Watchdog (3 page)

I glanced back at Davey, who had yet to say a word. “How about you, champ? How was your day?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine? That's all?”

“It isn't fair.” Davey pushed out his lower lip in a pout. “I wiggled all my teeth and none of them are even loose. I want the tooth fairy to come to our house, too.”

“It's so cool!” said Joey. “She's going to take my tooth and leave me money instead.”

Davey crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the car window.

“Don't worry,” I said. “Your turn will come.”

“But I want my turn now.”

That's my boy. He has many wonderful attributes, but patience isn't one of them.

I switched on my blinker and turned up our road. Our house is a small, snug Cape; one of many that all look pretty much the same in a neighborhood that was built in the fifties. The homes have small yards, mature plantings, and streets that are quiet enough for children to ride their bikes. Considering the price of real estate in Fairfield County, I could have done a lot worse.

Joey's family lives at the end of the street. His father's a lawyer in Greenwich and his mother stays home with his two-year-old sister, Carly. Alice Brickman and I have been friends since the boys were small.

I pulled into the driveway, and Davey and Joey spilled out of the car. Faith, whose internal clock is more accurate than my Timex, was waiting just inside the front door. I could hear her excited yips as I fit the key to the lock. When the door swung open, she was dancing on her hind legs to greet us.

Problems forgotten, Davey gathered Faith into his arms and gave her a hug. His face disappeared into the thick ruff of her mane coat. Standing upright, the Poodle was taller than he was. Hopping together, they managed an awkward dance of greeting around the front hall.

“Sheesh,” said Joey. “She's only a dog.”

“She is not.” Davey shook his head, and Faith's ear wraps flapped around him. “She's the best dog in the whole world.”

Joey was not impressed. “Big deal. What have you got to eat?”

The three of them headed for the kitchen. Davey knew how to unlock the back door and let Faith out into the fenced yard. The milk, glasses, and shortbread cookies were on shelves low enough for them to reach. Confident that they could fend for themselves, at least for a few minutes, I headed upstairs to change my clothes.

A few weeks earlier, at Aunt Peg's suggestion, I'd started roadworking Faith. It's not easy being beautiful, even if you're a dog, and especially if you're a Standard Poodle whose grandfather won the group at Westminster and whose breeder has plans for you to finish your championship. Sixty years old and more autocratic than ever, Aunt Peg has a way of always getting what she wants. Certainly I've never figured out how to turn her down. Which was why Faith and I were now running two miles around the neighborhood several times a week.

The steady, rhythmic jog was developing Faith's muscle and building up her hindquarter. As a nice bonus, it had also knocked a couple of pounds off of me. So far, my biggest problem had been finding the time to fit jogging into my schedule.

Luckily, Alice seems to think that having two six-year-old boys entertain each other is easier than having one at home by himself, and she'd volunteered to watch Davey while I ran. As soon as I was suited up in sweatpants, T-shirt, and trusty sneakers, I walked both boys down to her house and dropped them off.

Though I've heard of something called a runner's high, I had yet to experience it. For me, jogging was hard work. Not so Faith, who completed the entire distance with head up and tail wagging. I guess that's the difference between four legs and two. We stopped and picked up Davey on the way back, then walked the length of the street to cool down.

Davey was chattering on about a new board game Joey had just gotten, and I was thinking of a nice hot shower, when we let ourselves in the door. My answering machine is on the kitchen counter, and its message light was blinking. I pressed the button, then picked up Faith's bowl and refilled it with fresh water while I waited for the tape to rewind.

“Mel!” Frank's voice sounded tinny, but I could hear the urgency in his tone. “I'm at the coffee bar. You know, Haney's old place? Where the hell are you? I need you to get over here right away.”

I threw a heavy sweater on over my T-shirt and we headed out.

The drive was a quick one. Frank's building was only a couple of miles away on back roads that twisted and curved through the Connecticut countryside. The area wasn't as densely populated as the neighborhood Davey and I lived in, but it was clearly residential.

Surrounded by houses on large wooded lots, the small store sat wedged next to the road. There was a bit of space for parking in front and more on one side, but most of it was currently taken up by a dumpster the size of a semitrailer. Frank's black sportscar was parked near the door and I slid the Volvo in beside it.

“Wow!” Davey gazed at the dumpster in awe.

Knowing my son, I figured he was wondering how to climb inside. Quickly I moved to forestall that idea. “How about if you take charge of Faith and make sure she doesn't get into any trouble?”

“Okay,” he agreed happily. At his age, it's a thrill to be put in charge of anything.

I ran my fingers around the Poodle's neck, making sure that her collar was lying close to the skin. She doesn't usually wear a collar since it causes the hair to mat, but I hadn't had a chance to take it off after our jog. I handed the end of the leash to Davey and we got out.

The exterior of the building had clearly been worked on since the last time I'd seen it. The formerly sagging porch had a new floor; rotted boards in the walls had been replaced; and the old-fashioned multipaned windows had been removed, a single large picture window taking their place. All the place needed now, at least on the outside, was a new coat of paint to tie the job together.

The front door was standing open. Davey and Faith scooted up the steps and ran inside. I was about to follow, when something caught my eye. Off to one side, a small piece of white cardboard, torn jaggedly along the bottom edge, was nailed to one of the new boards.

I looked down and saw the rest of the poster on the porch floor below. Its surface was covered with footprints, heavy boot prints actually, probably from the construction crew. Squatting down, I turned the paper over. Large block letters had been printed in a vivid shade of red: GO AWAY. WE DON'T WANT YOU HERE.

I felt a chill wash over me. A noise on the porch made me jump to my feet and spin around.

“A message from the local welcoming committee,” said Frank. He took the poster out of my hands, bent it stiffly in half, then strode out and tossed it in the dumpster.

I followed him, looking around curiously. There was a buffer of woods in three directions. With the leaves still on the trees, only one house was visible and it was on the other side of the road. “The neighbors don't like what you're doing?”

“Apparently not. Some of them have even organized themselves into a protest group.”

“I don't get it. The last time I saw this place, it was really run down. I would think they'd be glad to have you come in and fix it up.”

“I would, too, but it hasn't turned out that way. Haney'd been here for decades. I guess they'd gotten used to the idea that there was nothing they could do about him. But now that he's gone, they're protesting any sort of commercial usage.”

We walked back up the steps together. “How much trouble can they cause for you?”

“Legally none. Luckily for us, Haney'd been serving coffee in the back of his store for years. As far as the zoning board's concerned, we're just enlarging on his business. You'd never get a variance today, but it doesn't matter. Nonconformity runs with the land, not the ownership. The right to have a coffee bar here is grandfathered.”

“Only because of a technicality,” I said, frowning. “Have you been down to the town hall to check that everything's in order?”

“I didn't have to. Marcus deals with details like that all the time and he told me it's all set.”

“Hey, Mom, it's cool in here! Come in and see!”

Davey burst through the doorway, with Faith a step behind. His sneakers were soaked and his jeans were wet nearly up to the knees. Faith was dripping water, too. The bracelets of hair on each of her legs hung in sodden clumps.

“What happened to you two?”

Frank grimaced slightly before Davey could answer. “That's why I called. I need your help.”

“With the neighbors?”

“No, with the water.”

“What water?”

“Come on in. You'll see.”

Inside, the building was still very much a work in progress. The deep shelves and high dividers I remembered from Mr. Haney's occupancy were gone. So were the refrigerated bins.

In their place stood two sawhorses, with a wide plank of wood balanced across them and a sheaf of plans scattered on top. A granite-topped counter had been built along the back of the room, and behind the counter a kitchen was partially installed.

The general store had always seemed dingy and crowded, but now the room had a light, airy feel. I let my gaze slide upward. The low ceiling had been opened up and a pair of skylights installed on either side of the peaked roof. The transformation was nothing short of amazing.

“It look . . .” Wonderful, I'd started to say. Then I realized that my toes felt squishy inside my shoes. I was standing in two inches of water. “Frank, what happened?”

“That's what I've been trying to tell you. I think a pipe burst.”

“A pipe burst!” Davey cried happily. He jumped up in the air and landed solidly on both feet. I leapt back as water sprayed in all directions.

“You think? Don't you know?”

My brother scowled. “Do I look like a plumber to you? All I know is that when I checked in at noon everything was fine. When I got back at three-thirty, the place looked like this.”

I sloshed across the room, looking for the source of the leak.

“The problem was back there behind the counter,” said Frank. “One of the pipes that will be under the sink when it's installed. The thing was spouting water like crazy when I got here, but I think I got it under control. There's a spigot around the corner, and when I turned it off, the water stopped.”

His grasp of technical jargon was enough to make my head spin. I leaned down and looked at the pipe he indicated. Beads of water bubbled around the joint where the two ends met. “Did you call a plumber?”

“No. I'm sure someone on the crew will know how to fix the damn thing in the morning. But in the meantime I've got to get this mess cleaned up, pronto.”

“That's why you called and told me to get over here? Because you wanted me to help you
mop?”

“Well, yes,” said Frank, looking somewhat aggrieved. “You've got to understand. It's Wednesday.”

“I've understood that all day, Frank.”

My brother wasn't pleased by my response. “On Wednesday afternoons, Marcus usually stops by to see how things are progressing. He'll probably be here in half an hour or so. I can't let him see the place looking like this.”

So instead of going to work on the mess, he'd picked up the phone and called me. For Frank, that probably made perfect sense.

“You'll help, won't you?” he asked.

“I guess so,” said the spineless sucker who'd taken over my body. “What have we got to work with?”

“There's some stuff in the cellar that Mr. Haney must have left behind. I've been using an old bucket to bail water out the back door.”

The cellar was at the bottom of a flight of cramped, rickety wooden steps. A lightbulb dangled from a wire in the ceiling and I pulled a string to turn it on. The stuff Frank had seen consisted of a ratty looking broom, an ancient mop, and an old carpet sweeper that was probably made before I was born.

The mop and the broom were both stiff with accumulated dirt. A pile of musty rags sat on the floor beside them. My next find was an old snow shovel, bent at both corners, and propped against a wooden post beneath the steps. I added that to the haul and took everything but the carpet sweeper upstairs.

When I rejoined the others, Frank had gone back to bailing. Davey had fashioned a boat out of a Styrofoam cup he'd found on the counter, and was playing captain of the seas. I handed the shovel to Frank.

“I think you'll be able to move more water if you try pushing it out the back door. Be careful you don't scratch the floor, though.”

“Don't worry, it hasn't been redone yet. Just get the water out of here any way you can.”

The mop was the old-fashioned kind, with long fingers of white hemp gathered together at the handle. I shook it out and watched the dust fly. “Tell me something. If you got here at three-thirty, how come nobody from the construction crew was still here?”

Propelled by Frank's shovel, a wave of water rippled across the floor. “I guess they'd already knocked off for the day.”

“Isn't that kind of early?”

“You know how these guys are.”

“No, I don't.” I mopped along in Frank's wake. “How are they?”

“They, uh ... , kind of set their own schedules. It depends on things like availability of parts, and doing each job in the right order. Sometimes they don't exactly work a full day.”

“What about the guy that's in charge? The general contractor.”

“Actually, that would be me.”

I stopped and stared. “You? What do you know about being a general contractor?”

Frank pushed a stream of water out the back door. “It's not that big a deal. The hard part was figuring out who to hire for each job. Now all I have to do is keep on top of everybody and make sure that all the work they're doing is coordinated.”

“And this is what you call staying on top of things?”

Frank's shoulders stiffened. “Cut me some slack, would you? What happened today was a fluke, an accident. Look around. You have to admit, other than a little water, things are coming along pretty well, aren't they?”

An objective observer probably would have conceded his point. But I was his sister, so instead I said, “How's the money situation coming?”

“I've got everything under control.”

Right. Custer had thought the same thing, and look how that turned out.

Leash dragging behind her, Faith bounded across the floor and pounced on the mop with both front feet. I waited while she pinned it in place and lowered her muzzle for a delicate sniff. Abruptly her head flew up, lips curled in disgust.

“You should have asked me,” I said. “I'd have told you not to do that.”

“Not to do what?” Frank looked up.

“Sorry, I was talking to Faith.”

“Sure,” my brother said sarcastically. “Like that's normal.”

“I want to help,” said Davey. We'd lowered the water level enough so that his boat would no longer float.

“Good. Go get a couple of those rags and start pushing them around the floor, okay?”

Crawling in mud—judging by the look on my son's face, it was a job tailor made for a six year old. Hopefully, he wouldn't feel the need to relive this experience at show-and-tell tomorrow.

By the time we heard a car pull up outside, the place was in pretty good shape. The floor was still damp in spots, but considering it was already pitted and scarred, the new damage was scarcely noticeable. Frank dashed around the room, gathering up the mop, the bucket, and the sodden rags. He threw them out the back door, then slammed it shut and slipped Davey a wink.

I ran for Faith. She takes her duties as a watchdog very seriously, and when Marcus Rattigan's silver Jaguar sedan pulled up in front of the store, she ran to the window and began to bark like the ferocious beast she thinks she is. Considering that her protective instincts had saved my life over the summer, I take her abilities seriously, too.

More to the point, I was afraid she'd jump up and plant her muddy paws on the front of Marcus Rattigan's expensive suit.

Through the window I watched him climb out of the long sedan. I'd seen Rattigan's picture in the paper, but that flat rendering didn't do justice to his presence or his bearing. His movements—closing the car door behind him, shading his eyes against the low sun as he looked up at the front of the building—were controlled and precise. He didn't look like a man who'd be easy to ignore, or to turn your back on.

Rattigan's features were regular, but they added up to a face that was more ordinary than handsome. I judged him to be in his early fifties. When the slanting afternoon sun washed over him, I decided not to rule out the possibility of a face-lift.

Davey and I hung back, but Frank strode out onto the porch to greet him. They shook hands; my brother expansive and voluble, Marcus Rattigan, quieter, as though reserving judgment until he saw things for himself.

“Everything's coming along great,” Frank said. “We're still on target to open before Christmas. I'm sure you'll be pleased.”

I had Faith's leash looped around my hand. She'd stopped barking, but when the two men entered the room, she threw herself forward dragging me along behind. Rattigan cast us a withering glance. Since I was pretty much standing in his way, I stuck out my hand.

“Melanie Travis,” I said. “I'm Frank's sister. And that's my son, Davey.”

Rattigan shook my fingers briefly. He didn't offer his own name. Apparently we were just supposed to know who he was.

Stepping around me as if my presence was immaterial, he made a quick inspection of the room. His survey was fast but seemingly thorough. For the most part he kept moving, stopping only once or twice for a closer look at a fixture or a particular bit of craftsmanship.