Authors: Laurien Berenson

Dog Eat Dog (11 page)

BOOK: Dog Eat Dog

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Fourteen

After that major bombshell was out of the way, the rest of the afternoon went remarkably smoothly.

Bob finished his lunch and let Davey take him for a tour of the house. I doubt that it looked much different than it had when he'd left; but Bob managed to comment with appreciation on each point of interest my son highlighted. Trailing along behind, I discovered that these included the back yard, the dining room table, and what was probably the largest toy car collection in the entire western world.

Davey had gotten over his initial shyness, but I noticed he hadn't gotten around to calling Bob “Dad” yet. Nor did he refer to him by name. For the time being, “hey” seemed to be serving as the attention-getter of choice. It wasn't as polite as I might have hoped for, but I liked the fact that Davey was dealing with things at his own speed.

Faith, meanwhile, was shamelessly easy. Having been slipped a piece of turkey from Bob's sandwich, she'd decided she'd made a new friend. When Bob and Davey went out back to throw a baseball around, she accompanied them happily. I stood at the kitchen sink and watched the three of them out the window. We could have been any happy suburban family sharing a quiet Saturday afternoon.

In the twilight zone, maybe.

Meanwhile I was fielding phone calls. The first, not unexpectedly, was from Aunt Peg. She said she wanted to check and make sure we'd gotten home okay.

Right.

Aunt Peg's curiosity ranks right up there with her sweet toothâit takes a lot to satisfy her. And when she heard that Bob had already arrived, nothing short of all the gory details would do. She loves crash-and-burn adventure stories so I left her mulling over the notion of Bob's upcoming nuptials. It was the closest I could come.

Sam checked in a few minutes later. At least his motives were more altruistic. I assured him everything was fine, and tried to sound more convinced than I felt.

Bob and Davey progressed from baseball, to checking out the Trans-Am, to coming back inside for a game of Nintendo. I did my best to keep an eye on things and stay out of the way at the same time. To all appearances, Davey was simply having a play-date, albeit with a much bigger friend. They might not have been tackling the larger issues, but on the other hand, I wasn't seeing any emotional trauma either. Anxious as I'd been about Bob's coming, even I had to admit, things seemed to be going well.

I was mixing Faith's food that evening when Bob announced he was taking us all out to dinner.

“Yea!” cried Davey. “McDonalds!”

“Think again,” I told him.

“Pizza!”

“You got it,” said Bob, the big spender.

“Go find your shoes,” I told Davey. The first thing he does upon entering the house is kick them off. You'd think that would mean they'd be by the door, but for some reason it never does.

As Davey bounded from the room, Bob leaned back against the counter. “You've been avoiding me all afternoon.”

“No, I haven't.” I looked up, surprised. “You told me you wanted to get to know your son. I was trying to leave you alone so you could do that.”

“And you haven't asked me anything about Jennifer.”

“I don't even know who Jennifer is.” I could guess, but I said it anyway.

“The girl I'm going to marry.”

“Girl? Don't you mean woman?”

I thought his consciousness might need raising about the status of women in the nineteen-nineties, but it turned out I was wrong.

“Maybe. She's not that old.”

This time I stared. “How old, Bob?”

“Twenty. Almost twenty-one.”

“My God, she can't even drink yet. How can she marry you?” I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I swear.

“If you don't want to talk about itâ”

“No, I do,” I said quickly. “I really do. How did you two meet?”

“I was doing some work for her father. He owns a sporting goods store. One day she came by to drop off some information I needed.”

Twenty years old. Working for her father in his sporting goods store. At least she wasn't a student, I suppose that was something.

“Have you known her long?”

“We met right before Christmas. It's been about three months.”

Three months. I needed a beer. I went to the refrigerator, got two out, and offered the other one to Bob. I could hear Davey rummaging through closets upstairs. He'd never put away a pair of sneakers in his life. Why he thought he'd find them there, I had no idea.

“That seems kind of fast, doesn't it?”

Bob popped the top on his can and took a long, slow swallow. “When it's right, I guess you just know it.”

Not necessarily. Otherwise, he and I wouldn't have been standing here having this conversation.

“Was this before or after your oil well came in?”

“Before. At least that's when we met. But when we found out I'd have some money coming in, it just seemed to make sense to start talking marriage.”

At least to Jennifer, obviously. Was I the only one who saw a giant neon sign flashing the word G-O-L-D-D-I-G-G-E-R?

Apparently so, because Bob said earnestly, “She's really a nice girl. I think you'd like her. And she just adores kids ...”

He let that thought dangle, as if I was meant to respond. Did that mean I had Jennifer to thank for Bob's sudden interest in his son? If so, I'd rather not.

“We figured we'd wait a while before starting a family though. After all, Jennifer's pretty young. And besides, that will give her more time to get to know Davey first.”

More time to ...
“What?”

“She'd like to get to know Davey, Mel. He's going to be part of the family, too.”

My fingers grasped the edge of the counter behind me. I could feel my knuckles turning white. I fought for calm, hoping I'd misunderstood.

Speaking as slowly and clearly as I knew how, I said, “Davey's going to be part of what family?”

“Mine, of course.” Bob set down his beer. “Now that I'm going to be getting married, I figured we'd work out some sort of joint-custody arrangement.”

“Impossible!”

“Mel, just think about itâ”

“I don't want to think about it.” What I really wanted to do was throw something. Preferably something large and heavy and aimed at Bob's head. “It's not going to happen.”

“I don't think that's your decision to make,” Bob said evenly.

“It is my decision. Every decision concerning Davey is my decision. You left them all to me four years ago when you walked out.”

Waves of anger, of outrage, flooded through me. I don't know which appalled me moreâthat Bob had had the nerve to make such a suggestion, or that he actually thought he might be able to pull it off. I sucked in a deep breath and struggled to control my feelings. Surely if I could keep my temper and outline the situation for him in a calm and rational manner, he'd see the lack of logic in what he was suggesting.

“Davey's five years old, Bob. This is the only life he's ever known. You live in Texas, two thousand miles away. There's no way we could share him across that distance. Besides, Davey's only just met you. For him, that's enough of an adjustment all by itself.”

“I don't think you're giving him enough credit. Kids are resilientâ”

“How the hell would you know?”

He didn't even try to answer, which was just as well. At least when Davey came trotting in the room a moment laterâshoes on the wrong feet, laces knottedâwe weren't yelling at each other.

“All set,” my son said brightly. My wonderful, laughable, lovable son. He looked back and forth between us, and it was all I could do not to pull him to my side. Instead, for his sake, I forced a smile.

“We'll finish this later,” said Bob.

He could count on it.

I've never considered myself much of an actress, but it was amazing how civil I managed to be for the rest of the evening. Bob stayed until Davey went to bed. He had booked a room at a hotel in Stamford; but before he left he assured Davey that he'd be back the next day, and that they'd be seeing plenty of each other over the next several weeks. My son was delighted, and why not? He now had two parents doting on him: one with nefarious plans a five year old couldn't begin to fathom, and the other who was scared half to death.

Sunday, we went to the Bruce Museum in Greenwich. We'd barely gotten back when Bob suggested taking in the new Disney movie downtown. I had papers to grade, laundry to do, and a stop at the supermarket wouldn't have hurt.

Davey begged. Davey pleaded. In the end, I caved in and let them go by themselves.

Until the moment my son ran out to the driveway and climbed gleefully into the front seat of Bob's red Trans-Am, I hadn't thought of this as a competition. I hadn't realized I needed to. But in Davey's eyes, Bob was fast metamorphosing into the perfect parent: one with a flashy car, no rules, and plenty of money and free time to devote to anything a five year old might want.

Faith and I stood in the doorway, watching them leave. I waved goodbye, but Davey never even looked back.

I got four restless hours of sleep Sunday night.

I truly wanted Davey to have the opportunity to get to know his father. I wanted Bob to feel that he had free and easy access to his son. Desperately, I was hoping he'd come to his senses and consider that enough.

When Bob showed up Monday after school, I let him in. Tuesday, I gave him his own key. If he was going to be around so much, I figured he might as well be keeping Faith company, too.

Neither one of us brought up the issue of custody again. Bob probably thought he was giving me time to get used to the idea. Fat chance. I was hoping it would go away.

Bob could be selfish, I knew that. But he wasn't stupid. Surely in time he would have to realize that Davey was happy and well-adjusted just the way things were, and that for him to remain with his mother in Connecticut was the only possible alternative.

As if I didn't have enough to think about, Detective Shertz stopped by on Tuesday afternoon to ask a few more questions. Bob and Davey had taken the Trans-Am to the car wash. After that, they were planning to wax it themselves. If Bob had cared for his wife as well as he cared for his car, we'd probably still be married.

I'd brought plenty of work home from school but, absurdly, with the house so quiet, I wasn't able to concentrate. When the detective showed up, I was just as happy to be distracted. It turned out he mostly wanted to go over the same ground we'd covered the night of the murder. Where was I standing? Who was I with? What had I seen?

Then he asked if I knew anyone in the club who'd harbored a special animosity toward Monica. As I wasn't a member, which I'd already mentioned twice, I could only repeat what Aunt Peg had told me, that Monica hadn't been popular with anyone. Judging by the detective's expression, I doubted my answers satisfied him, or advanced his case in any way.

Nor did the answers he gave to my questions satisfy me. I asked him if the police were restricting their investigation to the members of the Belle Haven Kennel Club and he assured me that no possibilities were being ruled out. I asked if he had come up with any plausible motives for murder among those present that night, and he declined to comment.

He did admit that no fingerprints had been recovered from the rock that had killed Monica. That didn't surprise me. It was freezing that night; we'd all been wearing gloves.

Finally, I asked if he'd figured out who'd been closest to Monica when the murder occurred. He gave me a long, assessing look. Apparently, consensus among the other members was that
I
had been.

“Too bad,” said Detective Shertz. “Because you seem the least likely to have had a reason for wanting to harm her. According to your earlier statement, you and Monica Freedman had just met.”

“That's right,” I said evenly.

That left both of us without a clue. I saw the detective to the door and wished him good luck.

At the rate he was going, I figured he was going to need it.

Fifteen

Wednesday afternoon, Aunt Peg stopped by. Unannounced, uninvited. Just the kind of visit she likes best.

I was inside the house, doing all the paperwork from school I hadn't gotten to the day before. Bob and Davey were out front. My son, bless him, had decided that with the Trans-Am clean and freshly waxed, the Volvo deserved equal treatment. Much as I appreciated the thought, I hoped Bob and Davey didn't rub my old car too hard. I was afraid something might fall off.

It was Faith who alerted me to Aunt Peg's arrival. The puppy was lying beneath the dining room table, where I'd spread out my work. She got up and ran to the door. When she didn't come back after a minute, I went and had a look.

By that time, Peg was standing in the driveway, introducing herself to Bob. The reason for her visit, no doubt. I opened the front door and hurried out.

“Imagine that,” Aunt Peg was saying. “Texas. And you drove all this way just for a visit?”

“I thought it was about time,” Bob replied.

“About time?” Her tone could have peeled paint. “You must have a very slow watch.”

Bob reddened beneath his tan. As I approached, his gaze swung to me in mute appeal. Even if I'd wanted to help him, there wasn't anything I could do. Once Aunt Peg gets rolling, I'd sooner try to stop a herd of stampeding elks.

“I imagine you won't be staying long,” she said briskly.

“I'd planned on a couple of weeks.”

“Lucky you, to have a job that can spare you for such a length of time.”

“They've been very understanding,” Bob mumbled.

“Take advantage of that while you can.” Peg nodded wisely. “Once you rise to a position of responsibility, it won't be nearly so easy to get away.”

Bob's flush now covered his entire face and was creeping down his neck. Aunt Peg looked at me and smiled. “There you are, dear. Are you ready to go?”

“Where?”

“We've been invited to Monica Freedman's house.”

“We have?”

Peg nodded. “In my new position as all-purpose secretary, I've been asked to retrieve the club records Monica had in her possession. Mrs. Freedman is expecting us.”

“You should have called,” I said. “I'm not sure this is a good time. Bob is here, and I've got Daveyâ”

“It's all right,” Bob said quickly, obviously eager to be rid of Aunt Peg. “We'll be fine.”

“You see?” said Peg. “We're all set.”

“Davey?”

“Go Mom.”

Well, that made me feel wanted.

“You'll look out for Faith?”

“Sure.” Davey nodded importantly. “We both will. Right, Dad?”

“Right, son.”

Dad?
I hadn't heard that before. I swallowed the lump in my throat and went inside to get my purse.

Knowing Aunt Peg, she viewed this visit to Monica's as an opportunity to do some snooping around. My motivation was more selfish. At the moment, anything that took my mind off of Bob and Davey's growing relationship, seemed like a good idea.

Detective Shertz had apparently been busy over the last few days. On the way to Banksville, Peg and I compared notes on our respective visits from Greenwich's finest. It didn't take long. We'd been asked pretty much the same questions, and managed to ferret out only the same meager bits of information. All too quickly, Aunt Peg managed to work the conversation back around to the topic of my ex-husband.

“So that's the infamous Bob,” she mused aloud. “I must say he doesn't look like much.”

“That's the father of my child you're insulting.”

“The absentee father.” She slanted me a look. “If you ask me, it's not much of a bargain having him back.”

“It's not as if I invited him.”

“It's not as if you've thrown him out, either.”

I didn't want to talk about Bob. I especially didn't want to hear the comparisons with Sam that would inevitably follow. Hoping to shock her into silence, I said, “Bob's thinking of seeking joint custody.”

Peg never even missed a beat. “When pigs fly.”

“That's why he's here.”

“Oh, pish. He's here because coming seemed like a good idea at the time. He's found some money, and gotten himself engaged, and now he's decided to tie up loose ends. That boy hasn't a clue how to be a father to Davey.”

We agreed on that, at least.

“He'll get over it,” said Peg. “You'll see.”

I could only hope she was right.

Banksville is a small village north of Greenwich, just over the state line in New York. There's a shopping center, a tennis facility, and several gas stations. Driving through town at moderate speed takes about thirty seconds. With Aunt Peg behind the wheel, if you blinked, you'd miss it.

The Freedmans lived in a raised ranch on an acre of land, about a mile beyond the village. The house looked like any one of thousands erected in the sixties, with economy and ease of construction taking precedence over style. Stockade fencing shielded most of the back yard from view. Melting snow had left puddles across much of the front; but the walk was shoveled and dry.

Monica's mother must have been looking for us, because the front door opened as we approached. Rhonda Freedman was a sturdily built woman who looked to be in her early sixties. She was wearing the sort of shapeless shift my mother would have called a house dress and had slippers on her feet. Behind glasses with bright blue frames, her eyes were red rimmed.

Aunt Peg introduced us both and told her how sorry we were for her loss.

Mrs. Freedman nodded wearily as if she'd heard the same words many times recently. I'd lost both my parents and I knew how little the condolences helped.

Inside the door was a half flight of stairs, and we followed Mrs. Freedman up to the main floor. To the right, was a large open area, combination living and dining room. A waist-high baby gate blocked the entrance, and when we reached the landing, I saw why.

Behind the gate, there were Beagles everywhere: on the furniture, under the tables, spread out across the floor. Most were sleeping, but a few mustered the energy to stand up and bark. A talk show was playing on a large screen TV in the corner. I could have sworn some of the dogs were watching.

“Just ignore them,” said Mrs. Freedman, turning left and heading down a hallway. “There's a lot of them, but they won't fuss at you, especially not when Oprah's on.”

I glanced at Aunt Peg, but she was nodding as though that made sense, so I didn't say a word.

Mrs. Freedman led the way to a plainly furnished room that looked to be part guest room, part office. A twin size bed and dresser were on one side; a desk and credenza, complete with computer and printer, took up the other. It was the walls, however, that drew my gaze.

They were covered with sketches of Beagles, some charcoal, some pen and ink, all carefully matted and framed. The little hounds were pictured cavorting through fields, sitting beside a saddle, and playing with a tennis ball. The sketches were life-like; but more importantly, the artist seemed to have captured the essence of the dogs' personalities.

Mrs. Freedman saw where I was looking. “Monica's work. She was very talented.” She stopped for a sigh, then gestured toward a cardboard file box beside the desk. “All the club records are in there. I found them as soon as I started tidying up. I figured the club would want them back.”

“You did just the right thing calling Lydia,” Aunt Peg assured her. “It will only take us a moment to gather everything up.”

“No hurry. I'm going to go back and catch the end of Oprah. Take all the time you need.”

“Since we're here, maybe we should take a quick look through the computer files,” Aunt Peg suggested. “I'd hate to miss something and have to come back and bother you again.”

I was appalled at her audacity, but Mrs. Freedman didn't seem to mind. “Go right ahead,” she said, already turning away. “The police have already been here and had a look-through. I don't imagine it will make much difference to Monica now.”

If Aunt Peg was disappointed to have been beaten to the punch, she didn't let it show. While I headed for the file box, she went immediately to Monica's desk. I lifted the top off the cardboard box, and she switched on the computer. The directory of files was tiny. Aunt Peg began scanning through them.

“Nothing,” she said, closing the first. The second took her more time, but yielded similar results. “No wonder the police didn't find anything.” she muttered. “There's nothing here.”

I turned my attention back to the cardboard file box. Inside, it was divided into four partitions with headings lettered neatly on plastic covered tabs. The first said insurance receipts. It was followed by tax receipts, current bills, and finally, kennel club business.

The kennel club folder took up the most room as it was filled with papers. I lifted it out and carried it over to the bed. Apparently finished with the computer, Aunt Peg switched it off and came to sit beside me.

“Everything seems to be what you'd expect,” she said, thumbing through the papers. “Membership lists, a copy of the by-laws, membership applications, sponsor forms, club stationery.”

“What are those?” I asked, pointing.

“Club newsletters, past and present apparently. Monica really was a bit of a pack-rat, wasn't she?”

Aunt Peg lifted the top one out, which carried a mid-February date. The front page was set up in columns like a small newspaper and said “
BELLE HAVEN HAPPENINGS”
across the top.

“Between us, Monica and I wrote up most of the club news,” Aunt Peg explained. “Once a month, she'd Xerox the newsletters and mail them out to all members. They also serve as notices for each upcoming meeting.”

“There's another meeting in a week or two, isn't there?”

“That's right. Now that you mention it, the March newsletter is overdue. Monica must have been just about ready to mail them out when she died.”

“So where are they?”

Aunt Peg closed the file and set it aside. “Let's check the desk. It would be a big help if we could find them. The sooner they get in the mail, the better.”

We found the March newsletters in the bottom drawer; thirty-five envelopes with the Belle Haven return address, all stuffed and stamped, but not sealed. Aunt Peg gathered up the bundle and divided it in half. “We'll take these along to the post office right now. Here, help me lick.”

Tagging along with Aunt Peg definitely has its better moments. This was not one of them. By the time I'd sealed the first ten, my whole mouth was sticky and tasted like paste. Toward the bottom of the pile, one envelope felt different when I picked it up. Heavier. I lifted the flap and looked inside.

“There's an extra piece of paper in this one. A letter, maybe.”

Aunt Peg leaned over and read the address. “It's Lydia's. I wonder what Monica was sending her.” She took the envelope and tipped its contents out onto the desk.

“That's tampering with the U.S. mail.”

“Oh pish. It hasn't been sent. It can't be mail if it hasn't been mailed.”

No use arguing with logic like that.

A folded sheet of plain white paper fell out beside the newsletter. Aunt Peg picked it up and unfolded it. Together, we read the short, handwritten message.

Dear Lydia,

A club president should be above reproach, don't you think? Too bad Belle Haven has something to hide.

BOOK: Dog Eat Dog

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