Doggie Day Care Murder

by Laurien Berenson

  “Speaking of all night,” I said. “What are you doing here? And how did you get in? This building was supposed to be locked.”

  “Candy called me. Since she and I are partners, she felt obliged to tell me that you thought you’d uncovered some irregularities in the company accounting.”

  Cavanaugh gave a dismissive shrug. As if the turn of events that had landed me in this predicament had been just that unremarkable.

  “She told me not to worry. She said you were working late on the problem tonight and that it would all be fixed by tomorrow.”

  Damn, I thought. That woman was dumb as a brick.

  “Candy was just trying to be helpful,” Cavanaugh said with a small smile. “And she was.”

  “To you, maybe.”

  “Ah, but you see, that’s all that matters to me.”

  “Candy probably gave you a spare key, too, didn’t she?” I asked.

  “No, that was actually Steve’s doing. I’ve had one from the beginning. And why not? After all, it was my hard-earned dollars that financed this place.”

  I nodded. Anything to make myself agreeable. “And you expected a reasonable return on your investment.”

  “Of course. Any businessman would. Otherwise, why invest money in the first place? Steve was the one who came to me, you know. He and Candy had what they thought was a great idea. They were sure they could make it work. But the two of them were just about broke. Without my money, Pine Ridge would never have existed.”

  “So you must have been really angry when you found out that Steve was skimming off some of the profits for himself.”

  I trailed my hand aimlessly across the edge of the desk. On the other side of the computer was a paperweight shaped like an old-fashioned dog house, the kind that Snoopy used to sit on, with frame sides and a peaked roof. It didn’t look like much of a weapon but you know what they say . . . any port in a storm.

  “How’d you figure that out, by the way?” I asked.

  “Give me some credit. I’m a businessman. That’s what I do. I may not have been keeping tabs on the day-to-day running of this place, but I sure as hell had my eye on the bottom line. Let’s just say Steve Pine wasn’t as smart as he thought.”

  “In what way?”

  “The business was thriving. Anyone associated with it could see that, and I was here almost every day with Logan. The facility was in good shape and the client roster was growing. So the fact that my share of the profits leveled off, then even began to dip a bit during the second year, came as a bit of a surprise. Funny thing is, if Steve hadn’t gotten so greedy, I might never have noticed. That was his first mistake.”

  No, I thought, Steve’s first mistake had been taking Roger Cavanaugh on as a partner. But I wasn’t about to mention that.

  “I’ve been going through his records,” I said. “From what I could see Steve wasn’t taking out a huge amount of money.”

  “I guess that depends on your perspective. Maybe if the money had belonged to you, it would seem like more. A couple thousand here, a couple thousand there . . . over time those amounts add up.”

  Cavanaugh eyed the envelope on the desk. As he spoke, he took a step or two toward it. It was as if the mere mention of the money he thought it held was luring him closer.

  Me, I was watching the door. Because when it came to shooting someone, I figured a moving target had to be harder to hit than a stationary one. And as soon as Cavanaugh gave me enough of an opening, that was what I planned to be doing—moving as fast as my feet would go.

  “Here’s what you need to understand,” said Cavanaugh. “Steve Pine was stealing from me and it had to stop.”

  “So you killed him,” I said.

  “Not on purpose.”

  He didn’t sound contrite. More matter-of-fact. Like he’d merely performed a service that had to be done. Cavanaugh tore his eyes away from the envelope and looked up at my face.

  I used the opportunity to quickly palm the paperweight. Its heft and its sharp edges felt good in my hand.

  “I’m not a monster,” he said.

  “No, just a murderer.” My gaze dropped. “And a man who feels comfortable holding a gun on someone else.”

  “It wasn’t like that. You weren’t there. You couldn’t possibly know what happened.”

  No, but I was pretty sure he was going to tell me. It seems that confession really must be good for the soul, because most of the criminals I’ve run across have felt the need to unburden themselves. As if coming up with a good excuse can make everything all right.

  “I only came here that night to talk to Steve. I intended to threaten him into changing his ways. That’s all.”

  “And yet you brought a gun with you.”

  Cavanaugh spread his hands. “Call me a realist. It wouldn’t have been much of a threat without one, would it?”

  I nodded as if conceding the point. The more he was thinking about how to explain what he had done, the less attention he was paying to me.

  “Steve Pine was an idiot. Somehow he’d gotten things all turned around in his mind. In the beginning, he couldn’t have been happier to take me on as a partner. To help him make his dream come true.”

  Cavanaugh grimaced at the trite phrase. “But as time went on he began to resent the fact that I was due a bigger share of the profits than he was. Steve convinced himself that the distribution of funds wasn’t fair. Especially when he was here every day working his butt off and I wasn’t.”

  “I’m guessing he didn’t respond well to your threats,” I said.

  “He told me to go fuck myself.”

  “Brave language from a man facing a gun.”

  “That’s what I thought. But Steve just laughed. He said he knew I wouldn’t use it. And you know what? He was right. I wouldn’t have used the gun. That’s not who I am. Jesus, look at me. I drive a Hummer. I wear suits to work every day.” His voice rose. “That wasn’t how I was going to settle things. I would have sued the bastard. I would have taken him to court.”

  “So what went wrong?” I asked.

  I really wanted to know. Maybe that meant I was buying into Cavanaugh’s story, but now I wanted to know how it ended. The man had brought a gun to a business meeting, but he’d intended to walk away when it was over. And yet somehow Steve Pine had ended up dead.

  “He jumped me and tried to wrestle the gun away,” said Cavanaugh. “Like he’d been watching too many action movies and he thought he was Rambo or something. Of course I fought back. That’s just instinct. No way I was going to give up the gun.”

  “You’re saying it was an accident that Steve got shot?”

  “Of course it was an accident. How else could it have happened? We both had our hands on the gun when it went off. I don’t even know who pulled the trigger. I’m just lucky it was pointing away from me when it fired.”

  The I’m-just-lucky-it-wasn’t-me defense. I wasn’t sure it was entirely creditable. Still I was willing to accept it, even if the police most likely wouldn’t, because I had a different stake in the outcome.

  As long as Cavanaugh believed that he wasn’t a killer, that Steve’s death had merely been a tragic and unavoidable accident, maybe there was a glimmer of hope that we could both walk out of this room alive.

  “You should have called the police,” I said.

  “I panicked. And then it was too late.”

  “You’ll have to talk to them now.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The four short words, spoken so calmly, sent a chill racing up my spine. The hairs on the back of my neck lifted.

  “See, the problem is, things have changed. What happened to Steve was an accident. But running made me look guilty. I know that. And the police . . . they’re never going to believe me now. And I can’t afford to take that chance.”

  He gazed at me with what looked like genuine regret. “I’m not the kind of guy who would do well in jail. You know what I mean?”

  Cavanaugh asked the question as if it
were a perfectly reasonable query. And I supposed to him it was. Unfortunately, the answer it led to was going to get me killed.

  “So now what?” I asked.

  Hand resting lightly behind my back, I squeezed the paperweight between my fingers, then released. Under other circumstances, I could see how that might reduce stress. But right now, what it did was keep me grounded. And offer the slightest possibility that I still had a chance.

  “I’m sorry,” said Cavanaugh, “but you’re going to have to die too.”

  27

  He wasn’t half as sorry as I was, I thought.

  “Don’t worry,” Cavanaugh continued calmly. “This time I have a plan. I’ll mess up the place so it looks like a robbery, jimmy the lock on the back door, and take a few things with me when I go. Then tomorrow I’ll play the concerned partner. Two break-ins in less than a month? That can’t be good for business. I’ll tell Candy she’d better see about adding a security system.”

  It couldn’t be just that simple, I thought. At least I hoped it couldn’t. “Speaking of Candy—she knows she told you I was here. What if she guesses the truth?”

  “She won’t. Candy’s not the type to think things through. Or to go looking for trouble.”

  Cavanaugh waved a hand dismissively. Again the one holding the gun. I was beginning to suspect he had little more experience with firearms than I did. Certainly he’d never taken a course in gun safety.

  “And if Candy does think about stirring things up, I’ll threaten to pull my money out of the business. Pine Ridge is all she has left. She’d never let that happen.”

  Clearly Cavanaugh enjoyed making threats. I could only hope that he possessed more bluster than follow-through. Because holding a paperweight opposite his gun, I felt like David facing Goliath.

  “I guess you have it all figured out,” I said. “Well . . . except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  I nodded toward the envelope. “There’s no money in there.”

  “Sure there is.”

  I shrugged. Not my problem. Cavanaugh’s eyes narrowed.

  “What are you talking about? Why else would Steve have bothered to hide it away like that?”

  I didn’t answer his question. Instead, I moved away from the desk. It probably looked to Cavanaugh like I was granting him access to the envelope. With luck he wouldn’t realize that I was also giving myself an easier line to the door.

  “See for yourself,” I invited.

  He reached the desk in three quick strides. Cavanaugh might have been a good businessman, but he wasn’t a very good assailant. Probably too much Hummer driving and suit wearing—the man was entirely too civilized to be carrying a gun. And he had no idea how to accord his weapon the respect it was due.

  Reaching eagerly for the envelope with his right hand, he switched the gun to his left. If he was ambidextrous, I was dead. But I was betting he was merely arrogant—and flushed with the feeling of importance that the weapon gave him.

  He didn’t even think about what he was doing, and his carelessness granted me the opening I needed. Lifting my arm, I let fly with the paperweight.

  It sailed through the air and hit Cavanaugh square on the side of the head. He lurched sideways with the impact. The blow wasn’t hard enough to stun him, but it did knock him to his knees.

  In a flash I was past him. By the time he’d regained his feet, shaking his head and swearing loudly, I was already across the office and shooting through the doorway into the darkened hall.

  Both directions led quickly to another closed door. The one on the right put me in the reception area. On the left, the door led outside to the walkway that went to the Dog House.

  There was no time for conscious thought. All I knew was that I wanted OUT. Left it was.

  “Come back here!” Cavanaugh roared.

  Like that was happening.

  Racing down the hallway, I heard a muffled explosion behind me. A bullet smacked into the wall opposite the open doorway. Cavanaugh swore with frustration.

  Panicked, fueled by adrenalin, I was running so hard that I ran right into the door at the end of the hall. The blow hurt, but it was a good pain. It let me know that I was still alive.

  My fingers fumbled for the doorknob. I found it, turned it quickly, and yanked hard.

  Nothing happened. The lock—the same one that had done nothing to keep Cavanaugh out—was engaged.

  Somewhere behind me, I could hear him coming. The sound of his breathing seemed to fill my ears. Or maybe it was my own.

  My fingers worked feverishly. The deadbolt slid open. I pulled on the door again and felt cool air on my face.

  As I gave one last quick glance back, Cavanaugh appeared in the office doorway. One hand leaned against the frame for support; he used the other to raise the gun and aim. In the dim light, the barrel looked enormous.

  I wanted to move. Every instinct told me to flee. But like every bad dream I’d ever had, for a second I was frozen in place.

  Cavanaugh fired again. I saw his hand jerk back from the recoil and heard the sound simultaneously. The bullet plowed into the door panel beside my cheek.

  Wood splintered and flew, and I shut my eyes reflexively. That was enough to break the immobilizing spell. I slipped through the narrow opening, slammed the door shut behind me, and stumbled down the two steps to the ground.

  Immediately, there were more choices.

  My car was out in front of the building, but my keys were in my purse, which was still on the floor in Steve’s office. Ditto my cell phone.

  It was lighter outside than it had been within the building: dusk rather than dark. I could run, but Cavanaugh would see me. Could I outrun him? Still carting my new-mommy flab, I didn’t think so.

  Plus, of course, he had the gun.

  I heard him on the other side of the door. Three feet away, with only a narrow panel of wood separating us. In another few seconds he’d be right behind me.

  Now what? The words screamed in my brain. Now what?

  The Dog House was at the other end of the walkway. But the building would be locked; it had to be. Then my eyes fastened on the doggie door and I felt a ray of hope.

  Strictly decorative, Steve had said, but the opening looked big enough for a small person. Could I wriggle through?

  Cavanaugh had had a key to the front building; but there wouldn’t have been any reason to give him access to the Dog House, would there? As long as both buildings didn’t work off the same lock, this might work.

  Choices rapidly dwindling, I turned and ran.

  The Dog House could offer a hiding place, and even more important, a phone to call for help. At this point, I’d take whatever I could get.

  Reaching the end of the walkway, I dove for the small, swinging flap. Thankfully, it wasn’t barred.

  My shoulders were a tight fit. I could feel my skin scrape and tear as I jerked them through the opening. Then I braced my hands on the linoleum floor and pulled. My torso slipped inside, followed by my legs and feet.

  Quickly I reached around, grasped the swinging door, and pushed it shut. Pushed it still. And hoped the movement had gone unnoticed in the half-light.

  My heart was pounding so hard it was difficult to concentrate on anything else. I drew in one deep, calming breath, then another. They didn’t help.

  So I swiveled around on the floor, pressed myself up against the inside of the door, and took a minute to just listen.

  Cavanaugh was outside now. I could hear his heavy tread on the gravel path. What I couldn’t tell was which way he was going.

  Then the footsteps stopped.

  “Listen Melanie,” he called into the gathering dusk. “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot . . .”

  I snorted under my breath incredulously. Ya think?

  “Look, I’m sorry. Okay? Things just got out of hand in there. I know I made a mistake. Come on out and let’s talk. I’m sure we can figure out a solution.”

  When hell froze over,
I thought.

  But the offer of amnesty was a good sign. It meant he was unsure. He didn’t know where I’d gone.

  I inched over to the window beside the door, cautiously raised myself up and had a look. Then quickly ducked back down as the beam from a flashlight played across the front of the building and reflected off the glass.

  Damn, where had he gotten that from? Was that why he’d taken an extra half minute in the office? Too bad for me Cavanaugh was turning out to be a pretty resourceful guy.

  “Come on, Melanie.” His tone was wheedling now. “There’s no reason we need to be enemies. Let’s try to work together on this.”

  Work together on what? I wondered. Covering up one murder or committing another one? Was the man even listening to what he was saying?

  I needed to get moving. I had to find a phone. I didn’t remember seeing one on my earlier visits, but I hadn’t been looking either. Surely there had to be one somewhere in the building.

  Unwilling to stand up and risk being seen through the windows, I began to slither along the linoleum floor. Dog hair wafted up from the baseboards and tickled my nose. I held my breath so I wouldn’t sneeze. Then my hand came down on a sticky spot that bore the distinct odor of old urine. That was just gross.

  If I lived long enough to yell at Candy, I was definitely going to throw in a few words about cleanliness.

  Cavanaugh had stopped talking now. I didn’t hear him moving around either. I hoped he’d gone looking for me in the other direction, but I wasn’t about to count on it.

  Then suddenly, unexpectedly, the floor around me lit up. Cavanaugh had pressed the flashlight to the front window; the beam played quickly up and down the hallway. I ducked and rolled to one side, pressing myself into the shadow of the wall. Heart thumping, I hoped I’d been fast enough.

  I wasn’t.

  Because within seconds, I heard the scrape of Cavanaugh’s key in the lock. The bolt slid open. Damn, I just couldn’t catch a break.

  So I stood up and ran again. It was the only thing left to do.

  I heard the door open. There was a small click and the overhead lights came on.