Gone With the Woof (17 page)

“Who told you that?”

“That isn't important,” I said. “What is important is that you didn't tell me the truth. I know that one lawsuit was settled recently, and that there have been others, as well.”

Alice had recommended that I Google for more details. That was a great idea, except that I'd been too busy since to have a chance. Now I decided to wing it and see where the conversation took me.

“That seems like a lot of litigation for a small company,” I said.

“First off,” March replied, “March Homes isn't a small company. And secondly, it's the construction business.”

“Meaning?”

“That's the way things are done. Everybody sues everybody else.”

I had no idea if that was true or not. If so, it seemed like an odd way to do business.

“But you lost,” I pointed out.

“No, we settled the claim. Big difference.”

“So you knew you were in the wrong.”

“We weren't wrong,” March's voice rose. “But nobody wants to get involved in long, drawn-out litigation. Corporations settle lawsuits to make problems go away. People who bring nuisance suits are depending on it. That's how business is done.”

“So then everything is hunky-dory?”

“Don't put words in my mouth. Like I said a minute ago, it's the construction business. There are always issues that need working out. Have you taken a look at the economy lately?”

I assumed that was a rhetorical question. I tried another tack.

“After Andrew took charge of March Homes, did he keep you informed about everything that was going on?”

“Not every little detail,” March admitted. “More like the big picture.”

“Julia Davis says that he was worried about things at the office.”

“I should hope he was worried,” March snapped. “It's a hard job, running a company like that. I ought to know.”

“I'm just wondering if Andrew was having problems he didn't tell you about.”

“And I'm wondering why you're willing to take the word of an inconsequential ex-girlfriend about anything.”

“Julia is pregnant,” I said quietly.

“I know that.”

“You might have mentioned it before.”

“Why? It doesn't mean anything.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. “How can you say such a thing?”

March sighed loudly. “
Now
what's the matter?”

“That baby is your grandchild.”

March pushed back his chair. Its movement nudged Robin to her feet. She circled around and laid her head across March's knees. Automatically, his hand lifted to rest on the back of her neck. His thumb began to rub along her long, lean skull.

I envied his position. There's nothing more comforting than having a dog in your lap.

“Maybe it's my grandchild,” March said. “There's no proof.”

“She and Andrew had been living together since last fall.”

“That doesn't prove a damn thing. Women will try to pin something on you whether it's true or not. Once Julia got pregnant, she probably figured she could trap my son into marrying her. That's the oldest trick in the book.”

“If you really believe that, I feel sorry for you,” I said. “That baby is your flesh and blood. You can do a DNA test if you have to have proof. But in the meantime, I can't believe you want to turn your back on the two of them.”

“And I can't believe you think this is any of your business,” March retorted.

“You asked me to help find out who murdered your son. That's what I'm doing.”

“Is it? Because so far, I'm not seeing any useful results.”

“I could let the police arrest you,” I said. “That's beginning to sound like a useful result to me.”

“Don't think they're not trying. While you've been off wasting valuable time, they've been circling around me like a pack of buzzards who think I'm the only decent meal in sight.”

“I warned you that might happen.”

“You did,” March agreed. “Maybe Margaret wasn't entirely wrong about you.”

“Now what?” I asked, exasperated.

“She said you were a sharp cookie. So now you've got me wondering, too. Maybe there were things going on at the company that I didn't know about. That Andrew didn't want me to know about.”

“You're back in charge of things again,” I told him. “Surely, you can find that out.”

“Nominally I'm in charge,” March said irritably. “But everybody knows that I don't have the strength or the stamina to do the job. They handle me with kid gloves. Two days a week is barely enough time to work on a smooth transition of power. We don't get down and dirty with the details.”

March lifted Robin's head and pushed the setter aside. He stood up and pointed his finger at me. “That's where you come in. Get yourself over to March Homes. Talk to the people that I don't get to hear from. Find out what they have to say.”

“I can do that,” I said.

Charlotte seemed to have disappeared, so I saw myself out.

I
had to get on the parkway to go home, and once there I found myself driving past the Stamford exits and continuing on to the next town, Greenwich. You know, where Aunt Peg lives. The person who'd gotten me involved in this adventure in the first place.

Talking to Aunt Peg always clarifies my thoughts. Her no-nonsense approach strips away inconsequential details and goes straight to the heart of a problem. Either that or the sugar rush I usually have when we're together makes my brain operate at warp speed. Whatever the reason, it seems to work.

As always, her Standard Poodles announced my arrival before I'd even managed to get out of the car. Aunt Peg opened her front door, and the herd came flooding the steps. All six big black dogs eddied around my legs, jostling each other for position. I extended both hands and ruffled as many ears and topknots as I could reach.

“Just you?” said Aunt Peg.

She stood at the edge of her porch and peered at the Volvo. Apparently, she was hoping that query might conjure up a child or two. Or possibly even my husband. It was easy to see where I fell in the order of importance.

“I'm afraid so,” I told her. “Sam has the kids. I've been out running errands.”

“On a Sunday morning?”

I ignored her outraged tone. Aunt Peg's approach to the religion we grew up with is every bit as lapsed as mine. “It happens.”

With a quick flick of her wrist, she motioned the Poodles back inside the house. I followed along just as dutifully.

“Is there a reason for this unexpected visit?” she asked.

“I need cake.”

Sweets are Aunt Peg's solution to the ills of the world. She pondered the significance of my request briefly, then said, “I can do that.”

I'd never doubted her for a minute.

Apparently, in deference to the day of the week, we had coffee cake. It was swirled with cinnamon and had icing on top. The combination was sweet enough to make my teeth ache. Aunt Peg had her ever-present cup of Earl Grey. She plunked a jar of instant coffee on the counter and left me to deal. No surprises there.

“So,” she said. “Tell me what's been going on. Start with Augie.”

Of course, she would want to hear about the puppy first. But since less than twenty-four hours had passed since her previous update on the Poodle's status, there wasn't much to tell.

“He's wonderful. He's adorable. Davey's going to love him.”

“Have you told him yet?”

“No. And don't you dare.” I did my best to sound menacing. It was probably a bit of a stretch. “Augie is going to be a surprise.”

“When?”

“We're picking him up in a couple of days.”

“A child's first puppy is a momentous occasion.”

My aunt's life revolves around her involvement with dogs—and she wouldn't have it any other way. So the subtext of her statement was clear:
Don't blow it.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “once Davey has his own dog, I might even be able to get him back into Junior Showmanship.”

It had been Aunt Peg's fondest wish to cheer her nephew on to the junior handling title at Westminster. Unfortunately, as we'd discovered the year before, Davey hadn't shared the same aspirations.

“Don't even go there,” I told her. “It's not happening. Sam and Davey are going to finish Augie in the breed ring, then look for something fun. Maybe agility.”

“That would work.”

I knew she'd agree. When she had time in her schedule, Aunt Peg was an agility maven herself. I used my fork to section off a large bite of coffee cake and pop it in my mouth, then moved on to the topic I'd come to discuss.

“Your friend Edward March,” I said.

“What now?” asked Peg.

“For starters, he's a bit of a liar.”

“Don't be naive, Melanie. Everyone shades the truth now and then.”

“He seems to shade it more than most. Or maybe he's simply incapable of seeing any viewpoint other than his own.”

Aunt Peg sliced off two new pieces of cake and put one on each of our plates. “Are we talking about that regrettable e-mail again?”

“Oh, please,” I said. “That's old news. But just for the record, I have yet to meet a woman who would be honored to appear in March's book.”

“I'm not surprised,” said Aunt Peg. “There's a basic truism I've learned over the years.”

“What's that?”

“The male ego is a powerful source of self-delusion.”

That made me laugh. “How do they do it?” I asked.

“I don't know, but every single one of them looks in the mirror every morning and sees an Adonis staring back at him. And somehow that carries over into the rest of their lives.”

Women should be so lucky,
I thought.

“March's business has been having problems,” I told her.

Aunt Peg got up, walked over to the refrigerator, and got out the butter dish. In case the coffee cake wasn't fattening enough on its own, I supposed.

“In this economy, I should think that they would,” she said as she sat back down. “Even in Fairfield County, new construction is down. And the rest of the state is even worse. Builders have been hit hard, especially ones like March Homes.”

“Why them in particular?”

“Most of the houses they build are lower-end construction,” said Peg. “March Homes specializes in putting together developments, inexpensive housing meant to give young couples a chance to buy their first homes. But now all those young people can't get mortgages. So everybody's stuck.”

“That's not their only problem,” I said. “March Homes has also been fending off lawsuits from disgruntled clients.”

“That must hurt.”

“I would think so. And here's something else. Andrew had a longtime girlfriend named Julia Davis. The two of them had been living together since last fall. Then she got pregnant, and he dumped her—two weeks before he died.”

“Oh, dear,” said Aunt Peg. “That's a rather revolting development. Have you met her? Does she seem like the murderous sort?”

“I'd say that she's more unhappy than vindictive. She also appears to be struggling financially. And despite the fact that she's carrying his only grandchild, March doesn't want anything to do with her. He says she's nothing more than a gold digger who was trying to trap his son into marriage. How cold is that?”

“Yes, well . . .”

Aunt Peg put down her fork and stared at some distant point. Her fingers began to drum idly on the tabletop. The Poodles, lying around us on the floor, raised their heads to see what was going on. If I were a dog, I'd have pricked my ears, too. I wondered what she was thinking.

“About that,” she said after a minute. “It could be that baby isn't Edward's only offspring.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how people gossip at dog shows?”

Of course I did. Sometimes that was half the fun of being there. On losing days, when the judge hated your dog, it might be all the enjoyment you had.

“Let's just say that at one time there were rumors floating around. It seems there was a possibility that one of the women Edward was involved with had gotten pregnant.”

“Who?” I asked quickly.

“I don't have any idea. That's the whole point of a rumor, isn't it? Maybe what you hear is true and maybe it isn't—and there's always some vital piece of corroborating information that seems to be missing.”

“When was this?”

“A good long time ago. It would have been years, maybe even decades. It was just a wisp of titillating information that floated around the handlers' tent for a while and gave us all something to talk about while we were busy brushing.”

“But March never acknowledged a child?”

“Not that I know of. And as I said, it could be that there never was one. Maybe the story was started by a disgruntled competitor who wanted to make Edward look bad.”

“That's rotten,” I said.

Aunt Peg shrugged. “That's life. People do all sorts of nasty things when there's winning and losing on the line, and they've managed to get their egos involved in the outcome. Really, Melanie, considering some of the situations you've seen, you, of all people, should have learned that by now.”

As usual, she was right.

“So what happens next?” asked Aunt Peg. “While you've been busy nosing around in Edward's private affairs, what have the police been doing to make themselves useful?”

“Good question. March is keeping tabs on the investigation, so I've purposely been staying away. Unfortunately, it sounds as though rather than looking for other suspects, the police are trying to build a case against him.”

She nodded. “It wouldn't be the first time something like that happened. Edward is, after all, Andrew's closest relation. Under the circumstances, I can see why you might want to lie low until you have some sort of fantastic revelation to spring on them.”

My aunt was ever the optimist. And she usually had higher expectations for me than I had for myself. Her point about lying low was well taken, however.

My past dealings with various police forces have consistently proven less than gratifying. One thing the authorities all seemed to agree upon was that sleuthing was a job best left to the professionals. Even when—or perhaps especially when—I'd managed to beat them to the punch.

Either way, I had learned not to expect a warm welcome when I took myself down to the local police station and attempted to share the nuggets of information I'd uncovered. And now, with Edward March determined to run interference with the authorities on his own behalf, my self-serving plan was to draw as little official attention to myself as possible.

“You're assuming that I ever have such a revelation,” I said.

“For Edward's sake, let's hope so.”

 

I devoted the next twenty-four hours to doing the Mommy thing.

That meant tobogganing on the big hill at the Greenwich Country Club on Sunday afternoon, cooking a delicious and nutritious dinner that evening, then helping Davey with his rather tedious homework on the Normans and the Saxons. Monday morning, Kevin and I went to Gymboree, then stopped at the supermarket, the post office, and the dry cleaner on the way home. Along the way I also found time to clip three Poodles' faces and twelve feet, then run the pooper-scooper around the backyard.

It was no wonder the police thought they ought to be the ones investigating crime. Looking at my schedule, I had to agree.

Monday afternoon I got back on the road. This time I was on my way to Route 7, a congested highway that passes through industrialized areas of Norwalk and Wilton on its way north to Danbury. It was also the location for the corporate headquarters of March Homes.

I hadn't called ahead to make an appointment. Nobody at March Homes was expecting me. In my experience, giving people advance notice only offers them the opportunity to think about what they should or shouldn't say. Or, worse yet, to refuse to see me all together.

My plan—such as it was—was to ask to see Walt McEvoy. Especially now with the company's management hierarchy in a state of flux, I couldn't imagine that he'd be available. That was fine with me. What interested me was who I'd be delegated to instead, and what that person might have to say.

Considering that March Homes was in the business of custom construction, their corporate headquarters was surprisingly plain. It was just a square, two-story building, situated beside the highway and surrounded by an unadorned parking lot. If it hadn't been for the sign by the road, I would have missed it entirely.

The building was painted industrial gray, and its windows needed cleaning. At least the lot was freshly plowed. It was also mostly empty. I wondered what, if anything, that signified as I parked and went inside.

Considering the building's ordinary exterior, I wasn't expecting much. Which is why the lobby I entered came as a revelation. Spacious and well lit, it seemed to be as much a showroom as a reception area.

Floor-to-ceiling images of March-built homes and developments covered the walls. A model of a subdivision in Danbury—construction currently in progress, according to the sign affixed to the front—was spread out over a large platform to the right of the entryway. A reception desk was on the left.

A slender, earnest-looking young man was speaking on the phone when I entered. A nameplate on the desk identified him as David Hunt. Seeing me, he immediately hung up and stood. “May I help you?”

“Yes. My name is Melanie Travis. I'd like to speak with Walt McEvoy please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Such an efficient-looking receptionist must surely have known the answer to that question, but I humored him, anyway. “No, I don't. Is he available?”

“I'll check for you.” David picked up the phone again. “May I ask what this is in reference to?”

“No.”

I smiled to soften the blunt denial. It didn't help. David still looked affronted. Nevertheless, he pushed a few buttons and spoke to someone in a low tone, angling his body slightly away, as if he didn't want me to overhear what was being said.

The call seemed to go on for quite a bit longer than I would have thought necessary. At the end, David hung up and gestured toward a suite of chairs grouped around a low table. “If you wouldn't mind having a seat, someone will be with you shortly.”

Only a minute or two passed before the elevator situated in the back wall of the lobby opened and an attractive woman came striding out. She had short blond hair and pretty features, which were all but hidden by a pair of large, dark-framed eyeglasses. She wore chunky gold jewelry at her ears and throat, and her rounded figure was accentuated by a snug floral wraparound dress. Navy blue heels, high enough that I would have been tottering on them, tapped a tattoo on the floor as she approached.