Hair of the Dog (4 page)

I got out of my car, then paused. The driveway was short but wide. A maroon Chevy van had been pulled up in front of the kennel building and was parked off to one side. I wondered if that was where it had been the night Barry was shot.

There were houses and trees in all directions, plenty of cover, lots of places for a gunman to hide. Two large floodlights were positioned just beneath the eaves of the building. Once Barry had turned those on, he would have been standing in a circle of light.

An easy target.

Even in the morning sunshine, the thought made me shiver. I turned and walked to the house. Rona's Poodle was undoubtedly in the kennel, but I wanted to offer my condolences to Alicia first.

I had to knock twice before the front door was drawn open. Alicia answered it wearing shorts and a ratty T-shirt. Her feet were bare and her eyes were red-rimmed. Up close, in the bright sunlight, she looked older than I'd guessed the week before.

“Yes?” she said, her voice soft and quivery.

I held out my hand and introduced myself. “I'm here to pick up a dog. I believe Peg Turnbull called about her?”

Alicia nodded. Even that small movement seemed to require more strength than she had. “You need to see Beth. She's back in the kennel.”

“I know. I just wanted to stop in and tell you how sorry I was about what happened to Barry.”

“Thank you,” Alicia whispered. She held up a hand to brace herself as she sagged against the door frame.

“Are you all right?” I asked. Dumb question. Anyone could see just by looking at her that Alicia Devane was nowhere near all right.

“I'll be—” She stopped and swallowed. She brought her other hand up and placed it, palm flat, against her stomach.

“Why don't you sit down? Here, let me help you.”

She didn't protest as I took her arm, so I took that as acquiescence. The front door opened directly into the living room. Two chairs were piled high with newspapers and magazines, but there was a couch on the opposite wall. Slowly we made our way there. I'd thought she was slender, but Alicia felt frail, almost weightless, beneath my hands.

“Is there anything I can get you?” I asked. “Maybe some coffee?”

“Not coffee. Here.” She patted the seat beside her. “Sit for a minute.”

I was glad she'd asked. She certainly didn't look like she was in any shape to be left alone. For a full five minutes she didn't say a word, so we sat in silence. I'm not very good at offering comfort. I know women who are naturally empathetic. Not me. I never seem to know the right thing to say.

Then she finally spoke, and what she said was a surprise.

She sat up and her shoulders seemed to stiffen with resolve. “I know who you are. You're Peg Turnbull's niece, the one who figured out who killed Harry Flynn.”

I grimaced slightly. There are other ways I'd rather be known.

“I need your help,” said Alicia. “I want you to find the person who did this to Barry.”

“I can't,” I said. The response was quick and automatic. “You need to talk to the police.”

“I've already done that. They're questioning the neighbors and running tests on the bullets, looking for witnesses and physical evidence, when what they should be doing is talking to dog people. The dog show world was Barry's whole life, and the police don't have a clue how it works. You do. You solved those other crimes.”

“That was—” I stopped, searching for the right word. “Kind of a fluke. I just happened to be there.”

“And now you just happen to be here.”

She had a point. I'd figured Aunt Peg had sent me to Turk's kennel because she was hoping I'd come back with some good gossip. Now I wondered if there'd been more to it than that.

Then again, I was the one who'd just been standing out in Alicia's driveway, trying to imagine where the shots might have been fired from.

“I'm a teacher,” I said. “Not an investigator.”

Alicia lifted her hands and let them drop, the gesture conveying her feelings of utter helplessness. I sympathized, but it didn't change my mind.

“The police will find the person who shot Barry. You just have to give them some time.”

“All the time in the world won't help unless they start looking in the right direction.”

“What do you mean?”

Alicia frowned. “The detective I spoke with seems to think that I might have had something to do with Barry's murder.”

“Did you?”

I wanted to see her response, and I wasn't disappointed. Alicia looked positively shocked. “Of course not. Would I ask for your help if I had?”

Maybe, maybe not, I thought. A moment ago, Alicia had had me convinced she was totally helpless. Now her jaw was set with determination.

“You might be hoping I'll come up with another suspect to draw attention away from you.”

“No. You don't understand ...” Her voice drifted, then came back stronger as her fingers spread, once again, over her stomach. “It's not just me I'm worried about. My baby is going to grow up without a father. I need you to find out who did this to me. Who did this to us.”

I stared at her for a moment, wondering if I'd misunderstood. “You're pregnant?”

“Yes.” Alicia smiled for the first time since my arrival. “Three months. It doesn't show yet, but it won't be long.”

“I had no idea.”

“Almost no one does. Barry and I didn't exactly plan this, it just happened. But you can see now why I have to know.”

I wondered if it had been chance, or if Alicia knew how close to home she'd hit. I, too, had a child who was growing up without a father. But at least Davey knew Bob, and he knew that even though his father lived in Texas with a new wife, he still loved him very much. It wasn't nearly as much as I would have wanted for him, but it was more than Alicia's baby was going to have.

Before I'd sympathized. Now I empathized. The tug was stronger.

I settled back on the couch. “Will you answer some questions for me?”

“Of course,” Alicia said quickly. “I'll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Why do the police suspect you?”

“Partly because that's what they do. They always look at the person the victim was involved with first.” She twirled a strand of hair around her index finger. The small, unconscious movement was innocent, almost childlike. “And partly because . . .”

“Yes?”

“Barry made out a new will about six months ago. I inherit everything. What there is of it.” Alicia cast a derogatory glance around the room. “The house and the kennel are both mortgaged. As to the rest, I couldn't care less what happens to it.”

I looked around too. Despite what appeared to be recent attempts to brighten up the decor, the furniture in the room was worn and shabby. The small glimpse I'd had into the kitchen had revealed brown linoleum and outdated appliances.

Alicia picked at the umber tweed upholstery on the couch and sighed loudly. “The only reason I was even here was because of Barry.”

“Did you love him?”

“Of course I loved him. I left my marriage for him. Bill was much more stable. He was established. You know.”

I nodded.

“But Barry was exciting. He had charisma. He made me feel alive.”

I wondered if I dared suggest she'd been having a midlife crisis.

“Barry wasn't the easiest man in the world, but he had some wonderful qualities. He was caring and sweet, and he could be very romantic.”

I opened my mouth, then shut it without saying a word.

“I know some people thought he could be brash, and maybe a little arrogant . . .”

And grating, pushy, and sexist.

“... but that was just his way. His childhood was pretty rough. Barry had to learn how to stick up for himself. But he loved me,” Alicia said firmly. “And he took very good care of me.” Her lower lip began to quiver. “And now he's gone. What am I going to do?”

I took her hand and held it. “You're going to stay calm and healthy for the sake of your baby. The last thing you need is more stress.”

“You'll help me, won't you?”

She looked so hopeful, I couldn't help but nod. “But I can't promise I'll find out anything.”

“Promise me you'll try,” she said, and I did.

I found Barry's assistant, Beth, out in the kennel. She was small but stocky, with sandy hair that was cropped short and a direct, unwavering gaze. Like Aunt Peg, she was blow-drying a Poodle in anticipation of the next day's show. She brushed through the damp coat with practiced ease, her movements brisk and efficient.

“Melanie, right?” she said when I entered. “Peg called and told me you were coming. Let me just finish this side, and I'll get the bitch for you.”

“No hurry.”

In order to achieve the plush, full look needed for showing, the coat had be perfectly straight. Left to air-dry, it would kink and crinkle. Beth had the Standard Poodle lying flat on his side on a rubber-topped grooming table. She was using a large, freestanding blow dryer that directed a strong, steady stream of hot air into the coat. She'd started in the back and was working her way forward. Since she was drying the part of the mane coat that covered the Poodle's shoulder, I figured another fifteen minutes would do it.

There was a desk by the window where Barry used to keep his accounts. Now the surface was clean. I dragged out its chair and sat down.

The dryer made a lot of noise. Beth had been watching a talk show on a small color TV that was sitting on top of a crate, and she'd turned the volume way up. The combination was enough to preclude any hope of conversation.

“Do you mind if I turn that off?” I asked when a commercial came on.

“Go right ahead. I wasn't really paying attention. I just leave it on for something to do.”

With one source of noise removed, we were able to speak in almost normal tones. “I see you're getting ready for the shows,” I said.

Beth nodded. “Two this weekend. We've got six dogs entered.”

“All going?”

She hesitated before answering. “Only one owner bugged out on me,” she said, sounding almost defiant. If Beth was feeling even a fraction of the grief Alicia'd felt, she was hiding it well. “I told each of them that this was a freebie. Just give me one weekend to show what I can do. The entry fees were already paid. They had nothing to lose by giving me a chance.”

“Do you think you can handle the business by yourself?”

“I don't know. To tell you the truth, I'm not even sure I want to. I liked being Barry's assistant. All I had to do was work with the dogs, and that's what I'm good at. Being the one in charge is a whole different ball game.”

I'd liked Beth the last time I met her, and I liked her now. She didn't seem to waste a lot of time bullshitting people.

“So how's business been lately? Was Barry having a good year?”

“Better than ever. He was getting some good dogs and having some good wins. He seemed to be calming down a bit personally, and that was good too.” She grinned with all the wisdom of her twenty-two years. “Maybe he was maturing.”

“I guess that means you think Alicia's coming was a good thing.”

“Yeah, sure.” Beth stared downward at a mat she was working free with her fingers. “She's okay.”

“She wants me to do some asking around about Barry's murder.” I noted that Beth didn't look surprised, and wondered how much the two women spoke. “Would you tell me what happened the night he was shot?”

“I'll tell you what I know. The same thing I already told the police. It isn't much.”

I waited a moment while she gathered her thoughts. The brown Standard Poodle on the table was almost dry. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even. No doubt he'd slept through most of the procedure.

“We'd been at the show all day. Wallkill, you know?”

I nodded.

“We stayed through Best in Show, then had some dinner. By the time we got back here it was dark, probably a little after nine.”

“Had you left any lights on?”

“No.” Beth ran her fingers through the Poodle's chest hair, making sure it was fully dry. “It was light that morning when we left, and Barry hates wasting money. I'm sure everything was off.”

I listened to her refer to Barry in the present tense and felt a small pang. “So the place looked just as you would have expected it to. Nothing unusual.”

“I guess. I mean, like I said, it was dark. Besides, it had been a long day at the show. I wasn't really paying that much attention to how things looked.”

“The three of you were in the van?” I prompted.

Beth nodded. “Barry and Alicia had the front two seats. I was in the back. Which is another reason I wasn't paying attention. I couldn't really see out very well.”

I wondered why she felt obliged to keep making excuses. Had being questioned by the police put her on the defensive, or did she actually have something to hide?

“Go on.”

“Alicia was feeling really tired and asked if we could unload without her. Barry said okay. He stopped next to the house and she went inside.”

“And you stayed in the van?”

“Right.” Beth sounded annoyed, as if maybe she'd resented the special treatment Alicia had been given. “Barry pulled up next to the kennel, just like he always does. We had a bunch of big crates with us. The closer we are, the easier it is to unload. Then he got out and turned on the lights.”

“Did he have to go into the kennel to do that?”

“No, there's a switch outside, right by the door. That's the one he used.”

“And when he did that, you were still inside the van?”

“Yeah, I was gathering up my things. Besides, the sliding door sticks, so it's tough to open from the inside. I was waiting for Barry to let me out.”

“You didn't climb up to the front?”

“What for? I wasn't in any hurry.”

The drying process was finished. Beth prodded the Poodle, and he lifted his head. There were some supplies on a crate behind her. She reached over and picked up a knitting needle for making parts and a handful of small rubber bands. Working by rote, she began to section and band the long topknot hair.

“Then what happened?”

“I heard a noise, you know, like a car backfiring. I didn't think anything about it until I heard Alicia screaming. That's when I looked out and saw the blood.”

She paused and swallowed heavily. I knew she was replaying the scene in her mind.

“And then?”

“Everything seemed to go crazy at once. Alicia came running out of the house. All the noise she was making set the dogs off and they began to bark. I thought I was going to go deaf. Finally, I got the door open and then I saw Barry lying in the driveway. He was on his stomach and there was blood everywhere. Whoever did it shot him in the back.”

For a minute, neither of us said a word. I'd found a dead body once, so I knew how she was feeling.

“Do you know what kind of gun the killer used?” I asked finally. “Was it a rifle? A handgun?”

“One with bullets,” Beth said, frowning. “That's all I know. I don't know much about guns.”

Neither did I except, oddly enough, how it felt to have one pointed at me, which I'd found out the previous November. It wasn't an experience I cared to repeat, and I'd stayed as far away from firearms as possible ever since. But even with my limited knowledge I realized that a rifle would have given the shooter much greater range. No doubt the police would have the answer to that.