Murder at the Puppy Fest

by Laurien Berenson

  Sam pulled his SUV right up next to the tent so we could unload all of our gear without getting soaked. Augie danced on the seat with excitement as he watched us carry his crate and table under the tent and set them up. When his turn came, Sam gathered the big black dog into his arms, carried him swiftly between car and tent, and deposited him on the tabletop without his feet ever touching the ground.

  In a house filled with dogs, Augie was the first Standard Poodle that belonged solely to Davey. Which meant that showing him to his championship was Davey’s responsibility. Sam was guiding the two of them through the process. My assignment was to stay out of their way. By now, I had that part down pat.

  As soon as Augie was on the table, Sam and Davey unpacked the grooming supplies and got to work. We had two hours before the start of the Standard Poodle judging, but they had plenty to do. First, Augie’s coat needed to be meticulously line-brushed. Then the long hair on his ears would be unwrapped, and his comfortable, everyday topknot would be taken out and replaced by the tighter, precisely positioned version he would wear in the ring.

  After that, Sam would help Davey apply the layers of hair spray that would make the plush hair on Augie’s head, neck, and back stand up straight. Lastly, careful scissoring would add a finish, ensuring that all the components of the Poodle’s trim presented a smooth and balanced appearance.

  While Sam and Davey got started, Kevin and I backed the SUV out of the unloading zone and drove it to the parking area on the other side of the big field. Rain was still coming down in sheets, and watching the windshield wipers slap back and forth put a huge smile on Kevin’s face. That child adored water. Sometimes I swore he must be half fish.

  A yellow hooded slicker, purchased with an inevitable growth spurt in mind, covered Kev’s body from his head to the tops of his red rubber boots. As I locked the car behind us, he scampered over to the nearest puddle, bounced up in the air, and landed in the water with a loud splash.

  Luckily I was standing just out of range. Otherwise I’d have gotten soaked.

  “Come on, Kev, let’s go.” I held out my hand. “We need to get back to the tent. Davey and Dad are waiting for us.”

  “In a minute.”

  As Kevin jumped again and produced another impressive splash, my phone buzzed in my pocket. When I pulled it out, I saw Aunt Peg’s name on the screen. Why wasn’t I surprised?

  “Where are you?” she asked without preamble.

  “In the parking area. Kevin is jumping in puddles. Want to join us?”

  “Surely you’re joking.”

  “He thinks it’s fun,” I said brightly.

  “Kevin is three.” Her voice was dry. “A juice box can entertain him for half an hour. I have more important things to do.”

  “Like what?”

  I waggled my fingers in Kevin’s direction and he came and took my hand. We started back across the park.

  “Libby Rothko is here today showing her Dalmatians,” Aunt Peg said. “Considering that you were there when her father died, I was thinking you might want to pay your condolences.”

  Leo Brady hadn’t even been dead a week. And his daughter was at the dog show. Exhibiting Dalmatians. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to applaud her dedication to the sport of dogs or denounce her lack of respect for her father’s memory.

  Or maybe the whole thing was none of my business.

  “Libby Rothko doesn’t even know who I am,” I said. “I doubt that she cares about hearing my condolences.”

  “Of course she does,” Aunt Peg replied. “I told her that you’d be coming around to speak with her.”

  Just once, it would be nice if Aunt Peg would let me make my own choices. And maybe even my own mistakes. A little advice is a good thing. But Aunt Peg’s version of guidance sometimes felt like a collar around my neck.

  “I’m busy,” I lied.

  “Bring Kevin with you. I’m sure Libby would love to meet him.”

  I truly had my doubts about that. But anyway, care of my three-year-old son wasn’t what I had been referring to.

  “I’m heading back to the handlers’ tent to help Sam and Davey with Augie,” I said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Aunt Peg sniffed. “If they don’t need my help getting that dog ready for the show ring, they certainly don’t need yours.”

  I wished I had a good answer for that. Unfortunately there wasn’t one. Instead, I sighed and said, “When?”

  “When what?”

  “When is Libby expecting me?”

  “Now would be good.”

  Of course it would.

  “Where is she?”

  “Libby has her crate set up next to the Dalmatian ring, and she’s grooming a dog on top of it. It’s ring eight. I’ll meet you there.”

  I slid my thumb down to disconnect the call but Aunt Peg had beaten me to it. Having gotten what she wanted from me, she was already on to the next thing.

  “See phone?” asked Kev.

  My son held up his hand and I placed the device in it. He frowned at the dark screen, then rotated the phone sideways and had another look. It didn’t help. Kev shook his head in confusion.

  “Where’s Aunt Peg?” he asked.

  There was no way I could explain the magic of a wireless connection to a three-year-old. Especially since I didn’t actually understand it myself.

  “Aunt Peg had to go,” I told him. “But we’ll see her again in just a minute.”

  We’d been heading in the direction of the handlers’ tent, but now I angled our progress toward the middle of the big field. Mid-morning, all the show rings were already in use.

  It’s difficult to be a dog show exhibitor on a rainy day, but it’s no picnic being a judge either. Almost all were wearing boots and hats. One judge we passed on our way to the Dalmatian ring appeared to be entirely encased in clear plastic. Some attempted to remain dry by standing beneath the covered portion of their rings, but most were stepping out into the rain to get a better look at the dogs they were judging. I half-expected to see them shake off when they returned to the tent, just like the canine competitors did.

  Even on a sunny day, the tent-covered aisle between the rings would have been crowded with dogs and exhibitors. That day, with spectators trying to escape the weather as well, the narrow passageway was a madhouse. Kev and I had barely gone three yards before I leaned down and picked him up.

  “Pat dog?” he asked, his head whipping around as a pair of regal Salukis went gliding by.

  “Sorry, not now.” I hugged him to me. With all the commotion, Kev would be much safer in my arms. “Maybe later, after Augie is finished in the ring.”

  Aunt Peg was six feet tall. Even in a crowd it was easy to pick her out, and especially so in a crowd like this one where most people were leaning down looking at their dogs. Peg saw us coming and lifted a hand high above her head to wave us to her side. The broad beckoning gesture allowed for no second thoughts. When Aunt Peg summoned, attendance was compulsory.

  The various members of the Brody family I’d met the previous week had shared similar features and coloring. I expected Libby Rothko to fit the same physical model. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Libby was tall and slender, and every bit as sleek as the Dalmatian that was sitting atop the crate beside her. Her sable-colored hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, a hairstyle that accentuated her high cheekbones and olive-toned skin. Beneath dark, dramatic eyebrows, her eyes were a deep shade of brown. She was dressed in a sunny yellow suit that would provide the perfect show-ring backdrop for her liver-spotted Dal. No doubt it had been chosen for precisely that reason.

  Aunt Peg performed the introductions. Libby and I shook hands.

  Kev gave her a cheery wave. “Pat dog?” he asked hopefully.

  The Dalmatian was wagging its tail in a friendly manner but I angled Kevin away anyway. Heaven forbid a passer-by touch a Poodle when it’s about to go in the ring. I knew that grooming requirements weren’t nearly as exacting
for a short-haired breed, but I wasn’t about to take any chances.

  Libby noted the evasive tactical move with approval. She ignored Kevin’s question and said to me, “You’re the woman who solves mysteries.”

  I guessed that meant I didn’t have to wonder what she and Aunt Peg had been talking about before my arrival.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said. “I never had the pleasure of meeting your father, but I’m sure he was a wonderful man.”

  “He was.” Libby nodded. “Dad was absolutely the best. He was a kind and gentle man who dedicated his life to trying to help others. And he didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

  “No indeed,” Aunt Peg agreed heartily.

  “Were you there last Saturday?” I asked. I hadn’t seen Libby at the event, but Leo Brody’s mansion was huge. There had probably been any number of people present on that day whom I hadn’t seen.

  “Puppy Fest? Heavens, no.” Libby blew out an indelicate snort. “As if I would have any desire to take part in that circus.”

  Aunt Peg and I shared a look.

  “Why, Libby, you surprise me,” Peg said. “The event was in aid of a very good cause. What didn’t you like about it?”

  “The cause itself is great.” She reached up and smoothed back a strand of hair that had worked its way loose from the ponytail. “That wasn’t the problem. It never is.”

  I waited for Libby to expand on what she’d said. Instead, the woman turned away from us and began to rummage through her tack box. Behind her back, I raised my eyebrows and aimed a pointed glare in Aunt Peg’s direction.

  My aunt is known for her ulterior motives. This time, however, it appeared that she had dragged us over here for nothing. Now that I’d paid my condolences, it was apparently time for Kevin and me to leave.

  Then Libby yanked a slender brown show lead out of the box, turned around, and said, “If you were there, I guess you must have met my family.”

  “I met some of them. There seemed to be a lot of Brody relatives in attendance.”

  “Of course there were.” She sounded annoyed. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

  “Yup,” Kevin replied, nodding his head for emphasis. He likes answering questions, whether they’re addressed to him or not.

  Surprised, Libby flicked her gaze his way. “Out of the mouths of babes . . .”

  “What point are you talking about?” Aunt Peg asked.

  “Puppy Fest is supposed to be an extravaganza of Brody goodwill, but that’s such a joke,” Libby said grimly. “Everybody makes a big deal of showing up and pretending to be interested. It’s pathetic. And it’s all just a charade. You couldn’t pay me to get mixed up in that again.”

  Chapter 11

  Claire had alluded to something similar. But in light of what had happened, I found myself wanting to hear more. Especially from a source within the family.

  “How is it a charade?” I asked.

  Libby cast a quick glance toward the ring. Bulldogs were currently being judged. Dalmatians would follow. Seeing that she still had time to wait, Libby relaxed and leaned back against the edge of her grooming table.

  As soon as she came within range, her Dalmatian stepped forward and rested his head on her shoulder. The dog’s long pink tongue snaked out and licked the bottom of her ear. Kevin giggled with delight.

  “Licked your ear,” he chortled. “Funny dog.”

  Libby reached up to pat the Dal’s cheek and smiled at Kev. “His name is Troy, and he would agree with you. He thinks he’s pretty funny too.” Then she turned back to me, and her expression sharpened. “It’s no secret that my father is . . . was . . . a very wealthy man.”

  Aunt Peg and I both nodded.

  “Maybe you’re also aware that he was married several times?”

  Taking a page from Detective Young’s playbook, I offered another encouraging nod.

  “I come from a big family,” Libby said. “Dad married his first wife, Wendy, right after college. They had three children, my older half-siblings. A decade later, my mother became his second wife, and my sister Caroline and I were added to the mix. Clarissa was wife number three. My parents were already divorced by the time she showed up. Clarissa popped out four more kids and probably would have kept going if my father hadn’t divorced her too.”

  “Nine children is a lot,” I said.

  “Tell me about it.” Libby snorted.

  “Did you have a pleasant childhood?”

  “Sure. When you’re a child, you think the way you live is normal. And our lives were pretty idyllic. Everyone worked hard to make us believe that we were one big, happy family.” Her hand cradled Troy’s head, fingers scratching beneath the Dalmatian’s chin. “If there were tensions between the ex-wives and Dad, we were unaware of it. The house was always filled with kids. There was always somebody around to play with. Back then, we never felt the need to compete with one another.”

  She paused to dwell on the memory for a bit, then said, “But of course we had to grow up. And now that we’re all adults, we have a better understanding of how the world works. I guess it was inevitable that everything would change.”

  If Libby continued to beat around the bush, we wouldn’t hear the end of the story before the Dalmatian judging started. Aunt Peg, silent as a clam, was no help. So I jumped in and got to the point.

  “I assume we’re talking about money,” I said. “Even with a large family like yours, there must be more than enough to go around.”

  “There would be . . . if it was made available to us. But my father was always very strict when it came to finances. As kids, we all had chores to do each week. Anyone who slacked off didn’t get their allowance, no excuses allowed. And once we got out of college, Dad sent us off to make it on our own. He said it wasn’t right for him to continue to support us when there were so many people that needed help who hadn’t enjoyed all the advantages we had.”

  “Leo had a point,” Aunt Peg said. “That sounds like responsible parenting to me.”

  “I agree with you,” Libby replied. “But I was in the minority. Other family members weren’t happy about what Dad called his ‘tough love.’ They felt they’d been raised to expect a certain standard of living, and when it went away, well . . . they became pretty bitter about it.”

  Kevin was growing heavy in my arms. I took a look around, then set him down in the empty space beneath the grooming table, where he’d be hemmed in by our three sets of legs. Kev grabbed a Matchbox car out of the pocket of his slicker and began to push it through the grass. With luck, that would keep him entertained for a few minutes.

  “What does that have to do with Puppy Fest?” I asked.

  “My father adored Puppy Fest,” Libby said. “It was his favorite day of the year.”

  “Of course it was,” I agreed. “How could anybody not love puppies?”

  “You would know the answer to that if you were a member of my family. Especially if you resented the fact that money you felt should be spent on your needs was going instead to support a bunch of mangy mongrels.”

  “Mangy mongrels?” Aunt Peg’s voice rose.

  “Those aren’t my words, but I’ve heard them used often enough when my father wasn’t around.”

  “I would think an attitude like that would make your family stay away from Puppy Fest rather than the reverse,” I said.

  “No, not a chance.” Libby shook her head. “Puppy Fest became the adult version of the chores we’d had to do when we were kids. Show up and get a gold star for participation. Stay away and risk annoying the person who holds the purse strings.”

  Even if Puppy Fest was a self-serving opportunity for other family members, I still had to wonder why Libby hadn’t attended the event. Her relatives’ motives aside, Libby claimed to have a warm relationship with her father. That alone should have been enough to induce her to take part in the display of family solidarity.

  Libby pushed off from the table and stood. The Best of Breed class
in Bulldogs was filing into the ring. The Dalmatian judging would be starting shortly.

  “I’m going to be blunt,” she said.

  “Please do,” I shot back. Libby wasn’t the only one who needed to be somewhere. Time was passing in my life too.

  “I’m worried about what happened,” she said. “The whole scenario doesn’t make sense to me. Dad was too careful about what he ate. He never slipped up. And am I really supposed to believe that it was a coincidence that his EpiPen went missing just when he needed it most?”

  “Those are all good questions. What do the police have to say about them? Have you talked to Detective Young?”

  “Only briefly,” Libby grumbled. “He was the one who told me that they’d established the cause of death and that it’s what we all suspected. My father died of anaphylactic shock after ingesting ground-up peanuts. Young also informed me that without any indication of foul play, they won’t be investigating further. The authorities have ruled my father’s death a tragic accident.”

  That came as a surprise.

  I knew I should have been relieved. That outcome signaled the end of the detective’s nosy inquiry. But instead what I felt was a sharp stab of indignation on Leo Brody’s behalf. The authorities might not have agreed with me, but I still felt there were questions that needed to be answered.

  “Are you sure?” I blurted out.

  “Of course I’m sure.” Libby didn’t look any happier about the conclusion than I was. “That’s exactly what the detective said. I don’t understand it. My father is gone. And just because he died after eating a cookie, it seems like nobody is taking this seriously.”

  “Maybe Melanie can help,” Aunt Peg said.

  For once Aunt Peg and I were in agreement. Having happened on the scene mere minutes too late, I also wanted to know the truth about what had transpired that morning in Leo Brody’s office.