Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery) Page 8

  Would Sara have taken those things with her if she’d left of her own volition? I had no idea. It could be that, like some people I knew, she kept a toiletries bag packed with doubles of everything for travel.

  “Hey!” yelled Bertie.

  “What?”

  “Come here.”

  Her voice sounded muffled, and when I walked back out into the bedroom, I saw that it was empty.

  “Where are you?”

  “In the stupid closet.” A loud thump punctuated her words. “Open the door, would you? There’s no knob on this side.”

  Quickly I strode over and drew the wooden door open. Face flushed, hair disheveled, Bertie shoved aside the tightly packed hanging clothes and emerged from the back of the closet.

  “What were you doing in there?”

  “There’s a shelf deep in the back. I thought that might be where Sara would keep a suitcase, so I pushed my way in to have a look. But then the door swung shut behind me and I couldn’t get it open.”

  “Find anything interesting?”

  “No,” Bertie admitted, smoothing her hair back off her face. “You?”

  “Not really.”

  Together we trooped back down the stairs.

  “If you really want to find Sara,” I said as we walked outside, “you ought to consider hiring a private investigator. Someone like that would have access to all sorts of information that I don’t. For example, they could find out if she’s been using her credit cards, and if so, where the charges were made.”

  “And they’d charge me a bundle in the process.” Bertie pulled the door shut behind us. “I can’t afford help like that. Whereas, as long as Bob hangs around, you’re—”

  “Free,” I muttered.

  “Exactly,” Bertie concurred happily.

  Sometimes being wanted is a double edged sword.

  Saturday morning, I awoke to the unaccustomed sensation that I wasn’t alone in bed. I could feel another warm, solid body pressing against mine through the tangle of covers. Deep, even breathing matched my own. It took me a moment to get oriented.

  When I had, my hand crawled out from beneath the duvet and reached out to stroke a long, fuzzy muzzle. Immediately Eve’s head came up and her tail began to wag. Sharp puppy teeth nipped playfully at my fingers as she bounced to her feet.

  “You’re up! You’re up!” she seemed to be saying. “Let’s play!”

  Faith has finally come to understand the ritualistic pleasure of waking up slowly on a Saturday morning. Not so, her daughter. Eve is a ball of fire from the moment she senses that my eyes are half open.

  Faith sleeps on Davey’s bed and always has. During the week when she’s with Aunt Peg, Eve spends her nights in a crate. To be honest, Peg is under the impression that the puppy sleeps crated at my house, too. I figure what she doesn’t know won’t hurt either of us.

  “You need to go out, don’t you?” I asked.

  Only a dog owner who was truly clueless would wait for an answer to that question. Any puppy, awakened from sleep, needs to pee right away. Hence the beauty of keeping them crated overnight. Letting Eve sleep on my bed at her young age was the equivalent of putting her on the canine honor system.

  Of course, I was doing my part, too. Basically that consisted of waking up, getting up, and running directly to the back door. No slippers, no bathrobe, just bare feet on the cold wood floors and a puppy who seemed to enjoy playing the game of “chase mom down the stairs.”

  The commotion we made awoke Faith as well. Business attended to, Eve was investigating the frost, which had left a thin, shimmering coating on the backyard overnight, when Faith came sauntering into the kitchen. I opened the door and stood in a draft of cold winter air as the Poodle took her time stretching before strolling outside.

  Mother and daughter touched noses briefly. Eve’s front end bowed down, leaving her haunches high and tail beating from side to side, a clear invitation to play. Having been in all night as well, Faith had more pressing things to attend to.

  Rebuffed, Eve picked up a tennis ball and tossed it for herself. No flies on this girl. Already it was easy to see she was going to be a live wire in the show ring.

  Much as I loved Eve’s temperament, however, that was only one of the criteria by which she had been chosen from her litter of six. The others had to do with her conformation, her movement, and even that indefinable characteristic known as presence. Aunt Peg was the one who had picked her for me, and as far as I was concerned, she had chosen well. Best of all, the puppy seemed to be adapting readily to her schedule of living in both our homes.

  I had stopped by Aunt Peg’s to pick Eve up the afternoon before on my way back from Sara’s house. Peg likes to set a good example for us poor minions who try to follow faithfully in her footsteps. As always, she’d had the puppy freshly brushed out and ready to go.

  When Eve came dancing over to the door to greet me, I reached down to pat her, then snapped my hand back. “What on earth have you done to her head?”

  The puppy was wearing two tiny ponytails, one above each eye. Each colored rubber band held only a small amount of hair that was so short that it stood straight up before fanning out like a small, delicate flower.

  “They’re called puppy horns.” Aunt Peg flipped one ponytail to the side so I could see how she’d put it in. “I realized the other night when Davey and I were applying gel that she just might have enough hair to reach. As I recall, we didn’t do this with Faith, but Eve’s topknot is thicker. Check on them a couple of times a day. Redo them each morning. Not too tight, or you’ll undo any gains you might have made. Vigilance is everything.”

  It seemed to me I’d heard that before.

  “Speaking of the other night,” Aunt Peg said casually, “are you seeing much of that ex-husband of yours?”

  “Almost nothing,” I said to our mutual delight. “Among other distractions, Frank has apparently put Bob to work in the coffee house. I’m on my way over there now to pick up Davey.”

  “After coming from where?” Aunt Peg hates to be out of the loop.

  “Bertie and I were at Sara Bentley’s place.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Looking for Sara. She seems to have disappeared.”

  “No!” said Peg, but her eyes were gleaming. There’s nothing she enjoys more than a good mystery. “Since when?”

  “Bertie and I both saw her at the show last Saturday. And we know she was there Sunday, because she left a note for Bertie with Terry.” I quickly recounted the note’s contents. “But as far as we know now, that’s the last anyone saw of her. Bertie left several messages for Sara during the week and finally talked to her parents. They hadn’t seen her either.”

  Aunt Peg frowned. “Didn’t you tell me that Bertie had asked Sara to take over the planning for her wedding?”

  “Yes. That’s one of the reasons Bertie’s so anxious to find her. If she doesn’t get some arrangements nailed down soon, we may find ourselves eating chicken fingers in your backyard.”

  “Heaven forbid.” That heartfelt sentiment is about as close as Aunt Peg comes to swearing. The last time she’d thrown a party, one of the guests had been murdered the following day. “I suppose you’d better find her, then. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Just keep your ears open. Maybe you’ll hear something at the show next weekend.”

  “I doubt it,” Aunt Peg said sternly.

  The Tuxedo Park Poodle specialty would be her first judging assignment, and Peg was prepared to take the task very seriously. Though she wouldn’t admit it, I knew she’d been nervous for weeks. First over the prospect that she might not draw—an issue that had already been satisfactorily resolved, since her entry had majors in all three varieties. And second, that she might not do a good enough job.

  “Horse feathers,” I’d told her.

  Aunt Peg had not been reassured.

  “Nobody will talk to me,” she said now. “I’m the judge and that’s considered to be very b
ad form. Besides, the A.K.C. rep will be watching, so I don’t dare talk to anyone either. If there’s any snooping around to be done, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

  Like that was a surprise.

  I let both Poodles back inside and ran upstairs to shower and dress. I thought I heard the dogs barking while I was washing my hair, but by the time I stepped out of the shower, the noise had stopped. No doubt Davey had taken charge of the situation.

  Not having any brothers or sisters, my son tends to treat the Poodles like younger siblings. And though Faith is a wonderful watchdog, she also feels honor bound to keep an eye on a multitude of things that I don’t think bear watching. Like squirrels in the backyard, a UPS truck making deliveries at the neighbor’s house, or joggers on the sidewalk in front of our house.

  Obviously, I should have taken her warning more seriously, because when I walked into my bedroom a few minutes later, one towel wrapped around my body and another in the process of wringing moisture out of my wet hair, I found Bob sitting on my bed.

  Shocked, I stopped just inside the doorway. One hand flew to secure the towel I’d tucked together above one breast.

  “What are you doing here?” I gasped.

  “Waiting for you.” Bob looked almost as surprised by this turn of events as I was. At least he had the grace to blush. “I didn’t realize you’d be . . .” His hand waved ineffectually.

  “Nearly naked?”

  A sound gurgled in his throat.

  “This is how most people come out of the shower. Especially when they’re not expecting company. Out!”

  Bob stood. Slowly. “You look good, Mel.”

  “Out!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m going.” The apology might have carried more weight if he’d made an effort to avert his eyes. Instead, Bob was staring.

  Abruptly, irrationally, I was glad I’d shaved my legs. Vanity, thy name is woman.

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Bob said, edging past me toward the door. “I only wanted to talk.”

  “We’ll talk downstairs. I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

  It took me less time than that to throw on a pair of black jeans, a heather gray cotton turtleneck, thick socks, and loafers. I used the extra five minutes to run the blow dryer through my hair and wonder what Bob wanted to talk to me about. Whatever it was, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear it.

  “Bagels,” Bob said. He was manning the toaster oven when I walked into the kitchen. “I brought breakfast.”

  “Thanks.” I looked around and made a quick decision. Davey, still in his pajamas, was seated at the table. The Poodles were watching hopefully as he smeared cream cheese across a toasted half. “Can I take mine to go?”

  “Um, sure. I guess.” The toaster pinged. Bob opened the door and slid out two perfectly browned, crunchy halves of an onion bagel. My favorite. Without asking, he began to butter them both. I had to give him one thing, the man had a good memory. “Where are you going?”

  “There are some people I need to see today. It’s kind of a favor for Bertie. You know, the wedding and all? I was going to take Davey with me, but since you’re here, I was thinking I could leave him with you and get an early start.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Bob said evenly. “But we haven’t seen each other all week. I was hoping we could spend some time together today.”

  “We will. Later.” I was only postponing the inevitable, but I was grasping at any straws I could get. “I’ll be back this afternoon.” I looked at Davey. “Is that okay with you? Do you think you can manage both Poodles all by yourself?”

  “No problem,” my son said with confidence. “Dad will help, right?”

  “Right,” Bob agreed. Outmaneuvered and outflanked, he conceded defeat.

  At least that was what I thought.

  My ex-husband wrapped my bagel in a paper napkin and brought it to me across the room. He stepped up beside me to hand it over, standing a good deal closer than was necessary. “You look just as good in clothes as you do out of them,” he said under his breath.

  I snatched the bagel and backed away. I could feel my face growing warm.

  “See you later,” Davey said cheerfully.

  Bob just looked at me and smiled.

  Drat.

  Double drat.

  Ignoring this problem wasn’t going to make it go away.

  10

  I’d spoken with Maris Kincaid briefly the evening before, leaving her, I’m slightly ashamed to admit, with the impression that I was looking for someone to groom my Standard Poodles. That deception seemed preferable to the alternative: trying to explain over the phone that I’d broken into a friend’s home, retrieved her messages, and wanted to know why Maris had been making threatening phone calls.

  A conversation like that, I’d decided, would go over much better in person.

  Maris lived in an area of West Norwalk that appeared to have been developed in the fifties. The houses all had the homogenized look that had been popular in that era: street after street of colonial-style homes placed squarely on wooded one-acre lots. With the specter of world war in the not-too-distant past, Americans had found safety in sameness. Now the look was simply dated.

  Whoever had built the development half a century earlier must have been a history buff, for the streets were all named after early patriots. I followed Nathan Hale Road until it ended on Betsy Ross Lane, then took a right and pulled over to the curb.

  Except for its fenced yard, Maris’s house looked no different from any of the others. Like the neighboring town of New Canaan, Norwalk has stringent zoning laws. There was nothing to indicate from the curb that Maris was running a business in her basement.

  She must have seen me drive up because Maris had her front door open before I’d even reached the steps. Her leg, lifted and braced against the door frame, blocked two sandy colored Wheaten Terriers from making their escape as I opened the storm door.

  “Watch your step,” she said. “These guys are fast.”

  I slipped inside and pulled the door quickly shut behind me. Maris’s approving nod ratified the tactic. She held out a hand and we introduced ourselves.

  “I do most of my grooming downstairs,” she told me, heading toward the back of the house. “I can also make a house call, if you prefer, but the rates are pretty steep for that. Let me take you down and show you around. Please feel free to ask as many questions as you like. Believe me, I know how hard it is to trust your dog’s care to a stranger.”

  Phooey, I thought as the two Wheatens bounced around us, vying for possession of a stuffed toy. Phone message notwithstanding, Maris was turning out to be a nice person. I hate it when that happens; especially when I’ve started things off by lying through my teeth.

  “I have a confession to make,” I heard myself blurt. “I don’t really need my dogs groomed.”

  Abruptly Maris stopped walking. She turned around and crossed her arms over her chest. “Then why are you here?”

  “I have to talk to you about Sara Bentley.”

  “What about her?”

  “She seems to be missing.”

  “I should hope so,” Maris snapped. “Otherwise she needs a damn good excuse for yanking me around again.”

  I couldn’t think how to answer that, so I didn’t say a thing.

  After a moment, Maris frowned. She began to look concerned. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Come on.” She led the way back to the living room, where we both sat down. “Tell me what’s going on. For starters, why did you come to me?”

  “I heard the message you left on Sara’s answering machine yesterday. You sounded pretty angry.”

  “I was. I still am.” Maris paused, then started again. “I mean, unless there’s actually something wrong. What makes you think Sara is missing, anyway?”

  I explained about how Bertie had hired Sara to arrange her wedding, and about the note that had been delivered to Ber
tie at the show. “Bertie’s been trying to get in touch with her all week, but Sara’s disappeared and nobody’s seen her. She’s not returning her calls, either. Unless you’ve heard something . . . ?”

  Maris shook her head. “In fact, I left a couple of messages myself. Sara never called me back. That’s one of the reasons why I was so mad when I left that message yesterday.”

  I sat back on the couch. One of the Wheatens came over and rested his head on my knee. After a moment, his front legs, then his shoulders, had insinuated themselves up into my lap. Maris didn’t seem to mind, so I let him keep climbing.

  “What are the other reasons?”

  “I got a message from Sara last Sunday, too. I was at the show, but she left it here on my answering machine. I figured she didn’t have the nerve to face me in person.”

  “What was it about?”

  “Business.” Her tone was curt. Maris was back to being annoyed. “Sara left me her whole week’s worth of clients to take care of. Said something about it being too last-minute to cancel on them and she was sure I wouldn’t mind filling in.”

  “Let me guess. You did mind.”

  “Of course I did. For one thing, my own schedule was already full. For another, she had me baby-sitting a Siamese cat over in Rowayton.” She shuddered slightly. “I’m a dog person. I don’t do cats. Adding insult to injury, Sara bills her regular clients monthly. I didn’t see any money for all the extra work I did, and I probably never will.”

  I scratched behind the Wheaten’s ears and gave Maris a moment to cool off. “Considering she felt free to call you like that, I guess you and Sara must be pretty good friends.”

  “Most of the time. I’m sure you know what Sara’s like. She means well and she’s lots of fun to be around, but the usual rules of friendship don’t really apply. I mean, no matter what’s going on, it’ll never be about your life or your problems. In Sara’s mind, everything is always all about Sara.”