Jingle Bell Bark (9 page)

“Okay, guys,” I said when I had the group assembled in the lobby. “I'll only be ten minutes or so. Listen to everything Bertie tells you to do.”

The kids nodded. Above their heads, Bertie mouthed,
what should I tell them to do?

“I'm sure you'll think of something.”

I went to find Ms. Morehouse before she could make her escape.

T
he auditorium had emptied quickly when play practice ended. Only a few kids remained in the room as I made my way toward the stage. Ms. Morehouse was busy straightening the crates and cardboard boxes that served as a make-believe set until the actual scenery could be built.

“Excuse me,” I said.

The older woman stopped what she was doing and looked up. “Can I help you?”

“I'm Melanie Travis.” I hopped up onto the stage and extended a hand. “Davey's mother?”

“Of course.” Smiling, Rebecca Morehouse looked much more approachable. Her handshake was firm. “Your son is delightful. I hope he's enjoying participating in the pageant as much as I'm enjoying having him.”

“Thank you, he is. I think you're doing a wonderful job here.”

She tipped her head in recognition of the compliment, but her smile had faded. Up close, I could see that Rebecca's eyes were rimmed in red and no amount of makeup could hide the lines of strain around her mouth.

“Do you have a minute to talk to me about your dogs?” I asked.

“Certainly. Though before we waste each other's time, I should tell you that all the puppies are spoken for and I won't be having any more until spring. My next litter will be Easter puppies if you're interested.”

Easter puppies. I ground my teeth. “Do you always plan your litters to coincide with a holiday?”

“If possible. It makes placing the puppies so much easier. I don't even have to run ads in the newspaper. At holiday time there are puppy buyers lined up around the block. Who would want to get their children a silly old bunny when they could put an adorable Golden Retriever puppy in the Easter basket instead?”

Rebecca finally registered the expression on my face. She stopped abruptly. “Of course, bunnies make very nice pets too. Does Davey have a bunny?”

“No, actually we have two dogs . . . Standard Poodles.”

“Lovely breed.”

“We think so.” I was
not
appeased. “Don't you ever worry that when you sell your puppies as holiday gifts, they might end up with impulse buyers who are looking for a cute present on the spur of the moment but haven't given any thought to the long-term commitment that dog ownership entails?”

“Well, frankly,” Rebecca said slowly, “no. I don't think that's any of my business. If people want to purchase a puppy, it's certainly not up to me to tell them how and when to do it.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Maybe I misheard you. Did you say you don't think your puppies' welfare is any of your business?”

“No, not at all.” She was beginning to sound annoyed. “Until my puppies leave my home, their care is of the highest standard. But eventually, of course, they have to go out into the real world. Only a fool would think that she could control what happens to every single puppy after that.”

I guess that made Aunt Peg a fool then. And I was probably a fool-in-training. If I didn't change the subject soon, the chances of this conversation remaining civil were just about nil. And aside from the fact that Davey had to work with Ms. Morehouse for the next three weeks, there were things I needed to accomplish.

“As it happens,” I said, “you do have an opportunity to have an effect on the life of a puppy you once bred. His name is Remington now and he belonged to a man named Henry Pruitt.”

Rebecca took a step back. Her hand rose to her mouth. “What are you talking about?”

“Henry died earlier this week.” I was sure I wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know. After all, the story had been in the newspapers. “At the time of his death, he had two dogs. One is a young Golden Retriever that Henry got from you. That dog now needs a home.”

“I don't see why you think that has anything to do with me.”

“Remington is a puppy you bred. That makes you responsible for him.”

“What a perfectly silly idea!” Rebecca turned away and went back to cleaning up. “I sold that dog years ago. He belonged to Henry. I imagine his heirs will figure out something to do with him.”

“They may,” I said implacably. “Or they may want to have nothing to do with him. In that case, he could end up at the pound. That's why I wanted to let you know what was going on and give you the chance to take him back.”

All right, so I was laying it on a little thick. Now that he was in Aunt Peg's clutches, there was no way Remington was ever going to end up at the pound. Worst case, Peg would get the dog hooked up with the local Golden Retriever club, whose rescue committee would take him in and place him. But Rebecca Morehouse didn't know that, and her complete indifference to the dog's plight was really beginning to get on my nerves.

“Take him back?” she said. “Why would I want to do that? The dog's been neutered. He's of no use to me.”

“You could find another home for him. That way you wouldn't have to worry about what became of him.”

Rebecca stopped working. She straightened, placed both hands on her hips, and stared at me in exasperation. “Maybe you don't understand. I don't have a big kennel; I'm just a small backyard breeder. I wouldn't have any place to put a dog like Remington. And nobody who comes to me is looking for adult dogs. Puppies are what sell—the cuter, the better.

“Believe me, that dog will be much better off going to the pound. They're the ones with the facilities and the means to find him a new home. A good-looking dog like Remington will probably get plucked up by some new family in no time.”

Without waiting for me to answer, Rebecca turned away and strode to the back of the stage. A box of switches was on the wall. One by one, she shut down the lights.

“That's
it?
” I asked incredulously.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she seemed surprised to find that I had followed her. “I'm afraid I have no idea what else you expect me to say.”

Suddenly I was feeling somewhat speechless myself. I spun around and recrossed the now dark stage. A half flight of steps led down to the auditorium floor. I'd reached the bottom when Rebecca called after me.

I stopped and looked back. “Yes?”

“Did you . . . ?” Her face mirrored her hesitation. “I didn't think to ask before . . . How did you know about Remington? Were you a friend of Henry's?”

“Henry drove Davey's school bus. When he didn't show up for work, a friend and I went to check on him. That's when we found his dogs.”

“He was already dead, then,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

Rebecca's shoulders slumped. She nodded slowly.

Too annoyed to feel any sympathy, I left her standing on the stage in the dark.

 

 

It took me ten minutes to come to the realization that the children I was supposed to be in charge of were missing. By that time, I'd searched the lobby, the ballet studio, a half-dozen empty classrooms, and the parking lot. Of course Bertie, who was supposed to be in charge of the troops, was missing as well. I figured that had to be a good sign.

I called her on her cell phone. “Where are you?” I asked when she picked up. Noise in the background made her almost impossible to hear.

“Not speeding to the hospital, about to deliver a baby, more's the pity. We're at the Bean Counter. The kids got tired of waiting for you, so we came over here to see what kind of trouble we could get into.”

The Bean Counter was Frank's coffee house, a business he co-owned with my ex-husband, Bob. Also located in North Stamford, it was only a mile or so away.

“Joey called his mom to tell her what was up,” Bertie said. “She's on her way.”

“Why? I was going to deliver Joey and Carly back home. Alice doesn't have to come and get them.”

“The kids wanted to stay and eat dinner here, you know, sandwiches and stuff. It's Friday night so there's live music. The kids think that's pretty exciting. When Joey called Alice, she said Joe was working late—I gather that's not unusual—and that she would come join us. So get in your car and get over here.”

That sounded like a perfectly splendid idea to me.

Of course, on the way to the coffee house I realized that I'd never gotten around to asking Rebecca the questions about genetic testing and puppy socialization that I'd meant to find out for Alice. Sad to say, she would probably be relieved by my omission. With her deposit already paid, if there was more bad news about Rebecca Morehouse's breeding operation, I was quite certain Alice didn't want to hear it.

The Bean Counter was every bit as crowded as it had sounded over the phone. The small parking lot was full; I was forced to leave the Volvo at the end of a long line of cars that snaked along the street. I had to give my little brother credit. In less than two years, the business he'd started under less-than-ideal circumstances was definitely thriving.

Originally, the coffee bar had been intended as a local hangout. But good reviews in area newspapers had started some buzz and positive word of mouth had done the rest. When Frank and Bob had hired a trio of musicians to come in and play on Friday and Saturday nights, receipts had shot up again. I knew Bertie had no intention of retiring from handling, but it was nice to know she could take a couple of months' maternity leave without worrying about who was going to put food on the table.

Frank was working behind the counter. He waved when I came through the door and pointed toward a back corner where Bertie and Alice had staked out a couple of booths. Threading my way between closely packed tables, I went to join them. Though the musicians were just starting to set up, the coffee house was already packed. By the time they began to play, there wouldn't be a single empty seat.

“Kids in one booth, adults in the other,” Alice said when I slid in beside her. “This way we can talk about anything we want and they can feel very grown up, sitting by themselves.”

“Unless they all order themselves cake for dinner,” I said. With Davey, who had inherited Aunt Peg's sweet tooth, that was a distinct possibility.

“Don't worry, we didn't offer them that much freedom.” Bertie nodded toward a waitress who was delivering three tall glasses of milk to the next booth. “This is great practice for me. I need to learn how to do kid things.”

Alice laughed. “I hate to say it, but the only kid things you're going to need to know how to do for a while are go without sleep and wipe spit-up off your shoulder. When's that baby due anyway?”

“Any minute now,” said Bertie. She had to sit sideways to wedge herself between seat and table. “Yesterday would have been good.”

“Oh,” Alice said sympathetically. “Been there.”

“Go ahead. Tell me your horror story. I'm sure you have one—everybody does. As soon as I started looking pregnant, people I'd never even met suddenly felt obliged to tell me the story of their cousin Rachel or Aunt Debbie who was in labor for forty-eight hours and barely survived. Do your worst. I'm immune to it now.”

“No, you're not.” I reached over and patted Bertie's hand. “You're just feeling crabby because you're ready for it to be over.”

“You can say that again.” Her eyes lit up as the waitress arrived with our food.

Three sandwiches, I noted, and three drinks. “What'd I order?” I asked.

“Chicken salad on a croissant,” said Alice. “We figured we were better off getting our food before things got too hectic. If you hate that idea, get something else. Bertie said she could probably manage to eat anything you didn't want.”

Bertie, who'd just been delivered a Ruben sandwich and a side order of fries, looked at me and stuck out her tongue.

“No way.” I pulled the plate close. “This looks great.”

In the next booth, Davey had just been served a thick hamburger. Joey and Carly both had chicken fingers. All three attacked their food happily.

“Boy or girl?” Alice asked, nibbling at a Caesar salad. It was her life's goal to lose ten pounds. Nobody, including Alice herself, was holding their breath that this weight loss was actually going to take place.

Bertie's shoulders rose and fell. “We don't know.”

“Don't you want to know?”

“Nope. We talked about it and decided we'd rather be surprised. Either way is good.”

Alice looked at me. “Did you know with Davey?”

“No. Actually, I was quite convinced he was going to be a girl. I was utterly shocked when the doctor said I'd had a boy.”

“I knew for both of mine,” said Alice. “It was a big deal for Joe. He wanted to know.”

“Why?” asked Bertie. “It's not as if finding out ahead of time lets you change anything.”

“I know. But having a boy who would carry on the family name was very important to Joe. Luckily, we got that out of the way right off the bat, which was great. With Carly, I could just relax and take what came. I was glad she was a girl, though. I wanted one of each.”

“How about you?” I said to Bertie. “Do you have a preference?”

“Healthy.”

“That goes without saying. But after that?”

She thought for a minute, then shook her head. “Each sex has a different sort of appeal, you know? Kind of like with puppies. You know the temperaments are going to be different, but both have their good points and their bad points.”

“Really?” Alice fished a crouton out of her salad. “I didn't know that.”

“Alice is shopping for a puppy,” I told Bertie.

“Alice has
found
a puppy,” she corrected me. We both glanced at the next booth. Aside from all the noise, the kids were totally absorbed in their own conversation. They weren't paying any attention to us. “A Golden Retriever.”