Chow Down (8 page)

“Lots do. This one doesn't. The police asked.”

“I wonder who knew that.”

“Probably anyone who'd bothered to look into it. Possibly anyone who worked for the company. Why?”

“Because most murderers would like to be reasonably assured that they're not being observed in the act. At first I was thinking that the killing must have been a spontaneous deed—a crime of passion, if you will. But now I'm wondering about that. Perhaps the killer chose to murder the unfortunate Mr. Kim in the stairwell precisely because he knew there weren't any cameras there.”

As she so often did, Aunt Peg had clarified the situation; taking what I'd told her and ferreting out interesting nuggets of information that I hadn't managed to come up with on my own.

“You should mention that to the police,” I said.

“Or you should.” Aunt Peg gently eased Eve from her lap and stood. “They know you.”

“I wouldn't go that far.”

“They have your name in the report. Same thing, more or less.”

We stashed our glasses in the kitchen sink and I followed Aunt Peg out the front of the house to her minivan.

“You never did tell me why you'd come,” I said.

Door open, foot on the running board, Aunt Peg paused. “Considering everything else that's happened to you today, it hardly seems important now.”

“But?”

“I was going to bug you about Eve. She's a beautiful bitch and nearly two years old. It's high time you got her back in the show ring and finished her championship. Of course, that was before I knew that you already had a task for the summer.”

“Winning the contest?”

“Oh pish,” said Peg. “Nobody cares a fig about who wins that silly contest except perhaps for Davey. But the morning's events have put a whole new spin on things. You've got your work cut out for you now. I imagine you're going to have to go and figure out what happened to Larry Kim, aren't you?”

I
supposed I would. At least that was how things always seemed to work out. So rather than fighting the inevitable, I got up the next morning and thought about who might be able to answer some questions for me. My sister-in-law, Bertie, was right at the top of the list.

Growing up, I had always wanted a sister. Instead I'd had a younger brother, whose chief goal in life seemed to be to discover exactly how much mayhem he could get away with causing. It had taken us years to work out our differences, and the prickly relationship we'd forged as children had lasted well into our adulthood.

Then Frank had met Bertie and fallen head over heels in love. For him, it was an event of life-altering proportions. The relationship had not only changed my brother into a new and better man, it had also resulted in the birth of my wonderful niece, Maggie. And as an added bonus, Frank had provided me with the sister I'd always coveted. It was a win-win situation all the way around.

Bertie and Frank lived in the northern edge of Wilton, just below the Ridgefield border. The house had been Bertie's before their marriage, bought with the proceeds from her handling business. She'd built a kennel in the basement and added a dozen outside dog runs to accommodate boarders. Fortunately, with land that nestled up against a nature preserve, she didn't have to worry about noise restrictions.

When I mentioned over breakfast that I was going to be visiting Davey's aunt and new baby cousin, he had opted to come along. Sam stayed home to work on a new software idea that had piqued his interest. Frank was down in Stamford at his coffeehouse, The Bean Counter, preparing for the midday rush. Bertie and Maggie were waiting for us on the porch when we arrived.

My niece, who'd seemed so tiny when she was born, was now growing rapidly into her own little person. At six months of age, Maggie wasn't quite walking yet but she could crawl almost anywhere. I'd advised Bertie to hang a bell around her daughter's neck to match the one worn by her cat, Beagle, but so far Bertie had declined.

“Ga!” Maggie said, lifting a hand in greeting as Davey and I came up the steps. Or maybe she was just trying to throw Cheerios at us. The latter seemed likely when a spray of cereal landed at our feet.

“Ga back at you,” said Davey. He was really getting into the whole baby thing. “When is she going to start talking?” he asked Bertie.

“She's talking.” Bertie laughed. “You heard her.”

“I mean words I can understand.”

“Me, me, me, me, me . . .” Maggie sang out.

“She's her mother's daughter, all right,” I teased.

“Bite your tongue. I'll have you know that child has just about turned me into a selfless paragon of virtue. I'm damn near unrecognizable. Some days even I wonder what's come over me. Has anyone else noticed that it's friggin' hot out here? Who besides me wants some lemonade? Davey?”

“Yes, please.” He'd immediately sunk to the floor of the porch to sit beside Maggie. Now he was rolling a rubber ball back and forth to entertain her. Knowing Bertie, the toy probably belonged to Beagle.

“I'll help,” I said, stopping to latch a baby gate across the top of the steps as Bertie headed inside.

She paused and looked back at Davey. “I'll leave the door open and we'll only be two rooms away. If you need us for any reason, just yell, okay?”

“We can be back out here in five seconds if we need to,” I added.

“Don't worry,” said Davey, sounding very grown-up. “We'll be fine.”

“He's great with her,” Bertie said as we walked through the house.

“I know.” I heaved a windy sigh. “And we're
trying
.”

“I'm just mentioning . . .”

“So is everybody else. It's gotten to the point where I feel as though I ought to be sending out daily email updates to any and all interested parties.”

“Great, can I get on that list?”

“I'm kidding, Bertie!”

“So was I.” She turned and peered at me. “Getting a little touchy, aren't you?”

“Maybe just a bit,” I admitted. “Let's talk about something else.”

“Name it.”

“Lisa and Larry Kim.”

“Can't say that I didn't expect that.” Bertie opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of lemonade. I got three glasses out of the cabinet and lined them up on the counter. “I read about what happened in this morning's paper. The article made reference to the contest. I wondered if you were there.”

“Not only there, but in the stairwell when he fell.”

“You certainly know how to attract trouble.” Bertie held her hand over the spout and gave the pitcher a good shake. “Maybe you're the one who ought to have a warning bell hung around your neck.”

I'd always thought I was just unlucky. It had never occurred to me that I might be a jinx. Quickly I shook off the thought.

“The article was a little vague on the specifics,” Bertie said. “It implied that the incident was a tragic accident. But since you're asking questions, I'm guessing that you don't agree?”

“There was someone up on the landing with Larry right before he fell. Someone who ran away afterward, rather than staying and trying to help.”

“I can see why you're feeling suspicious, then. Where was Lisa while all this was happening?”

“Larry had sent her outside. At least that's what she told the police.”

Bertie had filled the three glasses. I picked one up and lifted it to my lips. The lemonade was strong and tart. It tasted great.

“I'll run one of these out to Davey,” Bertie said. “If everything's copacetic out there, we can let the kids entertain each other for a few minutes and talk in here.”

Neither one of us had to mention that since the topic under discussion was murder, we would both rather that our children didn't overhear.

Three minutes later, Bertie was back. In the meantime I'd taken a seat at the kitchen table. “Everything okay?” I asked.

“Perfect. Davey's got Maggie in his lap and he's reading her a book. The two of them looked so cute together that I grabbed the camera and sneaked a picture or two.”

“I'll want copies.”

“I'm holding them hostage. Maybe I'll bring one to your baby shower.”

“I used to think you were a good influence on my brother,” I said. “Now I'm beginning to see it's worked the other way around. He's turned you into a fiend.”

“That wasn't Frank, that was motherhood. I just want everyone to experience the same maternal joys that I have.”

“Stretch marks, sleepless nights, varicose veins . . . It's no wonder I can't wait.” I stopped abruptly. “I can't believe you managed to get me back to
that
subject again.”

Bertie laughed. “You're the one who keeps digressing.”

Maybe I was, I realized. These days it seemed like I had babies on the brain.

“Back to the Kims,” I said firmly. “At the show last weekend, you said you knew them.”

“It was more like I knew
of
them,” Bertie corrected. “I wouldn't say we're friends or anything, I know them as fellow competitors. They're big into Yorkies and I've shown against them lots of times over the years. Actually I guess I should say that I've shown against Larry. Lisa doesn't go in the ring, or at least I've never seen her there.”

“She was pretty quiet at the meeting, too. Larry was the one that was holding Yoda and he did all the talking for both of them.”

Bertie nodded. “Larry's the one that runs that show. It always looked like Lisa preferred to stay in the background. Almost blending in, if you know what I mean. She grooms the dogs back at their setup but Larry's the one who shows them to the judge.”

“Kind of like you and me,” I said.

Bertie snorted. “You? Blend into the background? Not on this planet.”

“Hey, I think I make a pretty good support staff.”

“Nobody's disputing that. It's the other part that would have anyone who knows you in hysterics. And speaking of people we know, here's something you might be interested in.”

“What?”

“Yesterday I got a call from a potential client. A man in Massachusetts with a Standard Poodle puppy he needed a handler for. Of course the guy knew who Crawford was, so he'd called him first. Terry told him they were totally booked and referred him over to me.”

“Is that so unusual?”

Bertie looked at me as though I was daft. “
Yes.
It's hard to make a living as a professional handler. I don't know anyone in the business who turns clients away.”

“Crawford's a little different though. He's at the top of the game. Maybe he gets offered more dogs than he has time to compete.”

“How do you think Crawford got to the top?” Bertie asked. “He never says no to anyone. His kennel is huge. You know that, you've seen it. Crawford isn't only a gifted handler, he's also a savvy businessman. At some shows, he has half the Poodle entry. Owner can't find a major for his less-than-deserving Mini? No problem, Crawford can bring along a couple extra dogs and build one for you.”

Majors were the necessary evil of the dog show world. To complete a championship, a dog needed to amass a total of fifteen points. The point scale ran from one to five; and the number of points awarded was based on the number of same-sex competitors that a dog beat. Included in those fifteen points had to be at least two majors: outings where a dog defeated enough competition to be awarded three or more points.

The idea was a good one, in theory. It prevented mediocre dogs from gaining a championship by piling up single point wins in undistinguished competition. But it also made life difficult when, for a variety of reasons—winter, bad judges, scarcity of puppies—major entries were sparse, and good dogs either had to wait for months or travel long distances to find them.

Building a major might be frowned upon but it was not unheard of. Usually the competitor in need would call around to get friends to supply entrants. It was a rare exhibitor who could, like Crawford, simply engineer the task on his own.

“True,” I said. “Crawford's never been known to be overly discriminating in the dogs he accepts to show. The fact of the matter is, he doesn't have to be. He and Terry are such masters that by the time they get done preparing their Poodles to go in the ring, they all look good enough to win.”

“Precisely. And this is the second client he's referred to me recently. The first time I thought he was just being nice. You know how Crawford is . . . He wants people to think he's such a gruff, hardened professional, but inside he's really just a big marshmallow.”

The assessment was accurate, if a bit exaggerated. Close enough to make me laugh, though.

“Better not let him hear you say that,” I warned.

“I wouldn't dare. But Crawford knows that I recently added Poodles to my string. I thought at first that maybe he was just trying to help me get started.”

“And now you've changed your mind?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

As we were speaking, Bertie's cat, Beagle, stood up on top of one of the high cabinets and made her presence known. Lying down, she'd been invisible. Now the tiger-striped cat wanted our attention. She stretched sinuously, extending each white tipped forefoot slowly, then followed the procedure with her hind feet.

When she was satisfied we were watching, Beagle hopped down onto the top of the refrigerator, from there to the countertop, and then down onto the floor. Gracefully she sauntered over and deigned to honor us with her presence. Beagle wrapped her body around my legs, her tail curling upward over my knees.

“It took her long enough,” I said. “Beagle usually shows up the minute we arrive.”

“New routine,” Bertie informed me. “Now that Maggie's crawling everywhere, that poor cat has learned she either has to stay somewhere that Maggie can't reach or else run the risk of being mauled. Beagle is
not
amused. Mags means well but she thinks Beagle is the most fascinating creature on earth. And Maggie's too young to know how to treat her respectfully.”

Pets and new babies were always an uneasy mix. I could sympathize with what Bertie was going through. “It'll get better as Maggie gets older.”

“
I
know that. It's Beagle who needs to be convinced. She came to me as a stray, you know. Some days I'm half-afraid she'll simply get fed up and take off again.”

“Beagle? No way. She's your cat now. She loves it here.” I reached down to give the tiger cat's back a long scratch.

“I hope so. And I hope everything's okay with Crawford, too. It hadn't even crossed my mind that it might not be, until you brought it up the other day at the show. Now you've got me wondering, too.”

Bad sign, I thought. I'd been hoping that my concern was merely the product of an overactive imagination. But Bertie was much more levelheaded than I was. If she was worried, too, maybe there really was something to worry about.

I got up, walked through the dining room, and looked out the front door. Davey and Maggie were just where we'd left them, sitting in the sun on the porch. Now they were building a pyramid out of blocks. Actually Davey was doing most of the building. Maggie was playing the part of a baby wrecking ball.

Davey glanced up, winked at me over Maggie's head, and went back to describing the tree house that he and Sam were building. Maggie made an appreciative audience. Heart warmed, I went back to the kitchen with a few final questions.