13
I
t was early afternoon when I got home. While the Poodles were outside in the yard, I fixed myself a turkey sandwich on rye and ate it standing at the counter. When Davey's around, I make an effort to serve proper meals and we always eat at the table. When I'm by myself, expediency rules the day.
By the time Faith and Eve were ready to come back in, I was rinsing my plate in the sink. Briefly I considered putting the younger Poodle up on her grooming table, brushing through her coat, and unwrapping and rewrapping her ears and topknot. Done correctly, the entire process would take more than an hour.
Aunt Peg wouldn't have hesitated. I did, and the impulse petered out. Instead I helped myself to a handful of Oreos and called Sam. We'd made rudimentary plans to see each other over the weekend but never bothered to firm anything up.
No answer at his house. I tried his cell phone.
Sam answered fast. “Is it Bertie?” he asked.
“No.” I cradled the receiver between my shoulder and ear. That left both hands free so I could refill the dogs' water bowl. “Not unless you know something I don't. Why would I be calling about Bertie?”
“Because you never call me on my cell phone. I thought maybe it was an emergency.”
“No emergency,” I said. “I haven't even seen Bertie since yesterday. I just missed you.”
There was a beat of time before Sam answered. I could hear the sounds of traffic in the background. “I miss you, too,” he replied. “Are we getting together tomorrow?”
“Or sooner.” Bowl full, I turned off the tap. Water sloshed from side to side as I set it down on the floor.
“I'm on the New Jersey Turnpike. Heading south, stuck in traffic, and not moving. God knows when I'll be back.”
“Why are youâ” A horn blared. I heard Sam swear under his breath. “Never mind,” I said. “You can tell me tomorrow.”
The only answer I got to that was static. I clicked off and called Bob's house. Davey picked up right away.
“Did you find a Christmas tree?” I asked.
“A huge one,” my son informed me gleefully. “And a wreath and tons of pine roping.”
“What are you guys doing now?”
“As soon as Dad gets the tree in the house, we're going to start decorating.”
“I'll come and help,” I said. “Be there in five minutes.”
Bob's house was a good-sized colonial on a landscaped two-acre lot. It was much too big for his purposes, but he'd made the purchase with an eye toward its potential as an investment. Once an accountant, always an accountant; and in Fairfield County, buying real estate was never a bad decision.
Bob's street was wide and quiet, and shaded by mature trees. Though families with children lived in most of the surrounding houses, the road had neither sidewalks nor curbs. Unlike my neighborhood, where something always seemed to be going on, here it was unusual to see anyone outside at all.
When the Poodles and I arrived, the Christmas tree was inside the house. It was even somewhat upright. Bob was down on the floor underneath it, grappling with the intricacies of the stand.
“Anything I can do?” I asked.
“Yeah. Keep that hound from licking my face, would you?”
Since Bob was down at her level and had his hands otherwise occupied, Eve had seen her chance to try and make friends, doggy-style. My ex was not amused by her greeting.
“She's not a hound.” Davey giggled as I shooed her away. “She's a non-sporting dog.”
“Of course,” Bob muttered. The tree tilted precariously. Both Davey and I leapt to catch it. When it was straight once more, Bob went back to tightening the screws. “Whatever that means.”
“It means that Poodles show in the non-sporting group,” said Davey. Showing off his knowledge for his father, he ticked off the names of the groups on his fingers. “There are seven different ones: sporting, hound, working, terrier, toy, non-sporting, and herding. But the non-sporting group is the best.”
I looked at Davey curiously. “What makes you say that?”
“Because that's where the Poodles are.”
Of course.
“Well, it sounds pretty dumb to me.” Bob slithered out from beneath the tree. Davey and I released our holds and stepped back cautiously. It swayed briefly, then held. “Anyone can tell just by looking at a Poodle that they're not a sporting dog. But to have a whole group of dogs named for their deficiencies? Why don't they just call it the misfit group and leave it at that?”
“Because that would be insulting,” I said. “In England, they call it the utility group, which is a better name. But since you brought it up, Standard Poodles actually do very well as sporting dogs. Some people use them with great success as retrievers of birds and game.”
“I know. That's where the trim came from, right?”
“Right.” I grinned. “Have you had this lecture before?”
“At least twice,” Bob said, wincing. “And every so often Peg feels obliged to give me a refresher course. By now, I probably know the drill as well as you do.” He held out a hand and beckoned Eve to him. Tail wagging, the Poodle complied happily.
“Okay,” he said, cupping one hand under Eve's muzzle, and using the other to showcase her profuse mane coat. “So the Poodle was a dog bred to retrieve. Since the waters were cold, the French developed a dog with a long, thick coatâ”
“Germans,” I said. “The Standard Poodle was developed in Germany.”
“Whatever.” Bob looked at Davey and rolled his eyes. His son giggled on cue. “Then they discovered that that big coat wasn't such a good idea. When the dogs jumped in the cold water, it soaked into their hair and weighed them down. They sank like stones.”
Bob threw himself down on the floor and flopped dramatically. He looked less like a wet dog than a dying fish. Eve, however, must have appreciated his efforts because she began to race circles around him, barking uproariously. That brought Faith running. Rounding the corner, she skidded on the hardwood floor. Feet scrambling for purchase that wasn't there, the big Poodle went barreling right into Bob.
The impact sent both of them flying. Eve jumped out of the way and remained on her feet. Davey wasn't so lucky. Caught in the cross fire, he joined the tangled heap on the floor.
Shrieks emanated from the pile. Faith extricated herself first, followed a minute later by Davey. Left alone on the floor, Bob groaned as he righted himself.
“Serves you right,” I said, “for making fun of my dogs like that.”
“Hey, I wasn't done.” He hopped to his feet, grabbed Eve, and resumed his explanation. “Okay, the water's cold. The hair's wet.”
“Like you, Dad,” said Davey. “You're all wet.”
Bob snaked out a hand. Laughing, Davey dodged away. “So the hunters cut off all the coat they didn't think was necessary. They left this big pile of hair in the frontâ”
“The mane coat,” I interjected.
“... to protect the heart and lungs. These froufrou items over hereâ”
“Those would be the hip rosettes.”
“Cover the kidneys. While the puffy things around the legs . . .”
Close enough, I thought, and declined to interrupt.
“. . . serve as protection for the joints and keep them warm.” Finished and proud of himself, Bob bowed with a flourish. In spite of myself, I was impressed. All this time, Bob must have been paying more attention than I'd thought.
“You forgot something,” said Davey. “What about the tail?”
“What about the tail? Why don't you tell me?”
“The pom pon on the tail was like a flag,” said Davey. “When the Poodle dove under water after a bird, the hunters would see it sticking up and know where he was.”
“Very good,” said a voice from the doorway. “Davey, you're a child after my own heart.”
Belatedly, the two Poodles noticed we had a visitor they hadn't announced. As one they spun around and went to remedy the situation. Aunt Peg shushed them with a stern look. She has that effect on people, too.
“Some watchdogs you are,” I said to the abashed pair. “Aunt Peg, what are you doing here?”
Peg ignored the question. She stood in the doorway and took in the scene. Bob lived like a bachelor. After a year in residence, he had yet to hang curtains and his living room still held more entertainment equipment than furniture. The walls were bare and the magazine pile on his battered coffee table probably wouldn't reveal anything creditable about his character.
Cardboard cartons filled with ornaments and Christmas trimmings, dragged up from the basement before my arrival, were scattered around the room. The tree was upright, but just barely. At least Bob wasn't still flopping around on the floor.
“Most people lock their front doors,” she said to my ex-husband. He had never been one of her favorite people, and Aunt Peg missed no opportunity to remind him of his shortcomings.
“What can I say?” Bob spread his hands. “I'm a friendly kind of guy. Come on in, make yourself at home. Want a cup of coffee?”
“Tea,” I prompted under my breath. Aunt Peg only drank tea. Anyone who paid attention would know that. Of course, Bob might simply have been trying to bait Peg right back.
“No, thank you,” she said primly. “I needn't bother you at all. As it happens, I was looking for Melanie.”
“And you came here?” Interesting. Maybe I'd been spending more time with my ex than I'd realized.
“I tried your house first, but obviously you weren't home. Since I was already in the neighborhood, I took a shot.”
“Is something the matter?”
“Nothing that couldn't be solved by access to illegal weaponry. I've met the daughters.”
“Oh.” I should have known.
“That's all you have to say?”
“What daughters?” asked Bob. He was leaning into a box, bent on untangling a long skein of white lights.
“Henry Pruitt's daughters. I told you about him this morning.” I glanced toward Davey. Busy unpacking the cartons of decorations, he was happily oblivious. “I guess they called you about Pepper and Remington?”
“They not only called, they came to visit. They
inspected
my kennel.” Her voice quivered with barely suppressed outrage. “They asked me to present them with an itemized bill.”
“They're not the brightest pair.”
“Idiots,” Peg corrected. “Complete nitwits. Did they tell you they expect to sell those two dogs for lots of money?”
“They did mention something about the highest bidder. I imagine you set them straight?”
“How could I when neither one seemed capable of logical thought? Five minutes in their company and I was sorely tempted to bang both their heads together.”
Too bad she hadn't followed through, I thought.
“Did you give them Pepper and Remington?”
“To do what with?” Peg's brow lifted. “The only thing they
did
seem able to understand is that the dogs are better off with me until they figure out what to do next. Of course, that put the kibosh on the plans we'd made to send them on to new homes.”
“Think of it this way,” I said, “at least they're paying you board.”
“Very funny,” Aunt Peg snapped.
Bob and Davey now had a stepladder propped open beside the tree. The first string of lights was going on. Since the two of them seemed to be managing just fine without us, Peg and I withdrew to a leather couch on the other side of the room.
“Did you speak with Robin and Laurel about their father's murder?” Aunt Peg asked.
I shook my head. “It never came up.”
“I brought it up. They're horrified by the thought that Henry didn't die a natural death. Now that they're here, they're planning to stay until their father's murder is solved.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“You wouldn't dream of asking such a ridiculous question if their dogs were living with you. Not only that, but the longer they stay, the more time that will give them to come up with something truly stupid to do with Pepper and Remington.”
“Or the more time it will give
you
to convince them of the wisdom of doing things your way.”
“Trust me, I have no intention of spending any more time than necessary with those two. In fact, I wouldn't mind at all if I never saw them again. That's why I've made a plan.”
“Oh no.”
“You haven't even heard what I was going to say yet.”
It didn't matter. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be good. Take my word on this, I've been around a while.
“It's very simple,” said Aunt Peg. “Henry Pruitt's murder needs solving, and the sooner, the better. I thought I would look into it.”
“You?” I sputtered.
“Not what you expected me to say, was it?” Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “I guess this old dog still has a few new tricks left to play yet.”
Trust me, that particular old dog was nothing but a continuing source of new tricks.
“You?” I said again.
“Why not me?”
“Why not the police? You didn't even know Henry Pruitt.”
“Neither do the police.”
As if that was a salient point. “It's their job to find murderers.”
“You of all people should know they're not always particularly good at it. Sometimes they overlook the most obvious things.”
What Aunt Peg meant was that, due to our background in dogs, she and I had sometimes been able to interpret clues differently than they looked on the surface. Occasionally, we'd been known to beat the police to the punch. But while Aunt Peg had often been the instigator, she usually seemed to think that poking a nose into other people's business was my job, not hers.