Gone With the Woof (9 page)

“It's no secret that families don't always get along,” I said. “Perhaps especially when they have to work together.”

“Andrew and I worked together just fine for years,” said March. “His mother died when he was in high school, and he was already working summers for me then. He started at the bottom. I made sure of that. But he was good at every job I gave him. Eventually, he worked his way up to second in command. That's when he began to think that he knew everything about the business, even more than his old man.”

March shook his head. “Maybe it was my fault for trusting him with so much responsibility. But I was busy with my dogs. First, breeding and showing, and then later judging. Andrew grew up around the setters, but he never appreciated them for what they were. To him, they were just pretty pets. He didn't understand the importance of my involvement in the breed. I created a premier family of Irish Setters, bloodlines that will continue to impact the breed for generations to come.”

“You did indeed,” I agreed.

March accepted the compliment as his due. “Margaret Turnbull's niece would know a little something about that, I should think. You know what a judge's life is like. The more assignments you take, the more time you spend on the road. Next thing you know, everybody wants your opinion, and it's turned into a full-time job.”

I was eons away from becoming a judge myself—if, indeed, it ever happened—but I was well aware of Aunt Peg's busy schedule. And hers was probably moderate compared to that of someone with the stature of Edward March.

“So I was away a lot,” he said. “Looking back now, maybe I was naive. I didn't worry about things when I was gone. I didn't think I had to. I knew I was leaving the company in good hands. That was what I'd been grooming Andrew for, after all. To take over for me when I felt the time had come to step down.”

“And then Andrew decided to hurry you along,” I said.

“There was no big overt move on his part, just a succession of little things. He undermined my authority in a dozen different ways. He took over projects that maybe I should have overseen myself. While I thought I was trusting Andrew to take care of the details, he used the opportunity to launch himself right into the big picture.”

“Even so,” I said, “March Homes was your company. Presumably, you could have reasserted control.”

“Sure, I could have. But the only way to do that would have been to throw my son out on his ear. You can't have two alpha dogs sharing the same space. Andrew was clever. I'll give him that. When I looked around, I saw how neatly he'd ingratiated himself with my best customers. Now when they needed something, they went straight to him. While I was busy elsewhere, I'd been shunted aside, marginalized, in my own company.

“My own son saw to it that I'd lost my customers' confidence. These were people I'd known and done business with for years. In the end, I knew I had to do what was best for both the company and for my family. So I stepped down.”

The three of us sat in silence for several moments. I watched the play of sunbeams on the glass-fronted cabinets and wondered if March was in shock. It didn't sound that way. If anything, he seemed to be thinking very clearly. And his first thought—with his son dead for only a matter of hours—had been to take back control of the company he'd lost.

“Charlotte said the police don't think Andrew's death was an accident,” I mentioned.

“The officer told us that this morning,” said March. “They must be wrong.”

“If they're not,” I said slowly, “they'll look for someone who has a motive.”

“Who?” March demanded. “Who would have wanted to harm my son?”

I gave him a moment to think about that.

Then I said, “Based on what you've just told me . . . you.”

“T
hey wouldn't dare!” March thundered.

“Trust me, they would.”

Charlotte's eyes widened in shock. “How do you know that?”

“Unfortunately, I've been involved in a couple of murder investigations.”

All right, maybe it was more than a couple. But this didn't seem the right time to be sharing details about my complicated past.

March's eyes narrowed. “Margaret told me you were a teacher.”

“I am. I mean, I
was
a teacher. Now I'm a full-time mother.”

“One who dabbles in police investigations?”

His skepticism was warranted. In March's place, I'd have probably felt the same way.

“Not on purpose,” I said in my own defense. “I just seem to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time.”

“You sound like a bad-luck penny.” March drained his glass again. “Margaret should have warned me about you. Things were fine around here until you arrived.”

I gave him the look that that comment deserved. Fine? Seriously? In what universe could this household, with March's dysfunctional family relationships, secret hoarding, and apparently out-of-control love life, be considered even remotely
fine?

“Mr. March, you need to pay attention to what Melanie's telling you,” Charlotte interjected. “A detective will be coming back to talk to us. So maybe you should be thinking about what you want to say.”

“You think I ought to make something up?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Don't do that. You should only tell the police the truth.”

“You just told me I had a motive for killing my own son. Surely, you don't expect me to lead with that?”

“No, but I don't think you should hide it, either. The police are going to find out what happened. They'll investigate everybody around Andrew.”

“Even me?” Charlotte gasped.

“Even you. But unless you had a reason for wanting to harm him—”

“Of course not!”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“If we have nothing to worry about,” March said sharply, “why are you trying to scare us?”

“I'm not trying to scare you. I'm simply telling you what might happen. You think of yourselves as grieving friends and relatives. The police are more likely to see you as potential suspects. It's what they do. Those closest to the victim always undergo the most scrutiny.”

Lying beneath the table, Robin lifted her head and pricked her ears. A moment later, the doorbell rang.

I stood up and pushed in my chair. “I should be going,” I said.

“No, don't.” March's brusque mask slipped. All at once he sounded tired and overwhelmed, and I could see the toll the day's events had taken on him. “Stay for just a few more minutes. If that's the detective, Charlotte and I could use the moral support.”

While Charlotte went to answer the door, I called Sam and told him that I might be gone longer than expected. I forestalled his questions with a promise to tell him everything later.

As I clicked the phone shut, Charlotte returned. She was accompanied by a middle-aged man with fleshy features and a sharp gaze. Robin woofed softly and started to rise. March put a hand on her shoulder. The setter resisted for a moment, then lay back down at his feet.

“This is Detective Wygod,” Charlotte announced to the room at large. Her voice sounded overly bright. “Detective, I hope you don't mind if we talk in the kitchen. Can I make you some coffee?”

“No thank you. I'm good.”

Wygod looked first at March and the cane that leaned against the table. Then his gaze shifted to me and the empty tumblers. Last of all, he glanced at Robin. She stared back.

“I guess that one's not a watchdog,” he said.

Way to get started on the wrong foot,
I thought. Detectives were supposed to be observant, but Wygod had obviously missed the interplay between March and the setter. Maybe he'd been too busy considering our a.m. drinking habits?

“She is when she needs to be,” March said mildly. He didn't rise, but he did hold out his hand. “I'm Edward March. This is my friend Melanie Travis. And you've met my assistant, Charlotte. Please, have a seat.”

Wygod shook March's hand, then pulled out a chair and joined us at the table. He was wearing a wool suit, no tie. A cashmere sweater covered his open-neck shirt, causing the jacket to pull tight across his shoulders.

“I know this is a bad time,” he said. “And I'm very sorry for your loss. Believe me, we'll do everything in our power to find out what happened.”

“I appreciate that,” March replied. “And please know that we'd like to assist your investigation in any way we can.”

“Excellent. I have several questions I'd like to ask about this morning's events. Your son, Andrew, he lived here with you. Is that correct?”

“Not exactly. He lived on the property, but not in this house. His cottage is several hundred yards away. Now that it's winter, you can just about see the roof from the back terrace. He also has his own driveway.”

“So then you wouldn't necessarily have been aware of his activities?”

“That was the point, Detective. Andrew is—was—thirty-six years old. A grown man. He wanted his privacy, as did I. He built that cottage himself ten years ago. The distance suited us both.”

“Do you know how your son happened to be outside, on the road, by himself at seven o'clock this morning?”

“He was a runner,” said Charlotte. “Andrew ran a couple of miles every morning before work. He's been doing it for years.”

“How many people were aware of his schedule?”

March looked perplexed. He glanced at Charlotte. She shrugged.

“I would think there'd be any number of people,” March said finally. “The neighbors, or anyone else who drives this road frequently at that time of day. Friends of his and other runners. He liked to compete in mini-marathons when he had the time. Andrew ran track in high school, so that's how many years he's been going out to run every morning.”

I hadn't realized that the incident had taken place so early. “It would have just been getting light then,” I said.

Wygod inclined his head in my direction.

“Maybe the driver never saw him. Maybe he was hit by accident.”

“We don't believe that's the case.”

“Why not?” asked March.

“There are several reasons. Aside from the fact that the driver left the scene, Andrew March was also wearing a reflective vest and shoes. So he should have been very visible even at that time of day. In addition, there are no skid marks or evasive tire tracks, nothing to indicate that the driver tried in any way to avoid hitting him. And on top of that . . .” Wygod paused.

“Go ahead,” March said gruffly. “I want to hear all of it.”

“He was wearing a runner's armband that was meant to hold a cell phone, but the phone itself was missing.”

March closed his eyes briefly and drew in a breath. He sighed heavily. “Andrew always had his phone with him. Always. He wouldn't have left the house without it.”

I'd been clinging to the hope that Andrew's death was nothing more than a tragic mistake. But the implications of that piece of news were definitely damning.

“You think that someone ran him down, stopped the car, and went back to make sure that he was dead,” I said quietly.

Wygod nodded. “Either that or they saw he was still breathing, and removed the phone so he couldn't call for help.”

March had been sitting upright, elbows braced on the table. But now he leaned back in his chair, and his shoulders slumped. He seemed to crumple in upon himself.

“What kind of animal could do such a thing?” he asked.

“That's what we intend to find out.” Wygod withdrew a small notebook and pen from an inner pocket. “If it's all right, I have a few more questions for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Your son was president and COO of March Homes. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“A company you started.”

“Correct.”

“And you are now retired?”

“Nominally, I'm the CEO. But Andrew has been running March Homes for several years.”

“Is the company experiencing any problems . . . financial trouble, union issues, administrative difficulties . . . anything at all?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

Wygod made a small notation, then changed the subject. “Your son isn't married. Is that correct?”

“No. Never has been.”

“Current girlfriend?”

“I'm sure there is one. I wouldn't know who she is. Like I said, Andrew and I both like our privacy.”

Wygod looked around the table, including Charlotte and me in the question. I had no idea. I'd only just met Andrew, and I said so.

“There was Julia,” Charlotte said hesitantly.

March looked at her and frowned. “They broke up.”

“When was that?” asked Wygod.

“Before Christmas.”

That sounded pretty current to me. The detective must have agreed.

“Last name?” he asked.

March only glowered.

After a moment, Charlotte answered again. “Davis. She lives in Norwalk.”

Wygod made another note.

“What about the car?” I asked as an uncomfortable silence stretched between us. “The one that hit Andrew. Wouldn't it be likely to need a repair?”

“We would expect so,” Wygod agreed. “But unfortunately, so far we've found nothing at the scene to indicate a make or model, or even the color of the vehicle. Between Fairfield, New Haven, and Westchester Counties you're talking about several hundred repair shops, all within easy driving distance. We might as well be searching for a needle in a haystack.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. That was no help.

The detective turned back to Mr. March. “We're going to need access to your son's house, as well as his computers both at home and at work.”

“Of course,” March replied. “I'll call the office. And Charlotte can let you into his cottage whenever you want.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your cooperation. Before I go, I'd like each of you to consider carefully for a minute. Is there anything I haven't asked that you think I ought to know? Do any of you have any idea why someone would have wanted to harm Andrew March?”

I shook my head quickly. Edward and Charlotte were slower to answer, but the end result was the same.

Wygod pushed back his chair and stood up. “Thank you for your time. There is just one more thing. Where were each of you between seven and seven thirty this morning?”

I'd expected him to ask the question. I knew it had to happen eventually. And even though I knew I'd had nothing to do with Andrew's death, when the detective's steel-gray eyes stared in my direction, I still flushed and felt guilty.

“At home,” I said. “Getting an eleven-year-old ready for the school bus.”

“And home is where?”

“Stamford.”

You do the math,
I thought. But I didn't say it out loud.

“Home as well,” said Charlotte. “In Fairfield. I was just getting ready to leave. I start work here at eight. Your officers out on the road saw me arrive for the day.”

“And you, sir?”

I'd felt guilty answering the question. March sounded annoyed. “Upstairs in bed. Right where I was supposed to be.”

“Asleep?”

“Of course.”

Charlotte walked Detective Wygod out. As the two of them left the room, I got up to follow.

“You'll come back,” said March. It was a statement, not a question. “Wednesday will do.”

The schedule we'd agreed upon previously had called for us to work together three days a week. But considering the morning's events, everything was different now. It had to be. Surely, March didn't intend to go right back to work on his book.

“I don't get around like I used to,” he continued. “I'm going to need someone to be my eyes and ears.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I know that the police will do their job. They'll go around and ask people where they live and what time they went to bed. Maybe they'll find the right answers, or maybe they won't. But either way, their salaries will still get paid. I'll tell you something I learned a long time ago. Never trust a civil servant to do something that you can do yourself.

“Andrew and I didn't always get along, but he was my son. I want to know what happened to him, dammit. Who did he get mixed up with that would do such a terrible thing? My brain is every bit as sharp as it ever was, and I refuse to just sit around and wait for somebody else to get to work figuring things out. All I need is a better pair of legs. That's where you come in.”

“Me?” I said faintly.

“Think about it.” March flapped his hand in the air, shooing me toward the door. “No need to give me an answer now. We'll talk on Wednesday.”

 

When I got home, I found out that Sam had called in reinforcements. Aunt Peg was coming to dinner.

“How did that happen?” I asked.

“When you left this morning, I was half convinced you were only going to see March so that you could quit in person. Then I get a cryptic phone call telling me that instead of a quick visit, you're going to be in Westport half the day. So something must have gone wrong.”

Sam paused and lifted a brow, waiting for me to fill in the blanks.