Unleashed (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

by Berenson, Laurien

  “Golden Touch?” I read incredulously.

  “Yeah, can you believe it?” Bertie put on her blinker and turned in. “And to think, I didn’t see that as an omen.”

  A short, paved driveway led us to the kennel, which turned out to be a complex of one-story concrete buildings, painted a cheery shade of yellow and grouped around a middle courtyard that was filled with dog runs. A quick survey estimated that the kennel could hold nearly a hundred dogs.

  “This place is huge,” I said as I got out of the van.

  “Like Kenny’s ego.”

  Bertie held up a hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I didn’t come here to pick any fights. I just want to get my stuff and go home. Come on, I’ll take you around back. That’s probably where Kenny will be.”

  Bertie bypassed the front door with its dog-bone-shaped welcome mat, walked around the first building, and led the way through the courtyard. Most of the runs we passed were occupied. Dogs of various breeds threw themselves at the wire mesh that enclosed them, barking frantically.

  Each, I knew, was hoping we’d come for him. Each was going to be disappointed. Feeling pleased I’d left Faith at home, I hurried to catch up to Bertie, who’d reached another entrance.

  “This is where they do all the grooming,” she said. “Kenny only works on the dogs he shows and sometimes not even all of them. The staff takes care of the rest.”

  “How big is the staff?”

  “It varies, depending on the season, but usually around ten or so. It takes a lot of people to run an operation this size.”

  Not to mention a lot of clients. It was easy to see that Kenny would have plenty to lose if a prominently placed article were to question his integrity. Considering what I already knew—and didn’t like—about him, it was nice to find another reason to settle on Kenny Boyle as the number one suspect.

  The large front room of the building we entered was a dog groomer’s dream. Several large bathtubs lined one wall, another held built-in crates. There were rubber-matted tables in the middle and bright lighting overhead.

  Only one table was currently in use. A young, redheaded man was working on a Scottish Terrier. He glanced around as the door opened, swung back, then quickly looked again. It was a classic double take.

  “Bertie, hey! Um ... good to see you.”

  “Hi, Cal.” Bertie breezed past him. “Is Kenny in back?”

  “Yeah.” Cal dropped the Terrier’s nose, scrambled across the room, and angled himself between us and the door. “I’m sure he’s busy, though. Is he expecting you?”

  “He knows we’re coming,” Bertie said firmly. “Get out of the way, Cal.”

  He stepped to one side, but he didn’t look happy. “I guess this is why he’s been in such a foul mood all morning.”

  “I hope so.” Smiling sweetly, Bertie pushed past him and strode into the next room. I followed.

  The second room looked just like the first, only smaller. The outer grooming area was probably for the boarding clients. This inner sanctum was where Kenny and his top assistants would work on the show dogs.

  The room was empty save for a man who was perched on the edge of a grooming table, thumbing through an issue of Dog Scene magazine. I recognized Kenny from Bertie’s description and the pictures I’d seen in Woof!. He looked up and immediately smiled.

  “Hi, Kenny. I’m here to get my things,” Bertie spoke up before he had a chance. “This is a friend of mine, Melanie Travis. She came to help me load.” She sent me a look, warning me to remember what she’d said in the van.

  “Hi,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

  Kenny stood up and walked forward. He barely glanced at me. Instead he went straight to Bertie, arms outstretched. Despite what Cal’s behavior had implied, Kenny looked delighted to see her.

  “Hey, doll,” he said, folding her into a tight embrace. “I’m glad you came.”

  “I’m just here to get my stuff.” Bertie stood stiffly, but didn’t pull away until Kenny had stepped back. Then I saw her shudder slightly.

  “Sure. How about we go inside and have a cup of coffee? I’ve been working all morning, I could use a break.”

  “Sorry. We don’t have much time. Melanie has to get back.”

  “Too bad.” Kenny finally glanced my way. “I’d have been happy to help you load. You know that.”

  A casual observer watching the interchange would have thought that Kenny was the reasonable one, and that Bertie was being churlish. Even though I knew better, I had to admit that Kenny was a charmer. I could see how he’d been able to parlay a decent amount of talent and a confident swagger into a position of power in the dog show game.

  On some level, all professional handlers have to be actors. They sell themselves, and they sell their dogs: good dogs, bad dogs, indifferent dogs. Very few handlers can afford to pick and choose among them. Regardless of the quality they have to offer, it’s their job to make the judge believe that whatever they’ve brought into the ring is the best.

  A Poodle with cow hocks? Scissor them out. A faulty topline on a Terrier? Comb the hair to cover the problem. Weak rear end on a Rottweiler? Angle the dog away and showcase the glorious head.

  I had no doubt Kenny knew all those tricks and more. He hoodwinked people for a living. That was his job. Evidently he used the same skills in his private life to cover a multitude of sins.

  “I wanted to come,” I said, stepping forward. “I wanted to meet you.”

  Now I had his full attention. Just as Bertie had said, Kenny liked flattery. “Is that right? You must show dogs, then.”

  “Standard Poodles. I’ve been going to shows for the last two years.”

  I saw his gaze flicker and knew what he was thinking. Neophyte.

  “I read an article about you recently in a new magazine. It was very interesting.”

  “Not that piece in Woof!, I hope?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Kenny’s lip curled. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bertie take a reflexive step back. “It just goes to show you can’t believe everything you read. That whole thing was a pack of lies. A hatchet job. They were out to get me.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said, aiming for an air of innocent curiosity. “Why would they do something like that?”

  “Because that’s what that magazine does. Takes decent people and tries to make them look bad for the sake of sales. It’s all sensational crap, every bit of it. If what they said was true, would I have a place like this?”

  It seemed to me that would depend on how many clients’ credit cards he’d managed to appropriate. I decided not to mention that.

  “I guess you weren’t too upset, then, about what happened to the woman who wrote the article.”

  Kenny shrugged, but his satisfaction was pretty evident. “Hey, what can I say? Sometimes bad things happen to bad people. Lucky for that scandal rag, I guess. Now they’ve got a lead story for their next issue.”

  As we’d been speaking, Bertie had opened a door in the side wall, and peeked into what appeared to be a storage area. Now she turned back to Kenny.

  “I left my things piled in a corner in here, but I don’t see them. Do you know where they went?”

  “Yeah. Out back. The storeroom got too full, and I had Cal move everything out to the garage.” He held out his hands, palms up, expressing his innocence. “If you’d bothered to return my calls and let me know you were coming back for that stuff, I might have waited. As it was, I thought maybe you’d just decided to junk it.”

  “Junk it?” Bertie’s brow lifted. “Custom-built wooden crates and a Speedy hair dryer? I don’t think so.”

  Grumbling under her breath, she headed for the back door, with Kenny striding along behind. I wondered if I should go out the other way and bring the van around so we could load up more easily, but Bertie had the keys and before I thought to ask, she was already outside and crossing the driveway to yet another long, low building.

  The garage had three bays. O
ne door was open; the slot within, empty. The second door was also open, and a gold Lexus was parked inside. The third door was closed.

  Bertie stopped there, waiting for us to catch up. Passing her, Kenny walked into the middle bay and pushed a button. The garage door rose.

  As soon as it was halfway up, Bertie ducked down and scooted beneath it. It was semidark inside the garage, and as my eyes took a moment to adjust, I heard Bertie gasp.

  “You bastard!” She whirled and came striding back out.

  “What?” Kenny sounded puzzled. He and I both looked to find the source of her anger.

  “Look at my stuff!”

  I knew what the equipment Bertie had left behind should have looked like, but it was barely recognizable now. Instead, a mangled assortment of wood and metal littered the garage floor. Shards of polished wood lay scattered over the area; a mesh door balanced on empty hinges. The long nozzle of a free standing blow dryer tilted upward at an odd angle. Its engine lay beneath it, crushed.

  “Uh-oh,” said Kenny.

  I turned and stared. That was the best response he could come up with?

  Bertie fell to her knees beside the hair dryer, trying to dig the machine out of the rubble. It wouldn’t do any good. I could tell from where I was standing that it was never going to work again.

  “Gee, I’m sorry.” Kenny produced a contrite look. “I guess one of the kids must have run over this stuff with the truck. You know how teenagers are—they never look behind when they’re backing up.”

  Bertie glared up at him. “You don’t let the teenagers that work here drive your truck, Kenny.”

  Besides, I thought, the crates had been big, substantial. They wouldn’t have crumpled with the first nudge, and anyone backing into them would have felt the hit. Judging by the extent of the destruction, those crates hadn’t been hit by a car, they’d been demolished by an ax or a sledgehammer.

  “I knew you had problems, Kenny, but I can’t believe you would do something this crazy.” Bertie sounded like she was in shock. She gave up trying to salvage the blower and dragged herself to her feet. “That hair dryer cost five hundred dollars!”

  “So sue me. I told you, it wasn’t my fault. Nobody asked you to leave all your junk lying around here anyway. That’s negligence on your part. Any court would see that.”

  “Come on,” I said to Bertie. “There’s nothing here worth salvaging. I think we’d better go.”

  “In a minute. Let me just look ...” Angrily she leaned down and began to claw through the debris.

  Kenny glanced at me and shook his head, willing me to take his side, to see him as the sane and injured party, burdened with an unbalanced ex-girlfriend and trying to make the best of things. Annoyed, I looked away. His attitude goaded me past the warning Bertie had given earlier.

  “Did you ever meet Sheila Vaughn?” I asked. “You know, the woman who wrote the article about you?”

  “Yes.” His eyes narrowed. “We spoke, briefly. Why?”

  “Did you ever visit her at her house?”

  “I may have. I don’t remember.”

  Right. “She lived fifty miles from here. I would think you’d remember a trip like that.”

  “Fifty miles is nothing,” said Kenny. “I travel around a lot going to shows. I don’t keep track of every trip. What difference does it make, anyway?”

  “I was just remembering that after Sheila was murdered, the state police dusted her house for fingerprints. Maybe you ought to contact them, Kenny. You know, so there won’t be any misunderstandings? I mean, I’m sure everything’s fine ... unless your fingerprints happen to be on file somewhere ...”

  Bertie stood up, grabbed my arm, and wheeled me around. I thought at first she was angry, but then I realized she was struggling to keep a straight face.

  “Are you nuts?” she whispered as we hurried away. “Or just looking to start World War Three?”

  “Come on, he deserved it,” I said, as we strode around the front building and left Kenny behind. “What an imbecile, standing there looking smug while all your stuff was in pieces. I just wanted to tweak him a little. You know, kick his pompous, self-important butt.”

  “You did that all right,” Bertie said, climbing in the front seat of the van. After a minute, she grinned, and added, “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  We didn’t talk much on the way home. Bertie and I both seemed to have plenty to think about. Despite what I’d told Kenny, he probably had nothing to fear from the police. Not unless he had a record for back-country breakins in Westchester County, anyway.

  Bertie delivered me to my door in plenty of time to play with Faith and run some errands before I had to drive the car pool. Because it had been on my mind, I asked her what she would do about the camp bully who’d been taking Davey’s lunch.

  “That’s easy,” Bertie said. “I’d march down to that camp, find out who the little troublemaker was, and beat the ever-loving crap out of him.”

  As solutions went, I wouldn’t put it at the top of my list, but I could see where she was coming from.

  It had just been that kind of day.

  Twenty-one

  “Terry, I need help.”

  It was the next morning and Davey had just left with Alice, who was driving the car pool to camp. That meant it was time to hunt down another suspect, and Alida Trent was the next person I wanted to see. According to Aunt Peg, Crawford was the one to speak to, but with a request like this I knew I’d have better luck going through his assistant, Terry.

  “Darling, what else is new?” He paused to slurp loudly at what I imagined was a cup of coffee. Though it was nearly nine o’clock, Terry is not a morning person. “What is it this time? Another haircut? Makeup tips? Oh wait, I’ve got it. You want some help with your wardrobe.”

  “No, I—wardrobe?” My voice squeaked. Faith glanced up at me from the floor and cocked an ear. “What’s the matter with my wardrobe?”

  “Nothing if you’re aiming for Preppy-of-the-Month. You know, the Post-Deb Meets June Cleaver look.”

  “Bitch,” I muttered.

  “Flatterer,” Terry shot right back. “Whatever you’re looking for, doll, I’ve probably got it.”

  “I never doubted it. Luckily, all I need is an introduction.”

  “Sounds promising. You’re not thinking of stepping out on that hunky fiancé of yours, are you? Good for the goose, good for the gander, that sort of thing? I hear he’s out of town for a few days.”

  It was no use wondering how Terry knew Sam was away. When it came to who was doing what with whom and where, Terry seemed to know almost everything. And speaking of which ...

  “Terry, do you know Kenny Boyle?”

  “Of course. Working dogs—Dobermans, Rottweilers.” His voice dropped an octave. “Manly dogs. I wouldn’t have thought he’d be your type. Is that who you want to meet?”

  “No, actually I met Kenny yesterday. Bertie Kennedy took me up to his place.”

  “Bertie? Word is, she and Kenny are through. In a big way, if you know what I mean. Mention him in her presence and smoke comes out of her ears. She’s been seeing some scrawny new guy with no dogs and a job in the real world.”

  I laughed into the phone. “The new guy is my brother, Frank.”

  “Oops. Scratch the scrawny part. I’m sure he’s stunning, just like you. So what was Bertie doing up at Kenny’s?”

  “She was supposed to be picking up some stuff she’d left behind when she moved out. Except when we got there, it had all been destroyed.”

  “Our boy Kenny has a temper, doesn’t he?”

  Interesting that Terry had leapt immediately to that conclusion. He hadn’t even asked if it might have been an accident.

  “Apparently so. Have you seen it in action on other occasions?”

  Terry paused. I wondered if he was going to pass on something really juicy, but for once, he decided to be circumspect. “Let’s just say I’d rather be around Kenny when he’s win
ning than when he’s losing.”

  The reason for his rectitude became apparent a moment later when I heard someone say something in the background. Terry replied to the other person, then came back to me. “Crawford just walked in. Hang on a sec, okay?” He turned away from the phone, and said, “It’s Melanie. She wants to know about Kenny Boyle.”

  There was more rumbling I couldn’t quite make out, then Crawford’s voice came on the line. “Melanie?”

  “Hi, Crawford,” I said meekly. The handler tends to take a dim view of my investigations into his dog show cronies. And though he’d never said as much, I also suspected he thought I was a bad influence on Terry.

  “Don’t tell me, you’re trying to figure out who killed Sheila Vaughn, right?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “It would take a moron not to see this one coming. Do me a favor, leave Terry out of it. Enemies like Kenny, I don’t need.”

  “Just one question, then. Was Sheila’s article accurate?”

  “What makes you think I read it?”

  I couldn’t see him, but I knew Crawford well enough to know that his eyes were twinkling. “You read it. If you didn’t, Terry told you all about it. Come on, Crawford, give me something.”

  “Sheila was good. Her research and her conclusions were both spot on. Which means exactly that. Kenny did get himself into some trouble last year, but he managed to get out of it, too. Do I think he was angry at Sheila for exposing the whole mess to the world? Yes, I have to think he probably was. That’s as much as I know, okay?”

  “Sure. Thanks. Enough about Kenny. But can you manage one more thing? I want to meet Alida Trent.”

  For a minute, Crawford was silent. Unlike Terry, he never blurted anything out without thinking first. I knew he was turning the request over in his mind and wondering what to make of it.

  “I assume it’s all related,” he said finally. “Where does she fit in?”

  “Sheila was planning an article about her in an upcoming issue of Woof!. I gather Mrs. Trent had threatened to sue.”

  “And in your mind, that makes her a murder suspect?”