Rosalyn grinned. “I never turn down a bathroom or a meal. Lead the way, we’ll talk over lunch.”
We were quickly seated, and our drink order taken. After weeks of having to force down any food at all, suddenly everything on the menu made my mouth water. If there was any logic to the fluctuations of pregnancy I had yet to figure it out.
Rosalyn ordered a salad. I asked for a bowl of vegetable soup and a turkey sandwich. Then I dug into the bread and butter as soon as they were delivered to the table. Rosalyn watched me with amusement.
“You’re pregnant,” she said.
I slathered some butter on a roll and stuffed it in my mouth. “Eating for two,” I mumbled around the mouthful.
“You’re lucky. When I was pregnant, I couldn’t keep anything down but dry biscuits for the entire nine months.”
“Actually this is the first time I’ve been hungry in days.”
Rosalyn reached for the bread basket and delicately transferred a roll onto her plate. “Adversity does that to a person.”
My gaze lifted. I forgot about food for a minute.
“What?”
“You know, hardship?”
“I know what adversity means. I just didn’t realize I was suffering from any.”
“I’m thinking of your aunt. She must be quite a trial to you.”
In oh-so-many ways, I thought. Probably none of which were what Rosalyn had in mind.
Perhaps I’d been entirely too hasty to seize upon her as a lunch companion.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “What are we talking about?”
“Florence was released from the hospital this morning. Richard and Derek went to pick her up.”
“I’m glad to hear she recovered so quickly.”
“Naturally you would be. With Peg being to blame and all.”
“Okay,” I said, “you can stop right there. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I most certainly do. Florence called me last night from the hospital. I spoke with her directly. And she told me that Peg Turnbull was the person responsible for her injuries.”
“Which you, without verifying whether that was true or not, immediately felt obliged to tell everyone within earshot.”
“People deserve to know what happened.”
“I agree with you. And that isn’t what happened.”
“Are you telling me that Florence was lying?”
“Yes.”
The word, and the accusation, blunt as I could make them, hung in the air between us.
“I don’t believe you,” said Rosalyn. “You’re protecting your aunt.”
“My aunt doesn’t need protecting, at least not from a conniving old lady like Florence Donner. She ought to be thanking us rather than trying to stir up trouble. Peg was the one who found Florence, and the one who called for help.”
“That’s her story.”
“No,” I said firmly. “That’s my story. I was there.”
“You were?”
Rosalyn sounded surprised. This part was something she hadn’t heard.
“Yes, I was. Aunt Peg and I were outside walking. We found Florence lying in a heap near the courtyard. She was unconscious at the time. When she revived, she was pretty confused. She told us that someone had hit her but she didn’t know who.”
“Hmm.” Rosalyn was still reserving judgment. “That’s not the version I heard.”
The two of us leaned back and made room as the waiter appeared with our food. Too bad all this arguing had made my appetite disappear again. I picked up my spoon and gave my soup a desultory stir.
“Eat.” Rosalyn doused her salad liberally with dressing. “It’s good for you.”
“It seems I’m not as hungry as I thought I was.”
“I’ve upset you.”
“No.” I sighed. “You’re just the messenger. Florence is the one who’s upset me. She resents my aunt’s relationship with her son and obviously she’d do just about anything to drive them apart.”
“Don’t tell me you think she hit herself over the head and knocked herself out? Sorry, but I’m not buying it.”
“No, I wouldn’t go that far. But the story she’s spreading is also untrue. I’d love to know what really happened.”
Rosalyn paused, a lettuce leaf suspended on her fork between plate and mouth. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“Absolutely. The fact that Aunt Peg has been made to look bad is only part of it. We’re four days into this conference. One of the participants is dead and another has been attacked. It amazes me that most people are simply going about their business as if nothing is wrong. I don’t know why any of them feel safe here. I know I don’t.”
Maybe it was all the trouble I’d seen and gotten into in the past. Or maybe it was the pregnancy that was making me feel vulnerable; the responsibility I now had not only for my own welfare, but also for that of my unborn child. But whatever the reason, the threat that surrounded us felt more personal than usual. And more dire.
“Interesting.” Rosalyn pushed aside a sliver of cucumber and speared a tomato with her fork. “If Peg isn’t the person who attacked Florence—”
“She isn’t,” I said firmly.
“Then we’re left with another mystery.”
“Or two facets of the same mystery.”
I tasted a spoonful of soup. The broth was rich with flavor and the vegetables were crisp instead of soggy. I felt my appetite begin to revive.
Rosalyn stopped eating to consider what I’d said.
“So you think the same person that killed Charles also hurt Florence?”
“That’s the only way things makes sense to me. One crazy person running around a conference seems like plenty. Two would be stretching credibility.”
“Unless someone didn’t actually want to kill Florence, but rather put her out of commission for a while.”
I frowned. Then added a glare for good measure. We both knew which someone Rosalyn was referring to.
“Okay,” she said, after a moment. “Scratch that. But the one-assailant theory brings up other questions. Like why Charles and Florence in particular? Aside from their long tenure in the dog show world, the two of them don’t have anything in common. They judge different breeds, they come from different areas of the country. Granted, Florence may have her moments but basically she’s a rather harmless old lady—”
“Tell that to Aunt Peg,” I muttered.
“And as for Charles…well…good riddance to bad rubbish is all I can say.”
“I had the impression that you two weren’t the best of friends.”
“What clued you in? My obvious contempt for the great man himself or my lack of dismay when I heard about his death?”
“Both,” I said. “And that puts you in a minority. Scoff if you like, but there are plenty of people here who thought that Charles was, if not a great man, at least one who was worthy of their respect.”
Rosalyn laughed derisively. “Trust me, that last speech of his changed a few opinions on that score.”
“Maybe so, but Caroline thinks that if he’d had the time, Charles would have been able to change them back.”
“Caroline is the little woman. She thought whatever Charles wanted her to think.”
The comment surprised me. Rosalyn struck me as a woman who was strong enough, and independent enough, to recognize the same traits in another woman.
“That’s not true,” I said.
“Isn’t it?”
Our waiter had begun to hover solicitously in the background. She lifted a hand and sent him away.
“Charles has been stepping out on her for years. Caroline can’t be so stupid that she doesn’t know that.”
“She knows,” I said quietly.
“So why didn’t she stop him?”
“She said she didn’t mind.”
“And you believed her? You must not be very bright either.”
“Bright enough,” I said, “to recognize a diversion w
hen I see one. A minute ago we were talking about your feelings toward Charles.”
“That’s old news. I resented the hell out of him, okay? Mostly I just tried to stay out of his way. I found it entertaining when he made an ass of himself delivering his keynote speech and I wasn’t sorry when he turned up dead. Is that plain enough for you?”
“Without a doubt. Do you mind telling me why you felt that way?”
“Is it any of your business?”
“Humor me,” I said. “I’m pregnant.”
Rosalyn had been working herself into a lather of righteous indignation but now, to my surprise, she stopped and laughed.
“I didn’t expect that,” she said.
“Does it buy me an answer?”
“Hell, why not? Been there, done that, and you’re right. Under the circumstances, you probably do deserve a few special privileges. What do you know about the Bedminster Kennel Club?”
Mostly that it was the stuff of legend, I thought. Founded by a very wealthy dog fancier at the turn of the twentieth century, the Bedminster Kennel Club was one of the oldest and most prestigious in the country. Their yearly dog show, held in high summer, was an invitation-only affair.
The event took place on acres of manicured lawn in the high-priced horse country of northern New Jersey. It featured only the best judges and attracted top dogs and exhibitors from all around the country. Over the decades the show had become esteemed as much as a social event as a sporting competition.
Most people in the dog world considered a win at Westminster to be the pinnacle of achievement, but there were others whose reverence for Bedminster placed that event on the same pedestal.
“I’ve never shown there,” I said. “Someday, I’d like to.”
“But you know what it’s about?”
I nodded.
“Then you probably know that for many years the membership of Bedminster was closed. The entire kennel club consisted of twelve men, all with impeccable credentials, all of whom thought their opinions were sacrosanct. They held quarterly meetings, did a little fund raising and the occasional educational program, and put on the annual show. When one of their members died or resigned, another just like him was elected to take his place.”
That was the way things had been run previous to my tenure in the dog show world. I remembered hearing about the “old-fashioned” Bedminster from Aunt Peg. But I was also pretty sure that their mores and procedures had begun to change in the last decade.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Charles was a member.”
“You’re half right. Charles and Caroline were both members. Charles was accorded the honor in the mid-eighties, when it was still a men’s club.”
“And Caroline?”
“Four or five years ago. About that time, it became clear to the Bedminster board that they needed to step into the twenty-first century. Maybe someone threatened them with a discrimination lawsuit. Or maybe it occurred to them that if they added a few women to their roster, they’d have someone to do all the boring jobs they were too lazy to do themselves.
“Anyway, for the first time in nearly a century, the membership was opened to outsiders. Several dozen people applied for consideration. Caroline was one of the first women accepted.”
While Rosalyn was speaking, I’d finished my soup. Since that seemed to be staying down okay, I picked up my sandwich and began to nibble around the edges.
“Is this another diversion,” I asked, “or is there a point to this story?”
“I was one of the applicants. Bedminster has members from all over the country, but I grew up in New Jersey. Bedminster felt like my local kennel club. The first show I ever attended as a child was their event. Imagine.” She stopped and smiled. “I thought all dog shows were like that.”
I smiled with her, thinking of some of the truly terrible venues I’d been to over the years. “That must have been a rude awakening.”
“It wasn’t nearly as rude as the reply I received when my application was rejected by the Bedminster board. My credentials were good, so was my reputation. I never would have applied if I hadn’t thought I stood a good chance of being accepted.”
“Did they tell you why they turned you down?”
“Not officially, no. They didn’t feel they had to. All I got was a curt, one-paragraph letter on Bedminster parchment stationery, informing me that my request for membership had been denied.”
“And unofficially?”
Rosalyn sighed. Even now, it seemed, the memory still rankled.
“I found out later that Charles was the one who had blackballed me. He didn’t give the membership committee a reason beyond saying that in his opinion I wasn’t up to Bedminster standards. I barely knew Caroline, but I understand that she backed him up.”
Rosalyn put down her fork and pushed her plate away. It looked like her appetite was as capricious as mine.
“You barely knew Caroline,” I said slowly, “but you must have known Charles. Do you know why he did that to you?”
“Hell yes, I know exactly why he did it. He blackballed me because a couple of years earlier, when we were both away from home judging at a series of cluster shows, he made a pass at me and I turned him down so fast it made his head spin. I guess his ego couldn’t handle the rejection. And isn’t it just like a man to take his revenge?”
23
And so the plot thickens, I thought.
“You must have been furious,” I said aloud.
“Hell yes. And in my place, anyone would have felt the same. It’s one thing to be turned down on my own merits. But to have some pompous jackass step in and turn my life upside down just for kicks…” Rosalyn snorted in disgust. “I could have killed him for that.”
And now somebody had. Funny how that came together.
“Be careful,” I said. “You’ll sound like you’re giving yourself a motive.”
“Too late for that. I’ve never made any secret about how I felt about Charles. Probably half the people in this room know that I couldn’t stand him.”
“Do they know why?” I asked curiously.
“No.”
She reached for her salad plate and pulled it back in front of her. Apparently confession was good for not only the soul, but also the appetite. Rosalyn dug into her meal with renewed gusto.
“That story isn’t anybody’s business. Why would I want to advertise that I’d applied for membership in Bedminster and been rejected? Besides, when it comes to motives, I’m certainly not the only person who’s got one. Charles and Caroline may have touted themselves as the dog show world’s golden couple, but there are just as many people around here who resented them as revered them.”
“Really?” I said. “Who else?”
Rosalyn’s gaze suddenly sharpened. “The answer depends. What are you going to do with the information? If you’re going to go running to the police, then I’m keeping my mouth shut. Why should I get anybody else in trouble?”
“Don’t you think the police ought to be told?”
“The police have a job to do and they’re the ones who ought to be doing it. That detective is supposed to be tracking down a killer. He doesn’t need me to tell him where to look.”
“So then I guess you’d be just as happy if Charles’s killer wasn’t brought to justice?”
Rosalyn scowled. “I didn’t say that, did I?”
“You came close enough. And now someone, probably the same person, has attacked Florence. Would that be a better reason for you to get involved?”
Rosalyn was shaking her head again. My arguments weren’t making any impression upon her. If anything, they were hardening her resolve.
“That ‘getting involved’ part? That’s not my thing. Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong just makes more problems, and believe me, I’ve got plenty of my own already.”
Our waiter came gliding back. He wanted desperately to find out how we were doing, refill our glasses, and offer us all sorts of things we didn’t wan
t. This time, I was the one who waved him impatiently away.
My hold on Rosalyn’s attention was tenuous already. The last thing we needed was a distraction.
“Last night when we had dinner together…” I said.
“The meal you didn’t eat.”
That could have applied to any number of meals I’d sat down in front of lately, but it was true enough, so I nodded. “You weren’t the only one at the table who wasn’t upset about what happened to Charles.”
“Yeah, Tubby was there too. He’s not my favorite guy by any stretch of the imagination, but I have to say one thing for him. He calls things as he sees them.”
“Do you know what his gripe was with Charles?”
“Like what? Like you think everyone who didn’t like the guy got together and compared notes?”
Put that way, the question did sound rather absurd.
“I have no idea why Tubby didn’t like Charles,” Rosalyn said. “Here’s my wild-assed guess and you can take it for what it’s worth. Knowing what kind of guys they both are, I bet the two of them got tangled up over a woman somewhere, and Charles won. Am I right about that? Who knows? But it makes as good a story as any.”
I took a deep breath and looked at her across the table, considering what she’d said. Our plates were empty and the waiter was heading our way yet again. We were just about done.
“Is that what we’ve been doing here?” I asked. “Spinning tales?”
“You tell me,” Rosalyn replied. “Truth isn’t absolute, you know. It changes, depending on your perception. Whoever said there are two sides to every story was a fool. There are as many sides as there are storytellers. And that, my friend, is the truth.”
She stuck me with the check. While I was taking care of it, Aunt Peg came sweeping into the dining room.
Her height, her demeanor, and her confident stride would have drawn attention anywhere. But while Rosalyn and I had been eating, the room had filled; and in this crowd Aunt Peg was a woman of some renown.
Half the diners knew her personally, the other half knew her by reputation. And I bet that nearly all of them were privy to the story that had been circulating since the previous evening: the one that placed the blame for Florence’s condition squarely on Aunt Peg’s strong shoulders.
Hounded to Death Page 19