Hair of the Dog

by Laurien Berenson

  “The Poodle with the silly hairdo sends her regards,” I said.

  Twenty-five

  I held the gun on Austin while Viv called the police. After that she went out to the garage, came back with a coil of rope, and trussed him expertly. There was a look of grim satisfaction on her face when she was done.

  “How long have you known?” I asked.

  “That Austin thought he was in love with me, for years. I figured if I didn’t give him any encouragement, he’d eventually give up. He isn’t, you know. In love with me, I mean. He hardly even knows me. He’s just obsessed with something he can’t have.”

  I nodded. “When did you figure out about Barry and Bill?”

  “Too late obviously.” Viv sighed. “When Barry died, I never even suspected. I guess that was the plan, wasn’t it? But then Bill was dead too, and that piece came out in Dog Scene. I knew that was Austin’s magazine, and I also knew how much he likes to control things.”

  She spared him a withering glance. “That item wouldn’t have appeared without his approval. That’s what made me begin to wonder. Even so, until he showed up here today, I didn’t really believe it. He told me he loved me. How can you kill somebody in the name of love?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that, and Austin, who might have, wasn’t saying anything.

  As soon as Viv’s hands were free, I gave her back the gun. It was the first time I’d ever held one, and I couldn’t wait to get rid of it.

  The local police responded quickly to Viv’s call. I imagine that’s one of the perks of living in a place called Pullman Manor. We explained the situation in detail. The two officers didn’t look entirely convinced by our version of events, but they did agree to take Austin in and hold him until their superiors could speak with their counterparts in Poughkeepsie and Patterson. I knew that Austin would have access to the best lawyers money could buy. I could only hope that with Viv and me filling in some missing pieces, the police would be able to build a strong enough case.

  I left Viv speaking on the phone to Ron and drove back to the dog show to pick up Davey. I was hoping to slip in and out, but Aunt Peg was having none of that. Terry and Crawford came over and listened while I explained what had happened.

  The recital was quick and concise. I skimmed over most of the unpleasant parts, and punched up Faith’s role in my rescue. My audience nodded in satisfaction; there wasn’t a Poodle doubter in the group.

  Crawford asked a number of questions, and Peg had some of her own. Terry, however, was strangely silent. When he finally spoke, he was more upset than I’d ever seen him.

  “It was all my fault,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Crawford asked sharply.

  “I was the one who told Austin that Ron was the father of Alicia’s baby. I didn’t know that it mattered. It was at the end of June, we were at the Staten Island show. He asked and I told him.”

  I thought of the weeks it had taken me to pry that information out of Alicia. “How did you know?”

  “Alicia’d been at the show the day before, and she wasn’t feeling well. They call it morning sickness, but she was green all day. We were sitting around waiting for groups to start, and not much was going on, so I offered to do her hair. I thought it might cheer her up, you know?”

  I nodded. Terry’s credo: When in doubt, do hair.

  “So of course we got to talking. I can’t put my hands on somebody’s head without opening my mouth. Kidding around, I said, ‘Hon, you’d better hope that baby doesn’t have Barry’s nose.’ Alicia just laughed and laughed, then said, ‘Believe me, there’s no chance of that.’ It wasn’t as though I couldn’t figure out what that meant. I have eyes, don’t I?”

  Terry paused, looking stricken. “But I never knew that Austin ...”

  “None of us knew,” I said firmly. Crawford and Aunt Peg nodded their agreement. “If he hadn’t found out from you, I’m sure there’d have been another way.”

  The Non-Sporting group was announced over the loudspeaker and Crawford and Terry went to get Leo. I thanked Douglas for taking care of Davey and packed up my son’s toys. On our way out of the tent, we passed Beth and Ralphie, loading up their van to go home. Even though I knew she’d want to know who killed Barry, I wasn’t up to explaining again. Besides, I was sure she’d read about it in Dog Scene soon enough.

  “Good show?” I asked automatically.

  Beth shrugged. “Is there such a thing?”

  “It’s no way to make a living,” Ralphie said. He loaded in the last crate and slammed the side door shut. “At least she’s finally beginning to figure that out.”

  I reached around him, opened the door, and closed it again. It slid smoothly in its tracks. Ralphie looked at me and grinned. “Damn thing used to stick all the time until Beth told me about it. Am I good, or what?”

  “You’re good, Ralphie.”

  When we got home, I fixed Davey his dinner and let him eat it in front of the TV while I went into the kitchen and called Alicia. By the time I got her, she’d already heard the news. Amazingly Viv had called to offer some sort of an apology. Shortly after that, the police had been by to ask some questions. It was looking as though there would be enough physical evidence at the scene of Bill’s murder to link Austin’s car to the crime.

  Alicia also mentioned that when Bill’s will was read, she’d been named the sole beneficiary. She’d inherited the small farm they’d lived in together and was planning to stay there at least until after the baby was born. Beth was still interested in buying Barry’s kennel, probably for boarding rather than showing. She and Alicia were working out the details.

  Davey and I ate tomatoes until we never wanted to see another one, then donated the rest of Bill’s bumper crop to a local soup kitchen. I was sure he’d have been pleased to know they went to a good cause.

  The following week, Sam stopped by Aunt Peg’s and picked up his new puppy. Tar was freshly bathed and clipped and looked like a woolly black lamb in his puppy trim. Sam and Peg are already talking about the shows next spring that he’ll be eligible for.

  School starts in a couple of weeks, and in the meantime we have custody of a guinea pig. Davey has a birthday coming up next month, and Faith’s still growing hair. It’s pretty much business as usual except that Aunt Peg’s taken to wearing a Mets T-shirt and throwing around terms like RBIs and earned run average.

  “Will wonders never cease?” I asked her.

  “Not if I can help it,” Peg said, grinning.

  I’m taking that as a promise.

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  One

  Never lend money to relatives. It isn’t one of the Ten Commandments, but it ought to be.

  So when my brother, Frank, came to me with his hand out, I didn’t have to think twice about what to say. I turned him down flat. Unfortunately, with Frank it’s never that easy.

  “Trust me, Mel,” he said. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  The opportunity of his lifetime, maybe. Mine? I doubted it.

  For more than a quarter century, ever since he was old enough to walk and talk, I’d watched my little brother maneuver himself into and out of tight spots. He was bright, charming, and impetuous. What he’d never been was practical.

  That was my job apparently. I was the diligent big sister who, more often than not, had to stay behind and pick up the pieces when Frank dropped whatever he was doing and went barreling on to his next grand scheme.

  “At least let me tell you what it’s about,” he said. “You can’t turn me down without giving me a fair shot.”

  “Sure I can. Watch me. N-O.”

  “I’m not listening.” Frank raised his hands and put them over his ears. “I can’t hear you.” With a maturity level like that, you c
an see why he would come to me rather than going to a bank.

  I glared at him for a moment, but the effort was halfhearted. It was 8:30 on a weekday morning. In the normal way of things, I wouldn’t have expected my brother to be out of bed yet, much less across town and standing in my kitchen. He must have really thought this was important.

  “You’ve got ten minutes,” I told him. “No more. Davey’s bus already picked him up and I was just on my way out the door. You’re not making me late for school.”

  Davey was my son, six years old and filled with all the joy and wonder and mischief of his age. In short he was a great kid, at least in his mother’s eyes. He’d started first grade a month earlier and was delighted to be riding to school on the bus.

  The year before, we’d commuted to Hunting Ridge Elementary together. I’d been employed there for the last six years as a special education teacher. Over the summer, however, I’d taken a new job at Howard Academy, a private school near downtown Greenwich. Four weeks into the school year, I was still trying to make a good impression.

  “Relax.” Frank glanced at the clock over the sink. “You’ve got plenty of time.”

  My brother is an expert at relaxing, probably because he gets so much practice. I was tempted to drum my fingers on the countertop.

  People meeting us for the first time often comment that we look alike. Though we have many of the same features—straight brown hair, hazel eyes, and the strong jawline often associated with stubbornness—I’ve never been able to see the similarity. Maybe I don’t want to see it.

  While I waited for Frank to get to the point, I walked to the back door and looked out. The small yard behind the house was enclosed, and Faith, Davey’s and my Standard Poodle, was having a last bit of exercise before I left for the day. When I opened the door, she raced across the short distance between us and bounded up the steps.

  “That is one strange looking animal,” Frank said as Faith came sliding into the kitchen, did a quick turn on the linoleum floor, then jumped up and waved her front paws in the air waiting for the biscuit she knew I’d be holding.

  I flipped the peanut butter tidbit into the air and watched Faith catch it on the fly. “Nine minutes. You know, most people hoping to borrow money from me wouldn’t start by insulting my dog.”

  “With that hairdo? The comment wasn’t an insult, it was a statement of fact.”

  All right, so Faith’s appearance was a little odd. It wasn’t my fault. At least, not entirely. She’d been a present from my Aunt Peg, a devoted Standard Poodle breeder whose Cedar Crest Kennel has produced a number of top winning Poodles over the years. Like her ancestors before her, Faith was a show dog.

  Accordingly, her hair was being maintained in the continental clip, a modern descendant of an old German hunting trim, and one of only two clips adult Poodles were allowed to wear in the ring. Faith’s dense black coat was long and scissored into a rounded shape on the front half of her body. At the same time, most of her hindquarter had been clipped down to the skin. There were pompons over each of her hip bones and just above her feet on all four legs. A bigger pompon wagged at the end of her tail.

  Because the topknot on her head was nearly a foot long and needed to be kept out of the way when she wasn’t in the ring, I’d sectioned the hair into a series of ponytails, which were held in place by brightly colored rubber bands. The long, thick fringe on her ears was protected by matching plastic wraps, which were doubled under and banded in place.

  Standards are the biggest of the three varieties of Poodles. Faith is twenty-four inches at the shoulder, which means that she and Davey stand nearly eye to eye. Maybe that explains why they get along so well; or maybe it was just that kids and Standard Poodles are a great combination.

  Faith also has wonderfully expressive dark brown eyes. Sometimes I could swear she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Like now, as she gazed at Frank with her head tipped to one side. No doubt she was wondering what he was doing there and why I hadn’t left for school yet. I reached down and gave her chin a scratch.

  “Fine by me,” I said to Frank. “You want to discuss the dog’s trim, it’s your eight minutes.”

  “Nine,” he said, probably hoping to impress me with his counting skills. “I’ve still got nine.”

  I waved a hand. It wasn’t worth arguing.

  Frank waited until I was still, then made his grand announcement. “I’m starting up my own business, Mel. This is your chance to get in on the ground floor.”

  Probably just where I’d remain, too.

  “What kind of business are you going into?”

  It wasn’t an idle question. In the half decade since college, my brother has held a variety of jobs—everything from bartender to sales clerk to general handyman. If he had chosen a career path, I had yet to see the signs.

  “I’m opening up a coffee bar. You know how popular they are. Everyone’s looking for a neighborhood hangout, and I’ve managed to secure a great location.”

  From the sound of things, Frank was going to need every minute of the time I allotted him. I went back to the table and sat down. Faith hopped up and draped her front legs across my lap, then angled her head upward so her muzzle rested just below my shoulder.

  As she settled in, I could feel the creases being pressed across the front of my skirt. Luckily I buy most of my clothes at Eddie Bauer and L.L. Bean, so they can take a few knocks. I burrowed my fingers through the Poodle’s thick coat and rubbed behind her ear.

  “Where is it?”

  “Right here in north Stamford. Remember Haney’s General Store out on Old Long Ridge Road?”

  I nodded, picturing a small clapboard building with a wide porch and room for four or five cars to park out front. In the early fifties when the farms and open acreage of north Stamford were being developed into affordable housing to accommodate the post-war family boom, Mr. Haney had opened his small general store. It served as a convenience for harried mothers who hadn’t wanted to run all the way into town for a carton of eggs or a bottle of milk. In those days, he’d done a thriving business.

  But as the city of Stamford continued to grow by leaps and bounds, supermarkets and strip malls had sprung up within easy reach of almost every shopper. Mr. Haney grew older and the wares that he stocked weren’t replenished nearly as often. It had been at least two years since I’d been to his store, and even then the building had begun to look run-down.

  Signs covering the front windows advertising the weekly specials couldn’t disguise the fact that the glass needed a good cleaning. The red paint on the front door had faded to a musty pink. To top it off, the gallon of milk I’d purchased had been sour. I hadn’t been back since.

  “Is he still in business?” I asked.

  “Not anymore. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. As of last month, Mr. Haney retired and moved to Florida. I’m the new owner.”

  “Owner?” That got my attention. “Frank, how could you afford to buy a building?”

  “Maybe partial proprietor is a better term. I don’t exactly own the place.”

  No surprise there.

  “I have a long-term lease, and I’m doing renovations. Haney’s General Store is going to become Grounds For Appeal. By Christmas we’ll be ready for the grand opening.”

  “Grounds For Appeal?” I frowned. “It sounds like a cut rate law office.”

  “That’s not set in stone yet,” Frank said quickly. “I’m still working out some of the details. You could help. Like I said, things are just beginning to get moving. Now would be the perfect time for you to invest.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” The question seemed to puzzle him. “Well, to be perfectly honest, because I could use some cash.”

  As if I couldn’t have guessed. “Actually, Frank, I was wondering why you think this would be a good idea for me.”

  “Because once the coffee bar gets up and running, I’m going to be making a ton of money. What kind of a brother would I be if I didn’t offer
my only sister to have the chance to get in on it?”

  “Solvent?” I ventured. I checked my watch. If I wasn’t out the door in five minutes max, I was going to miss the first bell. “Look, I don’t really have time to discuss this right now. And as you know perfectly well, I don’t have any extra money. At least not the kind you’re looking for.”

  “You’ve got Bob.”

  Bob was my ex-husband and Davey’s father. After a four-year absence from our lives, he’d shown up unexpectedly in the spring looking to get reacquainted with his son. At the same time, he’d reinstated the child support payments he was supposed to have been making all along.

  Thanks to his contributions, Davey and I were a good deal better off than we had been. We’d been able to have the house painted and take a modest vacation over the summer. We were not, however, in any position to be looking for investments.

  “Bob went home to Texas, Frank. He has a new wife there.”

  “He also has an oil well.”

  “That’s his money, not mine.”

  “You could ask him for some.”

  “I could,” I said, nudging Faith off my lap so I could stand. “But I’m not going to. Whatever you’ve gotten yourself into this time, you’re just going to have to take care of it without my help.”

  “Okay, if that’s the way you want to be. Most people would jump at the chance to get into a deal with Marcus Rattigan, but if you’re not interested, I guess that’s your business.”

  I was halfway to the door but I stopped and turned. “Marcus Rattigan? What do you have to do with him?”

  “He’s the guy who bought the building. Didn’t I mention that?”

  He knew perfectly well he hadn’t.

  Marcus Rattigan was a local entrepreneur whose influence in the construction and development business was well documented in Fairfield County. Over the last decade more than a dozen apartment complexes had sprung up in surrounding towns, their signs sporting the familiar blue and gold logo of his Anaconda Properties.

  Rattigan was known for buying up tracts of land, then bending local zoning laws to the breaking point in order to accommodate the greatest possible housing density. He supplied my newspaper with a steady stream of front page stories, and town officials in most municipalities kept a wary eye on the proceedings while fervently wishing him elsewhere.