Doggie Day Care Murder (17 page)

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Authors: Laurien Berenson

BOOK: Doggie Day Care Murder
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“Do I hear people talking about me?” he asked happily. “Are you saying nice things?”
Terry was one of my best friends. We had met years earlier when he joined the dog show community as assistant and partner to top professional handler Crawford Langley.
He was funny, and brash, and impossibly handsome; with baby blue eyes and hair that changed color more frequently than Britney Spears's. Terry liked to shop and his wardrobe was infinitely better than mine, a fact he liked to remind me of with annoying frequency. I maintained that my vocabulary was better than his, but it seemed small consolation by comparison.
Terry knew all the best vacation spots and the finest wines. He was always tuned in to the choicest gossip. Of course, it wasn't uncommon for him to have had a hand in creating at least some of it.
He cut my hair, he watched my back, he made me laugh. In short, he was the ideal male friend. Except that he got bitchy when ignored. But hey, nobody's perfect.
“Of course we were saying nice things,” I told him. “Would we talk about you any other way?”
Bertie smirked as Terry leaned in to give me a smooch. He was obviously on his way back to Crawford's setup from the show ring as he was carrying a Norfolk Terrier under one arm and had a pin brush sticking out of his back pocket.
One kiss was never enough for Terry; he had to aim for the second cheek too. It wasn't an easy maneuver for either of us, considering the burdens we were both toting.
Then he glanced down and jumped back. “There's a baby in there.”
“I know. I put him there.”
“Well keep it away from me!”
“Why?” Bertie asked. “Do you think he has cooties?”
“Don't be ridiculous.” Terry sniffed, as only he can do. “
Cooties!
”
“Why then?” I asked.
I really was curious. Crawford and Terry had sent flowers and a charming card to the hospital when Kevin was born. And of course I'd spoken to Terry since, but this was the first time we'd seen each other.
No big deal, I thought. I'd been busy. He'd been busy. But now I began to wonder what was up.
“He's too little,” said Terry. “If I look interested, next thing you'll be making me hold him. And then what will I do if he breaks?”
“He won't break,” I said.
“Sure, you say that now. Afterward, you won't be so happy.”
I glanced at Bertie, who shrugged.
“He didn't want anything to do with Maggie either.”
“It wasn't my fault. Every time I looked at her she cried.
Women.
No wonder I'm gay.”
“Kevin's a boy,” I mentioned.
You know, in case that might help.
“When he learns to bark and needs a good grooming, let me know. Until then, he's all yours.”
“Thank you,” I said sweetly. “I think I'll keep him.”
“Motherhood agrees with you,” Terry said, considering.
He plopped the Norfolk down on an empty tabletop and leaned against a bank of crates. I didn't see Crawford anywhere. Presumably that meant Terry had a few minutes to talk.
“Except for . . . you know.”
Trust Terry never to give a compliment that didn't have strings attached.
“What do I know?” Always a dangerous question, but even more so when Terry was in the vicinity.
He puffed out his cheeks and sketched a round figure in the air with both hands.
“Are you calling me
fat
?” I asked incredulously.
“If the muumuu fits . . .”
“Five pounds,” I said.
My tone might have been a little sharp. Kevin stirred in his sling. I reached up and patted his back, lulling him back to sleep.
“That all?” Terry cocked a brow.
I wanted to slug him.
Bertie looked like she might do it for me.
“If I were you, I'd change the subject,” she said. “Before somebody strangles you with a leash.”
Terry nodded. He had a narcissistic streak a mile wide, but he knew good advice when he heard it.
“Now there's a topic Melanie can relate to,” he said lightly. “Anybody died recently?”
“Now that you mention it.”
“Oh.” He looked crestfallen. “I was only kidding. I haven't heard any bad news on the dog show grapevine recently. I assume it's no one I know?”
“You'll never believe this,” said Bertie. “It was some guy who owned a doggie day care place in Stamford with his sister.”
“Not Steve Pine.”
Bertie and I both stared at him.
Small world, huh?
17
I
probably shouldn't have been surprised, but
come on
.
It wasn't difficult to accept that Terry knew everyone in the dog show world, and to understand that his charm could pry state secrets from a sphinx. After all, the dog community was, at its core, a rather small, enclosed universe where die-hard exhibitors revolved around one another in an endless circuit of show rings.
But Steve and Candy Pine operated in an entirely different milieu. The dogs they dealt with wore bandanas looped around their necks and probably needed their ears cleaned. The Pines lived in the real world, which on a daily basis was pretty far removed from Terry-Land.
Terry looked at Bertie's and my faces. They confirmed his guess.
“It was Steve, wasn't it?”
I nodded. “He was shot in his office last week. The police have no idea why.”
“I'm so sorry.” Bertie sounded stricken. “I never would have been so flip if I'd realized it was someone you knew.”
“Don't worry about it,” said Terry. “I'm not upset. I'm sure Steve Pine was a nice enough guy, but I never actually met him.”
Things were growing more curious by the minute.
“So where'd you come up with the name?” I asked.
“Candy,” Terry replied.
“Bad for your teeth,” said Bertie, “but I probably have some sugar-free gum in my tack box.”
“I think he means Candy Pine,” I said.
“Precisely. Crawford met her last year at a seminar on holistic health care in Armonk. Being the only two dog people in the room, of course they immediately hit it off. Candy stopped by our place a couple of times after that. She loved looking around the kennel and checking out the way we had things set up.”
Crawford had been a star on the dog show firmament for as long as Aunt Peg; his Bedford Kennels, located in mid-Westchester County, was a showplace. The list of dogs whose careers Crawford had launched and managed from that venue was long and impressive. The facility, the equipment, and the services provided were all state of the art.
Even though Candy's business concentrated on a different aspect of dog care, it was easy to see how she could appreciate Crawford's meticulous approach and his attention to detail. Given their mutual love of dogs, I could readily understand that she might enjoy poking around such hallowed ground.
“I met Candy for the first time a couple of weeks ago,” I said. “And I only met Steve once. A friend of mine was looking for a place to leave her Golden Retriever during the day. She asked me to check things out at Pine Ridge. If you've been socializing with Candy, you probably know her better than I do, so I'm surprised you never met Steve.”
Terry laughed out loud. “What a warped view of family relationships you must have if you think grown siblings are likely to share the same interests or spend their time hanging out together.”
Put that way, he had a point. My brother and I had existed in a state of wary détente for years and had only in recent times discovered that we could actually be friends. A state of affairs that Bertie, who cared deeply for both of us, was largely responsible for.
“According to Candy,” said Terry, “Steve was into fly fishing, number-crunching, and women, not necessarily in that order.”
“What about dogs?” asked Bertie. “Considering what he did for a living, I'd have thought that was a given.”
“That was where Candy came in. Getting involved in doggie day care was her idea—at least to hear her tell it. Steve was the one with the head for business. He wanted to buy that piece of land and hold it while it appreciated. But coming up with the right way to put it to profitable use in the meantime, reaching out to the dog-owning public in Fairfield County, that was all Candy.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, thinking back to the first time I'd been to Pine Ridge. “Steve was the one who initially showed me about the place, and he made a huge point of telling me about how attached he was to the dogs and how providing them with the best possible care was very important to him.”
Terry held up his hands. “Like I said, I'm only repeating things I heard from his sister. So you're not exactly getting an unbiased view. But according to her, Steve was a born salesman. And nothing was more important to him than making money and growing that business. I wouldn't be surprised if he was just telling you what he thought you wanted to hear.”
Interesting, I thought. Especially in light of the fact that Candy hadn't mentioned anything like that to Alice and me.
“Well, they built a great facility,” I said. “And while some of the things Pine Ridge offers might be a little over the top, all the dogs I saw looked pretty happy there.”
“Over the top how?” asked Bertie.
Terry looked interested, too, as well he might. Excess was his middle name.
“Inside, the dogs aren't kept in pens, they have private rooms. Each one contains a couch for them to lie on and a TV to watch if they're bored.”
“TV?” Bertie giggled. “Really?”
“I kid you not. Apparently, the dogs like to watch game shows and
Animal Planet
. They have their own remote controls so they can pick what they want to see.”
“How anthropomorphic,” said Terry.
“Pardon me?”
I knew what the word meant, I was just surprised to hear Terry use it.
He looked at me and stuck out his tongue.
I probably deserved that. But considering how many different ways he finds to criticize me, big words were about the only thing I had left to hold over him. It would be a crying shame if I lost that advantage, too.
“It sounds to me,” said Terry, “like they set the place up to make the owners feel good about it, not the dogs. I can't imagine a dog actually
choosing
to sit around all day watching TV.”
“I don't know,” said Bertie. “Beagle really likes the cooking channel. She'll watch for hours if I let her.”
Beagle, name to the contrary, was a cat. Go figure.
“Last time I saw Candy was probably a couple of months ago, and she sounded like she was getting really fed up. Maybe stuff like that was the reason why.”
“Fed up?” I repeated. “With what? Steve? The business? The clients?”
Terry tipped his head and gave me a look. “Let me guess. You've gotten involved, haven't you? You're trying to figure out who killed Steve Pine.”
Like that was a given.
Oh hell, I thought. Who was I kidding? It probably was.
“Candy asked me to,” I said in my own defense.
“Did you give her any choice?”
“Now, now,” said Bertie. “Let's not be snide. I'm sure Melanie is just trying to be helpful.”
“That's me,” I said. “Ever helpful. And ever cheerful, too, don't forget that. So tell me about Candy being fed up. What's the story there?”
“Apparently now that they had the business up and going, she didn't like the way Steve was running things. And that was part of the problem, too—the fact that Steve thought he was in charge. Candy felt she had to keep reminding him that the place and everything they'd built together was just as much hers as his. I suspected, though she never said as much, that maybe she was thinking about getting out and starting over somewhere else.”
Terry stopped and shrugged. “But don't take that as gospel, because obviously it didn't happen. So maybe I was just reading more into the situation than was there.”
“Or maybe not,” I mused. “After all, look how things turned out. Candy didn't leave, but she's the one in charge now.”
I would have carried that thought further but Kevin began to stir. He lifted his head, stuck it out of the top of the sling, and had a look around. His deep blue eyes, so like Sam's, blinked at the sights. The expression on his small, round face was almost comical.
In the setup next door, a Kuvasz was having its luxurious white coat blown dry. On the other side, a Bloodhound was snoozing on a tabletop that was slightly too small for its body. Front legs and long ears draped over the side. Dogs were barking, people were talking, the tent top was flapping in the breeze.
Business as usual for a dog show, but possibly a bit much for his three-month-old brain to process. Then he tipped his head back, looked up at me, and smiled. It was a big, toothless grin that conveyed his delight in the entire scene. Kevin lifted his hands out of the cover of the sling and waved them emphatically in the air.
“Eeeeee!” he squealed happily.
“What did he say?” asked Terry.
“I'm not sure. Probably a combination of ‘feed me' and ‘change my diaper.' ”
“Yup.” Terry reached over and swept the Norfolk up off the table. “That's my cue. I'm out of here.”
“Chicken!” Bertie called after him.
Terry flapped his elbows and kept going.
While Bertie went back to grooming, I attended to baby business. The grooming table doubled as a changing table, then Kevin sucked down a bottle of formula greedily. His short legs kicked up and down in delight as he ate. Two burps later, and we were good to go.
Which was just about the time Sam reappeared.
“You planned it that way, didn't you?” I asked as he reached over and took Kevin from my arms.
“Sure.” Sam laughed. “Perfect timing.”
Father and son smooched and rubbed noses. Then Kevin reached up, grabbed Sam's ears, and pulled. His hands were small, but his grip was surprisingly strong.
“Youch!” said Sam, gently disentangling himself. “This kid's a lethal weapon. I think we may have to cut his nails.”
“He missed you. That's his way of telling you he wants you to take him for a walk.”
“Can do.”
Sam cradled Kevin under his arm like he was a football, or a small dog on his way to the show ring. The baby responded by shrieking with delight. Next row over, the Bloodhound opened its mournful-looking eyes, raised its head, and had a look.
Kevin immediately wriggled his way around and flapped his hands in the hound's direction. Given half a chance, he'd love to pull those ears too.
“Oh no, you don't.” Sam quickly angled the baby the other way. He could read his son's thoughts as easily as I could.
“Have you seen Aunt Peg?” I asked. “Is Davey with her?”
“They've staked out a couple of seats over by ring three. The junior showmanship classes are getting ready to start.”
“I think I'll wander over and have a look.” I unhooked the baby sling, rolled it up, and stuffed it inside the diaper bag, which I'd shoved into an opening between crates. “Are you all set?”
“Are you kidding? We menfolk are going for a stroll around the grounds together. Don't ask me how I know this, but apparently there's nothing as appealing as a man with a baby. We'll be fighting off the women with a stick.”
Bertie looked up from her grooming and laughed. “So that's why Frank volunteers to take Maggie with him when he's out running errands. And here I thought he was just being a nice guy.”
“Sorry, bud.” I stood on my toes to give Sam a peck on the cheek. “But I suspect most of the women you run into today will be too busy with their dogs to even notice you.”
Sam and Kevin headed one way and I went in the other. Ring three was across the field and down at the other end of the row.
Drawing near, I could see that the first of the junior showmanship classes was already in progress. The Novice Junior Class was for boys and girls between the ages of 9 and 12, who had not already won three first place awards against competition. It was the class in which Davey would make his debut at the end of the month.
There were six handlers in the ring, three girls and three boys. All of them looked older than Davey and all were handling small- to medium-sized, smooth-coated dogs. They had lined up in order of speediness: a Chinese Shar-Pei was in front, followed by a Bull Terrier, a Basset Hound, a French Bulldog, a Dachshund, and a MinPin. Davey and Custer would have made an eye-catching pair in such sedate company as that.
I saw Peg and Davey sitting ringside, their two heads tipped together as they conferred about the class, and slipped into an empty seat beside them.
“There you are,” said Aunt Peg. “It's about time. Where have you been?”
“I was talking to Terry and taking care of Kevin. What'd I miss?”
“Nearly half the class. Fortunately, Davey and I have carried on without you. We're enjoying a wonderful educational experience.”
Easy for her to say. Aunt Peg can be a little overbearing. Sometimes she doesn't know her own strength.

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