The Bark Before Christmas

by Laurien Berenson

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as I pulled off my coat and stashed it in the closet.

  “Wrong?” Aunt Peg echoed innocently. “Why would you think anything is wrong?”

  “When did you start slamming doors?”

  “Last week. That door sticks.”

  Aunt Peg is usually quite an accomplished liar. But this time, I wasn’t buying it.

  “Doors stick in the summer,” I pointed out. “Not the winter.”

  “So?”

  There wasn’t much I could say to that.

  Outerwear dealt with, I started to head toward the kitchen. Aunt Peg always entertains with food. If she didn’t have cake, surely there would be cookies. Or maybe scones, I thought hopefully. With lots of butter.

  “Where are you going?” asked Aunt Peg.

  Turning back, I saw that she meant to go in the other direction. She was facing her living room.

  Okay, let’s be clear about this. Family matters aside, Aunt Peg and I have been friends and cohorts for a number of years. And I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve ever been in her living room.

  Peg never spends time in there. It’s just a beautifully decorated, mostly unused, room that sits on the other side of the house, waiting for visitors whom Aunt Peg doesn’t like enough to feed cake. Which is pretty much nobody.

  “Now what’s the matter?” she asked acerbically.

  “I feel lost,” I said.

  “Well, snap out of it.”

  “Me?”

  Aunt Peg stopped. She propped her hands on her hips and stared pointedly down her nose. “What is wrong with you today?”

  “I want cake,” I said softly. Even to my own ears, the plea sounded pathetic. I was a grown woman, for Pete’s sake, not a child who needed to beg for a sweet.

  But it wasn’t only the lack of cake that was troubling. Now I wondered if that was just a symptom of a bigger problem. All at once I felt as though the foundation of our relationship was somehow crumbling beneath my feet. Everything seemed to be shifting and realigning around me and I had no idea why. Where was the Aunt Peg I knew and loved? And who was this stranger who was standing in her place?

  “We have to talk,” I said.

  “I should hope so,” said Peg. “Otherwise, why are you here?”

  I grabbed her arm, turned her around, and steered her in the direction of the kitchen. The kitchen in Aunt Peg’s house was what I knew. It was where I felt comfortable. It was where we talked.

  “I’m having coffee,” I said, directing her to a chair at the butcher block table. Aunt Peg refuses to buy a coffeemaker, but she keeps a jar of instant in the cabinet. It was close enough. “Would you like tea?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  I stared at her through narrowed eyes. Aunt Peg always wanted tea. And she was never fine.

  “Am I on Candid Camera?” I asked. “Should I smile and speak toward a microphone?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Aunt Peg snapped. “You sound like an idiot.”

  “So do you,” I shot back.

  “I do not.”

  “You”—I leveled a pointed finger at her—“don’t have cake.”

  Aunt Peg looked incredulous. “Really, Melanie? That’s what your odd behavior is about? The fact that I don’t have cake?”

  “Precisely.” I stood and crossed my arms over my chest. “Explain that to me. And it better be good.”

  She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “It’s not good,” Peg said finally. “Not good at all. I am on a diet.”

  Aunt Peg on a diet? The very idea was inconceivable. Peg was six feet tall and had the metabolism and energy of a Greyhound. In all the time we’d spent together, I’d never known her to worry about things like calories, or nutrition, or extra weight—unless her beloved Standard Poodles were involved, of course.

  Aunt Peg ate anything and everything. And usually had seconds. And then dessert.

  “Oh.” A sudden burst of relief made me feel giddy, then weak. I sank down into a chair beside her. “That’s great. Excellent actually.”

  Aunt Peg was not amused. “I can assure you,” she said firmly, “it is not in any way excellent.”

  “Compared to the alternative,” I sputtered, still somewhat light-headed. “You were acting so strangely, I thought maybe you’d been diagnosed with a terrible illness.”

  “Oh pish. There’s no need for melodrama. I’m not dying. I’m just overweight. Fifteen pounds, to be exact.”

  “It happens,” I said.

  “Not to me!”

  “Really?” I looked at her. “You’ve never gained weight before?”

  “No. Why should I?”

  Perhaps because you have the eating habits of a longshoreman and a voracious appetite for sugar, I thought. The sentiment seemed better off left unvoiced.

  “I just saw you three days ago,” I said. “You were fine then. What happened in the meantime?”

  “I had my yearly physical on Monday. Apparently it’s not unusual for someone my age to put on a few pounds. But fifteen pounds in one year was enough for my doctor to be a bit concerned. She would prefer that the trend not continue. I’m supposed to add more fresh vegetables to my diet. And do away with things like refined sugar, butter, and white flour.”

  “In other words,” I said. “Cake.”

  Aunt Peg nodded. “It’s only been since Monday,” she said sadly. “I already want to strangle somebody.”

  “I could tell.”

  “Could you?” She peered at me across the table. “I thought I was coping rather well.”

  “Trust me,” I said. “You’re not.”

  “That’s hardly my fault. It’s not pleasant being hungry all the time.”

  Like that was news.

  “Do what the doctor told you and eat your veggies,” I said. “You like vegetables. And they’re very filling.”

  “I like vegetables in their place,” Aunt Peg corrected me. “In a small mound on the unimportant side of the plate. Not as the main event.”

  “I can’t believe you went cold turkey,” I told her.

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Of course I was polishing off a Christmas strudel when I made the decision. I figured I should remove the last bit of temptation from the house before beginning the new regimen.”

  I got up from the table and went to put on the kettle. Under the circumstances, it sounded as though a strong dose of Earl Grey tea was definitely called for.

  “Diets work better when they’re not based on total deprivation,” I told her.

  “They do?”

  “Sure. It makes sense, doesn’t it? You can still satisfy your cravings but with a few bites rather than a whole cake. Then you’re less likely to give in and overindulge later.”

  “Nobody told me that.” Aunt Peg’s expression brightened. “A sliver of cake sounds like a fine idea.”

  I thought it might. Except, of course, that we didn’t have one.

  “Also, it makes more sense to start a new diet after the holidays rather than before. You’ll be less likely to cheat.”

  “After?” Aunt Peg was beginning to look almost happy now.

  “You know, like on New Year’s Day. You could make a resolution.”

  “I could at that,” Aunt Peg said cheerfully. “This is all sounding much better. Perhaps I should have consulted with you sooner. How do you know these things?”

  “How do you not know them?” I asked. “Everyone knows this stuff.”

  The kettle began to whistle. I got out two mugs and prepared tea for Aunt Peg and coffee with a splash of milk for myself. We both ignored the sugar bowl.

  “I know dogs,” Aunt Peg told me. “For the vast majority of my life, that has seemed like quite enough.”

  “As it happens,” I said, rejoining her at the table, “that’s why I’m here.”

  “Of course it is,” Peg replied.

  No false modesty around here.

  “I’ve been to see So
ndra,” I said. “And I’ve talked to some other people, too. Did you know that Kiltie is going to Todd after the first of the year?”

  “I didn’t know that it was definite.” Aunt Peg blew on her tea and took a cautious sip. “But I might have had an inkling that a plan was in the works.”

  “But here’s the thing,” I told her. “According to Jo Drummer, Sondra isn’t the only one who made a plan involving Todd. Jo said that Todd’s new special is an Afghan Hound that’s coming over from England.”

  “Interesting.” Aunt Peg pondered that. “I wonder if Sondra knows.”

  “I can’t imagine that she does. She told me she’s already lined up a whole bunch of advertising to announce Kiltie’s new association with Todd. So how is that going to work if he has two top dogs?”

  “If I know Todd, he’ll make it work,” Peg said thoughtfully. “There are a number of good, even great, professional handlers. But Todd has risen to the top by being the very best at two things. He always brings judges exactly what they want to see in their rings. And he knows how to keep his clients happy.”

  “Sondra seems like a tough person to please.”

  “She is indeed,” Aunt Peg agreed. “Life has handed Sondra a lot of advantages. So many, that in most of her dealings she automatically assumes—quite correctly—that she has the upper hand.”

  I nodded. I could see that.

  “But with Todd, the scales will be tipped in the opposite direction. He’s offered more good dogs than he has time for. I’m sure Sondra approached him about adding Kiltie to his string and not the other way around. She’s lucky to have Todd at the end of Kiltie’s leash and Sondra will understand that. I’d imagine she’ll behave accordingly.”

  “I should hope so,” I said.

  “And don’t forget, Todd has two assistants both of whom are more than talented enough to be out on their own. So if he ever does end up with a conflict in the Best in Show ring, whichever dog he opts to hand off will also be in expert hands.”

  “Sondra is hoping to syndicate Kiltie,” I mentioned.

  Aunt Peg looked up, surprised. “I can’t imagine why. She has more money than God.”

  “She said she wants the dog to have backers with serious clout.”

  “Oh pish,” said Aunt Peg.

  “You don’t think it will happen?”

  “It sounds to me as though Sondra has her head in the clouds. Once the dog is out with Todd, if he catches fire and really starts winning anything may be possible. But right this very moment, we’re a long way from worrying about that. Especially since Sondra doesn’t even know where her dog is.”

  “Which brings me to my next question,” I said. “What do you know about the Tri-State West Highland White Terrier Club?”

  “I’ve heard of them,” Aunt Peg mused. “I believe they’re based somewhere in Westchester. Am I meant to know more than that?”

  “Apparently Sondra is a member, and I was told that she’s been causing problems there recently.”

  “What sorts of problems?”

  “She managed to get several fellow breeders expelled from the club.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Aunt Peg said with a frown. “You’d better talk to Meredith Kronen and find out what happened. If anyone knows the whole story, she’ll be the one.”

  “Who’s Meredith Kronen?”

  “A lovely woman who used to breed Scotties. Now she judges terriers and she’s beginning to branch out into the toy breeds. Meredith knows everyone in terriers and she’s the kind of person who likes to keep her ear to the ground. There isn’t a lot that gets past her.”

  “Do you have her phone number?” I asked.

  “I can do better than that,” said Aunt Peg. “I’ll call and tell her you’re on your way.”

  “Now?”

  “Of course, now. Can you think of a better time?”

  “Actually yes,” I said. “Considering that I still have to pick up Davey and make dinner. How about tomorrow? You haven’t even told me where Meredith lives.”

  “Rye.” Aunt Peg gestured vaguely in the direction of the Merritt Parkway. “Right around the corner.”

  Only if you were speaking of a very large corner, I thought.

  “Tomorrow morning,” I decided. “See if she’s free then.”

  Aunt Peg disappeared briefly. When she returned, she was holding a sheet of paper with an address written on it. “Ten-thirty,” she said. “Meredith will be expecting you.”

  I got up and motioned to Faith that I was ready to go. Aunt Peg and the Poodle honor guard walked us to the door. I fastened my coat and wound my scarf around my neck. Then I stopped and sighed. There was one more thing I had to say.

  “Now what?” asked Aunt Peg.

  “I feel bad for Kiltie,” I said. “I really do.”

  “So? We all feel bad for that poor lost dog. Why is that a problem?”

  “Because the more I find out about Sondra, the less I like her. The way she behaves sometimes . . . I guess it makes me wonder why I’m even trying to help her at all.”

  “Because despite your faults, you are a kind and caring person.”

  Trust Aunt Peg to temper a compliment—one of the few I’d ever received from her—with an insult.

  “Despite my faults?”

  I wasn’t asking for an enumeration. It didn’t matter. I got one anyway.

  Aunt Peg lifted a hand and began to tick off points, one by one, on her fingers. “Heaven knows you’re too impetuous. And you’re terrible about overscheduling. You never answer your phone. And on top of that, you’re a slow driver.”

  Says the woman who treats most roads like her own personal Indy 500 strip.

  “Considering that I’m slow and overbooked,” I said, feeling more than a bit grumpy, “maybe I should call Sondra and tell her to find her own dog.”

  Aunt Peg opened the door and shooed Faith and me out into the cold December air. “Or maybe you should just buckle down and get the job done,” she said. “Don’t think about Sondra. Think about Kiltie. He’s what matters.”

  What had I been hoping? That Aunt Peg would take my objection to Sondra to heart and let me off the hook so that I could go home and resume planning Christmas for my family? Apparently I should have known better.

  With Aunt Peg, the answer was always the same. It was all about the dogs.

  Chapter 19

  Thursday morning, it was back to the Merritt Parkway again. Sam had work to do so this time I had Kevin as my companion rather than Faith. He and I were heading southwest toward Westchester County where Meredith Kronen was waiting for us.

  “Go swim?” Kev asked from the backseat.

  “No,” I said. “Not today.”

  “Playground?”

  “It’s too cold for the playground. We’re going to visit a nice lady.”

  “Nice lady.” My son grinned happily. He likes everybody. “Fish?”

  “Probably not,” I told him. “She might have a dog.”

  “Poodle,” Kevin said firmly. Since that’s his favorite breed of dog, he assumes it’s everyone else’s, too.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “We’ll see.”

  Meredith Kronen lived in a cute Victorian-style house at the end of a quiet, dead-end road in the village of Rye Brook. Since she was expecting us, I pulled off the road and parked in her driveway. As I was unfastening the buckles and clasps of Kevin’s car seat, the door to the house opened. A middle-aged woman with frizzy red hair, thick, dark-framed glasses, and a wide, engaging smile, came out onto the porch to wait for us.

  “You must be Melanie,” she said as we approached. “I’m Meredith. Who’s the young man?”

  “Kevin,” my son piped up before I could answer. “Do you have fish?”

  Not surprisingly, Meredith looked taken aback by the question.

  “I might have a can of tuna in the pantry,” she told him. “Will that do?”

  “Sorry,” I said with a laugh. “We visited someone recen
tly who had an aquarium. Now all Kev wants to talk about is fish.”

  “Ahh.” She nodded in understanding. “An obsession. I get that. Everyone I know only wants to talk about dogs.”

  “I know how you feel. It’s the same way at my house.”

  We walked up two front steps, crossed the narrow porch, and followed Meredith inside. As we dealt with coats and hats and mittens, I said, “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me today. I hope our visit isn’t an imposition.”

  “Not at all, I’m happy to help if I can,” Meredith replied. “Your aunt and I are old friends. And since she was recently instrumental in my gaining approval to judge Poodles, you might say that I owe her one.”

  Trading favors. The dog world revolved around that fundamental practice.

  “I’ve brought some books and Matchbox cars with me,” I said. “Kevin can entertain himself while we talk, if that’s all right with you.”

  “It’s perfect. I put the dogs out in their runs so we won’t be disturbed. Come on in and have a seat.”

  We got ourselves settled in a lovely living room whose Victorian-style furniture matched the design of the house. I sat down on a narrow upholstered couch. Kev was happy to find a seat on the floor at my feet. I unzipped the diaper bag and propped it open next to him so that he could look inside and choose his own distraction.

  “Peg told me you wanted to talk about Sondra McEvoy,” Meredith prompted.

  “That’s right. You may have heard that her dog, Kiltie, was stolen?”

  “I heard it.” Meredith stopped and frowned. “I didn’t entirely believe it.”

  “How come?”

  “Because the entire story sounded farcical to me. That someone dressed like Santa Claus would abscond with Sondra’s Westie at a Christmas bazaar? When I heard the news I assumed it was a joke. Or that someone was playing a prank of some kind. I’m afraid I didn’t give it any further thought.”

  “It’s no joke,” I told her. “Kiltie’s been missing for five days.”

  “In that case, I apologize. It appears I shouldn’t have made light of what happened. Sondra must be beside herself with worry.”

  Irritated? Agitated? Annoyed beyond measure? Those were all adjectives I might have used to describe Sondra’s reaction to Kiltie’s disappearance. But beside herself with worry? Not really. In fact now that I stopped and thought about it, that was one of the things that had been bugging me about this whole situation.