hot dog: a melanie travis mystery

8/14/2019 Hot Dog: A Melanie Travis Mystery

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Hot

DogA Melanie Travis Mystery

Laurien Berenson

KENSINGTON BOOKSKensington Publishing Corp.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com


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Nothing sucks all the joy out of a glorious spring af-ternoon faster than the sight of a feisty, fifty-some-

thing ex-nun standing on the doorstep and glowering asthough she has murder on her mind.

Hi, Aunt Rose, I said. Who do you want to kill?Is it that obvious?She didnt sound distressed by this, my aunt whod

spent the better part of three decades known as Sister

Anne Marie, wearing the solemn black habit of her order,turning to prayer in times of need, and taking her com-plaints directly to the Head Man upstairs. Actually shelooked rather gratified by the effect her scowl had pro-duced.

Stepping aside so I wouldnt get run over as she camemarching in, I made a silent vow to tread carefully. Withmy relatives, thats always a good plan. As is keepingyour back to the wall and your head down.

Only to someone who knows you, I lied.If shed still been wearing the wimple and veil, I

wouldnt have been able to do that; habits ingrained in aCatholic childhood are hard to break. Instead Rose wascasually dressed in khaki pants and a cotton sweater,


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with a silk scarf in a nautical print tied jauntily aroundher neck. She looked less like a Mother Superior than abusy Connecticut matron on her way to the supermar-ket.

Except for the frown, which had, if anything, intensi-fied. It was now firmly aimed in my direction.

Youre a better liar than you used to be, Rose said.I suppose Peg has been coaching you.

Peg was my other aunt. Shed been married to Max,Roses and my fathers brother, until his death three years

earlier. The two women had been in-laws for decades, andanimosity had sizzled between them for much of that time.

Any hope I might have had of spending a peacefulSaturday afternoon was rapidly fading. Aunt Rose washeading for the living room. I trudged along behind.Books and magazines littered the coffee table. A rawhidebone sat on the couch. Daveys wooden train set tookup much of the floor.

I should have known, I said. What has Aunt Pegdone now?

Im sure I have no idea. Rose stepped carefully overthe wooden tracks, glanced at the chew toy, and wiselychose a chair. Why? Is she in trouble?

I thought thats why you were here.Goodness, no. I havent spoken to Peg in weeks. ItsPeter whos giving me fits. I thought maybe you couldhelp.

Other kind souls might have leapt in at that point tooffer their services. I folded my hands in my lap and didntsay a thing. As it happens, Ive been down this path offamily obligations before. The scenery is often alarm-ing, and there tend to be a surprising number of pot-holes along the way.

Peter was Roses husband, an affable middle-agedman with an expanding paunch and a ready smile. Hedleft the priesthood about the same time Rose had bidgood-bye to the Sisters of Divine Mercy and theyd mar-

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ried shortly thereafter. Recently hed taken a job run-ning an Outreach program at a community center indowntown Stamford.

Peter loved his work, and I knew he was good at it.Whatever was bothering my aunt, surely it couldnt be tooserious.

Before I could find out, however, I heard the backdoor slam. That noise was followed by the unmistakablesound of three youngstersone human, two canineracing through the kitchen and down the hallway.

Hey, Aunt Rose! My son announced his presencewith a delighted shriek. When did you get here? WheresUncle Peter? Want to go outside and play?

Faith and Eve, our two Standard Poodles, greeted theguest with rather more dignity. The pair are mother anddaughter, both black, and both bigger than many peopleimagine Poodles to be. Standards are the largest of thethree varieties; and these two stood twenty-four inchesat the shoulder. They also exhibited that wonderfulPoodle temperament: lively, intelligent, mischievous,and highly empathetic.

Eve was an older puppy now at nine months of age.With her ear hair wrapped, her topknot done up in

brightly colored rubber bands, and the profuse coat shewas growing for the show ring making her appear biggerthan she was, even I had to admit she was quite a sight.Aunt Rose didnt so much as blink. Instead she simplyheld out her hand, which Eve sniffed politely beforespinning on her hind legs and bounding back to Daveysside. Faith, meanwhile, trotted around the coffee tableand hopped up on the couch beside me, resting her headin my lap.

Play what? Rose asked, considering Daveys offer.What sort of game did you have in mind?

Basketball, he suggested quickly. Or maybe tag.Then Faith and Eve can play too.

Your father should be here any minute, I pointed

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out. My ex-husband was picking Davey up and takinghim out for the afternoon.

Davey made a production out of checking his watch,a recent addition to his left wrist. Hes late. He was sup-posed to be here already.

How is Bob? Aunt Roses brow arched delicately.The small gesture was as close as she would come to ex-pressing disapproval in front of Davey.

Hes fine. Hes doing great. Hes . . . I stopped,shrugged. . . . Bob. You know.

Rose nodded. She did indeed.Davey headed for the front door. Ill go out and

check. Maybe I can see him coming.Good idea. Leave the dogs inside.The backyard was fenced, the front wasnt. Davey

knew the rules. So did the Poodles. Eve turned a smallcircle and lay down beside Roses chair.

Sorry about the interruption, I said. Bob was sup-posed to be here twenty minutes ago. Hes usually prettypunctual.

Im glad hes late. Rose smiled. I dont see nearlyenough of my nephew. It always seems as though Daveyhas grown another three inches between visits.

That the rebuke was a gentle one didnt make it anyless well deserved. Somehow my relatives and I have lessin common with the Brady Bunch than we do with thetortured characters in Hamlet. Or Monty Python. Whichnever seems to stop us from beating our heads againstthat barred and shuttered door that somehow lies be-tween us and familial bliss.

Im sure now that you and Peter are living in thearea again, things will be different, I said hopefully.

Aunt Rose didnt look convinced. I imagine I didnteither.

Let me tell you why Ive come, she said. Im afraidI need some advice. Quite without warning, I seem tohave become the caretaker for a rather young puppy

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You got a dog? I must have sounded surprised.Faith lifted her head and gazed at me inquiringly. Havingrecently acquired her championship, shed had her elab-orate show coat replaced by an elegant pet trim. Now Icould tangle my fingers in her topknot and ears to myhearts content. Thats great!

Yes and no. You see, this isnt our puppy. Peter and Iare just taking care of it for a little while.

Oh. That didnt sound like nearly as much fun. Faithand Eve were members of Daveys and my family. We

were great believers in the joys of dog ownership.What kind of dog is it?A Dachshund. A smooth coated red Standard.

Rose paused, then added quite unnecessarily, I boughta book.

I can tell.I didnt laugh. I didnt even smirk. Aunt Rose did not

look amused.I read the book from cover to cover, she announced,

and I now know volumes about the history and functionof the breed. However, I still know diddly about whatpuppies eat, why they feel the need to cry all night long,and how to stop them from doing their business in the

house.Diddly?Diddly, Aunt Rose confirmed. Her scowl was back.

Zip, zero, nada. My vocabulary is not whats at issuehere, Melanie.

Of course not. How old is the puppy?Eight weeks, I think. Maybe ten. Or maybe three

months, does that sound right?They all sound possible. That was supposed to be

an easy question. That Rose didnt have a ready answerwasnt a good sign. Where did the puppy come from?

A man in Norwalk donated him to Peters benefitauction. Rose plucked at a stray thread in her sweater.

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Her gaze, usually so confident and direct, didnt quitemeet mine.

Donated him . . . ? Now I was the one who wasfrowning. What auction?

Its a fund-raiser for the community center. Consid-ering the amount of wealth thats concentrated in thisarea of Fairfield County, the resources available to PetersOutreach program are a disgrace. And of course, youknow Peter. He immediately set about to rectify the sit-uation.

That sounded like Peter, all right. Though I still wasntsure where a Dachshund puppy would have fit into hisplans.

Our first step was to drum up some support in thecommunity and find sponsorship among the local cor-porations. Aunt Rose was a master at charity fund-rais-ing. Now that she was back on familiar territory, herself-assurance was returning. I have to say, both Peterand I are gratified by the response our efforts have re-ceived.

When does the auction take place?The second weekend in May. A hotel in Stamford has

donated a ballroom and a number of area restaurants,

and caterers have signed on to supply appetizers andfinger food in exchange for prominent mention in theprogram. It looks like its going to be quite an event.

I can see why. It sounds like a great idea.Thank you. Rose was pleased. Now back to the

puppyWhich is not a great idea, I said firmly.My aunts chin lifted. Why not?You cant simply hand a living, breathing animal

over to the highest bidder. Puppies arent an impulsepurchase. They need to go to carefully selected homeswhere their new owners are prepared to devote thetime and effort necessary to their upbringing. . . .

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Aunt Rose didnt seem surprised by what I was say-ing. Indeed, she looked rather resigned. My voice fadedaway as a suspicion slipped, unbidden, into the back ofmy mind.

Aunt Peg already told you the same thing, didntshe?

Yes, Rose admitted. And rather less politely.She would have, I thought. Aunt Peg was Margaret

Turnbull of Cedar Crest Kennels, prominent in dogshow circles for many years as breeder of the East

Coasts top Standard Poodles. Aunt Pegs dogs were jus-tifiably praised for their beauty, their excellent health,and their stable, fun-loving temperaments.

Faith had come, of course, from Cedar Crest. And Ihad bred Eve with Aunt Pegs careful guidance. ThoughPeg had made her mark as a breeder and owner-han-dler, she had recently added another feather to her capwhen shed gotten her judges license over the winter.Shed already performed her first few assignments andwas fast gaining a reputation for being tough, knowl-edgeable, and fair.

Peg didnt suffer fools gladly. Not in the show ringand not in her own family. I couldnt imagine shed

have been pleased to hear Aunt Roses tale of the give-away puppy.To be perfectly honest, said Rose, I suppose I hadnt

thought things through. One would assume that thepuppys breeder knew what he was doing. According toPeter, this Dachshund is very well bred. He even has apedigree.

Aunt Rose, I said patiently, most purebred dogshave pedigrees. All that really means is that someonehas written the names of their ancestors down on apiece of paper.

Well this little dog has illustrious ancestors. Cham-pions even.

I sighed. Unfortunately it wasnt unheard of for dogs

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even as little as one generation removed from reputablebreeders to fall into the hands of the puppy mills thatwholesaled puppies to pet stores. The American KennelClub has created the option of limited registration totry to fix the problem, but it hasnt accomplished nearlyenough.

Not only that, Rose continued, but a number ofthe donations that weve received for the benefit are rathergrandiose. Theres a very good chance that whoevertakes this little fellow home will have paid quite a high

price for the privilege. I saw Peters notes about thepuppy. I believe they said that his sire had won Best ofBreed several months ago at that big dog show in NewYork.

Best of Variety, I corrected automatically.Dachshunds, like Poodles, come in varieties. In

Poodles, the distinctions are made by size, Toys being thesmallest at ten inches and under, Miniatures standingbetween ten and fifteen inches at the shoulder, andStandards being anything above that.

In the case of Dachshunds, things are even morecomplicated. Their varieties are divided by coat: smooth,wirehaired, and longhaired; and they also show in two

different weight classes, Standard and Miniature.Abruptly, incredulously, I realized what shed said.You dont mean Westminster, do you?

That sounds right. I believe Peter and I watched theshow on television. If you ask me, it seemed like rathera lot of hoopla over a bunch of dogs.

Yes, well, dog shows sometimes did seem like that topeople who didnt understand their inner workings.But I was still back on my aunts earlier point. How hadshe and Peter come into possession of a puppy whosesire had just been awarded Best of Variety at Westminster?What kind of breeder would have donated such a puppyto a charity auction?

Mom, come quick!

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Before Davey had even finished yelling, I was alreadyon my feet. There are certain things that make a mothersheart race and her hands grow cold. The sound of achild shrieking pretty much tops the list.

I scooped Faith up, thrust her aside, and wiggled outfrom between coffee table and couch. When I reachedthe hall, Aunt Rose and the Poodles were right behindme. Davey hadnt bothered to latch the front door.Yanking it open, I nearly knocked myself over.

Anxiously I scanned the yard. Blood I can deal with,

even broken bones. Its the unknown that makes mequake.

I spotted Davey immediately. He was standing by thedriveway. His body was angled toward the street, and hewas gazing back over his shoulder at the house, waitingfor me to appear.

Quickly I cataloged all visible body parts. Everythingseemed to be intact. Indeed, my son was smiling.

Relief washed through me, followed improbably byirritation. While I was happy it was a false alarm, Idhave been happier still with no alarm at all. I pushedopen the storm door, dropping a hand to catch Eve be-fore she scooted out.

What? I demanded.Look!Davey waved grandly toward the street. For the first

time I noticed that my ex-husbands cherry red TransAm was parked along the curb. Pulling in behind it wasanother vehicle, a white dually pickup truck towing ahorse trailer.

My first thought was that the driver must be lost. Ourneighborhood is more suburban than rural: small cozyhouses tucked side by side on quarter-acre lots. Werefortunate to have wide sidewalks, plenty of trees, andnot much traffic, but still, theres no place around hereto keep a horse. Or even to ride one. Then I saw Bob

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walk around the side of the truck and confer with thedriver as she parked.

For the second time in less than a minute, my stom-ach clenched.

Isnt this the greatest? Davey crowed. Dad got mea pony!

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hot dog: a melanie travis mystery

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