sam had seen us inside, then waited while I put Davey in bed. I was feeling pretty mellow. Now that it was just the two of us again, I’d been hoping he might like to stay around for a little adult conversation. But as soon as I returned from tucking Davey in, Sam was on his way to the door.

  “You ought to go to bed, too,” he said to me. “After the day you’ve had, you look like you could use the sleep.”

  I don’t think he meant to be insulting. At least I hope not. But I have to admit, I did check out my reflection in the mirror by the door as he left. I probably would have stood there watching him start his car and drive away, but the telephone rang.

  Of course since it was her house, the call was for Aunt Peg. But when I took the caller’s name, I found out I was talking to Janet Reavis. Quickly I identified myself and told her she could reach Peg after the weekend.

  “I’ve been wondering about something,” she said. “And maybe you’ll give me your opinion. As I told you, when Jennifer and I went to Litchfield, the breeder was rushing off to the vet because two of his dogs had gotten into a fight. Is that the norm for Standard Poodles? Are they very aggressive? Because I’m looking for a family dog . . .”

  “Not at all,” I reassured her. “Standard Poodles have wonderful temperaments. They’re smart, they’re funny, and they’re incredibly eager to please. But you shouldn’t take my word for it. Talk to my aunt next week and come and meet her dogs. They’re their own best advertisement.”