Game of Dog Bones

by Laurien Berenson

“Everybody’s heard about what happened to Victor. Has his death become your new puzzle to solve?”

  “No, I—”

  “Because in your shoes, it should be.”

  That caught me by surprise. I had no idea what she was talking about. “Why?”

  Mrs. Bixby leaned in closer. She said with relish, “Rumor has it that Peg was involved.”

  “No,” I said quickly. “She wasn’t.”

  “I can certainly understand why you would deny that.”

  “I’m denying it because it isn’t true.”

  Her smile had a malicious edge. “That’s not what the gossip says.”

  “The gossip is wrong,” I told her firmly.

  “Is it?” Mrs. Bixby shrugged as if it didn’t matter to her either way. “I heard that Peg and Victor were engaged in some kind of ongoing feud. I’m sure the police will look into that. Of course, if it isn’t true, Peg has nothing to worry about.”

  Okay, now this woman was really beginning to get on my nerves.

  “I imagine they’ll look into anyone who was seen arguing with Victor recently,” I said. “Like you, perhaps—who had a very public disagreement with him in the middle of judging on Sunday. What was that about?”

  “It was nothing,” she snapped. “Just a small misunderstanding. I wasn’t feeling well. I’d grabbed a sandwich in Penn Station and it must have disagreed with me. I didn’t feel right all afternoon.”

  “Were you feeling well earlier in the day?” I asked. “Because you were seen arguing with Victor then too.”

  Mrs. Bixby reared back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said haughtily. “Whoever told you that is a liar. As for the rest, I have no idea why Victor came barreling into my ring. I presume he wanted to draw attention to himself, just like he always does. Did you know Victor?”

  “I did.”

  “Then you know the kind of man he was. Victor thought of himself first, last, and always. He was trouble with a capital T. You never knew what he might do next.”

  “I’m sure the police will be looking into all of that,” I said, purposely tossing her own words back at her. “Of course, if what you’re saying is true, you won’t have anything to worry about.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Hanover heading our way. He didn’t look happy. That was never a good thing. Harriet was signaling to me frantically from behind the headmaster’s back. I was pretty sure she was telling me to shut up.

  I could do that.

  I was standing like a mummy when Mr. Hanover drew up beside us. The man was tall and trim. As always, he was impeccably turned out. His suit came from Savile Row. His tie and silk pocket square matched. His brown hair was thinning on top and a pair of wire-framed glasses—a relatively new addition—rested on the bridge of his patrician nose. Mr. Hanover appeared to be staring down that nose at me now.

  Before he could speak, Mrs. Bixby treated him to a blinding smile. “Good evening, Russell. What a delightful soiree you’ve arranged for us tonight. I was lucky to run into Melanie here. She and I have been catching up on the activities of some mutual friends. I hope you don’t mind that I’m monopolizing one of your teachers?”

  A moment earlier, I’d been silent. Now I was speechless. Mrs. Bixby had morphed into an entirely different person right before my eyes. That was quite a trick.

  “Not at all,” the headmaster replied smoothly. “I just came by to pay my respects. But since you ladies are enjoying your conversation, I will leave you to it.”

  “Thank you,” I said when he was gone. “I think you just saved my bacon. And maybe my job.”

  “I didn’t do it for you,” Mrs. Bixby said.

  Why wasn’t I surprised?

  “Perhaps you were right to point out that the police might also see me as a person of interest,” she continued. “That’s the term they use, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “What happened to Victor had nothing to do with me. And I want nothing to do with it. I have a reputation to maintain. I’m a single mother. I have a very good PR job that—among other things—allows me to pay my daughter’s tuition at this school. Whatever kind of muck is going to be raked up by the investigation into Victor’s demise, I don’t want any of it to stick to me.”

  I nodded again. I could understand that.

  “Aunt Peg feels the same way,” I told her.

  Mrs. Bixby’s short, clipped nod indicated that she’d gotten the message. Her earlier comments about Aunt Peg had been out of line.

  “Maybe it’s a good thing we ran into each other tonight,” she mused. “It seems you’d be doing both Peg and me a favor if you helped the police conclude their investigation into Victor’s death as quickly as possible.”

  Before I could speak, she added meaningfully, “You should know that I always repay my debts. In my position, it’s easy for one favor to be returned with another.”

  I stared at her in surprise. Was Mrs. Bixby actually offering to help me out in the show ring—perhaps by awarding a Poodle of mine undeserved points? Aunt Peg would have a fit when I told her. She’d probably also strike Louise Bixby from her Christmas card list.

  “I could ask a few questions,” I told her. I didn’t give two hoots about this woman’s stake in the matter. I did, however, care about Aunt Peg’s.

  “Good,” she replied coolly, as if she’d never expected any other answer. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

  I sincerely doubted that. But at least for now, I was willing to play along. “You knew Victor better than I did. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm him?”

  This time Mrs. Bixby didn’t hesitate before replying. “Larry Bowling.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The most vocal malcontent in the Empire Club. He and Victor were engaged in a bitter quarrel over stud fees that were owed. Or possibly not owed. Depending on who you chose to believe.”

  That sounded promising. “Where does Larry live?” I asked.

  “North Salem or South Salem, I don’t remember which one. Blackbriar Kennel. I’m sure he has a Web page. You’ll find it.”

  She was right about that. I most certainly would.

  Chapter 12

  I was seated at my desk the next morning when my cell phone vibrated. If it had been tucked away in my purse like it was supposed to be, I would never have known. But I had a free period between tutoring sessions and the device had somehow found its way into my pocket.

  I checked the caller ID and sighed.

  “I heard what you did last night,” Aunt Peg barked into the phone. She knew personal calls at work were allowed only in case of emergency. But Aunt Peg figured everything she had to say qualified.

  “I did several things last night,” I replied mildly. “Which one are you talking about?”

  “At Howard Academy Parents’ Night. You cornered Louise Bixby.”

  Now that was unfair.

  “I didn’t corner her. She was the one who sought me out.” Then a sudden thought hit me. “Wait . . . who did you hear that from?”

  Lord, I hoped it wasn’t Russell Hanover. Aunt Peg was a loyal and generous HA alum who counted the headmaster among her wide circle of friends. Sometimes it felt as though her tentacles extended into every aspect of my life. But surely my conversation with Mrs. Bixby hadn’t made that big an impression on him?

  “Louise called me this morning,” she said.

  I exhaled a relieved breath. Okay. That I could handle.

  “Did she ask you if you killed Victor Durbin?”

  It sounded as though Aunt Peg might have snorted out some tea. “No. Why would she do that?”

  “She was happy to inform me last night that the rumor mill says you were involved.”

  “Phfft, gossip. Who listens to that?”

  “You do,” I pointed out. All the time, I wanted to add. I managed to refrain.

  “Louise said you interrogated her.” Aunt Peg sounded pleased. “Did you ask her if she
was involved?”

  “Not exactly.” I frowned, thinking back. “Though now I wish I’d been more direct.”

  “Why is that?”

  “First, because I watched her lie to Mr. Hanover flawlessly.”

  “That’s impressive,” Aunt Peg agreed.

  “And second, because she offered me future favors—I’m sure you get my drift—if I looked into Victor’s death. She framed the offer as an opportunity for me to help both of you.”

  “I don’t need your help,” Aunt Peg said brusquely.

  “Of course not. You never do.”

  We both considered that for a minute.

  “Future favors, really?” I knew she would circle back around to that. She was probably frowning as she said it.

  “I could finish Coral for you,” I pointed out.

  Aunt Peg wasn’t amused. “That will not be necessary. But the offer does raise an interesting question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Obviously Victor’s death is being investigated by the New York City police. So what is Louise afraid they might find out?”

  “I have no idea,” I told her. “She recommended that I talk to a man named Larry Bowling.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A member of the Empire Poodle Club. One who didn’t get along with Victor.”

  “Nobody got along with Victor,” Aunt Peg said. “Your list of suspects is going to be huge.”

  “Who says I’m making a list of suspects?”

  “Aren’t you?” she inquired.

  “You just told me that you didn’t need my help.”

  Aunt Peg huffed out a breath. “Since when did you start listening to everything I say?”

  Since forever, I thought. But who was counting?

  “Time is passing,” she informed me. “If you don’t already have a list, you’d better get moving.”

  I guessed that meant we had that settled.

  She disconnected the call just as there was a brisk knock on my classroom door. Almost immediately, the door opened. I barely had time to shove the phone back into my pocket before Mr. Hanover came striding into the room.

  Quickly I jumped to my feet. Faith followed suit. A fleeting look of amusement crossed the headmaster’s face. The big Poodle wagged her tail in a friendly greeting. Good girl.

  “Please,” he said. “Sit.”

  Faith and I both complied. Mr. Hanover looked amused again. Faith and I made a good team. We could have been a comedy act.

  Mr. Hanover rarely made an appearance in my classroom, however. And when he did appear, his visits seldom augured good news. So I was pretty sure the felicitous mood wouldn’t last long.

  “Tell me about last night,” he said.

  The headmaster had remained standing. That meant he was now towering over me. I knew that wasn’t an accident.

  “Parents’ Night was a big success,” I said brightly. “The turnout was huge. And Harriet did a wonderful job of pulling everything together.”

  Mr. Hanover quirked a brow. “Is that what you think I’m here to discuss?”

  “No?” I made the answer sound like a question. We both knew it wasn’t.

  “Let’s start again then, shall we? Tell me about your conversation with Marla Bixby’s mother. I assume you were not catching up on old friends. Even from across the room I could tell that.”

  “You’re right,” I admitted. “We weren’t. Not exactly.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and waited in silence for me to continue. Mr. Hanover had that technique down cold. Plus, his mere presence was intimidating. Idly I wondered if he’d ever worked for the CIA.

  “A man Mrs. Bixby and I knew was murdered Tuesday night,” I said unhappily.

  The headmaster’s shoulders stiffened. He probably hadn’t expected that. “Where?” he demanded. “Not here.”

  By “here” I knew he meant the school. His school. The institution that Mr. Hanover would do anything in his power to protect. Unfortunately, during the time I’d been a teacher at HA, the school had found itself on the periphery of several similar crimes.

  “No, of course not,” I told him quickly. “It happened in New York City.”

  “Well, then.” He relaxed fractionally. “What business is it of yours?”

  “We were merely discussing the crime. That’s all.”

  “All? You’re sure about that?”

  I nodded uncomfortably. I’m not nearly as good a liar as Louise Bixby is.

  “Because I would be very disappointed, Ms. Travis, if your exploits were to once again expose Howard Academy to publicity of any kind. Do we understand one another?”

  I might have tried arguing that the previous problems hadn’t been entirely my fault. Or not my fault at all. But really, what was the point?

  “Yes, Mr. Hanover, we do,” I said.

  “Excellent.” He walked over to the corner of the room where Faith was sitting on her cedar bed. He’d been frowning at me. Now he actually smiled as he reached down to pat her head. Faith had that effect on people.

  Mr. Hanover turned back to me before leaving. “You will give my regards to your aunt,” he said. “The next time you speak with her.”

  Was it my imagination or was there a subtext to that request? Dammit, don’t tell me he knew I’d been talking on my phone too.

  “Of course,” I replied. “I know she’ll be happy to hear from you.”

  As soon as he was gone, Faith rose from her bed and came padding over. She pressed her warm body against my legs and laid her head on my lap. I slipped a hand down and caressed beneath her ears. I couldn’t help but smile. She had that effect on me too.

  * * *

  It turned out that Larry Bowling didn’t live in either North or South Salem. Instead, his Blackbriar Kennel was located in Cross River, a semi rural hamlet in eastern Westchester County. According to Larry’s Web site, he bred “outstanding Toy and Miniature Poodle puppies for discriminating owners who only want the very best.”

  Funny thing about that, I’d never heard of him before. Nor had I ever seen the Blackbriar prefix on a Toy or Mini Poodle at a dog show. And there was no mention anywhere of his dogs’ health, or temperament, or of any genetic testing he was doing on his stock. Aunt Peg would have wasted no time in telling Larry Bowling that his assessment of his dogs’ quality was nowhere near the truth. So it was a good thing she wasn’t with me when I drove to Cross River that afternoon, after dropping Kevin and Faith at home.

  I had called Larry earlier, introduced myself as an acquaintance of Victor’s, and asked if he had time to talk to me. I’d expected to have to come up with a ruse to get my foot in the door—but Larry had surprised me. He’d merely inquired if I also bred Poodles, and what size they were. After I answered both questions, he’d told me he would be at home after one o’clock that afternoon.

  I wondered what I should make of that. Was Larry just a friendly guy? I hoped that was the case, but somehow it didn’t seem likely. Maybe I wasn’t the only one with a game plan.

  On the Web site Blackbriar Kennel appeared to be a cute bungalow home with a wide porch and dormer windows, surrounded by mature trees, and nestled in a pastoral setting. The reality looked quite different. For one thing, the driveway had yet to see a snowplow this winter. For another, a large tree limb had fallen down across the yard at some point. It was still leaning against the side of the house. And then there was the noise.

  As soon as I got out of my car I heard it, the harsh cacophony of multiple dogs barking. Loudly. Incessantly. Poodles, presumably. The easiest dogs in the world to train. So . . . two things. Why were the Poodles outside in this cold weather, and why hadn’t they been taught to be quiet?

  I was standing there listening to the noise when the front door opened. Larry Bowling looked like the kind of man who would have blended into any crowd. He was of average build and had a face that was remarkable only for its everyman features. Larry was in his forties, an age when most men would have been at wor
k on a weekday. Once again, I wondered why he’d been so readily available to meet with me.

  “You must be Melanie,” he said. “No need to stand out there in the cold. Come on in.”

  “That’s a lot of barking,” I said without thinking, but Larry didn’t take offense.

  “You know Poodles. They have strong lungs. And plenty to say.” He beckoned me closer and I climbed two steps to the porch.

  “Don’t your neighbors mind?”

  “One or two.” Larry shrugged. “But hey, it’s my property. I can do whatever I want here.”

  Unless your town has a noise ordinance, I thought.

  Most places I visited, I was greeted by enthusiastic canines. Not at Larry’s house. Once inside, I didn’t see a single Poodle. Or even a picture of a Poodle. And when he closed the front door behind me, the noise level dropped too. Now his dogs’ existence was almost imperceptible. Apparently his idea of living with Poodles and mine were very different.

  I followed him down a narrow hallway to a cramped living room with a lovely brick fireplace. Unfortunately, it wasn’t lit. Larry must have been saving money on his heating bills because when I exhaled I could see my breath condense in the air. I opted to keep my coat on.

  “Have a seat,” he said, sinking into an upholstered chair that looked older than I was. Gingerly I perched on the edge of a couch cushion. “You said you wanted to talk about Victor. Am I correct in assuming that he was annoying the crap out of you too?”

  I looked up, surprised. “I’m sorry . . . what?”

  “Victor. The corpse of the hour. May he rest in peace. Not.” Larry blinked at the horrified expression on my face. “I’m sorry. Do I have that wrong? Were you and Victor friends?”

  “No, we weren’t,” I replied firmly. “At one point he and I both belonged to the Paugussett Poodle Club but other than that I barely knew him.”

  “So you didn’t have any business dealings with him?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re lucky.” Larry reached over to a side table and picked up a pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”

  Actually I did. But it was his house, so I shook my head.

  “I thought perhaps you wanted to join my lawsuit,” Larry continued after he’d tapped a cigarette out of the pack, lit the tip, and inhaled what looked like a satisfying drag.