Chow Down (19 page)

“I
s Sue still at Lisa's place?” I asked.

“She's been there all day,” Bertie confirmed. “Lisa and Larry don't have a huge kennel, but still, you can't just go out and leave ten dogs to fend for themselves. Sue was trying to be helpful . . . you know, because of what happened to Larry. She told Lisa to call her if she needed anything and Lisa did.”

“And she hasn't heard anything since Lisa left this morning?”

“Not a peep. Lisa's cell phone goes straight to voice mail, and she hasn't answered any of the messages Sue's been leaving. What were you guys doing in New York anyway?”

I sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. It was late, but I had time to talk. Davey had already been asleep for a while; I'd just checked on him and found him curled up under his sheet. Faith had been in her customary place at the foot of his bed and I'd sent her downstairs with Sam, who was putting the Poodles outside one last time. It would be at least five minutes before that whole crew reappeared.

“It was another competition for the contest. The judges wanted to see how the dog food–buying public would respond to each of the finalists so they stuck us all in a bus and drove us down to Central Park. Sort of like a free-form focus group, I guess.”

“
That
sounds like fun,” Bertie muttered. Her sarcasm wasn't lost on me.

“It took up most of the day,” I grumbled. “This must be why parents used to believe that children should be seen and not heard. I'm beginning to come around to that way of thinking myself.”

Bertie barked out a laugh. Clearly she didn't believe me. That was all right; I didn't really believe myself.

“Listen,” she said. “Sue's really worried. According to her, Lisa is one of the most responsible people she knows. It's not like her to disappear and not tell anyone where she's going.”

“Has Sue contacted the police?”

“She tried to do that earlier. But they won't file a missing persons report on an adult until three days have passed. She checked with the local hospitals, too. They didn't have any info, either.”

“I wonder if the police would pay more attention if they knew that Lisa is the wife of a man who died under suspicious circumstances last week.”

Bertie thought about that for a minute. “Maybe you should call the police and tell them.”

Her confidence in my abilities was touching, if misplaced.

“Bertie, pretty much every policeman I've ever spoken with has thought he knew exactly what he was doing. I've tried taking them information before. They never listen to a word I say.”

“Well they should,” my sister-in-law replied stoutly.

“I'm with you there.”

I heard the scramble of feet coming up the steps, twenty-two feet, to be precise. It was like listening to a herd of buffalo approach. Luckily my son can sleep through almost anything.

Faith sheared off and went into Davey's room. Tar, as had recently become his habit, went with her. That left Eve, Raven, and Casey to keep Sam and me company. Eve got comfortable inside her open crate. Raven chose a spot beneath the window where the sun would hit her first thing in the morning. Casey eyed the king-sized bed hopefully.

I pretended not to notice. Sam, following along behind, wasn't so lenient. “You know better,” he said in a low voice. The Poodle dipped her head in acknowledgment. She went and lay down next to Raven.

The man loves his dogs, but he enjoys snuggling with his wife more. You can't fault him for that.

Sam looked at me and lifted a brow.

“Bertie,” I mouthed silently.

He looked down at his watch and then up again. We don't get many late-night phone calls. “Everything okay?”

He was asking about family—checking on Maggie and Bertie and Frank—so I nodded.

“Are you talking to Sam?” Bertie asked.

“No.”

“You are, too. I can always tell. Tell him I said hi.”

“Bertie sends her love,” I said to Sam.

“Me too,” he replied and went to brush his teeth. Just one big, happy family here.

“So what are we going to do about Lisa?” asked Bertie. “I told Sue I'd get back to her tonight. I have to tell her something.”

“Let me think,” I said. Like that would help. I'd been thinking since we'd first started talking and nothing brilliant had occurred to me yet.

“When did you last see Lisa?”

“Four,” I said. “Maybe four thirty. The bus dropped us off back in the Champions parking lot. I got in my car and came home. Until hearing differently from you, I figured she did the same.”

“Huh,” said Bertie. “That's no help. How was Lisa acting earlier? Was she happy? Sad? Unusually distracted?”

Was it just me or had Bertie assumed the role that I usually played? How unexpected was that? Maybe spending day after day in the company of a child under the age of one had fried my sister-in-law's brain. But no matter what the reason was, I was happy to play along. When it comes to figuring things out, I've found that two heads are almost always better than one.

“Aloof,” I said.

“Pardon me? Did you just sneeze?”

“No, I said that Lisa and Yoda were keeping their distance from the rest of us. Not that, from what I've seen so far, there's anything unusual in that. Lisa isn't very chatty. She hasn't warmed up to any of us. And of course, under the circumstances, no one would dream of pushing her.

“Lisa sat by herself on the bus both ways. There was an open seat beside her, but she has that way of angling her body that lets you know you're not welcome. The only person I saw her talking to for any length of time in the park was Simone.”

“She's one of the judges?”

“Right. The PR director. Lisa was looking kind of stressed and Simone went over to see if she could help.”

“Stressed by what?”

Bertie was relentless. Was this how people felt when I backed them into a corner and grilled them for information? I hoped not.

Sam emerged from the bathroom. His teeth were brushed and he was mostly naked. And I was stuck on the phone, reliving my day.

Not a perfect state of affairs.

“Stressed by what?” Bertie repeated, then paused. “Sam's back, isn't he?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Ready for bed? Dressed in his jammies?”

“Yes to the first. No to the second.”

“Oh.” A wealth of meaning permeated that small syllable. “I guess I'd better go then.”

But now she had me thinking. “Maybe Simone—” I said.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Bertie replied. “Have fun.” The phone clicked off.

I sat there frowning, and wondering if maybe Simone knew something useful. Considering how careful Lisa was to keep the rest of us at bay, the two of them had seemed surprisingly close earlier.

Sam reached out and took the receiver from my hand. He listened, heard the dial tone, and replaced it in the cradle.

“Time for bed,” he said.

It wasn't like he had to ask me twice.

 

With the advent of cell phones it seems like we've become a society that's constantly in touch. People chat while they drive, while they work, while they're shopping in the supermarket. Sometimes I think people don't even care who they're talking to anymore, as long as they're connected to someone.

Even I, who regard my cell phone as a necessary evil, seemed to be spending a lot more time on the phone these days. So of course when I got up the next morning, the first thing I did was make another call. Well, let's not jump ahead. As anyone with dogs knows, the first thing I really did was let the Poodles outside for a run.

Then I poured myself a cup of coffee, pulled out an old dog show catalogue and looked up the Kims' address in the back. They lived in Southport, a town too far away to be covered by my phone book; but thanks to the wonders of technology, I was able to get the number off the internet.

After what Bertie had told me the evening before, I didn't actually expect anyone to answer when I dialed. But I hadn't even heard one ring before the phone was snatched up.

“Hello?” The voice sounded breathless and eager. What it didn't sound like was Lisa.

“Hi . . .” I thought fast. “Is this Sue?”

“Who's this?”

“Melanie Travis. I'm Bertie Kennedy's sister-in-law? We haven't met but she called me last night—”

“You're the one who's in that contest with Lisa.”

“Yes.”

Sue expelled a breath. “Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?”

“No, that was why I was calling you. To see if there'd been any further news.”

“Nothing,” Sue said flatly. “The last information I got was when Bertie called me after she spoke with you. I ended up staying here and spending the night on the couch. I guess I half-expected Lisa to come wandering in at three
AM
but no such luck. Now I don't know what to do. It's not like I can just put my entire life on hold until I hear something. But I can't pack up ten dogs and take them home with me either.”

“What about calling a professional pet-sitter?”

“Yeah, I was thinking about maybe doing something like that. I know Lisa is going through a bad patch right now, but let me tell you, this is one hell of a way to treat a friend.”

“It sounds like you're more pissed off than worried,” I said.

“I guess I don't know how to feel. Or what to think. Maybe I jumped the gun, contacting the police and all. For all I know, this could be like one of those crazy college things. You know, where you go out and get wasted and don't make it home at night?”

“Have you known Lisa since college?” I asked.

“No, but come on. Everyone's experience is more or less the same, isn't it?”

Not mine, I thought. But then I'd had to take on responsibilities young. I couldn't recall a single time in my life that I'd ever been too inebriated to at least call and check in with someone who might have been worried about me.

“Lisa does have some old sorority friend around here. I think maybe they were roomies or something. If I could remember her name, I'd give her a call. I bet she might be able to shed some light on this whole thing.”

“Maybe.”

I didn't sound convinced, and I wasn't. Lisa was too old for shenanigans like that. Plus when I'd seen her last, she'd had Yoda with her. It was a stretch to imagine the elegantly groomed Asian woman out barhopping to the point of incapacity, all the while holding a little Yorkie in her arms.

“Instead I had to call her boss,” Sue said, sounding annoyed. “It's not like he was any help.”

“Her boss? Lisa has a job?” That was news to me.

“No, sorry, not her actual boss. Lisa doesn't work. Larry was the one who took care of earning the money. I meant that guy who's running the contest.”

“Doug Allen?”

“That's the one. I talked to him earlier this morning. He didn't have a clue. Said pretty much the same thing you did. That you all got off the bus in Norwalk yesterday afternoon and went your own separate ways. He had no idea where Lisa might be.”

It was only eight o'clock now. How early had she called Doug? I wondered.

“Maybe half an hour, forty-five minutes ago,” Sue said when I asked. “I woke up with a crick in my neck from sleeping on the freakin' couch and I was in a mood to get some answers. Since the last people who had seen Lisa were the ones associated with the contest, that seemed like a good place to start.”

“Doug was at work at seven fifteen?” I was only thinking out loud, but Sue answered the question anyway.

“No, Lisa's address book had Doug's home number in it, so that's the one I called. But like I said, it didn't do me the slightest bit of good. He said if I was worried that I should report her missing to the police. Like I couldn't have come up with that idea myself.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Back up.”

Sue sighed. “I told this to Bertie, I just assumed she passed it on. Adults have to be missing for—”

“No, not that. The other part, about Lisa's address book.”

“It was just sitting there on top of her desk. It wasn't as though I had to go digging around in her drawers to find it. All I did was open it up and look—”

“I don't care where you got it from,” I said impatiently. After all, it wasn't as though I was above snooping around in other people's things. “Lisa had a listing for Doug Allen in her address book?”

“Yup. Office. Cell. Home. I called the home number because it was early and that's where I got him.”

I thought back to the first time I'd gone to the Champions Company. Each of the finalists had been given a goody bag of products on their way out. Doug's business card had been attached to the top. The card had listings for Doug's office, cell phone, and fax numbers. There hadn't been a home number on there, I was sure of it.

So what was that phone number doing in Lisa Kim's address book?

L
isa Kim's disappearance was a concern, but it wasn't the only thing I was worried about. There was another, even more pressing item on my agenda. Despite repeated attempts, I had yet to come up with the slightest clue about what was going on with Crawford. It was time to kick that investigation into high gear and take my queries straight to the source.

Well, the next best thing, anyway.

Terry—that indefatigable supplier of information, gossip, and innuendo—was clearly the person I needed to talk to. And considering that in the current humid summer weather my hair was hanging around my shoulders like a Puli's straggly mop, it wasn't hard to come up with the perfect excuse.

Terry had been cutting my hair—and, if the truth be known, consulting on my wardrobe—since shortly after we'd first met. I wasn't the only exhibitor currently exploiting his extracurricular talents, though I probably was the only one prone to showing up at Bedford Kennel at odd hours, plopping myself down on a kitchen stool, and telling him to snip away.

Under normal circumstances, I would have called ahead and asked if it was a convenient time for a visit. But since I was half-afraid I'd be told that it wasn't, I decided instead to simply show up.

Sam and Davey were once again occupied with the ongoing construction of the tree house. The Poodles, lying in the shade in the backyard, were happy to keep them company. That left me in the Volvo by myself, heading north into Westchester County.

Crawford's tenure in the dog show world rivaled Aunt Peg's. But while she had dedicated her efforts to producing and maintaining a family of Standard Poodles whose quality was unparalleled, Crawford's life had been devoted to winning in the show ring. In a career that had by now spanned several decades, he had quickly found his way to the top, and a number of the most celebrated Non-Sporting dogs in history had come from Bedford Kennel.

Approaching the residence, which was on a quiet, rural road lined with stone walls and mature trees, I felt a small pang. I counted Terry and Crawford among my good friends, but I'd never before had the temerity to simply drop in without notice. Even now, I wasn't sure it was such a good idea. At least it was Wednesday; that had to count for something.

Professional handlers do the majority of their work on the weekends. Saturdays, Sundays, and sometimes Fridays are devoted to the shows themselves. Thursdays are for grooming dogs and getting ready. Monday is a recovery day. So the two days midweek are about as close as handlers ever come to having a day off.

The good news: Crawford and Terry probably wouldn't be working when I arrived. The bad news: I had no reason to suspect that either one of them was hoping to spend their limited leisure time with me.

In the end I chickened out and called Terry on my cell phone from the road at the end of their driveway.

“Hey doll,” he said. “What's up?”

“I need a haircut. Badly.”

“Like that's news. If you'd let me maintain that trim every six weeks like I want to, you wouldn't have to go through the oh-so-attractive shaggy dog stage.”

Can you tell we'd had this conversation before?

“What's your schedule look like today?” I asked.

“Could be doable. When today?”

“How about now?”

I turned on my blinker, eased past a mailbox marked Bedford Kennels and pulled through a break in the stone walls. Gravel crunched beneath the Volvo's wheels as I headed down the long driveway toward the house. The big white Colonial looked more like a stately country home than a business, in part because the matching kennel building, with its covered runs and spacious paddocks, was hidden out back.

“You're in the neighborhood?”

“I'm virtually at your back door.”

I pulled around the house. Dogs—several Poodles, two Dalmatians, and a Chow—that had been snoozing in their runs jumped up and began to bark. Terry's face appeared in the kitchen window.

“You weren't kidding,” he said, snapping his phone shut with a flourish.

By the time I got out of the Volvo, Terry had the door open and was standing on the sill waiting for me. Dressed in shorts, a linen shirt, and scuffed topsiders, he still managed to look like every woman's dream. Except for the whole gay thing. And the highly suspicious look on his face.

“Hey there!” I said jauntily.

“Hey yourself.” He folded his arms over his chest. “To what do we owe the honor?”

“I told you, I need a haircut.”

I swooped in and kissed him firmly on the cheek. Gestures like that make Crawford uncomfortable, but not Terry. He smirked, grabbed my shoulders, and steered me back so he could buss the other cheek, too, European-style.

“Yes, well, you also need to win the lottery and I don't see you standing in line at the gas station.”

Terry had snapped out the sarcastic reply without thinking. I looked at him and arched a brow. He stopped and reconsidered. “Oh right, you have Sam, the video game mogul. Strike that last part.”

“Consider it stricken.” Without waiting for an invitation, I walked past him into the kitchen.

Recently redone, the room was sleek and modern. It had granite counters, polished hardwood floors, and appliances that were large enough to prepare food for an army. Left to his own devices, Crawford mostly used the microwave. Lately, however, Terry had been taking cooking classes. It looked as though the shiny pots and pans that hung from a rack above the center island were finally beginning to get some use.

“Coffee?” asked Terry. His own mug was already sitting on a counter.

“Please.” I pulled out a stool and hopped up onto it.

He opened a glass fronted cabinet, got out another mug, and filled it almost to the top. Then he carried it over to the Sub-Zero fridge. “Just milk, right?”

I nodded.

If I'd made coffee for Terry, I'd have added two sweeteners, no milk. We were close enough to be that conversant with each other's personal habits; how had I ever imagined that he wouldn't realize why I had come?

“Where's Crawford?” I asked casually.

“Out.” He sloshed milk into the mug, then slid it toward me across the counter. “Running errands.”

“Supermarket, dry cleaners?” I smiled as I asked the question. Crawford wasn't the domestic type.

“Something like that.”

Terry slid onto a stool opposite and I sipped at my coffee. The flavor was deep and rich, with just the slightest hint of almond.

“You like?” he asked.

“I like.”

“Good. Now tell me why you're really here. And make it entertaining, if you don't mind. I could use a little distraction.”

“I have questions,” I said slowly, wondering what sorts of things Terry might be wanting distraction from.

“So what else is new?”

“You may not like these.”

“Oh,
please
. Has that ever stopped you before?”

No, I thought. Not really.

“I want to know what's wrong with Crawford,” I said.

Terry's expression was bland. “What makes you think anything is?”

“Because I pay attention to details and I'm not stupid. I've seen him taking it easy with his entries and leaving shows early. He isn't acting like himself. He hasn't been for the last month.”

“What if I told you that nothing was going on, that everything was fine?”

“I wouldn't believe you.”

“You think I would lie to you?”

Terry sounded genuinely offended, and I realized that if I persisted I might be pushing the boundaries of our friendship.

“I think you would do anything you felt was necessary to protect Crawford.” Partly to mollify him, partly because it was true, I added, “It's one of your better qualities.”

Terry shook his head. He wasn't appeased. “And yet you're sitting in my kitchen asking me to betray a trust.”

My stomach went hollow. “So there is something wrong.”

“Crawford's a very private person. You know that as well as anyone. He doesn't talk about his personal problems and he certainly wouldn't want me to. There may be an issue or two. Tests are being run, things are being looked at; that's all I'm going to say. Crawford doesn't want this to be a subject for discussion.”

“Not even with friends?”

“Not even.” Terry was firm. “In my place, you know you'd respect his wishes. How can I not do the same?”

“You can't,” I said softly. Even I could see that. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No.”

“You'll let me know if that changes?”

“I will.”

“I'm holding you to that.”

Terry laughed. “I never expected any differently.” He tipped back his head to finish the last of his coffee. “Well, now that that's out of the way, do you still want your hair cut or was that just a clever ruse to get you in the door?”

“Of course I want my hair cut. Can't you tell?”

I'd given him an opening the size of a barn door and I thought Terry would go for the easy insult. Instead he stared at me, narrowing his eyes. After thirty seconds or so, I began to get nervous.

“What?”

“Shush, I'm thinking.”

He stood up, walked around the island, and placed his hands on either side of my head. His fingers tunneled gently back through my hair. Terry was so close that I could smell the faintly musky smell of his aftershave and see the smooth muscles of his chest through the sheer linen. Coming from another man, the touch would have felt intimate, maybe even erotic.

But this was Terry we were talking about. As he lifted his hands and let the hair fall back into place, I glanced up. His eyes were focused not on me, the woman seated in front of him, but on some thought process that had to do with scissoring, or styling, or setting a trim.

The sad fact of the matter was, as far as Terry was concerned, I might as well have been an ungroomed Poodle.

“I'm thinking it's time for a change,” he said.

“Easy for you to say.”

I liked my hair long. I'd been wearing it down around my shoulders for years. Or, to be honest, forever. On previous occasions, Terry had added shape, and layers, and wispy bangs. And I'd learned to give him free rein because when it came to hair, he had good instincts.

But now it sounded like Terry was talking something momentous. I wasn't sure I was ready for that.

“Have you ever thought about going blond?”

I reared back in my seat. “You must be joking!”

“Why?”

“Because . . .” I sputtered automatically. Then I stopped and thought. “Brown is a good color, a fine color. Maybe not exciting, but certainly perfectly decent. It matches my eyes.”

“Your eyes are hazel. Hazel goes with blond.”

I shook my head as my thoughts on the subject began to define themselves. “Blond isn't me, it's somebody else. Someone who wants to be noticed, someone with bigger boobs, someone who has a whole lot more time than I do to spend worrying about how they look.”

“I see,” Terry said thoughtfully. “So it's a maintenance issue.” Notice how he ignored the whole bigger boobs part.

“Mostly, I guess.”

“Then I have another idea.”

The fingers were back, lifting, parting, rearranging. Terry could see what he was doing; all I could do was feel. The touch of his fingers brushing through the strands of my hair was hypnotic. I had to keep reminding myself that the man caressing my scalp had an ulterior motive.

“Short and shaggy,” he said, his fingertips pressing gently now and moving in a circular motion. “I'm picturing a Meg Ryan look.”

“Meg Ryan is a blonde,” I said suspiciously.

“Ignore that part and focus on the cut. All wisps and layers, kind of a gamin thing. It'll be fabulous on you. And just think how easy it will be to take care of. Just wash your hair, shake your head, and go.”

“The blond thing was a ruse, wasn't it?” I grumbled. “You were setting me up.”

“So sue me. It doesn't mean I'm not right.”

“I like my long hair.”

“It's boring. It never changes.”

Unlike Terry's hair, which shifted shades and styles regularly. No doubt he was the darling of whichever hair salon he frequented. At the moment Terry was blond again, his hair long enough to curl down over his ears. He looked like a charming cherub. One who was itching to get a pair of scissors into my hair.

“Sam likes my hair long,” I said. It was beginning to feel like I might lose this battle.

“Sam likes
you
.” Terry was digging around in drawers and cabinets. He laid out a towel on the countertop and began setting out the tools of his trade. “He wouldn't care if you wore a bag over your head.”

Terry might be right. I hoped he was. Because I was beginning to imagine what it might feel like not to have to blow my hair dry after I showered. Not to have anything clinging to the back of my neck in the heat of summer.

“You're not thinking too short,” I said cautiously.

“Here.” His fingers brushed my chin, then the lobe of my ear. “And along here. Maybe a bit longer in the back. But it will have body, and swing. It'll move when you move. It will give Sam a good excuse to buy you a new pair of diamond earrings.”

“I don't need new earrings.”

I was arguing for the sake of arguing now. The decision had already been made and I suspected we both knew it. Certainly Terry, who now had a spray bottle of water in his left hand and a comb in his right, looked ready to rock and roll. Trust a man who showed Poodles for a living to be ready to start snipping at a moment's notice.