“You’ve been busy,” she said with satisfaction, when I was done.
“I’ll say.” Sam sounded less pleased.
“Gloria had the best motive,” said Peg, thinking aloud.
“Unless you think Liz Barnum was lying.”
“Don’t forget about Frank,” I said. “Apparently Rattigan was thinking of pulling the plug on the conversion. That would have left Frank out of a job and quite a bit of money.
“He also had the means, since he was acting as general contractor for the construction. When a skylight came falling out of the ceiling, that was his responsibility. As for opportunity, according to Rattigan’s calendar, Frank had arranged for the two of them to meet that evening at the coffee bar.”
I looked around the table. “All I can say is, it’s a good thing Rattigan didn’t leave Frank anything in his will or I’d have had to drive down to Cos Cob and arrest him myself.”
“Now, now,” said Peg. “Things aren’t quite that bad. You said you were planning to talk to one of Gloria’s neighbors.”
“Roger Nye. Gloria left a message about him on my machine. He’s expecting me tomorrow morning.”
“And what about those protesters you mentioned? Surely they could stand some scrutiny.”
“I’m going to try and track some of them down on Sunday. Supposedly they all live right in the area. And if I get really lucky, I might even find a neighbor who noticed someone climbing around on the roof.”
“There you go.” Peg eyed the pie as if debating whether or not to have another piece. “Don’t break out the handcuffs for Frank just yet. There are all sorts of possibilities here.”
On the other side of the table, Sam was silent. He’s wonderful at figuring things out and I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I’d wanted, and needed, to hear his input. Beneath the table I slid my foot along the floor until it connected with his.
Methodically chewing a bite of pie, Sam didn’t look up.
I slipped off my loafer and ran my toes up the side of his calf. He glanced at me and lifted a brow.
“Well?” I said.
“You don’t want to hear what I have to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
Sam set down his fork and straightened in his seat. The movement shifted his leg away from mine and suddenly I was sure that the distance he’d placed between us wasn’t accidental.
“I think your brother ought to be allowed to fight his own battles for once.”
Uh oh.
“You baby him, you coddle him, and then you wonder why he never grows up. What was he doing getting involved with a man like Marcus Rattigan in the first place? And you . . .” His gaze shifted to Aunt Peg. “What were you thinking, giving him money? What he really needed was a swift kick in the butt.”
“Money was easier,” Aunt Peg said with dignity. “I’m too old to go around kicking people.” She pushed back her chair and stood. “Perhaps I should leave you two to sort this out.”
“No!” Sam and I said together. It seemed likely to be the only thing we agreed upon all evening.
Aunt Peg ignored us both and left.
Sam stood, as well. He gathered up the plates and dumped them in the sink. I boxed the pie and shoved it in the refrigerator. In less than a minute, we’d run out of things to do.
. Sam crossed his arms implacably over his chest. “I know you don’t want to hear this, Melanie, but I have to say it. I don’t want you getting involved in Marcus Rattigan’s murder. Let the police do their job. That’s why they’re there.”
Before he’d finished speaking, I was already shaking my head. “The police think Frank is guilty. They’re not trying to clear him, they’re trying to gather enough evidence to convict him.”
“I know Frank needs you,” Sam said softly. “But I need you, too. I can’t just stand by and watch you put yourself in danger.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“I know you will. But it’s not enough.”
He reached under the table and scooped up his sleeping puppy. Then he walked out of the kitchen without looking back. I almost didn’t follow. When I did, Sam was standing beside the front door.
“You’ve been lucky so far. What am I going to do when your luck runs out?”
The expression in his eyes was bleak. Bleaker still was the knowledge that there was no answer I could give that would satisfy us both. Sam reached for the knob and opened the door.
“I love you,” I said, hoping that the words would work their magic, that they would turn him around and bring him back into my arms.
“I know,” said Sam.
He walked out into the night.
I went upstairs, slipped the tooth out from under Davey’s pillow, and left a dollar and a dog biscuit in its place. Then I went to bed and stared at the ceiling until my eyes hurt, because it was better than crying myself to sleep.
Saturday morning Davey was up just after dawn. The thought that the tooth fairy might visit had made him sleep fitfully, and when he discovered that Tar’s tooth had indeed been exchanged for cash, his shriek of joy was probably loud enough to wake the neighbors. I know it woke me.
Hoping for another hour of sleep, I congratulated Davey on his good fortune and told him to go downstairs and watch TV. My son was not that easily deterred.
He stood in the doorway in his woolly-footed pajamas, a dollar and a dog biscuit clutched in his hand, and said, “Where’s Sam?”
“Who?” Not the most intelligent answer I might have come up with, but considering that I was operating on about four hours of sleep, it didn’t seem all bad.
“Sam,” Davey repeated. “He was here last night. I thought he was staying over.”
If I ever needed a reminder that every decision I made, big or small, impacted on two lives not one, Davey was there to point it out.
“He had to go home,” I said lamely.
“Why?”
Good question. I sat up and patted the bed beside me. Davey came over and hopped up. Faith did, too. She was eyeing the biscuit in Davey’s hand with proprietary interest.
“You know that you and I don’t always agree about everything, right?”
Davey nodded.
“Sometimes that’s true for grown-ups, too.”
“Did you and Sam have a fight?”
“No, of course not,” I said quickly. When I was growing up, a fight had meant screaming and throwing things. “It was more of a disagreement.”
Davey’s lower lip began to quiver. “Did he go away forever?”
I reached out and pulled him into my arms. “No, Sam didn’t go away forever. He’ll come back and we’ll all be together again. I promise, okay?”
“Daddy went away and he didn’t come back for years.”
Of course, I thought belatedly. If I hadn’t been so tired, I’d have realized where the questions were coming from.
“Sam and Daddy are very different people,” I said firmly. “You know that, right?”
“I guess so.” He didn’t sound entirely convinced.
Faith reached out a front paw and laid it gently on top of Davey’s hand. She could see the biscuit and she could smell it, but she was much too polite to snatch. That didn’t stop her from pointing out the obvious, however.
“Are you going to give Faith that biscuit?” I asked.
Davey looked at his dog and shook his head. “It was Tar’s tooth, so I guess the tooth fairy left it for him. Faith can have another biscuit. I’m going to save this one for Tar. That way, Sam will have to bring him back real soon.”
“Fine by me,” I said.
Even six year olds are entitled to a little insurance.
Thirteen
According to an item I’d read in the paper, Marcus Rattigan’s funeral was scheduled to be held that morning while I was meeting with Roger Nye. I guessed that meant Rattigan’s neighbor wasn’t planning on paying his last respects. Hopefully, that boded well for our interview. The way Frank was managing his defense, the m
ore suspects I could come up with, the better.
After breakfast Davey and I got in the Volvo and headed to Belle Haven. My son adores cars: talking about them, watching them, riding in them. Any trip that involves a stint on the highway immediately gains his favor. You don’t need to take I-95 to get from Stamford to southern Greenwich, but we did anyway.
By the time we reached Belle Haven, Davey was in a great mood. I’d cautioned him that he was to stay out of trouble and let me do most of the talking, but I knew from past experience that these pep talks I often feel bound to deliver don’t necessarily do any good. Nor was I reassured when, as soon as I parked the car in Roger Nye’s driveway, Davey jumped out and ran ahead.
The house in front of me wasn’t quite as large as Gloria’s, but it was still three times the size of anything in my neighborhood. Situated beyond the Rattigan home and slightly down a rise, the red brick colonial sat on several acres of terraced and landscaped lawn. Low brick gateposts topped by a pair of plaster lions guarded the end of the short driveway.
I might have taken a moment to marvel at the excess, but Davey had already climbed the wide steps and rung the doorbell. As I crossed the driveway, I could hear the deep chimes that sounded within. The heavy wooden front door drew open just as I reached it.
Roger Nye was a portly man with ruddy skin and a pair of deep lines etched on either side of his mouth. He smelled faintly of cigar smoke and immediately frowned at the sight of us.
“I’ve bought wrapping paper to support the elementary school, magazine subscriptions from the middle school, and I know the Girl Scouts are going to be coming by soon with those damn cookies. What are you two selling?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly as Davey took a step back and angled himself behind my legs. “My name is Melanie Travis. Gloria Rattigan said you were expecting me?”
“Oh, yeah, right.” His frown softened but didn’t entirely disappear. “She told me you’d be by. I guess I didn’t think you’d bring a kid. Sorry about that.” He peered at Davey, then squatted down and held out a hand. “What’s your name?”
“Davey Travis.” My son looked half afraid that shaking hands might cost him his own, but after a moment the manners I’d drilled into him won out and he allowed his fingers to be briefly touched.
“Hey, come on, I’m not as bad as all that.”
“Mr. Nye—”
“Roger. Call me Roger. I’ve got three kids of my own, but they’re mostly all grown up now. I guess I must be losing my touch. Come on inside. Gloria said you wanted to talk about Marcus. Fair warning, you won’t hear anything good from me.”
“That’s okay. I—”
“Wait a minute, I’ve got an idea.” Roger ushered us in and shut the door. He swung around and faced Davey. “Do you like trains?”
“Trains?” Davey screwed up his face like he’d never heard the word before.
“You know, model trains. Lionels. I’ve got a whole set downstairs. Nobody plays with them much anymore. Maybe you’d like to have a look while your mom and I talk.”
“Sure,” said Davey.
A door off the hallway led down a flight of carpeted steps. Roger led the way, flipping on light switches as we went. At the bottom of the stairs, we found ourselves in an expansive playroom.
Davey’s gaze went immediately to a large platform that filled nearly a third of the room and held an elaborate display of model trains. Tracks circled the table in several configurations, winding in and out of model towns and tunneling through a snow capped mountain. There were roads and bridges and signal lights galore. The train itself seemed to be at least twenty cars long and had a locomotive that looked fully capable of belching smoke.
“Wow!” he cried. “Cool!”
Roger grinned. “Kids always get a kick out of this. Just let me get it turned on for you.” Judging by the look on his face, kids weren’t the only ones who got a kick out of Roger’s model trains.
While he fiddled with the controls and showed Davey how to operate the switches, I walked over to a sliding glass door on the other end of the room. As the house had been built on a slope, we were still above ground even though we’d come down a flight of stairs. From where I stood I could see Long Island Sound, the water bright blue and peacefully calm in the morning light.
The engine whistled behind me. I turned and saw that Roger had plopped an engineer’s cap on Davey’s head. My son was enchanted; he worked the controls and the train began to move. Roger left him to it and came to join me.
“He can’t break anything, can he?” I asked cautiously.
“No, it’s pretty well kid-proof.”
The whistle shrieked again. It was followed by the soft patter of footsteps on the stairs and a moment later a small, squarely built dog came trotting into the room. Her coat was mostly light brown with a black saddle and splashes of white on her chest and feet. The hair was long and curly, and looked as though it hadn’t been brushed in a while. She had vee-shaped ears that folded over above her head and a muzzle that was gray with age.
“That’s Asta,” said Roger, patting his leg to call the dog to him. “My wife named her after that terrier in the movies. You know, The Thin Man? She’s getting on now, doesn’t get around as well as she once did, but oh, does Asta loves those trains. Doesn’t matter where in the house she’s sleeping, when she hears that whistle, she comes and finds me.”
“She’s a Fox Terrier, then?” I had another look. Accustomed to the sharply chiseled trims I’d seen in the show ring, I hadn’t recognized her breed.
“She sure is.” Roger sat down and helped the dog up into his lap. Immediately she lay down and snuggled her head on his arm. “That reminds me. I guess I do have one good thing to say about Marcus, after all. He’s the one who gave me Asta. She was only a tiny pup at the time, but she grew up into a wonderful pet.”
I glanced over to check on Davey, then sat down, too. “I know Mr. Rattigan owned a Fox Terrier but I’d been told that he wasn’t a breeder. I didn’t realize he ever had any puppies.”
Roger nodded. “This goes back awhile. Probably nine or ten years. Back then, he and I were pretty friendly. I know he showed some dogs, because whenever they won I had to hear all about it whether I was interested or not. But I never saw any dogs over at his house. As far as puppies went, this was the only one.”
I held out my hand and Asta opened her eyes long enough to see if I was offering any food. Seeing only fingers, she turned her head away. “Do you know where she came from?”
“Some hotshot litter he had. I remember Marcus made a big fuss about it at the time. The dam had done a whole lot of winning, more than any other dog in the country, he said. That was supposed to make the puppies something special. Huh!” Roger snorted softly. “He never even gave us the papers so we could register her with the American Kennel Club.”
His stubby fingers stoked the top of the terrier’s head and she leaned into the caress. “Didn’t matter to Millie and me, though. We didn’t have any interest in that dog show nonsense, and with or without papers, Asta was still a great pet.”
“You’ve known Marcus Rattigan a long time then?”
Roger nodded. “Nearly a dozen years, I guess. That’s how long ago it was he moved next door. Gloria told me your brother got mixed up in some sort of business deal with him. I must say you have my sympathy.”
“I understand you and he had a disagreement . . . ?”
“That would be a polite way of putting it. What we had was a knockdown, drag out fight. I’m just sorry I didn’t try and sue the pants off him. Problem was, Marcus was clever. I knew what he did, and he knew it, too, but I didn’t have any proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“The man was a killer. Some might not have seen it that way, but I did. He killed my trees.” Roger’s skin mottled with anger at the memory.
“Your trees?”
He rose and set Asta on the ground at his feet. “Do you mind a walk outside? It’s a nice enough day. C
ome on, and I’ll show you what I mean.”
I glanced over at Davey. He was totally absorbed in the trains. “We’re going outside for a few minutes. Are you going to be okay?”
“Sure,” my son said blithely. “Go ahead.”
I followed Roger and Asta out the sliding glass door. The backyard was large and sloped downhill to the right, trailing off in a patch of woods at the end of the property. To the left, visible above some low foliage, was Gloria Rattigan’s house.
“Right here,” said Roger. He stopped next to a graceful looking tree whose leaves were painted with vivid autumn colors. There was a wooden bench beneath it and a concrete birdbath off to one side. “Look at this.” He scuffed at a pile of fallen leaves with his foot and uncovered a tree stump that had been cut off at ground level. “This too.” Roger pushed the leaves around some more and revealed another. “Both of those are Marcus’s doing.”
I stared at the stumps and decided I really wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about. “What exactly did Rattigan do?”
“Just like I told you before. He killed my trees! Flowering dogwoods they were, three of them planted on the days that each of my three children was born. Jeff was first.” Roger pointed to one stump. “His was white. Then came Susan. Hers was pink. After that was Fred, another white. The trees had been here for years before Marcus even moved in. Beautiful. In the spring you never saw anything so pretty.”
Wind whipped up the hill and scattered the leaves at our feet. I gathered my jacket more tightly around me. “Why did he want to kill them?”
Roger waved an angry hand toward the house up the rise. “He said they were spoiling his view. Can you believe that? I guess it didn’t matter when they were small but after they grew some, he decided they were in his way.
“Marcus came marching over here one day and demanded that I cut the trees way back. He said they were devaluing his property. As if that was my problem. If he’d wanted a house on the Sound he should have bought one. It wasn’t up to me to supply him with a view.”
I could see his point. “What did you do?”
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