Jingle Bell Bark (21 page)

“She walked in uninvited?” That didn't sound like Aunt Peg. Well, on second thought, it did but—

“No, not uninvited!” Betty's voice rose. “She rang the bell and I asked her in. Just like any neighborly person would do.” Her glare went to my front door, reminding me that I'd been remiss earlier. “I thought maybe there was something she needed, something I could help with. That was before I knew she was on a mission.”

Aunt Peg on a mission. Those were words to strike fear into even the most intrepid heart.

Oh lordy, lordy. We were all in trouble now.

“U
mm,” I said, scooting forward to the edge of my seat.

“What exactly was her mission?”

“She said”—Betty's voice quivered with outrage—“that she was investigating Henry's murder. As if that woman looks like any sort of detective. Who hired her to do that? That's what I'd like to know.”

Wouldn't we all? I thought with a sigh.

“What did Aunt Peg want from you?” I asked.

“Information. All sorts of information. And answers to hundreds of questions. She had a list.”

Hundreds, I doubted. Dozens? Probably.

Thankfully, I was saved from having to reply. Davey reappeared; the Poodles were with him. He'd also brought along a bag of Oreos. No napkins, no plate, no drinks. But hey, he's only eight—at least he'd offered the cookies rather than eating them all himself.

“What's the matter with that dog?” Betty was staring, rather rudely, at Eve.

Eve, on the other hand, was staring rather rudely at the bag of Oreos Davey had placed on the table. Somehow I didn't think that Betty was referring to my Poodle's bad manners.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Has she had surgery? Is that why she's clipped like that?”

“It's called a continental trim,” Davey said around a mouthful of cookie. “Eve wears her hair like that so she can go to dog shows. Pretty soon she's going to finish her championship and when she does, Mom will cut her coat off so she can look like a normal dog again.”

“I see.” Betty reached for the bag. “Can she have a cookie?”

“No.” Quickly I moved between them. “It will only encourage her to beg, and besides, the chocolate isn't good for her. Davey, why don't you take the Poodles back to the kitchen and give them a biscuit?”

“That means you want to talk like grown-ups, right?” Davey grumbled.

“Right.” Not much gets past that kid.

“One of Henry's dogs was a show dog, too,” Betty said as the entourage filed out of the room. “I can never remember which one.”

“Pepper. He came from a breeder named Cindy Marshall whose Golden Retrievers have done lots of winning.”

“That's right. I never actually met the woman, but I remember seeing her around.”

That made me sit up and pay attention. “Seeing her around?” I repeated casually.

“You know, in the neighborhood.”

“I think you might have her mixed up with someone else. Cindy lives in New Jersey.”

Betty didn't look happy to be corrected. “It's not like New Jersey is the other end of the world. She has a car, doesn't she? Skinny lady, brown hair, kind of tweedy? Henry told me about her once, seeing as how Pepper had come from such a famous place and all. He was absolutely dotty about those dogs.”

I had to admit, that did sound like Cindy.

“She used to come and visit Henry sometimes. Not a lot, mind you, but every so often. Enough so that someone who was paying attention might notice.”

And I was guessing that Betty had been paying attention.

“Did you tell Aunt Peg about this?” I asked.

“Nope.”

Aunt Peg must have asked. With her long list of questions, I couldn't imagine she hadn't. “How come?”

“For one thing,” Betty said with a snort. “She didn't offer me any cookies. And for another, I didn't like her attitude. Trying to pump me for information. Telling me that as Henry's neighbor I was in a good position to see what was going on over at his house. She made me feel like some sort of Peeping Tom.”

“I'm sure she didn't mean for her questions to sound insulting,” I said, feeling faintly amused. Aunt Peg was accustomed to bulldozing her way through opposition; in Betty Bowen, she'd finally met someone her scare tactics had failed to impress.

“You wouldn't say that if you had been there. What I see or don't see around the neighborhood is my own business.”

She reached in the bag and came out with two more cookies, one for each hand. Who knew that Oreos would be such a big hit?

“Of course it's your business. I'm sure Peg just assumed that you would want to help catch Henry's killer.”

Betty frowned. “Don't get me wrong. I'm as civic minded as the next person. But this whole episode has me all shook up. I haven't seen this much excitement in years, and frankly I don't think too much excitement is good for a person.”

I pulled the bag of cookies over and helped myself. Betty just kept talking.

“First there was the ambulance. Then the police started asking questions. Then you and your friend came knocking at my door. With all the activity going on, you'd have thought my house had turned into Grand Central Station.”

“I can see how that might have been upsetting for you.”

“And that was only the beginning. The police have been back a couple of times. Not to mention the reporters that have been sniffing around. And there's been extra traffic on the road, too... ghouls driving past to have a look at the ‘murder house.' ” Betty shivered in her seat. “It's enough to give anyone the shakes.”

“I'm sure Henry would have been sorry for all the trouble he's caused you,” I said.

Not that I knew any such thing, but it seemed like what Betty wanted to hear. I'm always surprised when people treat someone else's death as a personal inconvenience. Like the murder victim should have been more considerate of everyone's feelings.

“Tell you the truth,” said Betty, “it's not me I'm worried about, it's Johnny. He can be a little... antisocial, if you know what I mean.”

“Peg and I met Johnny the other week,” I said. He wasn't the friendliest teenager I'd ever run across, but he hadn't behaved horribly either. “He lent us the key to Henry's house.”

“Johnny's a good boy. It's just that with his father gone, he feels as though he has to be the man of the house. Like it's his job to protect me and make sure nothing goes wrong. All those people nosing around, they begin to make him nervous. My Johnny's a bit on the nervous side anyway, so none of this is good for him. I keep telling him it doesn't matter, that sooner or later all these people will go away, but he doesn't want to listen.”

“And Aunt Peg's second visit didn't help.”

“You can say that again.”

No need. I figured we'd both gotten the point. Betty must have as well, because she gathered up her coat and stood. “I tried to tell your aunt that I was grateful for what she's done. Those dogs needed a place to go, and she was a safe haven in a storm of trouble. But beyond offering my thanks, there's really nothing else Johnny and I can do for her. You'll be sure and pass that message along, won't you?”

Me, tell Aunt Peg to butt out? What a novel concept.

Betty's confidence in my abilities was touching. Misplaced, but touching nonetheless. She was still munching cookies as she let herself out.

So you might be thinking that after a visit like that I might immediately call Aunt Peg and tell her to leave the business of investigating Henry Pruitt's murder to the police. I considered doing that, honestly I did. For about a minute and a half. Because, really, what would have been the point? Aunt Peg never listens to anything I say. Unless it's something she wants to hear; in that case, she's all ears.

Instead I did what any self-respecting mother of an eight-year-old would do two weeks before Christmas—I got on with my life. Tuesday after school, Davey and I finally went out and bought a Christmas tree. The one we chose wasn't big but it was perfectly formed and lush with pine needles. Best of all, it smelled divine. We brought the tree home strapped to the top of the Volvo and left it sitting outside in a bucket of water until we'd have time to decorate it over the weekend.

At least I managed to get some roping twined around the mailbox and the wreath fastened to the front door. In a neighborhood where most houses twinkled with lights, and several had oversized Santas or herds of reindeer decorating their porches and lawns it didn't look like much, but it was better than nothing.

Wednesday afternoon found me once again sitting in the back of the auditorium, watching the end of play practice. Nearly two weeks had passed since I'd seen a rehearsal and things really seemed to be coming together. At least none of the sheep fell off the stage.

As things were wrapping up, Alice slid into a seat beside me. “I've been thinking,” she whispered as she unwound her scarf and pulled off her gloves. “Maybe you're right.”

“About what?”

She shot me an exasperated look. “How can you even ask that?”

Easy, I thought. And if Alice had had any idea how much of a juggling act my life currently was, she'd have understood. Alice was busy too, but having a husband who was the sole breadwinner had to take some of the pressure off. As did not having an aunt who liked to get mixed up in mysteries. I'd be willing to bet the Brickmans' tree was up and their house fully decorated. She'd probably even managed to bake several batches of cookies for the third grade Christmas party, while I'd be reduced to running out and buying fruit punch at the last minute.

But rather than mentioning any of that, I cast my thoughts back to Alice's and my last conversation, which had been about... oh right, puppies. Specifically, the puppy she was planning on getting from Rebecca Morehouse to surprise her kids on Christmas day. How could I have forgotten that?

“I talked to Rebecca again,” Alice said in a low tone.

“And?”

“Since you were being all pissy about me getting a puppy from her—”

“I was
not
being pissy.”

“You were so. Don't even bother to deny it. So I began to think maybe you had a reason. After all, you'd brought up some good questions. Like about socializing young puppies and genetic testing for the parents. And I figured if that was the kind of thing that reputable Golden Retriever breeders were doing, then Rebecca ought to be doing it, too. So I asked her about it.”

That must have been interesting, I thought.

“And what did she say?”

“Frankly, she wasn't too pleased. At first, she just kind of tried to brush me off. But I persisted. I mean, this is going to be my kids' pet, so I want to get the best puppy I can find.”

So Alice
had
been listening. It was nice to know that some of the things I'd said had made an impression.

“Rebecca said of course her litters were well socialized. Her puppies got to go for rides in the car and get handled by all sorts of kids....”

“As a selling tool,” I muttered.

“Yeah, I know. When I really stopped and thought about it, it didn't sound like the greatest idea to me either. So I checked on the other stuff you talked about. I asked about the sire and dam and what sort of testing they'd had done.”

“Was there any?”

“No.” Alice sighed. “Though Rebecca had a good reason for that. She said she didn't do any genetic testing because she'd never had any problems in her line. Like x-rays for hip dysplasia. Apparently they're hard to do, and on top of that they're uncomfortable for the dog. So most breeders don't bother with them unless they think there's something wrong.”

“That's a lot of bullshit,” I said.

Alice folded and unfolded her hands in her lap. “I was afraid you might say that. So I called Dr. Harrison at the animal clinic and I asked him. He gave me a whole list of tests that he said anyone considering buying a Golden Retriever should be aware of. I ran the list past Rebecca and her dogs hadn't had any of them. Ever.”

No surprise there, I thought. It was nothing short of amazing how many lazy or unscrupulous breeders tried to get away with the “not in my line” defense. How did they know what genetic problems might or might not be lurking in their breeding program if they refused to test for them?

That would especially be the case with a breeder like Rebecca who sold all her puppies at a young age and promptly lost track of them. By the time the dogs were old enough for problems to develop, they would be out of her sight and, presumably, her thoughts. Then it would be up to the poor, uninformed puppy buyers to spend untold amounts of time, money, and emotion dealing with the health problems Rebecca had created. The thought of that kind of carelessness just made my blood boil.

“Good for Dr. Harrison,” I said. “And good for you for checking with him.”

“Yes, well... I probably should have listened to you sooner. It was just that the puppies were
so
cute and the thought of having one for Christmas day made me feel like I was doing something really special for the kids.”