Unleashed (A Melanie Travis Mystery) (19 page)

“So what happened?” I said impatiently, when he’d finally gone.

“Didn’t you go to the show? Or at least watch it on TV?”

I’d gone into the Garden the first day, Monday, when the Non-Sporting breeds were judged, and I’d watched the group judging both nights on cable. Shih Tzus weren’t my breed, however, and the winner hadn’t made a big impression on me. Thinking back now, I had no idea what had happened in the Toy Group.

I glanced over at Alida. She was grinning.

“Belle won, didn’t she? You showed her and she won.”

“Exactly right. And well she should have. After four months off, Belle was raring to go. The judge said in his critique that he couldn’t deny the Shih Tzu the win. She was asking for it every minute she was in the ring.”

“So you and Crawford were proven right. But how did you get Carlotta to agree to what you wanted?”

“I imagine you can figure out the answer to that. M-O-N-E-Y. The great problem solver. But just because I had enough to buy Carlotta off doesn’t mean I should have had to do it. Our contract spelled out the terms of our deal. She was the one who tried to renege.”

I dipped my roast beef sandwich into the juice, held it over the plate and took a large bite. The beef was rare; the baguette, chewy. “And Sheila didn’t see things that way?” I asked after I swallowed.

“No, though that was hardly surprising considering that she never even bothered to hear my side of the story. The only person she spoke to was Carlotta, and you can imagine the spin
she
put on things. Thank goodness I found out what was going on because Sheila never made any attempt to call and make sure she had her facts straight.”

“So you called her.”

“You bet your bootie I did. I phoned her office half a dozen times at least. I’d already been taken advantage of once over this deal. I wasn’t about to let it happen a second time. Especially when I heard that the focus of the article was going to be how wealthy backers were using their money to bully poor little breeders into acceding to their unfair demands.”

“That doesn’t sound right.” I considered what Brian had said about responsible journalism. “I can’t imagine why Sheila wouldn’t have wanted to talk to you.”

“That’s what I thought, but I could never get through to her. Every time I called, I got switched over to another editor instead. A woman named Aubrey.”

“Couldn’t she help you?”

“Maybe, if she’d wanted to. But it was pretty obvious she didn’t. I don’t know what kind of an old fool she took me for, but that Aubrey made me madder than a wet cat.

“I’ll tell you one thing. It’s too bad that whoever squeezed the life out of Sheila didn’t have the leash wrapped around Aubrey’s neck instead.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What did Aubrey have to do with Sheila’s article?”

Alida smiled. “Now that’s a good question, isn’t it? I wondered about that myself. Aubrey told me she was managing editor. I figured that ought to mean she could get something done if she wanted to. So the first time we spoke, I spent some time explaining what the problem was. She assured me she understood my concerns.”

“And?”

“And nothing!” Alida snapped. “The two of them must have been in cahoots with each other. One to write the article, and the other to run interference until it was finished.”

Remembering what I’d heard about Aubrey’s resentment of Sheila, I doubted it. It seemed more likely that Aubrey had been waylaying Sheila’s calls in order to undermine her efforts, not assist them.

“So you called again.”

“And again, and again. That article was going to sully my good name. There was no way I would let that happen without a fight.”

“And you kept getting transferred over to Aubrey.”

“Every time but the last. By then I was really mad. By then, I was ready to contact my lawyer.”

And Aubrey had accomplished what she’d set out to do. She’d screwed things up royally for Sheila, then dropped the mess in Sheila’s unsuspecting lap and left her to deal with it. In front of the whole office, and over the speaker phone, no less. I wondered if that little touch had been Aubrey’s idea as well.

It was almost enough to make me feel sorry for Sam’s ex-wife. She hadn’t made many friends after moving to the East Coast, but she certainly had piled up enemies.

“I’m curious about something,” I said. “The piece you objected to was in the researching and writing stages, yet you seem to have been remarkably well informed about its progress. Since you’ve already told me that Sheila never contacted you, I’m wondering how you found out about it in the first place.”

Alida glanced down at her salad, using the tines of her fork to pick among the greens and spear a thick chunk of chicken. “Crawford told me you were sharp,” she said finally.

I recognized stalling when I heard it. “Thank you. I’m delighted Crawford thinks so. He would never dream of saying as much to me.”

“He told me you were looking for suspects in Sheila’s murder. Actually, I was quite tickled to think that I might be on your list. Imagine, at my age. Just when I thought I’d seen and done everything. There’s nothing like a little excitement to get the old juices flowing.”

“You find murder exciting?” I asked dryly.

“Of course.” Alida waved a hand in the air, dismissing my tone. “You do, too, Melanie, or we wouldn’t be here. So now I’ve presented you with a bit of a puzzle, haven’t I? Things aren’t so simple as they first appeared.”

“No, they’re not.”

Alida Trent was proving to be a challenge. Not only that, but she seemed to be enjoying herself enormously. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was because she assumed she was going to get the better of me.

“Let me help you along,” Alida offered. “Did I have means? Did I have opportunity? Of course. I’m rich, so both those things can be easily acquired. Did I have a motive, though? That’s the stickler.”

“You were angry at Sheila.”

“I was angry at the magazine. Killing Sheila wouldn’t necessarily have killed the article.”

Because she was having so much fun, I decided to play along. “Do you have a temper, Alida?”

“Of course I do. And I’m well-known for putting it to excellent use. Ask Crawford, he’ll tell you. Or better still, ask Terry.”

“You lose your temper with Terry?”

“Occasionally. And only when he deserves it.”

“What about Sheila? Did she deserve it? Did you lose your temper with her?”

“This is good.” Alida grinned. “Is this what they call the third degree?”

“No. I think that requires a small, uncomfortable room and hot lights.” It was getting harder and harder to keep a straight face. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Did I murder Sheila? No, I didn’t.” Alida placed her hands on the table in front of her, fingers neatly laced together like a schoolgirl’s. “Does that help?”

I shook my head. “That wasn’t the question I was talking about. How did you know someone was writing an article about you at
Woof!
magazine? Who was your spy?”

“Goodness,” Alida said. “You make it sound so dramatic. This wasn’t international intrigue we were engaged in. I didn’t have a spy. What I had was more of a facilitator. Someone who was willing to slip me a tidbit of information every now and then in return for a small remuneration.”

Facilitator, spy: there didn’t seem to be much of a distinction to me.

“Tim,” I guessed.

“Right you are.”

Alida looked so pleased by my accomplishment, that I felt obliged to admit, “It wasn’t that hard to figure out. It’s a very small staff.”

The waiter came, cleared our plates, and took an order for coffee from Alida. I waited until he had gone, then said, “How did the arrangement come about? Did you approach him, or did he approach you?”

“The latter, of course. I may show dogs, but I certainly don’t keep tabs on every facet of the sport. If Tim hadn’t contacted me, I never would have known about Sheila’s article until it was too late. Not unexpectedly, he seemed to think that information might be worth something to me.”

“And you agreed to his terms. That sounds suspiciously like extortion.”

“Not to me. I prefer to think of it as a business arrangement between two mutually agreeable partners. Besides, I think you might be surprised to discover what he wanted in return.”

“What?”

“Tim wants to be an author, and like most writers he thinks he’s written the great American novel. He’s quite sure he has the talent and determination to be the next Hemingway.”

“Does he?”

“I have no idea.” Alida picked up her spoon and stirred her hot coffee absently. “And it hardly matters, does it? Tim needed an entrée into the publishing world. He wanted me to get his manuscript read. I imagine it’s no secret that my former husband, now deceased, worked in publishing for many years. All I had to do was call upon one or two old friends and make an introduction.”

“So you helped Tim and he helped you.”

“Precisely. So you see, what looked like an intriguing question turns out to have had a perfectly ordinary explanation.”

Perfectly ordinary, my foot, I thought. There was nothing about Alida Trent that was even vaguely ordinary. Not only that, but the information she’d given me was leading me to consider the staff of
Woof!
in a whole new light.

“About the story,” I said. “Do you know what’s happened to it now that Sheila’s gone?”

“Poof!” Alida said gaily. “It seems to have vanished. It turns out Aubrey did have some clout after all. I’ve been told it’s been tabled indefinitely.”

“So you got what you wanted.”

“Of course, Melanie. I always do.”

That was a sobering thought.

Our waiter reappeared to discreetly slip our check on the edge of the table. Alida and I reached for it at the same time.

“My treat,” she said firmly.

“I asked you,” I pointed out.

“That may be, but I’ve had entirely too good a time to allow you to pay.” Alida slipped a platinum American Express card out of her wallet. “You will keep me informed as to how your investigation progresses, won’t you? I’m sure you’ll get the whole thing sorted out in no time.”

Call me suspicious I thought as the waiter spirited the bill away, but it was hard not to suspect that my acquiescence was being bought. For the price of a lunch, no less. Who knew I looked that cheap?

I thanked Alida politely and told her I’d keep in touch. But until I became convinced of her innocence, I was keeping my theories to myself.

Whoever thought up the expression, never a dull moment, must have had my life in mind. That afternoon, I was ready for some serious downtime. Alas, it was not to be.

The problems started when I arrived at camp to pick up Davey and his friends. Bradley and Jason, two boys who were in Davey’s class at school and who lived in our neighborhood, came running out as soon as my car reached the front of the line. My son and Joey Brickman were nowhere in sight.

“Hi, guys,” I said as the two seven-year-olds climbed in the backseat. My eyes scanned the milling horde of young soccer players looking for Davey’s sandy head and Joey’s darker one. “Where are Davey and Joey? Have you seen them?”

The two boys exchanged a look. Not the sort of look a mother wants to see in answer to a perfectly reasonable question. I put the Volvo in gear, pulled out of line, and parked by the curb.

“They might be in the locker room,” Bradley volunteered. Watching in the rearview mirror, I saw Jason elbow him sharply. Something was definitely up.

“That’s downstairs, right?” I asked. Both boys nodded reluctantly. “You two stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Inside the school building, I came almost immediately upon one of the counselors, easily recognizable by his clipboard and black-and-white-striped referee shirt.

“I seem to be missing a couple of kids. Which way is the locker room?”

“Down those stairs.” He pointed. “But everyone should be outside by now. It’s pickup time.”

As if I couldn’t see that for myself.

“There may be a problem,” I said.

“What sort of problem?” He waved to another counselor, who came to take his spot by the door, and followed me down the steps.

“I’m not sure. My son’s been having some trouble with one of the other boys, Randy Bowers.”

“And your son would be?”

“Davey Travis.”

The counselor smiled. “Blond hair, good dribble. Great kid. He’s in my group. I’m Jeff, by the way. And I probably shouldn’t say this, but you’re not the first mother to say something about Randy.”

I stopped at the foot of the steps. “I’m not?”

“Randy’s a bit strong-willed. He’s not above pushing the other kids around when he doesn’t get his own way.”

I glanced down the dimly lit hallway. All was quiet. It looked deserted. “What do you intend to do about that?”

“Well ...” Jeff’s eyes slid away. “When it gets really bad, we step in and tell him to cut it out. Otherwise, this is the type of thing we prefer to let the boys handle on their own.”

“That’s not working,” I said flatly. “My son handles the situation by giving away his lunch.”

“Umm.” He still wouldn’t meet my gaze. “I’ll see what I can do. The locker room is over here.”

Jeff pushed the door open and I followed him inside. The smell—equal parts wet floor, metal lockers, and old gym socks—instantly brought back memories.

“Davey?” I called. “Joey? Are you in here?”

“Mom?”

A locker slammed shut, then both boys came running around the corner. Davey ran straight into my arms. Joey hovered uncertainly behind him.

“What’s up?” I asked, giving him a quick hug. “What are you guys doing down here?”

“We couldn’t go outside,” Davey mumbled.

“How come?” I glanced at Jeff. He was frowning.

“It was Randy,” Joey said helpfully. “He told Davey he’d be waiting in the hallway. He was going to kick Davey’s ass.”

“Watch your language,” Jeff warned.

Language be damned, I thought angrily. “What are you going to do about this?”

The counselor looked unhappy. “Maybe it was a misunderstanding.” He turned to Davey. “Randy isn’t outside. There’s no one out there. He’s probably gone home.”

“It doesn’t sound like a misunderstanding to me,” I said. “Davey’s usually pretty clear on what he hears. And apparently Joey heard the threat, too.”

“Come on, let’s go upstairs.” Jeff held the door open for us. “I’ll talk to the rest of the staff tomorrow morning, and we’ll see what we can do.”

Feeling far from reassured, I escorted the boys out.

The day’s excitement wasn’t over yet, however. That evening Faith decided to exhibit all the signs of first stage labor outlined in the book Aunt Peg had given me. Though the Poodle’s temperature hadn’t dropped, she was restless and moody. She wouldn’t eat her dinner. She nested and dug incessantly—inside my closet, beneath Davey’s bed, everywhere but in the whelping box we’d prepared for her.

And just in case I still wasn’t getting the message, Faith would stop every so often to turn her head and stare at her body in obvious puzzlement. I knew that for a fact because I followed her around all evening, waiting for something to happen.

When Sam called shortly before eleven, Faith was finally snoozing on my bed. I was a nervous wreck. Judging by the Poodle’s current tranquillity, it was beginning to look as though it had all been a false alarm. Try telling that to my pulse rate.

I snatched up the phone so it wouldn’t wake Davey. Faith lifted her head inquiringly; but when I patted her shoulder, she settled back down. Lying on the bed beside her, I rested a palm on her stomach and smiled as I felt tiny feet kicking within.

“It’s me,” said Sam. “How are you?”

“Fine.” Not exactly true, but the easiest answer under the circumstances. “How are things out there?”

“Okay. Everything’s getting done. Sheila’s will was read today. She named me executor of her estate.”

I knew I shouldn’t have felt a stab of irritation, but I did. Even after her death, apparently, we were never going to be free of Sam’s ex-wife. I wondered if she’d planned things that way. It was a petty thought, but I entertained it anyway.

“Exactly what does that mean?”

“Mostly that I have to tie up all the loose ends. Make sure her bequests are distributed as she intended. File her insurance. Sell her place here. Do something about the house in North Salem.”