I eyed the Twinkies, fully aware that it was well past dinner time and all I’d had to show for the meal were a couple of tiny hors d’oeuvres. Finally I reached over and helped myself. The sponge cake went great with my coffee.
“Do you mean we still don’t know where that money went?”
Mouth too full to speak, I shook my head, then swallowed. “Paul Heins has the checks. I told Lydia I’d return them to her this week.”
“Now I’m confused,” said Aunt Peg. “What did Paul hope to gain by taking the club’s dinner money?”
“Nothing. He wasn’t the one who took it.” I paused briefly for another bite. “I’d been thinking about this for a while. This afternoon when Louis accused Sharon of losing the checks, it finally all made sense. Have you ever noticed the way Darla has of absent-mindedly picking things up and carrying them around?”
“Now that you mention it, I guess I have.”
“Add that to Sharon’s propensity for misplacing things. I imagine she meant to put the checks in Louis’s briefcase, but never got around to it. Meanwhile, Darla who was sitting next to her at dinner that night must have picked them up.
“Paul didn’t discover Darla had the checks until they got home, and then he didn’t know what to do. Already they’d been turned into the authorities for not taking proper care of their dogs. What if people were to come to believe that they weren’t able to take care of themselves?”
Aunt Peg nodded thoughtfully.
“Paul feels very protective of Darla, remember. He told me tonight that he wanted to return the checks, but he couldn’t figure out how to do it. Especially after the club members raised such a fuss at the next meeting when they found out the money was gone. He saw how they went after Louis and decided there was no way he was going to expose Darla to censure like that.”
“Poor Paul,” Aunt Peg said, frowning. “He must have felt terrible.”
“He did. The night that Monica was killed, he had decided he was going to talk privately to Lydia after the meeting. That’s why Bertie saw the Heinses behaving so oddly as they left the restaurant. But he never did catch Lydia, and then Monica was murdered and I started asking questions, which made him even more afraid of being found out.”
“Have you spoken to him about this?”
“Tonight, just before we left. Lydia has agreed to take the checks back, no questions asked. I told him I’d keep his secret.” I sent her a stern look. “So that goes for you, too.”
“Of course it does,” Aunt Peg agreed. “I saw you grab a minute to talk to Bertie as well. What was that about?”
“Just confirming a hunch. Do you remember Joanne telling me that she received two notes, one that was signed by a Beagle sketch and one that wasn’t? That seemed very odd to me, especially since she was the only one who had gotten a second note.”
“Right,” said Aunt Peg. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“It turns out Bertie was responsible for that second note. She got the idea after Monica sent her one about the Yorkie she showed in Maine. Bertie and Joanne can’t stand one another. She told me tonight she was just trying to yank Joanne’s chain.
“Her words, not mine,” I added with a smile. “That’s why Bertie was so defensive every time I brought up the subject of those notes. She didn’t want me to find out what she’d been up to.”
Aunt Peg frowned. “Don’t tell me this means the club has a second trouble maker to worry about?”
“I doubt it. Bertie’s tough on the outside, but I think she felt pretty guilty about the way things turned out.”
Now that she knew she hadn’t missed out on all the excitement, Aunt Peg appeared somewhat mollified. The last Twinkie sat on the table between us, and she eyed it hopefully. “Is that yours or mine?”
“Yours,” I said, standing. I picked up my coffee cup and carried it over to the sink. “I’ve got to be getting home. Bob’s there, and Davey will be waiting up.”
“Speaking of troubles resolving themselves, isn’t it about time for Bob to be heading back to wherever he came from?”
“He’s leaving tomorrow,” I said. “He’s come to the conclusion that full-time fatherhood doesn’t suit him.” Grinning, I borrowed a phrase from Davey. “Is that cool, or what?”
The next afternoon after school, I piled Faith and Davey into the car and we all took a drive up to New London. I knew I owed an enormous debt to Rose and Peter. Even though I’d made my own plan for handling Bob, their intervention had been key, and I wanted them to know how grateful I was.
Rose and Peter lived in a trim, well-maintained row house in a working class section of New London. I found a space for the Volvo right out front. Davey ran ahead with Faith and knocked on the door. I was the one who held back.
Relationships in our family have never been easy. Just the summer before I’d found myself accusing Rose of stealing one of Aunt Peg’s Poodles, then mediating a meeting between the two women that had nearly come to blows. Before it was over, Rose had shocked me with revelations that had forever changed what I thought I knew about my own family.
I hadn’t wanted to forgive her for that. If it wasn’t for Frank, I probably wouldn’t have. Rose and I were related, but we’d never been friends. Now I was uncomfortably aware of the thanks I owed her, and unsure how it was going to be received.
Then Aunt Rose threw open the front door and greeted us with hugs and kisses all around. The uneasiness I’d expected to feel, dissolved. Peter was in the kitchen putting together a stew. He threw some extra potatoes in the pot and invited us to stay for dinner.
A few minutes later, when he and Davey and Faith went out to explore the neighborhood, Rose and I had a chance to talk. I told her that Bob had left, and that everything had worked out fine.
“I was sure it would,” she said, smiling serenely. Aunt Rose spent the majority of her life in a convent. Her faith is powerful enough to move mountains, much less sustain her in times of doubt.
“You told me to pray,” I admitted. “But I never did.”
“That’s all right, dear.” Rose reached out and wrapped her hand around one of mine. “Each of us does what we can, in our own way. I know God listens when I talk to him. I was praying for you.”
I shook my head slowly, wishing I could believe with such utter confidence, but knowing I never could. “Do you really think that’s what made the difference?”
“You needed your ex-husband to come to his senses, and he did. Does it really matter why he changed his mind? I see it as the hand of God working his will on earth. You might see things differently.”
Rose smiled slyly. “You see, I did talk to God about the situation, but I also had Peter talk to Bob. My husband has spent his lifetime counseling people who are confronted by difficult choices. I knew he’d be the right man for the job. Put your faith in God, dear, but have a back-up plan just in case.”
I started to laugh and, after a moment, Rose joined in. We were still giggling like a couple of teenagers when the rest of our group returned. Davey demanded to know what was so funny. Peter slipped me a broad wink over my son’s head. Faith just ran around the room and barked.
That note of hilarity set the tone for the rest of the evening. Mindful that we had school the next day, Davey and I started back before it got too late. Even so, it was nearing ten and Davey and Faith were asleep in the back seat before we reached home. The last thing I expected was to find a car in my driveway.
Sam’s car.
He climbed out as I pulled in and parked behind him.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Waiting.”
“Yes, but ...”
“Peg called. She told me Bob went home.”
“He did.”
“It’s about time,” said Sam. “Did I tell you there’s a new pet-sitting service in Redding?”
“Ummhmm.” I nestled my head against his broad chest and inhaled deeply. My arms twined around his back. When one hand slipped lower, I felt an
unexpected lump in the back pocket of his jeans. “What’s this?”
“Toothbrush,” said Sam. In the silvery light of the full moon, I could see that he was grinning.
“Oh.” I grinned back.
Sometimes it’s nice to have things settled just that easily.
The next time a Belle Haven Kennel Club meeting rolled around, I let Aunt Peg go by herself. So far, the club hasn’t invited me to become a member. I guess breaking up the club president’s reception didn’t make the best impression.
Aunt Peg says I should give them time and they’ll get over it. She’s also mentioned there’s an opening for a corresponding secretary. I’ve told her she’s crazy, but that’s never stopped her before.
I’m keeping my pencils sharpened, just in case.
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Laurien Berenson’s newest Melanie Travis mystery,
HAIR OF THE DOG,
now on sale wherever mysteries are sold!
One
At my Aunt Peg’s house, there’s often a pot of chicken simmering on the stove. Visitors, however, shouldn’t get their hopes up. At least not two-legged ones. The chicken is for the dogs. Peg breeds Standard Poodles and has about a dozen, all of whom eat like royalty. Humans have to fend for themselves.
Which was why I was so surprised when she called one morning in late June and told me she wanted to throw a party. “Maybe a backyard barbecue,” she said. “Something simple.”
Simple? I wasn’t sure Aunt Peg understood the meaning of the concept. The summer before, she’d finagled me into helping find her missing stud dog by insisting that it would be simple. Then last fall, she’d initiated me into the joys of dog ownership by assuring me that that, too, would be simple. Is it any wonder I didn’t rush to volunteer my services?
No matter. Aunt Peg merely assumed I’d help out and went on making plans. She’s nearing sixty, and in all those years I doubt that anyone has ever said no to her and gotten away with it.
Peg lives in a big old farmhouse on several acres of land that even I had to admit would make the perfect setting for an outdoor party. Her husband, Max, had died the year before, and if you didn’t count the dog shows she attended several weekends a month to exhibit her Poodles, she’d done almost no socializing since. Even though I knew it would end up costing me, it was nice to hear her talk about inviting friends over.
“I was thinking fifty people or so,” she said blithely. “There are three shows in the area that weekend, and everybody will be around. I’m sure we’ll draw a crowd.”
I didn’t doubt it. Dog people travel a fair amount in their pursuit of the biggest wins and the best judges, and with a trio of important shows in the neighborhood, exhibitors from all over would be converging in Connecticut for the Fourth of July weekend.
“You’ll bring Davey, of course,” she told me. “And Sam.”
Davey was my son, five years old and very full of himself. He’d started morning day camp at the beginning of the week and I was due to pick him up in an hour.
Sam Driver was a friend. Actually he was a good bit more than that, but I still hadn’t figured out how to refer to our relationship in polite conversation. Calling him my boyfriend seemed to imply that I was still a girl, which, at thirty-one, I most assuredly was not. Significant other was definitely too unwieldy. Lover got to the heart of the matter, but seemed a little blunt. Not that Aunt Peg would have minded. She’s a great fan of Sam’s, and a strong believer in speaking one’s mind on any and all occasions.
“Faith isn’t invited,” she told me firmly. “There will simply be too much going on.”
“Right,” I agreed.
Faith was Davey’s and my Standard Poodle. A gift from Aunt Peg, she was fourteen months old and a true adolescent: rambunctious, willful, and growing what, to my mind, was entirely too much hair. Otherwise known as a Poodle show coat.
All forty-five pounds of her was lying draped across my lap as I spoke on the phone. I glanced down and Faith thumped her black tail obligingly. Intelligent as Poodles are, I imagine she knew we were talking about her.
“Chicken and ribs,” Aunt Peg was saying. “Mounds of them. Nobody eats dog show food if they can help it. People will be starving by the time they get to us. Then ice cream and brownies for dessert. That sounds easy enough, doesn’t it?”
Listening to Aunt Peg chatter on, I almost believed that the party might come together without a hitch. Of course that was before either of us knew that before the weekend was over, one of the guests would be dead.
“Will there be presents?” asked Davey. “And games and goody bags?”
I’d just finished dressing him in a perfectly presentable outfit, and with only minutes to go until we left for Aunt
Peg’s, I was hoping he wouldn’t find any dirt to attach himself to. With his sandy curls and chubby cheeks, Davey has the innocent look of a Botticelli cherub. He also has the energy, and potential for damage, of a small tornado.
We were in the kitchen, where I was mixing Faith’s food. “Sorry, sport, not this time. This is a grown-up party, with eating and drinking, and people to talk to.”
“That doesn’t sound like much fun.” At his age, my son’s idea of fun was anything involving cars, loud noises, or fast action—preferably a combination of the three. “Will there be other kids?”
“Not many.”
Even that was probably an overstatement. Most of the people Aunt Peg had invited were exhibitors and judges, who would come straight from the Farmington dog show. Aunt Peg had never had children of her own, and while she enjoyed Davey, I knew she held the opinion that one child in the vicinity was often more than enough.
“Sam will be there,” I said, setting the dog food bowl down on the floor. “That’s someone you know.”
Faith sauntered over to have a look at the offering. She was full grown now physically, if not mentally, and the top of her head was nearly level with my waist. A Standard Poodle, she was the largest of the three varieties: strong, solid, and fully capable of retrieving game, as her ancestors had been bred to do. Not that there was much call for that in the suburbs.
“Go on,” I said. “Eat.”
Faith sent me a look. If I’d been in the habit of ascribing human traits to dogs, I’d have sworn she rolled her eyes.
“She doesn’t like it,” Davey chortled. “She wants pizza.”
“She does not,” I said firmly. I nudged the bowl closer to Faith’s muzzle with my toe. Grudgingly she took a mouthful of the food and rolled it around her tongue.
She’d always been a finicky eater, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her. When she’d turned a year old, Aunt Peg had clipped her into the continental trim, which is a modern descendant of a traditional German hunting clip and is required in the show ring. Since the trim mandates a large mane of hair on the front half of the body, and a hindquarter that is shaved mostly down to the skin, it was easy to see just how lean she was. Luckily for me, Faith was taking six months off from showing to grow into her new trim, so her weight had yet to become an issue.
I put the dog food in the refrigerator and patted the top of the Poodle’s crate. Obligingly, Faith strolled in, circled once, and lay down. When she was a puppy, we’d used the crate as an aid in housebreaking and to keep her from chewing when we weren’t home. Now that she was older and knew how to behave, I usually left the door open. Faith had come to think of the crate as her den, and was perfectly content to nap there while we were gone.
Davey and I live in North Stamford in a snug cape on a small lot. The street was developed in the fifties, and looks it. What we gained in function, we unfortunately sacrificed in charm. Aunt Peg is one town away in Greenwich. Her house is set back from the road in the midst of a meadow studded with wildflowers. A veranda wraps around three sides of the house, and the roof is gabled. A small kennel building out back holds the Poodles Peg is conditioning for the show ring. Though she has neighbors, none of their houses are visible. It’s
a far cry from my road, where in the summer, with the windows open, I can smell what the people next door are having for dinner.
Davey and I had been at Aunt Peg’s earlier in the day to help with the preparations, but now, when we arrived for the second time, the party was already in progress. Cars and vans, most filled with crates and grooming equipment, already lined both sides of the back country road. Since the show site was an hour away, I knew that those who’d stayed through Best in Show had yet to arrive. Bearing in mind what Peg had said about everyone being hungry, I hoped she’d ordered enough food.
As soon as we got out of the car, Davey ran on ahead. Following the sound of voices and the smell of barbecued chicken, he raced around the back of the house. In pursuit of brownies, no doubt.
At six-thirty, it was still fully light. As I followed my son to Peg’s backyard, where throngs of people had already begun to congregate around the tables that held food and drinks, I could see perfectly well where I was going. So when I bumped into Sam Driver from behind, and managed to insinuate my body along his, I couldn’t exactly say it was an accident.
“Not now,” he whispered without turning around. “Melanie will be here any minute. I’ll meet you later.”
“Hmmph,” I muttered, wrapping my arms around him and snuggling my face between his shoulder blades. “How did you know it was me?”
Sam turned, grinning. He was holding a cold bottle of beer in each hand. “It might have had something to do with that three-foot streak of energy that preceded you. Here, one of these is yours.”
I popped the top and took a long, icy swallow. It tasted so good going down that I could feel the tingle in my toes. Or maybe that was Sam’s doing. It’s been a year and he still has that effect on me.
Sam is tall, and built along lean lines; the kind of man who jogs but wouldn’t dream of lifting weights. He has sun-streaked hair the color of wheat and eyes as blue as the Caribbean. There have been other men who have made my motor race, but none who have accomplished it with Sam’s casual, graceful ease.
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