Gone With the Woof (7 page)

“Aunt Peg.”

The two words alone were explanation enough. Both men nodded.

“I'd read that,” said Terry. “Seriously. It's not like Edward March would lack for content.”

“Apparently not,” I agreed unhappily. “The only reason I got involved with the project in the first place is because I thought he meant to write a history of dog shows and great dogs. Instead, it seems that March thinks of himself as the Don Juan of the dog show world.”

“Understatement has never been one of his problems.” Crawford's hands continued to fly through the Standard Poodle's hair. “Especially when it came to promoting his own dogs.”

Crawford was modest to a fault. At the very top of his game, he was the least self-aggrandizing person I knew. I could see how March's attitude might have gotten on his nerves.

“Were March's Irish Setters as good as I've heard?” I asked.

“Sure. Over the years, they were some of the best. I don't know how many he has left anymore.”

“Only one,” I said. “I've been to his house twice, but I've never seen her.”

“That's not surprising. Irish Setters are big, active dogs. Last time I saw Edward before he retired, he was looking pretty fragile. I think his health was worse than he wanted to let on.”

“No wonder he wants to relive his glory days,” said Terry. “Last hurrah and all that. Is he actually going to name names?”

“So he says. Though I can't imagine that the women he was involved with are going to be happy about it.”

Terry shrugged. “There aren't that many secrets in the dog world, hon. We probably already have a fair idea of who'll be popping up.”

“Like who?” I asked. “Anyone I know?”

Crawford sent us both a stern look. “Facts are one thing. We don't deal in gossip.”

“Speak for yourself.” Before Crawford could stop him, Terry gestured toward a nearby ring where half a dozen Vizslas were gaiting around the perimeter mats. “Maribeth Chandler, for one.”

I squinted in that direction. “Which one is she?”

“Frosted blonde.” Terry sniffed. “Like that's not a giveaway she's gone gray. Front of the line. Looks like she's about to win Best of Breed.”

“I thought the Poodles moved fast,” I said. The Vizslas were racing around the ring at the speed of light.

“High-energy breed,” Crawford commented, trying to steer the conversation back to neutral ground.

Blithely, Terry ignored him. “Maribeth's a high-energy woman. Good thing the judge has her at the head of the line, otherwise she might run someone over. I wouldn't want to be the one to get in her way.”

As we watched, the judge lifted his hand and pointed at Maribeth's Vizsla. She gave a happy little jump, swooped down and patted her dog, then ran to stand beside the BOB marker.

“Okay, that's one person,” I said. “Who else? Tell me someone I know.”

Crawford and Terry exchanged a meaningful look. Then they both lowered their heads and studiously went back to work.

That couldn't be good.

“Terry?”

“Hon, you don't want to know.”

Perhaps not, but the way things were shaping up, I could hazard a guess.

Aunt Peg. Edward's Margaret. It had to be.

“W
hen?” I asked

Fingers still moving through the hair, Crawford glanced up innocently. “What are we talking about?”

“Aunt Peg, apparently.”

“This is your fault,” he said to Terry.

“Me? I didn't say a thing.”

“Last hurrah? Naming names?”

“All right, maybe I said that.” Caught red-handed, Terry still looked unrepentant. “But I never mentioned Peg.”

“You didn't have to,” I said with a sigh. “Whenever anything exciting is happening, it's a safe bet that Aunt Peg will be right in the middle of it. I wondered why March called her Margaret. Nobody ever calls her Margaret.”

“Edward would have,” said Terry.

Crawford shook his head. “You're really going there, aren't you?”

Ignoring him, I asked, “Why?”

“Edward always called the women he was involved with by their full names. That was his shtick, his own little secret touch. He thought it made them feel special.”

“It doesn't sound like much of a secret to me,” I grumbled.

“There's a reason for that,” Crawford said shortly. “Edward has never been able to resist talking about himself. That's probably why he decided to write a book. Now, between the two of you, I think you've pretty much pushed my patience to its limit. It's time to talk about something else.”

I nodded in acquiescence. Crawford had already opened up far more than I'd expected him to. As for Aunt Peg, who was currently in the middle of her assignment, I'd deal with her later.

“Who's going to win Best in Show?” I asked.

It was a mystery to me, but somehow Aunt Peg always knew these things ahead of time. She said it was a combination of knowing the dogs' records, the judges' preferences, and a little bit of a tingle in the air on show day. However she managed it, most of the other ardent exhibitors always seemed to be similarly clued in.

“The Peke,” said Terry. “Anyone who doesn't know
that
hasn't been paying attention.”

See what I mean?

“Is he a good one?”

“Oh, honey.” Terry laughed. “You really have had your head under a rock.”

“Ling was number one all systems last year. He'll retire next month, after Westminster.” Crawford nodded in the direction of the rings. “Go take a look for yourself. Peg'll be judging him in half an hour or so.”

I couldn't tell whether Crawford was hoping to educate me or just get rid of me. Nevertheless, it seemed like a good time to move on. I found Sam and the boys sitting ringside, watching Aunt Peg judge.

Pomeranians were in the ring. To the inexpert eye—that would be mine—the animated balls of fur looked more like plush toys than real dogs. Kevin must have agreed, because he was bouncing up and down on Sam's lap, both hands outstretched in the direction of the ring. Luckily, his desire exceeded his grasp.

Davey was watching Aunt Peg's judging technique intently. There was an empty seat between them, and I slipped into it.

“Did you find out everything you needed?” asked Sam.

“And more,” I replied ruefully.

Sam pulled his gaze away from the ring and stared at me for a long moment.

“What?” I asked him.

“I know I was originally in favor of your working with March, but I had a whole different project in mind. There's no reason to continue if you don't really want to. Just call him on Monday and tell him you're bowing out.”

Now we had Davey's attention, too. He leaned around me and inserted himself into the conversation. “You mean, like,
quit in the middle of an assignment?
”

“Now look what you've done,” I said to Sam.

Parenthood. It's a veritable minefield of good intentions.

 

As I'd arranged with March at the end of the previous week, on Monday morning I headed back to Westport. I hadn't yet decided what I was going to do when I got there: did I want to follow Aunt Peg's advice or Sam's? At the moment my only plan was to show up as promised and wing it. Believe it or not, that's a strategy that has worked well for me in the past.

The weather was crisp and dry; the temperature was in the thirties. Though it had been overcast all weekend, now that it was time to go back to work, the sun was shining brightly. The glare off the drifts that lined either side of March's narrow country road was almost blinding.

It hadn't snowed in several days, and the road itself was mostly dry. But mindful of the winding turns and the ice that still lingered in shaded areas, I wasn't going very fast. Even so, when I rounded the last curve before March's driveway and came unexpectedly upon a brace of police cruisers parked by the side of the road, I had to slam on my brakes.

Immediately, I felt like an idiot. I've been driving in snow since I was sixteen. I ought to know better.

The Volvo skidded only briefly. Thanks to gifted Swedish engineering, I quickly regained control. Pumping now instead, I slowed down beside the first police car.

There were three officers at the scene. Two were unspooling a long skein of yellow tape. It looped around two trees and ran along a low stone wall that bordered the road. Cones marked off another restricted area on the road itself. The entire right-hand lane was blocked off.

The third officer lifted his hand to wave me past. Instead, I stopped beside him and rolled down my window. March's driveway was still a hundred yards away, but now that I was stopped, I noticed a narrow break in the stone wall and a small lane that meandered back onto the estate. Charlotte had mentioned that Andrew lived on the property and had his own entrance. I wondered if that was it.

The officer leaned down and looked in my window. His mirrored sunglasses covered half his face and removed any vestige of an expression.

“What happened?” I asked.

“There was an accident here earlier. I'm going to have to ask you to move along.”

“Was someone hurt?”

“Ma'am, is that your driveway?”

“No.”

“Then I need you to keep moving and not block the road.” The officer straightened and stepped away from the car.

Right. As intended, that told me exactly . . . nothing.

My past experiences with the police have been a varied lot, ranging from cooperative to contentious. Occasionally, they take me seriously. Most times—like now—I think they just wish I would go away.

So I did.

Driving well within the speed limit and making judicious use of my blinker, in case anybody with a badge happened to be watching, I eased down the road and turned into March's driveway. Maybe he and Charlotte would know what was going on.

I parked in my usual spot, gathered up my purse and laptop, and was on my way across the driveway when an Irish Setter came bounding around the side of the house. Ears flapping, feathers floating, she gamboled gracefully through the knee-deep snow. Then, abruptly, she stopped, and her head came up. She caught sight of me and changed direction.

The red setter woofed softly. It sounded more like a greeting than a watchdog's warning bark. She trotted toward me, hopping easily over the small drifts of plowed snow that bordered the pavement.

There are those who say that Irish Setters are the most beautiful breed of dog, and looking at the one before me, I certainly couldn't argue. With her mahogany red coat, long-limbed elegance, and dark, soulful eyes, she was the picture of canine glamour. She approached with her tail up in the air and waving slowly back and forth. The fringe of hair beneath it rippled with the languid movement.

“Aren't you pretty?” I crooned. “You must be Robin, right? Is that who you are?”

The setter's tail began to wag faster. Whether it was because I had guessed correctly or because she was simply an agreeable dog, it was hard to tell. I held out my hand and was politely sniffed. Now we were friends.

As she stepped in closer and investigated the length of my pants—no doubt gathering information about the Poodles at home—I ran my hands over her long, sleek body. Her hair was soft and fine, and she was shivering slightly in the cold.

“Come on, girl,” I said. “Let's get you inside.”

Robin followed me up the front steps to the house and waited at my side as I rang the doorbell. Once, then again. Then I tried knocking. Still there was no response.

Odd,
I thought. Maybe this was Charlotte's day off.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed March's number. He didn't pick up. I snapped the phone shut and looked at my watch. It was still Monday, now shortly after 11:00 a.m. March should have been expecting me.

I looked down at Robin. “Now what?” I asked.

That was reflex. I've been known to hold entire conversations with my Poodles. Not only that, but they're better at communicating their wishes than many people I know.

Not unexpectedly, the setter didn't answer. She was shivering harder now, though. I could see the small tremors rippling the length of her body. And yet she continued to wait patiently beside me, certain that I would figure something out.

If I'd been the only one standing outside the house, I probably would have given up and gone home. I was already conflicted about the project. If March couldn't even be bothered to keep our appointment, I would have figured that I had my answer.

But there was no way I could leave Robin outside by herself in the cold. And I couldn't very well take her home with me, either. As if sensing my internal debate, the setter gazed up at me trustingly.

Damn. I've always been a sucker for a dog with big, soft eyes.

“Back door,” I said aloud.

There had to be one. Most likely, that was how Robin had come out. Maybe it was unlocked.

I threw my stuff back in the car, gave silent thanks that I was wearing boots, and stepped into the snow beside the driveway. Now that we were moving again, Robin wanted to lead the way. She ran on ahead, leaping and bounding through the low drifts. The setter disappeared around the side of the house, then doubled back a moment later to see if I was still following.

“I'm coming,” I said, laughing at her antics.

Robin lowered her front end and raised her hindquarters. Her tail was wagging madly now, high in the air above her body. Her hind feet danced in anticipation. Clearly, I was being invited to race.

“Really?” I asked. I leaned down, scooped up some snow, rounded it into a ball, and tossed it to her. “You want a piece of this?”

Robin opened her mouth and snagged the snowball out of the air. When she snapped her jaw shut and the snowball disintegrated on her tongue, the expression on her face was truly comical. She bounced up, sent me a fleeting glance, then ran around the back of the house again.

By the time I rounded the corner, Robin was already standing at the back door. She hopped impatiently from paw to paw on the stoop. I stepped up beside her, shaded my eyes against the glare, and looked through the window that formed the door's upper half. Just inside was a mudroom; the kitchen lay beyond.

Nobody was visible. I gave a hearty knock on the door, anyway. Still no answer.

So I took off my glove and tried the knob. It turned easily. So easily, in fact, that standing as I was, with my weight braced forward, the door pushed open before I even had a chance to think about whether or not I really wanted to go in. Immediately, Robin slithered through the narrow opening and dashed inside.

So now I was standing on the stoop by myself. You know, doing the breaking-and-entering thing.

I opened the door wider and stuck my head in. “Hello? Anybody home? Charlotte?”

I know. It sounds stupid. If they hadn't answered the doorbell or the knocking or the telephone, what was I expecting would happen? And, of course, there was only silence.

So I paused for a moment and thought about what to do. I'd already accomplished my original mission. Robin was now safe inside the house. I could return to my car and leave, guilt-free.

Like that was ever going to happen.

Instead, I let myself in and closed the door behind me. The house was utterly quiet. I had no idea where Robin had disappeared to. I couldn't even hear the sound of her nails clicking on the floor.

Carefully, I wiped the snow off my boots on the mat inside the door. It was bad enough that I'd let myself in. I wasn't about to leave a trail of cold water across the floor.

The kitchen was spacious and looked too modern to have been original to the house. There was a Sub-Zero refrigerator and a restaurant-quality stove. The granite countertops, empty save for a bowl of fruit and a small television set, were gleaming.

I guessed that this was Charlotte's domain, and a desk tucked away in one corner confirmed that thought. A laptop sat open there, along with a purse and a pile of library books. A quick peek inside the wallet revealed Charlotte's ID.

Curiouser and curiouser,
I thought.

So I kept going. I could see through an open doorway on the far side of the room that it led to the front hall. I'd been there before. Nearer to where I stood was a set of closed double doors. Dining room, most likely.

I grasped the nearest knob and pulled the door open. Then gasped softly. The room was large and semi-dark, the curtains drawn against the sunlight outside. It was also filled with junk.

Really, there was no other way to describe it. Everywhere I looked was a jumble of miscellaneous debris. The only thing that belonged was the dining-room furniture, but even that was barely visible due to the sheer multitude of things piled haphazardly around and on top of it.