Underdog (20 page)
It was inevitable that the conversation would eventually work its way around to dogs and dog people, but that didn't happen until we'd been seated in the shadow of a large Palladian window overlooking a lighted terrace with gardens beyond. At the other end of the room, a fire burned cozily in a stone fireplace. Though most of the tables were full, they were so well spaced that we might as well have been alone. The room was hushed, softly lit, perfect.
The sommelier poured the Bordeaux that Sam had chosen and discreetly withdrew.
“Peg tells me that the Ridgefield police are quite certain Jenny Maguire was murdered,” said Sam.
I sipped at my wine, and nodded. It didn't surprise me that Peg and Sam had been talking about what I'd found out. Aunt Peg was just old fashioned enough to enjoy having a man's shoulder to lean on when the going got tough.
“Do you really think Jenny was planning to fake her own suicide?”
“I think there's a good possibility. That would explain the note, the missing jewelry, and why she did what she did with Ziggy.”
“I don't know Rick Maguire except to say hello to. He seems like he can be pretty intense at times, but I'm not sure I can imagine his wife feeling she had to go to those lengths to escape him.”
“Jenny had filed for divorce once before, but apparently Rick convinced her to change her mind.”
“There you go.” Sam lifted his wine goblet and light from the fire flickered across its facets. “Maybe she didn't know what she wanted.”
“Maybe she knew what she wanted and was afraid to go after it. Jenny told me she was going away, Sam. At the time, I thought she meant she was taking a trip. But now I'm sure she meant to run away for good.”
“Not everybody runs, Melanie.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just what I said. Some relationships are better than others, but everyone doesn't solve their problems by running away.”
“You think I'm taking this too personally.”
“A month ago, you told me you didn't know Jenny that well. Now I'm wondering how you got so involved.”
I shifted in my chair. “It just happened.”
“I see.”
The waiter came and took our order and I thought after that the subject would be dropped. And it was, in a way. But Sam was sly, I had to give him that. Because when he asked his next question, I knew I should have seen it coming.
“Tell me about Bob,” he said.
I stuffed a piece of buttered bread in my mouth and decided it was too full to speak.
“Davey's father,” he prompted. “Your ex-husband.”
Oh,
that
Bob.
that
Bob.
Twenty
“There's not much to tell,” I said.
“I think there is. I think there must be.”
“Oh?” The word sounded hard and defensive. I reached for my wine and gulped it with less than proper respect. As soon as I set the glass down, it was refilled.
“There's been something standing between us from the beginning. You'd like to believe it's Davey, but it isn't. Peg tells me it's Bob.”
“Aunt Peg should mind her own business,” I said with feeling.
“She wants you to be happy. Is that so bad?”
“She wants me to be her version of happy, with a husband to take care of me and a house full of Standard Poodles.”
“Not the worst thing that could happen. Tell me about Bob.”
“You'll be bored.”
“I'll cope.”
I sighed then. It was his mistake, but I guessed I could humor him. “Bob and I met young and married too soon. I had visions of swing sets and picket fences. He thought we were Wendy and Peter Pan.”
“You clashed right from the beginning then.”
“Actually no. The problem was, we didn't talk about our expectations at all. So for the first few years we thought we were doing pretty well.”
“What happened?”
“I got pregnant. It was an accident. We'd agreed to wait. But I was delighted.”
“And your husband wasn't.”
“That's putting it mildly. Bob was shocked, dismayed, surprised as hell. How could this have happened? That kind of thing. As if he hadn't been right there at the time.”
Sam's lips pursed at that. “And then?”
“One day when Davey was ten months old, Bob left while I was at the supermarket. Talk about being knocked for a loop. I had no idea. There I was being the proper little wife and mother, taking my son in the snugli to go pick up formula, while Bob was home packing up the stereo in the car.”
I shrugged my shoulders angrily. I'd put these memories away a long time ago. Dredging them up again wasn't pleasant. “The really stupid thing was that I didn't even have a clue. I knew things weren't great between us, but I figured we'd work on it. I thought that was what couples who loved each other did.”
“Where's Bob now?”
“Last I heard, Texas. That was three years ago, so the information's probably out of date. Not that it really matters. He has his life and I have mine. There's no need for us to be in touch.”
“What about Davey? What about child support?”
“Bob didn't want Davey then, and I don't imagine anything's changed since. He could see his son if he wanted to. So far, he hasn't made the effort. He's never going to be Davey's father in anything but the biological sense and frankly, for Davey's sake, I think it's better that he stays away. As to financial support, let's just say it's lucky I have a secure job.”
“You could take him to court.”
“I could, but what would be the point? He's supposed to pay now, and he doesn't. Besides,” I said defensively, “Davey and I are managing just fine.”
“Just fine,” Sam repeated. “Except that even though you claim to have put Bob behind you, you still manage your relationships in light of what happened with him.”
“That's not trueâ”
“No? Then why do I get the impression you keep expecting me to take off? I'm not your ex-husband, Melanie. And for all you keep trying to throw up road blocks between us, I'm not going anywhere.”
I wanted to believe that. I really did. But it just didn't jibe with what I'd known of life so far. In my experience women were the ones who threw themselves heart and soul into a relationship, who pledged undying love and really meant it. Men were looking for something easier; a commitment that wouldn't inconvenience Sunday football games or nights out with the guys. Davey and I were worth more than that, damn it.
Sam backed off after that and I was just as pleased to have the subject changed. Still, I found myself thinking about what he had said during the rest of the meal. Sam certainly wasn't Bob; and I was older and wiser than I had been. But maturity had brought with it caution, and also some finely honed survival instincts.
By the light of a dozen flame-tipped candles, I gazed over at Sam. We'd both been too full for dessert, but were enticed by the notion of vanilla mousse. He'd ordered one portion and two spoons. He dragged his through the thickest part of the whipped cream, then offered it to me with a grin.
If ever there was ever a man who tempted me to chuck survival to the wind, this was the one. Some women dive into icy cold water. I'm the type who works my way down the stairs, one agonizing inch at a time. I took Sam up on that offer of whipped cream, then I took a deep breath and dipped in my big toe.
Sam said he wasn't going to leave, so I invited him to Thanksgiving dinner.
“Thanksgiving?”
“You know, Thursday. Unless you have other plans.”
He thought for a long moment, then said. “No, I'm free.”
“You don't have toâ”
“I want to.”
“Good.” I relaxed, feeling pleased. “I cook a pretty great turkey, if I do say so myself. I'm having the whole family over.”
He paled slightly. “
Whole
family?”
Whole
family?”
“Don't worry, there aren't that many of us. Aunt Peg and Davey you already know, of course. Then there's my brother, Frank. He lives in Cos Cob. And my Aunt Rose. She was Peg's late husband's sister. My father's, too.”
“That's all?”
“Oh, and Peter. Aunt Rose left the convent last summer to get married. He's her husband, the ex-priest.”
A smile twitched around the corners of his mouth. “Sounds like an interesting group.”
“You don't know the half of it. Rose and Peg have been feuding for years. Putting those two in the same room is like adding nitro to glycerin.”
“Nitro to glycerin. I see.”
“I figure you can help run interference.”
“Of course. What about Frank? Where does he fit in?”
“Frank.” I sighed. “He means well.”
“That sounds promising.”
“Then maybe I'm giving him too much credit. I wouldn't want to mislead you.”
“I'm sure you wouldn't. Are we done yet? You're sure there's no razor-wielding uncle who's going to jump out of the closet? No long-lost cousin home from the institution for the holidays?”
“You're not taking me seriously.”
“On the contrary, I'm taking you very seriously. You're trying to scare me away.”
“I am not.”
“Your aunt really left the convent to marry a priest?”
“Ex-priest,” I corrected. “Peter's really very nice and normal. He's teaching college in New London now.”
“Thanksgiving dinner,” Sam said cheerfully. “Sounds great. What shall I bring?”
“Nothing alcoholic. Frank has a real appreciation for fine wine, and I'd just as soon he cut down.”
“Problem?”
“Not yet. But they say alcoholism runs in families.”
“So they do,” Sam muttered.
I felt bad. All right, I felt terrible. But it was for his own good. Sam might as well know the worst right off the bat. Then if he wanted to, he could bail out gracefully. Davey and I might cry a little, but we'd recover.
We polished off the mousse and Sam called for the check. At least Joanie wouldn't have to worry about too late a night.
Â
“Good news,” said Aunt Peg.
It was early Sunday morning and I figured she was calling to see how my date with Sam had gone. Not that I'd told her we were going out, but when it comes to this particular relationship, Aunt Peg seems to have spies everywhere. In fact she'd gotten me when I was still in bed. Asleep. Alone. So what else was new?
“What's good news?”
“I talked to Crawford yesterday and he was happy to intercede.” Aunt Peg chuckled. “I gather he was just as pleased to sic you in another direction. You and I are going to see Mrs. Byrd this afternoon.”
“Where?”
“Pound Ridge. The shows are up in Boston this weekend, but Mrs. Byrd stayed home. We're expected at four for tea.”
That conjured up images of white gloves and fine china. As Davey ran into my bedroom in his pajamas, bounced off the headboard and landed, laughing, on the pillow beside my head, I thought, what is wrong with this picture?
“I'd better start calling around for a baby-sitter.”
“For who?” Davey demanded.
“You.”
“I just had a baby-sitter.”
“Well, now you're going to have another.”
“No, I'm not!”
“Melanie?” said Aunt Peg.
I juggled the receiver to the other ear and fended off Davey's mock attack one-handed. “Right here.”
“You can come?”
“Of course I'm coming. I wouldn't miss it.” My son was glaring daggers at me. “I may have to bring Davey, though.”
“See what you can do. I'll pick you up at three-thirty.”
What I could do, as it turned out, was devote the morning and early afternoon to wearing Davey and Faith out. We had Joey Brickman over for a couple of hours in the morning, then went for a walk on the beach. By the time we returned from a game of Frisbee in Binney Park at two, I figured he was probably tired enough to insure his good behavior at Mrs. Byrd's. Of course, then he dropped off in a nap. When Aunt Peg arrived to pick us up, Davey was awake, alert, and once more raring to go.
Florence Byrd lived in a red brick Georgian mansion with tall, white columns, wrought-iron balconies and leaded windows. It took us a full two minutes to drive from the gate posts to the house on an elm-lined driveway that bisected several dozen acres of gently rolling meadow. Along the way, we passed two pheasants and a small herd of deer. Even Davey was impressed.
“Does Mrs. Byrd live in the town hall?” he asked as we climbed the front steps to the door.
“No, she just has a very nice house.” I took a firmer grip on his hand. “Remember what we discussed about being on your best behavior?”
“Sure.”
I'm always suspicious when capitulation comes that easily, but there was no time to dwell on the possibilities. Aunt Peg had rung the bell and the door was opened almost immediately by a maid in a starched navy uniform. She showed us into the library where Mrs. Byrd was waiting.
The room was massive and very beautiful. French doors opening to an outside terrace ran along one wall. Two others held mahogany bookshelves extending all the way up to a ceiling so high that a ladder was needed to reach the upper tiers. The remaining wall was dominated by a gray marble fireplace. Above the mantelpiece was an oil painting of pastoral fields and Thoroughbred horses. Richard Stone Reeves, I thought.
The room was large enough to contain several groupings of furniture. Mrs. Byrd was seated in a wing chair just in front of the fireplace, her legs covered by a plaid wool throw. Behind the brass screen, a fire burned and crackled, adding to the heat in the room. As the maid withdrew and closed the door behind her, Florence Byrd set aside the book she'd been reading and looked at her watch.
“You're punctual,” she said. “I like that. It's better if I don't get up. I imagine you can find your way over.”
We crossed the room and introduced ourselves. Mrs. Byrd extended a hand to Aunt Peg, then gave me a narrowed look. “We've met.”
“Yes, last week at the dog show.”
“Crawford didn't tell me he was sending me people I'd already met. I hate having to repeat myself.” She turned to Davey. “Who's this?”
“My son, Davey.” A sharp poke between the shoulder blades had the desired effect and he offered his hand.
“Nobody brings children to visit me,” Florence Byrd said decisively. “I don't like children. Never had any of my own. I always had better things to do.” Her foot tapped the floor beneath her chair and I realized she was feeling for a buzzer. “Dirk will entertain him while we talk. Is that all right with you, young man?”
Davey looked up at me and I nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Does Dirk know how to play games?”
“I don't think so. Maybe you can teach him some.”
The double doors at the other end of the room opened. Dirk stood in the doorway. “Yes, Mrs. Byrd?”
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