“Alice? Where are you?” I probably sounded confused. There was a good reason for that. I was.
“I’m at home. Why else do you think I’m whispering? I don’t want Joey and Carly to hear me.”
“Are you trying to say that Rebecca was just at your house?”
“Yes, and she’s going to be at yours in a minute.”
“Why would she come here?”
“Try to keep up, Melanie.” Alice sounded exasperated. “You don’t have a lot of time. I cornered Rebecca this afternoon after play practice and told her that I’d changed my mind about the puppy I’d reserved. I know we were going to talk to her together, but time was passing and I figured I should probably let her know.”
“And?”
“It was horrible. She was livid. Really mad, much more so than I would have expected. I mean, she’s still got a couple of weeks until Christmas; I’m sure she can find another family.”
Was it just me, I wondered, or were there great, gaping holes in this story? “How did Rebecca get to your house?”
“I’m coming to that. See, we couldn’t really talk about it right then because all the kids were around. Even if Rebecca wanted to make a scene, she couldn’t. I said what I wanted to say and I left. I thought that would be the end of it.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“Hell no. Rebecca must have looked up my address in the arts center records because she followed me home.”
“That’s bizarre,” I said.
“Tell me about it. Sorry to say, kiddo, I kind of panicked when she showed up on my front step. I couldn’t let her in, could I? That would have led to all sorts of questions from the kids. So when she demanded to know why I’d changed my mind, I had to think of something quick. I guess I might have mumbled about you convincing me that she wasn’t a conscientious breeder.”
That was so not what I wanted to hear.
“That’s when she stopped being mad at me, which was a good thing. Except that then she started being mad at you. She said she was going to march right over to your house and give you a piece of her mind.”
It was grasping at straws, I knew, but I had to ask. “Does she know where I live?”
“She does now,” Alice muttered unhappily. “She’ll probably be there any minute.”
Which was what had led to my shooing the dogs out back and sending Davey upstairs. I’d barely gotten both things accomplished when the doorbell rang. Considering that the Volvo was parked in the driveway, I guessed there wasn’t much point in trying to pretend that I wasn’t home.
“Rebecca,” I said, opening the door. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Her small eyes narrowed, concentrating the glare she aimed in my direction. Rebecca had armed herself against the December cold in a dark, bushy fur coat that covered her from shoulders to ankles. Standing on my front step, staring at me through beady eyes, she looked like a squat, angry hedgehog.
“Oh, stuff it,” she said, brushing past me into the house. “You can’t tell me that ninny, Alice, didn’t call and warn you I was coming.”
The wind caught the door as I was pushing it closed and it slammed hard. A perfectly audible thump followed. The wreath, hung in haste, had probably just landed on the stoop. I debated opening the door and retrieving it, but one look at Rebecca’s face stopped me.
“It was hanging crooked anyway,” she said with a smirk. “And you’d tied the ribbon on all cockeyed.” Her gaze swept around the first floor of the house. “Still, I guess it’s better than what you’ve done in here, which is basically nothing. Davey doesn’t mind not having a Christmas tree?”
“Of course he’s having a Christmas tree. We just haven’t had time to put it up yet.”
“Oh, I see.” Rebecca slipped out of her fur and tossed it over the newel post at the foot of the stairs. The woman did have style; I had to give her that. “I would think one of the most important things about being a parent is giving your child enough time.”
I might have nodded in agreement but Rebecca wasn’t looking at me. Instead she was heading, uninvited, toward the living room. She paused in the arched entryway and took a good look around.
Standing behind her, I tried to envision the room through her eyes. Our house was small and cozy. None of the furniture was new, but all of it was comfortable. It was the kind of furniture that dogs could sleep on and kids could play on, the kind where nobody minded if you put your feet up. As luck would have it, I’d dusted and vacuumed only a few days earlier. There were still plenty of legos and dog toys strewn around but our usual debris was at a minimum. Nevertheless, Rebecca didn’t look impressed.
“Some people would say that a single woman who couldn’t manage to put together a proper Christmas for her child was not a conscientious parent,” she said.
I guessed that meant the gloves were off in earnest now.
“Did you come here to discuss my parenting skills?” I asked.
“No.” She strode into the living room, chose a chair, dusted it carefully with her hand, then looked at me over her shoulder. “Mind if I sit?”
As if it mattered if I did.
“Not at all,” I said. “I think I’ll stand.”
“Your choice.” Rebecca smiled thinly. “As I imagine you already know, I came to talk about my puppies, your neighbor, and the possibility of a lawsuit for slander.”
That was when I laughed. Right out loud. I couldn’t seem to help myself. I think it surprised both of us.
“You think you’re going to sue me,” I said. “For telling the truth?”
“You don’t know me. You know nothing about me. What makes you think that these things you’re saying about me are the truth?”
Standing over her, I should have felt that I was the one in the position of power. Somehow, I didn’t. I tried crossing my arms over my chest. It didn’t help.
“You’re right,” I said. “I didn’t know anything about your practices as a dog breeder, which is why I told Alice to ask some very basic questions. I would have given her the same advice no matter who she was planning to get a puppy from.”
“I answered her questions,” said Rebecca. “And everything was fine. Until she informed me earlier today that she no longer wanted one of my puppies. I was given to understand that you were the one who made that decision.”
“No,” I said firmly. “Alice makes her own decisions. Though in this case, I support her wholeheartedly. Yes, you answered her questions, but your answers weren’t very satisfactory.”
“Really?” Rebecca’s brow lifted. “In what way?”
It was looking as though we were going to be here a while. I walked over and took a seat on the couch.
“For starters, the fact that you don’t do genetic testing on any of your breeding stock. These days all dogs, even mixed breeds, have hereditary problems. Golden Retrievers are hardly immune. There are all sorts of things you should be testing for. At the very minimum, you should be doing hip x-rays, CERF eye exams, and checking for heart disease.”
Before I’d even finished, Rebecca was already shaking her head. “Experience has taught me that none of that is necessary. Luckily, I started with very good stock and each succeeding generation has built upon that solid foundation. My line of dogs is not afflicted with those problems.”
“Assuming you’re right,” I said. A big assumption, considering the fact that the woman did no testing. “Does that mean that you never breed to outside dogs? That all your litters are inbred?”
Rebecca stared at me for a long minute before answering. “Aside from the safety factor,” she said frostily, “I also have my finances to consider. If I were to breed to other people’s dogs, I would have to pay a stud fee. Either that or give up a stud fee puppy. That would cut into my profit and I would be forced to make an adjustment to my prices.”
“Your prices aren’t low.”
“Maybe not, but they are in line with what the market is willing to pay.”
“And you don’t off
er any sort of guarantee with your puppies.”
“What a preposterous idea!” Her eyes flashed with annoyance. “Nobody can guarantee the future. I wouldn’t dream of trying.”
“There are, however, many excellent dog breeders who do exactly that. People with such confidence in their breeding programs and the puppies they produce that they sell them with a warranty of good health and good temperament. Breeders who will take their dogs back if something goes wrong, or if the owner is unable to keep them for some reason.”
Now Rebecca was gazing out the window. Her way, I assumed, of letting me know that whatever I had to say wasn’t important enough to devote her full attention to. Abruptly, she turned back. Her eyes locked with mine.
“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me sooner. You’re mad because I wouldn’t take that stupid dog back after Henry died. That’s what made you so determined to cause trouble for me.”
“Believe it or not,” I said, “I’m not trying to cause trouble for you. I’m simply trying to keep a friend from making a big mistake.”
Rebecca frowned. “That’s what you think my little golden bundles of Christmas joy are, a big mistake?”
There was no way to answer that without being downright insulting. I decided to change the subject instead. “It looks as though, once we get a few wrinkles ironed out, Remington will be going to a good home,” I said.
“You see? I told you that would work itself out just fine.”
It hadn’t worked itself out at all, I thought. Aunt Peg’s generosity, her connections, and her determination to do the right thing had made all the difference for both Remington and Pepper. Without her involvement—and by association, mine—who knew what might have become of them? It was too bad that Rebecca couldn’t be convinced to care.
“I guess you must have known Henry pretty well,” I said.
“What makes you think that?” Rebecca’s tone was light, but her shoulders tensed. She sat up just a bit straighter.
“As it happens, my aunt took over the care of Henry’s two dogs after he died. In the course of trying to figure out what to do with them, she became interested in trying to solve Henry’s murder. We know that in the months before he died, Henry was romantically involved with a woman he’d gotten one of his dogs from. I’m guessing that woman was you.”
I thought she might deny it, but Rebecca was made of sterner stuff. Instead, her chin lifted defiantly.
“Much as I don’t like you, I’m not about to lie to you. Your assumption would be correct. Henry and I were seeing each other. I suppose you think there’s something wrong with that, too?”
“No,” I said, puzzled. “Why would I?”
“Henry was a bus driver.”
The statement came out sounding like an insult. If that was how Rebecca truly felt, I wondered what she’d been doing with him.
“Henry was a very nice man,” I said. “And much more than a bus driver.”
Several seconds passed in weighty silence. Finally, Rebecca tipped her head to one side and considered me anew. “Imagine that,” she said. “We might actually agree on something after all.”
Capitalizing on our brief moment of détente, I stood up. “How about a cup of coffee? I’ve got some in the kitchen. And my dogs are out in the backyard. I’d like to let them in if you don’t mind.”
Rebecca thought about that, then got up as well. “As long as it’s not instant, I think I might drink a cup. Standard Poodles, right?”
“Right.” Surprised that she’d remembered, I led the way to the back of the house.
Faith and Eve were waiting on the back steps. Though the yard was fenced, I seldom left them outside for long without supervision. Now when I opened the door, both Poodles came scooting inside. Eve, clipped down to the skin and shivering slightly, glanced at me reproachfully.
“Sorry about that,” I said, running my hands over her cold hindquarter, then rubbing vigorously as she danced underneath me. “I didn’t forget about you guys, I just got tied up.”
“You talk to them as though they’re people,” Rebecca said.
“Yup.” I went to the cabinet, got out two mugs, and poured the coffee.
“Do you think they understand?”
“I know they do. Milk and sugar?”
“Sweetener, please,” Rebecca said. “If you have any.”
I did. Minutes later we were settled at the table. I’d given each Poodle a big biscuit. Eve was lying in the doorway on the dining room rug, gnawing on her treat. Faith had taken hers and gone trotting upstairs to look for Davey.
“I suppose you want to talk about Henry,” Rebecca said. Her voice was flat; she sounded resigned.
“If you don’t mind.”
“As if that matters. I mind just about everything that’s happened. Talking about Henry is the least of my problems. He was a wonderful man. His death was a huge loss to me and to everyone else who knew him.”
I nodded in agreement and waited until she was ready to continue.
“Not only that, but it came as such a shock. Of course, I wasn’t there but his neighbor—Betty, right?—told me what had happened. Henry wasn’t young, but he’d always seemed to be in good health. I just couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong. Then to find out after the fact that he’d been murdered. . . .” She shook her head. “It was simply too upsetting.”
“How long had you and Henry been seeing one another?” I asked.
“Just three or four months.” She stopped and smiled, her expression softening as she thought back. “But it was a nice several months. Henry wasn’t at all what I expected him to be. The first time I saw him he was behind the wheel of that big yellow bus. I’m sorry to say that my first impression of him wasn’t very positive. But Henry could be quite persistent when he saw something he wanted.”
“I’d heard that about him. I also heard that he was the kind of man who liked to be involved in everything around him.”
“Pushy, you mean? Controlling? I suppose that’s how he behaved with his daughters, at least to hear them tell it. He tried with me, but I wasn’t having any of it.”
No, I thought, looking at Rebecca. I didn’t imagine she would have.
“Do you suppose that attitude might have gotten him into trouble?” I asked.
“In what way?”
“What if Henry saw something he wasn’t supposed to see . . . or knew about something he shouldn’t have been involved in ... ?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. I was just throwing out ideas, hoping something might come of it. “Did Henry ever talk to you about things that went on in the neighborhood?”
“Sometimes, but not often. He was very well read, not to mention that he loved to travel. We had plenty of other things to talk about besides Stamford.”
“So there wasn’t anyone he complained about? Someone who annoyed him? Someone he thought was causing trouble?”
“The neighbor’s son annoyed him,” Rebecca said. “Though I can’t imagine it meant anything. It sounded to me like the usual generational conflict between an older man and a teenage boy. I gather the boy played his music too loud, had visitors coming and going at all hours of the day and night. You know the kinds of things that kids do. Henry seemed to think that his behavior didn’t reflect well on the neighborhood.”
“Did you tell that to the police?”
“You must be joking,” said Rebecca. “I’ve worked with children my whole life. If every time a teenager annoyed the neighbors someone filed a police report, no one would ever get anything done.”
“Yes,” I persisted, “but this time the neighbor ended up dead.”
“Over a bit of loud music?” She looked at me as though I was daft. “I don’t think so.”
26
Guilt is a powerful motivator. Ask any parent; they’ll tell you.
Rebecca was barely out the door before I was dragging the Christmas tree into the
house. Davey and Faith heard the commotion and came running down the stairs to help. Of course, the reason there was a commotion to hear was because I had the damn tree stuck in the doorway.
Eve, who had followed me outside when I went to retrieve the tree, was still out there, standing in the front yard, barking. Maybe she was trying to help. Possibly she was thinking that the force of her sound waves could propel the bushy tree through the too narrow opening.
Either that or she was calling me an idiot, doggie-style.
“Ooh,” said Davey. Eyes wide, he skidded to a stop at the foot of the steps. “That’s not good.”
“Tell me about it.” I glanced at him back over my shoulder. “Who picked this tree anyway? I’m pretty sure it was you. ‘Get the big one,’ you said. ‘We never get to have a really big tree.’ ”
And then there’d been that guilt thing again. I had felt bad that we were tree shopping late. And by the time we got to the nursery all the nice medium-size trees were gone. The ones that remained looked spindly and anemic. Pine needles, dry and already falling; carpeted the ground beneath them. So I’d agreed, reluctantly, just to look at the bigger trees. And somehow found myself heading home with a seven-foot Douglas fir tied to the roof of my car.
“Sure I said that,” Davey replied. “I’m a kid. You didn’t tell me it wouldn’t fit in the house.”
He had a point. If anyone was to blame for this fiasco, it was me. The adult. The parent. The person who hadn’t thought about the fact that a tree whose branches spread six feet across wouldn’t fit through a four-foot doorway.
“Besides,” Davey pointed out, “you’re doing it backwards.”
“What backwards?” I let the tree drop, straightened my aching back and turned to face him. “I’m holding it by the trunk. That’s the strongest part. You can’t drag it by the top.”
“Yeah, but the branches go in the other direction. The way you’re pulling it, they can’t fold down so they have to get stuck.”
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