“You told me and Frank that Beau was being bred at least once a month.”
“Up until the diagnosis, he was. Of course we didn’t allow him to be used after that.”
“But you didn’t tell about the SA, because if you had I’d have heard it from someone else. News like that is big.” I was growing angry now. Damn it, I hate to be deceived. “What about the puppies he already had on the ground? They’re all carriers, aren’t they?”
In spite of everything, Aunt Peg smiled. “You’re a quick learner, Melanie.”
I didn’t want her compliments. Right that moment, I didn’t want anything from her at all. Right from the start, she’d controlled my involvement in every facet of the dog game; making me think I was an ally when all I’d ever been was a dupe. Deliberately, I turned my back.
A moment passed, then she went to confer with the police who were taking a statement from Jack Berglund. With my luck, he was probably pressing charges for trespassing. On the wall behind the couch was the inevitable display of dog-show photographs. I let my gaze drift over them.
I wasn’t hoping for revelation; I was simply trying to look anywhere but at the gathering of people in the room. But as I skimmed over the pictures and thought back to those I’d seen in Jack’s trailer, another missing piece fell into place. Finally, I knew who had killed Uncle Max.
They were all still talking, but when I stood up and cleared my throat loudly, the room fell silent. “You weren’t alone when you went to get Beau, were you, Jack?”
“Of course I was. Neither Max Turnbull nor I had any desire to advertise what was going on.”
“But you had told somebody what you were going to do.”
When he didn’t deny it, I knew I was on the right track. The pictures were the key. Once I’d seen enough of them, the pattern was clear. It wasn’t the brown bitch he hadn’t wanted me to see, but rather the judges who’d awarded his dogs wins. Instead of forming a random selection as should have been expected, one person appeared with unexpected regularity: Carl Holden.
“Aunt Peg told me your line’s been going downhill.”
“That’s her opinion,”Jack said stiffly.
“And yet you’ve continued to win.”
“Can I help it if the judges like what I bring them?”
“One judge in particular, isn’t it? Someone who was giving your Poodles extra wins they didn’t deserve—”
“My Poodles were always deserving. Carl’s an excellent judge. That’s why he was able to recognize their quality and reward it accordingly.”
“And one good turn deserves another, doesn’t it?”
“Melanie,” said Aunt Peg. “What on earth are you talking about?”
It was nice to be the one with the information for a change. I might have savored the power it gave me a little longer, but the choice was taken out of my hands when the doorbell rang.
Officer Denny was taking notes again. It was left to Mosconi to escort Jack to the door. When they got back to the library, I was surprised to see Sam Driver with them.
“Well, it’s about time,” said Aunt Peg.
So much for being the one with information. “What are you doing here?”
“Peg left a message on my machine saying there was trouble and that I should get up here as soon as I could.”
I gave Aunt Peg a look. And here I thought she’d had faith in me.
“A little extra backup never hurts,” she said primly.
Sam glanced around the room. “It looks like you have the situation pretty well in hand.” He crouched down and called the Poodle over to him. “This must be Beau.”
“It is,” I said. “But apparently that’s only the beginning.”
It took us ten minutes to bring him up to speed. Like all the major players in the room, as the story unfolded, he alternated between elation and looking as though he’d been run over by a bulldozer. By the end he was reduced to shaking his head. “Then you were already onto what Holden was doing?”
“No,” Aunt Peg and I said together.
“And I still don’t know what’s going on,” she added.
Jack, who seemed delighted by something that would turn the spotlight away from him, invited us all to have a seat while we listened to what Sam had to say.
“I’ve been talking to Susan Lewis,” he began.
“The woman at your house,” I said.
“The A.K.C. rep,” said Aunt Peg.
The A.K.C. rep? Oh.
“One and the same,” said Sam. For the benefit of the two police officers, who were looking baffled, he explained. “Dog shows are held under the auspices of the American Kennel Club. In order to make sure that everything is running smoothly and correctly, the A.K.C. sends a representative to nearly every show to keep an eye on things. The rep for this part of the country is Susan Lewis.”
“What does that have to do with Carl Holden?” asked Aunt Peg.
“The A.K.C. has been conducting an investigation of his judging practices. Early in the year, they were tipped off that he was accepting bribes in exchange for handing out wins.”
“I don’t believe it,” Aunt Peg said flatly.
“Think back,” said Sam. “What about that big case only a few years ago where several judges were censured? It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Not Carl,” Aunt Peg insisted, loyal to her old friend. “He’s too good a judge. There’s no need for him to be involved in anything like that.”
I thought about what Officer Denny had said earlier. People have been known to do all sorts of things for money. But then, I didn’t know Carl Holden. To me, he was simply another piece in the puzzle. Aunt Peg, however, looked positively stricken.
Absently she patted her lap and Beau, who been leaning against her legs, climbed up and settled in. He was much too big for the space he was occupying, but neither of them seemed to notice. She circled her arms around the Poodle’s neck and hugged him close to her chest.
“There’s more,” said Sam.
I figured there would be.
“The A.K.C. has been investigating Holden quietly for months. They questioned anyone they thought might have information they could use.”
“They didn’t talk to me,” said Aunt Peg.
“No, but they did speak with Max, and apparently he had more than an inkling about what was going on.”
From the look on Aunt Peg’s face, I figured she wasn’t the only Turnbull who was good at withholding information. Either she was an excellent actress, or Max had never discussed the situation with her.
“And did Max give the A.K.C. the evidence they needed?” she asked.
“He told them he would if it was necessary. But first he planned to confront his old friend and suggest that he turn himself in. Max gave Carl a week to decide.”
“And in that time,” I said to Jack, “Holden spoke with you and learned of the deal you were about to transact. He followed you when you went to Max’s kennel that night.”
I was guessing now, but it all made sense. “He waited outside, probably taping what transpired. When you left, he went in and confronted Max with evidence of his own wrongdoing in an attempt to blackmail him into stonewalling the A.K.C. They must have had an argument—probably a violent argument—because whatever happened next was enough to precipitate Max’s fatal heart attack.”
“Geez,” Officer Mosconi muttered under his breath. “You dog people are crazy.” Even Officer Denny had stopped taking notes and was simply sitting there listening. Disputes with the American Kennel Club were beyond their jurisdiction.
“The A.K.C. never received the information they’d hoped for,” said Sam. “The next thing they heard, Max Turnbull was dead.”
I thought about all the people I’d met at the shows over the last few months, and of one in particular, who was relatively new to the game but who had met with immediate success. “If Carl Holden was taking bribes, then I bet I know one of the people who was offering. Randall Tarnower.”
/> Sam nodded. “With all that talent it would have been his turn soon enough anyway. But apparently Randy didn’t want to pay his dues. The A.K.C. was investigating him as well. They’d promised him leniency if he’d deliver Holden, and that’s exactly what he was about to do.”
“Except that he never got the chance.”
“Carl Holden had a very busy summer,” said Sam. “And for a Texan, he spent an awful lot of time on the East Coast. I went back through the premium lists from May through August. Every time something happened, he was in the area.
“The week Max died, Holden was judging near Hartford. He finished an assignment in southern Massachusetts the day before Peg’s house was broken into. And according to the expense report he submitted to the Shoreline Kennel Club, he flew into Newark Airport the Friday morning that Randy was killed, although he wasn’t due at their hotel until dinnertime.”
“Randy’s kennel was only forty miles from Newark.”
“Carl Holden had been there before,” said Sam. “Apparently he knew that, too.”
As we’d moved from dog business to murder, the policemen began to get interested again. “That’s it,” said Officer Denny. “You’re all coming back to the station. We’re going to need to get statements from everybody.”
Aunt Peg was the last to stand. In order to get up, she had to nudge Beau from her lap. It was obvious she did so with great reluctance.
The bill of sale was lying on the edge of Jack’s desk. I’d been to enough Disney movies to know that this wasn’t how things were supposed to end. We’d found the dog; now it was time for the joyous homecoming.
Except that what we’d also found was that Aunt Peg didn’t own Beau anymore.
Then she turned and faced Jack Berglund squarely. With Aunt Peg’s flare for rising to the occasion, I don’t know how I ever could have doubted her.
“How much?” she demanded.
“Pardon me?”
“He’s no good to you anymore, we’ve already settled that. If I give you back what you paid, I assume that will be sufficient?”
Berglund sighed unhappily. “The dog’s no good to anyone now.”
“I think Beau and I would disagree,” said Peg. She was already pulling out her checkbook.
All in all, I was glad that summer was over. Davey started kindergarten in the fall, and it seemed like things might finally begin to get back to normal.
The police arrested Carl Holden about the same time the A.K.C. concluded its investigation and suspended him for life. Jack Berglund, who was cited for falsifying a litter registration, was barred from participating in all A.K.C. activities for a period of seven years. Fortunately there was no way to prove what Max did or didn’t know when he sold Beau to Jack, and they let the matter drop.
Beau sleeps on Aunt Peg’s bed at night now. She’s training him to compete in obedience and says there are plenty of useful things a Poodle can do besides siring puppies.
At the end of the month, Aunt Rose was married in a quiet ceremony in the chapel at the Convent of Divine Mercy. Aunt Peg attended. She didn’t bring a gift, but I did see her slip Rose an envelope when she thought no one was looking. Frank brought some sort of a huge ceramic soup tureen that nobody in his right mind would ever use; but he’d just gotten a job and was feeling pretty high on himself, so we all made a big fuss over it.
Sam called a few days after that and invited Davey to a picnic on the beach. He mentioned that Davey could bring a friend. My son thought that meant he should ask Joey Brickman, but I nixed that idea myself. I’ve always been a sucker for a good picnic.
If you enjoyed A PEDIGREE TO DIE FOR
then turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Laurien Berenson’s second Melanie Travis mystery
UNDERDOG
now on sale wherever
paperback mysteries are sold!
One
Bringing a new puppy into the family is not unlike having a new baby. Both cry at night when you wish they were sleeping. Both benefit from being kept on a regular schedule; and both immediately set about demonstrating how little you really know about the job of parenting.
My son Davey just turned five, so he’s had plenty of time to acquaint me with the things he thinks I should know. Our new Standard Poodle puppy, Faith, is six months old. One theory has it that the first year of a dog’s life is equal to fourteen human years. Each year thereafter is worth seven. That makes Faith and Davey approximately the same age so I wasn’t surprised when they immediately became best friends.
At six months, puppies are both hopelessly endearing and full of mischief. In the case of Standard Poodle puppies, they’re also smart as a whip. Davey’s already got Faith carrying his backpack, sleeping on his bed, and eating the broccoli he slips her under the table.
I should protest, but my son has wanted a pet for a long time. I don’t imagine a little over indulgence will harm either of them and I’m a single parent, so it’s my call. We had a frog briefly last summer but Davey took it outside to play and lost it in the grass. We’re trying hard to take better care of the puppy.
If we don’t, we’ll have my Aunt Peg to answer to and Margaret Turnbull is not a woman to be trifled with. She’s nearing sixty, but she could probably out wrestle a person half her age. I know she could out talk one. She wears her gray hair scraped back off her face and has sharp, dark brown eyes that notice everything. She was married to my Uncle Max for more than thirty years until his death last spring. She is also Faith’s breeder, and in the dog show world that counts for a lot.
Aunt Peg can be blunt to the point of pain, which is why she’d be the first person to tell you that her Cedar Crest Standard Poodles are among the finest in the country. Rank has its perogatives and Aunt Peg doesn’t sell her puppies to just anybody. Rather, a prospective buyer must deserve the privilege of owning a Cedar Crest dog.
Or, as happened in my case, you can earn it.
Of course nothing is ever as simple as it seems and Faith came with strings, as do most of Aunt Peg’s projects. She’d had a litter of puppies in the spring—all black, the only color Cedar Crest Poodles come in—and had run on the three best bitches. That means she kept three girls until they grew up enough so that she could be certain of their potential for the show ring. When the puppies were five months old she did another evaluation and made her decisions. Hope she kept for herself. Charity went off to a show home in Colorado. And Faith came to live with Davey and me.
Aunt Peg showed up one Saturday morning in early October with the Poodle puppy sitting beside her on the front seat of her station wagon. She and I had spent a good deal of the previous summer together and I’d learned enough about showing dogs to realize what a Saturday visit meant: there weren’t any good judges at the area shows, otherwise Aunt Peg would surely have been off exhibiting. Instead she sat down at the kitchen table, drank a cup of strong tea and introduced me to the joys of dog ownership.
I’ve seen Aunt Peg lose her car in a parking lot because she thinks all station wagons look alike, but when it comes to her puppies, she’s very thorough. She plunked a ten page booklet down on the table—mine to keep, for easy reference—and worked her way from “b” for bathing all the way to “w” for periodic worming.
By the time she got to the part about how she fully expected Faith to finish her championship in the show ring, then spent an additional half hour outlining the extra time and effort that endeavor would involve, Davey had long since fallen in love. Aunt Peg and I sat in the kitchen and watched child and puppy scamper through the autumn leaves in my small backyard. We both knew it was already too late to say no.
Aunt Peg likes wringing unexpected commitments out of me and she seemed to take great delight in the way she’d managed this one. Even so, she doesn’t make things easy. Before she left she pressed the number of a fence builder into my hands. Clearly there was to be no roaming about the neighborhood for any Cedar Crest Poodle.
On my teacher’s salary it seem
ed much more likely that I’d be putting up econo-mesh myself than having someone else install post and rail, but I took the card and figured I’d think about it later. For the first few weeks I solved the problem by walking Faith on a leash. It was not a perfect solution.
Poodles are shown with a mane coat of long thick hair. In order to grow the coat required for competition, the hair must be protected at all times. Show Poodles are never supposed to wear collars except for training or when they are actually in the ring. Then again, I’ve had a lot of practice with making do in my life and I thought I was managing okay.
Peg apparently disagreed because one day in mid-October, Davey and I returned home from school to find our backyard fully enclosed.
“Wow!” cried Davey. “When did you do that?”
Like a deer entranced by oncoming headlights, I stared at four feet of post and rail and wire mesh that hadn’t been there in the morning when we’d left. “I didn’t.”
“Cool!” Davey still believes in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. No doubt the image of a fence fairy was taking shape in his mind.
As we climbed out of the car, he grabbed the key from my hand and ran ahead to let himself into the house. With his light hair and laughing blue eyes, my son is the image of my ex-husband. They also share approximately the same level of maturity. Then again I may not be the best judge of that as I haven’t seen Bob in four years.
He and I had bought this house together, back when we were newly married and filled with dreams, before he’d decided he was far too young to be tied down by the demands of something as mundane as fatherhood. Putting all the money we could scrape together into a down payment had seemed like a great leap of faith at the time. But then again, so had marrying just out of college. Frankly, the house had turned out to be a better deal.
It’s a really cute little cape in a sub-division in Stamford, Connecticut, that was built in the fifties. In step with those times, we got solid construction, an extra half bath and sidewalks on most of the streets. What we didn’t get was land, or for that matter, privacy. There isn’t much that goes on in Flower Estates that the neighbors don’t have an opinion on. I was sure I’d be hearing from mine in due time.
A Pedigree to Die For Page 24
