Hounded to Death (25 page)

Once again I suspected that Tubby was cagier than he was letting on. He wasn't so much pumping me for information as trying to find out how much I already knew.

“Someone was rumored to have been taking kickbacks for putting up undeserving dogs.”

The beauty, and the basic flaw, of the judging system was that it was totally subjective. Every breed standard was open to interpretation by each judge. Given a class of dogs to preside over, ten different judges might place it ten different ways. And as long as a judge could defend his choices, there was no way to prove him wrong.

Most times, judges did their best and the system worked as it was intended to. But the possibility for taking advantage definitely existed. And in a sport where people took themselves, and their dogs, very seriously, there were always those exhibitors who wanted to gain an edge any way they could.

“And you think that was me?”

“That's what I heard.”

“Do you have any proof?”

I shook my head.

“Talk like that is slander, you know. It could get you in a lot of trouble. If I were you, I'd watch what I was saying.”

“I always do,” I replied mildly.

Tubby raised his glass and drained the rest of the whiskey. He set the tumbler back down on the table with a thump.

“Time's up,” he said, pushing back his chair.

“What's your hurry?”

“Let's just say the company isn't as entertaining as I thought it was going to be. You've got a lot of nerve thinking I might be implicated in something shady like that. I'll point out the obvious here—nobody's tried to kill
me
.”

Tubby marched over to the bar, slapped down a couple of bills, and left.

My water hadn't even come yet.

Just as well, I wasn't thirsty anyway.

I
t was early afternoon and I had nothing on my schedule. I could have gone looking for an interesting panel or seminar, but there was something else that I wanted to attend to first.

Someone needed to confront Florence Donner and tell her to put a sock in it. Since Aunt Peg apparently had no intention of doing so, I figured that made it my job. And while I was there, I could speak to Richard too.

Between the two of them, mother and son were making Aunt Peg miserable. I'd been patient long enough; now it was time for them to cut it out.

Once again, Margo was directing traffic in the lobby. She was also holding a clipboard that looked like it was likely to contain all sorts of useful information. I squeezed through the throng until I reached her side, then held out my hand.

“Can I see that for a minute?”

She pulled the clipboard away and hugged it to her chest. “Why?”

“I want to find out the room numbers for a couple of guests.”

“I'm not sure I should be giving out that kind of information. Who are we talking about?”

“Come on,” I said. “Tit for tat, remember? You share with me and I'll share with you.”

“Good,” said Margo. “Finally. You first.”

Okay, that was a problem. So far all I had was bits and pieces of information. Unfortunately I had yet to discover a pattern that would knit them all together. Which meant that there were no earth shattering developments to report.

“You want me to tell you
here
?” I raised my voice slightly. Just enough to make a few heads turn. “Because I'm really not sure that's a wise idea.”

“You might be right,” Margo said with a frown. “And this place is a madhouse. I can't get away right now.”

What a shame.

She held out the clipboard. “I'll tell you what. Let's meet after the next set of programs. You can tell me everything then.”

By my calculation, that gave me about two hours to come up with some really good stuff. Good luck with that.

I skimmed quickly down the roster of participants. Florence Donner was in room 302. Richard Donner, listed just below his mother was…also in room 302.

I read that again just to be sure. The result was the same.

How incredibly Oedipal.

And to think, Aunt Peg had imagined she had a chance with this guy. It was beginning to look like she'd had a lucky escape.

I handed the clipboard back to Margo and debated my next move.

There was a house phone on the registration desk. Calling ahead would let me know if anyone was at home in room 302. But what if I called and was told not to come?

In my experience, people taken by surprise are much more likely to entertain nosy visitors than those who've been given fair warning. Bearing that in mind, I headed over to the stairs. Exercise is good for pregnant women, at least that's what my doctor told me.

I reached the third floor and turned toward the northern wing of the building. This was, I noted with interest, the side of the building that overlooked the courtyard between inn and health club. At ground level, that enclosure was screened by walls of high hedges that lent privacy to those making use of the hot tub; but I wondered what could be seen from the rooms up here.

Room 302 was at the end of the hall. No privacy sign was on the door. I didn't hear any sounds from within.

So I knocked and waited.

After a minute the door opened. Richard stood in the doorway. He looked both surprised and irritated to see me standing there. It wasn't an auspicious beginning.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“To talk to you and your mother.”

“Mother isn't here. There was a program this afternoon that she particularly wanted to see and luckily she felt well enough to go down and participate. So I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time.”

He didn't wait for my answer, he just started to push the door shut.

“Wait!”

My hand came up. I braced my palm against the panel and pushed back. The door stopped midway.

“I want to talk to you too.”

“About what?”

“About what happened to your mother.”

Richard's stony expression didn't change.

“And to Charles.”

Still no reprieve.

I tried again. “And to Aunt Peg.”

Finally I got a response. Richard looked uncertain.

“Did something happen to Peg?”

I nodded. After a brief hesitation, Richard stepped back, allowing me through the doorway.

The room turned out to be a suite, which made me feel a little better about the living arrangements, though I still suspected that Freud would have had plenty to say about the Donner family.

The outer room contained a double bed and a sitting area. Richard remained standing but he waved me toward a small couch beside a picture window. Taking a seat, I glanced out at the view.

All I could see was building and parking lot, with just a sliver of the courtyard on one side. The hot tub wasn't visible at all. Rats.

“Is Peg all right?” Richard asked. “I haven't spoken to her since first thing this morning. What happened to her?”

“For one thing, she thought you were her friend and you treated her like she was some sort of pariah.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That won't help,” I said. “Aunt Peg is the one you should be apologizing to.”

“Now, see here. You don't have any idea what you're talking about.”

“I most certainly do. I was there last night, remember? Peg and I found your mother lying unconscious on the ground and tried to help her. We would have called for an ambulance except that when she revived she wouldn't let us.”

“That's not…” Richard stopped and shook his head. “Mother said the two of you insisted she wasn't badly hurt and didn't require additional care. Even though she was feeling woozy, you made her stand up and told her she was going to have to walk back to the inn.”

“Utterly ridiculous,” I scoffed. “The only reason Florence got up was because she didn't want you to see her sitting on the ground. She was afraid you'd worry about her.”

“Of course I was worried. And with good reason. The doctors at the hospital told me that she had a concussion. Considering the blow she'd sustained, it's lucky her injury wasn't worse.”

“At least we agree on that,” I said.

“Then why did Peg tell Mother that the injury was nothing? That she must have tripped and fallen?”

“Aunt Peg didn't say that. Nobody did. We had no idea what had happened. That's what I've been trying to figure out.”

I stared at him in exasperation. “You do remember asking me to do that, don't you?”

“Yes, of course. But that was before I knew the truth.”

“Your ‘truth' is nothing more than a story concocted by someone with an ulterior motive. Florence has been trying to drive a wedge between you and Peg ever since we arrived. And now she's succeeded. See how that works?”

Richard folded his arms over his chest. His expression grew more obstinate.

“No, frankly I don't. Because the blow that my mother suffered was very real. Somebody tried to harm her last night.”

“Somebody, yes. But not Peg. I suspect that your mother's injury was related to what happened to Charles Evans—”

“Now, really,” he said, his face suddenly red. “That's going too far. My mother is a kind and gracious woman. She couldn't possibly have had anything to do with a murder. And if you're thinking about repeating that nonsense to anyone else, you'll find yourself speaking to my lawyer next.”

I was trying to be reasonable. Really I was. But the man was truly an idiot. What on earth had Aunt Peg ever seen in him?

I stood up and walked toward the door. I'd had enough, but I couldn't resist firing a parting shot.

“My aunt thought you were her friend,” I said. “She believed that the two of you had gotten to know one another through your correspondence. If that's true, if you know anything at all about Peg, then you know that what Florence is saying about her is a lie.”

I grasped the knob and turned it, but before I could open the door Richard was there.

“Wait,” he said.

For a moment, neither one of us said a thing.

“Look,” he said finally, “this whole episode has been incredibly stressful. For me and Mother both. Maybe we haven't handled it in exactly the best way.”

You think?

“The fact of the matter is, I don't know what happened last night. And I'm not sure Mother does either. The doctors said that was normal. That her recollection of the events leading up to the concussion would be somewhat hazy. Maybe her memory will return, maybe it won't. At the moment, all she knows is that she was outside walking Button…”

Richard shrugged helplessly. “The next thing she remembers with any clarity is feeling a sharp pain in her head and waking up to find Peg bending over her. She put two and two together…”

And came up with a very convenient total of five.

“Do you really think Aunt Peg is capable of doing what Florence has accused her of?”

“To be honest, no. But I do know that the two of them weren't getting along. Peg seems to think that Mother is a bit over-protective.”

“Peg might have had a point,” I said.

Thankfully, Richard didn't take offense.

“Maybe she does,” he admitted. “My father died when I was an infant. As a result, Mother raised me entirely on her own. She and I have always been very close. She likes to think she's looking out for me.”

“And you like to let her.”

“She's my mother. What can I do?”

“For starters, you might try telling her that she needs to rescind her story.”

“She won't do that. Mother never does anything that would make her look foolish.”

“Then maybe you should do it for her,” I said firmly. “At the very least, you should apologize to my aunt.”

“Peg's a little upset right now. I don't think she wants to talk to me.”

Jeez, I thought. This guy really was a weenie.

“Maybe she doesn't want to hear from you, but she needs to. Trust me on that.”

I let myself out and headed back toward the public areas of the inn. Turning the first corner in the hallway, craning my head to check the view from each passing window, I ran into Marshall Beckham. Literally.

“Hey,” he said, grabbing my shoulders to steady me. “Sorry about that.”

“No, my fault. I wasn't looking where I was going.”

“I haven't seen you up here before. Your rooms are down on the other side, aren't they?”

“Right, but I needed to see Richard about something.”

Marshall nodded. The movement fast and jerky. “Great guy, Richard. One of my best friends.”

Sometimes you have to make your own opportunities. And sometimes they just seem to arrive gift wrapped.

Marshall had a habit of speaking very quickly. I suspected he didn't always think before he blurted out what was on his mind.

“Derek is a good friend of yours too, isn't he?” I said.

“Sure. He's another great guy.”

My smile was disarming. “Derek mentioned the other day that he had come to the symposium to talk to Charles Evans, but he never got around to telling me why. Do you know what that was about?”

As I'd hoped, Marshall didn't stop to consider his reply. He was as eager to please as a Labrador puppy.

“Some judging snafu, is all I heard. Derek was showing somewhere and thought he'd gotten a raw deal. I think the plan was that Charles was going to help him make it right.”

“How?”

Marshall shrugged his shoulders once, then a second time. He was a man in constant motion.

“I don't know, we never got into it. I got the impression Derek believed that he needed someone with standing and power to be on his side when he filed a complaint. Maybe that's what Charles was for? But then it didn't matter anyway, because Derek changed his mind about the whole thing.”

“Changed his mind? What do you mean?”

“Before we got here, he was all ‘Charles is going to fix things' and then later he said someone else had solved the problem for him.”

“Someone else?” I said, surprised. “Do you know who?”

“One of the other judges. The big guy. You know, the one who does hounds?”

Tubby Mathis.