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Authors: Laurien Berenson

Dog Eat Dog

EVERYONE LOVES LAURIEN BERENSON AND HER MELANIE TRAVIS MYSTERIES!
DOG EAT DOG
“Laurien Berenson is a rare breed of writer who deserves a ‘best in who' for her third Melanie Travis mystery. Masterful!”
—The Plain Dealer
 
“A delightful and entertaining series with humor, fun characters and a nice dash of murder and chicanery to boot.”
—
Pen and Dagger
 
“DOG EAT DOG lives up to the promise of the first two books in the series. I highly recommend it.”
—
Poodle Review
 
“Laurien Berenson writes a terrific mystery.”
—
The Midwest Book Review
UNDERDOG
“... should appeal to dog lovers, but the smooth, unruffled prose and likable characters will attract others as well.”
—
Library Journal
“I heartily recommend UNDERDOG.”
—The Snooper
“A canine mystery that's a treat for dog lovers.”
—
Pen and Dagger
A PEDIGREE TO DIE FOR
“Written with casual and inviting style ... this is a sound start to a promising mystery series.”
—
Murder & Mayhem
 
“The writing is smooth, the characters three-dimensional. Watch for future books by this author.”
—
Deadly Pleasures
 
“... an enjoyable read and a fascinating look at the world of competitive dog showing. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.”
—I Love a Mystery
Books by Laurien Berenson
A PEDIGREE TO DIE FOR
UNDERDOG
DOG EAT DOG
HAIR OF THE DOG
WATCHDOG
HUSH PUPPY
UNLEASHED
ONCE BITTEN
HOT DOG
BEST IN SHOW
JINGLE BELL BARK
RAINING CATS AND DOGS
CHOW DOWN
HOUNDED TO DEATH
DOGGIE DAY CARE MURDER
 
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Dog Eat Dog
A MELANIE TRAVIS MYSTERY
 
by
Laurien Berenson
KENSINGTON BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
This book is dedicated to the many wonderful members of the dog show community who have kindly and generously supported my efforts, in particular Anna Katherine Nicholas, Bo Bengtson, Dorothy Welsh, David Frei, Suzanne Hively, and Chris Walkowicz.
 
To Carol Hollands, David and Ellen Roberts, Nancy Chiero and Tim Garrison, thank you for your patience in answering my questions. I'm sure there will be more.
 
To Debbie West. You always make me laugh when I need it most.
 
And thank you to Doris Cozart for buying all the copies of my books in Texas.
 
Laurie Berenson
Ashlyn Miniature Poodles
One
Phone calls in the middle of the night never mean good news. Something's wrong, or somebody needs help. Otherwise they wouldn't be waking you up. The way I see it, any call you have to regain consciousness for is one you don't want to get.
I'm a mother, so when the phone began to ring on that cold March night, I was instantly awake. The fact that my son, Davey, is only five, and that I'd tucked him safely into bed right down the hall several hours earlier, didn't dull the maternal reflexes one bit. I was already reaching for the receiver before the end of the first ring.
To do that, I had to maneuver around Sam Driver, whose long, lean body lay between me and the phone on the night table. He opened one eye as I slithered across his chest and smiled appreciatively. Neither one of us had been asleep. We were just dozing contentedly; warm, satisfied, and utterly pleased with ourselves, enjoying a last few minutes of cozy harmony before Sam had to get up and go home.
I trailed a kiss across his chest and reached for the receiver. Before the phone was halfway to my ear, I could hear the insistent thump and twang of a lively country music tune. Immediately I felt better. It was a wrong number; it had to be.
“Hello?”
“Hey Mel, guess who?”
I had no intention of guessing, nor did I have to. I hadn't heard the voice in years, but I recognized it right away. It belonged to Bob Travis, my ex-husband.
I glanced at Sam. He lifted a brow. I levered my weight up off him, yanked the cord until it stretched to the other side of the bed, then sat up and clutched the blanket to my breasts.
“Melanie? You there?”
Could I say no? I wondered. Was there any possibility of getting away with that? Probably not.
“I'm here.”
“It's been a while, huh?”
He was shouting into the phone, probably to make himself heard over the music blaring in the background. A woman, her voice tinny like it was coming from a juke box, wailed about losing her man. The Bob I remembered had been a rock and roll man. Country western? No way. But then a lot could have changed in four and a half years.
“A while,” I agreed. There was a moment of silence and I let it hang.
If Bob had something to say, let him figure out how to start. I wasn't going to make it easy for him, any more than he'd made things easy for me when he'd packed up the car and run away from home one day when Davey was just ten months old. Bob had made his choices; among them, child support payments that had dried up in the first six months, and a presence in his son's life that was limited to a small framed picture on the kitchen shelf. As far as I was concerned, he was on his own.
I heard the soft pad of footsteps in the hallway and the door to the bedroom pushed open. It wasn't Davey, but rather our ten month old Standard Poodle puppy, Faith. She sleeps on Davey's bed, so I knew he was okay. If he'd been awake, she wouldn't have left him.
Faith trotted across the room and leapt up to land lightly on the bed. Sam loves dogs and has Poodles of his own. He patted the mattress beside him, where I'd been lying happily only moments before. The big black puppy turned twice, then laid down.
“Have you been missing me, darlin'?” said Bob. “I've been missing yew.”
He had to be kidding. I wondered if he was drunk. And where had he gotten that accent? I'd heard he'd gone to Texas, but somehow I couldn't picture button-down Bob turning into a good old boy. Maybe after a few beers, the lyrics from the juke box had gotten stuck in his head and the only way he could think to get rid of them was by calling me up and passing them along.
Sam tugged at the blanket to get my attention. “Who is it?” he mouthed silently.
“Bob,” I said.
Sam frowned.
“Right here, darlin',” the voice on the phone said cheerfully.
“Stop calling me that!” I said, irritated. This aspect of my relationship with Sam was new enough to still feel fragile. I'd hate for him to think that I made a habit of fielding late night calls from my ex-husband. “What's the matter with you? Are you sure you have the right number?”
“I could hardly be calling all the way to Connecticut by mistake, now could I?”
“I don't know, Bob. It's been a long time. I really don't know anything about you anymore.”
“Well darlin', that's about to change. In fact, that's the reason for my call.”
Behind him, the music subsided. “Hey Bob!” yelled a voice. “You standin' us another round?”
“Hell yes!” Bob roared and a lusty cheer went up.
Now I knew he was drunk. The Bob I'd known hadn't been much of a drinker, and certainly not one to buy a round for the house. Perversely, that made me feel better. With any luck, this call was nothing more than an alcohol induced trip down memory lane. In the morning he'd wake up and remember that we hated each other, and everything would be fine.
“Bob,” I said gently. “I think maybe you've had enough to drink.”
“Nah,” he disagreed. “The party's just getting started. We're celebrating.”
“Lucky you.” It was time to wind this call down. Actually way past time, if the look on Sam's face was anything to go by. “I won't keep you from it—”
“Melanie, wait!”
I was already inching back across the bed toward the night stand. Faith's tail thumped up and down on the blanket as I passed. “What?”
“You didn't even give me a chance to tell you my good news. I struck oil!”
I'm a teacher. I work with eight year olds, so I'm used to dealing with tall tales. This one, however, seemed a mite taller than most. My guess was that Bob was going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning.
“You couldn't have struck oil, Bob. You're an accountant.”
“Well sure, but I own a well.”
He owned a well. My brain received the message, but flatly refused to process it.
“Not a whole well. Actually a share of one.” Bob was talking faster now, as if he was afraid I might hang up before he'd gotten out everything he wanted to say. The Texas twang was becoming less and less pronounced. “A friend of mine was buying up old mineral leases and drilling wildcat wells. Just speculating, you know? He didn't have any money, but he needed someone to do the books. So we made a deal.”
He paused as if he expected me to say something. No chance of that. All the words I could think of were stuck in my throat.
“I never expected anything to come of it. I just thought I was doing a friend a favor. Then this morning Ray comes flying into town to tell me he'd brought one in. Can you beat that?”
No, I thought, I certainly couldn't.
“What's the matter?” asked Sam, looking at the expression on my face. He leaned closer, cocking an ear toward the receiver.
“It seems Bob owns an oil well.”
“A share in a well,” my ex corrected. I heard him take a swig of beer. It must have sharpened his perception. “Hey,” he demanded, after he'd swallowed. “Who's that you're talking to?”
If there was any easy answer to that question, I certainly didn't know what it was. Nor did I owe Bob any explanations. “Nobody,” I said firmly.
That went over well. Sam glared and pulled back.
Bob dropped the phone. At least that's what it sounded like. There was a loud thunk and a sudden increase in the decibel level of the music. Now a man was wailing about love gone wrong. “Hang on, darlin'!” Bob yelled.
Sure. Like I had nothing better to do.
When he didn't return in a few seconds, I put the receiver down on the blanket. Unless Bob had used a credit card, I figured the long distance operator would probably disconnect us soon anyway.
“I didn't mean that the way it sounded,” I said to Sam.
“I hope not.” He pushed back the covers, easing Faith gently aside, and got up.
I knew he had to go, but that didn't stop me from wanting to reach out and pull him back. Instead, I drew my legs up under the covers and wrapped my arms around them. On the bed beside me, the phone was silent.
“It was none of his business, that's all I was trying to say.”
“I guess you made your point.” Sam glanced at the receiver. “Where'd he go?”
I shrugged as if it wasn't important, which it wasn't. Bob was my past. I thought of him sometimes as a stage I'd gone through, like Farrah Fawcett hair or disco. If it wasn't for Davey, I'd have said we had no reason to ever speak to each other again.
Up until now, Bob had played almost no part in his son's life. That had been his choice. Mine was that he keep it that way.
Faith reached out with one large black paw and batted the receiver gently. It rolled over several times and lodged beneath a pillow. Good place for it.
Though the bedroom was dark, the moon outside was nearly full. Sam crossed the room, passing through a shaft of silvery light. He walked with the easy grace of a man who was comfortable with his body. And no wonder. A bit over six feet tall, he was trim and tightly muscled. Downy golden hairs covered his chest and legs, matching the thick, often unruly thatch on his head.
At thirty-four, he was in his prime. Three years younger, I found myself cultivating crow's feet and battling the effects of gravity. Biology's a bitch.
I watched as Sam slipped on his jeans and a long sleeved thermal tee. The weathered denim shirt he buttoned over it was the same color as his eyes. My eyes are hazel, a middle of the road shade. So's my hair. It's brown and hangs straight to my shoulders. But when Sam turned and looked at me in the moonlight, I felt beautiful.
“I wish you didn't have to go,” I said.
“So do I.”
He came back and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. Both of us left the rest unsaid. He had dogs at home that needed to be taken care of. And I had Davey.
It wasn't that Sam and my son weren't friends. But Davey had never known his father, and I was wary of his forming too deep an attachment to Sam. Maybe I was wary of doing the same thing myself. Davey had never woken up to find a man sitting at the breakfast table. I wasn't sure either one of us was ready to start.
Sam reached over and brushed his lips across mine. I reached out my hands and ran them up over his shoulders. The blanket slipped down, pooling around my knees. The cool air made my nerve endings tingle.
“Hey Mel!” the receiver squawked suddenly. Faith cocked her ears and nudged it with her nose. “You still there?”
Sam drew back. Slowly I did the same.
“Aren't you going to pick that up?” he asked.
“I guess.” I sighed and lifted the phone to my ear. Talk about a mood breaker. “Now what?”
“Sorry about that,” said Bob. The twang was back. “Billie Sue just spilled a few beers. Wasn't her fault. If Jocko hadn't goosed her, she'd have been okay. I guess I've had my bath for the night.”
“Bob—”
“Now listen darlin'. There's a reason why I called.”
I figured there might be.
Then he told me what it was and I felt my whole world tilt, ever so slightly, on its axis. I wanted to rant and rave and tell him no. I wanted to slam down the phone and pretend that the call had never happened. I wanted to run into Davey's room, gather him in my arms and hold him tight against whatever was to come.
Instead, I scarcely moved at all. I simply listened until Bob had finished speaking, then hung up the receiver, placing it gently back in the cradle without saying another word. Around me, all was dark. I could feel the warmth of Faith's body pressed along my leg, and the slight rise and fall of her even breathing. I wondered if I sat very still I could convince myself that it had all been nothing more than a bad dream.
“What?” Sam demanded.
Funny, I'd almost forgotten he was there.
“He's coming.”
“Where?”
“Here,” I said quietly. “Bob's coming to Connecticut to get to know his son.”

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