Watchdog (16 page)

“For starters, did you and Sam manage to sort things out the other night?”

“Yes and no. Mostly no.”

“Then work on it!” Aunt Peg's never been one for pulling her punches. “After all the time and trouble I took getting you two together, I'm not going to stand around and watch you muck things up.”

“What makes you think
I'm
the one mucking things up?”

Peg's silence spoke eloquent volumes.

“Sam wants me to stop looking into Marcus Rattigan's murder. He thinks I should stop getting involved in other people's problems, period.”

“He's worried about you,” said Aunt Peg. “That's sweet.”

“He all but issued me an ultimatum. I don't find that sweet at all.”

“You did come within a hair's breath of getting yourself killed last summer.”

“I never should have told you that.”

“Actually,” Peg pointed out, “you never should have told Sam. I rather enjoyed the story myself.”

Of course she had. A Poodle had come to my rescue.

“I am who I am,” I said stubbornly. “Sam's either going to have to deal with that, or . . .”

“Or what?”

I didn't have an answer for that. At least not one that I wanted to think about right then. Instead I changed the subject and told Aunt Peg about the people I'd spoken to earlier.

“Marcus Rattigan actually asked John Monaghan to picket his own building site?” she said. “How very odd.”

“Except that, unfortunately, when you factor in John's explanation it all makes sense. In Rattigan's view, Frank must have looked like a nice plump pigeon, ripe for the plucking.”

“What an awful man he must have been,” Aunt Peg said thoughtfully. “I'm glad I never knew him better. I wonder how he ever got involved in the dog show game.”

“Probably through John Monaghan. I I would imagine it was the usual sponsor scenario. John, the breeder, found himself with a truly great dog and lacking the funds to give her the career she deserved. Rattigan had the money and the need for ego gratification. But there was something funny about their arrangement.”

“What's that?”

“I meant to ask John about this, but I was so surprised by everything else he told me that I totally forgot. Maybe you can explain it to me. When I went to see John last week, we talked about Winter for quite a while. He confirmed what you said, by the way. She only ever produced a single litter of puppies.”

“That's not unusual with bitches that have had extensive specials careers,” said Peg. “For some reason they often seem to have reproductive problems. There are a number of theories why that is, but nobody knows for sure.”

“In this case they did. She developed acute metritis after delivering the litter and had to be spayed. But that wasn't what was odd. John told me that there were three male puppies in the litter and that he'd kept them all.”

“Coming from a bitch as fabulous as Winter, that makes perfect sense.”

“Yes, but here's what doesn't. Yesterday when I went to see Roger Nye, he had a Wire Fox Terrier, too. Her name was Asta, she was nine years old, and he'd gotten her from Marcus Rattigan. Rattigan told Roger at the time that Asta's dam was the top dog in the country.”

“Winter?”

“It had to have been. So what I'd like to know is, was John lying when he told me he'd kept all the puppies from that litter? Or was Rattigan lying when he gave the puppy to his neighbor?”

“Judging by what we know about him,” said Peg, “I'd have to guess that the liar was Rattigan.”

“That's my impression, too, but why would he have bothered? The Nyes didn't care about showing, and Roger said Rattigan had never even given them the registration papers. All they wanted was a pet. Also, Roger said that the Rattigans had never had any dogs, Fox Terriers or otherwise, at their house. The only exception was when Marcus showed up with this puppy.”

“Which makes her even more likely to be Winter's puppy, since she was the only Fox Terrier Rattigan owned.” There was silence on the line as Aunt Peg thought for a minute. “All right, let's turn things around. Say for the sake of argument that John was the one who'd stretched the truth. Maybe Winter has grown to such mythic proportions in his mind that he didn't want to admit she'd produced a less than perfect puppy.”

“No, that can't be it. I asked John about the puppies and he admitted quite readily that none was as good as the dam. He seemed to think that was to be expected.”

“Of course it was,” Aunt Peg said firmly. “Dogs like Winter don't come along very often, you know. But there's something else that's troubling me about that story.”

“What?”

“No matter whose puppy Asta was, I find it highly surprising that John would allow Marcus to take her and give her away. That's highly unusual. No reputable breeder would ever allow a puppy to be placed without exerting a great deal of control over the type of home it went to. And if Asta
was
Winter's daughter, John would have been crazy to keep only dogs and let her go.”

“So what does it all mean?”

“Darned if I know,” said Peg. I hate it when she does that. “Let me give it some thought. Maybe I'll come up with something. In the meantime how's that brother of yours holding up?”

“Better than one might have expected, all things considered. He's met Gloria Rattigan and the two of them are making plans to proceed with the conversion.”

“Good for him.” Aunt Peg sounded pleased. “That boy may turn out to be an upstanding member of the community yet.”

Sure, I thought. If he didn't end up behind bars first.

Monday morning, it was almost a relief to go back to school. At least there, I knew where to go and what to do. And when I asked questions, people gave me answers that made sense.

If you didn't count Spencer Holbrook, that is.

“What do you mean Albany isn't the capital of Albania?” he demanded as we sat with his latest geography assignment on the table between us. His shirt was grass stained, his tie loosened, and his hair stood straight up in spiky tufts. He'd mentioned something about a wild soccer game during recess, mostly, I suspected, to distract me from the deficiencies of his recent schoolwork.

I waved toward the map on the wall. “Go look it up.” I'd have sent him to his geography book but it didn't seem to be among the supplies he'd lugged to our session in his backpack.

“I don't need to look it up. You're the teacher, teach me.”

I stiffened my shoulders and lifted my brow. “Is that the way you talk to your other teachers?”

We both knew it wasn't. Otherwise, he would have been marked in my book as a discipline problem. Spencer wasn't a bad kid, he was just a little confused about who was in charge.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Did you say something? I'm afraid I didn't hear you.”

“I'm sorry. It was a stupid mistake and I shouldn't have gotten it wrong. I'll go look it up.”

He crossed the room and stood in front of the world map. Considering that he was searching for Albania in Africa, I figured we were going to be there awhile.

Since I was working on a staggered schedule, Kate and Lucia showed up halfway through Spencer's allotted time period. I sat him on one side of the room to make corrections and turned my attention to the new arrivals.

“How was your horse show?” I asked Lucia.

“It was awesome.” The teenager flipped her hair behind her shoulders. “I won every class but one. Mark was champion by a mile. Nobody else even came close.”

“Good for you. Did you rewrite those sections I marked in your book report?”

“Uh ...” Her expression went blank. “Not exactly. I didn't really have time.”

“You had time to spend two days riding your horse.”

“That's different. That's real life. My dad said he's going to come in and talk to Mr. Hanover about that. You know, like maybe with all these horse shows I'm competing in I could get some credits for life experience?”

It took effort not to laugh. Life experience? Give me a break. What this kid needed was more school experience. Unfortunately, I could just imagine our headmaster, who prided himself on being progressive, falling for such an idea.

“How about you?” I asked Kate. “Homework all finished?”

She nodded shyly and presented the book report. It had been typed up on a computer and was covered in clear plastic.

“This looks great. You must have worked really hard on it.”

“I did.”

“No shows this weekend for you?”

“No, John didn't like the judges. He's going to Queensboro and Bronx County this weekend, though.”

“Are you going, too?”

“I hope so.” Kate smiled. “The dog shows are the best part.”

“Maybe I'll see you there. I have my Poodle entered on Saturday.”

Lucia sniffed her disdain. She was the type of girl who was only happy when the conversation centered around her. Now that it had moved on, she got out her report and carried it over to the table.

With Kate's work already done, I figured she could spare a few minutes. “How long have you known John?” I asked.

Kate thought back. “Probably five years or so. Since I was a little kid. Why?”

“I'm curious about a litter of puppies he once had, but they were born before you met him.”

“Winter's puppies?”

“Good guess.” I grinned. “How'd you know?”

“Easy. John still talks about her all the time, like she was some sort of movie star or something. Winter was pretty old by the time I came around. She always looked like just another dog to me, not that I would have dared to tell John that.”

“Does he ever say anything about the litter she had?”

“Like what?”

I kept my tone casual. “When I spoke to John, he told me she only had male puppies. Then I met another man who said there was a bitch, too. I was just wondering who was right.”

“I don't know.” Kate shrugged. “If you want, I can ask him.”

“Don't make a big deal of it,” I said quickly. “I'm sure it's nothing.”

“No problem. Like I said, John loves talking about her. I'm sure he'll be glad to tell me.”

We left it at that, and I put Kate to work. That afternoon when I got home, I took Faith for a quick jog, then went out to the garage to dig through the last month's newspapers. That's one good thing about recycling. As long as what you're looking for is reasonably current, the paper is probably still hanging around waiting to go to the dump.

Since Marcus Rattigan seemed to be a continuing source of interest to the local reporters, it didn't take long to find a reference to his tract of land in north Stamford. There was mention of a pending court case that had been brought by local residents who'd banded together in a group they called Preserve Our Wilderness, or POW. Though the idea of calling any part of suburban Stamford wilderness seemed like hyperbole to me, I had to admit the acronym was catchy. The spokesperson for the group was a woman named Audrey DiMatteo.

I went inside, found her number in the phone book, and gave her a call.

“Forget it,” Audrey said when I'd explained who I was. “I don't want to talk about Marcus Rattigan, or land development, or even saving the spotted owl. I've gone through enough grief over this whole mess to last me the rest of my life.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” I said truthfully. “I assume you're still hoping to block Anaconda's plans to subdivide the property and build on it?”

“Of course.”

“In that case I have some information that may be of use to you.”

“What is it?”

“I'd rather talk in person.” That way, I'd have a fighting chance of getting some of my own questions answered.

There was a long sigh. “Meet me at the old Waldheim estate, then. Do you know where it is?”

“I can find it.” I grabbed a pen and scribbled furiously as she barked out directions. “Give me twenty minutes.”

I spent the first ten of that waiting for Davey's bus. When it finally appeared, I hustled him into the Volvo, passed him an apple and a wedge of cheese to eat on the way, and sped up Long Ridge toward the New York border.

The entrance to the Waldheim estate was marked by a crumbling wrought iron gate and a sign that warned trespassers to keep out. The long driveway was rutted and overgrown. It led us to a hulking, turn-of-the-century mansion that had clearly seen better days. Several windows were broken, shutters swung loosely, and one corner of the porte cochere had collapsed, blocking the approach to the door.

A bright red Ford sedan sat, idling, just beyond the house and I pulled up beside it. Audrey turned off her car and got out as I parked. She was a tiny woman, probably in her mid-fifties, with short gray hair and a direct gaze. Her handshake, when we introduced ourselves, was brisk and firm.

“I worried about whether it was wise to come and meet you alone,” she said. “But since you brought your child along, I guess you must be on the up and up.”

“That's Davey.” As he scooted past me and ran toward the house, I wondered if I should have had similar concerns about her. “Do you meet many people who aren't what they seem to be?”

“Remarkably, since I got involved with POW, yes. I've been deluged by lawyers, fanatics, fund raisers, and environmental commandos, not to mention the press. Publicity's good for our cause, I just wish there weren't so many people trying to jump on the bandwagon with us.”

Her gaze followed Davey's progress. “Don't let him go too close to the house. That place is really a ruin. It'll be a miracle if it stays up long enough for someone to tear it down.”

I relayed her warning and Davey changed course. In a setting like that, there was plenty to keep him busy. Of one accord Audrey and I began to walk.

“This is a beautiful piece of property.”

“It's gorgeous. Can you blame us for wanting to preserve it? There are so few undeveloped tracts of land left in Stamford and almost none this size. If we allow this land to be broken up into cookie cutter housing lots, its unspoiled beauty will be lost forever.”

I must be getting cynical. To my ear, her rhetoric had all the spontaneity of a sound bite.

“How long had POW been battling with Marcus Rattigan?”

“About six months, I guess. He purchased the land in the spring and filed his plans almost immediately thereafter. Before he came along, we'd all held out hope that someone with tons of money would scoop up this place and restore it to its former glory. I guess we were pretty naive.”

“What were your chances of preventing him from going ahead with his development?”

“Fair.” Audrey frowned. “All right, not great. But we had a shot. Once we found out what he had in mind, we knew we couldn't allow him to proceed without a fight.”

“Legally, he was within his rights to build on the land, wasn't he?” That's what the newspaper had said, but I wanted to be sure.

“As things stand now, yes. That's why we initiated our suit. We're also hoping to sway public opinion by taking our campaign to the media. With enough support from concerned citizens, the town of Stamford could have bought the land from him and turned it into a park or nature preserve.”

It didn't sound too likely to me. Like most small cities, Stamford ran on a tight budget. Any extra funds went for education or increased police and fire protection. The land we were standing on was worth millions. Raising that kind of money under any circumstances wouldn't have been easy.

“Feeling as strongly as you do about this land, I guess you weren't displeased when you heard that Marcus Rattigan had been murdered.”

“Not entirely.” She smiled thinly. “No.”

“You said a moment ago that some of the people in your group were fanatics—”

“No,” Audrey corrected me. “I said that we'd been approached by some outsiders whom I would have characterized that way. Environmental junkies, I started calling them. People who hear about a cause like ours and immediately want to get involved. We thanked them for their offer of help and sent them on their way.”

She paused to gaze at the magnificent scenery that surrounded us. “Are you asking me if I think there are any murderers in my group?”

I made my answer as blunt as her question. “Yes.”

“It hardly seems likely. Until this came up, we were just any normal group of people—housewives, businessmen, doctors, teachers. We all care about what happens here, but the idea that one of us might resort to murder because of it seems ludicrous. Besides, the fact that Rattigan himself is gone won't necessarily halt the process.”

Audrey stopped walking and turned to face me. “I came here today because you told me you had some information that might help my cause. What is it?”

“Are you aware that Marcus Rattigan was also involved in the conversion of another building in Stamford just before he died?”

“That general store/coffee bar thing? The place where he was found?”

“Yes. There was a neighborhood group objecting to what he was doing there, as well.”

“That's hardly surprising.”

“Not on the surface. But what is surprising was that Rattigan himself was behind the protests. He had asked an old friend of his to step in and stir up trouble.”

“How do you know that?”

“It's not important,” I said, unwilling to betray John Monaghan's confidence. “Apparently Rattigan was hoping to trade one building project for the other. By giving up the coffee bar conversion that he didn't really care about, he thought he could gain enough goodwill downtown to ensure that his plans here were approved without a hitch.”

“That's very interesting,” said Audrey. “Considering that we've been pleading our case in the court of public opinion, you're quite right, we might be able to get some use out of that.” She turned and started walking toward her car.

“One last thing.” I hurried after her. “Before Rattigan was killed in the coffee bar, there'd been several suspicious accidents on the site. A member of the construction crew had been injured. I don't suppose you'd know anything about that?”

Audrey's expression grew tight. “Despite everything I've said, you still seem to think that POW is some sort of militant group. Why is that?”

“A murder's been committed. Isn't that reason enough to be suspicious of anyone who might have been involved?”

“Trust me, the only land that interested us was right here. We didn't care about what went on with Rattigan's other projects. Actually, the fact that he had other things in the works gave us an advantage. It divided his attention.”

Audrey started walking again and this time I let her go. Somehow I suspected that the members of POW were a good deal more savvy than she wanted to let on. And if they'd been looking to distract Rattigan's attention, staging a couple of accidents at Frank's place might have seemed like a good way to start.

When Davey and I got home, there weren't any messages waiting for us on the machine. On the plus side, that meant there were no new crises in Frank's life, and Aunt Peg wasn't clamoring for information. Unfortunately, it also meant that another day had gone by without a call from Sam. That made three and counting, in case you're not keeping track.