Wagging Through the Snow Page 5

  “That’s not the only thing Pete’s family might want back,” I pointed out.

  Aunt Peg frowned. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

  Chapter Six

  Monday morning I went to school.

  After the four-day Thanksgiving holiday, I was dragging a bit when I entered the hallowed halls of Howard Academy, where I worked as a special needs tutor. The school was situated high on a hilltop near downtown Greenwich. I’d always thought its location was fitting, considering that the private academy’s lofty objective was the guidance, development, and education of America’s future leaders.

  Years earlier, when I was new to Howard Academy, that mission statement had sounded boastful to me. I quickly discovered I was wrong. HA numbered congressmen, ambassadors, and a vice president among its illustrious alumni. Not to mention too many titans of industry to count.

  A heritage like that was enough to keep all of us teachers on our toes. If we were ever tempted to let standards slip—even for a moment—Headmaster Russell Hanover II was always on hand to ensure that everything remained up to snuff. His words, not mine.

  Mr. Hanover was a strict disciplinarian and a stickler for school rules, but he allowed me to bring Faith to work with me. For that, I would forgive the man just about anything. My Poodle held court on a cedar-filled bed in the corner of my classroom, and the students who arrived for tutoring greeted Faith with a great deal more enthusiasm than they ever lavished upon me.

  I wasn’t complaining about that. Whatever brought kids through my door with a smile on their faces was fine by me.

  The current semester’s schedule left my afternoons free on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Bowing to parental pressure, Howard Academy also offered early dismissal on Fridays—a perk that enabled students’ families to get a jump on their weekend getaways to Aspen, Wellington, or Fishers Island.

  I wasn’t aware that Frank was privy to the details of my calendar, but Bertie must have clued him in because Faith and I had barely left the school on Tuesday afternoon when my phone rang. I grimaced when I glanced at the screen. Faith, who was riding shotgun, looked at me and wrinkled her nose. She was clearly counseling me not to pick up.

  “It’s Frank,” I told her. “If I don’t talk to him now, he’ll just call back.”

  Faith just sighed. That was easy to understand. I felt much the same way.

  “Hey Mel,” Frank said cheerfully when I’d put the phone to my ear. “I have a job for you.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I already have a job.”

  “Yeah, but this one’s fun.”

  Somehow I doubted that. If it was fun, Frank would already be doing it and he wouldn’t need me.

  “Think about it,” he said. “Davey’s bus doesn’t bring him home until later and Sam’s got Kevin until you get back. So you’ve got a couple free hours that you could spend up here in Wilton. Bob and I are working overtime to get Haney’s Holiday Home ready to open for business this weekend. We could really use an extra pair of hands.”

  “What about Claire?” I asked.

  “She was here all morning.”

  “Bertie?”

  “New baby. She already has her hands full.”

  Now I was getting desperate. “Aunt Peg?”

  There was a long pause. Then Frank said, “You’re kidding, right?”

  Yes, I supposed I was.

  “Where’s your family spirit?” asked Frank.

  Right about then it occurred to me that it would probably take less time to help my brother than it would to win the argument. Half an hour later, Faith and I were approaching the tree farm’s driveway. In the forty-eight hours since my previous visit, there had already been at least one improvement. Someone had repainted and rehung the sign. I decided to take that as a good omen.

  Faith loved to visit new places. She was standing on her seat, wagging her tail, when I parked next to Frank’s Jeep. As soon as I opened the car door, the big Poodle hopped out and began to explore. We were at least a quarter mile from the road, so I let her run around for a few minutes before we went inside.

  Like the sign at the end of the driveway, the office building had already seen some repairs. The rotting step had been replaced and the banister beside it now felt solid beneath my hand. The porch was neatly swept and the windows on either side of the door glistened from a recent cleaning. The doorknob turned easily and the door itself swung inward without complaint.

  Best of all, the electricity had been turned on and the woodstove was lit. The room that Faith and I entered was bright and wonderfully warm. I had to give Frank credit. This was an amazing, inviting change from the dark, gloomy space I’d visited just two days earlier.

  Speaking of Frank, he had drop cloths spread across the floor and a long-handled paint roller in his hands. Half the back wall was still a dingy shade of gray, but the remainder was already sporting a coat of cheerful yellow paint. Frank set down the roller as I closed the door behind us. He turned and greeted us with a grin.

  “So,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “What do you think?”

  “I’m impressed.”

  My brother peered at me intently. “Does that mean you’re impressed like, Considering it’s Frank, he didn’t screw up too badly, or as in you really like what you see?”

  “Definitely the latter.” I thought about what he’d said, then added, “Am I really that hard on you?”

  Frank didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

  “Still?”

  “I guess you’re improving a little,” Frank admitted. “Maybe you’re mellowing with age.”

  Not a comforting thought.

  “Where’s Bob?” I asked. “I thought he’d be here helping too.”

  “He left a little while ago to go iron out the details on the business license and tax ID number. Then he’s going to stop by The Bean Counter and make sure everything’s running smoothly there.”

  Frank crossed the room, crouched down, and greeted Faith with a thumping pat on the head. She preferred a caress with more finesse, but subtlety wasn’t Frank’s strong suit. Nor has he ever understood my passion for Poodles. As far as Frank was concerned, all my big black dogs were interchangeable. But at least he’d made the effort to acknowledge her presence.

  Faith was no dummy. She redirected Frank’s energy by sitting down and offering him a paw to shake. Surprised, my brother rocked back on his heels and sputtered a laugh.

  “Did you see that?”

  “Of course,” I told him. “Faith is saying hello to you.”

  Frank shook her paw gently, then rose to his feet. “I have two kids now, you know.”

  “Of course I know that.” I took off my coat and hung it on a hook by the door. “Bertie’s been so busy that I’ve barely seen her since Josh was born. I am well aware of the addition to your family.”

  “Aunt Peg thinks that children should grow up with a puppy.”

  No surprise there.

  “Aunt Peg thinks that everyone should have a puppy,” I said.

  “We didn’t when we were little,” Frank pointed out.

  “I guess we weren’t as lucky as some kids.”

  His head dipped in a brief nod. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know I’m thinking about it.”

  “Good for you.” If I pushed, Frank would push back. So instead I changed the subject. “I’m here and I’m all yours for the next two hours. What do you want me to do?”

  “There’s a can of white paint and some smaller brushes behind the counter. How are you with trim? A fresh coat of paint on the window frames would really brighten things up.”

  Faith lay down on the floor near the stove while Frank and I worked in companionable silence for the next hour and a half. Between applying coats of paint, I sifted through the collection of holiday decorations—delivered that morning by Claire—that were spread across the countertop.

  There were giant tinsel garlands, gaudy ornaments, roping made of Christmas ribbons, and even an inflat
able life-size Santa Claus. Claire had also managed to find several sets of holiday-themed curtains depicting the flight of Santa’s sleigh. The woman was a marvel. I closed my eyes and imagined everything in place. Once the paint was dry and the decorations hung, the office would be totally transformed.

  Faith lifted her head and a moment later I felt a draft of cold air as the office door opened behind me. A stocky, middle-aged man with ruddy cheeks and a bristling black moustache came walking inside. His head was entirely bald and the tips of his ears were bright pink. In this weather, I was surprised he wasn’t wearing a hat.

  Frank looked up. “I’m sorry, we’re not open for business yet. Could you come back this weekend? We plan to be up and running by Saturday morning.”

  “No problem.” The man held up a hand. “I don’t need a tree. I’m just here looking for a friend of mine. A guy about my age, brown hair, blue eyes? His name is Pete. This is the address he gave me.”

  Frank and I exchanged a look.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “John Smith.” The man stuck out his hand for me to shake. “And yes, that’s my real name. My parents had a weird sense of humor. Pete’s a bit of a wanderer and he doesn’t have a phone. But he told last month that if I needed to find him, this was the place to come. He missed a meeting we were supposed to go to, so I thought I’d better come and check on him. Have you seen him?”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,” I said. “Pete was involved in an accident over the weekend.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “No, he’s not. I’m very sorry to have to tell you that Pete was killed.”

  “Killed?” John Smith shook his head. “I think you’re mistaken.”

  I flipped the tarp off the old rocking chair and dragged it across the room. “I’m sure the news has come as a shock. Maybe you should sit down.”

  “Hell, no, I don’t want to sit down.” Smith glared at the chair, then back up at Frank and me. His gaze narrowed. “What I want is to know what happened to Pete. Are you people the Haneys?”

  “No, I’m Melanie Travis,” I said. “And this is my brother, Frank Turnbull. Frank and his partner are the new owners of this tree farm—”

  “Since when?”

  “Last week,” Frank answered.

  “Last week, Pete was alive,” Smith said. “I just saw him. And now you’re telling me he’s dead?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. There was an accident—”

  “Don’t tell me he was hit by a car.” John Smith, who’d been so certain that he didn’t need a seat, now sank down into the rocking chair anyway. It creaked beneath his weight. “Did that little dog of his run out in the road? I told him he needed a leash for that mutt. Heck, I even offered to buy him one if he’d use it.”

  “It wasn’t a car accident,” Frank said.

  “Then what the hell happened?”

  “It appears that Pete had had quite a bit to drink,” I told him. “He was out in the woods with Snowball. A tree branch hit him on the head and knocked him unconscious. By the time he was found he had died of exposure.”

  Smith frowned as he listened to my explanation. At the end he said, “You’re sure about that?”

  Frank and I both nodded.

  “And you’re sure the man that was found in the woods was Pete?”

  “The police identified him,” I said. “They told us Pete was a homeless man who’d been hanging around town for years. Apparently they were quite familiar with him.”

  “And they told you he was drunk?”

  Frank nodded. “The EMTs could smell the gin on him. And the police said Pete’s drinking had been out of control for years.”

  “But not recently,” Smith muttered.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “There’s something wrong with your story. Things didn’t happen the way you’re telling me they did.”

  “We’re not making up a story,” Frank told him. “We’re telling you what happened. If you don’t believe us, you can talk to the police. They’ll confirm what we’ve said.”

  Smith pushed himself up out of the chair. He walked over to a window and stared out into the woods for a minute before turning to face us again. “I’m not accusing you of lying. I’m just telling you that things don’t add up.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  “The Pete you’re describing is the man he used to be. Not the man I’ve gotten to know over these last few months. Sure, he’d had his problems with alcohol. He was the first to admit that the juice brought out the devil in him. But Pete finally realized that his addiction had cost him just about everything that mattered. That was why he decided it was time to turn his life around.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “Pete joined a substance abuse program in August. That’s how we met. I’ve seen men who join up because they feel obliged to go through the motions. But that wasn’t Pete. He was motivated. He really wanted to change. That was why I became his sponsor. And I’m telling you flat out that’s why your story doesn’t make sense. Pete hadn’t had a drop to drink in more than three months.”

  Chapter Seven

  “That can’t be right.” Suddenly it felt as though the room was tilting. I thought I might need that chair myself.

  “Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. Last time I saw Pete was four days ago.”

  “That would have been Saturday,” I said.

  “The day he died,” Frank added.

  John Smith nodded. “Saturday afternoon Pete was sharp, sober, and in an optimistic frame of mind about the direction his life was heading. And now you’re telling me that a few hours later he was falling-down drunk? Nope. It didn’t happen.”

  “Maybe you didn’t know Pete as well as you thought you did,” I ventured.

  “I’m betting I knew him better than you did.”

  That wasn’t saying much.

  “My aunt and I had a look around Pete’s cabin after he died,” I told him. “We were hoping to find something that would tell us who he was and where he’d come from.”

  “And did you?”

  I shook my head. “But what we did find was a cache of empty alcohol bottles hidden under a blanket.”

  “Empty,” Smith said. “You found empty bottles.”

  “Which means that somebody had drunk their contents,” Frank said.

  “Somebody.” Smith strode across the room toward the door. “But not Pete.”

  He reached for the knob. Before he could leave, I asked, “What was Pete’s last name?”

  That made him pause. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s not required. He never told us.”

  “Where was he from?”

  “Pete wasn’t big on sharing information of a personal nature with the group. That was his prerogative. We were there to support him in his journey, not to grill him about his past.”

  “It sounds like maybe you didn’t know Pete very well, either,” Frank said.

  John Smith let himself out and slammed the door behind him.

  * * *

  On the way home from the Christmas tree farm, I stopped at Aunt Peg’s house. Yes, strictly speaking, Greenwich isn’t located between Wilton and Stamford. But if ever there was a good time for a necessary detour, this seemed like the one.

  Aunt Peg and her pack of Standard Poodles—all of whom were related in various ways to the Poodles at my house—were universally delighted to see us. While Faith and that canine crew raced around the fenced backyard renewing their acquaintance, Aunt Peg and I went inside. She led the way to her kitchen.

  Together we stepped over the baby gate across the doorway. That was new. Then I realized why it was there. Snowball was lying in a plush dog bed beside the butcher-block table. The little dog jumped up and ran over to greet us.

  I reached down and gave him a gentle pat. “If I hadn’t known who this was, I wouldn’t have recognized him.”

  The Maltese’s formerly tangled and dirty coat
was now white, silky, and mat-free. Aunt Peg had also trimmed him, shaping the hair so that it framed Snowball’s body. A small barrette on the top of his head held up the topknot hair that had previously fallen forward over his eyes.

  “It’s amazing what you can accomplish with a good bath and a pair of scissors. Snowball managed it all beautifully. He’s very well socialized for a dog who has probably led a mostly solitary life. But there are notable gaps in his training—housebreaking being chief among them. He’s confined to one room until we have that figured out, but as you can see, he has adapted to life here quite happily.”

  “He looks great,” I said. The Maltese snatched up a furry toy mouse and began to bounce around the floor, squeaking the toy with each joyful leap. “Has anyone from Wilton called to check on him?”

  “I haven’t heard a single peep from the police or animal control, which is all to the good. It would be a shame if the authorities decided they wanted to take custody and he had to be uprooted again so quickly. They seem to have forgotten about him and that suits me just fine.”

  Aunt Peg pulled out a chair at the table and took a seat. “Since you’re here, I’m sure you must have something interesting to tell me. Sit down and spit it out.”

  It didn’t take long to relate the conversation Frank and I had had earlier with Pete’s sponsor.

  “John Smith,” she said when I was finished. “What kind of name is that?”

  “Plain. Basic?”

  “Maybe it’s an alias,” Aunt Peg mused. She takes great delight in suspecting everyone of everything.

  “Only an idiot would choose an alias like John Smith,” I pointed out.

  Instead of replying, Aunt Peg got up and left the room. While I was awaiting her return, I made myself a cup of coffee. Instant. The only kind Aunt Peg keeps on hand for visitors who won’t join her in sipping Earl Grey tea.

  “The results of Pete’s autopsy aren’t available yet,” she announced upon her return.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I called the Wilton medical examiner’s office and told them I was a concerned citizen checking up on a recent death.”