Hair of the Dog Page 8

  Sam laughed even louder. “Believe me, I’m not interested in finding out.”

  “I should hope not.”

  We sat for a few minutes and sipped our wine in silence. That’s one of the things I like about Sam. I enjoy talking to him, but I also feel comfortable when we’re not saying anything at all.

  The moon hung low in the sky. It was nearly three-quarters full and lit my small backyard with a silvery glow. Above, the sky was dotted with stars.

  “Whoever shot Turk meant business,” Sam said softly. “Are you sure you want to get mixed up in something like that?”

  If he’d told me not to, I’d have argued. Since he asked, I answered honestly.

  “No, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn Alicia down. She’s alone, she’s pregnant, and she didn’t have anyone else to turn to. All I’m going to do is nibble around the edges of the problem a bit and see if I can make things any clearer.”

  “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  I reached over and took his hand. “I will.”

  Always. I’m a mother. That’s what we do.

  Eight

  On Monday morning I dropped Davey off at camp, then drove to Patterson to meet with Bill Devane. We’d spoken on the phone the night before, and he’d told me his schedule was free. Employed as athletic director at the local high school, he had most of the summer off. He was at his leisure; I could come at mine.

  I followed the same route to Patterson as I’d used to get to Poughkeepsie, but drove about half the distance. Once there, Bill’s concise directions led me to a tidy, well-kept gentleman’s farm on about five acres of land. The house was set well back from the road and the dirt driveway that led to it was studded with ruts. A bright yellow sign nailed to a tree proclaimed CAUTION! LABS AT PLAY! and slowed my speed still further.

  The house itself was homey and cheerful-looking. Behind it was a small cranberry-red barn that probably served as a garage. There was a small amount of neatly mowed lawn, and a vegetable garden that looked as though it would be supplying half the neighborhood with tomatoes by August.

  As I parked the Volvo and got out, I heard a series of low-pitched barks. A moment later, a pair of black Labrador Retrievers came tearing around the side of the barn. The larger of the two had the heft and dignity of middle age. The smaller was shiny and sleek, obviously a young adult. Though they charged in my direction with all the determination of suburban matrons at a Filene’s sale, both had their tails up and wagging.

  “Biff! Tucker! You two come back here!”

  A small door opened in the side wall of the barn, and a solidly built man came hurrying out. Perhaps when Bill Devane was younger, the extra weight might have been muscle, but now a paunch battled with his belt for supremacy, and the roll of fat seemed to be winning. His full head of hair was cropped short and his bushy eyebrows looked as though they might have benefited from the same treatment.

  “You’ll be all right,” Bill called, striding in my direction. “Those two look like a lot, but they’re nothing but friendly. Watch they don’t knock you down, though.”

  One Lab ran in exuberant circles. The other jumped up and tried to brace his front paws on my shoulders. From long experience with Aunt Peg’s crowd of house Poodles, I sidestepped the maneuver, then reached down and patted the dog’s smooth, broad head. His long tail swayed slowly back and forth and the look on his face was blissful.

  Bill rubbed a hand down the side of his jeans and held it out to shake. “You must be Melanie. Alicia told me you were helping her out. I want you to know I’m grateful for that. I wish she would let me do more. Come on in the house, where we can sit down and talk.”

  Biff and Tucker led the way, and I fell in behind Bill. He held the screen door open until all three of us were inside, then motioned to the living room on the left. The room’s decor was simple but attractive. There were braided rugs on the floor, upholstered furniture covered in a bold striped fabric, and a collection of hunting prints on the wall. As we sat down, both dogs flopped happily on the cool stones in front of the fireplace.

  “First off,” said Bill, leaning forward in his chair, “tell me how Alicia’s doing.”

  “She seems well enough. Has it been a while since you’ve seen her?”

  “Just last week. I went to Barry Turk’s funeral. Couldn’t care less about what happened to him, of course. I did it for her, in case she needed the support. Alicia looked awful, like she was all worn out, and I told her so too. She didn’t need to be living like that, and she certainly didn’t need to be cheapening herself by living with a bastard like Turk.”

  “You’re still angry about what happened.”

  “Hell yes, I’m angry! And I’ve got reason to be. Turk was nothing, a nobody.” He paused, pulling down a hard breath. “Alicia told me you showed Poodles.”

  “I do. I have a Standard puppy I got from my aunt. Margaret Turnbull?”

  “Sure.” Bill nodded. “Fine lady. If you have a Poodle, you must have known Turk.”

  “Not well, but I knew who he was.”

  “Everyone knew who he was. Turk made sure of that. That boy could kiss butt better than a redneck politician. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that there wasn’t some razzle-dazzle there. Just that it was all on the surface. Like some of the dogs he showed. I don’t care how fancy a trim you put on a donkey, you’ve still got nothing but an ass underneath.”

  “You didn’t approve of his methods, then.”

  “Wasn’t up to me to approve or disapprove. I judge sporting dogs, Turk never came into my ring. Wouldn’t have done him much good if he had, but as it happened, it never came up.”

  “How long did Barry and Alicia know each other?”

  “You mean, when did they first meet?”

  I nodded.

  Bill sat back and thought for a moment. “I’m not sure I really know the answer to that. Turk’s been around a good long while, you know. Alicia and I went to shows together for probably eight years. We were married for six. Living in the same neck of the woods as Turk, I guess we were bound to go to most of the same shows. To tell you the truth, I didn’t pay that much attention.”

  There was a long pause. I wondered if we were both thinking the same thing. Maybe that had been the problem. Biff reached out with one large paw, snagged a rawhide bone, dragged it over, and began to chew.

  “I’ll tell you when Turk started making a play for Alicia, though, and that was last summer. He wasn’t even subtle about it. Following her around at shows, bringing her little trinkets. And all of this going on right under my nose, as if he wasn’t dealing with another man’s wife!”

  “What did you do about it?”

  Bill sighed. “Looking back, I guess I could have handled things a little more forcefully. Problem was, whenever Alicia and I were at the shows, I’d be in the ring judging. We’d meet for lunch, but other than that, let’s face it, she had some time on her hands.”

  He was speaking more confidently now, as if this were a subject he’d devoted a lot of thought to. “I guess my other mistake was that I didn’t take Turk seriously enough. The man had the moral fiber of a snake, I figured anyone with half a brain could figure that out. And Alicia was no dummy.”

  No, she wasn’t. Still, she’d allowed herself to be swept away by someone who’d showered her with romance and attention. When I’d spoken to Alicia, she hadn’t made it sound as though Barry’s moral fiber had been a determining factor.

  “So listen,” Bill said earnestly. “I know you’ve been to see her. Did she seem okay to you?”

  “She was tired,” I admitted. “Of course, in her condition—”

  “Condition?” Bill demanded. “What condition?”

  Damn, I thought. He didn’t know. And I certainly wasn’t the one who ought to be breaking the news.

  “What condition?” Bill repeated. “What’s going on?”

  “Alicia is pregnant,” I said quietly.

  “Pregnant?” He slumped in h
is chair, his eyes large and round in his head. “Alicia’s pregnant? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, she told me herself. The baby’s due at the end of the year.”

  “Alicia’s having a baby?” Bill shook his head, as if he hoped that would help the information sink in.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

  “No, Alicia never mentioned that. I’m sure she didn’t want me to feel—” His fingers tangled into a knot in his lap. “Well, we never had any children of our own.”

  Abruptly, Bill stood. “I have to go see her. She said last week that she didn’t want me hovering around, but this changes everything.”

  I stood as well. Tucker was snoring lightly on the hearth. Biff lifted his head inquiringly. “They’re nice dogs,” I said. “Do you hunt with them?”

  Like his ex-wife, Bill Devane was no dummy. “If you’re asking me if I know how to handle a gun, the answer is yes. In addition to judging at shows, I also officiate at field trials and I enjoy doing a bit of hunting myself now and then. I own a rifle and two shotguns and the police have already examined the lot. Would you like to see them?”

  I shook my head. Considering how little I knew about guns of any sort, I couldn’t see how looking at them would have made the slightest bit of difference.

  “Just one last question. The night Barry was killed, I heard you were the first person Alicia called. Is that true?”

  “Possibly.” Bill shrugged. “I don’t really know. She called me from the hospital. Of course, I immediately went to join her there.”

  “Do you know how long it was after Barry was shot that she called you?”

  “I haven’t any idea.”

  “But you were here to get the call.”

  “Of course I was here. How else would I have known what happened?”

  Bill was talking to me but he kept glancing toward a cellular phone that was sitting on an end table. I knew he was itching for me to leave so that he could call Alicia. The screen door had barely closed behind me before he was already hurrying back to punch out a number.

  I wondered if Alicia would be glad to hear from him, or if she’d feel like wringing my neck. This changes everything, Bill had said. I wondered if he was right.

  Wednesday after camp, Davey and I took Faith and went to Greenwich to see Aunt Peg. The visit was prompted by a message she’d left on my answering machine which hinted that she was feeling neglected. The fact that we’d been reduced to communicating by answering machine was telling, and it was hardly my fault. In the last few weeks, Douglas had monopolized so much of Peg’s time that those of us who were merely relatives could barely get a word in.

  As usual, Aunt Peg’s herd of Standard Poodles was loose in the house when we arrived. They numbered half a dozen or so, all finished champions who were now retired from the show ring. Their elaborate show coats had long since been cut down to the much more manageable kennel trim, which consisted of a blanket of close-cropped hair over the entire body, with a rounded topknot on the head and a pom-pom on the tail. Aunt Peg opened the front door when we arrived and the Poodles came streaming down the steps and across the lawn to greet us.

  Like the pack they were, they immediately surrounded Faith. Family member or not, she wasn’t a resident, and was now considered an interloper. Peg and I both watched carefully while the Poodles milled around, sniffing noses and other assorted body parts. All were bitches, except for Beau, Peg’s retired stud dog. He was king of the realm, and once he’d accepted Faith, everything was pretty much guaranteed to go smoothly.

  “She looks good,” said Aunt Peg, studying my Standard Poodle with a critical eye.

  Compliments from Aunt Peg are as rare as perfect front assemblies, and I couldn’t resist preening a bit. “I finally have her eating pretty well. I guess she’s beginning to fill out.”

  “Of course, she needs more hair.”

  More hair, that was all I kept hearing. Already there were parts of Faith’s mane coat that were nearly a foot long. Her topknot hung in a thick, banded ponytail down over her ear, and brushing through her took the better part of an hour because, at fourteen months, she was midway through the dreaded “coat change,” in which her downy puppy coat was replaced by the thick, harsh hair of an adult.

  “How much more?” Being a teacher, I like to deal in facts.

  “Tons,” said Peg.

  “Tons.”Davey giggled, holding his arms wide. “This many.”

  Tons, right. I looked at all the other Poodles, so neat and elegant in their kennel trims. I thought of Faith’s clipper, fantasizing about running it up the length of her back and eliminating the problem once and for all.

  “You promised me you’d finish that bitch,” said Peg, reading my thoughts correctly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I caught you at a weak moment.”

  Weak moment, my foot. What she’d done was introduce the puppy to Davey first and ask my permission after. By that time my son had already fallen in love and there was no way I could possibly refuse.

  “Maybe I lied.”

  “I doubt it.” Aunt Peg dismissed the possibility with great firmness.

  Drat.

  “Look what I can do!” Davey raced over to the thick trunk of the massive Japanese elm that stood like a statuesque sentinel in Peg’s front yard.

  He’d recently discovered that he was just tall enough to hoist himself up onto the lowest branch. From there, it was only a short hop to the next. Scrambling like a monkey, my son pulled himself higher than I could reach as the Poodles raced around the base of the tree and egged him on.

  “Davey,” I called warningly. It didn’t slow his momentum a bit.

  “Perhaps you’d better do something,” said Peg.

  This from the woman who fed my son chocolate for breakfast and let him drive her car. No doubt she was afraid he’d fall and land on one of the Poodles.

  “No,” I said in a loud voice. “Davey can go as high as he wants. He can stay up there all afternoon if he likes. Let’s go inside and have some cookies.”

  We started for the house, obeying what I think of as one of the first tenets of motherhood: mayhem is fun only if there’s an audience around to watch, preferably to gasp in horror. By the time we reached the front door, Davey was right behind us.

  “What kind of cookies?” he asked.

  “Mallomars,” Peg told him. “How was camp?”

  Davey’s recitation of the highlights of his day took us through the pouring of milk for him, and the brewing of tea and coffee for Peg and me. By that time, I think both adults involved knew more about the workings of Camp Graceland than either of us had a desire to. Fortunately once Davey got a fistful of Mallomars, he was content to go off and do some exploring in Peg’s big, old-fashioned house. To no one’s surprise, the Poodles trailed hopefully in his wake.

  “So,” said Peg when we were alone. “Have you figured this thing out yet?”

  A mouth filled with cookie prevented me from answering, but it didn’t really make much difference. It wasn’t as though I had any brilliant deductions to impart.

  “Dog show scuttlebutt has it the police aren’t the only ones who think Alicia did it.”

  I swallowed hastily. “Why?”

  “Half her detractors seem to think she was angry that Barry got her pregnant and still wouldn’t marry her. The other half think she was interested in his money.”

  “According to Alicia, Barry Turk didn’t have any money, and it certainly doesn’t look as though she stands to inherit much. Not only that, but Alicia claims that she was the one who didn’t want to get married.”

  “She lived with Barry for nearly a year!”

  “She says she was happy the way things were.”

  “Of course she’d say that,” Aunt Peg huffed. “What choice did she have?”

  “She had the choice of leaving,” I pointed out.

  “With a baby?”

  “All right, that would have made things tough
er. But how about before she got pregnant? She could have left at any time.”

  Aunt Peg picked up a Mallomar—her fourth, I might point out—and dipped in it experimentally in her coffee. “Say Alicia did want to leave Barry. Where could she have gone?”

  “Back to her ex-husband, for one thing. From what I saw on Monday, I’d say that door is still very much open.”

  Beau, who’d remained behind when the other Poodles left, laid his head on Aunt Peg’s lap and gazed upward with imploring eyes. “It’s chocolate,” she told him sternly. “You can’t have any.” Then she relented, scooped out a bit of marshmallow, and fed it to him from her fingertips. “So it is true that Bill wants her back.”

  “He couldn’t wait to call her yesterday after I told him she was pregnant.”

  “You told Bill Alicia was pregnant? Are you sure you should have done that?”

  “Actually, I imagine I probably shouldn’t have. It just sort of slipped out. But even before he knew, Bill was asking me all sorts of questions about her. Alicia might profit from Barry’s death in a small way, but if getting Turk out of the way is the impetus that drives her back to Bill, then I’d say he’s the one who ended up getting exactly what he wanted.”

  Aunt Peg thought about that for a moment. The silence called for another Mallomar. No doubt she hoped the sugar rush would go straight to her brain and help her sort things out.

  “Bill’s never struck me as a violent man,” she said finally.

  “Maybe not, but he definitely struck me as an angry man. Think about it. Barry was shot in the back, in the dark, by someone who seems to have been a fair distance away. If I wasn’t a violent person but I wanted to eliminate someone, that might be the way I’d choose to do it. Especially if I was experienced in handling guns.”

  “What about Beth?” asked Peg, changing the subject. She tends to do that whenever I say something she’d rather not hear.

  “What about her?”

  “She was showing Barry’s string at the show last weekend. If she’s able to make that work, I’d say she profited from his death too.”