Unleashed (A Melanie Travis Mystery) Page 9

  “People who care about that shouldn’t behave badly in the first place,” Brian shot back. “This is the age of information, and Woof! is a magazine whose time has come. If Sheila and I hadn’t come along and done this, someone else would have. You can bank on that.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But you and Sheila did make the first move, and now she’s dead. Did you mention that to the police?”

  “No, and I’m not going to. There’s no way Woof! needs to get caught up in a police investigation.”

  “You may not have a choice. The police would be crazy to ignore that aspect of Sheila’s life.”

  “I guess I should have expected something like this.” Brian sounded agitated. Obviously, he wasn’t accustomed to having people argue with him. “Sheila told me you thought of yourself as some sort of amateur sleuth. The Miss Marple of the canine world. She even suggested we might want to do an article in a future issue of Woof! that turned the tables on you. Investigate your background and see how you liked it.”

  I stared at him in shock. So much for the we’re-all-just-good-buddies-now demeanor Sheila had assumed the last time I saw her. It looked like I’d been more naive than I’d realized.

  Brian took advantage of my momentary silence to deliver the last word. “Sheila’s death is enough of a tragedy without you stirring everything up and making it worse than it has to be. The detective we spoke to thinks she was killed by someone who intended to rob the place, and until the police find any evidence to support a view to the contrary, that’s what I intend to believe.”

  “Sorry about that,” Sam said when we were back in the car. Gravel spun from beneath the tires as he turned in the driveway and headed out.

  “You’re sorry? Why?”

  “Because I’ve known Brian a lot longer than you, and I know what a bastard he can be when things aren’t going his way. I should have insisted that we just drop off the pills and leave.”

  “I’m the one who dragged you inside. If anything, I should be sorry. But I’m not. I found what he had to say quite interesting.”

  “Miss Marple of the canine world?” Sam lifted a brow.

  “Not that part. Definitely not that part. Other things. Like the life insurance policies he and Sheila had taken out on each other.”

  “I know it sounds fishy, but considering they’d just formed a legal partnership over the magazine, it’s probably on the up-and-up. I’d imagine the police, not to mention the insurance company, will have a good look at it.”

  “All right then.” I settled back in my seat. “How about the fact that Brian is so sure that Sheila’s work at Woof! had nothing to do with her death?”

  “I doubt if he actually believes that quite as vehemently as he’d like you to think.” Sam’s gaze left the road and slid my way. “Brian’s great at sleight of hand. Saying one thing and doing another entirely. Right now, he’s looking to protect his new venture. If he has to tell a few lies along the way, I’d imagine it won’t bother his conscience very much.”

  “You really don’t think much of him, do you?”

  “No. In fact, it’s a policy of mine to think of Brian Endicott as little as possible.”

  Once again, he’d evaded my question. I wondered how long it would take before I finally got the truth. And what made him think that I’d give up before I did.

  “Do you think Brian is capable of committing murder?”

  Sam considered the question. “Under the right circumstances, I think he’d be very capable of committing the act. Are these those circumstances? I doubt it. He had no reason to want to see Sheila dead.”

  “Some would say he had five hundred thousand reasons.”

  “That only matters if he needed the money. Or, to be more precise, if he needed the money more than he needed Sheila. As far as Brian was concerned, she was performing an invaluable service.”

  “Sure she was smart and well connected,” I said, frowning. “But I’d hardly say she was invaluable. Add that insurance money into the mix, and I’m sure he’ll be able to replace her.”

  “At the magazine, maybe,” said Sam. “But not in his personal life.”

  “Come on,” I scoffed, beginning to grow testy. “She can’t be that good. You replaced her.”

  “That’s exactly the point. I moved to Connecticut what, two years ago? And I’ve been pretty visible at the shows around here since then. Brian’s been living in Purchase this whole time. Our houses are probably no more than thirty miles apart. Yet we never crossed paths until recently. Until Sheila brought us back together.

  “Once Brian had Sheila, he wanted to make sure I knew about it. He was really enjoying this whole three-way scenario. He was using her to get back at me.”

  I remembered the conversation I’d overheard the night we’d all had dinner together. Was this what they’d been arguing about?

  “Did Sheila know that?” I asked.

  “I tried to tell her. She didn’t believe me. She accused me of trying to break them up because I was jealous of Brian.”

  “Over her?”

  “No, although that might have been what she was secretly hoping. Sheila seemed to think that I resented the fact that Brian had been so much more successful financially than I had.”

  “Island of Mutant Terror?”

  Sam shot me a surprised look. “What do you know about that?”

  “Terry told me. He said Brian invented the game a decade ago and made a fortune.”

  “As usual, Terry’s version of things is more or less correct. Brian patented the game, he didn’t invent it.”

  Something in his voice alerted me. “Oh? Who did?”

  “Some poor computer nerd who was in our class at B school. He’d been working on the prototype for months, refining the plot, perfecting the details.”

  “How’d Brian get hold of it?”

  “You might say he got lucky. He knew about the game, we all did. We figured it was a lark, nothing too serious. We were happy to serve as the guy’s guinea pigs. We were young, probably naive. We all thought it was just a game, something to fool around with. But Brian knew better.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that he stole Island of Mutant Terror from its creator?” I asked incredulously.

  Sam waited a minute before speaking. When he did, his voice was grim. “I told you not to be fooled by Brian’s smooth style. That charm you see is all on the surface. Underneath is a man who knows exactly where he wants to go and doesn’t care who he has to trample on his way there.”

  Eleven

  Davey was still at Joey Brickman’s house when we got home, but the dogs were happy to see us.

  Sam let Tar out of Faith’s crate and put both Poodles out in the yard. I got out a couple of cans of tuna and started making lunch. Tar and Faith were back inside within minutes. Poodles are confirmed people dogs. Given the choice of running and playing or being with their owners, they’ll opt for the human connection any day.

  I gave them each a peanut butter biscuit, and both dogs sacked out on the kitchen floor contentedly. Sam was the one who couldn’t seem to stop moving. He toasted the bread and got out tomatoes. Dropped one knife and opened three drawers looking for another. This despite the fact that he knows his way around my house just as well as I do.

  Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, everything’s fine.”

  I motioned toward the cutting board. “Do you always cut tomatoes you’re planning to put in sandwiches into wedges?”

  Sam swore under his breath.

  “Better,” I said. He looked up. “Talk to me. Yell at me if you have to. Just don’t stand there and tell me everything’s fine.”

  “Okay.” Sam set down the knife and wiped off his hands. “I need to ask you something.”

  “That sounds serious.”

  “I guess it is. I need your help.”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  Sam didn’t look pleased with my quick answer.

>   “It’s about Sheila,” he said. I got the impression he was testing the water, waiting to see if I’d change my mind.

  “Okay.”

  This was looking like it might take a while. I kept working on the tuna salad. We might be fighting, but at least we’d be well fed.

  “I was wondering if you might ask a few questions ...”

  I went still.

  Sam hates it when I snoop around, and he’s made that abundantly clear. The year before, some trouble my brother had managed to get himself into had nearly broken off our engagement before it was even started.

  He couldn’t be serious, I thought, stealing a glance out of the corner of my eye. Sam looked as though he’d meant every word.

  But there was something else. He also looked concerned. Like he was afraid I might turn him down, and he had no idea what his next move would be after that.

  “The police—” I began.

  Sam didn’t let me finish. “The police are going to find what they expect to find. Detective Holloway told us yesterday that it looked as though Sheila had interrupted a robbery. He didn’t care about where the dogs should or shouldn’t have been because the facts he already had supported his theory.”

  “Maybe he’s right.”

  “If he is, fine. The police will do what they’re trained to do: take fingerprints, use forensics, find out if any suspicious people have been seen in the neighborhood. If Sheila was killed by an anonymous intruder, then the police are the ones to get the job done.

  “But what if she wasn’t? What if she was murdered by someone she knew? Someone we know? You have connections at the magazine and in the dog world that the police will never be able to duplicate. Doors will be open for you that they don’t even know exist.”

  I didn’t want him to plead, but it looked like he would if he had to. I felt lost, groping for the right decision when all the choices were wrong. How could I agree? Wasn’t this the very thing that had driven a wedge between us before?

  “You’re asking a lot,” I said.

  Maybe too much, I thought.

  “I know,” Sam agreed. “And I feel like the worst sort of hypocrite. I wish there was another way, but I don’t see one.”

  He lifted his hands in frustration, or maybe supplication. Sam wasn’t any happier about the situation than I was. “It was one thing for me to put Sheila out of my life when she was alive. Her presence bothered you, and I felt I owed you that much. But now that she’s gone, I feel as though I owe her something, too.

  “I think the police are wrong about their assumptions, but I want to know for sure. Until I do, it’s going to gnaw at me. I won’t be able to let go and move on.”

  Slowly I stepped away from the counter, walked over to a chair, and sank down into it without conscious thought. I heard what Sam was saying, but the words seemed to be coming from very far away. It was as if a fog had enveloped my senses, muffling sound, blocking out light.

  Though he hadn’t stated things that baldly, I knew perfectly well that the next thing Sam was supposed to be moving on to was his marriage to me. So where did that leave us?

  From the moment Sheila had appeared on the East Coast, Sam’s attentions had been divided. Much as he’d denied it, I’d felt the truth. Now she was gone, and I wanted it to stop. I wanted things to go back the way they had been, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t seem to make that happen.

  I drew in a deep breath and let it out. If this was what it would take, then I had no choice.

  “I’ll ask a few questions,” I said slowly. “I’ll see what people have to say.”

  Sam looked relieved. I felt slightly nauseated.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  I didn’t want his gratitude; I wanted his love.

  It looked as though I was going to have to earn it.

  By the time I picked up Davey later that afternoon, Sam and Tar had already left. Though I’d sprayed on conditioner and brushed through the puppy’s hair, he still needed a bath to remove the last of the hair spray Sam had applied at the show. Besides, Sam needed to get back and check on his other dogs in Redding.

  It’s not like Davey and I couldn’t have gone with him. Under normal circumstances, we probably would have. But nothing seemed normal anymore, and Sam looked as though he could use some time to himself.

  I stood on the front step and watched him drive away. Tar had hopped over the seat of the Blazer and was looking out the back. He wagged his tail at me as I waved good-bye. Eyes facing front, Sam never even noticed.

  Feeling utterly deflated, I retrieved my son, thanked Alice profusely, and drove over to Aunt Peg’s house in Greenwich. Less than a day had passed since we’d seen each other at the dog show, but I felt as though I’d aged a decade. I hoped talking to Aunt Peg might cheer me up, but I wasn’t counting on it.

  Peg’s house is smaller than Brian Endicott’s, but every bit as beautiful. Set amid five acres of woods and meadow, the home itself was once the center of a working farm, and its graceful design reflects both its age and its original function. The clapboard siding is painted a creamy shade of yellow, and a wide porch wraps around three sides of the house. There’s a kennel building out back, which now sits mostly empty. Aunt Peg’s husband, Max, had died two years earlier and lately she’d begun scaling back on the number of Poodles she kept.

  As always, our approach was announced by Aunt Peg’s house dogs, who kept watch over the driveway and warned her of impending arrivals. All retired champions, these Standard Poodles sported the attractive and functional kennel trim, with a blanket of short, curly black hair covering their entire bodies. When Aunt Peg opened the front door, all half dozen came bounding out to surround the car.

  Usually, I let Faith leap out and join in the fray. Now, though I let Davey go on ahead, I held the Poodle back. Since she didn’t seem to be making any concessions to her advanced state of pregnancy, I’d decided it was up to me to take precautions for her.

  “For pity’s sake,” said Peg, coming down the steps. “She’s not made of glass. Let the poor girl have some fun.”

  “Your dogs play rough,” I pointed out, somewhat unnecessarily since the wild bunch was now gleefully engaged in pummeling my child. To his credit, Davey seemed to be enjoying the mayhem as much as the Poodles.

  “Faith knows how to take care of herself. Mother Nature isn’t stupid, you know.”

  This from a woman who had planned Faith’s breeding with the same attention to detail that Michelangelo had brought to putting a mural on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. After Faith’s genetic testing was complete, the next step had been to find a suitable mate: a Standard Poodle whose quality was every bit as high as Faith’s and whose health and temperament were above reproach.

  To my surprise, that part of the process hadn’t taken very long. Like most breeders, Aunt Peg speculated about possible combinations every time she saw a good-looking male Poodle walk into the show ring. Over the last year and a half, she had mentally tried out and discarded dozens of potential candidates.

  The dog Aunt Peg had finally decided upon was a young champion who came from a pedigree as illustrious as Faith’s own. He lived in Pennsylvania with his breeder, a friend of Peg’s who had taken meticulous care of Faith during her visit in the spring. Now, she was awaiting the outcome of the breeding as avidly as Peg and I were. If the puppies turned out as well as we all hoped, she’d promised to take one herself and show it to its championship.

  “I just don’t want her to hurt herself,” I said. “Or the puppies. This is her first litter. Maybe she doesn’t understand what’s going on.”

  “You only have one child,” Peg pointed out. “Did you take foolish chances with him while you were pregnant?”

  I sighed and unwound my arms from around Faith’s neck. I’ve never won an argument with Aunt Peg yet. I don’t know what makes me think I ever will.

  Proving Peg’s point, Faith sauntered over to the crowd of dogs and touched noses demurely with those c
losest to her. Davey, meanwhile, had managed to push the Poodles away and get to his feet. His T-shirt was rumpled and grass-stained; one sneaker was untied. His grin was wide and delighted.

  “Ready to go inside?” I asked.

  My son shook his head. “I want to stay out here with the dogs. You guys are just going to talk about boring stuff anyway.”

  No point in arguing with an offer like that.

  Behind Aunt Peg’s house was a large open field of at least two acres, all of it fenced. We left Davey and Peg’s Poodles out there with a supply of tennis balls for tossing and fetching. Prudently, we took Faith inside the house with us.

  “Well?” Aunt Peg demanded as soon as we’d closed the door behind us. “I’ll have you know I’ve been waiting all night and most of a day to hear from you. Come in, sit down, and start talking. I want to hear everything.”

  I spent the next twenty minutes recapping the events that had taken place since we’d parted at the show. I told her about the police suspicions, Blossom’s missing medicine, meeting Chuck the handyman, and the fact that Brian had recently taken out a large insurance policy on Sheila.

  I didn’t mention that Sam had shown up the night before drunk; awakened this morning morose; then disappeared again by midafternoon, apparently preferring to find solace in solitude.

  I didn’t have to. Aunt Peg has always been good at reading between the lines. “That’s half the story,” she said when I was done. “What about Sam? How’s he taking it?”

  “Badly.”

  “He would. I hope you’re making yourself useful.”

  “I’m trying. Sam isn’t sure he wants to let me.”

  “Oh pish, you’re good at solving mysteries. Sam may not like it, but even he has to admit that.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I said, thinking of all the things that had been left unsaid between us when Sam departed earlier. The comfort that I’d tried to offer that he’d refused to accept. “Oddly enough, right now, that’s the one way—the only way—Sam does want my help. He’s not sure the police investigation is heading in the right direction—”