Death of a Dog Whisperer (9780758284570) (17 page)

“Ex,” I muttered under my breath.

“Excuse me?” O'Malley turned his gaze my way.

“Ex,” I repeated, louder this time. Why did I have to keep reminding people of this? “Bob is my
ex
-husband.”

“Amicable, though. Right?”

I nodded.

“You still use his name.”

I sighed. “It's a long story.”

“Anything I need to know?”

“No,” I replied firmly. “Definitely not.”

“Good,” said the detective. “Now this Bob Travis is the one who introduced Walden to you.”

“That's right.”

He swung back to Aunt Peg. “Which is how he got to you.”

“Right again,” Peg agreed.

“Is there a problem with any of this that I should know about?”

“No,” Aunt Peg and I said simultaneously, a rare moment of mutual accord.

O'Malley braced his elbows on the table and stared at Aunt Peg. “So why'd you bring it up?”

“I did no such thing. Talking about Bob Travis was your idea. It suits me to have as little to say about the man as possible.”

That piqued O'Malley's interest. “So you're telling me that the two of you don't get along?”

“I have no need to get along with Bob. As Melanie pointed out, he's merely an ex. A
former
relation. Nothing more than that.”

“And yet you agreed to do him a favor.”

“No,” Peg corrected. “I agreed to do Melanie a favor. She was the one who approached me about meeting with Nick. Bob had the very good sense to stay clear.”

“Even so, it was Travis's idea for you to help his friend.”

“Perhaps, but that wasn't what I agreed to. I said only that I would talk to Nick and see what I thought of him. Frankly, given the source of the recommendation, I expected to kick him to the curb shortly thereafter.”

“And yet that didn't happen.”

Grateful to be ignored, I sat in silence and watched the two of them spar.

Clearly Aunt Peg had thought she'd lulled O'Malley into a state of amicability with her buttered scones and her easy banter. But he was proving to be a wilier adversary than she'd anticipated. Now that the detective was the one asking the questions, he appeared to be enjoying himself. With one deft turn of the conversation, Peg had unexpectedly found her agenda superseded by O'Malley's own.

Or so I thought. I should have known that no one gets the better of Aunt Peg. At least not that easily.

“Ed,” she said, holding up a hand to stop the flow of questions. “You're heading in entirely the wrong direction.”

O'Malley leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Is that so?”

“My relationship with Nick Walden is not what we need to be discussing. Nor my lack of one with Bob Travis.”

“Then maybe you'd like to tell me what is?”

“Just as I said earlier. Nick's sister.”

“Not Claire,” I said quickly.

I
liked
Claire. Not only that, but I was certain her grief was genuine. I refused to believe that she'd had anything to do with her brother's murder.

“Quite right,” Aunt Peg agreed. “Not Claire. I'm talking about Nick's other sister. Anabelle.”

I set my coffee cup down on the table with a sharp thump. Who on earth was Anabelle? And why was this the first time I was hearing about her?

Aunt Peg looked very pleased with herself. Evidently O'Malley's and my befuddled expressions were everything she'd hoped for. In her game of Stump the Relatives and Authorities, Peg had just produced the winning hand.

O'Malley recovered first. “Anabelle Walden?” he asked. He drew a notebook and pen out of his pocket.

“I believe she goes by the name of Anabelle Gifford now.”

“And you say that she's the deceased's sister?”

“His older sister,” Aunt Peg confirmed. “Estranged from the family.”

Okay, I thought. That answered one question. Maybe. But not a host of others. Luckily for me, the detective felt the same way.

“Nobody's mentioned anything about her to me before,” said O'Malley. “Why is that?”

“Apparently Claire and Nick don't have any contact with her. They haven't been in touch for at least a decade.”

O'Malley started to say something, but he was moving too slowly for me. I leapt ahead with a question of my own.

“How do you know about her?” I demanded.

“Nick and I were talking one day and he seemed very distracted,” Aunt Peg said. “I asked him what was the matter and he told me that he'd just received a phone call from his sister Anabelle. He said that he hadn't spoken to her since he was a teenager—”

“Did he tell you why?” I asked.

“No, he did not. And you know me—I certainly would have wormed the information out of him, but we were interrupted and the opportunity was lost. I thought perhaps I'd ask him about her the next time we saw one another.”

“But you didn't,” said O'Malley.

“I never had the chance,” Peg replied. “I never saw Nick again.”

“You might have told me this sooner,” he said sternly.

“In the commotion of everything that came after, that brief conversation simply slipped my mind,” Aunt Peg said with a sigh. “Unfortunately I am not as young as I used to be.”

She paused, as if waiting for one of us to correct her. O'Malley and I both remained silent. I didn't know about him, but my thoughts were spinning willy-nilly in other directions. I had more pressing things to ponder than Aunt Peg's vanity.

“When Nick mentioned his estranged sister,” she continued, “Anabelle was merely an object of curiosity. The fact of her existence didn't seem that unusual. After all, estrangements happen. Even in the best of families.”

Aunt Peg glanced my way. Until we'd bonded seven years earlier over a dead body, a stolen stud dog, and a mutual love of Poodles, Peg had been a virtual stranger to me. Money and the disposition of a will had created a rift in our family that no one had crossed for nearly a decade.

“And now that you've
remembered
”—O'Malley lingered on the word with palpable irritation—“you think this Anabelle Gifford might be somebody important.”

“She might be.” Aunt Peg refused to be cowed by his tone. “In any case, it seems to me that she's someone you ought to talk to. All I know is that she contacted her brother out of the blue. And then just a few days later, he was dead.”

“I'll have to check again to be sure, but I don't think there were any calls on Walden's phone from someone by that name.” The detective made another note on his pad. “Nevertheless, if she's out there, we'll track her down.”

“I wonder why she got in touch with Nick after all these years,” I mused aloud.

O'Malley sent me a stern look. “That's a question for the police to answer.”

“Of course it is,” I agreed demurely.

Aunt Peg pursed her lips and said nothing. I took that to mean that it would be a race to see which one of us would succeed in getting to Claire Walden first. If anyone could fill in some of the blanks, she'd be the person to do it.

“This Anabelle Gifford,” O'Malley said to Peg. “Any idea where she lives?”

“None whatsoever. Nick only spoke of her the one time. And then just briefly.”

“Nick's family is from North Carolina,” I told him.

“And how would you know that?” he asked.

“Claire told me.”

O'Malley frowned. He sat and thought for a minute. “I seem to recall that the last time we met, you were acquainted with both the deceased and the woman who was found to have killed her,” he said finally.

“That's right.”

“In fact, you summoned the Darien Police to the murderer's home where a brawl was in progress and where they were subsequently able to extract a confession.”

Right again, I thought. But somehow, agreeing with Detective O'Malley too readily was beginning to seem like a bad idea.

“And now you've turned up again,” he said.

“Not exactly,” I corrected him. “I've been here all the time.”

The detective was not amused. “It sounds like you have very bad luck. Either that or you make a habit of injecting yourself into situations where you don't belong.”

“Nick Walden was my friend,” I said steadily. “His sister is almost family.” That was stretching things a bit, but I wanted to make my point. “I don't think it's up to you to tell me where I do or do not belong.”

O'Malley shoved back his chair and rose to his feet. “Don't try to do my job for me, Ms. Travis. Killers are dangerous people and they do desperate things. I would hate for you to find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I would too,” I replied.

“You happen to come across any information you think I should know, you'll bring it to me, right?”

“Of course.” I nodded.

“
Before
acting on it yourself.”

“I'll try.”

O'Malley's brow drew downward. His features set in a scowl. “Try
hard,
” he snapped.

Aunt Peg walked the detective to the door. She even convinced him to take along another scone for the road. They parted with a handshake and a smile. Apparently O'Malley's frowns were reserved for me.

“That was fun,” Aunt Peg said when she returned. Along the way, she'd detoured to open the library door and a flurry of Poodles came bounding into the kitchen with her.

“Fun, my foot,” I said huffily. “You certainly took your own sweet time remembering to tell us about Anabelle Gifford.”

“I can assure you it wasn't done on purpose. Considering the brevity of the conversation, you're lucky I remembered her at all. It seems to me that if Claire Walden thought the police needed to know about her sister, she was perfectly capable of informing them herself. Naturally I assumed that she already had.”

And yet, judging by O'Malley's reaction, the information had been as much of a surprise to him as it had been to me.

“Were you telling the truth when you said that you didn't know how to get in touch with Anabelle?” I asked.

Peg drew herself up to her full height. Since she approaches six feet, that had her towering over me. An effect she clearly intended.

“I always tell the truth,” she informed me.

I struggled not to laugh.

“At least when I need to.”

“Or when it's expedient,” I said.

“Ed and his minions will use their resources to find Anabelle.” Aunt Peg stared down at me and added, “And while the police are making themselves useful, I suggest you do the same.”

“I've already spoken to half a dozen of Nick's clients,” I told her. “And I'm trying to line up the rest.”

“And?”

“They all thought he was a great guy.”

“That's hardly news.”

“It's all I've got,” I admitted.

“Then it's a good thing I didn't leave it to you to pull something out of
your
hat for the detective.”

We'd talked ourselves around in a circle.

“Anabelle Gifford,” I said, standing up and heading for the door. “I need to see Claire.”

“I imagine Ed felt much the same way. Rather than stepping on his toes, you might want to wait your turn.”

Aunt Peg—the most impatient woman I'd ever met—counseling prudence? Somewhere in the world pigs were flying.

“How very unlike you,” I said.

“Pish.” Peg snorted. “With your proclivity for finding trouble, you never know when you might need to call for back-up. Best to at least attempt to stay on the good side of the authorities, don't you think?”

That
sounded like the Aunt Peg I knew and loved.

“I'll try to remember that,” I told her.

“I should hope so,” she said.

 

I spent the rest of the morning running errands and catching up on all the minutiae of my daily life which—when allowed to grow unchecked—threatens to rise up and overwhelm everything in the vicinity. Sam and Kev were out when I got home. So I took the dogs for a quick run then went out again too.

At the pet food warehouse, I stocked up on dog food and got guilted into purchasing a jumbo bag of rawhide bones. Downtown at the library, I returned a stack of books, some of which weren't even overdue. Back home by noon, I scheduled Davey's yearly appointment with the pediatrician and debated whether it was too soon to think about taking Kevin to the dentist.

It was nice to feel on top of things for a change.

About that time, it occurred to me that I'd missed breakfast. Usually my meal choices are heavily influenced by Sam and the kids. Most days I simply end up with whatever they're having. So the luxury of choosing my own menu required some serious thought. I was still considering my options when the doorbell rang.

The Poodles are usually quicker on the uptake than I am when guests arrive. But since I'd just passed out new rawhide bones, now they were conflicted. Should they stay and chew or run and bark?

Tar, who tried to do both, predictably lost his bone in the middle of the hall. That occasioned the inevitable scrambling among the rest of the pack—a canine version of musical chairs, played with rawhide toys. Eve dropped her bone and scooped up Tar's. Raven grabbed Eve's discarded bone and made a dash for the safety of the stairs. Faith ended up with Raven's bone. Tar just stood there and barked.

I opened the door and found Claire standing on the step, glowering.

“What did your aunt tell Detective O'Malley?” she asked before I even had a chance to speak.

“Umm . . .”

“As soon as Nick got involved with her, I knew that woman was going to be trouble!”

Claire stalked past me into the house. Then stopped dead. Her eyes widened as she took in the ongoing melee in the hallway.

“Goodness,” she said. “Did you have this many dogs the last time I was here?”

“I'm afraid so. Don't worry, they'll settle down in a minute.”

“I'm not worried.” Claire's neat sidestep removed her from the path of a pair of careening canine missiles both holding a knotted end of the same bone. “They're Poodles. Them, I can understand. Peg is an entirely different matter.”

Welcome to the club
,
I thought.

“I was just going to make myself some lunch,” I said. Maybe a nice meal would defuse the situation. “Want to join me?”

“No. I'm too mad to eat.”

Claire strode down the hallway. Given little choice in the matter, I tagged along behind. Reaching the kitchen, she yanked out a chair at the table and sat down. I hesitated in the doorway, waiting to see what would happen next.

“Well?” said Claire. “Aren't you going to cook, or eat, or something?”

“I got the idea you wanted to talk.”

“I'll talk. You eat. What are you having?”

“Tuna salad on rye,” I said, making the decision on the spot. Ease of preparation had begun to seem like a priority.

“With celery and onions?”

“Lots of celery, no onions.” I opened the refrigerator and began pulling out ingredients. “Parsley and a little bit of tarragon.”

Claire considered my answer. “That might work. Rye with seeds or without?”

“With.” I straightened and turned to face her. “For someone who isn't eating, you're very picky about what's being served.”

“I like food,” she said with a shrug. “Homemade mayo?”

“Not in this universe.” I laughed. “Two kids, one husband, six dogs. Does that sound like the kind of place where you'd find homemade mayonnaise?”

“You would if I lived here.”

Said the woman without young children.

I propped my hands on my hips and tipped my head to one side. “So are you eating or not?”

“I guess I could manage a small sandwich.”

I grabbed two cans of tuna and a loaf of bread out of the pantry. “I have pickles,” I mentioned.

“Sweet or dill?”

“Seriously?” I said. “How do you ever eat out? You must be a waiter's worst nightmare.”

Claire brushed away my comment with a wave of her hand. “I tip very well. Waiters find a way to deal. I care about the food I put into my body. You should too.”

“Some days I'm lucky if I get three meals and my shoes match. Around here, it usually doesn't pay to be any pickier than that.”

Claire muttered something under her breath that I didn't quite catch. Figuring it was probably just as well, I went to work making us a couple of sandwiches. While I did that, Claire set the table.