Murder at the Puppy Fest

by Laurien Berenson

  I’d have thought that Crawford was above the use of sarcasm. Apparently I would have been wrong.

  Three minutes later, Terry was heading back. The Dalmatians were in the ring by then. The Puppy Dog class had just ended. Libby’s liver Dal was the only entrant in Bred-by. Terry followed her to the in-gate, then continued on around until he reached Kev and me.

  The woman Libby had been arguing with cast one last angry glare at the ring, then turned her back and stalked away. Her dramatic exit was marred by the comical wobble in her walk caused by her heels sinking into the soft turf. If she’d stuck around longer, she probably would have been gratified to see that Libby still looked seriously rattled in the aftermath of their encounter. Her performance in the Bred-by class was so sloppy and inattentive that the only reason her Dalmatian received a blue ribbon was because they were a single entry.

  “What?” I asked eagerly when Terry finally reached us.

  “They were fighting over a dog.”

  I gave an exaggerated look around. Yup, we were still at a dog show.

  “Well, duh,” I said.

  “Strappy Sandals seems to think that Libby owes her money. She’s very upset that she hasn’t been paid back.”

  “For what?” I wondered aloud.

  “A dog!” Kev sang out happily. He was listening too. “Right, Mommy?”

  “Right, sweetie. Aren’t you supposed to be watching the nice Dalmatians?” I turned him back to face the dogs in the ring, then refocused on Terry. “What else did you hear?”

  “Oh, you know,” he said with a deliberately casual shrug. “Just the usual sorts of threats and ugly promises.”

  The usual sort. As if there were such a thing.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “You’ll be sorry. I’ll make sure you’re sorry. You think you can get away with this, but you can’t.”

  “Wow,” I said on an exhale. “And what did Libby have to say about that?”

  “Not much. By the time I got over there, she was mostly seething in silence. You could tell she was wishing that the whole thing would just stop happening. Even her Dal looked upset.”

  We’re dog people. We notice stuff like that.

  “Did you find out the other woman’s name?” I asked.

  “Nope. Didn’t come up. I wouldn’t have known who Libby Rothko was if you hadn’t told me. But speaking of which, wasn’t Leo Brody famous for having major bucks?”

  I nodded.

  “Now that he’s dead, you’d think there would be plenty to go around. So why would his daughter be fighting with someone—in public, no less—over money?”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted.

  Terry left to return to the handlers’ tent and I turned back to the ring. Dalmatian dogs were already finished, and Libby and Troy had disappeared. Given their performance, it came as no surprise that Libby’s Dal had lost in the Winners class and therefore wasn’t required for further judging.

  Kev and I remained until the end of the breed. A kindly exhibitor with a friendly Dalmatian puppy let Kevin play with the dog while we watched. By the time we made our way back to the setup, we found that Augie’s topknot and neck hair had been taken down, brushed out, and rewrapped. The Poodle had been watered and exercised and was sitting quietly on the grooming table. Davey and Aunt Peg were packing up, and Sam had gone to retrieve the car.

  Another weekend. Another pair of unsuccessful dog shows. Sometimes I wondered why we even did this. Then I thought about Faith, who was waiting for me at home, and brightened. It had taken years of selective breeding to produce such a treasure. That was why we did it.

  * * *

  Start with my brother Graham, Libby Rothko had said.

  As if it were just that easy. I didn’t know where Graham Brody lived. I didn’t have his phone number. And I had no idea whether or not he would consent to talk to me.

  Since the next day was Sunday, I ignored those problems and took time off to go to the beach with Sam and the boys. I figured I’d start on Monday by getting back in touch with Libby. She was the one who wanted me to go snooping around her family. The least she could do was provide me with some introductions.

  But late that morning my cell phone rang. “Fred Brody here,” a voice snapped out. “What’s this nonsense I hear about Libby sending you to sniff around the family like some stupid Bloodhound?”

  “Excuse me?” I’d just put on my bathing suit, and my head was filled with visions of soft sand and gentle waves. It took a moment to clear it. “Who is this?”

  “Fred Brody. I just told you that.”

  Oh, right. The man with the microphone. Fred was one of Leo Brody’s sons. He’d been a bit pompous and certainly arrogant, but in the end he’d been reasonable enough to surrender his spot as announcer.

  “Of course.” I picked up a towel and shoved it into a beach tote. “We met last week at Puppy Fest.”

  “The day of my father’s death,” he said darkly. “Apparently we need to talk. I’m available this afternoon.”

  “Umm . . .”

  I supposed there was no point in wondering how he’d gotten my cell phone number. It was easy to envision a clear trail leading straight through his sister to Aunt Peg.

  “Don’t bother hesitating,” Fred told me. “I’m a busy man. If you’re smart, you’ll grab your chance when you can. You may not get another opportunity.”

  The statement was intended to put me in my place. Duly noted. On the other hand, if Fred Brody was willing to talk to me about his father’s death, who was I to turn him away?

  “This afternoon,” I agreed. “When and where?”

  Fred barked out his address in Old Greenwich, then repeated it a second time for good measure. “Two o’clock,” he said before ringing off. “Don’t be late. I despise tardiness.”

  “It sounds like you won’t be coming to the beach with us.” Sam was standing in the bedroom doorway with a pair of swimmies in his hand.

  “Of course I’m coming,” I told him. “I just can’t stay all afternoon.”

  “Then you’d better bring your own car. Because I’m not bringing Kevin home until he’s so worn out that he falls into bed and sleeps through the night.”

  “That sounds like an excellent plan,” I said.

  Promptly at two o’clock, I presented myself at the gleaming white front door to Fred Brody’s two-story, weathered shingle home in Old Greenwich. Despite the house’s modest size, spartan landscaping, and humble siding, I was well aware that its waterfront location was enough to make the dwelling a precious commodity in the Fairfield County housing market.

  I shook what I hoped was the last of the sand out of my hair, straightened the dress-like cover-up that I’d pulled on over my bathing suit, and wished that I wasn’t wearing flip-flops. Too late to worry about that now.

  I rang the bell, and a minute later, Fred answered the door himself. Last time I’d seen him, he’d been wearing a suit and standing very much upon his dignity. Now, at home, he was dressed down in khakis, docksiders, and an open-neck linen shirt. The curl of his lip indicated that my very casual attire hadn’t made the best first impression.

  He was holding a highball glass half-filled with amber liquid in his left hand. He extended his right and said, “I’m Fred Brody.”

  “Melanie Travis.” I reminded him again, “We met last week.”

  “So you said.” He didn’t look convinced. “At Puppy Fest?”

  I wondered if I should mention the context of our prior meeting—one that had ended with him deprived of a performance he’d clearly coveted. Then it occurred to me that I was still standing on his front step. My outfit had already gotten me off to a bad start. One more wrong move and I might never find myself invited inside.

  “I was there to help out with the puppies,” I said instead.

  “Ah, you came with Jane.”

  “Not exactly. But we did end up working together.”

  Fred stepped back and motioned me into the hou
se. “I suppose you’d better come inside.”

  I walked into a center hallway that ran the width of the home, starting at the front door and ending in a bright sun porch. A row of tall windows formed that room’s rear wall. From where I stood, I could see the sun sparkling on the bright blue water of Long Island Sound. A sailboat with multicolored sails went drifting by, its jib fluttering in the light breeze.

  “Wow, what a gorgeous view,” I said.

  “Yes,” Fred replied.

  His tone conveyed a palpable lack of interest in discussing the vivid scenery outside his windows. That was enough to quell further comment from me. When Fred strode across the hall into a small room that looked as though it served as his office, I followed behind meekly.

  The furniture inside the room was dark and austere. Two windows had their shades lowered to block the afternoon sun. A Persian rug in muted colors only added to the room’s air of somber dignity.

  Fred set his drink down on a table beside one of two straight-backed chairs. The narrowed look he aimed my way made me suspect he was wondering whether I was dry enough or clean enough to grace his dreary-looking furniture. Ignoring the implied insult, I sat down demurely and waited.

  Since Fred thought this was his meeting, I would let him take the lead.

  “I am Leo Brody’s oldest son,” he said when he’d lowered himself into a seat opposite me. “As such, it is my responsibility to speak for the family.”

  Interesting. I was pretty sure there were other family members—Libby among them—who would quibble with Fred’s assessment. But I was more than happy to hear what he had to say.

  “I am not entirely sure what my half sister told you. Or what services Libby has hired you to perform. But let me assure you that your efforts will be wholly unnecessary.”

  “I’m afraid your sister doesn’t agree,” I said affably.

  “Of course not.” Fred picked up his glass and took a sip, then settled back in his chair. “How well do you know Libby?”

  “We only met recently,” I admitted.

  “Then let me tell you about her. Libby can be rather . . . high-strung. She loves to surround herself with intrigue and drama. Her goal is to keep those around her off-balance and unclear about her true intentions. It’s no wonder she behaves that way. Libby’s mother was much the same.”

  I leaned forward in my seat. “Her mother?”

  Fred didn’t require any encouragement from me. He was delighted to hold the floor.

  “My stepmother, Maria, was a fiery Latin virago who was never happier than when our entire household was in turmoil. She had to be the center of attention at all times. The rest of us were always either leaping to do her bidding or soothing her hurt feelings. My father didn’t make many mistakes in life. Not in business or in his personal dealings. But I’m quite certain he would tell you that marrying Maria was one of them.”

  I wasn’t sure I liked the fact that Fred was putting words in his father’s mouth. Especially since Leo Brody wasn’t here to dispute them.

  “How old were you when Maria became your stepmother?” I asked.

  “Eight.” Fred’s lips flattened in a thin smile. “An impressionable age, wouldn’t you say?”

  I nodded silently.

  “My sister, Nancy, was two years older than me. My brother, Ron, one year younger. Until my mother broke the news to us that she and my father were divorcing so that he could marry his pregnant mistress, we thought that nothing bad could ever touch us.”

  “Your mother actually told you that?” I said, shocked.

  “No, not precisely. At least not then.” Fred waved away my concern. “I suppose we didn’t hear all the details until we were a bit older. And some of it we had to figure out for ourselves. But once I knew what really happened, the story became a single, cohesive piece of history in my mind. The truth was, Maria seduced my father away from us when I was a young child. And after that, nothing was ever the same.”

  I pondered that. Fred’s recollection of his childhood was light years away from the “one, big, happy family” story I’d been told by Libby. Especially with regard to their parents.

  “Maria was Leo Brody’s second wife,” I said. “He married again after that, didn’t he?”

  “Well, you know how these things go.” Fred’s voice had a brittle edge. “It was perfectly obvious to all of us that Maria would never last. That she didn’t belong. She and my father had two daughters before he got fed up. It cost him a great deal of money to make her go away, but he paid it. Three years later, he met and married Clarissa.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “Fourteen. I served as my father’s best man at the wedding. Quite happily, I might add. After Maria’s fickleness and tantrums, Clarissa was a breath of fresh air. She was ten years younger than my father, and he adored her.”

  “Was she a good stepmother?” I asked.

  “Much better than the alternative, certainly. Clarissa styled herself as a free spirit. She believed that too many rules and mandates would stifle a child’s creativity.”

  It took effort not to laugh. “I can certainly see how that would make her a popular stepparent.”

  “Another thing Clarissa apparently didn’t believe in was birth control.” Fred’s lips pursed in disapproval. “The first four years she and my father were together, she produced three children. Jane was her first. But you probably already know that since you work with her at Puppy Posse.”

  I thought about explaining my connection to Jane and Puppy Fest more fully, but then decided it didn’t matter. Fred enjoyed listening to himself speak, but he didn’t appear to be paying much attention to anything I said.

  “You were present at Puppy Fest,” I said, changing the subject.

  “All day,” Fred confirmed, nodding. “Wonderful event, my father’s favorite. I never missed it.”

  “Did you see anything unusual?”

  “You mean aside from my father’s untimely death?” he asked drily.

  I bit my lip. “Yes.”

  “No, not a thing. Nor was I looking. I was in the ballroom the entire time, doing my part to make Puppy Fest a success. I had no idea what was going on in other areas of the house. There was no reason to suspect that anything untoward might be. And let me make it clear that I resent your asking such a question.”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “But nothing,” Fred said firmly. “My sister Libby is an alarmist. Do yourself a favor and pay no attention to anything she says. My father was an important man. He was universally loved and respected. The authorities came to the correct conclusion. Leo Brody’s death was an accident. It had to be, because it’s simply not possible for it to have been anything else.”

  Chapter 14

  Fred rose from his seat and stared down at me pointedly. It was clear he thought that our interview had come to an end. Reluctantly, I stood up as well.

  It seemed to me that there was a lot of ground we’d left uncovered. But since I suspected that Fred wasn’t going to answer the questions I really wanted to ask, I lobbed him a softball query about something that had been bugging me since I’d first become acquainted with the Brody family.

  “Why do you refer to your father as Leo Brody?”

  Fred was already walking toward the door. He paused, surprised by the question. “Because that’s who he is . . . who he was. Leo Brody was not just our father—he was also a public figure. We were all raised to understand that. It was our duty not to distract him from his work with our petty family issues. We were honored to share him with the world.”

  Wow, I thought. Hyperbole much?

  “You also shared him with Becca Montague,” I pointed out.

  This time Fred’s stride didn’t falter. “Why would you bring up that woman’s name?”

  “She was the one who found your father’s body.”

  “Shortly before you arrived, I was told.”

  I nodded. “Are you aware that she tried to convince me not t
o call for help? That she forbade me to contact the authorities?”

  “I don’t see what difference that makes,” Fred said as I joined him next to the door. “My father was already dead at the time. Is that correct?”

  “Yes—”

  “Beyond help then, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Even so—”

  “What Becca Montague did or didn’t do in that moment means nothing to me.” Fred grasped the knob and drew the door open. “That woman is too dumb to be anything but insignificant. And that’s all I have to say on the subject.”

  Bright sunlight filled the doorway. I stepped out onto the narrow porch. A light breeze blowing up off the Sound ruffled my hair.

  “I understand that you don’t agree with what Libby asked me to do,” I said. “But since it’s going to happen anyway, wouldn’t you rather be able to exert some control over the process?”

  Fred’s silent, stony glare spoke volumes. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine smoke coming out of his ears.

  I didn’t expect a reply, but I asked anyway. “Who should I talk to next?”

  His voice was crisp with exasperation. “If you truly intend to continue with this ridiculous enterprise, it had better be Caroline. Obviously I have failed to make you see sense. Maybe she will be able to succeed where I have failed. Caroline will confirm every word I said.”

  Fred took a step back and the door clicked shut between us.

  * * *

  Sam wasn’t kidding about staying at the beach all day. I not only beat the rest of my family home, I also had time to take the canine crew for an extended run around the neighborhood, shower and change, and prepare a picnic dinner to eat outside on the deck.

  It was a good thing I hadn’t wasted much time cooking. Kev arrived home half-asleep, and Sam and Davey had been munching on snacks all afternoon at the beach. We put the marinated chicken breasts on the grill, tossed a salad as a side dish, and called it a meal.

  When we were finished eating, the Poodle pack lined up for leftovers. Bud’s mealtime manners had been atrocious upon his arrival. Now I was glad to see he was beginning to learn that he didn’t need to snatch food or run the risk of going hungry. The grateful look on the little dog’s face as he politely accepted a piece of chicken from my outstretched fingers was enough to make me curse his previous owners yet again.