Ruff Justice

by Laurien Berenson

  “I did!” Kev squealed. “I used bubble bath and everything.”

  “Bubble bath,” I repeated faintly.

  “I’d better go see.” Sam stood up as well.

  It was left to Davey to ask the pertinent question that both Sam and I had overlooked. “Kev, why did you give Tar a bath?”

  “Ummm . . .” Something was up. My younger son doesn’t have a poker face. And Kevin was clearly considering how much information he wanted to divulge. “Tar might have gotten into my finger paints.”

  “Oh crap,” I said.

  Davey started laughing.

  Sam was already running for the stairs. I was right behind him.

  At least for the adults in the house, dinner was going to be delayed.

  * * *

  There were days when it was almost a relief to get up in the morning and go to work. Howard Academy was, for the most part, a calm and orderly establishment. Classes ran on schedule. Teachers and students obeyed the rules. I was quite certain that never once in the exalted history of the school had anyone ever been tempted to dip a black Standard Poodle into red and yellow paint.

  Sam and I had spent almost all of Monday evening dealing with the aftermath of that adventure. I’d intended to call Amanda’s boyfriend, Rick Fanelli, after dinner. Not surprisingly, I never got around to it. I tried him several times on Tuesday afternoon, leaving messages each time. Rick never returned my calls.

  On Wednesday after school, I decided to head in a different direction. The catalog from the weekend’s dog show listed Mrs. Gwen Kimble of Branford, Connecticut, as show chairman. I could have done an internet search to find out more about Mrs. Kimble, but Google is no replacement for Aunt Peg’s treasure trove of knowledge.

  Of course Aunt Peg’s assistance comes at a price. She doesn’t offer up anything until her own curiosity has been satisfied. But unfortunately when I called her as Faith and I were leaving Howard Academy, it hardly took any time at all to summarize what I’d learned at Amanda’s apartment.

  “That’s it?” Aunt Peg made no attempt to hide her disappointment.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Then I suppose it’s no wonder you didn’t bother to get back to me. You didn’t accomplish much, did you?”

  I had no reply for that. Aunt Peg didn’t care. She’d already moved on.

  “Put Faith on the phone,” she said. “Maybe she noticed something you missed.”

  How Aunt Peg knew I was in my car, coasting down the HA driveway with Faith on the seat beside me, I had no idea. Though I wouldn’t have ruled out the possibility that she and Faith were communicating on some telepathic level known only to dogs. And of course Aunt Peg.

  I did not put Faith on the phone. Instead I said, “I want to talk to Gwen Kimble.”

  “Gwen Kimble?” Aunt Peg sounded pleased that I’d managed to surprise her. “Why do you want to see her?”

  “She was show chairman of last week’s show.”

  “And because of that you suspect she knows something about Amanda’s disappearance?”

  “No, but she might know something about the circumstances surrounding Jasmine’s death. You know as well as I do that those two things have to be connected. I want to ask Gwen what she knows about Jasmine, and what went on at the show after we left.”

  “I’m sure Gwen will have plenty to say,” Aunt Peg replied. “It’s quite clever of you to think of her. I knew there was a reason why I allow you to be my relative.”

  The reason was because in her youth she had married my father’s brother. But whatever.

  “I’m assuming you can tell me something about Gwen? And put me in touch with her?”

  “Whippets,” Aunt Peg said, as if that was all I needed to know.

  “She’s a breeder?”

  “She used to be. Now she mostly runs the Sedgefield Kennel Club. And of course, their yearly show. I haven’t spoken to Gwen in a while,” Aunt Peg mused. “But I imagine she’ll remember me.”

  As a member of the dog community, Gwen would have to be entirely scatterbrained not to. Aunt Peg was difficult to ignore. And quite impossible to forget.

  “Do you think she’d talk to me?” I asked. “Maybe this afternoon?”

  “I can’t see why not,” Aunt Peg said blithely. “I’ll call her and set something up.”

  While I waited to hear what the plan was going to be, I drove to Stamford and dropped Faith off at home. I figured she’d be more comfortable there than riding all the way to Branford with me.

  The decision turned out to be a wise one. Because when I arrived at Gwen’s house at the appointed time later that afternoon, it was clear that the woman didn’t need any additional dogs coming to visit. There were Whippets everywhere.

  It’s often pointed out that people tend to resemble their dogs. That was definitely true in Gwen Kimble’s case. Though she looked to be in her sixties, Gwen was as lithe and slender as a willow. Her short gray hair formed a sleek cap around a face that was creased with laugh lines. Her movements were smooth, refined, and made with total assurance.

  As for the multitude of Whippets, several were racing around Gwen’s fenced backyard. Others accompanied her to the door to greet me. The remainder were reclining on her living room furniture, draped about like ornamental accessories.

  With their lean bodies and distinctive outlines, the elegant hounds managed to convey an impression of grace and power even when they weren’t moving. I saw white dogs, fawn colored ones, brindles, and every shade in between. Alert and curious, the Whippets checked me over thoroughly.

  Gwen smiled fondly at the assembled group. “Whippets are like potato chips. You can’t have just one.”

  “So I see.” I smiled too. “How many do you have?”

  “Oh dear me, I have no idea. I gave up counting a long time ago.” Gwen waved me toward a plump chair that was surprisingly Whippet free. “Please sit down. Peg tells me you want to talk about the show.”

  One of the Whippets slipped down off the couch and came to investigate. First she sniffed my pants delicately. I reached down to let her smell my hand, and her ears flicked forward, then quickly pressed back against her skull.

  I must have passed inspection because the Whippet lifted one front paw and placed it lightly on the edge of the seat cushion. A moment later, a sudden graceful leap landed her in my lap.

  I laughed and cupped my arms around her body so she wouldn’t fall off my legs. I needn’t have worried. The Whippet was as steady in the chair as I was.

  “That’s Coco,” Gwen told me. “She thinks every piece of furniture in the house belongs to her. Feel free to put her back on the floor if you’d be more comfortable.”

  “Oh no, we’re fine.” Coco’s coat was warm and silky smooth beneath my fingers. She sniffed my chin and the front of my sweater, then turned a small circle and lay down across my lap.

  Gwen’s eyes twinkled as she watched the interaction. We both noticed when a second Whippet rose to her feet. She tipped her lean head in my direction, then extended her slender front legs, and stretched languidly.

  “You stay right where you are,” Gwen told the lissome hound before turning back to me. “Our breed standard says that Whippets are friendly. It might be an understatement. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up with a chairful.”

  “That’s fine by me.” I stroked the bitch in my lap. “I love dogs.”

  “Peg tells me you have Standard Poodles?”

  “Yes. She and I were both showing under Walter Logan last weekend.”

  “Did you win?”

  “Aunt Peg was Winners Bitch. My son’s dog was Reserve.”

  “A good day then.” Abruptly Gwen realized what she’d said and frowned. “Well, not entirely.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I said. “How much did Aunt Peg tell you?”

  “Only that a woman who dog-sits for her had disappeared and you were trying to track her down. I confess I have no idea how I might be able to help with that.”


  “The woman who’s missing is Amanda Burke. Her sister, Abby, is a professional handler.”

  Gwen nodded. “I know Abby. She’s handled Whippets for friends of mine. She does a lovely job. I don’t believe I’ve ever met her sister though.”

  “Apparently Amanda doesn’t usually go to shows. But she was there on Sunday helping her boyfriend, Rick Fanelli.”

  “I’m afraid I still don’t know what this has to do with me.”

  “Amanda lives in a garage apartment in Weston. The woman who owns the house and rents her that apartment is Jasmine Crane.”

  “Oh, I see.” Gwen closed her eyes briefly. “That was a terrible thing. It cast a pall over the whole event.”

  To say the very least, I thought.

  “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but Aunt Peg was the one who found her.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” Gwen looked dismayed. “That must have been ghastly for her.”

  “I’m reasonably certain that Amanda’s disappearance had something to do with Jasmine’s death,” I said. “You were there at the show. Do you have any ideas about why someone might have wanted to kill her?”

  “Me?” Gwen’s expression slid from dismay to shock.

  “No, of course not. How would I know anything about that?”

  Her quick response didn’t surprise me. I’ve heard similar denials numerous times before. But I’ve also learned that when you poke around a little, you often end up learning something entirely different.

  “How well did you know Jasmine?” I asked.

  “In her role as vendor and mine as show chairman, we’d had occasion to speak.”

  The Sedgefield dog show was a sizeable event. Which meant that a large show committee would have been needed to put it all together. So I was quite certain there’d been a committee member in charge of dealing with the needs of individual concessionaires. In the normal way of things, a job like that would have fallen well below Gwen Kimble’s pay grade.

  “Is that the way it usually works? Did you speak with all the vendors?”

  “No.” Gwen’s chin lifted. I suspected I’d struck a nerve. “It wasn’t usual. Not at all. But Jasmine was the type of person who liked to make her own rules.”

  “How did that affect you?” I leaned forward in my seat. Coco shifted in my lap, then quickly resettled.

  “Every year we have a set amount of room we can allot for concessions. Originally spaces were offered on a first-come, first-serve basis. But as you might imagine, that became problematic and now placement is assigned by the show committee. It’s much easier if each vendor knows ahead of time precisely where their booth is going to be located.”

  “How is placement determined?” I asked curiously.

  “In most cases, by seniority. Vendors who’ve been loyal supporters through the years get the choicest spots. Then the larger retailers—those who will pay a higher rent—are also well situated. Vendors with small, boutique-type concessions are always made aware that they may be tucked into a less desirable space.”

  “Where did Jasmine fit in?”

  “If you had asked her that question, she would have said that she deserved to be wherever she wanted.” Gwen’s lips pursed in annoyance. “Did you know her?”

  “No, not really. I’d browsed around her booth a few times, but that was the extent of our interaction.”

  “Jasmine possessed an exaggerated sense of her own importance. It always seemed to me that she felt her artistic ability ought to entitle her to special privileges. The reason I ended up dealing with her was because none of the other committee members could control her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jasmine was very firm about how she felt she should be treated. She expected everyone to indulge her every whim. And when they didn’t, she was apt to throw a fit. Most people gave in to Jasmine’s demands because placating her was always the easier option.”

  I ran my hand down the length of Coco’s well-muscled body and waited for Gwen to continue. It didn’t take long.

  “No matter which location Jasmine’s booth was assigned, she was bound to be unhappy. Jasmine insisted that her exceptional offerings deserved a preferred position. When we were unable to accommodate her, she would retaliate by extending her boundaries and encroaching into neighboring concessions. It got so that none of our other vendors wanted to be near her.”

  “That must have been annoying,” I said.

  “It was. And that wasn’t the only problem. Jasmine would always want to renegotiate terms. Everyone else was satisfied with our standard contract, but she demanded a discount. Every year we had to have a long, drawn out discussion about it. It was a huge hassle and a major waste of time.”

  “Would she get a discount?”

  “Not when I was in charge,” Gwen said with satisfaction. “This year I told her she could either sign the contract or stay home. It was all the same to me. And of course, she eventually capitulated. Thank God I’ll never have to go through that process again.”

  It sounded as though Jasmine Crane had been a persistent thorn in Gwen’s side. I wondered if Jasmine had caused further problems for the show committee during the course of the Sedgefield show. And whether Gwen might have been sent to deal with her.

  If Jasmine was as combative as Gwen described her to be, it wasn’t hard to imagine that she could have pushed her luck one time too many with somebody. Could that person have been Gwen?

  I set Coco carefully aside and rose to my feet. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”

  “You’re welcome.” Gwen stood up too. “Abby’s a nice girl. I wish I could be more helpful, but I’m sure you’ll locate her sister soon.”

  As we walked to the door together, I had one last question. “On Sunday when the show was over, what became of Jasmine’s things?”

  Gwen shook her head, remembering. “By the end of the day, the authorities had been on the grounds for hours. The police put crime scene tape around the booth and they weren’t allowing anyone access. I had to go and explain that the park was a public space and we had agreed to vacate the premises by sunset. Thankfully they’d begun to wrap up by then. Since Jasmine was found beside her car, the police took that vehicle with them, along with some other items from inside the booth.”

  “What about her artwork?”

  “For the time being, Alan Crandall has it.”

  That surprised me. “The man from Creature Comforts?”

  Gwen nodded. “That’s right. Alan stepped in and did the show committee a huge favor. One we won’t forget any time soon. Since Creature Comforts was the biggest concession on the grounds, Alan had a handful of workers with him. He also managed to find some extra room in his truck. He volunteered to dismantle Jasmine’s booth, and to store it and its contents in his warehouse until someone figures out what should be done with all of it.”

  “Who will make that decision?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. And to be perfectly frank, I don’t care. It’s none of my business and I couldn’t be happier about that. Jasmine was one problem after another when she was alive. I’m just glad I don’t have to worry about her anymore.”

  Chapter 8

  That weekend there were back-to-back dog shows at the Eastern States Exposition Center, in southern Massachusetts. The indoor venue was the perfect setting for a show. Rings were large and well matted and there was plenty of space for grooming. Along with easy set up and parking, the Big E also had great ventilation and lighting. Events at that location always drew a big entry.

  This time Davey and Augie would have two shots at capturing a major. We were all hopeful that they would finally be able to make it happen.

  While the rest of my family was working on that, I had plans of my own. I had no idea why Rick Fanelli had been dodging my phone calls, but he wouldn’t be able to avoid me so easily when I showed up in person at his setup. I also intended to interview the vendors who’d been on either side of Jasmine’s boo
th the previous weekend.

  During the week, I had spoken with Abby twice. She’d been contacting her sister’s friends and acquaintances, trying unsuccessfully to come up with a lead of her own. Abby had also gotten back in touch with the police, who were no more helpful this time than they’d been on the previous occasion. With no evidence of foul play, the authorities weren’t concerned that a grown woman hadn’t been in touch with her sister for a few days. I could feel Abby seething with frustration through the phone connection.

  So here we all were, once again back at a dog show. Returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak. It didn’t matter that this show was in a different location, or even a different state. Most of the same participants would be in attendance. With luck, I would be able to learn something useful by the end of the weekend.

  In the grooming area, exhibitors often grouped themselves together by breed. Half the fun of showing dogs was having the opportunity to hang out with friends and fellow breeders before and after the competition. And on a losing day—of which there were many—that might be the best part of the event. So it was no surprise that we once again found our setup squished between those belonging to Crawford and Bertie.

  “You might have left us a little more room,” I grumbled to Terry as I struggled to shove Augie’s crate between a pillar and a free-standing blow dryer.

  Spraying up a Toy Poodle on a nearby table, he spun around in place. Terry’s hair was still bright red, and today he was wearing earrings to match. On anyone else, the combination would have been jarring. Somehow Terry made it work. “Oh please. It’s not as if you need the space. You people only have one dog to get ready for the ring. I could do that standing on my head.”

  Sadly, he was probably right. Terry was a genius when it came to hair. When he wasn’t busy scissoring Poodles, he cut and styled mine. For some reason Terry seemed to believe that gave him permission to comment on other aspects of my life that he found amusing. Like my wardrobe.

  Today I was dressed for comfort in a long-sleeved T-shirt and khakis. Terry looked like he was ready for Fashion Week. It was a wonder we were even able to be friends.