A Pedigree to Die For

by Laurien Berenson

  Only a moment later the door to the building was yanked open, and Jack emerged. He was carrying a powerful, high-beam flashlight in one hand and something small and shiny in the other. It took me a moment to figure out what it was, or maybe my brain simply didn’t want to process the thought. Finally it did.

  Jack Berglund had a gun. Oh great.

  Thirty

  He gazed out over the yard and for a moment seemed to look right at me. Hurriedly I dropped from knees to stomach and took in a mouthful of dirt for my trouble. Jack swept the beam around the area at waist height, and it passed harmlessly over my head. Apparently he was satisfied by what he saw, for he turned back to the kennel and switched off the inside lights, then strode back across the lawn to the house.

  Lots of people keep guns for protection these days, I told myself. It didn’t mean he’d be willing to use it. And over a dog? Get real. No doubt the gun was a scare tactic. All right, so I was scared. But I wasn’t about to give up.

  I gave him two minutes. This time I knew what to expect and had almost made it back to the trees by the time the rock hit the roof and started the dogs off again. This time I could almost smile as he came flying out the back door at a dead run.

  The second time around, his inspection was much quicker; and on the third, when the Poodles began to howl, he simply stuck his head out the back door and bellowed “Shut up!” in their general direction. That was the response I’d been waiting for. One problem down and one to go.

  You’d think it might have occurred to me that the back door to the kennel would be locked, which it was, quite securely. The front door was open. I knew that for a fact because Berglund had been in and out twice in the last fifteen minutes and I hadn’t seen him stop to fumble with any keys. But it also faced the house squarely; and with the floodlights still on and doing their job, I couldn’t chance using it.

  Then I remembered Beau’s innovative thief, who’d gone over the chain-link fence and in through one of the swinging doors. If he could manage it, so could I.

  By the time I’d reached the top of the fence and swung over, I’d pinched all of my fingers and most of my toes and was beginning to take a rather dim view of this rescue operation. And where the hell was Aunt Peg anyway? She should have been there with reinforcements ages ago.

  I was pleased to discover that my trick with the rocks had paid off handsomely. By the time I arrived in their midst, the Poodles were all barked out. We’d met before anyway, and now they greeted me like an old friend. Even the old matron into whose pen I climbed seemed glad of the company. As I wriggled in through the narrow door, she took the opportunity to clean my face which, considering how much dirt it had been exposed to lately, wasn’t an entirely unwelcome gesture.

  I let myself out of the pen and felt my way around the room, going from stall to stall and calling out Beau’s name softly as I passed each one. Down the first side, I got no response. Ears pricked in curiosity, but no Poodle leaped up and threw himself into my arms, demanding immediate rescue. Maybe I’d been a fool to think that he would.

  Then I hit the jackpot. With an excited whine, a big black Poodle bounded up in the air. Balancing his front paws on the top of the gate, he danced up and down on his hind. “Beau?” I said again, this time louder. “Is that really you?”

  His tail wagged in affirmation.

  My God, I thought. I’d actually done it. Now all we had to do was get out of there.

  That was when the lights came on.

  “This is getting to be a habit,” Jack said from behind me. “And not a pleasant one at that.”

  There’s no doubt that I was as frightened at that moment as I’ve ever been in my life. As I turned to face him, the first thing I noticed was that he hadn’t forgotten his gun. I strained my ears, listening for the sound of oncoming sirens, but the night outside was quiet.

  “Please explain what you are doing in my kennel.”

  There wasn’t much point in lying. Bravado wasn’t my first choice, but my options seemed to be rapidly dwindling. “I’ve come for the dog.”

  “Really?” Jack looked around. “Which one?”

  “I’m sure you know the answer to that.” My hand strayed back to the latch on Beau’s gate. When I flipped it open, he bounded out into the room. “This dog doesn’t belong to your neighbors. He’s the Poodle you stole from Max and Margaret Turnbull.”

  Jack leaned back against the doorjamb. Though he was blocking the only way out, he must have decided I wasn’t much of a threat because he slipped the gun into the waistband of his pants.

  “I haven’t stolen anything,” he said calmly.

  I gave him the look that comment deserved. “Then why were you planning to send him away?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Fine. Then you can tell your reasons to the police. They’ll be here shortly.”

  “The police? I thought you worked for the A.K.C.”

  Why would he think that? Something was definitely wrong. Jack should have been sweating, but he wasn’t. In fact he hardly seemed perturbed at all.

  “The police won’t find anything but a kennel full of black dogs that all look alike. Besides, no crime has been committed, except perhaps your own trespassing.”

  “Oh no?” I cried. “What about grand larceny? Or maybe even murder. I’m sure the authorities will have plenty of questions for you to answer.”

  “Murder?” I’d gotten his attention all right, but now Jack looked perplexed. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Max Turnbull. The man you stole Beau from. The man you left lying on a cold kennel floor to die.”

  “That’s absurd. You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about—”

  I might have debated the question, but it wasn’t necessary. Finally I heard the far-off sound of gravel crunching. Headlights swept across the lawn. Jack turned to look, and in that moment of inattention, I grabbed Beau and the two of us scrambled past him out of the kennel.

  We’d crossed the yard and rounded the house before it occurred to me that we might be running straight into the arms of Jack’s friend. Then I saw the brace of lights on top of the police cruiser. Relief turned my knees to rubber. As doors began to open and people emerge, I sank down slowly into the soft grass. Unfortunately for Beau, I was still holding his collar. The two of us went down together.

  “Melanie?” called a familiar voice. “Is that you?”

  I started to rise, but Beau was quicker. With a whine that started deep in his throat, he leapt up in the air, tossing me aside like a bag of old kibble. I recovered in time to see him go tearing across the driveway and straight into Aunt Peg’s arms.

  She bent low to greet him, and he all but knocked her over. Beau, who was growling and whimpering at the same time, climbed up and down every inch of her, lapping the tears from her cheeks.

  Two stern-looking policemen stood beside their squad car and watched the scene with varying amounts of skepticism. Finally one, whose name tag identified him as Officer Denny, moved over into the beam provided by the headlights and began to take notes.

  “Is this the dog you told us about?” he asked.

  Aunt Peg was clearly in no shape to answer questions, so I did. “Yes, it is. That’s her Poodle, Beau. Jack Berglund, who lives in this house, stole him from her three months ago.”

  Officer Denny looked me over from head to foot, taking in everything from the ripped blouse to the mud that still clung to my clothes in patches. Evidently I didn’t suit his idea of a star witness. He sighed as he said, “I take it you’re the niece?”

  “Yes.”

  Aunt Peg tore herself away from Beau long enough to perform the introductions. I shook hands solemnly with Officers Denny and Mosconi, but they were not appeased. Some reinforcements. I felt like Custer, longing for a second cavalry, only to discover that more Indians had arrived instead.

  “We’ve heard one side,” said Officer Denny, tucking his pad away. “We m
ay as well hear the other. Let’s go find Mr. Berglund and see what he has to say.”

  Together we all trooped back to the kennel, Aunt Peg and I trotting along behind like first graders on a school outing. “Where’d you get these two?” I asked her under my breath.

  “They were the best I could do,” she whispered back. “They didn’t want to come at all. Finally I told them you were in dire danger and kicked up such a fuss that the sergeant made them. That’s what took so long.”

  Jack Berglund greeted us at the kennel door with a convincing mixture of bewilderment and righteous indignation. Gratefully, the two policemen settled upon him as the only rational person they had encountered thus far, and I could see our case unraveling before our very eyes.

  “This is all a misunderstanding,” Jack told them smoothly. “I’m terribly sorry you gentlemen had to come all the way out here at this time of night for nothing.”

  “Nothing? Why don’t we start with the stolen dog? And by the way,” I told the officers, “he has a gun.”

  “A gun that I have a permit for,” said Jack. He pulled open a drawer and indicated the stashed weapon, then took out his wallet and handed over the permit. “The Poodles alerted me to the presence of a prowler on the property. I was merely taking sensible precautions.”

  Score another for his side, if the look on the officers’ faces was anything to go by.

  “As to the dog, I’m afraid I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. There are no stolen Poodles here.”

  The two officers conferred quietly. Things were not going well. I looked to Aunt Peg for help, but she was still engrossed with Beau, as though seeing him again was the only thing in the world that mattered.

  “Look at them,” I said. “Can’t you see that the Poodle is hers?”

  “So he’s a friendly dog,” said Jack. “So what?” He chuckled smugly, and I glared in his direction.

  “Look, Mrs. Turnbull,” said Officer Mosconi. “You told us there was solid proof that the dog belonged to you. Now if you’ve dragged us all the way up here just to watch a scene out of Lassie, I’m not going to be pleased. Do you have the proof or don’t you?”

  Aunt Peg, as always, rose to the occasion. “Gentlemen,” she said grandly, “if you will follow me.”

  We did, and she led us to the grooming area on the other side of the room. Beau trotted along happily in Aunt Peg’s wake. Anybody could tell just by watching that Beau was Aunt Peg’s dog. The look on her face was proof enough for me. The long arm of the law, however, wanted more.

  Aunt Peg hopped Beau up onto the grooming table, then gestured for all of us to gather around. She reached into her purse and withdrew a gadget that looked like a small dustbuster with a digital read-out screen near the handle. Beside me, Jack drew in a sharp breath. He knew what she was up to, I realized. I still hadn’t a clue.

  “This is a scanner,” said Aunt Peg. She laid Beau down facing away from us. “All of my dogs have been fitted with microchips for the purposes of positive identification.” She passed the scanner over the top of Beau’s shoulders, and an eleven-digit number appeared on the screen. Officer Denny copied it down on his pad.

  “This number is registered with a national recovery service, Find-A-Chip, in Easton, PA. It identifies this dog as Champion Cedar Crest Chantain and me, Margaret Turnbull, as his owner. They maintain a twenty-four hour toll-free number in case of emergencies. If any doubt remains, I suggest we go inside and give them a call.”

  I could have kissed her, but of course I didn’t. Instead I settled for a wide grin.

  Jack was shaking his head vigorously; but at last Aunt Peg and I had the police on our side. “What do you have to say to that?” asked Officer Mosconi.

  “You’ve got this all wrong. Maybe the dog was hers, but I didn’t steal him. And I don’t know anything about Max Turnbull’s death.”

  “If you didn’t take the dog,” I asked, “where did you get him from?”

  “I bought him.”

  Sure, I thought. This was almost fun. “From whom?”

  Jack waited a beat until he was sure he had everyone’s full attention. “I bought him from Max Turnbull,” he said. “And I have a bill of sale to prove it.”

  Thirty-one

  He was bluffing, he had to be.

  I looked to Aunt Peg for confirmation and saw that her skin was ashen, her mouth slack. She’d sagged back against the grooming table and wouldn’t meet my eye. In the wake of that bombshell, she had nothing to say. Jack, however, was talking plenty.

  “Max contacted me,” he said, folding his arms over his chest calmly. “He told me that Beau was for sale. Of course I was interested, just as he knew I’d be.”

  “Why did you come for the dog in the middle of the night?” I asked.

  “That was his idea, not mine. He said that Peg would never agree to the sale; that he wasn’t planning to tell her. I guess he’d made up some story to explain the dog’s disappearance. I don’t know what it was, and I didn’t ask.”

  To say I was unconvinced by Jack’s version of the facts was an understatement. The two policemen were listening; no doubt hoping to hear something conclusive one way or the other. Aunt Peg, who should have been protesting vigorously, was still curiously silent.

  Officer Denny had his notepad back out. “If there’s a bill of sale that backs up what you’ve told us, I’d like to see it.”

  He wasn’t the only one. I hoped that the prospect of producing hard evidence would make Jack back down, but it didn’t. Instead he took us up to the house. He and the two officers walked ahead. Aunt Peg, Beau, and I brought up the rear. Her fingers were tangled in the Poodle’s topknot, and the grim look on her face precluded conversation.

  That left me to my own thoughts, and they weren’t pleasant. Aunt Peg should have been blasting Jack Berglund right out of the water. So why was I the only one objecting to everything that he said? Was it possible that I’d devoted three months to looking for a dog that wasn’t really stolen? Had Aunt Peg finally recovered Beau only to face losing him again? Maybe she was in shock; maybe she was in denial. Whatever it was, I hoped she snapped out of it soon.

  Jack led us straight to the library where he unlocked a lower drawer on his desk. There was none of the fumbling for records I’d seen on my earlier visit. Whatever he intended to produce, Jack knew exactly where it was.

  He passed the paper to the policemen first. They read it and handed it to Aunt Peg. I read over her shoulder. It was a bill of sale, all right. It was dated May twenty-eighth, the night that Uncle Max died.

  Aunt Peg glanced at the paper for only a few seconds before letting it drop from her fingers. Go on, I thought, tell them it’s a scam, a forgery. Jump up and down. Cry foul. Make a scene.

  Aunt Peg did none of the above.

  “Is that your husband’s signature, Mrs. Turnbull?” Officer Mosconi asked.

  She nodded, and I exploded.

  “It’s not!” I cried. “It can’t be.”

  “It is, Melanie,” Peg said quietly.

  “But how? Why? It makes no sense. You and Uncle Max loved Beau. There would have been no reason for Max to sell him, especially not to someone like Jack Berglund.”

  “People have been known to do all sorts of things for money,” said Officer Denny.

  Aunt Peg shook her head. Her eyes were glassy with disbelief. “It wasn’t the money. Max would never have parted with Beau for money.”

  “Oh no?”Jack snatched up the bill of sale and waved it triumphantly, and I wanted to slug him.

  Fortunately I didn’t have to. Aunt Peg drew in a deep breath, and I could see her hardening her resolve. Clearly she was struggling with a set of facts she could scarcely believe; but just as clearly, she was finally ready to fight back.

  “There isn’t enough money in the world to make Max do business with someone like you.” Peg took several steps forward, crowding Jack back against the edge of his desk. “Max never forgot what you did to his brother, and
he never forgave you either. If he sold Beau to you, there could be only one reason. He intended to ruin you.”

  “Ruin me?” Jack frowned. “That’s ridiculous. He couldn’t turn me into the A.K.C. without turning in himself. He knew how the dog was going to be used, he had to have known. In the eyes of the A.K.C., he’d be just as guilty as me.”

  “The American Kennel Club had nothing to do with what Max must have planned for you,” Peg said grimly. “What you don’t know—what nobody knows—is that Max and I had punch skin biopsies done on all our Poodles last spring. All the dogs passed but one.”

  There was absolute silence in the room as Aunt Peg delivered the coup de grâce, “Beau has SA, Jack. He can never be bred again.”

  Thank God there was a couch behind me; otherwise I’d have ended up on the floor. Above me, everyone was talking at once. Jack was insisting that Peg had to be wrong, the two officers were clamoring for an explanation.

  I remembered what Aunt Peg had told me about the disease, months ago when Sam Driver had brought up the subject of genetic testing. Any dog affected with sebaceous adenitis would require careful management in order not to develop skin problems. All of his progeny stood a chance of having the disease and were, at the very least, carriers. Once a dog was diagnosed with SA, he had to be totally eliminated from a breeding program. Any ethical breeder would do so immediately.

  No wonder Aunt Peg had been frantic to get Beau back. But why hadn’t she trusted me enough to tell me the truth? And what about the other Standard Poodle breeders who’d already bred their bitches to Beau? In light of this information, all of the puppies produced would need to be tested. If introducing Beau’s genes to the Shalimar line could have ruined it, what did that say for the state of Cedar Crest?

  Damn Aunt Peg and her judicious omissions!

  I glanced up and found her watching me. She looked worried. Well, she ought to be, because she had a lot of explaining to do.

  “You weren’t planning to admit it, were you?” I asked quietly.

  “Of course I was. Eventually.”