Watchdog (20 page)

“They did for a little while. At least until Liz found out what Ben was up to.” I smiled innocently. “From what I've been able to find out about Ben, he's looking for two things in a woman: money and power. And thanks to Rattigan's murder, Gloria now has both.”

“Do you think she wanted them badly enough to commit murder?” said Aunt Peg.

“You could ask the same about Ben.” I glanced at my brother. “By the way, Liz has admitted she lied when she told the police you'd left a message. Rattigan didn't have an appointment to meet you at the coffee bar that evening.”

“So why was he there?” asked Frank.

“When we figure that out, we'll probably know who killed him.” I cut off a large bite of cake and slipped it into my mouth. “Here's something else that's strange,” I said to Peg. “Dog stuff.”

Frank rolled his eyes.

“Remember Asta, Roger Nye's Fox Terrier? The one he said he got from Rattigan? In all likelihood, she was one of Winter's offspring. There
were
four puppies in that litter, although for some reason, John Monaghan decided to register only three.”

“I wonder why.” Peg frowned. “You saw the bitch. She didn't have any visible deformity, did she?”

“No, I thought she was cute. And Roger was obviously besotted with her.”

“So thanks to Marcus Rattigan, she got a good home. But what reason could John have had for not keeping her? Did you ask him?”

“A friend of his asked him for me. John got angry and refused to discuss it.”

“Maybe you should try asking Gloria Rattigan. She might know something.”

“I
did
ask her. The only thing she knows is that she doesn't like dogs and won't allow them in her house.”

“Oh.” Peg's tone was disparaging. Clearly Gloria had just dropped another notch in her estimation.

“So what?” Frank said impatiently. “Dogs in the house. Dogs out of the house. Who cares? It doesn't matter a fig as far as Marcus's murder is concerned. Let's all try and focus for a minute, okay?

“My life is in chaos. I can't even go back into the coffee bar because the police have wrapped the whole place up in yellow tape. How can the two of you possibly think this is a good time to sit around and talk about dogs?”

“We're predictable that way,” said Aunt Peg, her voice deceptively mild. “What would you have us talk about?”

With a show of great patience, as if he were addressing second graders, my brother said, “You have to look for a motive.”

“Motive?” she repeated. “Like anger? Or money? Or maybe potential humiliation?”

“All of those.”

Peg and I looked at each other. Frank had never been included before when we'd sat down and discussed a murder. Now we both knew why.

“We've already found the person who has those motives,” I told my brother. “That part was easy.”

“Easy?” Frank yelped. “Who is it?”

I shook my head and told him. “You.”

Idiot.

Later that night after Davey was asleep, I gave Roger Nye a call.

I've poked around in murder investigations before, and I've found that what works for me is to start by asking lots of questions and then look for the bits and pieces of information that don't fit in. I think of the process as a giant jigsaw puzzle. Some of the pieces fall into place naturally. Others have to be twisted and turned to make them work.

Then there are those few that simply refuse to be part of my big picture in any logical way. As far as I could figure out, everything I knew about Champion Wirerock Winter Fantasy and her only litter of puppies fit into that category. There was definitely a discrepancy between what John Monaghan professed publicly about his bitch and what had to be true.

Not knowing why was like having an itch I couldn't scratch. John wasn't talking. Gloria didn't have the information I needed. It was too late for Rattigan to be any use at all. That left me with Roger Nye. I hoped he had something interesting to say because I was fast running out of options.

He picked up the phone on the fourth ring, and sounded impatient before I even said a word. It took me a minute to convince him that I was neither offering free credit nor soliciting funds for charity, but when I reminded him about Davey playing with the trains and asked after Asta, he grew less wary.

“I just have a few questions,” I said quickly. “I hope that's okay.”

“We still talking about Marcus Rattigan?”

“Kind of. More about Asta actually.”

“Asta?” He lowered his voice to a croon. “Good girl. You're a good girl. Can you believe that?” he asked me. “She looked up when I said her name. What's my dog got to do with anything?”

“I'm not actually sure. You said that Marcus Rattigan gave her to you when she was a puppy?”

“That's right. She was just a tiny thing, all hair and eyes. I wasn't sure I wanted a puppy, but Millie fell for her like a ton of bricks, so that was that.”

“I was wondering whether you know how Rattigan came to have her in the first place. And why he wanted to give her away?”

“After all this time, who remembers a thing like that? Why don't you check with Gloria? She might know.”

Damn. Another dead end. “I did ask Gloria. She didn't know anything about Asta. She told me they'd never had any dogs in the house because she wouldn't allow it.”

“That sounds about right,” said Roger. “Not that I want to say anything against Gloria. She's a fine woman, and God only knows how she put up with a man like Marcus all those years, but she is particular about that house.”

“You said that your wife was the one who was really taken with the puppy. Is there a possibility she might remember?”

Roger took so long to reply that I knew I'd said something wrong.

“Millie passed away two years ago,” he said finally.

“I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry, too.” Roger sighed. “Finding Millie was the best thing that ever happened to me. We had nearly thirty years together, so I guess I was pretty lucky. I still think about her every day. Do you know how I remember her best?”

I'd intruded on his memories; the least I could do was let him talk about it. “How?”

“She used to carry her needlepoint outside and sit under the dogwoods to work on it. Warm weather, cool weather, she never seemed to mind. Spring was her favorite, though, when the dogwoods were in bloom and everything smelled so nice. Millie said just being there made her feel closer to the kids when they were so far away. After she was gone . . .”

Roger's voice broke. He cleared his throat and, after a moment, started again. “After she was gone, when spring came around again, I thought I might try sitting out there myself. See if she was right, see if it made me feel closer to her.”

Roger paused again. I heard him blow his nose. “When I went out there, that's when I realized that the trees were dying. I'll tell you, that just hit me like a ton of bricks. I'd have given anything to bring them back. But I couldn't save them any more than I could save my Millie. Losing them was like losing her all over again.”

“I'm very sorry,” I said once more.

“Now maybe you understand. Marcus Rattigan was a terrible man. I'm glad he's dead and I hope he rots in hell.”

I hung up the phone and went upstairs to check on Davey. The moon outside threw a shaft of light across his bedroom and I could see that he was sleeping peacefully, one arm curled around Faith, who was lying by his side. Their two heads shared the pillow. Faith thumped her tail up and down in greeting but didn't stir otherwise.

I hadn't planted any trees when my son was born. At the time I was struggling to come to grips with the deaths of my parents, killed together in a car wreck several months earlier. Davey's birth had helped me to deal with the sense of loss; he had filled in the empty places in my heart and made me feel whole again.

Would I kill to defend him? I was quite certain I would. Could someone, fueled by anger and grief, commit murder over the loss of a loved one's memories? I hoped I'd never have to find out.

 

Occasionally when I sleep on a problem, the answer presents itself in the morning. It isn't a foolproof system, unfortunately; but when it works it's a veritable epiphany. I went to bed that night thinking I'd never find out why John had lied about Winter's litter and when I woke up Friday morning, I realized that I'd been looking at things all wrong.

I'd asked Gloria about the puppy because she'd been living with Rattigan at the time. Why on earth was I assuming that the wife would know? Men don't talk to their wives. My own marriage had been living proof of that. Men talk to their secretaries and their mistresses.

Applying that theory, the answer should have been obvious. The person I needed to see was Liz Barnum.

After my run-in with the headmaster on Wednesday, I didn't dare sneak out of class for so much as a phone call. And due to the early dismissal, the lunch period was shortened, as well. After school I was supposed to be bathing Faith in anticipation of Saturday's dog show. Washing and blowing dry a Standard Poodle coat—and doing the job right—takes three or four hours. I'd planned to get started before Davey came home so that I could finish by dinnertime.

I knew all that, but it didn't seem to matter. Promptly at two o'clock, I found myself racing out to the parking lot, hopping in the Volvo, and speeding to downtown Stamford. When my son's in the car I try to set a good example. When he isn't, I'm not above cranking up the radio and breaking a few rules.

When I got to the offices of Anaconda Properties, the door was standing open and Liz wasn't behind her desk. Though I could hear the hum of various machines working in other parts of the office suite, the reception area was empty. As I was debating what to do next, the door to the ladies' room down the hall swung open and Liz came hurrying out.

She was rubbing her lips together to smooth her lipstick and as she strode past me, I caught a whiff of smoke that clung to her clothing and hair. She yanked open the top drawer to her desk, palmed a pack of cigarettes inside, then slammed it shut.

“Bathroom break,” Liz said as she sat down.

“I didn't know you smoked.”

“I don't.” She stared up at me defiantly. “The whole building's smoke free.”

“Even the ladies' room?”

“Damn. Does it smell that much?”

“Enough,” I said. “New habit?”

“Old habit.” She grimaced. “I gave it up years ago.”

“What made you start again?”

“Stress. Smoking's a great pacifier. Don't ever let anyone tell you it isn't.”

Three chrome-and-canvas chairs were grouped around a glass topped table. I pulled one over beside the desk and sat down. “Stress over Rattigan's murder?”

Liz shrugged. “I was handling that. Hell, I thought I was handling everything. Then Ben told me it wouldn't be a bad idea to update my resume.”

“He's firing you?”

“Of course not. At least not in so many words.” Liz reached up self-consciously and smoothed back her long hair. “He just said he wanted me to be prepared. You know, in case.”

“In case Gloria decided to exercise her rights as chief stockholder?”

“Something like that.”

“You went to bat for Ben,” I mentioned. “It'd be nice of him to do the same for you.”

“Yes, well, as I've discovered lately, Ben Welch isn't exactly the
nicest
man I've ever known. Maybe I should thank you for that.”

Her tone was brittle and there were spots of color in her cheeks. I decided not to hold my breath while I waited for gratitude.

“How long have you worked for Anaconda?” I asked.

“Since the very beginning, almost. Marcus decided to form his own company fourteen years ago. I was one of the first people he hired.” Liz's eyes narrowed. “And if they think they can just dump me now without a fight, they can think again.”

“Is there a chance you might remember something that happened about ten years ago?”

“Probably,” said Liz. “There wasn't much that went on around here that I didn't know about.”

Big talk. I wondered if she was trying to convince me, or herself. Or whether she really was stockpiling a list of grievances to fight back with.

“Back in those days, Rattigan was involved with a number of show dogs. Were you aware of that?”

“Are you kidding? When Marcus got interested in something, he threw himself into it whole hog. For a while he had pictures and ribbons hanging on the walls in his office. We even had some of those glossy dog magazines sitting out here on the table.” Liz chuckled, remembering. “I'll tell you, some of the clients really looked twice at those.”

“Did you ever see any of the dogs?”

“You mean like real? In person?” She shook her head, and my shoulders slumped. “They didn't stay with Marcus. Most of them had handlers or co-owners that they lived with. I don't think Marcus even saw the dogs himself unless he went to a dog show.”

“I was wondering about one dog in particular.” No point in stopping now. Liz was my last shot. “She was a Wire Fox Terrier named Champion Wirerock Winter Fantasy. Her call name was Winter, and she did a huge amount of winning one year.”

“Sure,” said Liz. “I remember her. For a while it seemed like Marcus hardly talked about anything else. He said she was the top show dog in the United States and she had to fly all over the country to go to dog shows. I remember him saying it was a real shame she couldn't qualify for frequent flyer miles.”

“After Winter retired from showing, she had a litter of puppies,” I said. “She was living with her co-owner then, but somehow Marcus ended up with one of the puppies.”

“Yeah, I know. He brought it with him to the office.”

I straightened in my chair. “You just told me you never saw any of the dogs.”

“I thought you meant the show dogs. You know, the ones all done up in those fancy hairdos? This one was just a baby, no more than eight weeks old. She was adorable.

“Marcus came in one morning carrying her in his pocket. He put her down on the ground and the first thing she did was pee. Marcus started swearing, but I thought it was pretty funny. It was a good thing that little baby held it as long as she did.”

“Did he tell you what he was doing with the puppy?”

“He said he had to find a home for it. He couldn't take it back to his house because Gloria would have had a fit. The puppy was really cute, though, so he figured it wouldn't be too hard to find someone who'd take it. I was tempted myself, but my building doesn't allow dogs.

“I put down a couple sheets of newspaper and went out and bought some biscuits. I think she stayed here one or two nights before Marcus said he found someone who wanted her.”

“That was his neighbor, Roger Nye. He still has her. But what I'm curious about is how Marcus came to have that puppy in the first place. Why didn't she stay with Winter's co-owner like the rest of the litter did?”

“Wait a minute.” Liz screwed up her face as she thought. Creases fanned out from her eyes and mouth. One look in the mirror, and she'd never make that face again. “I remember Marcus saying something about that at the time. It didn't make any sense to me. There was some particular word he used. Give me a sec. It'll come to me.”

A word? John Monaghan hadn't kept the puppy because of a word? There was nothing to do but wait it out.

After a minute Liz smiled triumphantly. “The other guy, the co-owner? Marcus said he wanted to cull the litter.”

“Cull it? You're kidding.”

Liz gave me a scornful look.

“Sorry. It's just that that's such a drastic move. Some breeders do cull litters, of course, but usually only when there's a serious genetic problem. Occasionally you find people who'll do it when there aren't enough homes for the puppies they produce. But that wouldn't have been a problem with Winter's litter. So why would John have wanted to get rid of her?”

I stopped as a sudden thought struck me. “What if he didn't want to? What if Rattigan stole that puppy? Maybe there was a dispute over the terms of their co-ownership contract.”

“That's crazy,” said Liz. “Marcus wouldn't have done something like that.”

Sure he would have, I thought, if he'd figured there was something to be gained by it. Everything I'd learned about Marcus Rattigan pointed to a man who didn't hesitate to put his own concerns above everyone else's.