A Pedigree to Die For

by Laurien Berenson

  She shook her head. “Where does he live?”

  “A one bedroom in Cos Cob. He’s got a yuppie couple upstairs and a garbage man next door. It’s a very democratic building. Frank’s place is a typical bachelor pad—cable TV and nothing in the refrigerator. And there’s no yard for the dogs.”

  “I didn’t get the impression they were invited.”

  I was laughing aloud now. “Did he simply think you’d leave them behind?”

  “I don’t think he thought at all. When I declined the offer, he had the temerity to suggest that perhaps, at my advanced age, I might not know what was best for myself.”

  “I suppose you let him have it with both barrels?”

  “I was tempted.” Aunt Peg grinned. “But he meant well. And besides, if the boy’s a little short on tact, I’m afraid I know which side of the family he gets it from.” She’d finished drying a wide strip up the middle of Lulu’s back and neck. Shifting the puppy around, she went on to topknot and ears. “Now then, tell me what Sam had to say. ”

  Because I knew how badly she wanted details, I glossed over the meeting, offering only highlights. I thought of it as self-defense. If I’d given her the satisfaction of knowing her plan had succeeded, who knew what she might try next?

  I did mention what I’d learned about his having worked in Detroit. Aunt Peg dismissed the information with a wave. I wasn’t that ready to count him out.

  “I wonder where Sam was the evening your house got broken into,” I said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. What on earth could he have been looking for here?”

  “We don’t know, do we? That’s precisely the point. I didn’t mention it to Sam the other night. Now I wish I’d thought to. It would have been interesting to see what kind of a reaction I’d get.”

  “None at all,” Peg said calmly. “Sam knows all about it. I told him myself.”

  “Aunt Peg, you’ve got to stop telling him everything!”

  “How do you expect him to help us if he doesn’t have all the facts?”

  “That’s just it,” I said. “I’m not sure I do.”

  At quarter to one I left Peg to her blow-drying and drove over to Davey’s camp. Emily does her best, and some days pickup goes smoothly; but on others, it’s chaos. Picture fifty campers and as many parents. Fifty backpacks, fifty wet bathing suits . . . well, you begin to get the picture.

  I knew as soon as I arrived that this was not going to be one of the good days. The line of cars stretched all the way down the driveway and out to the street. I pulled out of line, parked over by the curb, and walked in to see what I could do to help.

  “Melanie, thank god!” Emily grabbed me as soon as I came within view. “Have you got a few minutes?”

  “As long as you need.”

  “What I need is twenty extra pairs of hands. Not to mention a bucket of cold cream.”

  “Cold cream?”

  “We were putting on a skit today—you know, the older kids entertaining the younger ones? It seemed like a great idea. The theme was the first Thanksgiving—I know it’s August, don’t even ask. Anyway, all the kids wanted to be Indians. While I was trying to drum up a few more Pilgrims, someone went a little wild with the war paint.”

  “I don’t think the Indians would have worn war paint to Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “Don’t be literal with me, Melanie. I’m warning you.”

  I wanted to laugh but didn’t dare. As the story unfolded, we were hurrying back to the communal locker rooms where the kids stashed their things and grouped before leaving. Inside, it looked even worse than she’d warned. Red grease paint, applied liberally, has a very dramatic effect. The counselors were scrubbing vigorously, faces and walls alike.

  “We were going to just send the kids home with the makeup on,” said Emily. “But then the first two mothers saw their children and began to scream. I guess they thought it was blood. It’s been all downhill from there.”

  I spotted Davey almost immediately. He’d gotten into the paint along with everybody else and seemed delighted by the effect. A mother’s eye told me his yellow shirt would never be the same, and there were streaks of green in his hair. He was playing happily with a blond girl whose name I seemed to remember was Jennifer Reavis. For the time being, I left him where he was and went to work on those who needed me more.

  Within fifteen minutes the chaos had begun to subside. After twenty-five, we were clearly heading toward normalcy. I knew my time was up when Jennifer’s mother appeared. Once his source of entertainment went home, Davey would be ready to do the same.

  Jennifer was one of those pristine little girls to whom dirt doesn’t seem to stick. Nor war paint either, apparently. Her mother had dressed her for camp in pink shorts, a white tee shirt, and white frilly anklets to wear with her sneakers. Amazingly, the entire outfit was still intact. On Davey, everything would have been gray, not to mention streaked with green and red.

  Janet Reavis gazed at our two children with a smile. No doubt she was heaving a mental sigh of relief over which one was hers. Then she came over and introduced herself. “You’re Davey’s mom, right? Jennifer has told me all about you. You’re the one who has the Poodles.”

  “Almost,” I said, knowing Davey had to be the source of the misinformation. Sometimes his stories got a bit carried away. “My aunt is the one who has the Poodles. Standards actually, the big ones.”

  “Perfect,” said Janet. “That’s just what we’re looking for. I hear they’re great dogs. My pediatrician said that even kids with allergies can have them. I’ve been meaning to call you. Do you have time to talk now?”

  I looked around. The room had all but cleared out. “Sure.”

  “Jennifer’s been dying to get a puppy, and I started looking around a couple of weeks ago. I wanted to do it right. You know all that stuffyou hear about how bad it is to buy from a pet store, that you should get your puppy from a breeder? Well, a friend of mine knew about a Poodle breeder who lives up north of here. I called, and he said he did have a litter of puppies, so I made an appointment to go have a look.

  “Jennifer was all excited, and frankly so was I. But after an hour and a half drive, when we got there the man was just leaving. He’d had a fight between two stud dogs and had to rush to the vet. There was nothing for us to do but come back home. Jennifer was crushed. Of course he called back later and apologized, and he’s invited us to come back again, but I’d really rather find something closer if I can.”

  “You should talk to my Aunt Peg,” I said. “I know she had a litter in May. I’m not sure whether all the puppies are spoken for, but even if they are, she could probably refer you to someone else.”

  I found an old shopping list in my purse and wrote Aunt Peg’s name and phone number on the back. As I saw Janet and her daughter out, Emily came walking back in.

  “Just Jennifer and Davey, and then that’s all of them.” She flopped down onto a bench, lay on the hard seat, and closed her eyes. “My god, I thought this morning would never end.”

  “Serves you right, turning kids loose with grease paint like that.”

  “The counselors were supposed to be in charge.”

  “The counselors are fifteen and sixteen. They’re the kids I mean.”

  Emily opened one eye. “Talk about poor judgment. I should be disbarred.”

  “From child care? Don’t bet on it. Nobody else wants the job.”

  “I know.” Emily sighed. “Sad, isn’t it? Even the kids who are working for me just figure they’re passing time and making some money. They all want to grow up to be lawyers or rock stars. Teaching? No way.”

  “We’re a dying breed.”

  “An underpaid, underappreciated, undervalued, dying breed.”

  I sank down beside her. “God, now I’m depressed.”

  “Welcome to the club,” said Emily.

  “Look, Mommy!” cried Davey.

  I turned around to find he’d written his name on the wall. In grease paint. In t
riplicate.

  I searched hard, but finally found a bright side.

  At least he’s not illiterate.

  People who show dogs travel a lot. Every week of the year except Christmas there are dog shows somewhere, usually clustered together in groups of two or more. The northeastern states are a virtual cornucopia of opportunity; and on any given weekend, there are decisions to be made. Where are the best judges? Which shows are most likely to draw the points? What are the facilities like?

  In June and July there’d been lots of shows in Connecticut. Now things were beginning to move a bit farther afield. Aunt Peg thought nothing of driving to Cape Cod or Maryland if the judges suited her. So when she told me she’d entered five days on the Saratoga circuit in northern New York state, I wasn’t terribly surprised.

  “Who takes care of the dogs you leave behind?” I asked.

  “I’m getting to that. In fact that’s why I called.”

  Oh.

  “You see in the past, Max and I have always taken turns. It’s not like I could board them in a kennel. They are a kennel. I guess I could find somebody to come in, but you know it takes time to find just the right person.”

  Why did I suddenly feel the fickle finger of fate pointing my way?

  “So I was wondering if perhaps you could do me this little favor?”

  When Aunt Peg lowered the boom, she didn’t mess around. Nor did she take no for an answer. Which is how Davey and I came to find ourselves living in Greenwich for a week.

  Davey, of course, was delighted by the adventure. Aunt Peg’s house was a child’s delight, filled with nooks and crannies just waiting to be explored. When he had a friend over on Thursday after camp, their game of hide-and-seek lasted most of the afternoon. The fact that the action was supervised by a herd of Standard Poodles only added to the excitement.

  As to the Poodles themselves, they seemed to be faring pretty well. With regard to my contention that I’d never even had one pet much less a dozen, Aunt Peg had left behind copious lists of instructions, complete with diagrams and arrows pasted onto the cupboards. Coat care wasn’t required, thankfully; only feeding, cleaning up, and general in and out.

  In no time at all I had the routine down pat. The Poodles were smart enough to make the adjustment easily. Aside from a constant need for human companionship, they pretty much took care of themselves. After a day or so I’d sorted out the different personalities and found myself growing rather fond of the group.

  None of which I had any intention of telling Aunt Peg. As far as I was concerned, she owed me big time.

  Friday morning I’d dropped Davey at camp and was just returning from a stock-up trip to the supermarket when the telephone rang. I’d been taking messages all week. The pad and pencil were sitting on the counter ready.

  “Hello?” said a voice when I picked up the phone. “Is this Margaret Turnbull?”

  “No, she’s not here. Can I take a message?”

  “It’s very important that I speak with her. Urgent, actually. Do you know where I can reach her?”

  “She’s gone to Saratoga for the weekend—”

  “Damn! I was hoping she’d chosen the New Jersey shows. I need to talk to her about her husband—”

  “What about Max?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Look,” I said quickly. “I’m Margaret Turnbull’s niece. I’m sure I can help you. Who is this I’m talking to, please?”

  I could sense his indecision and sweated out a long moment before he finally said, “My name is Randy Tarnower. I’m—”

  “I know who you are. I’ve seen you at the shows.” To hell with my cover. If Tarnower had information about Max, I wanted to know what it was.

  Then he told me and I nearly fell off my stool.

  “Your uncle,” he said. “I think he was murdered.”

  Twenty-one

  I’d never known before that it was possible to feel both hot and cold at the same time. Simba, sensing my distress, came over and pressed a wet nose into my hand.

  “Hello? Are you there? Maybe I’d better wait for Peg—”

  “No!” I cleared my throat and got the quaver out of my voice. He’d said that his information was urgent. Aunt Peg wouldn’t be back until after the weekend. The earliest I could reach her would be tonight. Even then, she’d be six hours away.

  “Please,” I said, “talk to me. I want to hear about Max’s death.”

  “I don’t want to do this over the phone.”

  “I’ll come to you,” I decided quickly. “Just give me directions.”

  He lived, I discovered, forty miles beyond Newark. Midday, if I didn’t hit traffic on the George Washington Bridge, I could make the trip in an hour and a half. I told him I’d be there as soon as I could and set about making arrangements for Davey. Joey Brickman’s mom, Alice, was home on the first try. She and I have saved each other often enough in the past that she didn’t even ask any questions.

  “Take all the time you need,” she said, probably imagining a midday tryst in the city. “When you get back, you know where he’ll be.”

  That cleared away one problem. Another presented itself as I was rushing around dog-proofing the house before leaving. This time when the phone rang, it was Sam Driver. He’d been trying for Aunt Peg. It took him a startled moment to realize he had me.

  “I’ve been to see Will Perkins,” he said.

  “Good. I’d love to hear all about it. Just not now, okay?”

  “You’re in a hurry?”

  “One foot out the door.”

  “When will you be back?”

  There was just the briefest flash of something—intuition maybe—and I almost asked him to come with me. But I didn’t and then the chance was gone. Instead I told him Peg was away for the whole weekend and that I was off to Randall Tarnower’s and expected to be back by mid-afternoon.

  There was construction on the George—of course I would pick the lower level—so I made up for the time I lost by speeding on the New Jersey Turnpike. Nobody noticed. It’s a road where seventy is considered base speed and eighty is required for passing. By the time I reached Tarnower’s, the Volvo had blown clean all its cylinders and was chugging along nicely.

  His kennel was set in the midst of farm country. Open land, tall corn, and herds of black-and-white cows filled the eye. I felt as though I stepped back a hundred years in time. The impression was reinforced by the small tidy stone house set up close to the road, with neat cream-colored shutters and window boxes filled with impatiens. There was a big red barn out back and an array of large paddocks bounded by dog-proof fencing.

  The whole place looked neat, well kept, and modestly prosperous. Someone here was paying attention to details. It was probably that same skill that had Tarnower’s Poodles winning so much in the ring.

  I knocked on the front door and heard the usual cacophony within. A moment later a slender brunette dressed in cut-offs and a tee shirt drew the door open just a bit. She brushed a fall of long hair back out of her face and wedged herself into the crack so that none of the dogs who crowded behind her legs could escape. I’d seen her at some of the shows, brushing out, spraying up, and ferrying dogs to Tarnower at the ring. The number one assistant.

  “Hi, can I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m here to see Randy Tarnower. He’s expecting ” me.”

  “Sure.” She smiled easily. “Randy’s back in the barn working on his specials dog. I’ll show you the way.” She slithered through the small space and shut the door firmly behind her. “I’m Kim. Sorry, I don’t know your name?”

  “Melanie Travis.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Kim, heading off around the house. “I’m glad you’re here. Randy’s been all over the place today. I mean, he’s usually jazzed before a weekend, but this morning it’s been wild. I got two Toys and a Mini bathed, but then I had to have a break, you know what I mean?”

  I nodded, but it was hardly required. She sim
ply kept talking. “Randy’s a perfectionist. He works himself and everyone else around the clock. And then he has these moods. It can drive you nuts, let me tell you. Before I got here, he went through assistants like crazy.”

  “Is the kennel in the barn?” I asked. That’s the direction we were heading.

  “The barn is the kennel. We converted the whole thing. It’s pretty great. Wait til you see.” Kim, it seemed, was happy to expound on almost any subject. She pulled the door open and we went inside.

  Pretty great was an understatement. Big rooms, lots of light, and what by now I’d come to think of as the usual accompaniment: barking dogs.

  “Randy! Your visitor’s here!”

  There was no response, but Kim didn’t seem to expect one. Somewhere, deep within the barn, music was playing. Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.” We walked through the empty office area into a second room filled with grooming tables and pens. Every available surface held a Poodle, all of them up now and barking at us.

  “Quiet!” Kim yelled in a voice louder than seemed possible from so slender a frame. Miraculously, the noise ceased. “He’s got to be around here somewhere. Probably next door in the grooming room. Come on.”

  The Poodles all eyed me with curiosity. They danced on their tables and hopped up and down in their pens. I was fascinated by the fact that although none were tied, they all stayed where they’d been left. I wondered if Randall Tarnower could be interested in a career in child care, preferably in Fairfield County.

  “Aha!” said Kim, striding through the doorway. “Hey Boom, what’s the matter?”

  I followed her into the next room. It held two bathtubs, four grooming tables, and a whole wall full of supplies. On one of the tables stood a large, very hairy, Standard Poodle. Though the dogs in the first room had been excited by my presence, this Poodle was clearly agitated before we even arrived. He was pacing back and forth on the rubber-topped surface and whining audibly.

  “That’s Boomer, our specials dog,” said Kim. She quickly crossed the room to his side. “What’s the matter, boy? You’re okay.”

  With Kim, like so many of the dog people I’d met, the crooning just seemed to come naturally. Boomer pricked his ears in response but didn’t calm down. When she placed both her hands on his front puffs and pulled forward, he lay down as she’d asked him to. But the moment she released his legs, he sprang back up, still whining.