Jingle Bell Bark (29 page)

“Good. Best thing for you.” I held her until the spasms had passed, then stood up and pulled out my cell phone.

“Hey! What do you think you're doing?” Betty dove toward me, reaching for the phone.

I held it away, blocked her with my other hand, and punched out nine-one-one. “I'm calling for help.”

“Too late for that now. By the time anyone gets here, you'll both be gone.”

“No, we won't,” I said. “I never drank any of your poison. And I'm going to get my aunt to the hospital where they can fix what you've done to her.”

“No!” Betty screamed. She lifted the thermos and brought it crashing down on my arm.

Busy with the phone, concerned for Aunt Peg, I didn't see the attack coming. My fault for not taking a woman twenty years older than me seriously as an adversary. Pain shot up my arm; tears sprang to my eyes. My fingers flew open. The cell phone hit the hardwood floor, bounced, and skittered away.

Before I could go after it, the older woman was upon me. One of her hands grasped my neck. The fingers of the other clawed at my eyes. Desperation had lent her surprising strength.

I tried to retreat, but I couldn't; Aunt Peg was on the floor beside me, the banister was at my back. There was nothing to do but grab Betty's hands and try to wrestle her away. Both feet braced, she didn't budge.

Her nails raked down the side of my face. I felt the skin tear. I scrambled for a hold of her wrists. She twisted and swore. An elbow jabbed into my stomach. Then she was pushing me away, my back bending painfully over the railing.

Betty had the leverage I needed. As one foot left the ground, I realized what she meant to do. Aunt Peg had drunk the tainted cider; I would die from a fall down the stairs.

Until that realization hit me, I hadn't actually believed I would have to hurt her. I'd been trying to push her away, not inflict harm. But now I was fighting for my life, and my desperation matched hers.

I grasped Betty's arms and tried to shove her aside. She didn't move much, but it was enough for me to regain my balance. I got both feet back on the floor; my back pushed hard against the banister. When she launched herself at me again, I was ready.

And I was angry. We were wasting precious time. I needed to be getting help for Aunt Peg, not grappling in a hallway with a madwoman. As Betty came at me, I threw myself to the side, twisting in the air to reach back and shove her away.

She flew past me and hit the rail heavily, grunting with the impact. Briefly, her startled eyes met mine. Then momentum carried her further. Arms pinwheeling in the air, Betty overbalanced. For a split second, she teetered on the lip of the railing.

Scrambling back, I tried to reach her. My fingers grasped only air as her legs flipped up and Betty somersaulted over the edge. She landed with a heavy thump on the stairs below, her body rolling like a limp bundle of old clothes until she'd reached the landing at the bottom.

Heart racing, gasping for breath, I gazed downward through the uprights. Betty lay sprawled on the floor below. She wasn't moving.

Aunt Peg was next to me on the floor. Her dark eyes fluttered open. “I don't feel very well,” she murmured.

“I know,” I said, reaching for the phone. She didn't look very well either. “Help is coming.”

“Tell them to hurry,” she said.

T
o my enormous relief, an ambulance arrived within minutes. It was followed almost immediately by a police cruiser. Betty was lying in the front hall, moaning. I hurried the EMTs past her and up the stairs to Aunt Peg, explaining what had happened as we went. In no time, Peg was on her way to the hospital.

I wanted to go with her but too many things still needed to be sorted out with the police. I got Detective Marley on the phone and told him the story from start to finish. This time he was inclined to listen. The officers on the scene bagged the thermos as evidence. By the time I left. Henry's house, Marley was on his way and a search warrant was being obtained for the Bowen residence. Johnny hadn't returned yet; the officers were planning to detain him when he did.

I sped to the hospital behind the second ambulance carrying Betty Bowen. Aunt Peg's stomach had already been pumped when I arrived and she'd been given an antidote to the ethylene glycol. Since she had already thrown up much of the antifreeze she'd ingested, the doctors were confident of her full recovery.

Betty wasn't so lucky. The fall had broken her hip, her collarbone, and one of her legs. Those bones would mend, but her other troubles were only beginning. When she awoke at the hospital, she claimed to have no memory of the events Detective Marley was anxious to question her about. In the meantime, however, her house had been searched and her fingerprints lifted from the thermos carrying the deadly liquid that had killed Henry Pruitt and nearly done the same to Aunt Peg. The search also turned up a cache of drugs, enough to bring an indictment against Johnny as well.

According to what I read in the newspaper over the next several weeks, the police were considering exhuming Betty's husband's body. With new technology now available, they could check for traces of ethylene glycol to determine his actual cause of death. It was looking as though it would be a long time before either of the Bowens would be causing problems in the neighborhood again.

Aunt Peg was released from the hospital in time to attend Davey's Christmas pageant. Ably directed by Rebecca Morehouse, the play went off without a hitch. Nobody fell from the stage, no one lost any teeth. Davey remembered both his lines and performed them at the top of his lungs. Sam, sitting between me and Aunt Peg in the audience, captured Davey's acting debut on his video camera.

Alice Brickman, with Peg's help, had finally found a Christmas puppy that met everyone's approval. She was planning to wrap up a collar and dog bowl along with a picture of the Golden Retriever she'd reserved from Cindy Marshall and leave them under the tree with the rest of the presents. The new puppy, already named Berkeley, would be delivered a few days later after the holiday excitement had died down.

The year before, there'd been a Christmas gathering at Aunt Peg's. This time it was my turn to play hostess. I'd finally gotten the rest of the decorations up; even Faith was wearing a red bow that Davey had tied around her neck.

Sam and Bob both arrived early. Each slipped several gaily wrapped packages under the Christmas tree. If I hadn't been busy attending to last-minute details, I'd have gone and had a look. Instead I finished basting the turkey and watched as Davey showed off his new train set.

Aunt Peg arrived next, looking robust and inordinately cheerful. Henry's daughters had struck out on eBay when their auction closed without a single bid. Their father's murder solved, both women had been anxious to return home for the holidays. Before they left, they'd finally agreed that Aunt Peg could dispose of Remington and Pepper as she saw fit. Like the Brickmans' new puppy, Henry's Goldens would be going to their new home in early January. Upon her arrival, Peg checked to make sure that I wasn't serving cider, then helped herself to some eggnog and found a seat on the couch.

Aunt Rose and Uncle Peter called to say they were running late, so the next time the doorbell rang we all knew who to expect. Everyone crowded into the front hall to welcome Bertie and Frank and the new baby to her first Christmas celebration. Scarcely more than a week old, Emma seemed remarkably unimpressed by all the fuss. In fact, she slept through most of it.

“Don't worry,” said Frank. “She'll make up for it later tonight.”

“I can't imagine why I ever thought of sleep as a waste of time,” said Bertie. “Now I fantasize about it. Eight long, uninterrupted hours. Just the thought sounds like heaven.”

Davey stood on his toes to peer at Emma, who was cradled in her mother's arms. He'd seen her in the hospital but this was the first time he'd been close enough to touch. His hand reached tentatively, grazing her smooth pink cheek. “Can I hold her?” he asked.

The adults glanced at one another over Davey's head. He'd been wonderful with Faith's puppies, I thought, but a baby was entirely different. Especially one this new. I could understand if Emma's parents felt reluctant.

But Bertie didn't even hesitate. “Certainly,” she said. “She's your cousin. The two of you should start getting to know one another.”

“Come sit with me on the couch,” said Aunt Peg. “Then Bertie can put her into your arms.”

“You're afraid I'll drop her.” Davey stuck out his lower lip. “You don't think I'll be careful enough. That's why you're making me sit.”

Aunt Peg looped an arm around Davey's shoulder and led him into the living room. “Let me tell you something,” she whispered. “They made me sit down the first time, too.”

“They did?” Davey was suitably impressed by that information. He knew nobody bossed Aunt Peg around. “I guess it's okay then.”

Davey got settled on the cushions, then held his hands out wide. Sam disappeared and came back a moment later with a camera. Gently Bertie lowered the sleeping infant into Davey's arms.

I could tell she was heavier than he'd expected. Bertie adjusted Emma's blanket and showed Davey how to support her head. He tried several positions, maneuvering until he had her just right. Then he exhaled a sigh and held the baby to him as though she was the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen.

“Smile,” said Sam. The request was superfluous. Davey was already beaming.

The camera flashed and Emma opened her eyes. For a moment, she screwed up her face as though she was going to cry. Her tiny fist waved in the air. Then her eyes locked with Davey's and her expression relaxed. Her fingers closed around his thumb and held on tight. Her blue eyes blinked; her ruby lips pursed in a smile of her own.

“Perfect,” Sam said in a hushed voice. The camera flashed again, the light reflecting in dozens of shiny ornaments on the Christmas tree.

Perfect indeed, I thought.

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“
I
'll tell you the secret to happiness,” said Aunt Peg. “It's this: Never grow old.”

I looked at my aunt, who'd turned sixty-three on her last birthday. From my vantage point three decades younger, that seemed pretty old to me. I resisted the impulse to say what I was thinking, but my discretion didn't help. Aunt Peg was able to read minds, or something close to it.

And not just mine, either. Peg always seemed to know what her big black Standard Poodles were thinking. She had six of them, all retired show champions, all related to my two, Faith and Eve. Now she gazed pointedly in my direction and lifted a brow.

Faith, who was lying under my chair with her long muzzle resting on my foot, cringed slightly and turned her face away, as if maybe she didn't want to witness what was coming next. I think she can read minds, too. When it came to psychic ability, I seemed to be the only one who had gotten left out.

“Age,” Aunt Peg said loftily, “is merely a number on a calendar. What matters is how you feel inside. The enthusiasm and curiosity with which you greet each new day. The boundless energy you devote to the things that interest you.”

“Boundless energy?” I repeated. I may have sunk lower in my chair. The mere notion of trying to muster such a thing seemed like entirely too much effort.

We were having this conversation at five o'clock on a Thursday afternoon. I'd already put in a full day of work, attending to my job as a special needs tutor at Howard Academy in Greenwich. My eight-year-old son, Davey, was at spring soccer practice. My new husband, Sam, would be picking him up and bringing him home within the hour. I was supposed to be cooking dinner.

Instead, I was planted at my kitchen table, hands wrapped around an oversize mug of fully caffeinated coffee. Aunt Peg had her usual tea. Sprawled on the floor around us were five Standard Poodles of various ages. My two plus the three Sam had brought with him when he'd moved in three weeks earlier. My house was small and cozy. There wasn't nearly enough room to accommodate five large dogs, not to mention an extra adult. No matter how badly Davey and I both wanted him there.

So far, Sam and my marriage—which had begun with a spur-of-the-moment elopement to Vermont over spring break—had all the elements of a three-ring circus: thrills, chills, laughter, and suspense. Oh, yes, and great sex.

Okay, so maybe it was better than most circuses I'd been to.

Still, it was a challenge to comprehend how this was all going to come together. And combining two households might prove to be the least of our worries. I was thirty-four and had been a single parent for most of the last eight years. Sam was two years older, previously divorced, no children. Both of us were accustomed to living life on our own terms, keeping to our own schedules, and, for the most part, answering to nobody but ourselves. Both of us were willing to compromise; we just hadn't figured out yet how to make everything work.

And the cramped living quarters, which had the eight of us—Poodles included, naturally—constantly tripping over one another, weren't helping.

“All right, maybe not boundless,” Aunt Peg said. She peered at me closely. “And here I thought marriage to Sam would be good for you. Are you sure you're getting enough sleep?”

There we were, I thought, back to that great sex thing again.

“I'm fine, I chirped, straightening in my seat. ”Quite fine.-Positively fine.”

“Well, if you don't mind my saying so, you look like hell.”

As if my minding would have stopped her. As if my objections to anything Aunt Peg proposed ever slowed her down for even a minute.

“No, I'm just regrouping,” I said. “Conserving my energy for later. Faith and I are going to our first obedience class tonight.”

“Oh, really? I'd forgotten all about that.”

Aunt Peg thinks she's a good liar. At one point in my life, when I knew her less well, I had thought so, too. Now, however, I can spot her ulterior motives a mile away. And this impromptu chat, occasioned by Peg showing up at my door with a box of cinnamon buns in her hands and an innocent expression on her face, had all the earmarks of an inquisition.

“Tell me again,” she said casually, “why you decided Faith needed a second career in obedience.”

This would be after the Poodle's first career as a show dog. Faith, like Aunt Peg's Standards, was a show ring champion. She had also recently become the dam of a champion when Peg had finished Zeke, a puppy from Faith's first litter. Eve was Zeke's littermate, and she was working toward her championship as well. So far, she had amassed twelve of the fifteen points necessary to earn her title. With luck, I would have her finished by summer.

“Instead of something fun,” Aunt Peg continued, “like say . . . agility?”

Agility—dogs and their owners racing pell-mell around a course of obstacles, trying to beat the clock while running through tunnels, in and out of weave poles, and over jumps—did look like fun. It was also currently all the rage. Obedience trials, on the other hand, had been around for decades. That sport was more disciplined and exacting. When done correctly, it did not involve any running, or yelling, or fits of helpless laughter.

Aunt Peg was doing agility with Hope, Faith's sister. And, as always, she expected me to follow in her footsteps.

Except that, for the first time, I was putting my foot down.

“Obedience,” I said firmly. “Faith and I are going to have a great time.”

“But she's already obedient. For one thing, she's a Standard Poodle, which means that she was born knowing ten times more than your basic retriever or terrier.”

You'll have to forgive my aunt. She loves all dogs; she truly does. But in her heart of hearts, she's totally Poodle-centric.

“Plus, the very fact that she was a show dog means that she's already learned to do all sorts of things: she comes, she stands, she stays. She walks beautifully on a leash.”

I nodded in agreement. “That's why we're not starting in the beginner class. I spoke with the instructor about it when I signed up. Even though Faith and I don't have any background in obedience, Steve was fairly confident that being in the novice group would bore us silly. Tonight's class is for the more advanced dog and handler teams, those who already know the basics and are working toward a degree. We'll have to play catch-up, obviously, but since Poodles are such quick learners, Steve was sure that after a couple of weeks we'd fit right in.”

“You'd fit right into my agility class, too.” Like a foxhound on a fresh scent, Aunt Peg hated to give up.

“But that's just it. It would be
your
agility class. And once again you would have excelled at something before I even had a chance to try.”

It wasn't that I resented Aunt Peg's success in the dog show world. Quite the contrary, I was in awe of all she'd accomplished. Her Cedar Crest Standard Poodles were known nationwide for their wonderful quality, their superb temperaments, and their excellent health. For three decades, she had produced and managed a line of dogs with which anyone would have been proud to be associated. More recently, Aunt Peg had turned her hand toward judging, and with assignments coming in from all over the country, she was quickly making a name for herself in that arena, too.

In the dog show world, most people knew me first as Margaret Turnbull's niece. Even though I'd worked hard for the things I'd accomplished, I knew there were competitors who felt that I'd never paid my dues, that my success was due to Aunt Peg's influence. And the worst part was, I wasn't sure that the critics were entirely wrong.

Faith, my first Poodle, had come from Aunt Peg, after all. She wasn't the medium-quality dog most beginners have to contend with, but rather, a beautiful Standard Poodle who'd finished her championship easily, despite my inept handling. Aunt Peg had steered me toward the better judges and told me which ones to avoid. She'd taught me how to clip and blow-dry, then set the lines on Faith's trims, and cleaned up my fumbling attempts at scissoring.

I was enormously grateful for everything Aunt Peg had done for me. But where Poodles and dog shows were concerned, I'd been standing in her shadow from the very beginning. It was time for me to try something on my own—an enterprise where Aunt Peg's name wouldn't open any doors or smooth my way along, where Faith and my success or failure would be based solely on our own merits.

“Obedience,” I said firmly.

Aunt Peg looked surprised by my conviction. That made two of us. Or three, if you counted Faith. She glanced up at me, then placed her muzzle back into position on my foot. Nothing like a gesture of support from the peanut gallery.

And the decision was made.

Which didn't prevent me from having to defend it once again over dinner. I'd had a pot roast sitting in the Crock-pot all day while I was at school, so coming up with the rest of the meal was pretty easy. Aunt Peg left just as the men in my life were arriving home. I'd invited her to stay for dinner, but she declined. Having lived alone except for her Poodles since her husband, Max, had died several years earlier, I think she found the chaos inherent in our current living situation to be a little overwhelming.

Unfortunately, she wasn't the only one.

Sam and Peg greeted each other at the door, then he walked her outside to her car. Davey, predictably, raced straight for the kitchen. Since he was still wearing cleats and shin guards, the clatter he made on the wooden floors got Sam's three Poodles—who weren't used to living with a child yet—up and barking. Faith and Eve knew full well there wasn't anything to get excited about, but bowing to peer pressure, they joined in anyway.

A full minute passed before the din quieted and I could even get a word in. “How was soccer practice?” I asked, directing the question to my son's back. His head was stuck in the refrigerator.

“Great.” Details weren't Davey's forte. He didn't bother to turn around. “When's dinner? I'm starving.”

“Soon. Wash your hands and set the table.”

“If I do, can I have a sticky bun?” His eyes lit on the remains of Aunt Peg's bounty, sitting on the counter where she'd left them behind.

“After dinner,” I said.

“What's after dinner?” Sam asked. He walked up behind me and slipped his arms around my waist. I leaned back into him and our bodies fit together effortlessly.

It had always been that way between us. Right from the beginning, there'd been that frisson of awareness, that undeniable attraction, whenever we were together. It had taken us three years, one broken engagement, and a host of other complications before we'd managed to get ourselves married.

Looking back, I wondered what had taken us so long.

“Cinnamon buns,” I said, prudently neglecting to mention that I'd already eaten two myself. “Aunt Peg left one for each of us.”

Sam and Davey quickly set the table while I prepared the plates. The Poodles milled around our legs in a happy state of confusion. All of them, Sam's and my dogs alike, knew better than to beg for food. But that didn't stop them from wanting to be on hand in case something should happen to fall on the floor.

Like the humans in their house, the Poodles hadn't had quite enough time yet to meld into a cohesive pack. Sam's three had to be wondering about their change of abode, which had brought with it cramped living arrangements and the necessity of sharing their person with others. Faith and Eve were accustomed to having Sam around. They just weren't entirely sure about welcoming three canine interlopers into their space. But Poodles are nothing if not adaptable, and so far, the crew was making do with typical elan.

Sam and I had already begun house hunting; finding a more appropriate home for our blended family had been the first thing on our agenda upon our return from Vermont. Sam's house was bigger than mine, but it was also half an hour north in Redding. With Davey happily ensconced in a nearby Stamford elementary school, and my job in Greenwich an easy commute away, it had seemed the best decision was to wedge ourselves into Davey and my small cape for the time being.

It was a decision I was trying not to regret more than once or twice a day.

“Don't forget I have class tonight,” I said, when the pot roast had been served and eaten and we were all munching happily on warm, gooey cinnamon buns. Sam and Davey had been discussing whether there'd be time to fit a game of Scrabble in around Davey's homework.