A Pedigree to Die For

by Laurien Berenson

  I wrote a note about the call for Aunt Peg and left it along with all the others, then devoted half an hour to feeding the Poodles and getting them all outside. I hated to admit it, but Sam had been right. I was tired.

  Tired enough that as soon as I climbed into bed, I dropped into a fitful sleep. I’d been afraid I’d have nightmares about Tarnower, but his image never appeared once. Instead the man I saw had tousled blond hair and incredibly blue eyes.

  And he wasn’t wearing any jeans.

  Twenty-three

  When Aunt Peg finally returned late Sunday night, I told her what had happened to Randall Tarnower. News travels fast on the dog-show circuit; it turned out she already knew. What she hadn’t known was that I was there, or that Tarnower had tried to reach her on the morning that he died.

  I could see how shocked she was by that information. “I don’t think Max even really knew Randy,” she said. “Oh, they may have chatted occasionally at the shows, but nothing more than that. As to Randy having information for us, I find that hard to believe.”

  “I’m only repeating what he told me.”

  “Which wasn’t nearly enough.” Peg was clearly irritated. “And he never mentioned Beau at all?”

  “No, only Max. I wish you’d been here. Maybe he would have told you what it was about over the phone.”

  “Possibly. Or maybe the only difference would have been that I was the one to get to New Jersey too late. I have to tell you, Melanie, I don’t like the direction things are heading.”

  Well, that was a news flash.

  “Beau may be a valuable dog, but nobody in his right mind could think he’s worth the price of two lives.”

  “My thoughts exactly. So either something else is going on around here . . .”

  “Or we’re dealing with someone who’s crazy.”

  “Or desperate.”

  Just another cheery thought with which to begin the week.

  I moved our things back home Monday morning while Davey was at camp. The Poodles had been plenty of work, but now I was surprised to find that I missed having them around. A memorial service was held for Randall Tarnower at the end of the week in New Jersey. Aunt Peg went. She came back wearing a frown and carrying one of Kim’s newly printed business cards.

  I thought about everyone I’d spoken to so far and realized that one person I’d missed was Tony Wasserman. Now that there’d been two break-ins at Aunt Peg’s, I began to wonder if Tony was any more observant than his wife.

  I dropped Davey at camp and drove over to Greenwich. Most businesses downtown don’t open until nine-thirty or ten. With luck, I’d be early enough to catch him at home. There were two cars parked in the Wassermans’ driveway: the Taurus I’d seen on my first visit and a late model burgundyJaguar sedan. Having met Doris, I could guess which car Tony drove.

  Once again the chimes played through the house. I got to listen to them twice as nobody was in any hurry to open the door. Finally Tony appeared. He drew open the door and stood there staring at me. He was dressed for work in suit pants, a cotton tab-collar shirt, and a multihued Ferragamo tie. One hand held a piece of whole wheat toast; the other, a section of the New York Times.

  “Well?” he said. Definitely not a morning person.

  I began by introducing myself. By the time I finished explaining why I was there, Tony was warming up. I accepted his invitation to come in and soon found myself ensconced at the sunny kitchen table with a tall glass of orange juice. “You don’t know how sorry we were to hear about Max,” Tony said. “He was a fine man.”

  Doris, standing by the counter, dropped a pot and swore under her breath.

  Tony didn’t even glance her way. “I told Peg and I’ll tell you, if there’s anything we can do . . .”

  “Actually there is. I don’t know if Mrs. Wasserman told you, but I was here before.”

  “She might have mentioned something,” Tony said vaguely. I got the impression these two didn’t talk about much.

  “The night my uncle died, one of his Poodles was stolen from the kennel. My aunt would like to get the dog back.”

  “Can’t see why.” Tony’s tone was jovial, but lines tightened on either side of his mouth. “She’s got plenty of others.”

  “The one that was taken was the most valuable and the most important to her.”

  “Like anyone could even tell those dogs apart,” said Doris. “I told you before, we didn’t see anything important.”

  “Sorry,” said Tony. “Wish we could have helped.”

  “Maybe if I reminded you which night it was—”

  Tony shook his head. “If Doris says we didn’t see anything, we didn’t. Believe me, she keeps track of everything.”

  For two people who supposedly wanted to help, the Wassermans were pretty obstinate. I hadn’t wanted to prompt Tony, but it was beginning to look as though I didn’t have a choice. “Doris mentioned that the Poodles were barking a lot that night. They woke the two of you up, and she said she saw a car leaving—”

  “Driving by on the road,” Doris broke in, looking disgusted. “That’s what I said.” She glanced at her husband. “You know the night. It was hot and we had the windows open. Those Poodles were howling for what seemed like hours. You went downstairs to your office.”

  “I guess I did. So what?”

  “Maybe you saw the car too,” I said.

  “Maybe I did.” Tony shrugged. “Seems to me I was staring out the window. We don’t get much traffic around here at that hour of the night. Usually, everyone’s asleep. We would have been to, if it hadn’t been for those damn dogs.”

  “What did the car look like?”

  “It wasn’t anything in particular,” said Tony. “Just some white sedan. It came flying around the corner from Peg’s place going like a bat out of hell.”

  White sedan? Doris had seen a dark station wagon.

  “Are you sure?”

  “What’s to be sure about? Like I said, it was just any old car. A generic sedan. Ford, Chevy, something like that. You know, like the kind of car the rental agencies use. They all look the same.”

  “I believe your wife said she saw a station wagon.”

  Doris was standing at the sink. She had her back to us and didn’t bother to turn around. “So there were two cars,” she said. “Who cares?”

  I care! I wanted to shout. Maybe this makes a difference. Was it possible there’d been two cars at the kennel that night? Or was it just that there’d been two cars on the road? On the other hand, maybe one of the Wassermans was mistaken. If so, neither seemed to care.

  There had to be some way to get past their indifference. I tried appealing to Tony’s chivalrous instincts. “Since that night, there’s been another break-in. My aunt is concerned about security—”

  He snorted under his breath. “I guess maybe she should be. Sounds to me like all those dogs aren’t good for much. If a whole gang of them can’t even keep people out of the house . . .”

  “The Poodles annoy you, don’t they?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  Again, a pan clattered by the sink. The tension in the room was so high even I was beginning to feel jumpy.

  “Look at them,” said Tony. “All that hair going every which way. They’re a joke. And how many does she have over there anyway? Twelve? Fourteen? Who needs that many dogs?”

  “Aunt Peg breeds her Poodles,” I reminded him. “And she exhibits them at shows.”

  “Well, la-di-dah.”

  That editorial comment came from Doris. I swiveled around to face her. Earlier in the year I might have felt the same way. But now I’d been to enough shows to see that beneath the surface glamour there was a great deal of hard work going on. The dogs that won had to be physically fit and mentally sound. Any dog whose structure or temperament wasn’t up to the rigors of life on the circuit got weeded out pretty quickly. It wasn’t a perfect process, but I’d developed respect for the people, and the dogs, that were involved.

  “Hav
e you ever been to a dog show?” I asked.

  “Who me?” Doris laughed. “Not one. Never will either.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s the people,” she said firmly. “They’re not my type.”

  I still had more questions, but the telephone began to ring. Tony immediately stood. Just as quickly Doris said, “Just let it ring. It won’t be anyone important.”

  Tony glared at her before turning to me. “Would you excuse me for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  He left the room with Doris staring after him. She and I both pretended not to notice that there was a wall phone near the door. I sipped my orange juice and waited to see what would happen next. In another part of the house the phone was picked up after the third ring. Doris stood there frowning. Finally she dried her hands on the front of her apron and left the room as well. I guessed I’d been invited to leave.

  When I reached the front hall, they were both coming down the stairs. “It was work, Doris,” Tony was saying. “Now leave it alone.” He saw me and smiled. “Sorry about the interruption. I’ve got to get to the office, but listen, you tell Peg to let us know if she needs anything.”

  Sure, I thought. Right.

  The Volvo started up on the second try, but by the time I’d driven around to Aunt Peg’s the engine was making a plinking noise that couldn’t possibly have been good news. I don’t know a whole lot about engines, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to take a look. I’d lifted up the hood and was wondering what to poke first when a burgundy Jaguar sedan shot past the end of the driveway going like the wind.

  That got my attention fast. Doris had told me that Tony had an insurance agency in town; but downtown Greenwich was the other way. Whatever had Tony speeding through the back country now, it wasn’t a need to get to work. The Volvo could plink until it gave out. I was going to follow.

  The current rage in Greenwich is Range Rovers. Tony’s Jag stood out pretty well, and it wasn’t hard to keep him in sight. Ten minutes after we set out, we crossed the border into New York state. Tony kept right on going. After twenty minutes I was trying to decide how foolish I’d feel if he was on his way to inspect a claim.

  Then his blinker came on, and I eased my foot off the gas pedal. Tony turned down the entrance of a long, wooded driveway. I let his car disappear before driving up closer to read the wrought-iron sign that was hanging at the end.

  Even before I could make out the lettering, I saw the framed silhouette of a Poodle and began to smile. I pulled over to the side of the road and read: BEDFORD FARM, DOGS BOARDED. PROFESSIONAL HANDLING. CRAWFORD LANGLEY, PROP.

  What an interesting destination for a man who didn’t like Poodles or dog shows, a man whose wife claimed that show people weren’t their type. I wondered what Aunt Peg would have to say about that.

  As it turned out, I didn’t have a chance to ask her. She wasn’t home when I called, and then it was time to pick up Davey at camp. By the time we got back, we had a visitor of our own.

  “Uncle Frank!” cried Davey, launching himself out of the car and into my brother’s arms. “What did you bring me?”

  “Davey!” I protested, but Frank was already pulling a plywood airplane out from behind his back and shooting it across the yard. Davey squealed with delight when it crash-landed in the azaleas.

  “Now you try,” said Frank. Davey scrambled after the toy. I unlocked the front door, and my brother and I walked in the house together.

  “What a nice surprise,” I said.

  “I was hoping you’d think so.”

  “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

  “I haven’t told you why I’m here yet.”

  “Oh, Frank.” I grimaced. Why couldn’t we ever just enjoy each other’s company without there always having to be a catch?

  “Hey, it’s not as bad as all that.” He followed me into the kitchen where I unpacked Davey’s backpack, throwing out a soggy, uneaten half sandwich and tossing his wet bathing suit and towel in the dryer. “In fact, you might even be pleased.”

  I sent him a narrowed glanced. “By what?”

  “I’d like to invite you and Davey over to my apartment this afternoon.”

  “That’s sounds nice.” I was still bracing for the worst. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Think of it as a family get-together.”

  “Okay.” I could guess what was coming, but I still had to ask. “Which part of the family?”

  “You and me and Davey . . .”

  “And?”

  “Aunt Rose and her fiancé.”

  “I don’t want to see her.”

  “Mel, come on.”

  I turned and faced Frank squarely. “She and I have nothing to say to each other.”

  “You can’t go blaming Aunt Rose for something that wasn’t her fault,” said Frank. “She didn’t make Dad’s problems, she only told you about them.”

  I’d gotten over the shock and the worst of the hurt, but I still wasn’t ready to forgive. “She used that information like a club, Frank. She wanted to break down the relationship I’d built with Aunt Peg, and she very nearly succeeded. She forced me to choose between them, and I did.”

  “Fine.” Frank walked over to the refrigerator and helped himself to a cold soda. “So now what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s our father’s sister, but you’re mad, so okay. Are you planning never to see her again, or what?”

  “Of course not. . .” I stopped, confused.

  Frank let me think about that for a moment. “This meeting wasn’t my idea,” he said finally. “It was hers. I got the feeling she wanted to call you herself, but she was afraid.”

  Aunt Peg had wanted Frank and called me. Rose wanted me and called Frank. I suppose there was a circuitous logic in that somewhere.

  “Turnbull women aren’t afraid of anything,” I said.

  “Except maybe rejection from someone they really care about.”

  Well, that hit me just about where he figured it would. I pulled in a breath and let out a sigh as Davey came running into the kitchen. Somewhere he’d managed to lose his sneakers, and his new airplane had a bent tail. Neither fact seemed to concern him in the slightest.

  “I want to go to the beach!” he announced.

  “Can’t,” I said, scooping him up. “We’re going to go see Aunt Rose and meet the man she’s going to marry.”

  “Holy cow!” said Davey.

  I couldn’t have put it better myself.

  Twenty-four

  Frank lived on the second floor of a big old Victorian house that had been subdivided into four apartments. The rooms weren’t large, but they were beautifully crafted, with carved moldings, bay windows, and a view of Long Island Sound, only a few blocks away. He paid for part of his rent in cash and the rest in odd jobs: painting, mowing, helping to keep the place up. The owner was an elderly woman who otherwise would have had to hire someone to do the work, so the arrangement suited both of them.

  Aunt Rose and her fiance, Peter Donovan, were already at the apartment when we arrived. I supposed that said something about how certain Frank had been of his persuasive powers.

  Rose performed the introductions, and there was an awkward moment while we all tried to figure out where to sit. Obviously the money my brother saved in rent had not been applied to the purchase of furniture. Davey ended up on a window seat, and Frank on a stool he’d dragged in from the kitchen. Finally we were all settled.

  “Melanie, I want to apologize for my behavior the last time we were together,” Aunt Rose said as soon as we were seated. “I have no excuse except to say that there’s been so much turmoil in my life recently, it’s obvious I wasn’t thinking clearly. I do hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said and got a glare from Frank, which I returned in full measure. Aunt Rose displaying humility? That had to be a first. And knowing our family, there was probably a catch.

  Aunt Rose nodded, not satisfied
but willing to let it go for the moment. “Now the other reason I wanted us to get together today was so that you could have a chance to get to know Peter. He and I are in the process of finalizing our plans. There will be a small wedding ceremony in the chapel at Divine Mercy on September thirtieth. Of course we hope you can all come.”

  “So soon?”

  “Melanie, what possible reason would there be to wait?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that. Since opening my mouth wasn’t helping matters any, I decided to keep it shut for a while. As Frank and Peter began to sound each other out and Davey climbed up into Rose’s lap, I studied the man my aunt had left the convent for. But as soon as the thought presented itself, I knew that Rose would have corrected me. She’d left the convent for herself; Peter was just the icing on the cake.

  He was about her age, give or take a few years, with thinning gray-brown hair that receded sharply at the temples. I wouldn’t have called him handsome, but he had a very comfortable face. When Davey was rude enough to stare openly, he beckoned, then patted his own lap.

  “Come here, son. Why don’t you climb over here and check and see what I’ve got in my pockets?”

  Davey considered the offer. “I’m not your son,” he said finally.

  Peter Donovan smiled. “No, but you’re going to be my nephew.”

  “Do you have kids?”

  “No.”

  Davey inched closer across the space that separated them. “How come?”

  Nothing like four-year-old candor to get right to the heart of the matter. “Davey, Father Donovan . . .” I stopped, looking for guidance. “Mr. Donovan?”

  “Mr. Donovan is fine,” he told me. “Uncle Peter’s even better.”

  “Honey,” I said to Davey. “Uncle Peter was a priest.” I hoped that might put an end to the matter, but of course it didn’t.

  “So why didn’t you have any children?”

  “I had a whole congregation full of them,” Peter said, patting his pockets. “But I wasn’t married, so I couldn’t have any of my own.”

  Davey watched in fascination as Peter withdrew a cherry lollipop from inside his jacket. “But I bet I probably have a pretty good idea of what kids like. Now would you like to have this?”