Hot Dog

I didn't have sweet dreams or any dreams at all that I remembered. Instead I fell into a light, restless slumber that left me drifting in and out of sleep. I'd finally begun to nod off when my eyes suddenly flew open and I jerked upright in bed.

My heart was racing. My fingers gripped the covers. I had no idea what was wrong.

The room was dark save for a narrow beam of moonlight shining in through the window. The clock on the nightstand read three thirteen a.m. I gulped in air and sat perfectly still, listening . . .

For what? I wondered.

Next to me on the bed, Eve was awake as well. Her head was up, her ears pricked. I had pushed Dox's crate against the wall in the corner. Now I could hear the puppy moving within. Was that the unaccustomed noise that had awakened us?

No, I realized abruptly, there was something else. The slight but unmistakable sounds of movement from downstairs. A door swished open. A floorboard creaked.

Davey? Not likely. My son slept like a rock. My heart froze, even as my brain flatly refused to register the implications. My imagination had been running amok lately. This was nothing more than another symptom of the same problem.

For a minute, I strained to hear something else. Anything else.

And then I did.

Someone was moving in the hallway outside my bedroom . . .

A PEDIGREE TO DIE FOR

 

UNDERDOG

 

DOG EAT DOG

 

HAIR OF THE DOG

 

WATCHDOG

 

HUSH PUPPY

 

UNLEASHED

 

ONCE BITTEN

 

HOT DOG

 

BEST IN SHOW

 

JINGLE BELL BARK

 

RAINING CATS AND DOGS

 

CHOW DOWN

 

HOUNDED TO DEATH

 

DOGGIE DAY CARE MURDER

 

GONE WITH THE WOOF

 

Hot Dog

A Melanie Travis Mystery

KENSINGTON BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

S
how me a man who proposes on bended knee and I'll show you a man who's overcompensating.

As it happens the man in question, Sam Driver, had a lot to compensate for. Too much to be solved by a mere proposal, no matter how romantically couched. One look at the two-carat, emerald-cut diamond ring Sam thought he'd be slipping on my finger and any woman would have known that this was a guy with a guilty conscience.

Good, I thought. He deserved one.

Bear in mind that we were going through this proposal thing for the second time. The first, Sam had been on his feet, smiling that easy, knowing smile that always made my stomach plummet. He'd simply held out his arms and waited for me to walk into them, secure in the knowledge that there was nowhere else I'd rather be. There hadn't been any expensive ring; we hadn't felt the need.

This time around neither one of us was feeling very secure. Six months earlier Sam had gone away unexpectedly—needing something, searching for something that he couldn't quite define. At the time, there had been some extraordinary events in his life; I knew there was much he needed to come to grips with. I'd even managed to tell myself that I understood.

And eventually I did. As the months passed I came to understand that the forces that kept him away were stronger than the ones that had bound him to me. Maybe that was all I needed to know.

So when Sam reappeared, I wasn't exactly ready to drop everything and take up where we'd left off. Not my son Davey. He welcomed Sam back with typical, unquestioning, seven-year-old exuberance.

In the interim, Davey's father, my ex-husband Bob, had come to Connecticut for a visit that had stretched into a two-month sojourn and ended with him buying a house only a couple of miles from our own. Summers were too hot in Texas, Bob had announced. He was ready to relocate to the northeast.

Now my son had two men vying for his attention and looking out for his welfare. Three, if you counted my recently married brother, Frank. I'd been a single parent for so long, it was a little much to take in. Davey, of course, coped beautifully.

So when Sam proposed for the second time, I didn't have to worry about my son's feelings, just my own. For a brief, stirring moment, I held the ring in my hand. I felt the sharp, faceted edge of the diamond bite into my palm and thought about the commitments we honor and those we choose to walk away from.

Then I handed the ring back.

Sam was visibly shaken by my response. Evidently, he'd hoped that an expensive piece of jewelry and a proposal tendered with all sincerity would be enough to bridge the rift between us. For him, it seemed as though they were.

For me, it wasn't that simple.

The months we'd been separated had helped Sam heal. But while time had put him back together, it had torn me apart. Love endured, but faith eroded. I couldn't promise Sam my future when I didn't trust his past.

Maybe someday I'll change my mind and put his ring on my finger. Then again, maybe not.

We'll see.

N
othing sucks all the joy out of a glorious spring afternoon faster than the sight of a feisty, fifty-something ex-nun standing on the doorstep and glowering as though she has murder on her mind.

“Hi, Aunt Rose,” I said. “Who do you want to kill?”

“Is it that obvious?”

She didn't sound distressed by this, my aunt who'd spent the better part of three decades known as Sister Anne Marie, wearing the solemn black habit of her order, turning to prayer in times of need, and taking her complaints directly to the Head Man upstairs. Actually she looked rather gratified by the effect her scowl had produced.

Stepping aside so I wouldn't get run over as she came marching in, I made a silent vow to tread carefully. With my relatives, that's always a good plan. As is keeping your back to the wall and your head down.

“Only to someone who knows you,” I lied.

If she'd still been wearing the wimple and veil, I wouldn't have been able to do that; habits ingrained in a Catholic childhood are hard to break. Instead Rose was casually dressed in khaki pants and a cotton sweater, with a silk scarf in a nautical print tied jauntily around her neck. She looked less like a Mother Superior than a busy Connecticut matron on her way to the supermarket.

Except for the frown, which had, if anything, intensified. It was now firmly aimed in my direction.

“You're a better liar than you used to be,” Rose said. “I suppose Peg has been coaching you.”

Peg was my other aunt. She'd been married to Max, Rose's and my father's brother, until his death three years earlier. The two women had been in-laws for decades, and animosity had sizzled between them for much of that time.

Any hope I might have had of spending a peaceful Saturday afternoon was rapidly fading. Aunt Rose was heading for the living room. I trudged along behind. Books and magazines littered the coffee table. A rawhide bone sat on the couch. Davey's wooden train set took up much of the floor.

“I should have known,” I said. “What has Aunt Peg done now?”

“I'm sure I have no idea.” Rose stepped carefully over the wooden tracks, glanced at the chew toy, and wisely chose a chair. “Why? Is she in trouble?”

“I thought that's why you were here.”

“Goodness, no. I haven't spoken to Peg in weeks. It's Peter who's giving me fits. I thought maybe you could help.”

Other kind souls might have leapt in at that point to offer their services. I folded my hands in my lap and didn't say a thing. As it happens, I've been down this path of family obligations before. The scenery is often alarming, and there tend to be a surprising number of potholes along the way.

Peter was Rose's husband, an affable middle-aged man with an expanding paunch and a ready smile. He'd left the priesthood about the same time Rose had bid good-bye to the Sisters of Divine Mercy and they'd married shortly thereafter. Recently he'd taken a job running an Outreach program at a community center in downtown Stamford.

Peter loved his work, and I knew he was good at it. Whatever was bothering my aunt, surely it couldn't be too serious.

Before I could find out, however, I heard the back door slam. That noise was followed by the unmistakable sound of three youngsters—one human, two canine—racing through the kitchen and down the hallway.

“Hey, Aunt Rose!” My son announced his presence with a delighted shriek. “When did you get here? Where's Uncle Peter? Want to go outside and play?”

Faith and Eve, our two Standard Poodles, greeted the guest with rather more dignity. The pair are mother and daughter, both black, and both bigger than many people imagine Poodles to be. Standards are the largest of the three varieties; and these two stood twenty-four inches at the shoulder. They also exhibited that wonderful Poodle temperament: lively, intelligent, mischievous, and highly empathetic.

Eve was an older puppy now at nine months of age. With her ear hair wrapped, her topknot done up in brightly colored rubber bands, and the profuse coat she was growing for the show ring making her appear bigger than she was, even I had to admit she was quite a sight. Aunt Rose didn't so much as blink. Instead she simply held out her hand, which Eve sniffed politely before spinning on her hind legs and bounding back to Davey's side. Faith, meanwhile, trotted around the coffee table and hopped up on the couch beside me, resting her head in my lap.

“Play what?” Rose asked, considering Davey's offer. “What sort of game did you have in mind?”

“Basketball,” he suggested quickly. “Or maybe tag. Then Faith and Eve can play too.”

“Your father should be here any minute,” I pointed out. My ex-husband was picking Davey up and taking him out for the afternoon.

Davey made a production out of checking his watch, a recent addition to his left wrist. “He's late. He was supposed to be here already.”

“How is Bob?” Aunt Rose's brow arched delicately. The small gesture was as close as she would come to expressing disapproval in front of Davey.

“He's fine. He's doing great. He's . . .” I stopped, shrugged. “. . . Bob. You know.”

Rose nodded. She did indeed.

Davey headed for the front door. “I'll go out and check. Maybe I can see him coming.”

“Good idea. Leave the dogs inside.”

The backyard was fenced, the front wasn't. Davey knew the rules. So did the Poodles. Eve turned a small circle and lay down beside Rose's chair.

“Sorry about the interruption,” I said. “Bob was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. He's usually pretty punctual.”

“I'm glad he's late.” Rose smiled. “I don't see nearly enough of my nephew. It always seems as though Davey has grown another three inches between visits.”

That the rebuke was a gentle one didn't make it any less well deserved. Somehow my relatives and I have less in common with the Brady Bunch than we do with the tortured characters in
Hamlet
. Or
Monty Python
. Which never seems to stop us from beating our heads against that barred and shuttered door that somehow lies between us and familial bliss.

“I'm sure now that you and Peter are living in the area again, things will be different,” I said hopefully.

Aunt Rose didn't look convinced. I imagine I didn't either.

“Let me tell you why I've come,” she said. “I'm afraid I need some advice. Quite without warning, I seem to have become the caretaker for a rather young puppy—”

“You got a dog?” I must have sounded surprised. Faith lifted her head and gazed at me inquiringly. Having recently acquired her championship, she'd had her elaborate show coat replaced by an elegant pet trim. Now I could tangle my fingers in her topknot and ears to my heart's content. “That's great!”

“Yes and no. You see, this isn't our puppy. Peter and I are just taking care of it for a little while.”

Oh. That didn't sound like nearly as much fun. Faith and Eve were members of Davey's and my family. We were great believers in the joys of dog ownership.

“What kind of dog is it?”

“A Dachshund. A smooth coated red Standard.” Rose paused, then added quite unnecessarily, “I bought a book.”

“I can tell.”

I didn't laugh. I didn't even smirk. Aunt Rose did not look amused.

“I read the book from cover to cover,” she announced, “and I now know volumes about the history and function of the breed. However, I still know diddly about what puppies eat, why they feel the need to cry all night long, and how to stop them from doing their business in the house.”

“Diddly?”

“Diddly,” Aunt Rose confirmed. Her scowl was back. “Zip, zero, nada. My vocabulary is not what's at issue here, Melanie.”

Of course not. “How old is the puppy?”

“Eight weeks, I think. Maybe ten. Or maybe three months, does that sound right?”

“They all sound possible.” That was supposed to be an easy question. That Rose didn't have a ready answer wasn't a good sign. “Where did the puppy come from?”

“A man in Norwalk donated him to Peter's benefit auction.” Rose plucked at a stray thread in her sweater. Her gaze, usually so confident and direct, didn't quite meet mine.

“Donated him . . . ?” Now I was the one who was frowning. “What auction?”

“It's a fund-raiser for the community center. Considering the amount of wealth that's concentrated in this area of Fairfield County, the resources available to Peter's Outreach program are a disgrace. And of course, you know Peter. He immediately set about to rectify the situation.”

That sounded like Peter, all right. Though I still wasn't sure where a Dachshund puppy would have fit into his plans.

“Our first step was to drum up some support in the community and find sponsorship among the local corporations.” Aunt Rose was a master at charity fund-raising. Now that she was back on familiar territory, her self-assurance was returning. “I have to say, both Peter and I are gratified by the response our efforts have received.”

“When does the auction take place?”

“The second weekend in May. A hotel in Stamford has donated a ballroom and a number of area restaurants, and caterers have signed on to supply appetizers and finger food in exchange for prominent mention in the program. It looks like it's going to be quite an event.”

“I can see why. It sounds like a great idea.”

“Thank you.” Rose was pleased. “Now back to the puppy—”

“Which is not a great idea,” I said firmly.

My aunt's chin lifted. “Why not?”

“You can't simply hand a living, breathing animal over to the highest bidder. Puppies aren't an impulse purchase. They need to go to carefully selected homes where their new owners are prepared to devote the time and effort necessary to their upbringing. . . .”

Aunt Rose didn't seem surprised by what I was saying. Indeed, she looked rather resigned. My voice faded away as a suspicion slipped, unbidden, into the back of my mind.

“Aunt Peg already told you the same thing, didn't she?”

“Yes,” Rose admitted. “And rather less politely.”

She would have, I thought. Aunt Peg was Margaret Turnbull of Cedar Crest Kennels, prominent in dog show circles for many years as breeder of the East Coast's top Standard Poodles. Aunt Peg's dogs were justifiably praised for their beauty, their excellent health, and their stable, fun-loving temperaments.

Faith had come, of course, from Cedar Crest. And I had bred Eve with Aunt Peg's careful guidance. Though Peg had made her mark as a breeder and owner-handler, she had recently added another feather to her cap when she'd gotten her judge's license over the winter. She'd already performed her first few assignments and was fast gaining a reputation for being tough, knowledgeable, and fair.

Peg didn't suffer fools gladly. Not in the show ring and not in her own family. I couldn't imagine she'd have been pleased to hear Aunt Rose's tale of the giveaway puppy.

“To be perfectly honest,” said Rose, “I suppose I hadn't thought things through. One would assume that the puppy's breeder knew what he was doing. According to Peter, this Dachshund is very well bred. He even has a pedigree.”

“Aunt Rose,” I said patiently, “most purebred dogs have pedigrees. All that really means is that someone has written the names of their ancestors down on a piece of paper.”

“Well this little dog has illustrious ancestors. Champions even.”

I sighed. Unfortunately it wasn't unheard of for dogs even as little as one generation removed from reputable breeders to fall into the hands of the puppy mills that wholesaled puppies to pet stores. The American Kennel Club has created the option of limited registration to try to fix the problem, but it hasn't accomplished nearly enough.

“Not only that,” Rose continued, “but a number of the donations that we've received for the benefit are rather grandiose. There's a very good chance that whoever takes this little fellow home will have paid quite a high price for the privilege. I saw Peter's notes about the puppy. I believe they said that his sire had won Best of Breed several months ago at that big dog show in New York.”

“Best of Variety,” I corrected automatically.

Dachshunds, like Poodles, come in varieties. In Poodles, the distinctions are made by size, Toys being the smallest at ten inches and under, Miniatures standing between ten and fifteen inches at the shoulder, and Standards being anything above that.

In the case of Dachshunds, things are even more complicated. Their varieties are divided by coat: smooth, wirehaired, and longhaired; and they also show in two different weight classes, Standard and Miniature.

Abruptly, incredulously, I realized what she'd said. “You don't mean Westminster, do you?”

“That sounds right. I believe Peter and I watched the show on television. If you ask me, it seemed like rather a lot of hoopla over a bunch of dogs.”

Yes, well, dog shows sometimes did seem like that to people who didn't understand their inner workings. But I was still back on my aunt's earlier point. How had she and Peter come into possession of a puppy whose sire had just been awarded Best of Variety at Westminster? What kind of breeder would have donated such a puppy to a charity auction?

“Mom, come quick!”

Before Davey had even finished yelling, I was already on my feet. There are certain things that make a mother's heart race and her hands grow cold. The sound of a child shrieking pretty much tops the list.

I scooped Faith up, thrust her aside, and wiggled out from between coffee table and couch. When I reached the hall, Aunt Rose and the Poodles were right behind me. Davey hadn't bothered to latch the front door. Yanking it open, I nearly knocked myself over.