Read Dog Eat Dog Online

Authors: Laurien Berenson

Dog Eat Dog (30 page)

“Ron, Viv, Austin!” Peg held out her arms wide. “I'm so glad you could make it.”
All three smiled, but it was Austin Beamish who stepped forward and smoothly planted a kiss on Aunt Peg's cheek. He wasn't a physically impressive man, shorter than Peg by at least an inch and bald save for a fringe of rust-colored hair around the base of his skull. It didn't seem to matter. The best show dogs all have presence, and Austin Beamish had it too. Ron struck me as someone who might have played football in college; Austin looked much too intelligent to ever allow himself to be blindsided by a tackle.
“Thank you for having us. This looks wonderful.” The merest trace of a southern drawl coated Vivian's smooth-as-honey voice. She lifted her nose to the wind and sniffed delicately. “Do I smell ribs?”
“You can take the girl out of the country ...” Ron teased. “Her mouth's been watering since we got off the Merritt Parkway.”
“In a minute, you can help yourselves,” said Peg. “But first—”
“Don't even ask,” Austin broke in good-naturedly. “Robert Janney's Peke skunked us both. I don't suppose you have a neon sign around here where we could post the news?”
“Don't worry, if you told the group at the gate, it's probably traveled around the whole yard already.” Peg motioned me forward and performed the introductions, and we shook hands all around.
Vivian's grasp was surprisingly firm, and Austin added to his by throwing an arm around my shoulder and giving me a squeeze.
“You mustn't mind him,” said Ron. “He's like that with all the girls.”
“If you've got it, flaunt it,” said Austin.
“Oh?” I lifted a brow. “What have you got?”
Austin roared with laughter. “Everything I need,” he said firmly. “And then some.”
“Don't get him started,” said Viv. “At least not while I still have an empty stomach.” Linking her arms through both men's, Viv led them toward two big grills, where an abundant supply of ribs and chicken were basting in barbecue sauce.
Now that she mentioned it, my own stomach was feeling pretty empty. I saw that Davey had settled himself in an Adirondack chair. He had a plate holding two ears of buttered corn and a generous mound of baked beans balanced on the big wooden arm. I told myself that it was better than brownies and was about to go get some food myself, when Aunt Peg muttered something under her breath.
Peg was raised in genteel times. Coming from her, “Damn!” meant business.
A new group of guests who'd just arrived from the show was strolling around the side of the house. Among them was Barry Turk, a Poodle handler with low professional standards and even less moral character. I'd visited his kennel when I was searching for Aunt Peg's missing Poodle and found it to be dark, cramped, and filled with dogs that barked incessantly. Turk's prices were right, however, and he did his share of winning in the ring, so he never seemed to lack for clients.
“Don't tell me you invited him,” I said, surprised. Turk was not one of Aunt Peg's favorite people.
“I most certainly did not. Obviously he tagged along with everybody else.”
Turk hung back for a moment as the group he was with moved on. I saw why when a slender woman, stylishly dressed, hurried around the house and caught up with him. Turk reached out and took her hand.
“Oh, Lord,” said Peg, sounding as though she were truly hoping for divine intervention.
“She looks familiar.” I frowned, trying to place the woman.
“That's Alicia Devane. You've probably seen her at the shows. She and Barry have been living together since last fall.”
I gazed at Alicia with new interest. She was attractive in a quiet sort of way, her dark hair bobbed to just below chin length, her features even and unremarkable. All in all, she looked perfectly normal. That being the case, I wondered what she was doing with a jerk like Barry Turk.
I would have asked Aunt Peg, but it was clear her attention was elsewhere. She was standing on her toes, her gaze searching avidly through the assembled crowds. Considering that Peg's height already placed her above most of the guests, I took this to mean that it was a matter of some urgency.
“What's the matter?” I asked.
“Maybe nothing,” she said, sounding relieved. “I don't see Bill. Maybe he's not here.”
“Bill?”
“Bill Devane. Alicia's husband.”
I told you it wasn't going to be simple.
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Dear Readers,
 
The Melanie Travis mystery series is coming back! You have no idea how excited I am to be able to share that news, and I hope you're as happy about its return as I am.
 
In the same way that Melanie often finds that an everyday life filled with kids, dogs, and eccentric relatives gets in the way of her ability to chase down clues and solve mysteries, so did the demands of real life intrude on my own writing for a while. Now I'm delighted to be back up to speed because while I wasn't writing about Melanie, I found that I really missed spending time with her. I felt as though I'd lost touch with a good friend.
 
In September 2013, Melanie Travis will return with a new adventure, and I can't wait to be able to share it with you. Sitting down and bringing the cast of characters back to life was like coming home again. Melanie has a new baby and a growing canine family; she's juggling the demands of both while trying not to lose her identity in the process. And as always, Aunt Peg has a plan that's sure to land someone in trouble ...
 
For those of you who have stuck with me through the series' hiatus, I can't tell you how much I've valued your e-mails, your questions, your patience, and your support. Knowing how many of you enjoyed the books meant more to me than you can imagine. For those who are new to Melanie Travis and cohorts, welcome! I hope you have as much fun reading the books as I do bringing them to you.
 
Happy reading!
 
Laurien Berenson
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Laurien Berenson's newest Melanie Travis mystery coming in September 2013!
One
Life is made up of small moments—most passing by in the blink of an eye, unremarked upon and unremarkable. But every so often, one of those small moments expands and time seems to stop. We're faced with an occurrence so intense, so monumental, that the rest of life's cluttered minutia simply slips away like a passing wisp of breeze.
What remains is a haze of shock and emptiness, a void that we must somehow learn to negotiate. There's an elemental shift in worldview and a lesson never forgotten: nothing in life is as permanent as we once believed.
That was how I felt when a murderer whom I'd been chasing stood two feet away from me and looked me in the eye, then lifted a gun to his temple and blew his brains out.
It was an instant when everything changed.
Maybe clarity of vision is a sign of maturity. If so, I earned mine the hard way. But in that fleeting speck of time, when I put my own life at risk and watched another life end, I knew with absolute certainty what was important to me and what was not.
I had a new baby, an almost-new husband, and a nine-year-old son whom I loved more than anything. I also had a houseful of dogs and an extended family whose only goal seemed to be to drive me crazy. The thought that I might never have seen any of them again was beyond unbearable.
And yet, in that single moment, I had put all of that on the line. What was I thinking? I didn't know.
One thing I did know. I needed a break.
 
“I just want to say that you've become rather dull.”
“Really.” My tone might have been a bit dry.
I was sitting across the kitchen table from my aunt Peg, a woman who in her first sixty-five years has stirred up more excitement and controversy than many South American dictators. Come to think of it, she also runs the members of her family like a small, somewhat unruly junta. Peg stands six feet tall and has iron gray hair and sharp brown eyes. Should a brawl erupt anywhere in the vicinity, my money's on her.
“Yes, really. Don't make me say it twice. I shouldn't have to say it at all. You used to be interesting. Now ...” Aunt Peg stood up, walked over to the counter, and poured herself a second cup of Earl Grey tea. Her gaze slid pointedly to the window over the sink.
It was New Year's Day and we'd had six inches of fresh snow overnight. Eighteen months had passed since I'd made the decision to try to realign the balance in my life. I'd wanted to attain some sense of normalcy, and I liked to think that I'd achieved that goal.
What Aunt Peg saw in the backyard was my husband, Sam, and our older son, Davey, shoveling the new snow off the deck. From the way the pile was shaping up, I suspected there might be a snowman in the offering.
My younger son, Kevin—twenty-two months old and all but swallowed up by snowsuit, boots, and mittens—was toddling unsteadily around the yard accompanied by several big black Standard Poodles. That was what passed for normal at my house.
“Now I'm happy,” I said.
“So you think,” Aunt Peg sniffed. “You're what, thirty-five years old?”
I nodded warily. Not because her assessment of my age was wrong, but because Aunt Peg never begins a lecture without a purpose in mind, usually one that involves work for me.
“You need to get back in the game.”
“Excuse me?”
“For one thing, you need to figure out what you're going to do with the rest of your life, now that you no longer have a job.”
Aunt Peg was referring to the fact that after Kevin was born, I had taken a leave of absence from my position as a special-needs tutor at a private school in Greenwich, Connecticut. A single semester away had now stretched to three.
When Davey was little, I'd been a single mother. I'd had to work. This time around, I had a choice. And the thought of leaving Kevin with a nanny or an au pair didn't appeal to me at all. Even if my son's current favorite word—from an admittedly limited vocabulary—was an emphatic and defiant
“no.”
“I have a job,” I said calmly. “I'm a mother.”
“Oh, please. Hillary Clinton is a mother. It didn't stop her from becoming secretary of state.”
“You want me to go into politics?”
Okay, that was immature. It was the verbal equivalent of sticking out my tongue. But give Aunt Peg the slightest bit of encouragement and she tends to run roughshod over anyone in the vicinity. Speaking as the person most likely to be trampled, what can I say? Sometimes I sink to my kids' level.
“Don't be ridiculous. I want you to use your brain. I want you to think. I have an idea.”
“Wonderful,” I muttered.
The back door came flying inward, bringing with it a blast of cold air, five scrambling, sodden Standard Poodles, and three rosy-cheeked, snow-covered men of varying sizes. Davey had his gloved hands cupped together. He was holding a snowball the size of a small globe.
Sam was just behind him, carrying Kevin. Even in chunky boots and a puffy down jacket, with a red nose and snow-tipped eyelashes, Sam looked like the kind of man most women would want to take straight to bed. Even after six years together, I'm no exception.
Sam lowered the toddler into my arms and, having heard my last pronouncement, said, “What's the matter?”
“Aunt Peg has an idea.”
“Good day for it,” Sam said mildly. He and Aunt Peg are the best of friends. Sometimes that irks me, but mostly I try to rise above it. “New Year's resolutions, and all.”
Davey, who had pulled open a low cabinet and was rummaging around inside, stood up and spun around. “Are we going to make resolutions?”
“Sure, if you want to. Put that snowball in the sink, okay?”
“I can't. I'm going to report on it for science class.”
Davey's tall for his age. He takes after his father, my ex-husband, Bob. They're both long-limbed and graceful. But my son's personality is all me. He could argue the spots off a Dalmatian.
Davey turned back to the cabinet and withdrew a large mixing bowl. “How long do you think it will take to melt?”
“It's started already,” I mentioned. Between the five Poodles, three sets of boots, and the water dripping from his hands, the floor was awash with melted snow.
Sam reached over, plucked the snowball out of Davey's hands, and plopped it into the bowl on the counter. Aunt Peg grabbed a towel from the stack near the back door and went to work drying Poodle legs. That left me to get Kevin undressed.
“Who wants hot chocolate?” I asked.
“No!”
cried Kevin. I'd unzipped the front of his snowsuit and peeled the top off his shoulders. He yanked his arms free and waved his small hands in the air.
“Gotta love a kid who knows what he wants,” Sam said.
“I think he takes after Aunt Peg.” I lifted Kevin up and freed his legs. His red rubber boots kicked off and landed in a puddle on the floor beneath my chair.
“And isn't it nice that someone finally does,” said Peg.
It took another twenty minutes to get everyone warm, dry, and organized. Amazingly, the floor even got mopped. Once it was dry, the Poodles lay down around us, forming a canine obstacle course for unwary walkers or—if you were Kevin's size—a fluffy stool on which to perch.
The five of them were Sam's and my blended canine family. Faith and Eve were a mother-and-daughter duo, originally Davey's and mine. Faith had been bred by Aunt Peg and gifted to me six years earlier. It was either a reward or an assignment—I'd never been entirely sure which. Raven and Casey were two champion Poodles from Sam's breeding program that he'd brought with him when he'd moved east from Michigan to Connecticut.
The remaining Poodle was Tar, the only male in the group. Also bred by Aunt Peg, he had been Sam's specials dog: a champion whom Sam had campaigned to numerous group and Best in Show wins at venues up and down the East Coast. Now retired, he, like the others, wore the close-cropped, easy-to-care-for sporting trim. With two children keeping us busy, both Sam and I were happy to be taking a break from having to “do hair.”
“Finally,” said Aunt Peg when we were seated around the table once more. “Can we now get back to the business at hand?”
“Certainly,” said Sam. “Who wants to begin?”
“Me,” cried Davey.
“Excellent. Someone with initiative.” Aunt Peg stared at me pointedly over the top of her mug. Peg's sweet tooth is legendary, and her hot chocolate was coated with a layer of mini-marshmallows. “Unlike certain of my other relatives.”
“I resolve to eat fewer lima beans,” Davey said firmly. “And not to lose my homework. And not to call Kimberly Winterbottom ‘stupid,' even when she is.”
“Good job,” I said. I don't like lima beans either.
“Kimberly Winterbottom?” asked Sam.
“She thinks she knows everything.” In sixth grade now, Davey was in his first year at Hart Middle School in North Stamford. The move from elementary school made him feel very grown-up. “And she doesn't. Not even close.”
“Fair enough,” said Peg. “Sam, would you like to go next?”
“Not me,” Sam demurred. He knew better than to get in Peg's way. “I'm not ready yet. Why don't you take my turn?”
“I'll be happy to.”
No surprise there. Aunt Peg had been waiting for this opening since she'd arrived an hour earlier. Now she swiveled her seat around to face me.
“You've become boring,” she said.
You know, just in case I'd missed that insult the first time.
“There you go,” I replied cheerfully. “That can be my resolution. Be less boring.”
New Year's resolutions have never been my thing. I just don't see the point of vowing on the first day of the year to read more books, lose ten pounds, or run a marathon. Because if I didn't want to do that stuff before, what are the chances that a change of date is going to make me want to do it now?
“You're stuck in a rut,” Aunt Peg persisted. My easy acquiescence didn't even slow her down. “I can help with that.”
“Don't tell me,” I said. “Here comes the idea.”
“As well it should. Somebody has to shake things up around here.”
Kevin punctuated that thought with a loud bang. Settled on the floor next to the cabinet that Davey had opened earlier, he was engaged in one of his favorite occupations, stacking pots and pans. The leaning tower he'd been erecting had just lost its battle with gravity. Judging by the building skills he'd displayed thus far, Sam and I were guessing that a career in architecture was not in his future.
Aunt Peg didn't even lose a beat. “Edward March,” she said.
Sam looked up. “What about him?”
“He's turning in his judge's license.”
“Wow,” said Sam. “I wouldn't have thought he'd ever retire. March seems like the type of judge who'd hoped to croak in the Best in Show ring at Westminster as he pointed out the winning dog.”
“Don't we all,” Aunt Peg remarked. “And Edward does like his dramatic moments. Nevertheless, I believe health issues have gotten in the way. He's taken very few assignments in the last several years and now seems to think that it's time to bow out gracefully, and on his own terms.”
“Who is Edward March?” I asked.
Aunt Peg and Sam have both been part of the dog show world for so long that occasionally they forget that I don't have their wealth of experience and insider information to draw upon. Aunt Peg's Cedar Crest Kennel, founded decades earlier with her late husband, Max, had produced some of the top winning Standard Poodles in dog show history. Once a successful owner-handler who'd competed in dozens of shows a year, Aunt Peg still kept up the same hectic schedule, now serving as a very much in-demand dog show judge.

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