Doggie Day Care Murder (5 page)

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Authors: Laurien Berenson

BOOK: Doggie Day Care Murder
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“I trust you asked all the right questions.”
I gulped. By her standards, possibly not. Conversation with Aunt Peg always had a way of making me feel like I was on the hot seat.
“I took a tour,” I said brightly, “and checked out the accommodations. I saw outdoor paddocks and indoor playrooms, and I met the groomer. The dogs have televisions in their rooms and couches to lie on while they watch.”
“That's the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
“They looked very comfortable.”
“Dogs don't need television to make them happy. They need people, and games, and someone who cares about them.”
“Pine Ridge seemed to be doing a good job with those things too.”
Aunt Peg narrowed her gaze. “Did you ask which vet they have on call in case of emergencies?”
Missed that one. And it was a good thought.
“Um . . . no.”
“How about which food they feed and why they chose that particular brand? Hopefully the deciding factor wasn't that someone offered them a bulk discount.”
Oops. Strike two.
“Don't worry,” Aunt Peg said briskly. “New mothers are allowed to be distracted. I'm sure you'll do better on your second visit.”
“Second visit?”
“You did intend to go back, didn't you? Otherwise how will you know whether or not you simply caught them on a good day? Believe me, Berkley will thank you for it.”
Not Alice, Berkley. Did you catch that?
“Now then,” said Aunt Peg. “Let's get to my news. I've had a positively brilliant idea. And you hardly have to do anything at all.”
“Me?” I put down my scone. “How did I get involved?”
As if I even needed to ask. Aunt Peg had a plan, which meant that everyone in the vicinity should strap themselves in because, like it or not, we were all along for the ride.
5
“J
unior showmanship,” she announced.
“What about it?” I asked.
Junior showmanship is a dog show competition for child handlers. There are three age categories and both Novice and Open divisions are offered. Exhibitors can show any breed of dog they want in the classes, and they're judged on their presentation and handling skills, rather than the quality of the dog itself.
Once he turned nine, Davey had become eligible for the youngest division. But although he'd spent much of his life accompanying us to dog shows, he'd never shown any desire to enter the ring himself.
“Davey and I have been talking about it,” said Aunt Peg.
“You have?”
There was no point in trying not to sound surprised. Aunt Peg had pulled something off behind my back and we both knew it. The satisfaction on her face was easy to read.
“Well, more than talking, actually. I've been giving him a few lessons.”
“Handling lessons?”
“Do try to keep up, Melanie. That is what we're talking about, isn't it?”
I stared at her suspiciously. Davey enjoyed playing soccer and basketball. He'd tried a little acting and he liked to write short stories. He had plenty going on in his life without being coerced into adding another activity that suited Aunt Peg's interests more than his own.
“Whose idea was this?” I asked.
“Davey's, of course.”
I sat and waited.
“And perhaps a little of mine.”
Now we were getting closer to the truth.
“Admit it, you've been very busy lately,” said Aunt Peg.
“I had a baby three months ago! There's a reason I've been busy.”
“Nevertheless, Davey might have been receiving a little less attention than he was used to.”
I sat back in my chair, feeling deflated. That hit me where it hurt. Had I been so wrapped up in Kevin and his needs that I'd been shortchanging Davey? Was it possible that I'd been too sleep deprived to notice that my older son was feeling left out?
Motherhood. If there's a harder job, I'd like to know what it is.
I looked down at my plate and realized that while I was listening, I'd managed to eat the entire scone. With butter.
“Did Davey tell you that?” I asked.
“Not in so many words.”
Drawing information out of Aunt Peg was like trying to call a hunting dog off a scent. You might as well just give up and wait until she was darn good and ready to give in.
“Davey didn't say anything. But the circumstances speak for themselves. You have a new husband and a new baby. There have been a lot of changes in Davey's life recently, along with many new things for him to adapt to.”
“You're talking about changes that Davey wanted . . . changes that he likes . . .”
I heard myself protesting and stopped. Aunt Peg was making me feel guiltier by the moment. Which, knowing Aunt Peg, was probably her intention.
“With everything else that's going on in your life right now, I thought it might do him good to have a special project to work on by himself. Something that was all about him and nobody else.”
“But junior showmanship?” I asked dubiously.
“Think about it,” said Aunt Peg. “It's what I know. It's not as if I was going to teach him tap dancing or origami. Showing dogs is what I'm good at.”
Even so. “Does Davey want to learn to show dogs?” I asked.
“Funny that you can't answer that question for yourself,” said Aunt Peg. “How is it that you've never asked him?”
“I have—” I said, then stopped and thought.
Maybe I hadn't. Maybe I'd been waiting for him to indicate an interest on his own. Kids these days, especially those who grew up in high-achieving, high-stress areas like Fairfield County, were pressured to learn, and perform, and excel in so many different ways. Whenever possible, I tried to back off from adding more expectations from Davey's already full agenda. Maybe I had been remiss.
“You've been giving him lessons?” I asked.
Aunt Peg nodded. “He's quite good for his age. Considering the length of his arms and his stride, someone his size would probably do better with a smaller dog. But the Poodles are very accommodating and they know what's expected of them, which helps. So between them they manage to make it work.”
I gazed around the room. All of Aunt Peg's Standard Poodles, with the exception of Custer, had competed in the show ring long enough to earn the fifteen points required to complete their championships. They were probably just as good at teaching Davey what was expected of him as Aunt Peg was.
“And Davey's enjoying this?”
That seemed to be my role in this conversation, just asking one semi-repetitive question after another. But I wanted to make sure that I got things exactly right. For Davey's sake and my own.
“The few lessons we've had, very much so. He likes being the one holding the end of the leash—and having someone he can tell what to do. And of course, the Poodles play along and let him think he's in charge.”
They would.
“So now what?” I asked.
“Now we let him practice some more until we think he's ready to venture out into the real world and try his hand at a few dog shows. I imagine there will be someplace this summer where he can get his start.”
“He'll need to show a Poodle in hair in order to be competitive.”
All of Sam's and my dogs were cut down. Once a Poodle had stopped showing, maintaining the elaborate clip required for the ring took entirely too much time to be feasible. Although Davey would be allowed to show a Poodle that wasn't wearing the traditional continental trim, he would have a harder time winning if his dog didn't look the way the judges expected it to.
Aunt Peg smiled. “I've been having him practice with Hope, so there's no long hair to get in the way of everything else he needs to learn, but I'm sure that Custer will be happy to step in and help out when the time comes. Indeed, I suspect the two of them might have quite a bit of fun together.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Aunt Peg raised a brow. Just one. Don't ask me how she does it.
“For starting all this behind your back?”
“For noticing something that I should have.”
“Oh my dear.” Aunt Peg laughed. “You must have realized by now. I notice everything.”
Wasn't that the truth?
 
 
On the way home, I called and checked in with Alice.
Most people can drive and talk on the phone at the same time; I see them doing it all the time. For me, however, the maneuver is a major challenge. Either I'm thinking about my driving or I'm thinking about the conversation I'm holding. When I try to do both, my brain short-circuits.
Which was why shortly after she picked up, I took a wrong turn. It would have been fine if I'd noticed where I was going, but of course I was so busy talking that I didn't. So instead of driving home, I drove to Alice's house.
On some convoluted level, I'm sure that made sense to my subconscious.
We'd barely gotten past the small talk before I found myself turning onto the road where the Brickmans lived. Which, as it happens, was also where Davey and I had lived until fairly recently. The small, Cape Cod house we'd shared was now the residence of Davey's father, my ex-husband, Bob.
It's kind of a long story how that came about. Just another one of those things that seems to make more sense when you're in the process than it does later when you look back and try to explain how it all happened. But since I was already in the neighborhood, I figured I might as well stop in and see Bob later on too.
Alice is well acquainted with most of my foibles, and I'd already explained about the driving thing while we were talking, so she was standing out on the sidewalk, waiting for me, when I turned onto the road. She had Berkley on a leash beside her. The Golden Retriever looked thrilled at the prospect of an unexpected, midafternoon walk.
Alice snapped her phone shut as I got out of the Volvo. Stepping up onto the curb, I reached down and greeted Berkley first. He was wriggling in place with excitement; his long, feathered tail lashed back and forth across Alice's legs.
“Berkley, sit,” she said firmly.
The Golden had been to obedience school. In fact, I seemed to recall that he'd taken the six-week beginner course three times. But since no one had taken the time to practice with him between sessions, much of what he'd learned in class hadn't stuck.
Now Berkley brushed his big butt briefly across the ground before using the position as a launching pad to spring back up in the air. I jerked back just in time. Otherwise the dog's broad head might have broken my nose.
“Sorry about that.” Alice shortened the leash and hauled him back to her side. “He gets a little exuberant around people he likes.”
As far as I could tell, Berkley liked everybody. Which made exuberance his way of life. Trying to hold him still, Alice looked a little desperate. She might have outweighed Berkley, but when it came to energy level, he definitely had her beat.
“Let's walk,” I proposed.
When the Golden Retriever's first step turned into a high-spirited lunge, I reached over and took the leash from Alice, giving it a little snap so that Berkley would know he'd changed handlers. His collar was made of thick, rolled leather, however, and I doubted he even felt the tug. Nevertheless, once we were moving, he was happy to accompany us. He matched his strides to ours and fell into step.
“I'm thinking I'll lie,” said Alice.
“About what?”
“You know, on the application for Pine Ridge? Whatever kinds of questions they ask about your dog's behavior, I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to tell some big, fat, whopping lies.” She sighed heavily. “I'm a terrible person, aren't I?”
“You've got to be kidding.”
“No,” Alice said sadly. “I'm pretty sure I'm terrible.”
“Not about that, about the application.” I slowed my steps as Berkley paused to sniff an interesting tree. “Are you serious? I know you said there was a waiting list, but it never occurred to me that dogs actually had to apply to get in.”
“That's what they told me on the phone. I've been worrying ever since that he wouldn't get accepted.”
It was bad enough that getting children into the right schools and activities was a trial. Who would have guessed that dogs had to be judged worthy as well?
“Nobody said anything about that to me when I was there,” I said. “And I met both the owners.”
“Steve and Candy Pine, right? I saw their pictures in the brochure they sent. And of course everything seemed perfect on the web site. But how did the place look to you in person?”
Berkley, having finished lifting his leg, took off down the sidewalk like a dog on a mission. I could have corrected him, but I figured power-walking probably burned off more calories than strolling. Beside us, Alice adjusted the length of her stride to keep up.
“There's a little gray-and-white Lhasa Apso that lives right around the corner,” she said. “Her owner absolutely refuses to have her spayed. So twice a year, Berkley thinks he's in love.”
Luckily the Lhasa was nowhere in sight. Berkley slowed briefly, lifted his nose to sniff the air, then kept going.
“I thought Pine Ridge looked great,” I said. “Much better than I was expecting. It doesn't have the feel of a boarding kennel at all. And while some of the things they offer seemed a little over the top, I have to admit that the dogs I saw there looked pretty happy.”
“Good.” Alice nodded. “Then it's settled. I'll download the forms from the web site and fill them out.”
“Not so fast. Aunt Peg seems to think we need to make another visit. You know, so that we're sure it's the right place for him?”
Alice didn't bother to argue. She knew enough about my aunt to know that where dogs were concerned, her word was pretty much law.
“I suppose I could find some free time tomorrow,” she said.
“You can fill out the application while you're there. Kill two birds with one stone.”
She glanced down at Berkley dubiously. The Golden looked up at her and grinned, his long pink tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.
“You don't suppose they're going to want to interview him, do you?”
“I can't imagine.”
Well actually, once I stopped and thought about it, I could.

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