Watchdog (21 page)

“I'm telling you,” Liz said firmly, “Marcus saved the puppy from being put to sleep. She was sweet and adorable, but the other guy didn't want her. I asked Marcus how anyone could kill a baby like that, and he said that was just the way some breeders are. If a puppy wasn't perfect, they didn't want anything to do with it. It was lucky for that puppy that Marcus was there, and that he was just too kind and caring to let such a terrible thing happen.”

Kind and caring. Liz Barnum had to be the only person in the world who'd apply those particular words to Marcus Rattigan. Now that he was gone, I guessed she'd forgotten how he'd dumped her after his divorce. Or maybe, faced with the prospect of Gloria as her new boss, Liz's memory of Marcus had taken on a rose-colored hue.

I'd learned all I could from her; it was time to move on. “Is Ben here today?”

Liz didn't even hesitate. She waved a hand toward the hallway and said, “Third door on your right. I know he's busy, so I won't bother to announce you.”

Right. Liz might say she wasn't leaving Anaconda, but an attitude like that told me she already had one foot out the door.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don't mention it.”

The door to Ben Welch's office was closed. I knocked, then opened it without waiting for a response. Ben was hunched over a messy pile of papers on his desk. His face was twisted into a grimace, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses rode low on his nose. He was flipping pages with one hand; the other massaged his temples. He looked like a man who was working on a major headache.

“Liz, I thought I told you—” He looked up and stopped.

“Hi, I'm Melanie Travis.” I crossed the room quickly before he could tell me not to. “We met last week.”

“Yes, of course.” Despite his words, Ben looked as though he hadn't a clue who I was. Nor did he care. “Where's Liz?”

“I don't know. She wasn't at her desk when I came in.” It wasn't really a lie, I told myself. More in the nature of damage control. “Do you have a minute?”

“Not really—”

“It's about Marcus Rattigan's murder.”

“You're a reporter, then.” Ben sat back in his chair and frowned.

I couldn't see any point in beating around the bush. Judging by his demeanor, Ben wasn't going to allow me much time. “No, I'm what you might call an interested bystander. Marcus Rattigan kept a copy of his will in this office. Were you aware of its contents before he was murdered?”

Ben's expression tightened. “I have no intention of answering that question.”

“Did you know that Gloria was Rattigan's chief beneficiary and that after they divorced, he never got around to updating the document?”

“That was none of my business.” Ben got up and came around from behind the desk. “And it certainly isn't any of yours.”

He grasped my arm in a determined grip. Out-muscled and outweighed, I turned and went along meekly as he marched me toward the door. We were close enough that I could smell his aftershave, Geoffrey Beene's Grey Flannel. Too bad, I'd always liked the scent before.

“What did Gloria promise you in return for acting as her spy?” I asked in the few seconds I had left. “Did she tell you that someday you'd be running the company?”

I'd hoped to shake him up, but Ben's composure didn't waver. “Gloria wasn't in any position to make promises regarding this company,” he said firmly. “And I wasn't in need of her backing. As to Marcus's will, whatever decisions he made regarding the disposition of Anaconda Properties were entirely his own.”

That wasn't an answer, it was corporate doublespeak for butt out. Before I could tell him so, Ben propelled me the last few inches into the hallway and shut the door between us.

As I strode down the hallway and let myself out, Liz was nowhere to be seen. The phone on her desk was ringing stridently. It didn't sound as though anyone cared enough to pick up. I hoped the missed call was an important one.

Thanks to the early dismissal, I still had time when I got home to change into my running clothes and take Faith for a quick jog around the neighborhood before Davey's bus arrived. I passed the Brickmans' house on my way home. Alice, who'd been standing in the doorway watching for the bus, came out to say hello.

She looked at Faith and shook her head. “If that dog grows any more hair, you're going to need a lawnmower to get through it. Isn't she cold with her butt all shaved down like that?”

“I don't think so.”

The winter before, Faith had been in the puppy trim, which meant she had a blanket of dense hair all over her body. This would be the first time we'd faced the cold weather in the continental trim. So far, Faith didn't seem to mind. As we talked about her, she jumped up on her hind feet and twirled in an exuberant circle.

“Besides, the hair grows pretty fast so there's usually some cover back there. The reason she looks so naked is that I'm showing her tomorrow so I just clipped her yesterday. Now I have to go in and give her a bath.”

“Yikes,” said Alice, considering the possibility. “In the tub?”

“In the tub,” I confirmed.

“Better you than me. How long does it take?”

“The bath isn't so bad. For the blow dry, probably three hours.”

“You're nuts,” said Alice.

I didn't debate it. The heady addiction to the shows and the competition is hard to explain to someone who's never experienced it.

“Why don't I take Davey when he gets off the bus?” said Alice. “At least, then, he'll be out of your hair. Three hours?” She glanced down at her watch. “He'd better stay for dinner, too. It's only meatloaf. There's always room for one more.”

I could have hugged her. Having done this job before, I knew it went a whole lot faster when I didn't have to juggle Davey's needs at the same time. Instead I settled for offering to reciprocate the next time she got stuck. These things always seem to even out in the end.

Blowing a show coat dry is manual labor, plain and simple. It's one of those jobs that requires lots of patience and minimal talent. So as I worked I had plenty of time to think.

I pondered Marcus Rattigan's relationships with his ex-wife, his co-breeder, his neighbor, and his secretary. I wondered how much of an impact localized protest groups had ever had upon his business and whether he was accustomed to taking his vice-president into his confidence. All in all, I had lots of great questions and no great answers to go with them.

As a teacher, I found the situation doubly frustrating. I'm used to being the person standing in the front of the room who knows what's going on. Not this time. If solving Rattigan's murder had been a class assignment, I'd have been sitting in the back row with my head down, hoping desperately not to get called on.

I finished Faith by seven and called down the block to see how Davey was doing. Alice said the kids were fine, and the happy shrieks I heard in the background were proof enough for me. When she told me to grab some dinner and come by to get him whenever I was ready, I didn't argue.

Instead I made another phone call. So far, I'd taken John Monaghan's word that he'd organized the neighborhood protest group at Rattigan's behest. Now I wondered if that was wise. Everything I'd learned thusfar said he'd lied about Winter's litter. And if one topic was open to prevarication, why not another?

Audrey DiMatteo picked up on the fifth ring. When I gave my name, she remembered me immediately.

“You're the lady with all the questions. The one who was so interested in Marcus Rattigan.”

“Right. Tonight I'm interested in someone else.”

“So what?” Her tone wasn't encouraging.

“So I'm hoping you might be able to help me.”

“What are you offering in return?”

She'd responded well to bribery the first time, but unfortunately, I didn't have another tidbit handy. “How about a chance to help bring a murderer to justice?”

Audrey laughed at that. “Who do you think you are? Wonder Woman?”

I wish.

“Look,” I said. “The guy that was in business with Rattigan on the coffee bar conversion is my brother. Right now he's the number one suspect for a murder he didn't commit. All I'm trying to do is offer the police some other options.”

“You didn't mention anything about that before.”

“I didn't think it was important.”

“Maybe I would have.”

Audrey was silent for a moment. I wondered if she was trying to figure out a way to use that information for leverage. If so, she was welcome to it. First I had to keep my brother out of jail, then I'd worry about his future business prospects.

“I only have one question. It's really simple.”

“All right,” Audrey said grudgingly.

“When you were protesting the development of the Waldheim property, did you ever think of coordinating your efforts with the other group, the one that was working against the coffee bar conversion?”

“Monaghan's people?” Her answer was quick and decisive. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Like I told you before, POW is just a group of concerned citizens who want to do our part for the environment. Those other people are way beyond where we wanted to go. Our members are not looking to resurrect the sixties and we're sure not into destroying any property.”

I took a deep breath before continuing. “And they were?”

“What do you think? You told me yourself there'd been some accidents on the site. A man broke his leg, didn't he? And that doesn't even count what happened to Rattigan.”

“Yes, but how do you know that Monaghan's group was behind that stuff?”

“If you mean do I have proof, the answer is no. But I heard things, and John Monaghan showed up at one of our meetings. Hey, it's hard enough for a group like ours to get credibility, we sure weren't looking to take on any fanatics. Monaghan said he had some ideas that might be helpful for us, you know, that would step up the action. I told the guy to take a hike.”

“Why didn't you tell me this before?”

“Why didn't you ask?”

Good question.

“Do the police know this?” I asked.

“How the hell should I know?”

“Well, did you tell them or not?”

“I might have. I don't really remember. At the time I was a whole lot more concerned about how Rattigan's death was going to affect us.”

“And?”

Audrey snorted. “As far as we can tell, the reins of power passed from a money grubbing developer to his money grubbing ex-wife. Life's a bitch sometimes.”

“Tell me about it.”

I hung up the phone, fixed Faith's food, and ate a salami and cheese sandwich while she picked at her gourmet kibble. If Detective Petrie didn't know what Audrey had told me, he definitely needed to talk to her. I doubted he'd be happy to hear from me again, but that was his tough luck.

I could call on him in the morning, I thought, but that would make me late for the show. I glanced down at Faith. Freshly bathed, clipped, and brushed out, she looked gorgeous. Better still, she looked like a winner.

Petrie could wait, I decided. I'd get in touch with him tomorrow afternoon, when I got back from the show.

I gulped as a sudden, unnerving thought hit me. Did this mean I was turning into a dog person?

 

The Flushing Meadows Dog Show is held in Queens at an outdoor park that sits in the shadow of Shea Stadium. In late October, that means you're taking a chance, weather-wise. Best case, there'll be plenty of sun and cool autumn temperatures; worst case, you'll wish you'd never gotten out of bed that morning. The year before this had been Faith's first show and the weather had been beautiful. This time around, we weren't so lucky.

It wasn't raining, but that was about the best you could say. The thermometer hovered around fifty, and a stiff wind blew through the park, toppling portable chairs and causing the tents to rattle and flap. Not the kind of day I'd have chosen to spend standing outside under a tent, grooming a dog.

I'd already pulled socks on over my stockings and wasted ten minutes rummaging in the back of the closet for Davey's parka from the year before. Predictably, when I found it, the sleeves were too short and the hem barely reached his waist. I zipped him into it anyway, and told him he looked fine. Better warm than fashionable.

As I pulled up beside the green and white striped grooming tent to unload, the canvas roof dipped and billowed above us. I was dressed in a turtleneck, wool sweater, and corduroy skirt; but even so, I felt the chill as soon as I got out of the car.

Several of the professional handlers had tied plastic windbreaks to the tent poles, which served as partial walls around their grooming areas. Other exhibitors huddled over steaming cups of coffee, their chilled fingers wrapped around the hot mugs. Next week the indoor circuit started. For now, we all had to suffer through.

As usual, Aunt Peg had beaten me there. I found her setup and unloaded my grooming table, crate, and tack box into the area she'd saved. Usually at dog shows, the exhibitors' tent is filled to capacity. Today, there was plenty of room.

Not that I imagined for one minute that any exhibitor had stayed home because of the inclement weather. Dog show people are a hardy bunch. Once an entry is made and a good judge anticipated, they've been known to brave blizzards and hurricanes with equal aplomb. More likely, the empty tent meant that most exhibitors were showing and leaving, rather than turning the event into an all day affair as they might have done in nicer weather.

“Good lord,” said Aunt Peg, when I got back from parking my car. “You look like Nanook of the North. Don't tell me you're wearing kneesocks. Are you sure you wouldn't like a muffler to wrap around your head?”

I hopped Faith up onto her table, which I'd lined up beside Hope's. “At least I'm almost warm. You must be freezing.”

The unwritten rules of dog show etiquette dictate that exhibitors dress for the ring as they would for any other important social occasion. For the women, this means skirts or dresses; for the men, jackets and ties. Aunt Peg was wearing a high necked corduroy dress in a shade of green that had obviously been chosen to complement her dog rather than her skin tone. Her only concession to the weather was the down vest she'd buttoned on over it.

“I feel fine. Heaven knows what everyone is complaining about.” She stopped brushing Hope and helped clear a spot on top of her crate where we could get Davey settled. “Are you cold?” she asked her nephew.

“Not me, I'm Batman. I have superpowers.” Davey unzipped his jacket to show her that he was wearing the jersey from his Halloween costume underneath.

“You don't say. I thought Superman was the one with the powers.”

Standing behind my son, I quickly shook my head. The costume was already made. As far as I was concerned, it was much too late for any discussion. “Batman has a cool car. Don't forget about that.”

“The Batmobile!” Davey cried, pulling his model out of the bag of toys we'd brought. “Can I get down and drive it around?”

“I guess so. Just don't go too far and don't get in anyone's way.”

Supplying his own sound effects, Davey zoomed away down the aisle.

Aunt Peg watched him for a moment, then reached over and flicked her fingers through the shorter hair on Faith's chest. Though it had been straight the night before when I'd finished blowing her dry, now it was beginning to kink and curl.

“You rushed through her bath, didn't you? You're never going to get the job done right until you learn to take your time.”

“As soon as I have more time, I'll use it. Besides, in this wind, I doubt if the judge will even be able to see the difference. Guess who I saw yesterday?”

“In the afternoon, you mean? When you should have been home working on your dog?” Once Aunt Peg has a complaint in hand, she hates to let go until she's sure her point is made.

Instead of answering, I opened my grooming bag and pulled out slicker and pin brushes, a comb, and a spray bottle filled with water that I hooked on the edge of the table. Faith, who knew what was coming, turned a tight circle once around the rubber matted tabletop and lay down.

Poodle coats are brushed on each side, layer by layer, from the middle of the back to the bottom of the stomach. The hair is always brushed upward, not down; and the left side, which will face the judge when the dog is in the ring, is always done last. It takes a good amount of time to brush out a Standard Poodle, so instead of arguing, I simply got down to work.

“All right,” Peg said finally. “Who?”

“Liz Barnum.”

“Marcus's secretary?” Her fingers flew through Hope's hair as she talked. Peg's eyes were on the show coat, but I had her attention. “What did she have to say?”

“That the reason Rattigan gave the only bitch puppy from Winter's litter to his next door neighbor was that John Monaghan wanted to cull the litter and was planning to put her to sleep.”

“No!”

“That's what she told me.”

“She must have been mistaken.”

“Or misinformed. Her memory seems pretty good, but who knows what Rattigan told her at the time? What if John and Marcus had a disagreement over the terms of their co-ownership contract? Maybe Marcus thought he was owed this puppy after all the money he'd spent. What if he stole her from John to even things up?”

Aunt Peg was willing to consider the idea, but she didn't look convinced. “If he wanted the puppy enough to steal her, why would he turn around and give her away? Besides, I thought John told you he and Marcus were old friends.”