Watchdog (10 page)
“The tooth fairy left me a dollar,” Joey was bragging as they climbed in the car. “It was awesome.”
“A whole dollar. Wow.” Davey reached in his mouth and poked around experimentally. “I wish my teeth would hurry up and fall out.”
“Some tooth fairies are richer than others,” I said, mindful of his full set of baby teeth. “I think yours will hand out quarters.”
“I doubt it,” said Joey, the voice of authority. “I bet the same tooth fairy will come to your house that comes to mine. She probably does the whole block.”
“You think so?” Davey asked hopefully.
“Sure, you'll see.”
It would have taken a bigger ogre than me to burst that bubble. All right, so I'd have to spend a bit more when the time came. Balancing that was the realization of how great kids are at reminding you of the small absurdities of life. Who else would even consider debating how much territory a single tooth fairy might reasonably be expected to cover?
Joey stayed for the rest of the afternoon while his mom took his little sister to the doctor. It meant that Faith and I couldn't go out jogging, but we managed to hide our disappointment. Alice and Carly returned with the news that Alice's husband was working late and we all agreed that was the perfect excuse to order in pizza and a Greek salad.
If you didn't count the fact that the boys thought the olives made better missiles than food, the evening went quite well. Faith ate seven pizza crusts before I stopped counting. I figured that just about made up for the nutritious dinner of dog food that she'd turned her nose up at earlier.
The Brickmans left early so that Alice could put Carly to bed. I sent Davey upstairs to take a bath and was just finishing up the dishes when the phone rang. It was Frank.
“I'm screwed,” he said.
What a pleasant way to begin a conversation. I turned off the water and pulled up a chair. This could take awhile.
“Is this new trouble? Or the same as yesterday?”
“Both.”
Good old Frank. Clear as mud. “What happened?”
“The police called this morning. You know, that detective, Petrie? He said he had a few more questions and asked me to come down to the station so we could discuss a few things.”
“Discuss a few things? Who does he think he is, Columbo?”
“Mel, get serious! I'm telling you I'm in trouble. How are you at raising bail money?”
“That's not funny.”
“Tell me about it. Apparently after he left the store yesterday, Petrie went to Marcus's office. He spoke with Marcus's secretary.”
“Liz Barnum.”
“Liz, right. How did you know that?”
“Rattigan's ex-wife told me. She seemed to think that the secretary might have had a motive for wanting to murder her boss.”
“Let's hope somebody did. Because Liz gave Detective Petrie Marcus's calendar and Petrie showed it to me. Damn it, Mel, it was marked there plain as day. According to Marcus's calendar, he and I were supposed to meet at the coffee bar Monday night.”
“Ten
I sat up abruptly. “Monday night? That's when Rattigan was murdered.”
“No shit, Sherlock! And the police think I did it.”
“Did you tell them you didn't know anything about any meeting?”
“Of course, but I could tell they didn't believe me. I mean, my name was right there. What were they supposed to think?”
“Okay, back up a minute. Did Detective Petrie ask the secretary how the appointments got listed in Rattigan's calendar?”
“Liz said that usually she wrote them in. She told Petrie that I'd called that afternoon.”
“You did,” I said, remembering. “You were going to tell Rattigan about Andy's accident. You told me that you'd called but he wasn't in.”
“Right. And I didn't leave a message. I certainly didn't say anything about meeting later at the coffee bar. With that great gaping hole in the floor, that's the last thing I would have wanted.”
“So how come Liz Barnum thinks you did? Have you ever met her?”
“A couple of times,” said Frank. “And we've spoken on the phone.”
“Enough that she'd recognize your voice?”
“Hell, who knows? And if someone did call up and say they were me, why would she have doubted it?”
For once my brother and I were actually in agreement. He was screwed.
“You know, there's another possibility,” I said. “Rattigan's ex-wife seems to think that Liz had a pretty good motive for wanting to kill Rattigan herself. What if she knew there wasn't any message, but told him that there was?”
“You mean Liz tried to frame me?” Frank's skepticism came through loud and clear. “Why would she have wanted to do that?”
“Maybe she wanted to divert attention away from herself, and you were the most convenient person.”
“Sure, Mel.” Frank snickered. “I can see that. Liz followed Marcus out to the coffee bar, climbed up on the roof, cut the skylight free, and bopped him on the head with it.”
“What's the matter with that?”
“For starters, she's a thirty-five-year-old woman, not some gymnast.”
I debated commenting on the sexist nature of that remark but decided to let it pass. My brother had enough problems. “Neither are you, Frank, but you managed to get yourself up on the roof. I imagine she could have done the same. How did you leave things with the police?”
“Petrie said that he was sure he'd have more questions for me as things went along. He told me to keep myself available, whatever that means.”
“What it means is that you should go out first thing tomorrow and hire a lawyer. Tell him everything that's happened and let him decide what your next move should be. By the way, I forgot to ask the other day. Where were you Monday night?”
“You mean, do I have an alibi?”
“Exactly.”
“No such luck. I was here by myself. I picked up a sandwich at Subway and watched football on TV.”
I'd figured a date on Monday night was probably too much to ask. “How about phone calls? Did you call anyone? Did anyone call you?”
“No. Mel, I've been all through this with Detective Petrie. There's no one who can verify where I was until we met up again the next morning.”
“Look on the bright side. At least there's no one who can place you at the store, either.” I waited a beat for him to agree with me. When he didn't, I prodded. “There's isn't, is there?”
“Of course not,” Frank said angrily. “Damn it, Mel, if you're not sure I'm telling the truth, how am I ever going to be able to convince the police?”
Good question.
Â
The next day at school, Kate Russo relayed a message from John Monaghan. He'd be happy to meet me that afternoon.
“Boy, you work fast,” I said.
“Will it help my grades any?”
“No.”
Kate grinned. “I didn't think so, but it was worth a shot.”
During lunch I called Alice Brickman, who said she'd grab Davey when he got off the bus and keep him until I got back. Then I asked Kate if she wanted a ride home since we were going in the same direction. She accepted happily and offered to make introductions.
John Monaghan lived in a traditional New England colonial about a mile from Frank's store. Like most of its kind in Connecticut, the house was painted white with black shutters. It sat on a hill overlooking the neighborhood and was large enough to convey an air of solid affluence. Kate's house was smaller but similar in style. She pointed it out as we drove by.
“Nice neighborhood,” I said as I pulled into John's driveway and parked the Volvo next to the garage.
“âYeah, it's pretty.” Katie gathered up her backpack and climbed out of the car. “My mom likes it here. And she sure doesn't mind being right around the corner from John.”
Alerted by something in her tone, I glanced over. “Is that a problem?”
Kate's shrug was a deliberate display of adolescent indifference.
“Do you like John?”
“He's okay, if you don't mind someone who's totally wrapped up in his dogs. It's nice of him to let me come over and help out. It's just that ...” Kate walked to the edge of the driveway and stared off into the distance.
“What?” I went over and stood beside her. Behind the house was a small kennel building, also painted white with black trim. A row of wire fenced runs extended outward on the far side, all of them now empty.
“I just wish Mom didn't think she always had to have a man around. We do all right on our own, just the two of us. But she can never see that. She was the one who got me started coming over here.”
Kate tossed her head angrily. “I guess she figured it would be a good way for her to get to know John better. She thinks he's some great catch because he's single and has some money, and is retired and all. It never even occurred to her that I might actually like the dogs.”
I thought about how to respond. Single motherhood wasn't easy, but I was sure that wasn't what Kate wanted to hear. I wondered if she'd ever told her mother how she felt.
“I'm sorryâ” I began, but Kate cut me off.
“Don't be.” She spun on her heel and headed back toward the house. “Forget I said anything, okay? Let's go inside.”
By the time we reached the front door, it was already open and John Monaghan was standing on the brick step. “Here you are. Becca started barking so I knew someone had arrived.”
Becca was the trim Wire Fox Terrier at his heels. She greeted Kate first and then me, jumping up on each of us and sniffing us thoroughly before John called her back to his side. “You must be Kate's teacher.”
“Melanie Travis.” I took his hand and had my arm pumped up and down vigorously.
John wasn't tall, but he was strong. With a hairline that had receded to the middle of his head, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses balanced on his nose, I judged him to be in his fifties. His features were unremarkable, but he had a wonderful smile.
“Kate tells me you're interested in my dogs,” he said. “Are you looking for a puppy?”
“Not exactly. I'm actually hoping to get some information.”
“I'm heading back to the kennel,” Kate announced. I wondered if she was embarrassed at having revealed so much of herself. She couldn't seem to escape my presence fast enough. “You two can take it from here, right?”
We agreed that we could and John ushered me inside as Kate disappeared around the side of the house. “Come this way,” he said. “We'll talk in the library.”
We walked down the hall with Becca trotting along behind. As we reached the arched doorway, I heard the scramble of nails and a low growl. I glanced back in time to see the Fox Terrier emerge victorious from beneath a table, a small stuffed animal clutched between her teeth. Carrying it proudly, she ran to catch up.
The library was a spacious room with dark paneling, two leather couches and a wonderful old cherry wood desk. Everywhere I looked there were pictures, framed eight by ten glossies of the Wirerock Fox Terriers winning top awards at various dog shows.
Aunt Peg has a collection of win photos that spans more than three decades. This selection was perhaps more recent, but certainly no less impressive. One dog in particular had been showcased, with an entire wall devoted to her achievements.
Picture after picture showed an alert, beautifully balanced little dog whose crisply styled wire coat was white save for a black saddle and the tan markings on her head. In nearly every photo the judge was holding a big red, white and blue ribbon indicating that the Wire had won Best in Show.
“This must be Winter,” I said.
“You've heard of her?” John sounded pleased.
“My aunt told me she was a beautiful bitch and, coming from her, that's high praise.” I turned to face him. “Actually, I have to admit my interest in Fox Terriers is somewhat peripheral. I was hoping you might be willing to talk to me about Marcus Rattigan.”
“Marcus?” John walked over to a couch and sat down. Becca immediately jumped up beside him. “What a terrible tragedy. A senseless and unexpected loss.”
“You and he were friends?”
“Indeed.” John waved me to a seat. “We'd known each other for years. We campaigned Winter together. Without his support I never would have been able to give that bitch the career she deserved.”
I'd heard Gloria's version of what Rattigan was like. Here, perhaps, was someone who could show me another side.
“Are you talking about financial support? Or was Rattigan a breeder, as well?”
“No, not at all. Marcus knew where his strengths lay, and he played to them. He left breeding to the experts, which is how it should be. He was listed as co-breeder of Winter's litter because of the lease arrangement, but that was a name-only thing. He left all the details to me.”
“I heard that after Winter's career was over, he dropped out of the dog show scene. Why was that?”
“Why not?” John grasped the toy in Becca's mouth and wrestled with her playfully. “Marcus had nothing left to prove. He'd been to the pinnacle, and there aren't many people who can say that. After Winter retired, I gather the sport lost much of its appeal for him.”
“What about Winter's puppies?” I asked, enjoying the byplay as Becca made throaty noises and batted at his fingers with her front paws. “My Aunt Peg breeds Standard Poodles. She always tells me that the true measure of a dog's value is not what it can win today but what it can produce for tomorrow.”
“Your aunt sounds like a true dog person. But there you have the difference. Marcus was my friend, but even I have to admit that for him the dogs were merely the means to an end. He thought of them in terms of immediate gratification, not long-term results.
“Unfortunately, Winter was only able to have one litter. Three puppies, all boys. After they were born, she developed acute metritis and I had to spay her to save her life. It was a terrible blow. After that, Marcus's level of interest was never quite the same.”
“Tell me about the puppies,” I said because I knew he would have been disappointed if I hadn't. “Were they as gorgeous as their dam?”
“No, they weren't, but that was hardly to be expected. Winter was a once in a lifetime bitch. I was truly sorry never to have gotten a girl from her. Still, it was a sound, healthy, attractive litter and I kept all three. Once it became clear that they were the only progeny Winter would ever have, I didn't want to part with any of them.”
John glanced out the window, toward the kennel. “Every Fox Terrier I have today traces his or her pedigree back to Winter through that single litter. Even better, I have a young grandson of hers that's about to make a big splash. Wirerock Summer Dreams. Watch for him.”
“I will,” I said, smiling at his enthusiasm. “Had you thought of asking Marcus Rattigan to sponsor this dog, too?”
“No. Marcus's interest in the dog game was over a long time ago. Summer will be all mine to campaign and enjoy. I'm really looking forward to having fun with him.”
“Have Wire Fox Terriers always been your breed?”
“For the most part. I dabbled briefly in Welsh Terriers about a decade ago, but Wires were always my first love.” John ran a hand down Becca's back and scratched in front of her tail. The little dog wiggled her body in appreciation. “It's not hard to see why.”
It was time for a graceful segue. Dog people can talk about their dogs forever, but I needed to get the conversation back on track. “Since you and Rattigan were close, I hope you don't mind my asking, but do you have any idea why someone might have wanted to kill him?”
“None,” John said firmly, then recanted. “Well, Marcus could be a bit of a bully at times, but murder? I'd never have anticipated anything like that. Why are you so interested in what happened?”
“My brother was involved in a business venture with Marcus Rattigan. He was doing the renovations on the building where Rattigan was found.”
“The proposed coffee bar.”
“You know about it?”
“In this neighborhood, it's hard not to,” John said, frowning. “The project has generated a fair amount of local unrest.”
“So I've heard. Do you know any of the protesters?”
“I imagine I know just about all of them. I've lived in this house for twenty years.”
“Did any strike you as angry enough to resort to violence?”
“Over a zoning issue? That seems a little far-fetched to me. Although nobody around here is pleased with that conversion. You say that's your brother's doing?”
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