Authors: Laurien Berenson

Tags: #Suspense

A Pedigree to Die For (2 page)

BOOK: A Pedigree to Die For

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Two

The phone call came three days later.

Aunt Peg caught me at a bad moment, but then there are days when my life seems full of them. My duties as a special ed. teacher for the Stamford school system had just ended for the year, but the jubilation I'd expected to feel had been short-lived. That morning, I'd been notified that the summer job I'd counted onâworking as a counselor at a camp for handicapped childrenâhad fallen through due to lack of funding.

Then the day's mail had arrived, containing a picture postcard from Bradley, the man I'd been seeing sporadically over the past year. Mailed from Las Vegas, it featured a picture of the Silver Bells Wedding Chapel on the front and a scribbled note on the back, confessing that he'd made use of the chapel the day before with a six-foot chorus girl from Circus, Circus.

To top it off, when I'd tried to drive to the supermarket so that I could drown my sorrows in Heavenly Hash ice cream, I'd discovered that my ancient Volvo was sitting in front of the house with a flat tire. By the time the phone rang, I was in no mood for small talk.

“I'll get it!” yelled four-year-old Davey. He raced into the kitchen, hands outstretched, fingers bright with paint. “Mine! Mine!”

“Oh no you don't.” With agility born of experience, I dodged around the counter and snatched up the receiver before he could reach it.

“I need help,” Aunt Peg announced without preamble.

“Of course, anything.”

“Is Frank there?”

The ripple of resentment was small, but definitely there. Still, I probably shouldn't have been surprised. Aunt Peg was just old-fashioned enough to believe that men were better at getting things done than women; which only went to prove how little she knew about her nephew.

“No, he isn't, Aunt Peg. I haven't seen him since the funeral. Are you all right?”

“Of course I'm not all right. I just told you I needed help. Do those sound like the words of someone who's all right?”

I sighed and took a tighter grip on the receiver. Aunt Peg has always had a way of keeping me just slightly off balance. She'd been married to my father's brother for thirty years, but we'd never really been friends. Now, hearing her distress, I nudged aside the chorus girl from Circus, Circus, who was still dancing at the edge of my thoughts. “Why don't you tell me what's wrong?”

“One of my dogs is missing.”

It took a moment for that to register, longer still for my mind to form an appropriate response.

Ever impatient, Aunt Peg simply plunged on without me. “He's been gone since the night Max died, and I think the two things are related.”

Abruptly, the chorus girl vanished without a trace. “Aunt Peg, what are you trying to say?”

“I'm not
trying
to say anything. Indeed, I thought I was expressing myself rather well.”

“I thought Uncle Max had a heart attack.”

“That's certainly what it seemed. But once I realized Beau was gone, I began to wonder. There must have been someone else in the kennel with him. Perhaps there was a scuffle over the dog.”

It sounded pretty far-fetched to me. But then, I work with seven-year-olds; I'm used to humoring people. “Have you spoken to the police?”

“The police,” Aunt Peg sniffed, as though discussing a lower, and obviously less intelligent form of life, “weren't impressed by what I had to say. I was told that the fact that an older man with a weak heart had suffered a heart attack did not warrant any investigation on their part. As to the missing dog, the lieutenant had the nerve to suggest that I call the dog warden.”

That didn't sound like such a bad idea to me. I wrung out a wet cloth in the sink and began to wipe Davey's hands. “Where does Frank fit in?”

“I want to find out what really happened that night,” Aunt Peg said firmly. “And I want my dog back. If the police aren't interested in doing the job, then I'll simply have to see to it myself. I was thinking Frank might help.”

“I want to talk to Aunt Peg!” Davey cried suddenly. He jumped up and tried to grab the receiver from my hand.

Turning, I nudged him down and juggled the receiver to my other ear. “Not now. Mommy's busy. Why don't you go play outside?”

“Want to talk,” Davey insisted, stamping his foot.

“Melanie, are you there?”

“Yes, Aunt Pegâ”

“Can you find Frank for me?”

“Well. . .” I could already imagine what my brother's response was going to be. Poodles, missing or otherwise, had never ranked very high on his list of priorities, and flinty, indomitable Aunt Peg suited nobody's idea of a kindly old lady in need. “You know Frank, he could be anywhere.”

The silence between us lengthened. When it had stretched to a full minute, I knew I'd been outwaited. “I do know some of his friends. I guess I could do some calling around.”

“Good. Track him down and feed him a good meal. I'll join you after dinner when you've got him softened up a bit. What time should I come?”

Commitment settled around my neck like a noose. “Nine o'clock for coffee and dessert?” I suggested weakly.

“Fine, I'll see you then.”

No sooner had I replaced the receiver than Davey began to wail. “I didn't get to talk. I wanted to talk to Aunt Peg!”

“Aunt Peg didn't have time to talk.” Without thinking, I wiped away his tears with the same cloth that had cleaned his hands, leaving a long streak of red paint down each cheek. Davey giggled delightedly.

“Come on, sport, let's go wash you off. Then we've got a tire to change.”

The house Davey and I live in is smallâa square little box on a square plot of land that isn't a whole lot bigger. The realtor who sold it to Bob and me called it a cape, which brought to mind visions of lonely dunes and sandy, windswept beaches. Although the town of Stamford is on the Connecticut shore, there isn't a beach within miles of here. And as for lonely dunes, you can forget those, too. The developer who built Flower Estates packed the houses in like he was paying for land by the foot.

Still, it's a nice neighborhood for Davey to grow up in, and the mortgage has a fixed rate that I tell myself I can afford. As to the house being small, most of the time it doesn't matter. Davey and I don't take up much room. Frank and Aunt Peg, however, are a different matter entirely.

“I still don't see why I had to get mixed up in this,” Frank complained later that night. He was sitting at the dining-room table, stirring his coffee slowly while I cleared away the last of the dinner dishes. “It would be one thing if she was upset about Uncle Max, but a
dog
?”

“It's both things together,” I told him, not for the first time. “Aunt Peg seems to think the two are relatedâthat the dog was stolen the night Uncle Max died. She needs your help, Frank. The least you can do is listen to what she has to say.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not that I could tell, so make the best of it.”

A moment later a sharp rap on the front door signaled Aunt Peg's arrival. “Brace yourself,” I said, as I rose to let her in. “Here we go.”

Aunt Peg swept into the front hall like a gale wind and surveyed her surroundings with a look that went straight down her nose. As she stood head and shoulders above me, I had never quite decided whether this mode of assessment was born of necessity or preference. Her hair, now more gray than the rich dark red I remembered from my youth, was combed back into a bun that accentuated her high cheekbones and wide forehead. She carried herself with the assurance of someone who is used to being in charge and immediately took over the house as though it were her own.

“Hello, Melanie dear.” She pecked my cheek quickly. “Is Davey still up? Can I say hello?”

I shook my head. “He's been in bed for hours. If I get him up now, he'll never go back.”

Aunt Peg shrugged and handed me her sweater to be dealt with. “Next time then. Frank's in the dining room? Don't worry, I'll find my way.” She was gone before I even had a chance to reply.

As a child, I'd always been in awe of my dashing aunt and uncle. Their lives seemed glamorous and vaguely mysterious, filled with travel and adventure. Aunt Peg had presence; enough, I'd always thought, to lead armies into battle. I, on the other hand, was the type who was apt to get lost in a crowd of two. Bearing, she told me, had everything to do with it. I myself thought it was height. But beside my aunt's vivid coloring, my own brown hair and hazel eyes had seemed plain and unremarkable. Sometimes the sheer force of her personality left me feeling as though I'd disappeared all together. Looking after her now, I couldn't see that much had changed.

When I joined them in the dining room, Frank was pouring the coffee while Aunt Peg got straight to business. She began with her realizationâhours after she'd discovered Uncle Maxâthat Beau, their valuable stud dog, was missing.

“I don't see why you're assuming the dog was stolen,” Frank broke in. “With all the confusion that morning, he probably just wandered away. Dogs do like to roam, you know.”

The glare Aunt Peg sent his way held all the warmth of granite in winter. “My dear boy, Poodles do not roam, and Beau did not
wander
away.”

I caught Frank's eye and shrugged. He grinned in return, a toothless grimace that questioned the sanity of older relations.

Aunt Peg frowned sternly. “Unfortunately, the authorities were no more excited about Beau's disappearance than you two seem to be. Even the
FBI
said that they couldn't step in until there was some evidence that the dog had been transported across state lines.”

I choked on a sip of coffee. “
The FBI?
Aunt Peg, you didn't really call them, did you?”

“Of course. I've called everybody. And now it appears that I am going to get no more understanding from my own relatives than I did from total strangers.”

The line was intended to produce guilt, and it fulfilled its function admirably. At least I had the good grace to blush. Frank merely settled back in his chair, resigned to hearing her out.

“Suppose you tell us why you think somebody took the dog,” he said.

“For starters, the door to his pen was wide open. Beau is smart, but he could hardly have managed
that
by himself. ”

“Uncle Max was in the kennel,” I pointed out. “Maybe he opened it.”

“Maybe, but it's highly unlikely. We had three bitches in full season at the time. Nobody in their right mind would stir up that kind of mayhem. Which brings me to my next questionâwhat would Max have been doing out in the kennel in the middle of the night anyway?”

“Sleepwalking?” Frank suggested. I kicked him, hard, under the table.

“Hardly,” Aunt Peg said dryly. “He was dressed at the time. Obviously, he'd never been to bed at all.”

“Isn't that unusual?” I asked.

“Not for Max.” Unexpectedly, Aunt Peg smiled. “He used to stay up to all hours, reading or working in his office. It overlooks the kennel, you know. Still, I'm sure he wouldn't have gone out there unless he had a good reason.”

“Granted, there are a few unanswered questions,” said Frank. “But do you really think it's possible that someone would have broken into your kennel and fought with Uncle Max, all because of a dog?”

“Anything's possible,” Aunt Peg said crisply. “When someone wants something badly enough.”

“But why . . . ?”

The look Aunt Peg bounced back and forth between us made it perfectly clear that any relatives of hers should definitely be quicker on the uptake. “Maybe it will be easier to understand if I explain that Beau is not just an ordinary dog. In fact, far from it. He was a knockout as a puppy, and even better as an adult. He finished with four straight majors and had a Best In Show before he was two. This past winter when Max and I retired him to stud, we had more requests than we could possibly handle.”

“Even so,” said Frank. “He is only a dog. What's the most he could be worth?”

Aunt Peg looked pointedly down her nose. “I've had offers in excess of twenty thousand dollars.”

“You're kidding!”

“Not at all. Beau commands a stud fee of five hundred dollars. In the last year, he's serviced a dozen bitches and I turned away twice as many as I approved.”

I whistled softly under my breath. “I never knew you were making that kind of money from those Poodles.”

“You never needed to know. Why should you? But surely you can see that there are people who might be interested in acquiring the dog.”

BOOK: A Pedigree to Die For

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