Authors: Laurien Berenson

Dog Eat Dog (15 page)

BOOK: Dog Eat Dog

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I wanted to fight back. I wanted to scream so loud the windows rattled. But much as I hated to hear it, there were elements of truth to what he'd said.

I'd tried my damnedest for Davey, but there were times when I felt that I had to be everywhere at once. No matter how carefully I tried to set my priorities, sometimes Davey's needs got lost in the shuffle. All working moms had moments of doubt, I knew that. But it didn't make them any easier to overcome.

When I looked up, I was almost surprised to see Bob still standing there. “I think you'd better go.”

“You think about what I said.” He walked over to the closet, yanked on his coat, then let himself out the front door.

Upstairs, Faith woofed quietly when she heard the door open. My son slept in his bedroom, blissfully unaware of the turmoil that swirled around him. Downstairs, I curled myself up into a tiny ball, pulled my knees up under my chin, and wondered if Bob was right.

Twenty

I spent a restless night in bed and got up early, eager to do anything that would take my mind off Bob and what he'd said. Alice Brickman called after breakfast and invited Davey over to play with Joey. And like Sam, Aunt Peg was away showing in Massachusetts. That left me and Faith.

I thought about washing the kitchen floor. I thought about bathing Faith. Both would make me feel virtuous, but both were essentially mindless physical activity which would leave me plenty of time to think. Right now, that was the last thing I needed.

Instead, I got on the phone and called Joanne Pinkus. She was home, and seemed more delighted than I would have been by the prospect of a visit from someone she barely knew. Maybe she was hoping I wanted to talk insurance.

Joanne lived in Norwalk in a small frame house that had the look and feel of the fifties. It was set on almost an acre of land, however, with mature trees and plantings that afforded plenty of privacy. A post and rail fence lined with wire mesh, circled the property.

As I drove up, two black and tan Norwich Terriers, presumably Rupert and Camille, raced along the fence barking a welcome. Faith pressed her nose against the window and stared. She's been to handling class and shows, so she's seen lots of other dogs; but for some reason, the little ones always seem to surprise her. I cracked the windows and left her lying on the seat with a new rawhide bone nestled between her front paws.

I'd barely rung the bell before the door was flung open. “This is great!” said Joanne. “I'm glad you're here. Come on in.”

The yard had been muddy and I would have wiped my feet, but Joanne grabbed my arm and was already pulling me inside. Her mass of hair was casually messy; her plump body shoe-horned into leggings and a long pullover sweater.

I wondered if she owned a full-length mirror. If so, I wondered if she ever used it. In their brown stretch casings, her legs looked like two sausages ready to burst at the seams. The bulky sweater she'd topped them with had settled into a broad crease over her hips.

“Coffee?” she offered.

I fell in behind her as we headed toward the kitchen. “I'd love some.”

Joanne filled two ceramic mugs from a pot on the counter. There was a pitcher of milk and a bowl filled with little pink packets of Sweet'n Low on the table. As I helped myself, Joanne opened the back door and the two Norwiches came scrambling inside.

Racing side by side, they were going so fast that they were halfway across the kitchen before they saw me. Both skidded to a stop, stiff-legged, and began to bark. I leaned down and held out a hand.

“That's Rupert,” Joanne said as the first one came and sniffed my fingers. “He loves everybody. Camille will take a little longer.”

Approximately thirty seconds, by my count. By the time we'd carried our coffee into the living room and were settled on the couch, Camille was already trying to nudge her way onto my lap. On the other side, Rupert lay down on the cushion and stretched out along my leg.

“Dogs are a great barometer,” said Joanne, looking on approvingly. “They always know whether visitors really like them or are just full of bullshit.”

I smiled at her vehemence. “Do you get many visitors who are full of bull?”

“Probably most of them, I'd say. Are you married?”

“Not now. I used to be.”

“Dating?”

“Only when I have to.”

“Then you know what I mean. Luckily, I've got a good job that keeps me busy and I'm really involved with the work I do for the club. Otherwise, I'd probably have stooped to taking out an ad in the personals by now. This being single in the nineties jazz is a real drag.”

The last thing I needed was a reminder of the problems I'd left at home. I quickly changed the subject. “I came to ask you a few questions about Monica, if you don't mind.”

“Monica? Why?”

“I've been looking into some of the circumstances surrounding her death, and one thing I've discovered is that Monica was very good at ferreting out other people's secrets.”

I paused, but Joanne didn't seem inclined to fill in the silence. As she sipped at her coffee, I continued, “She was also apparently in the habit of sending people notes about what she knew.”

“Notes?” Joanne tried to look surprised. It didn't quite come off.

“In their newsletters.”

“Oh.” She stared down at her mug.

“She sent one to you, didn't she?”

“Two, actually,” Joanne said finally. “The bitch. I don't know what she thought she was trying to prove.” She stopped and frowned. “I guess that's why you're here, isn't it? Well you don't have to worry. What Monica knew was no big deal. Certainly not worth killing anyone over, if that's what you're implying.”

Joanne was fidgeting in her seat. It wasn't hard to see why she'd confided in Barbara and Monica. Joanne wanted to talk; whatever her secret was, she seemed almost anxious to share. Either what she was hiding wasn't serious enough to do real damage; or her social life was empty enough to leave her sadly lacking in confidantes.

“You have dogs, don't you?”

“One,” I said. “A Standard Poodle puppy.”

“I'll bet you take pretty good care of her.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

The question was unexpected, and I had to stop and think. “Because she depends on me. Because she can't take care of herself. I own her, which makes her my responsibility. She's smart and she's funny, not quite human, certainly ...” I smiled, glad Aunt Peg wasn't here to correct me. “But close enough that her well-being is important to me. It's my duty to keep her comfortable and happy.”

“Precisely.” Joanne nodded, looking satisfied. “That's the way I feel about Camille and Rupert. Actually, I guess I'd have to say that's the way I feel about all dogs. We bred them, that makes them our responsibility. That's why I do rescue work. That's why I had to report Paul and Darla. I didn't have any choice.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Back up. You didn't have any choice about what? Who did you report them to?”

“The ASPCA. The one over in Westport, that's where they live.”

“You reported Paul and Darla Heins to the âSPCA? What for?”

“Well ...” Joanne flushed slightly. “Both of them are getting on, you know. Paul's still pretty much okay, but DarlaâI'm not sure the woman even knows what day it is. And their house! Have you ever seen it?”

I shook my head.

“It was filled top to bottom with Pugs. They've been breeding them for years. I swear they must have had thirty or more, some of them not entirely housebroken, if you know what I mean.”

I could guess.

“The situation was out of control,” said Joanne. “I tried talking to Paul about it. I told him I'd start trying to help him find homes for some of the younger dogs, but he just brushed me off. He said that he and Darla loved the Pugs and he wouldn't dream of changing a thing.”

“So you reported them to the authorities?”

“I had to. There wasn't anything else I could do. It wasn't healthy for all those dogs to be living like that, nor for Paul and Darla, either.”

Barbara had been right. Joanne did sound self-righteous. I wondered what made her think these decisions had been hers to make. “Then what happened?”

“They sent someone over to have a look. A report was filed, and the Heinses were cited for neglect.” Joanne's voice dropped. “Some of the very old dogs were in pretty bad shape. I believe they were put to sleep. A number of the younger dogs were taken away and placed.”

I tried to imagine how Paul and Darla must have felt. Violated. Humiliated. As if they'd lost control over their own lives. Whether or not Joanne had been justified in terms of the dogs' welfare, what she'd done had to have been devastating for the Heinses.

“And you told Monica about all this?”

“Of course I told Monica. She was the club secretary. Besides, she was a dog lover, too. I knew she'd see that I had done the right thing.”

“And did she?”

“Not exactly.” Rupert jumped off the couch and went to join his mistress. Joanne stroked his back absently. “She seemed to think the matter was something the club should have handled privately.” Her chin lifted. “Monica accused me of being on some sort of ego trip. But I wasn't. It was the dogs I was concerned about.”

Yeah, right.

“How long ago did all this happen?”

“Over the winter,” said Joanne, suddenly looking vague. “Maybe in December.”

Right around Christmas. Perfect.

“And then Monica sent a note in your newsletter?”

“Yes. It said something stupid and melodramatic about what I'd done. I tore it up and threw it away.”

“You said earlier that there were two notes. When did the second one come?”

Joanne thought back. “Probably a couple weeks later.”

“In the next newsletter?”

“No, that one was mailed by itself.”

“You're sure it was from Monica, though.”

“Of course. She signed it.”

I remembered the note intended for Lydia. Instead of a signature, there'd been a small sketch in one corner. “So your first note was signed as well.”

“Now that you mention it, no. There was some sort of little drawing ...”

“A Beagle?”

“Yes. It was jumping up and down in the corner.”

Just like Lydia's. “Did both notes say the same thing?”

“More or less.” Joanne shrugged, trying to look casual. “The second one might have mentioned something about the Board.”

The Board of Directors of the kennel club. “Are you a member?” I asked.

“No, but I should be. Head of the rescue service ought to be a board position. It's more work than any other job.” Her words held the conviction of often repeated sentiment.

“I take it the club doesn't agree?”

“They've taken the idea under advisement. Monica said it was a good thing the rest of the Board didn't know what I'd done. You know, like she wanted me to wonder whether she was going to tell them or not. Monica enjoyed manipulating people that way.”

I finished my coffee and stood. “By the way, where were you that night when Monica's Beagles began to howl?”

Joanne's gaze was level and direct. “When Monica was murdered, you mean?”

I nodded.

“Not standing over her with a rock in my hands. That's for damn sure.”

On the way home I stopped off at the Brickmans' to pick up Davey. Alice was up to her elbows in spring cleaning. Carly was dozing in her swing. The two boys were angling for a trip to the Stamford Nature Center to check and see if any new baby animals had been born.

What the hell. It wasn't as if I had plans. I piled them into the car and off we went.

Then I second-guessed myself all the way there. Was this the kind of thing I would have done before Bob had called me a bad mother? Or was I only trying to prove how wrong he'd been?

We saw otters and geese and two new baby lambs. Davey and Joey had a great time. And I spent the whole day wondering.

Twenty-one

March had come in like a lion. Now, in keeping with tradition, it was going out like a lamb. A warm front settled over the Connecticut coast, and spring was in the air. For the first time in months, windows in the school classrooms were open. The air was fresh and sweet with the smell of budding and rebirth. Birds were back in the trees.

It was hard to tell the children to sit down and open their books when I wanted to be outside just as much as they did. Attention spans, already short, seemed to vanish. With spring vacation due to start at the end of the week, I wasn't the only teacher who felt as though she was swimming upstream.

Before Friday, however, I had plenty to keep me busy. Faith was entered in a dog show that weekend, which meant that I had to find time to clip her face, feet, and the base of her tail. The clipping would be followed by a bath and blow-dry, after which I was going to try my hand at scissoring in the lines of her trim.

Scissoring is an exacting job, and I usually counted on Aunt Peg's help. But Peg had a litter of puppies due over the weekend and was staying home to dog-sit. For the first time, I'd be on my own.

I might have been nervous about that, but with so many other things going on, there was hardly time. Early in the week, I had a long talk with Sam on the phone. We discussed the dog show in Massachusetts where his bitch had won two points; and the fact that a new client was interested in some of his software designs. He also mentioned that a tree had fallen during the weekend storm, knocking out the power lines to his house.

It was all mundane stuff, the sort of things that up until recently, we'd have chatted about over a casual dinner. But with Bob around so much, talking on the phone had begun to seem easier than trying to juggle everybody's schedules. Sam was giving me some space, and I was grateful for the understanding. I just hoped I could get things back to normal before the gap between us widened too far.

Bob, meanwhile, was underfoot so much of the time, I was beginning to think I saw more of him now than I had when we were married. At least then, he'd had a job. Now, presumably, his only goal was to spend time with his son. And who was I to stand in the way of such a noble aim?

Monday, I had him take Davey down to sign up for spring soccer. Tuesday, I let him handle the dentist appointment. Wednesday, they took Faith and went to the beach. It took me an hour to get the sand out of Faith's coat, but seeing the condition she'd left Bob's Trans-Am in, made it all feel worthwhile.

Thursday, Bob was there when we got home after school. Perfect timing, as far as I was concerned. I had an appointment in Westport.

“I won't be too late,” I told Bob, after I'd fixed Davey a snack, rewrapped Faith's ears, and pumped some air into Davey's soccer ball. “I'm sure you can find plenty to do.”

“Too late for what?” asked Bob. He was reading the newspaperâ
my
newspaperâwhile Davey danced around the kitchen in stocking feet and shared his string cheese with Faith.

“I'm going out. I have an errand to run in Westport.”

“You're not taking Davey?”

“No, why would I? You're here, and I'm sure he'd rather stay home.” As I spoke, I was already heading toward the front door.

Bob hopped up and followed. “I'm meeting some friends after they get off work.”

“Good for you.”

“I told them I'd be there at five.”

I smiled sweetly. “Maybe you'd better call and change that.”

“Mel ... !”

“Yes?” I drew the door open.

Davey had followed us into the hallway. Bob looked at him, then back at me. “Nothing.”

His teeth were gritted when he spoke. I liked that. I gathered Davey into a quick hug. “See you later, sweetie.”

“Bye, Mom.”

As I closed the door, I heard Davey say, “How about a game of Go Fish? No, make that Monopoly!”

Sometimes it's the little things in life that make you smile.

I took my time getting to Westport. When I'd spoken to Paul Heins on the phone, he'd told me that he was retired and that he and Darla were usually at home. I wondered how many Pugs they had left now. Bad as Joanne's description of their living condition had been, the idea of an empty house seemed even more depressing.

It turned out I needn't have worried. The overflow of Pugs was gone, but by my quick count at least six or seven remained. The Beagles had howled when guests arrived; the Dachshunds had yapped. Pugs snuffled. They massed around me, their sharp nails digging into my legs as they all sought attention at once.

“That's enough now!” Paul said sharply. He shooed the dogs aside long enough for me to get in, then shut the door behind me.

“Dear, is somebody here?” Darla's voice floated out from the living room.

“It's Melanie Travis,” Paul called back. “You know, I told you. The young lady from the kennel club.”

Darla appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a silk dress with sneakers, and had a cardigan sweater draped over her shoulders. Her wispy white hair was neatly combed and her lipstick freshly applied. She was carrying a poker from the fireplace in her hands.

“A visitor,” she said, beaming. “Isn't that nice?”

Paul stepped over, took the poker from his wife and leaned it against the wall. Then he grasped Darla's elbow gently. “Let's all go in the living room, shall we?”

The room we entered wasn't large. A couch and love seat faced each other in front of a window; two wing back chairs flanked the fireplace. The Pugs ran on ahead of us and quickly made themselves at home. It was easy to see why the upholstered cushions were worn in places, and the legs of the coffee table were covered with scratches.

“Now shoo!” said Paul, waving ineffectually at a trio of Pugs that had hopped up to take over the couch.

Two ignored him. One rolled over on her back, wiggled her fanny, and kicked her legs in the air. Paul sat down carefully between the three dogs and began to rub the bitch's stomach. I found myself a place on the love seat.

“How about tea?” asked Darla. She looked to her husband for approval. “Shall I serve some tea?”

“That would be lovely,” said Paul. “Do you need any help?”

“Of course not.” Darla's smile wavered slightly. “I'll be right back.”

As she left the room, one of the Pugs on the floor launched itself up into my lap. It felt as though somebody had dropped a twenty pound sack of flour onto my legs. Startled, I gave a small yelp.

“Oh, dear,” said Paul. “Shall Iâ”

“No, I'm fine. I like dogs.” Even small, heavy, snuffling ones. I shifted my weight and maneuvered the Pug into a more comfortable position.

“You said on the phone that you wanted to talk to us about Monica. Darla and I have already spoken with the police. We're happy to help in any way that we can, but I'm afraid there probably isn't anything we can tell you that you don't already know.”

“I was wondering about something that might have happened before Monica died,” I said. “Did she ever send you a note enclosed in one of your club newsletters? Maybe sometime over the winter?”

Paul sighed and looked away. “Yes, as it happens, she did.”

“Monica knew you had a secret, didn't she? Something you didn't want the rest of the Belle Haven Club to know.”

“I see word has gotten out,” Paul said sadly. “Is that why you've come? Has the club decided they don't want us as members anymore?”

“No, not at all.” Obviously he'd forgotten that I wasn't even a member of Belle Haven, much less an emissary they would send on their behalf. “My visit has nothing to do with club business.”

“Club business.” Paul shook his head. “That's the trouble with the world today. Everybody's too concerned with everyone else's business. Darla and I were doing fine. There was no need for anyone to come into our house. No need at all. And to take our dogs away ...”

He paused, swallowing heavily. I could see the effort it cost him to continue. “It was humiliating, that's what it was. Absolutely the lowest point in our lives.”

“I'm very sorry about what happened,” I said quietly.

Paul didn't acknowledge that I had spoken. He seemed lost in thoughts of his own. After a moment, he glanced toward the doorway and said, “If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go see what's keeping Darla.”

“Of course.”

Some of the Pugs followed when he left. The others stayed behind with me. Five minutes passed. Finally I got up and headed in the direction Paul had gone. A swinging door took me into the kitchen, and I found him there by himself. Water was running in the sink and he was filling a tea kettle from the faucet.

The back door stood open. As I entered the room, I could see Darla standing outside on the terrace, holding a tennis racquet.

Seeing me, Paul put the kettle down and went to the back door. “Darla,” he called. “Please come inside now and see to our guest.”

“It's really not necessary,” I told him. “It was kind of you to offer me tea, but I really should be going.”

“So soon?” asked Darla, coming in to join us. “You just got here.” She turned to check with Paul. “She just got here, didn't she?”

“Only a few minutes ago,” Paul confirmed. He took the tennis racquet and put it on the table. “But I'm afraid she has to go.”

I looked at the two of them, both frail and elderly, both using every bit of will they had to cling tenuously to the life they'd built together over the years. I didn't care what the circumstances had been. How could Joanne ever have justified hurting these two fragile souls?

“There's just one more question, if you don't mind?”

“Of course not dear.” Darla smiled happily. “We don't mind at all.”

“The night that Monica was killed. Where were the two of you when the Beagles began to bark?”

Paul and Darla looked at each other. “Why, we were just outside the restaurant, weren't we?” asked Paul.

Darla nodded in agreement.

“We started down with everyone else. But as you can see, we don't move as fast as we once did.”

“Were any of the other club members still around?” I asked. “Or had everyone gone on ahead?”

“There was somebody ...”

“Mark Romano,” Darla said. Her filmy blue eyes seemed to swim into focus. “He was there. Remember, dear? He held the door for us.”

“He certainly did.” Paul patted his wife's shoulder fondly. “Such a nice young man.”

“A nice young man,” Darla echoed. “He caught one of the Beagles.”

“Did you see Penny, too?” I asked.

“No.” Darla's slender shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “No Penny. She wasn't there.” She looked around the kitchen. “Where's the tea? Didn't you tell me we were having tea?”

“In just a minute,” Paul said soothingly. “Just let me see our guest to the door.”

Flanked by an honor guard of Pugs, Paul led the way back out. “Now I have a question for you,” he said, when we were alone. “You knew about the note that Monica sent, and that terrible business with the humane society. But here's what I've always wondered. Who was it that turned us in? Was it Monica?”

I looked at him, surprised. It hadn't occurred to me that he wouldn't know. Apparently Joanne's burst of self-righteous zeal hadn't extended to putting her name on what she'd done.

I wondered if Monica had known that by sending a note, she'd shifted the blame toward herself. I wondered if Paul Heins would consider the humiliation he and Darla had been through grounds enough to commit murder. I looked at his scrawny shoulders and forearms. It didn't take much strength to bash a rock down on someone's head.

“It wasn't Monica,” I said.

He shook his head unhappily. “Then I guess we'll never know.”

I could have told him, but I didn't. I couldn't see how it would help. Now that Joanne knew she'd jeopardized her chances of gaining her coveted board position, she'd be inclined to keep quiet. There was no reason for this to go any further.

“What happened is over,” I said. “Monica can't tell. And nobody else will. Your secret is safe.” It was small consolation, but all I had to offer.

“I hope so,” said Paul.

He didn't sound convinced.

BOOK: Dog Eat Dog

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