“What? When?”
“Last night, I think. I don’t know all the details. Bree talked to someone at the Whinery, who talked to someone in the post office, who talked to someone sitting in the ER yesterday. I’m trying to figure out exactly what happened, but in the meantime, someone has to take care of these dogs.”
Rachel pursed her lips. “Why does that someone have to be you?”
“Well.” Jocelyn blinked. “Who else would it be?”
Her mother kept staring at her.
“They know me. I feed them, I walk them, I know everybody’s favorite toys and who takes what medication and why. I know all the rules and routines for Hester here, who’s going to have puppies any day now, by the way. I love them.”
“What about that other lady?” her mother challenged. “The dog trainer?”
“Lois,” Jocelyn said. “I’ll try to get hold of her, but she’s not local. She only comes in once a week or so. And in the meantime, Mr. Allardyce trusts me to take good care of them.”
“The man treated you like crap, Joss. You don’t owe him anything, living or dead.”
“I’m not doing this for him. I’m doing it for them.” She nodded to the dogs, who were now chasing one another around the coffee table.
“If you care about them so much, take them back to their house where they have all their food and toys”—Rachel took a moment to cough pointedly—“and room to run, and let them stay there until someone else comes for them.”
“Mom,” Jocelyn pleaded. “Have a heart.”
“I do have a heart. And it’s been taken advantage of too many times by selfish men who only care about their own needs while they take advantage of other people.” Rachel stared her down.
Jocelyn threw up her hands. “What am I supposed to do with these dogs tonight?”
“Whatever you want, but they can’t stay here. If you’re too intimidated to overstep some imaginary social boundary with a dead man who never respected you, then you’ll have to figure out something else.”
* * *
• • •
“Brutal.” Bree shook her head as she and Jocelyn stepped into the country club reception room, which had been draped with somber black bunting for the memorial service. “Your mom really has a way with words.” She adjusted the silver pin adorning her black scarf. “Where did the dogs end up?”
“I took them back to Mr. Allardyce’s house. I had to—there was nowhere else I could stash three Labrador retrievers.”
“Are you staying there, too?”
“No. It’s not my house and I’m not sure what happens to it now that Mr. Allardyce died. The last thing I need is to be charged with breaking and entering.” Jocelyn took tiny steps on her high-heeled black sandals. She’d bought them on clearance two summers ago, and although they looked cute, they were poorly constructed. She could feel a pair of blisters forming on her heels already. “I’ve been going over there every few hours to check on them. It’s a logistical nightmare.”
Bree surveyed the crowd, then nudged Jocelyn and murmured, “Check it out. Three o’clock. Right next to the shrimp at the buffet table.”
Jocelyn pretended to be searching the room for someone she knew. When she got to the shrimp station, her eyes widened.
“That’s the guy,” she whispered to Bree. “The guy with the boat shoes.”
“That’s Boat Shoes?” Bree hustled Jocelyn into a quiet corner. “He’s kind of hot.”
“Hot is as hot does,” Jocelyn informed her. “And the way he was acting was not hot.”
“Well, I just heard a juicy rumor about him.”
“You did?” Jocelyn frowned. “When?”
“When I was waiting for the ladies’ room five minutes ago,” Bree said as though this should have been obvious. “Allegedly, he was with Mr. Allardyce when he died. They were having dinner at the Shore Club and they were arguing, and halfway through the appetizer, Mr. Allardyce keeled over.”
Jocelyn gasped. “No!”
“That’s what I heard,” Bree insisted. “The whole powder room is scandalized.”
Jocelyn put her hand on her hip. “How is it that I’ve been in and out of the deceased’s house like ten times in the past two days, but everybody else knows more about his personal life than I do? Speaking of which . . .” She checked the time on her cell phone. “I have to go let the dogs out for their run soon. Is it terrible if I slip out of here early?”
Bree brightened as she caught sight of an open bar across the room. “It’s not like you’re going to offend Mr. Allardyce. But you might as well hang out a while and have a drink on his dime.”
Jocelyn glanced around at the crowd, many of whom were seasonal residents. Someone had orchestrated this whole event, from the bowtied bartenders to the vases of white lilies to the tasteful classical music and valet parking outside, in a matter of days.
Bree started toward the bar. “Let’s see if they have any good red wines.”
“Who do you think is paying for all this?” Jocelyn wondered as Bree peppered the bartender with questions about pinot noirs and cabernets. “Who organized it?”
“The dead dude who had enough money to build a trophy room for his dogs?” Bree ventured.
“He didn’t organize his own funeral in advance,” Jocelyn said. “Did he? Is that something rich people do?”
Bree flashed a smile as the bartender handed over two glasses of wine. “How would I know what rich people do? You should ask your boyfriend.”
“Hmm.” Jocelyn averted her gaze and took a sip of wine.
Bree sensed a disturbance in the force and got right up in her face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” It took all of Jocelyn’s self-control not to check the time again.
“Confess, before I take a cocktail fork to you.” Bree armed herself with a sharp little silver weapon.
Jocelyn, acutely aware that Boat Shoes was still staring at her, sidled back toward the corner. “I told you, it’s nothing.” She paused. “I hope. I just haven’t heard from Chris.”
Bree quirked one eyebrow. “How long has it been?”
“Thirty-six hours.” Not that she’d been counting or anything.
“Well, what’s his deal?” Bree demanded. “Is he working, traveling, tied to the railroad tracks? What?”
“As far as I know, he’s in town.” Jocelyn took another fortifying sip of wine.
“Does he know that you’re wrangling a bunch of dogs in a dead guy’s house?”
Jocelyn nodded. “I told him yesterday morning.”
“And he didn’t cancel his tennis match and run right over to help?” Bree lifted her chin. “I don’t like it.”
“What exactly was he supposed to do, in your opinion?” Jocelyn couldn’t keep a defensive edge out of her voice.
“Provide immediate practical and emotional support,” Bree replied without missing a beat. “Hold a few leashes. Pick up some dog poop. Sling some kibble.”
Jocelyn had to smile at the idea of Chris picking up dog poop.
“You never should have been in the position where you were fighting with your mom about the dogs staying at your house. Chris should have opened up his palatial estate and welcomed you all with open arms.”
“I would never, ever ask him to take in three dogs, one of whom is going to have puppies any day now.” She left out the part about Chris offering to make a few calls and put up the dogs in the new animal shelter. No matter how cushy the kennels were, Jocelyn couldn’t bring herself to sequester three sensitive dogs who had just lost their owner in an unfamiliar setting with unfamiliar people.
“I didn’t say you should ask him,” Bree clarified. “He should have offered.”
“It’s not even his house.” Jocelyn stood up a little straighter. “It’s his parents’ house. His sister is staying
there for the summer. There are other people to consider.”
Bree must have recognized the expression on her face, because she threw up her hands and said, “Don’t get mad at me just because you know I’m right.”
Jocelyn forced herself to wait through three slow, deep breaths before replying. “The man is taking me to France. To meet his entire family. The fact that he’s not at liberty to offer amnesty to a pack of slobbery, overenthusiastic Labradors is not relevant here.”
Bree arranged her mouth in a little moue. “Okay.”
“That’s right. It is okay.” Jocelyn startled a bit as her phone buzzed in her handbag. She opened her purse flap and regarded the phone screen with triumph. “See? He’s texting me right now.”
Bree muttered something indecipherable.
“What’s that?”
Bree cleared her throat. “Taking you to fancy dinners and whisking you off to Paris is nice, but romantic jaunts to Europe are the high points of a relationship. And I don’t judge relationships by their high points; I judge them by their low points. And when I look at this guy’s behavior—”
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to go answer a text.” Jocelyn stalked away from her friend, her hand clenched around her phone so tightly it was a wonder the screen didn’t shatter. She heard Bree call after her, but she couldn’t have a rational conversation right now. She was too angry, too indignant, too hurt.
Probably because she knew Bree was right. She couldn’t get Fiona’s words out of her mind. Sensible. Different. Working class.
My father went so far as to threaten to cut Chris off if he didn’t get his act together.
“Excuse me.” A stoop-shouldered, gray-haired man with an elegantly knotted navy tie blocked her path to the patio. “Are you Miss Jocelyn Hillier?”
Jocelyn racked her brain, trying to figure out if she’d broken any laws lately. The guy was looking at her as though he were an assistant principal about to give her detention for passing notes during homeroom. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Murray Tumboldt.” He reached into the pocket of his dark tailored suit and handed her a business card. “Mr. Allardyce’s attorney.”
Oh crap. She had been breaking laws. Damn those pesky breaking-and-entering ordinances. She put down her wineglass and prepared to play defense attorney to his prosecutor. “I can explain.”
A frown line creased Murray’s shiny white brow. “Explain what?”
“Explain why I’ve been . . .” She managed to stop herself in time. The first rule of being a successful criminal was not confessing to your crime the second a lawyer looked at you sideways. “Never mind. You go first.”
He regarded her with wariness. “My office is in Rehoboth Beach. Are you available to come in at nine o’clock tomorrow morning?”
She cleared her throat. “Do I have a choice?”
The frown line deepened. “Yes, of course.”
“Okay.” So he didn’t have a warrant or subpoena or whatever. Good to know. “Should I bring my own lawyer?”
He blinked several times in succession. Jocelyn picked up her drink and quaffed deeply while she waited for his answer.
Finally, he said, “Your attorney is welcome to accompany you, should you deem that necessary. But tomorrow is really just a formality. All the paperwork can be sent and reviewed separately.”
Jocelyn dabbed the corner of her lips with a tiny cocktail napkin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He kept staring at her. “Do you know what this is about?”
“I sure don’t.”
“Then why . . . ?” The lawyer shook his head. “Never mind. Let’s stay focused on the matter at hand. Tomorrow morning is the official reading of the will.”
“Oh.” Now Jocelyn frowned. “Oh.”
“So you’ll be there?”
“Sure. Absolutely.”
Murray nodded and turned to walk away. Jocelyn stopped him with a hand on his sleeve, which was crafted from the lightest, softest wool she’d ever felt.
“What’s going on? Why do I have to go to the reading of the will? I’m just the dog sitter.”
“Tomorrow morning,” the lawyer repeated. “Nine o’clock.”
chapter 9
“ The reading of the will! I didn’t know that was a real thing that people still did. It’s like something out of a soap opera.” Jocelyn relayed the details of her encounter with the lawyer to Chris over a candlelit dinner at a restaurant patio with ocean views. “What do you think Murray Tumboldt, Esquire, is going to say tomorrow morning?”
“I’m going to take a wild guess and say he’s going to tell you that Mr. Allardyce left you something in his will.” Chris smiled fondly at her and offered her a bite of his steak.
Jocelyn shook her head, too agitated to eat at the moment.
“It’s all very surreal.” She forced herself to pause long enough to nibble at her panko-crusted sole. “I’ve never been to a law office.”
Chris put down his fork, startled. “Never?”
“Nope.”
He all but scratched his head in bemusement. “Ever?”
She busied herself rearranging the linen napkin draped across her lap. “My family’s not very big on lawyers.”
“Why not?”
She’d made the statement knowing she was inviting follow-up questions, and now she had to answer them. Which was what she wanted—it was time he knew exactly what type of girl he was dating. She smoothed back her hair and made eye contact as the candle flame flickered in the warm evening breeze. “My father was a lawyer.” She paused, then corrected herself. “Is a lawyer.”
He lifted his chin, indicating she should go on.
“He’s a lobbyist in D.C. Big money, big political aspirations, big family name.”
Chris’s gaze sharpened, but his expression remained impassive. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “So now you know my deep, dark secret,” she concluded. “I’m the love child of a lobbyist and a laundress.”
“Who is he?” Chris asked.
“That’s not important.” But it was, of course. Her father was so important that she had never uttered his name to anyone except her mother. She’d obsessively Googled growing up—hell, sometimes she still did—but she didn’t talk about him. He existed as a grainy image on a computer screen to her. Her brilliant, powerful father, with his beautiful wife and beautiful children and endless connections and clout.
“Do you see him often?”
“Not that often.” Exactly once, to be precise. But she knew what his voice sounded like from playing a video clip that had accompanied a Washington Post article about corporate regulatory oversight. When she was little, she’d fantasized that he and his family would come to the Delaware beach for a vacation and he’d spot her across a crowded pavilion and recognize her as his flesh and blood. “I probably shouldn’t be talking about this.”
“I’m glad you are.” Chris reached across the table for her hand. “I’ve been wondering.”
“About my father?”
“Your whole family.” He looked so steady and accepting. “You still haven’t introduced me to your mother.”
She glanced down at their intertwined fingers. “Mmm.”
“But we can fix that.” He leaned in, excited. “How about I take you both to brunch on Sunday?”
She tried to mimic his smile. She failed.
His smile faded. “Joss, what’s wrong? You’ve been acting different since the fund-raiser the other night.”
She cleared her throat and rearranged her napkin on her lap. “I have?”
“Yes.” He squeezed her hand. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. It’s awkward.”
He waited until she reestablished eye contact with him. “Tell me.”
She intended to warm up to the topic slowly
but blurted out, “Are you dating me so your father won’t cut you off?”
His face froze. “What?”
Jocelyn’s words came out in a rush. “When I talked to your sister, she mentioned . . . she said that I wasn’t like anyone else you’ve dated before. She said your father told you to stop dating busty blondes or else. She said you picked me because if you didn’t pick someone like me, you’d be cut off. That’s how she put it: ‘cut off.’”
Chris sat back, stunned, but he tightened his grip on her hand.
“Well?” she prompted. “What do you have to say about that?”
There was a long, loaded minute while he considered this. Then he said, “It’s true.”
Now it was Jocelyn’s turn to be stunned.
He blew out a breath. “I did used to date, uh, girls about town.”
“Very diplomatically put,” Jocelyn said.
He shrugged, unapologetic. “They were pretty, they were fun, they were users who wanted money and social connections and didn’t give a damn about me or my family. I was stupid, immature. Everything went on much longer than it should have. Then, right before the holidays, my parents sat me down and said it had to stop. They told me I had to find a woman of substance and good character.”
“Or they’d turn off the money tap,” she clarified.
“As they should. It’s their job—and my job—to be responsible financial stewards.”
“And you found me.” She closed her eyes as the picture snapped into focus. “In the middle of the road.”
“Yes.” He inclined his head in assent.
“And that’s it?” she demanded. “You’re not even going to try to sugarcoat it?”
“I’m being honest with you,” he countered. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here until you hear me out.”
“I’ve heard enough.” She pushed back in her chair, but he held on to her.
“That day in the car with you and Smitty, I realized my parents were right.”
“Oh please.” But she relaxed, watching his expression in the golden glow of candlelight.
“What I was doing before wasn’t fair to anyone. It was selfish and stubborn and superficial. And you . . .”
In Dog We Trust Page 7