A Pedigree to Die For

Read A Pedigree to Die For Online

Authors: Laurien Berenson

Tags: #Suspense

BOOK: A Pedigree to Die For
10.55Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Laurien Berenson
joins the ranks of today's most
celebrated mystery authors with the
outstanding debut of the
Melanie Travis mystery series!
 
“Delightful . . . Melanie Travis copes with murder, single parenthood and the world of poodles with charm and stubborn honesty. Four paws for this one.”
—Carolyn Hart, author of the
Death on Demand
and the
Henrie O
mystery series
 
“A promising first novel involving the dog-eat-dog world of championship breeding.”
—Mostly Murder
 
“. . . an enjoyable read and a fascinating look at the world of the competitive dog showing. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.”
—I Love a Mystery
 
“You don't have to love dogs to appreciate Berenson's wit, clean writing style, and engaging, down-to-earth characters.”
—
The Advocate/Greenwich Times
 
“Fun reading.”
—
Dog News
 
“The writing is smooth, the charaters three-dimensional. Watch for future books by this author.”
—
Deadly Pleasures
 
“. . . this book is a delight.”
AKC Gazette
 
“Written with a casual and inviting style . . . this is a sound start to a mystery series.”
Murder & Mayhem
Books by Laurien Berenson
A PEDIGREE TO DIE FOR
UNDERDOG
DOG EAT DOG
HAIR OF THE DOG
WATCHDOG
HUSH PUPPY
UNLEASHED
ONCE BITTEN
HOT DOG
BEST IN SHOW
JINGLE BELL BARK
 
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
A P
EDIGREE
T
O
D
IE
F
OR
Laurien Berenson
KENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
 
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
One
There's a lot to be said for dying in the midst of something you love. But fond as Uncle Max was of his Poodles, I doubt that he'd ever envisioned himself being found dead on the cold, hard kennel floor, his curled fingers grasping at the open door of an empty pen.
For their part, the Poodles didn't seem to think much of the idea either. All seven of the big black dogs were scratching at their doors and whining when Aunt Peg came out the next morning looking for Max, who was inexplicably missing from her bed when she woke up. The moment she saw him, she knew what had happened. The Turnbull men weren't known for their strong hearts; the doctor had warned Max more than once to slow down. But in the end, all the things they'd done together—giving up smoking, taking up walking, watching their cholesterol—hadn' t made the slightest bit of difference.
Not one to panic when composure served better, Aunt Peg had closed her husband's eyes, then covered him with a blanket before picking up the phone and calling for an ambulance.
I learned all this from my brother Frank, whose name she'd supplied when asked by the police if there was someone they could call. One look at Aunt Peg and they must have realized that the sedatives the paramedics had so thoughtfully left behind were going to go to waste. That's when they started making comforting noises about next of kin.
We've never been the type of family to advertise our emotions. Aunt Peg would no sooner keen and wail than join the chorus line of the Rockettes. Nevertheless Frank had arrived prepared to offer whatever support was needed. That none was soon became apparent when Aunt Peg declared that his hovering was making her nervous and sent him home.
Now, three days later, Frank was kneeling beside me in the front pew of Saint Mary's Church in Greenwich. He looked every bit as uncomfortable as I felt when the rest of the funeral party trooped up to the altar to receive communion. It was painfully obvious that we were the only two to remain behind.
Thanks to my Aunt Rose, Max's sister and a member of the order of the Sisters of Divine Mercy, the church was full. As the priest began dispensing hosts from the golden chalice, I pushed aside the missals that littered the pew, sat back, and resigned myself to a long wait. Two by two, the sisters glided by, their rubber-soled shoes noiseless on the church floor. Many, I noted absently, were of the old school, which meant that they still wore the dark habits and crisp white wimples I remembered so vividly from my youth.
The soft rustle of cloth, the muted clacking of polished rosary beads that swung from the sisters' waists, both were sounds from the past. For a moment, I found myself transported back to the narrow halls of the convent school where I'd been raised. It wasn't a trip I enjoyed. Some Catholics refer to their faith as something that has lapsed. I tend to think of mine as expired.
Until that afternoon, it had been years since I'd been inside a church. Five years, to be exact, since an icy patch of road had sent my parents' car careening down a steep embankment and into a river, leaving me—newly married and newly pregnant—also newly orphaned. Bob, my husband then, ex now, maintained at the time that anyone who had reached the age of twenty-five was simply too old to qualify for orphan status.
“I know what I feel!” I wanted to shout at him. In later years, I wouldn't have been so reticent. Later we shouted about a lot of things.
Still, I had Bob to thank for my son, and in my mind, that more than evened the score. Davey was home now with a sitter, no doubt spurning the glorious May weather to watch Oprah Winfrey on TV. There'd be plenty of time later for him to learn about funerals—and about people who die long before you're ready to say goodbye.
A throat cleared scratchily, and I looked up to find Aunt Peg standing above me. One of the first to go to the altar, she was now ready to return to the pew. Quickly I stood up to let her by.
Behind her came Aunt Rose, Sister Anne Marie to the other nuns. Her head was bowed, her eyes half-closed. Her fingers were braced together at the tips, forming a slim arrow that pointed upward toward the heavens. In contrast to Aunt Peg's grim-lipped frown, her expression had a soft, unmolded quality. She was talking to her God, I realized. Uncomfortable, I looked away.
The line at the communion rail dwindled, then finally ended. The sisters glided back to their pews. At the altar, the priest mumbled the remaining words of the mass before offering a blessing to the assemblage.
I was turning to retrieve my purse from the bench when the sisters began to sing. Their voices rose, filling the large church with the harmonious cadence of a well-rehearsed choir. I straightened, then paused to listen. The hymn was Latin, its words vaguely familiar. But it was the music itself that reached out to me; the voices joined as one sent a tingle racing up the length of my spine. The sound was pure and sweet and uplifting. For a moment, I could almost believe that the sisters
were
, as I'd been taught years before, in the business of sending souls to heaven.
I waited until the song ended before leaving the pew. Uncle Max, who'd always had a dramatic flair, would have loved the pageantry of it all. As a child, in the years before the family drifted apart, I'd found him fascinating. Everything about Uncle Max was just slightly outsize; he had no use for the ordinary, and little tolerance for anyone who did. He enjoyed beauty and style, and surrounded himself with plenty, like the kennel full of Standard Poodles that he bred and exhibited. The funeral mass, with all its pomp and ceremony, would have suited him just fine.
I rode to the cemetery in the first limousine with Frank and Aunt Peg. Aunt Rose was curiously absent. Perhaps she felt the chauffeur-driven Lincoln was too ostentatious for her station in the world. Or perhaps the impression I'd gotten over the years that she and Aunt Peg didn't get along was true.
Aunt Peg was silent during the drive, and Frank and I followed suit. Somehow I didn't feel I had the right to intrude. The dark brim of a fedora was pulled low over her eyes; the set of her shoulders was stiff. Whatever emotions she was feeling, she kept them to herself.
The graveside ceremony was brief. In keeping with family tradition, there were no histrionics, only a quiet prayer beside the coffin. As we turned to leave, I heard a quiet sigh.
“Goodbye, Max,” Aunt Peg whispered. Her lower lip trembled briefly, then stilled.
Walking back toward the line of parked cars, I reached out impulsively and took her hand in mine. “If there's anything at all I can do . . .”
Little did I know.

Other books

The Demise by Ashley & JaQuavis
Out of Darkness by Laramie Briscoe
Dead Ringer by Jessie Rosen
Throwing Like a Girl by Weezie Kerr Mackey
Fairy Tale Weddings by Debbie Macomber
Lord of Misrule by Rachel Caine
The Undertow by Jo Baker
The Unclaimed Baby by Sherryl Woods
Over the Threshold by Mari Carr