Gone With the Woof (11 page)

He, too, walked over and shook Edward March's hand when he was done. Watching as that interplay repeated, I noticed a dark-haired woman in a severely styled black dress who was standing just behind March's chair. Her eyes were large and luminous, and she appeared to be on the verge of tears. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, and it looked as though the secure hug was all that was holding her together.

Now that I stopped and thought about it, I realized that she'd been occupying that somewhat conspicuous spot for most of the evening. And yet neither March nor any of the other mourners had taken the time to speak to her. No one was paying any attention to her at all.

I elbowed Bertie. “Who is that?”

“No idea,” she whispered back.

When someone else began to speak, I kept watching the woman as she stood and listened politely. She appeared to be about my age, more likely to have been a companion of Andrew's than his father's. Why, then, were his friends snubbing her? And what made her remain in place in the face of their obvious incivility?

“Well, that's that,” said Aunt Peg.

I looked up and realized that the last speaker had finished. People were beginning to head toward the door. Sam was making his way through the thinning crowd in our direction.

“I haven't had a chance to speak to Mr. March yet,” I said. Once again, he was surrounded.

“You came, and you offered your support,” said Aunt Peg. “I'm sure that's enough.”

“Ready?” asked Sam. He'd already been to the cloakroom.

I wound my scarf around my neck and slid my arms into the wool coat. Together, we headed out into the cold night.

“Y
ou're going to want to see this,” March said. He was seated behind the desk in his library, holding a sheet of paper, which he tilted in my direction. “I made a list.”

I had just arrived and barely had my coat off. As usual, Aunt Peg's assumption had proven to be correct. Only two days after the memorial service, I'd been summoned back to Westport. Apparently, March and I were going to be working together, and he was eager to begin. He didn't even wait for Charlotte to close the door before starting to issue orders.

I probably should have been annoyed by his peremptory behavior. Instead, I found myself unexpectedly pleased to see that March was looking better than he had the last time I'd seen him. There was color back in his cheeks and a definite stiffening of his spine.

Before I even had time to react, he looked up at me and flapped the paper impatiently. I crossed the room and took it from his hand.

“What kind of list is it?”

“Things for you to do. I've laid my son to rest. Now it's time to get to work.”

I looked at the first item at the top of the page.
Talk to the neighbors and find out what they saw.

“The police will have already done that,” I said.

“And what did they tell me about what they've found out?” March demanded. “Not a single blessed thing. That detective hasn't even bothered to return my latest call.”

I moved around the desk and stood by the window behind it. Now that I could actually see its dimensions, the window was surprisingly large. The drapes that framed it, however, were made of dark, bulky velour. Hanging partially closed—the only position I'd ever seen them in—they blocked out all but a small sliver of light.

“When did you call Detective Wygod?” I asked.

“At least twenty minutes ago,” March said irritably. “Maybe more.”

Those drapes were annoying me. I tried bundling up an armful of the heavy material and pushing it to one side. The curtain receded briefly, then slid slowly back into its accustomed place.

“Leave that.” The elderly man craned his head around to see what I was doing. “Come and sit down.”

I stepped back around in front of the desk, where it was easier for March to see me. “We're going to make a deal,” I told him.

“We already have a deal.”

March's index finger tapped up and down on a folder beside his blotter. As I recalled, I'd never signed that contract. I'd never even seen the revised version he'd promised me—the one that was supposed to protect both our interests. The wily old businessman probably still thought that he was keeping his options open. If that was the case, he was about to find out that having me for a partner might not be as simple as he'd initially assumed.

I set the list down on his desktop. Given a small nudge, it went sailing across the polished surface.

“If you want me to do those things for you, you're going to have to do some things for me, too. For starters, it's too damn dark in here. It's a beautiful day outside. Why would you want to shut that out?”

March crossed his arms over his chest. His expression turned mulish. “I like it dark. And it's cold out there.”

“Cold, but sunny,” I pointed out. “Being in here is like sitting inside a cave. I don't know how you can work like this. I'm getting rid of those drapes.”

“You're not getting rid of the drapes.”

“Yes, I am.” It was time March learned that he wasn't the only stubborn person in the room. “We need to get more light in here. What are you afraid of? That I'll see that your library is full of junk? Guess what? I already know. We still need to be able to see what we're doing.”

Back around the desk I went. The drapes looked like they weighed twenty pounds or more. I might not be able to take them down off the rod, but with all the stuff scattered around the room, I was pretty sure I could find something with which to tie them back.

“I said leave it alone,” March growled.

“The air in here is stale, too,” I told him. “You're lucky I'm not opening the window while I'm at it. Why is the door always closed, anyway?”

“I like my privacy.”

“There's nobody in the house but you and Charlotte. She doesn't strike me as a snoopy sort of person.”

“Unlike you.”

“Unlike me,” I agreed. “Whose snooping talents you would apparently like to put to good use.”

That shut him up. I continued to work on the drapes.

Poking into their depths, I'd discovered that a pair of bronze tiebacks was screwed into the window frame. Not only that, but there was a long decorative tassel hanging from one. Any minute now, I'd have all that heavy velour under control and out of the way.

“You ought to be listening to me,” said March. “This is my house.”

“I am listening,” I told him. “Any minute now, you might say something I want to hear.”

I bunched up half of the heavy material and shoved it hard to one side. Before it could rebound, I got it anchored behind the tieback. For good measure, I tied the drape in place with the tassel.

“Now that looks much better.” I surveyed my work with satisfaction. One side done, I turned and attacked the other. “How long have these things been hanging here, anyway? They look like a holdover from the seventies.”

“Could be they are. My wife picked them out.” March waved a hand, dismissing the topic. “Who cares? They do the job.”

“You're right. They do,” I said. One last knot and the second side was trussed in place, too. “They keep the world out. I'm wondering why you want that.”

“What? Are we going to analyze me now?”

March spun around in his seat to glare at me. Instead, he found himself blinking at the unaccustomed brightness. The snow outside sparkled beneath the sun's rays. The vista, looking out across the yard to a meadow beyond, was dazzling.

“I'm just trying to improve our working conditions,” I said. “What a beautiful view you have from here.”

“It's all just a lot of snow.” March sounded grumpy. “But if you think you need to be able to look at it, by all means, help yourself.”

“Thank you,” I said happily. “Even better, now we can see what we're doing.”

I skirted back around the desk and went to take my usual seat. The chair was where I'd left it, but its cushion, empty on my previous visit, was now stacked high with a tilting pile of old leather-bound photo albums. Abruptly, I stopped in place, assailed by a sharp stab of guilt. In the wake of his son's death, March must have been doing some reminiscing. And I'd gotten so caught up in trying to assert myself that I'd almost forgotten the reason for my visit.

“I'll just leave these here,” I said, backing away.

“Oh, for Pete's sake,” March snapped. “What's the matter with you today?”

Just that quickly my contrition vanished. Feeling sorry for that old man was like showing weakness to a tiger—it only invited him to bite your head off.

“Put the damn things anywhere,” he said. “Put them on the floor, if you have to. Just move them out of the way.”

Easier said than done in this room.

“You know, we could do some straightening up in here,” I mentioned.

“It doesn't need straightening. This is my stuff, and I like it where it is.”

I hefted the stack of photo albums. “Maybe just a little reorganizing?”

March's cane had been leaning against his desk. Now he picked it up and shook it in my direction. “How about if you sit down and stop trying to run my life? Any minute now, you're going to make me regret hiring you.”

“
Hiring
me?” Arms full, I turned around to face him. “Does that mean you're going to pay me?”

“Book royalties. Like we agreed upon before.”

“Oh, right.” I found a spot for the albums on a nearby crate beside a nest of pillows. “That assumes there
is
a book.”

“Of course there's going to be a book,” said March. “Why wouldn't there be?”

Finally I sat down. “I heard you say you were going back to work.”

“So?”

I reached out and picked up the sheet of paper. “And now you've got a list of things for me. So who's going to be writing your memoirs?”

“Maybe the book gets delayed a little. It's still going to happen.”

I sincerely hoped not. But I wasn't about to waste anybody's time debating the issue. Instead, I looked at March's list again.

“Number two,” I read aloud.
“Come up with likely suspects.”

March nodded. “I read P. D. James and Elizabeth George. That's how it's done.”

“Good to know,” I said.

Before I could get to the next item, the library door opened behind me. As I turned to look, Robin came bounding into the room.

“I've got coffee,” Charlotte said, entering behind the setter. “Sorry about Robin. She was supposed to wait in the kitchen. But like everyone else around here, she just does what she wants to do.”

“Come here, pretty girl,” I said to Robin, holding out a hand.

She was already on her way in our direction. Having seen March by the window, the setter snaked through the cluttered room handily. Her long feathered tail wagged back and forth, smacking into furniture and odds and ends.

Robin spared me a glance and sniffed my fingers politely, but it was March she wanted. She scooted around the desk and sat down happily beside him.

“This looks different.” Charlotte stopped in the middle of the room.

“We're trying a new concept,” I said. “Light instead of darkness. We might even do some straightening.”

“Don't listen to her,” March grumbled. His hand was stroking Robin's head. “She doesn't know what she's talking about.”

“I like it.” Charlotte continued on to the desk and set down the tray. Then she stepped over to the window and had a look at the arrangement for herself. “Maybe I should take these drapes down and have them cleaned.”

“What is going on today?” March asked. “Why is everybody suddenly trying to run my life?”

“We're only trying to help,” I said.

“Maybe I don't need your help!”

“All right.” I stood up. “That makes my life easier.”

March glared. “Now where are you going?”

“Home, I should think.”

“Not before you've had a chance to finish reading my list. I expect you to get started right away.”

“Mr. March, you and I seem to be talking at cross purposes.”

I braced my hands on the edge of the desk and answered his glare with one of my own. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charlotte quietly withdraw. The door snicked shut behind her.

“Edward,” he corrected firmly.

“
That's
the biggest problem you have with what I just said?”

“My name is Edward. I'd rather you use it.”

I wanted to stay annoyed at him. Instead, I found myself sighing. For all his bluster, March suddenly looked like nothing more than a frail old man who'd gotten caught up in a whirlwind of events beyond his control. Sitting there with Robin's head cradled in his lap, his fingers scratching absently beneath her ear, he seemed like someone who really did need my help.

“Edward,” I said.

“Better.” He nodded. “Now sit.”

So I did.

“I have a couple of questions to get started,” I said.

“Shoot.”

“You said you've been speaking to the police—”

“Not recently!”

“Okay, maybe not today, but since your son's death. Did they find anything incriminating on Andrew's computers? What about in his cottage?”

“Not a thing,” said March. “I even asked Detective Wygod, ‘What about forensics?' On TV that stuff works miracles.”

“
If
they find something to work with.”

“Well, they didn't.”

That was too bad.

“It's been ten days,” I said. “Other than that, what have the police been doing? Who have they spoken to?”

“Plenty of people, apparently. Employees at the company and some of Andrew's friends. The detective made it pretty clear that he knew Andrew and I were at loggerheads when he died.”

“Because your son took March Homes away from you?”

March frowned. “There's a little more than that.”

“Because of your book?”

He waved a hand impatiently. “The book was the least of it. Andrew and I would have gotten that sorted out.”

“What, then?”

“Andrew had recently been looking to expand the company. He said he wanted to take the foundation I had created and build on it. What he really meant was that he was willing to take on debt in order to test out new markets. All so that he could feel like he was his own man, making his own decisions.”

“I take it you didn't think that was a good idea.”

“In this economy? He'd have to be crazy to make a move like that. And if he'd ever stopped and thought about it logically, he'd have known better. But instead, he was willing to let his childish need to feel important destroy everything I'd spent decades putting together. I told him in no uncertain terms that I wouldn't allow it.”

“And what did Andrew say to that?”

“He called me a cowardly old man who didn't understand that risk taking was necessary to grow the business. Let me tell you something. I know all about growing a business. I was running March Homes when my son was in diapers—and I was doing a better job of it, too.”