Authors: Laurien Berenson

Doggie Day Care Murder (27 page)

BOOK: Doggie Day Care Murder

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H
e wasn't half as sorry as I was, I thought.

“Don't worry,” Cavanaugh continued calmly. “This time I have a plan. I'll mess up the place so it looks like a robbery, jimmy the lock on the back door, and take a few things with me when I go. Then tomorrow I'll play the concerned partner. Two break-ins in less than a month? That can't be good for business. I'll tell Candy she'd better see about adding a security system.”

It couldn't be just that simple, I thought. At least I hoped it couldn't. “Speaking of Candyâshe knows she told you I was here. What if she guesses the truth?”

“She won't. Candy's not the type to think things through. Or to go looking for trouble.”

Cavanaugh waved a hand dismissively. Again the one holding the gun. I was beginning to suspect he had little more experience with firearms than I did. Certainly he'd never taken a course in gun safety.

“And if Candy does think about stirring things up, I'll threaten to pull my money out of the business. Pine Ridge is all she has left. She'd never let that happen.”

Clearly Cavanaugh enjoyed making threats. I could only hope that he possessed more bluster than follow-through. Because holding a paperweight opposite his gun, I felt like David facing Goliath.

“I guess you have it all figured out,” I said. “Well . . . except for one thing.”

“What's that?”

I nodded toward the envelope. “There's no money in there.”

“Sure there is.”

I shrugged. Not my problem. Cavanaugh's eyes narrowed.

“What are you talking about? Why else would Steve have bothered to hide it away like that?”

I didn't answer his question. Instead, I moved away from the desk. It probably looked to Cavanaugh like I was granting him access to the envelope. With luck he wouldn't realize that I was also giving myself an easier line to the door.

“See for yourself,” I invited.

He reached the desk in three quick strides. Cavanaugh might have been a good businessman, but he wasn't a very good assailant. Probably too much Hummer driving and suit wearingâthe man was entirely too civilized to be carrying a gun. And he had no idea how to accord his weapon the respect it was due.

Reaching eagerly for the envelope with his right hand, he switched the gun to his left. If he was ambidextrous, I was dead. But I was betting he was merely arrogantâand flushed with the feeling of importance that the weapon gave him.

He didn't even think about what he was doing, and his carelessness granted me the opening I needed. Lifting my arm, I let fly with the paperweight.

It sailed through the air and hit Cavanaugh square on the side of the head. He lurched sideways with the impact. The blow wasn't hard enough to stun him, but it did knock him to his knees.

In a flash I was past him. By the time he'd regained his feet, shaking his head and swearing loudly, I was already across the office and shooting through the doorway into the darkened hall.

Both directions led quickly to another closed door. The one on the right put me in the reception area. On the left, the door led outside to the walkway that went to the Dog House.

There was no time for conscious thought. All I knew was that I wanted OUT. Left it was.

“Come back here!” Cavanaugh roared.

Like that was happening.

Racing down the hallway, I heard a muffled explosion behind me. A bullet smacked into the wall opposite the open doorway. Cavanaugh swore with frustration.

Panicked, fueled by adrenalin, I was running so hard that I ran right into the door at the end of the hall. The blow hurt, but it was a good pain. It let me know that I was still alive.

My fingers fumbled for the doorknob. I found it, turned it quickly, and yanked hard.

Nothing happened. The lockâthe same one that had done nothing to keep Cavanaugh outâwas engaged.

Somewhere behind me, I could hear him coming. The sound of his breathing seemed to fill my ears. Or maybe it was my own.

My fingers worked feverishly. The deadbolt slid open. I pulled on the door again and felt cool air on my face.

As I gave one last quick glance back, Cavanaugh appeared in the office doorway. One hand leaned against the frame for support; he used the other to raise the gun and aim. In the dim light, the barrel looked enormous.

I wanted to move. Every instinct told me to flee. But like every bad dream I'd ever had, for a second I was frozen in place.

Cavanaugh fired again. I saw his hand jerk back from the recoil and heard the sound simultaneously. The bullet plowed into the door panel beside my cheek.

Wood splintered and flew, and I shut my eyes reflexively. That was enough to break the immobilizing spell. I slipped through the narrow opening, slammed the door shut behind me, and stumbled down the two steps to the ground.

Immediately, there were more choices.

My car was out in front of the building, but my keys were in my purse, which was still on the floor in Steve's office. Ditto my cell phone.

It was lighter outside than it had been within the building: dusk rather than dark. I could run, but Cavanaugh would see me. Could I outrun him? Still carting my new-mommy flab, I didn't think so.

Plus, of course, he had the gun.

I heard him on the other side of the door. Three feet away, with only a narrow panel of wood separating us. In another few seconds he'd be right behind me.

Now what? The words screamed in my brain.
Now what?

The Dog House was at the other end of the walkway. But the building would be locked; it had to be. Then my eyes fastened on the doggie door and I felt a ray of hope.

Strictly decorative, Steve had said, but the opening looked big enough for a small person. Could I wriggle through?

Cavanaugh had had a key to the front building; but there wouldn't have been any reason to give him access to the Dog House, would there? As long as both buildings didn't work off the same lock, this might work.

Choices rapidly dwindling, I turned and ran.

The Dog House could offer a hiding place, and even more important, a phone to call for help. At this point, I'd take whatever I could get.

Reaching the end of the walkway, I dove for the small, swinging flap. Thankfully, it wasn't barred.

My shoulders were a tight fit. I could feel my skin scrape and tear as I jerked them through the opening. Then I braced my hands on the linoleum floor and pulled. My torso slipped inside, followed by my legs and feet.

Quickly I reached around, grasped the swinging door, and pushed it shut. Pushed it still. And hoped the movement had gone unnoticed in the half-light.

My heart was pounding so hard it was difficult to concentrate on anything else. I drew in one deep, calming breath, then another. They didn't help.

So I swiveled around on the floor, pressed myself up against the inside of the door, and took a minute to just listen.

Cavanaugh was outside now. I could hear his heavy tread on the gravel path. What I couldn't tell was which way he was going.

Then the footsteps stopped.

“Listen Melanie,” he called into the gathering dusk. “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot . . .”

I snorted under my breath incredulously. Ya think?

“Look, I'm sorry. Okay? Things just got out of hand in there. I know I made a mistake. Come on out and let's talk. I'm sure we can figure out a solution.”

When hell froze over, I thought.

But the offer of amnesty was a good sign. It meant he was unsure. He didn't know where I'd gone.

I inched over to the window beside the door, cautiously raised myself up and had a look. Then quickly ducked back down as the beam from a flashlight played across the front of the building and reflected off the glass.

Damn, where had he gotten that from? Was that why he'd taken an extra half minute in the office? Too bad for me Cavanaugh was turning out to be a pretty resourceful guy.

“Come on, Melanie.” His tone was wheedling now. “There's no reason we need to be enemies. Let's try to work together on this.”

Work together on what? I wondered. Covering up one murder or committing another one? Was the man even listening to what he was saying?

I needed to get moving. I had to find a phone. I didn't remember seeing one on my earlier visits, but I hadn't been looking either. Surely there had to be one somewhere in the building.

Unwilling to stand up and risk being seen through the windows, I began to slither along the linoleum floor. Dog hair wafted up from the baseboards and tickled my nose. I held my breath so I wouldn't sneeze. Then my hand came down on a sticky spot that bore the distinct odor of old urine. That was just gross.

If I lived long enough to yell at Candy, I was definitely going to throw in a few words about cleanliness.

Cavanaugh had stopped talking now. I didn't hear him moving around either. I hoped he'd gone looking for me in the other direction, but I wasn't about to count on it.

Then suddenly, unexpectedly, the floor around me lit up. Cavanaugh had pressed the flashlight to the front window; the beam played quickly up and down the hallway. I ducked and rolled to one side, pressing myself into the shadow of the wall. Heart thumping, I hoped I'd been fast enough.

I wasn't.

Because within seconds, I heard the scrape of Cavanaugh's key in the lock. The bolt slid open. Damn, I just couldn't catch a break.

So I stood up and ran again. It was the only thing left to do.

I heard the door open. There was a small click and the overhead lights came on.

“Stop right there!”

I turned to look behind me and raced headlong into something solid. My feet flew out from under me as I somersaulted over the waist-high obstacle. Then I bounced off something soft and landed with a jarring thump on the floor.

Pain seared through my elbow and knees. My ankle bent back at an uncomfortable angle. And although I didn't think I had hit my head I could have sworn I heard bells.

I took a moment to process the pain, then slowly opened my eyes.

A low couch, the kind I'd seen in many of the dog rooms, had been pushed up against a side wall in the hallway. Probably Larry's doing; no doubt the stupid thing needed maintenance. And I'd managed to run right into it.

Then my gaze lifted. I looked past the couch and saw Cavanaugh standing over me.

And still there were bells. I shook my head slightly. Wait a minute . . . make that sirens.

It wasn't just me, I noted with relief. Cavanaugh heard them too. He stopped and listened.

The door at the front of the building stood open. Cavanaugh hadn't closed it behind him when he'd come in. And from where I lay, I could see a sweep of lights in the night sky.

Headlights, I realized, and they were racing toward us up the driveway.

“It's over,” I said.

“No.” Cavanaugh shook his head. The look in his eyes was wild.

“Put the gun down.”

“I can't.”

Cars doors slammed outside. I heard the sound of running feet. By lighting up the back building, Cavanaugh had inadvertently shown my rescuers where to go.

I pushed myself up off the floor. Ankle throbbing, I stood and faced him.

“If you shoot me now, the police will hear you. That will be two murders. The first was an accident. This one won't be.”

“Let's make a deal.” He sounded frantic. “It doesn't have to end like this.”

“No deals,” I said as the first of the officers appeared, silhouetted, in the open doorway at the end of the hall. His gun was drawn and raised.

“Freeze!” he called out. “Nobody move.”

I lifted my hands and stood totally still. Now I had two guns trained on me, which wasn't necessarily an improvement in how my night was going.

I felt rather than saw the motion next to me. There was just the slightest ripple in the air as Cavanaugh shifted the gun he was holding and pulled the trigger.

The explosion, right next to my ear, was deafening. I felt myself scream. I felt the vibration shudder through my body. But I never heard the sound.

Something warm and wet splattered over me and Cavanaugh dropped to the floor.

For a moment, I stared down at him, uncomprehending, then everything went black and I fell too.

O
verruling my objections, the police officers loaded me into a squad car and took me to the hospital to get checked out. I didn't discover how they'd happened to come to my rescue until we were on our way downtown.

When I hadn't come home as promised, and also wasn't answering repeated calls to my cell phone, Sam had gotten worried. Figuring that the police could get to Pine Ridge faster than he could, he'd called nine-one-one and reported suspicious activity taking place at the doggie day care center.

When that had failed to elicit a show of concern equal to his own, Sam had reminded the dispatch officer that the facility had been the site of an unsolved murder a few weeks earlier. Then he posited the theory that perhaps something dire was happening again.

It must have been a slow night in Stamford because three units in the area had responded to the call that went out over the radio. And once they were all on the way, their combined activity ratcheted up the adrenalin. Lights and sirens came on, gas pedals got pushed to the floor.

And luckily for me, they'd arrived just in time.

Smelling salts brought me around pretty quickly. When I opened my eyes, I was relieved to find myself lying on the ground outside the Dog House. I knew that what had transpired in that hallway would stay with me for a long time. What I'd seen and heard was already indelibly etched in my brain; I was glad not to have to revisit it.

Escorted by a solicitous patrolman, I went inside the front building to clean up. Shortly thereafter, I was bundled into a squad car and taken away. I'd managed to retrieve my purse while inside and I called Sam on the way to Saint Joseph's. Both he and Detective Minton met me there.

The detective arrived first. He and I had a long talk while an intern bustled around us, checking my vital signs, which were mostly fine, and taping up my ankle, which had turned out to be sprained.

I explained to Minton about Steve's creative bookkeeping system and the funds he'd been embezzling from his own business over the last year. Then I advised him to check with Candy about Roger Cavanaugh's status as financial backer, and suggested that if he ran a ballistics report on the gun that Cavanaugh had used to kill himself, chances were it would match the one that had murdered Steve.

Minton looked at me sternly. “It didn't occur to you to mention any of this to me sooner?”

“I wasn't sure sooner. I wanted to wait until I had proof.”

“Proof nearly got you killed.”

He did, however, shake my hand on the way out and instruct the intern to take good care of me. I took that as a good sign.

Sam showed up next. He swept the curtain aside, walked straight to the edge of the bed where I was sitting, and gathered me into his arms. It was a toss-up which one of us clung to the other more tightly.

“Don't do that again,” he said.

“I won't,” I promised.

Sam finally moved back a step, but his fingers still grasped my shoulders loosely as if he was loathe to let me go. One hand lifted and his fingers threaded through my hair as he smoothed a strand back off my forehead. His touch, so sure, so easy, was perfect. It was everything I needed.

“I'm sorry it took me so long to get here. Kevin was asleep and Davey wanted to come with me, but I couldn't . . . I didn't . . .” Sam stopped, his voice shifted slightly. “I wasn't sure what I might find, so I had to get someone to stay with them.”

I nodded, then leaned into him again, absorbing some of his warmth for myself.

“Alice was terrific. She came right over as soon as I called. She told me to tell you that she's really sorry she got you mixed up in this.”

Sam's tone lightened. I gazed upward and saw he was smiling.

“I told her not to worry,” he said. “And that none of this was her fault. You find plenty of ways to get into trouble on your own.”

“I do have bad luck with that,” I admitted.

“Bad luck, hell. You attract other peoples' problems the way a heat-seeking missile finds a target.” Fortunately, Sam was still smiling.

I hopped down off the edge of the bed, testing my weight gingerly on my sore ankle. The intern had done a good job of applying support. I wouldn't be running marathons anytime soon, but the leg felt like it would hold if I was careful.

“One more thing,” Sam said as we left the cubicle together. “Alice asked me to give you a message. She said she's finally met James. He's very much alive and thanks you for your solicitude on his behalf. Does that make any sense to you?”

“Oh yeah.” I grinned. “I'll pass the news on to Bob.”

Sam started to ask, then just shook his head.

That was fine by me. I figured we'd done enough mystery solving for one night.

As planned, Davey went to his first dog show at the end of the month. He started to get excited about competing in his class as soon as the entries were mailed in. We made a trip to Aunt Peg's house the day before the show so that Davey could help with Custer's preparations. No surprise, bathing the big Poodle in the raised bathtub was his favorite part of the job.

Show day turned out to be a family affair. Frank came to watch and brought Maggie with him. The two of them, plus Bertie, stood ringside with us as Davey's junior showmanship class was called and he took his place near the front of a line of eight competitors.

I was holding Kevin in my arms. My son looked around alertly; he seemed to be enjoying the excitement. Sam was beside us, using the video camera to record every moment of the proceedings.

Aunt Peg had walked Davey to the gate, fussing until the very last minute, but once he entered the ring he was on his own and she hurried around to join us on the other side.

“He looks so young compared with the others,” I said under my breath.

“He
is
young,” said Peg.

At nine, Davey was the minimum age to compete. But even though I was so nervous I could hardly stand still, he didn't seem to lack for confidence. Davey stacked Custer like a pro and stood back to show the Standard Poodle off to advantage as the judge made her first pass down the line.

“Custer looks gorgeous,” said Bertie.

“As well he might,” said Aunt Peg. She doesn't lack for confidence either.

“Let's hope Davey can keep up when that dog begins to stride out,” Sam commented as the judge motioned with her hand to send the class around the ring for the first time. With a much older boy holding a Pointer in front of him, the pace was going to be fast.

We needn't have worried. Davey rose to the occasion beautifully, presenting Custer like the champion he would one day be. There might have been a couple of small errors in Davey's technique, and maybe a bobble or two in concentration, but overall, it was a first performance to be proud of.

The judge placed Davey second in line behind a preteen girl who'd handled her sleek Whippet with aplomb. And when she awarded him the slender strip of red ribbon, we all applauded loudly enough and enthusiastically enough to paint ourselves as a bunch of tourists who had no idea about dog show decorum.

Standing beside the second-place marker, Davey looked over at us and grinned exuberantly, not at all displeased with the outcome or our reaction to it.

“He'll do better next time,” Aunt Peg said briskly.

I was about to offer a rebuke, but when I glanced her way I saw that Aunt Peg's eyes were a little teary. Funny thing, mine were feeling the same way.

She looked at me and smiled fondly. “That's how I felt the first time I saw you do something worthwhile in the show ring.”

I gazed at her with interest. “How?”

“As if I was passing the torch.” Aunt Peg reached over and gave Kevin's head a pat.

“The next generation,” she said. “May they go on and outshine us all.”

BOOK: Doggie Day Care Murder

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