Raining Cats & Dogs (A Melanie Travis Mystery) (8 page)

“And some of us would like our children to have little cousins to play with,” Bertie mentioned.

“Now you two are ganging up on me?”

“You got it, babe.” Bertie stuffed an enormous piece of cake in her mouth and smiled blissfully. “So hurry things up, okay?”

I guessed I had my orders.

Like that hadn’t happened before.

M
onday morning found me at work, as usual. For the last two and a half years, I’ve been employed as a special needs tutor at an upscale private school in Greenwich. Howard Academy offers classes for kindergarten through eighth grade. Upon graduation, most of our students go on to their parents’ alma maters, schools like Choate, Taft, and Ethel Walker.

I love my job, and for the most part, I adore the kids I work with. They’re lively, sophisticated, and intelligent. Some of them are sweet, many are spoiled; and it always surprises me how many are being raised almost entirely by nannies and au pairs. One thing the majority of them have in common is that when there’s a problem with schoolwork, their parents don’t want to deal with it. In fact, according to Russell Hanover II, the school’s headmaster, they don’t even want to hear about it.

It’s Mr. Hanover’s job to deliver only good news to those people who pay the bills for our hefty tuition, it’s my job to see that the good news is justified. Children who fall behind academically come to me during the course of the school day for additional tutoring, and we work closely together on the subjects with which they need help.

Mostly, I’m supposed to teach, but more importantly, I’m supposed to get results. Consequently, depending on what’s needed, I might be called upon to assume the role of guidance counselor, mentor, best friend, or, occasionally, drill sergeant. At least my job is never dull.

One of the best things about Howard Academy is that it is a dog-friendly environment. From the time Faith and Eve were puppies, they’ve accompanied me to school, spending their days lounging on a big cedar dog bed I keep in the corner of my classroom. Over time, the Poodles have become unofficial school mascots. It’s not unusual for kids to greet them before speaking to me upon entering the room.

Their absentee parents might not approve of such manners, but I don’t mind a bit.

Brittany Baxter was my first student Monday morning. A seventh grader, she was twelve going on twenty. Other girls in her class wore braces, had pimples, or were coping with awkward growth stages. Not Brittany. All blond hair and creamy skin, she glided into the room like a queen, effortlessly pulling off the difficult feat of looking sexy in the school uniform: a plaid wool skirt, white button-down shirt, and knee socks.

“Hey, Ms. T,” she chirped. “What’s up?”

“Not your grades, apparently. I just got the results of your latest test from Mr. Weinstein.” Ed Weinstein taught upper-school English, a subject with which, based on the test I’d seen, Brittany had only a nodding acquaintance. “He’s under the impression that you haven’t been keeping up with your reading.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

Brittany batted her long eyelashes in my direction. The child was like a heat-seeking missile casting around in search of a target. Day by day her arsenal of sexy affectations—most probably gleaned from watching MTV—grew exponentially. If Brittany didn’t fully understand her own power yet, she certainly would soon.

“Besides,” she said when I didn’t react to lash-fluttering, “Mr. Weinstein is way too strict.”

“He’s only hard on you because he wants you to get good grades.”

“Yeah, I know. And work to my full potential, right?”

It was hard not to smile, but I managed it. Obviously, this kid had already heard the lecture.

“Besides,” she said, “I do plenty of reading.”

Teen fashion magazines, no doubt.

“Yes, but do you read the books that are assigned for class?”

“Sometimes.”

Brittany dumped her things on a round table and crossed the room to hunker down in front of the two Poodles. Both lifted their heads. Their tails flopped up and down against the cushion.

Brittany stroked the top of Faith’s head and rubbed under her ears. Eve was still “in hair” for the show ring. After glancing back over her shoulder to see if I was watching, Brittany scratched carefully beneath the bitch’s chin, leaving her long mane coat undisturbed.

“I’m going to be a dog handler like you when I grow up,” she said. “Dog breeders don’t have to read Shakespeare and poetry and stuff like that. So what’s the point?”

“The point is that at your age, you need a well-rounded education. If you haven’t been exposed to all the interesting things the world has to offer, how will you know what you want to be when you grow up?”

Prudently, I refrained from mentioning that a month earlier she’d wanted to be a supermodel, and before that, a rock star’s girlfriend. Compared with those two choices, at least she’d raised her sights a little. Or more likely, she was just humoring me, fishing around to see whether currying favor with my dogs would earn her any extra points.

“My mom says the same thing,” Brittany pulled out a chair and plopped down onto the seat.

“Your mom knows what she’s talking about.”

“Sometimes,” she smirked. “And sometimes I think she’s just making it up as she goes along.”

Perceptive child, I thought. Her description of her mother probably applied to me as well. One thing about adulthood, sometimes it just seems like smoke and mirrors.

I pulled out a chair, joined her at the table, and we got to work.

During lunch break, I took the Poodles for an extended walk outside around the school grounds. Late April in Connecticut is undeniably beautiful. Tulips were in bloom; trees were just beginning to bud. After three long, dreary winter months, it was a pleasure just to be outside again. Faith and Eve raced and played. I unzipped my jacket, unwound my scarf, and turned my face up into the warm sun. With nothing pressing, we took our time, circling both hockey and soccer fields before finally ending our excursion at the tennis courts. The Poodles were panting happily by the time we got back to the classroom.

I opened the windows to let in some air and put fresh water in the dogs’ bowl. Then I retrieved my purse from a desk drawer and fished around in it until I found the phone number Paul Lennox had given me after last week’s class.

I didn’t know Paul well, and I certainly didn’t want to intrude on his grief. But his aunt’s death had had an unexpectedly profound effect on me, touching me in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible considering how briefly I’d known her. I wanted to extend my condolences and also to convey Aunt Peg’s offer of a donation in Mary Livingston’s name.

Paul picked up right away, and I identified myself. There was a pause, as if he was trying to remember who I was.

“Yes, of course, Melanie,” he said after a moment. “With Faith. Sorry, I’ve been making so many calls and dealing with so many relatives, I’m not even sure I’d recognize my own mother’s voice right now.”

“I’m so sorry about your aunt. Even though we’d just met, I could see what a special lady she was.”

“Aunt Mary was one of a kind.” Paul spoke slowly; his words were heavy with sadness. “She had so many wonderful friends, and everyone who knew her felt the same way you did. That’s what makes this whole thing so hard to understand…”

“I’m sure the fact that it happened so unexpectedly didn’t help,” I said gently. “Was it a heart attack?”

“No, although that’s what everyone thought at first. It was a natural assumption. Aunt Mary had some medical issues related to her age, but she wasn’t mortally ill. Yesterday morning, I had every expectation that she might live for another decade.

“But after…” He cleared his throat, then continued, “The director at Winston Pumpernill called the medical examiner. I gather that’s standard when things like this happen. I thought it was just a formality. But when I called a few minutes ago to make arrangements for the funeral home to come and pick her up, I was told that the body wasn’t being released. Apparently, there’s a suspicion of foul play.”

I gasped softly and couldn’t think of a single thing to say. In silence, I waited for Paul to continue.

After what seemed like a long time, he did. “I guess I might as well just come right out and say it. The paper will probably be running a story in a day or two. The tests they do are so sophisticated now…it’s more than a suspicion. The M.E. knows how Aunt Mary died. She didn’t have a heart attack. She was murdered.”

“Murdered?” I repeated. My voice sounded hollow. I was truly shocked by the news.

Let’s be clear on this, okay? It’s not as though I haven’t had the misfortune to run across the occasional murder victim. In fact, it’s happened often enough that you might think I’d almost be used to it by now. But somehow that hasn’t happened. Actually, the reverse is true. Each one seems to hit me harder than the time before.

Not only that, but none of the victims I’d known in the past had seemed as unlikely a candidate for murder as Paul’s Aunt Mary. And I could hardly come up with a more surprising setting than the Winston Pumpernill facility. No wonder Paul’s grief was overlaid with shock and dismay.

“Do they know what happened?” I asked.

“She suffocated. It seems likely that she was smothered with her pillow. My aunt was quite sturdy for her age, but she wasn’t a large woman. I suppose it wouldn’t have been difficult for someone to overpower her….” His voice broke, then trailed away.

“I’m so very sorry,” I said again. The words felt totally inadequate. “If there’s anything at all I can do, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that. I guess I’d better get back to making my other calls. I have to break the news to the rest of the family before they get a chance to read about it in the newspaper.”

I clicked off the phone and sat at my desk, staring off into space. After a minute, a cold, wet nose pressed itself into my hand. A paw came up and laid gently across my knee. Faith pressed her body close to mine, offering what warmth and comfort she could.

I’m not a particularly mystical person, but at times it’s hard not to wonder how much dogs understand. Faith had met Mary the day before, too. Did she know what had happened? Or had she merely sensed my melancholy mood and responded to it?

I wasn’t sure it mattered. I gathered the big Poodle up into my arms, buried my face in her hair, and felt enormously grateful for the solace she had to offer.

“I’m beginning to think,” I said, “that cats are the bane of my existence.”

It was six hours later, and I was sitting in my backyard enjoying a fine April evening. At least I would have been if fluffy Felix and his sleek black friend hadn’t been so determined to breach the five-foot cedar fence that surrounded my small plot of land.

The fence had been intended to keep my Poodles in. It was a barrier meant to simplify my life. Winter mornings, I could race downstairs barefoot and open the back door without fear of my dogs escaping. Late at night, I didn’t have to go outside and take them for a walk. The fence had been in place for three years, ever since Faith was a puppy, and the system had always worked beautifully.

Mostly, I was now realizing, because nobody had ever tried to break in before.

Every time the cats from next door showed their furry little faces over the top of the fence, the Poodles began to leap and bark, sounding their version of an intruder alert. Each time, I had to get up and quiet them down. No sooner would I get the pack settled then the cats would reappear.

I’d tried reasoning with the Poodles, but it wasn’t working. The clear consensus among my canine population was that their property should be declared a cat-free zone.

What was it about
my
yard, I wondered, that so fascinated the new neighbor’s cats? They had, after all, a yard of their own. Not to mention all the freedom they wanted otherwise. Unfettered in any way, they could have been out roaming the entire neighborhood. Or even the whole town of Stamford. So why would they choose to come to the one place where five bouncing, barking Poodles had made it abundantly clear they weren’t welcome?

Sheer and outright perversity, I thought. Those cats knew exactly what they were doing.

“Come on,” Sam said with a laugh. “It’s not that bad.”

He walked down the steps, his fingers curled handily around two long-necked beers, and pulled a chair up next to my chaise longue. Davey was inside doing homework. A chicken was cooking in the oven; dinner would be ready in half an hour. I took the beer Sam held out to me and tipped it up to my lips.

“Maybe it’s not the cats,” I said, eyes narrowing speculatively. “Maybe it’s Amber.”

“Our new neighbor is perfectly pleasant.”

“She needs more clothes.”

“She was fully dressed when I saw her earlier.” Sam was still laughing. “Socks, mittens, ear muffs, the works.”

“You’re not taking me seriously,” I said.

Sam took a long swallow from his beer. “You’re not good with change, are you?”

“Not particularly,” I admitted. “I liked Edna Silano. She was a nice neighbor.”

“Edna Silano used to spy on you.”

“Yes, but at least she was honest about it. And it was kind of like having my own personal neighborhood watch. Besides, it was only because she didn’t have much else to do.”

“Once she threatened to put a curse on me if I didn’t do the right thing and marry you.”

Beer, swallowed the wrong way, made me cough and sputter as I sat up abruptly. “She
did
?”

“Yup. I tried to tell her it wasn’t my fault, that you were the one who believed in long engagements, but she didn’t buy it.”

“Oh.” I considered that. Maybe Edna hadn’t been the paragon of virtue I’d made her out to be. “She actually
cursed
you?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t stick around to find out.”

“Well,” I grumbled, “then I guess I can see how you might think Amber was an improvement. And one cat I could probably handle. Maybe even two. Does she have to have seven?”

“Glass houses,” said Sam. “Think about it.”

Right.

“I don’t let my dogs play in her yard.” Need I mention, I’ve always been stubborn?

“She doesn’t necessarily let her cats come here. Isn’t that the whole point of cats? They pretty much do whatever they want.”

“I don’t care what they do, if they would just find someplace else to do it.”

“Maybe after a couple of weeks they’ll get tired of teasing the Poodles,” Sam said. He didn’t sound too convinced.