Unleashed (A Melanie Travis Mystery) (18 page)

“Terry, I need help.”

It was the next morning and Davey had just left with Alice, who was driving the car pool to camp. That meant it was time to hunt down another suspect, and Alida Trent was the next person I wanted to see. According to Aunt Peg, Crawford was the one to speak to, but with a request like this I knew I’d have better luck going through his assistant, Terry.

“Darling, what else is new?” He paused to slurp loudly at what I imagined was a cup of coffee. Though it was nearly nine o’clock, Terry is not a morning person. “What is it this time? Another haircut? Makeup tips? Oh wait, I’ve got it. You want some help with your wardrobe.”

“No, I—wardrobe?” My voice squeaked. Faith glanced up at me from the floor and cocked an ear. “What’s the matter with my wardrobe?”

“Nothing if you’re aiming for Preppy-of-the-Month. You know, the Post-Deb Meets June Cleaver look.”

“Bitch,” I muttered.

“Flatterer,” Terry shot right back. “Whatever you’re looking for, doll, I’ve probably got it.”

“I never doubted it. Luckily, all I need is an introduction.”

“Sounds promising. You’re not thinking of stepping out on that hunky fiancé of yours, are you? Good for the goose, good for the gander, that sort of thing? I hear he’s out of town for a few days.”

It was no use wondering how Terry knew Sam was away. When it came to who was doing what with whom and where, Terry seemed to know almost everything. And speaking of which ...

“Terry, do you know Kenny Boyle?”

“Of course. Working dogs—Dobermans, Rottweilers.” His voice dropped an octave. “Manly dogs. I wouldn’t have thought he’d be your type. Is that who you want to meet?”

“No, actually I met Kenny yesterday. Bertie Kennedy took me up to his place.”

“Bertie? Word is, she and Kenny are through. In a big way, if you know what I mean. Mention him in her presence and smoke comes out of her ears. She’s been seeing some scrawny new guy with no dogs and a job in the real world.”

I laughed into the phone. “The new guy is my brother, Frank.”

“Oops. Scratch the scrawny part. I’m sure he’s stunning, just like you. So what was Bertie doing up at Kenny’s?”

“She was supposed to be picking up some stuff she’d left behind when she moved out. Except when we got there, it had all been destroyed.”

“Our boy Kenny has a temper, doesn’t he?”

Interesting that Terry had leapt immediately to that conclusion. He hadn’t even asked if it might have been an accident.

“Apparently so. Have you seen it in action on other occasions?”

Terry paused. I wondered if he was going to pass on something really juicy, but for once, he decided to be circumspect. “Let’s just say I’d rather be around Kenny when he’s winning than when he’s losing.”

The reason for his rectitude became apparent a moment later when I heard someone say something in the background. Terry replied to the other person, then came back to me. “Crawford just walked in. Hang on a sec, okay?” He turned away from the phone, and said, “It’s Melanie. She wants to know about Kenny Boyle.”

There was more rumbling I couldn’t quite make out, then Crawford’s voice came on the line. “Melanie?”

“Hi, Crawford,” I said meekly. The handler tends to take a dim view of my investigations into his dog show cronies. And though he’d never said as much, I also suspected he thought I was a bad influence on Terry.

“Don’t tell me, you’re trying to figure out who killed Sheila Vaughn, right?”

“How’d you guess?”

“It would take a moron not to see this one coming. Do me a favor, leave Terry out of it. Enemies like Kenny, I don’t need.”

“Just one question, then. Was Sheila’s article accurate?”

“What makes you think I read it?”

I couldn’t see him, but I knew Crawford well enough to know that his eyes were twinkling. “You read it. If you didn’t, Terry told you all about it. Come on, Crawford, give me something.”

“Sheila was good. Her research and her conclusions were both spot on. Which means exactly that. Kenny did get himself into some trouble last year, but he managed to get out of it, too. Do I think he was angry at Sheila for exposing the whole mess to the world? Yes, I have to think he probably was. That’s as much as I know, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks. Enough about Kenny. But can you manage one more thing? I want to meet Alida Trent.”

For a minute, Crawford was silent. Unlike Terry, he never blurted anything out without thinking first. I knew he was turning the request over in his mind and wondering what to make of it.

“I assume it’s all related,” he said finally. “Where does she fit in?”

“Sheila was planning an article about her in an upcoming issue of
Woof!
. I gather Mrs. Trent had threatened to sue.”

“And in your mind, that makes her a murder suspect?”

“Not necessarily. I’m just trying to cover all the bases.”

“Look,” said Crawford, “Alida Trent is what some might call a feisty old broad. She never does anything she doesn’t want to do. I don’t know a thing about an article or any lawsuit, but I’ll give Alida a call. She’s a bit eccentric. Something like this might just pique her interest. If she wants to meet with you, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, Crawford. I appreciate it. I don’t want to rush you or anything, but I’m free today.”

“Now you’re pushing your luck.”

I smiled. “I always push my luck, Crawford. You know that.”

“Bye, Melanie.” The phone clicked in my ear.

I spent the next twenty minutes with Faith. First, I took her temperature and recorded the result on my chart. It still hadn’t dropped, which was good because if Alida Trent would see me, I’d have to be gone most of the day. I couldn’t leave Faith alone if whelping was imminent.

After that, I took her upstairs and reintroduced her to her whelping box. Obligingly, Faith climbed in, turned a circle, and lay down. Then she looked up at me expectantly. You put me here, she seemed to be saying. Now what?

Now what, indeed. While I was pondering how to make the box seem like a more appealing nest, the phone rang. I wasn’t surprised to find it was Crawford. Not that I’d ever dream of telling him so, but when it comes to getting things done, he’s a little anal.

“Alida’s heard of you,” Crawford said after we’d exchanged greetings. He didn’t sound happy about this turn of events. “She said she always loved Nancy Drew books, and she can’t wait to meet you.”

“Great.” I grabbed a pad to scribble down directions.

“Alida wants you to have lunch with her in Greenwich.”

“Greenwich? Aunt Peg told me she lived in Millbrook.”

“She does, but she’s got friends in Greenwich she can visit and there’s an exhibit at the Bruce Museum she’s been wanting to see. This way she figured she could kill two birds with one stone.” Crawford named a restaurant on Greenwich Avenue. “Is noon good for you?”

“Perfect.” Now I wouldn’t have to leave Faith alone for nearly so long. “I’ll make a reservation.”

The phone clicked in my ear again before I could even thank him. I owed Crawford one. Actually, now that I thought of it, I owed him several. I was sure he’d find a way to collect eventually.

The restaurant Alida Trent had chosen was near the bottom of Greenwich Avenue, almost across from the train station. Of course, I couldn’t find a place to park. Finally, on my third time around the block, I snagged a space on Mason Street. I shoved some quarters into the meter and hurried around the corner so I wouldn’t be late.

After the hot, bright sidewalk outside, the interior of the restaurant was cool and dark. I’d been wondering how I would recognize Mrs. Trent, but it turned out not to be necessary. As soon as I entered the vestibule, I was accosted by an older woman, who’d obviously been waiting for me.

Alida Trent was probably in her seventies, but one look at the woman told you that she knew she was in her prime. She had silver hair, a face creased with a lifetime’s worth of lines, and a glowing smile. Her fingernails were painted shocking pink, and a jaunty scarf around her neck picked up the same shade. She wore tennis shoes on her feet and crossed the restaurant lobby with a stride as long as mine.

“You must be Melanie Travis,” she said, grabbing my hand and giving it a shake. “I had Crawford describe you for me. I must say he did a pretty fair job. I knew he would. That man has an artistic eye, that’s why he’s so good at what he does.”

I nodded, smiled, sputtered. Before I could answer, she was talking again.

“Call me Alida. And I’ll call you Melanie. You’re punctual; I like that so you’ve scored some points already. They tell me our table’s ready. Come on, right this way. Have you eaten here before? The food’s pretty good. What do you suppose they recommend today?”

I followed Alida and the maitre d’ through the maze of tables to a booth near the front window. It was amazing; the woman had forty years on me, and I could barely keep up. I’d planned this meeting so I could ask her about Sheila, but at this rate, I’d be lucky to get a word in, much less a whole question.

I studied my menu quickly while Alida conferred with the waiter about what was fresh. I suspected we’d be ordering right away, and I was right. The waiter had his pad out before I’d even finished reading. Alida seemed to have that effect on people. She opted for clam chowder and a cobb salad; I ordered the French dip. Within moments, our iced tea had already been delivered.

Alida took a quick sip, then said, “As you can probably tell, I don’t believe in wasting time. Realistically, at my age, how much do you think I have left? Pack it all in, that’s my theory. Crawford said you wanted to talk to me about Sheila Vaughn. All right, I’m here. What’s up?”

I couldn’t see any point in beating around the bush.

“As I imagine you know, she’s dead.”

“Not just dead.” Alida leaned toward me across the table. “Murdered. I hear that’s your specialty. So Sheila Vaughn is your new case. What’s that got to do with me?”

Now that we were sitting face-to-face, the idea seemed pretty ridiculous. On the other hand, I’ve met unlikely murder suspects before. None, though, who seemed to take such delight in the situation.

“I was told that you threatened Sheila shortly before she was killed.”

“Threatened her?” Alida’s brows knit together. “Oh you must mean that stupid story about Belle.”

“Belle?”

“My Shih Tzu. Well, she’s mine now anyway. Originally, I’d leased her from her breeder as a specials bitch. She’s a gorgeous Shih Tzu and deserved every moment of glory I was able to give her. Her breeder’s another story. Even though we had what my lawyer called a cover-all-the-bases contract, we still ended disagreeing about the terms.”

“What was the dispute about?”

Alida selected a warm roll from the basket on the table and broke it into pieces on her bread plate. “According to the lease we signed, I was to assume all the expenses of giving Belle a specials career and Belle was to live either with me or my handler while she was being shown. When we stopped showing her, she was to return to her breeder, Carlotta, to have puppies.”

“That sounds pretty straightforward.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you? The problem arose last fall when Crawford and I began to feel that Belle was getting a little stale from the constant grind of being on the road. Those top dogs work pretty hard, you know.

“Crawford and I decided that it was in Belle’s best interest to stop showing her briefly, giving her some time off before Westminster. She’d been third in the Toy Group the year before, and Crawford and I agreed that this time around she had a good shot at doing even better. Westminster was to be her last show, and we both wanted Belle to go out with a bang.”

“And Carlotta didn’t agree?”

“Oh she thought taking the bitch to Westminster was a fine idea. Why wouldn’t she? I was the one who was paying for it all. But she also said that, according to the contract, once Belle stopped being shown she was supposed to go home and have puppies. Carlotta interpreted that to mean that Belle should squeeze in a quick litter between October and February.”

I ticked off the months in my mind. It wasn’t impossible, and I said so.

“Of course it’s not impossible!” Alida’s gaze narrowed. “But that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. This is Westminster we’re talking about, not some backwater specialty show.

“Do you know what bitches do after they whelp a litter of puppies? They blow coat. And I had no intention of taking Belle to New York looking like a plucked chicken. What would be the point? She’d have been beaten in the breed, and I’d have ended up looking like an idiot.”

The waiter appeared with our food, arranging the plates and bowls on the table with care, then hovering solicitously until he’d made sure everything had been prepared to our satisfaction. I figured he’d already pegged Alida as a heavy tipper.