A Pedigree to Die For (17 page)
When I got off the phone with Aunt Peg, I called and left yet another message on Will Perkins's answering machine. Then I tried Jack Berglund. He was in, and we made an appointment for the end of the week.
Energy restored, Davey was up by six the following morning. I hoped he'd climb into bed with me, but he had other ideas. After two hours of nonstop activity, I put him in the car and headed to camp early. Let someone younger chase him around for a while.
Famous last words. Not only had Emily forgiven me for running out on her the day before, she was thrilled to see me. Both counselors in charge of Davey's group, the Sunfishes, had called in sick. I couldn't turn Emily down two days in a row. Besides, I needed the money.
Try supervising twelve four- and five-year-olds for four hours sometime. It's enough to make you doubt your own sanity. At least at that age the boys and girls don't hate each other. Of course they don't want to play the same games either. Emily helped out when she could, but by one o'clock I felt as though I'd spent the morning going in a dozen different directions at once.
Finally I oversaw the last of the pickups and got Davey back in the car. Still raring to go, he bounced in his seat all the way home. He was angling for another trip to the beach. I was hoping for a nap. Neither of us got our wish.
When we came in the back door, the first thing I saw was the blinking message light on the answering machine. I hit the button, and Aunt Peg's voice filled the room.
“Melanie dear, come over as soon as you get back. Somebody's broken into my house.”
Eighteen
The Poodles announced our arrival. Aunt Peg had the front door open before we'd even had time to get out of the car.
“What happened?” I cried as she came down the steps. “Are you all right?”
“I'm fine, just a little shaken.”
The herd of Poodles shot past her. By now Davey was used to them. He giggled with delight, found a tennis ball in the yard, and gave it a toss. Bedlam ensued as each of the six Poodles decided it belonged to her.
“Come inside,” said Aunt Peg. “Let's get Davey settled, and then I'll tell you everything.”
In the kitchen, I saw she'd laid in some supplies. She'd fixed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for Davey, and beside the plate was a pad of paper and a brand new box of sixty-four crayons. The combination would probably keep him occupied for at least half an hour.
On the counter were tuna fish sandwiches for us. I've never particularly liked tuna, but Aunt Peg serves food the way she does everything else, without options or apologies. We carried our plates into the living room where we'd be out of earshot. The Poodles, ever hopeful, arranged themselves on the floor around us.
“Somebody broke in last night,” she said. “It happened sometime after I spoke with you. I went out with some friends and didn't get in until almost one. I was tired and went straight to bed. It wasn't until this morning that I realized something was wrong.”
“What was taken?”
“That's the odd part. As far as I can tell, nothing's missing at all.”
I set my sandwich aside on an end table. “Then what makes you think someone was here?”
“For one thing, there's a broken pane of glass in the back door. For another, even though nothing seems to be gone, everything's been just the tiniest bit disturbed. Nothing, from the papers on my desk to the furniture in the living room, is quite exactly where I left it. It's as though someone was searching for something.”
“What?”
“I have no idea. You know me, Melanie, I don't wear much jewelry. And it's not as though I'd leave important papers lying around. The most valuable things in the house are the dogs.”
“Speaking of the dogs.” I reached over and pushed my plate beyond the reach of a particularly inquisitive nose. “Where were they?”
“Right here, just as they always are.” Aunt Peg frowned. “All six of them, loose as can be. I suppose that's why I've never worried too much about security before. Of course they're harmless, but the average burglar certainly wouldn't know that.”
No, he wouldn't. Besides, though they might be harmless, the crush of Poodles could be intimidating. I'd seen that for myself. They must have made a commotion if someone had come into the house. They'd barked just now when I'd driven in the driveway. It all struck me as very odd.
“What did the police say?”
“I haven't called them.”
I stared at her, perplexed. “Why not?”
“Because I didn't want to look like an idiot,” Aunt Peg said crisply. “That's why not. With nothing missing, I wasn't at all sure what I was going to say.”
“You're going to say you had a break-in. And let them send someone out to have a look.”
Back in the kitchen, Davey had finished his peanut butter and jelly and was happily drawing pictures on his new pad. I stood beside Aunt Peg while she made the call, then carried my plate with its unfinished sandwich over to the sink.
“If you're right about the house being searched, then somebody must have been looking for something. What could it have been?”
“I've thought and thought about that,” said Aunt Peg. She rescued my sandwich before I could put it down the disposal and set it on the floor. There was a brief flurry of activity among the Poodles at her feetârather like sharks feeding, I thoughtâand a moment later the sandwich was gone. “I haven't any idea.”
We'd come no nearer to figuring that out when the doorbell rang ten minutes later. The Poodles raced to the front hall. I had to push them aside just to get the door open.
Officer Decker was short and sturdy. I'd have guessed his age at twenty-five, but he had the dour expression of a man much older. He eyed the Poodles without enthusiasm and asked Aunt Peg to put them away before he came in.
When she returned from locking the dogs in the bedroom, he asked enough questions to get the story started, then let Aunt Peg finish it herself. There wasn't much to tell, but Officer Decker seemed neither surprised nor skeptical about what he heard. He followed us through the kitchen to the back door. Davey took one look, hopped down off his chair, and joined the procession.
Aunt Peg showed the officer the broken pane of glass, which he spent only a moment examining. He rattled the flimsy lock in its casing and gave her a stern look. “Not much security here.”
“Dogs,” she said, returning the look in full measure. “There are six of them in the house. They pretty much do the job.”
“They didn't this time, did they?” Decker dusted off his hands and headed back through the house. “I'll make a report for you. But to be perfectly honest, nothing's going to come of it. We're seeing a lot of this type of thingâa quick hit on an empty home. It's kids looking for drug money. They'll go anywhere that looks like an easy target. These aren't sophisticated thieves. I've been to houses where they've walked right by a chest filled with silver. All they're after is cash.”
Aunt Peg and I exchanged a look. I knew we were both thinking the same thing. How many kids would consider a house filled with big black dogs an easy hit?
We showed the officer out and got Davey resettled with his crayons.
“What do you think?” I asked when that was done.
“I think I'll have the locksmith out.” She headed straight for her bedroom to free the dogs. “Poodles or not, I can see we could use a few sturdy deadbolts around here.”
“What about what Officer Decker said? Do you really think it was kids?”
“No.” The answer came without hesitation.
“Then someone's been here twice,” I said quietly.
“It looks that way.” Aunt Peg frowned. “I guess we're going to have to hope that the best defense is a good offense. Find my Poodle, Melanie. Then we'll know who's at the bottom of this.”
Friday morning I dropped Davey off at camp, then followed Jack Berglund's concise directions northward to the beautiful old New England town of Litchfield. Stately older homes fanned out from the green in the center of town. The surrounding land was filled with farms and estates. I guessed Berglund's house to be in the latter category and was proved correct when I came to the pair of stone gateposts that marked the end of his long gravel driveway.
The house was built of stone as well. Ivy climbed the walls; a large leafy elm shaded the front door. Gravel spun as I rounded the circular drive that looked as though it had been freshly raked that morning. Across a huge expanse of lawn, the kennel building was visible out beyond the pool, the whole place shining with the look of no money spared.
In such a setting, I'd expected a butler, or at least a maid to answer the door, but when it drew open, there was my host himself. He was dressed casually in a button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled back and a pair of well-worn khakis.
“Ms. Travis,” he said. “How nice to see you again.”
“It's Melanie, please.” I wiped my feet before stepping into the circular front hall whose floor was made of Italian tile. At the back was a wide wraparound staircase with a bay window on the upper landing. Lord, it was gorgeous.
“Would you like to have a drink first, some coffee perhaps? Or are you anxious to get on to the dogs?”
“The dogs please. If you don't mind?”
“Not at all.” Jack smiled broadly. “Actually I'd have been disappointed if you wanted it any other way.”
Even after the house, the kennel managed to hold its own. Though much grander in many ways, the setup was reminiscent of Aunt Peg's. The first room we entered was filled with trophies and show pictures, and I stopped to look and admire.
“Isn't that Crawford Langley?” I asked, surprised to see him handling the Shalimar dogs in virtually every photograph.
“Yes, it is.”
Berglund didn't elaborate, and we moved on to the display of trophies. Their dates spanned the last thirty years, highlighting a long, unbroken chain of winners. I congratulated him on his success.
Jack accepted the praise as his due. “I've been breeding since 1962,” he said proudly. “I had my first champion in '64. That's her there.” He pointed to one of the older photographs. “Champion Shalimar Showgirl, and what a Poodle she was. Most of my present stock traces back to her in one way or another. Come on, I'll introduce you to the gang.”
We passed through a grooming room, then on to the actual kennel. Like Aunt Peg's, the Poodles were housed in large pens that opened out into individual runs. Jack whistled shrilly, though it hardly seemed necessary as most of the Poodles had already scrambled inside to greet us.
“You have browns, too,” I said, surprised to see that the occupant of one pen was a light russet color rather than the deep, rich black I'd been expecting.
“I do. At one time, I was very interested in the color. Now though, I've gone over to blacks almost entirely. A brown will occasionally pop up in the line, and I have one young bitch that I use for breeding, but that's about it.”
We started at one end of the room and worked our way around, going from pen to pen. Berglund paused at each, giving the show statistics and pedigree, from memory, of every Poodle we visited. He truly seemed to love the dogs, and they were equally delighted to see him.
Aunt Peg had warned me about Jack Berglund, but seeing him with his Poodles, I realized she couldn't possibly have known him well. He felt every bit as strongly about his dogs as she did about hers. In other circumstances, they certainly could have been friends.
The first block we passed were the old campaigners. Eight champion Poodles in a row, all cut down and past their prime, but still glorious nonetheless. Of those, two were dogs, but it wasn't hard to tell from their advanced ages that neither one was Beau.
The other side of the room contained the current show stock. There, many of the pens were empty. Only three bitches and a young male puppy were presently in hair. Nothing of interest there either.
“I see you keep mostly bitches,” I commented.
Jack nodded. “I don't believe in keeping a dog to offer at stud unless he truly has something special to offer the breed. Ranger is the first stud dog I've had in several years. I think he fits that bill.”
After a buildup like that, I couldn't wait to see the Poodle. I pushed on ahead impatiently to the last pen in the row.
“That's him,” Jack said with a smile. He unlatched the door and freed the Poodle into the aisle. “Shalimar Showdown. I think you're going to like him.”
I was certainly prepared to. That's probably why I felt so let down. At first glance, the dog wasn't terribly exciting. He seemed to be fairly well made, but without any of the spark or fire I'd been prepared to expect. He wasn't a bad Poodle, just an ordinary one. Still, it wouldn't hurt to have a closer look.
“Can we take him outside so I can see him move?”
“Of course.” Berglund produced a leash from deep within his pocket, formed a loop, and slipped it over the Poodle's head and behind his ears. As the other dogs barked their protest at being left behind, he opened the back door and led Ranger outside. “Wait until you see him in motion. I haven't seen anything prettier in a long time.”
Jack trotted the Poodle across the lawn. The first time out and back was enough for me to see that he was narrow behind and cow-hocked besides. A nice-enough Poodle, but not the one I was looking for. Berglund brought Ranger to a dramatic stop and baited him with a squeaky toy to show off his alert expression.
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