Dog Eat Dog (23 page)

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Authors: Laurien Berenson

BOOK: Dog Eat Dog
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“So what? I have the money.”
“I know that. You've been throwing it around ever since you got here.”
“Maybe things got a little out of hand,” Bob said, looking sheepish. “But this is different. You need this car, and you know it as well as I do.”
“I need a lot of things, but that doesn't mean—”
“The car is yours. It's a gift, plain and simple. No strings. No conditions. Just take it and say thank-you.”
I gazed at the shiny new Volvo, feeling unexpectedly teary. It was silver, like a freshly minted coin. I wondered how it would feel to sit in the leather seats. To turn the key and hear the engine turn over on the first try.
“No conditions?” I repeated.
“None.”
He'd let my hand drop. I reached out, took his, and squeezed it hard. “Thank-you.”
 
We spent the rest of the day driving around Fairfield County; bumping over dirt roads, speeding down the parkway, and generally comporting ourselves like people who'd never been exposed to automated transportation before. We had the windows and sun roof open, and the radio on full blast. The Volvo purred when I turned it on, and handled like a dream. According to the sticker, I was even getting good gas mileage.
I asked Bob to stay for dinner that evening, but he said he was having dinner at Frank's. That bothered me some. The last time the two of them had gotten together, I'd had good reason to regret it. But Bob seemed happy about the invitation and frankly, I was in too good a mood to worry.
Left by ourselves, Davey and I drove down to the Bull's Head Diner and had dinner. Then we opened the sun roof so we could see the stars, and took the long way home.
Twenty-nine
Davey had a play-date with Joey the next morning. I dropped him off, then drove into downtown Stamford. According to the phone book, Cy Rubicov's company headquarters were located in Landmark Square, a tall, brick and glass complex on the corner of Broad and Atlantic. Considering what I'd learned since, I was reasonably certain that Cy had lied when we'd spoken before. It was time to confront him with what I knew and see how much more he might admit.
The offices for Rubicon Freight (“We'll take you anywhere you want to go, and beyond”) took up half the fifth floor, with a reception area that was wide and spacious. Floor to ceiling windows filled the wall at the far end and sunlight spilled in from outside. The decor was high-tech; lots of chrome and glass, with a minimum of clutter. In the background, I heard the gentle hum of computers and muffled conversation.
All at once, the paltry excuse I'd come up with for my visit—that I'd decided to volunteer my services to work on the hospitality committee for the Belle Haven show—seemed just this side of absurd. I gave the receptionist my name, and told her I didn't have an appointment. I thought that might earn me the bum's rush right then and there, but she asked me to have a seat and picked up her phone. Only moments later, I found myself being ushered in.
Cy was talking on the phone, but he grinned and waved when I entered. The receptionist withdrew, closing the door behind her, and Cy quickly concluded his call. He came out from behind his desk, hand outstretched.
“Melanie, what a nice surprise. What can I do for you?” He motioned toward a grouping of chairs around a small table, and we both sat.
“I was in the neighborhood, and I decided to drop in and offer to help on your committee for the show.”
“Offer accepted. Now tell me why you really came.”
Away from Barbara, in his own milieu, he was brasher, and rougher around the edges than he'd seemed before. This was a man who had amassed a fortune in the interstate trucking business, and though I'd never doubted his intelligence or ability, now I could see the energy and the enterprise that had taken him so far.
When I hesitated, Cy looked me straight in the eye. “I didn't get where I am today by letting people bullshit me. You want to work on my committee, I'm happy to have you. Now tell me the real reason you're here.”
“Okay.” I straightened in my seat. He wasn't the only one who could be blunt. “I want to talk to you about your Dalmatian.”
“What about him?”
“Did Monica know that he'd had his teeth fixed?”
Cy swore softly under his breath. “What is it, common knowledge? If Crawford's been blabbing—”
“He hasn't.”
“Then how'd you find out?”
“I'm nosy.”
“I guess you are. But that doesn't answer my question.”
“I watched the judge examine his bite at the New Brunswick show. Then I overheard a reference to Dr. Rimkowsky. It was pretty easy to put two and two together. Did Monica Freedman do the same?”
“Yeah.” Cy frowned. “I guess she did.”
“I assume she sent you a note about it. Probably something enclosed with your newsletter?”
“What are you, reading my mail now?” His voice rose.
“Monica sent out a number of notes. She'd found out some secrets, and apparently she wasn't above gloating about what she knew.”
“You mean I wasn't the only one?”
“Not by a long shot.”
Cy swore again. “Imagine that. And here I thought she had it in for me.”
“Did she try to blackmail you?”
“No, although after I got the note, I figured that was coming next. Then she got killed, and it never did.”
“You must have been relieved.”
Cy gave me a hard look. “Monica Freedman was small time. She was nothing to me one way or another. I ignored the first note she sent me. I wouldn't even have bothered to read a second.”
“Even if she threatened to have your top winning dog disqualified?”
“First she'd have to prove to me that she could do that,” Cy said complacently. “It would have been her word against mine and Crawford's. Monica was a nobody, she'd have been crazy to take us on.”
“Still, she could have made a lot of trouble for you.”
“All right, worst case. She gets Spot ousted. You think I would commit murder over something like that? Think again. Spot's a good dog and he's going to win his share. But if he doesn't?”
Cy's shoulders rose and fell in an eloquent shrug. “In terms of everything else I've got going on, it's no big deal. And believe me, I know from big deals. If I don't win with Spot, then I'll win with another dog. It's the way the game is played.”
I had to admit that what he said made sense. Cy wasn't Spot's breeder. He had no emotional ties either to that particular dog, or to the Dalmatian breed. To him, Spot was a commodity, an investment no different from others he might have made over the years.
Not that I was willing to absolve Cy completely. He'd lied to me once, and was perfectly capable of doing so again. He was also a man of driving force and ambition. In his climb to the top, no doubt he'd had to push some people out of the way. He'd referred to Monica earlier as a nobody. Maybe for him, disposing of the club secretary had been no more than a minor annoyance.
“The night Monica was murdered,” I said. “Where were you when it happened?”
Cy eyed me shrewdly. “How would you expect me to know when that was?”
“All right then, when the Beagles began to bark.”
“Babs and I were in the car. We had the windows up and the motor running. We didn't hear a thing. When I started to back out, I saw everyone running around. That's the first time we knew something was wrong.”
By then, Monica was already dead.
If
Cy was telling the truth.
“One last question?”
“No point in stopping you now.”
“Are you going to use Bertie as a handler?”
“What does that have to do with Monica's death?”
“Maybe nothing. Let's just say I'm curious.”
“Hell, we passed curious a long time ago. We're heading straight for damn annoying now. Not that it's any of your business, but no, at the present time, I'm not planning to send any of my dogs to Bertie.”
“Do you mind telling me why?”
“That part's easy.” Cy rose from his chair, signaling the conversation was over. “She's not good enough.”
“She's pretty enough.”
“Lots of pretty women in the world. The kind of money I'm laying out, I'm looking for talent, and results. What Bertie's got, that only works for some judges.”
I wondered if he was referring to Louis, but Cy was already striding across the room to open the door. I guessed that meant I wasn't going to find out.
“Glad you could stop by,” he said, as I gathered up my things. “I could use a few more people on my committee working breakfast. Think you can make it to the show by six?”
Six, right. The show ground was in Purchase, New York. And I had to get Davey up and ready, too. I could see I wasn't going to be getting much sleep the night before the show.
Cy grinned happily. I imagined he was thinking the same thing.
“No problem,” I told him breezily. “See you there.”
 
Friday was the last day of school vacation and I wanted to spend it with Davey. The dog shows that weekend were only an hour away on Long Island; and both Sam and Aunt Peg had agreed that Saturday's Poodle judge was worth an entry. The problem was, if I showed Faith, I'd have to spend most of Friday getting her ready. The choice was pretty easy. While Sam and Aunt Peg were busy clipping and bathing and blowing dry, Davey and I took the train into New York and went to the Museum of Natural History.
Davey's so wrapped up in his love of cars that the whole dinosaur fetish has just about passed him by. Even so, his mouth dropped open when he saw the first massive skeleton, and for the next five hours, I don't think he even took time out to blink. As motherly achievements go, it was pretty gratifying.
Saturday was Davey's monthly day with Frank. My brother let himself get talked into taking Faith, too, and I dropped child and puppy off first thing in the morning. Then I continued down 195 to the Whitestone Bridge.
Last time I'd crossed this bridge onto Long Island, the old Volvo had overheated while waiting in line at the toll booth. This time, in my spiffy new station wagon, I flew across in the fast lane. Only the thought that I was breaking in a new engine kept me from really opening it up and seeing what the car could do.
When I got to the show, I headed first to the grooming area. Sam and Aunt Peg were set up next to each other. Each had a black Standard Poodle on the table, and both were busy brushing.
I greeted them both, then paused uncertainly. Sam and I hadn't parted on the best of terms the other evening; and while I wanted to smooth things over, I had no desire to try and to do so with Aunt Peg hovering in the background like an over-anxious school mother.
“Oh go on,” she said impatiently, after a moment had passed. “Kiss and make up, and get it over with.”
“Aunt Peg!”
“You think I don't have eyes?” she demanded.
“Everything's fine,” I lied. “Really.”
“I can tell.” Aunt Peg looked back and forth between us. “The happy look on your faces gives it away. I guess that means Bob's still around. Honestly, Melanie, that man's been nothing but trouble. Why you don't just pack his bags for him and send him home to Texas?”
Sam was looking down, pretending to concentrate on his brushing, but he was also biting back a grin. It wasn't the first time the two of them had ganged up on me.
“Bob is Davey's father. I can't just tell him to get lost.”
“Of course you can. Just open your mouth.” Aunt Peg demonstrated proper technique. “Hold it right next to his ear, and say “Get lost!” Believe me, that'll do the trick.”
For a moment, I was half tempted to invite her over to give it a try. That's when I decided I needed to escape. “I'm going for coffee,” I said. “Anybody want anything?”
Both declined the offer, which was good because what I really wanted to do was find Bertie. I didn't doubt for a minute that she'd deny having an affair with Louis LaPlante. But it would be interesting to watch the expression on her face when I asked the question.
I canvassed the grooming area, then set off to look around the rings. I was so busy scanning faces, that when Lydia Applebaum stepped out of a doorway right in front of me, I didn't see her until I'd nearly barreled right into her.
“Oh,” I said, sidestepping quickly. “Sorry.”
The door to the ladies' room was just swinging shut. Lydia looked at me and wrinkled her nose. “Are you looking for the bathroom? I'd wait a moment, if I were you. Penny Romano's in there, throwing up.”
Retching sounds were clearly audible from within. “Is she okay?”
Lydia's lips thinned into a disapproving line, and I knew what she had to be thinking. I'd smelled liquor on Penny's breath at this hour of the day, too. But she had also told me she was trying to get pregnant. I remembered my first several months well. Morning sickness had gripped me pretty hard.
“Don't worry about Penny,” Lydia said snidely. “It's nothing she hasn't brought upon herself.”
“Maybe not. She might be pregnant.”
“I don't see how.” Lydia walked away. The absolute assurance in her tone made me turn and follow.
“What do you mean?”
“Penny can't have children. That's why she babies those Dobermans of hers so terribly.”
I shook my head. “But she told me she was trying to get pregnant.”
“You must have misunderstood.” Lydia turned into the superintendent's office. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have some entries to fill out.”
By the time I got back to the ladies' room, Penny was gone. Only the unpleasant aroma lingered.
Was Lydia right? I wondered. It wouldn't be the first time I was mistaken about something. Still, the thought irked me.
If I couldn't even keep the simple facts straight, how did I ever expect to figure out who was responsible for Monica's murder?

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