Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery) (14 page)

I
didn’t get a lot of sleep on Monday night.

The third time I got up and went prowling around the house, checking the locks on windows and doors and flipping on the outside lights to scan the yard, Faith slipped down off Davey’s bed and came to keep me company. Together we padded through the quiet rooms. As always, the comfort and support her presence offered made me feel much better.

We ended up on the living-room couch: me reading Harry Potter and drinking hot chocolate; Faith resting her muzzle on my knee and snoring softly. I must have begun to doze around dawn. By the time Davey came tearing down the steps in his pajamas at seven-thirty looking for Faith, I’d managed to sleep through my own alarm, which, once awake, I could hear buzzing in my bedroom upstairs.

Oops.

I put Faith outside, told Davey to choose his own clothes, unwrapped a couple of Pop-Tarts, threw them in the microwave, and called it breakfast. My shower took two minutes; I brushed my teeth even faster. Davey made the bus, but just barely. His outfit was eye-catching: sweater, sweatpants, socks, and turtleneck, all in varying shades of his favorite color, red. Good thing his teacher had a sense of humor.

Of course, I missed the first bell at Howard Academy. Luckily, Russell Hanover wasn’t around to witness my transgression. The headmaster seemed to have a sixth sense about things like that. The few times he’d caught me running late were memorable enough for me not to want to make a habit of it.

Still, I knew I was probably doomed to spend the day playing catch-up. Then Bertie appeared unexpectedly during third period and undid all the rest of my plans, too.

When she arrived, a fifth-grader named Sydney Kelly and I were busy outlining a book report. A hellion on the soccer field, Sydney expended more energy lacing her sneakers than she devoted to her school work. Her father was a Wall Street wizard who contributed often and generously to the Howard Academy endowment fund.

Though our esteemed headmaster claimed not to be influenced by such considerations, Mr. Hanover was quite sure that all Sydney needed was a little special attention to bring her grades up to speed. As you can probably tell, what special needs tutor means in the public school sector and what it connotes in the rarefied world of Greenwich private academies are often two entirely different things.

The distinction was probably lost on Bertie, who came bursting into my classroom as though a pack of Bloodhounds was on her trail. I looked up as the door flew open.

“I have to talk to you!”

“Now?”

“Now’s good,” Sydney offered.

What kid doesn’t like to see her studies interrupted?

I stood up from the table, pointing the fifth-grader firmly back toward the book we’d been scanning. Sure, like that was going to work.

“Bertie, what are you doing here? Why didn’t the office call me?”

“What office?” Obviously the checkin procedure had been lost on my sister-in-law-to-be. “I parked in the lot and came in through the back door. I’ve been sticking my head in every classroom I came to.”

I closed my eyes briefly, trying not to envision how much chaos that must have caused. When I opened them again, Bertie was still standing there. She was beginning to look impatient.

“Bertie, I’m in the middle of a session right now.”

“I can wait,” Sydney said helpfully.

I jabbed my finger down on the page. The child didn’t even glance at it. Why would she, when the show we were putting on was so much better?

“It’s important,” said Bertie.

“I should hope so.”

“You’ll never believe what just happened.” She strode across the room, pausing briefly to greet Faith, who was lying on a cedar chip bed near my desk.

“What?” asked Sydney.

Clearly I was losing this battle.

“Sydney, this is a friend of mine, Bertie Kennedy. Bertie, Sydney Kelly, who needs to get at least a
B
on this book report or the coach is going to take her off the middle school soccer team.”

“Hey,” said Bertie.

“Hey back.” Sydney grinned.

Bertie stopped beside the table. Her brow furrowed as her gaze settled on me. “You look like hell. Those pouches under your eyes could hide a baby kangaroo. What’s the matter?”

“Late night.” I tried to shrug it off. “Early morning.”

“Not Bob again?”

“Who’s Bob?” asked Sydney.

At least she hadn’t commented on the kangaroo thing. A better teacher might have slipped in a quick lesson on metaphors, but right at the moment I wasn’t feeling up to it.

“No, not Bob. Other problems.”

“You think you’ve—”

I held up a warning hand. For once, Bertie paid attention. She stopped speaking and glanced at Sydney. The girl was watching us with the same sort of rapt attention most kids reserve for MTV.

“Sydney,” I said, “do you think you can work on your outline by yourself for a few minutes?”

“No.”

“Can you try?”

“Do I have to?”

“Do you want to play soccer?”

“I guess.” The pained expression she managed to arrange on her features didn’t bode well for the teenage years to come.

“We’ll be right over there.” I pointed to the back of the room. “This won’t take long.”

“That’s what you think,” Bertie muttered under her breath.

“What?” I asked as we walked away. “What could possibly be so important that you would drive all the way down to Greenwich—”

“Speaking of which,” Bertie interrupted, “do you know that your school office doesn’t put personal calls through to teachers unless it’s an emergency? Like life and death? Which, come to think of it, this almost is?”

Two chairs sat face to face beneath a map of the United States. I pulled one out and sat down. Calmly.

Bertie was exaggerating. She had to be. I decided to concentrate on the first part of what she’d said and ignore the last for now.

“I thought you said you didn’t know anything about the office.”

Her smile was sly. “Not exactly. What I meant to imply was that they didn’t know anything about me. Why do you think I came in the back door?”

I should have known.

“Is this about the wedding? Because if it is—”

“It’s about Sara.” Bertie sat down, then immediately shot to her feet again as if her news was too exciting to be contained in a seated position. “You’ll never guess what happened!”

I hate people who make me guess. I didn’t even try.

Looking annoyed, Bertie sat back down. Much more of this and I was going to get seasick.

“She called me this morning.”

I heard what she said, but the words didn’t make sense. Maybe it was the lack of sleep.

“Who?”

“Sara!” Bertie cast a quick glance at Sydney, who was pretending to read her book, then leaned closer and said, “You’ll never believe this—Sara isn’t dead. I just spoke to her an hour ago.”

“What do you mean she isn’t dead? Where is she?”

“Who isn’t dead?” Sydney piped up.

“Your English teacher,” Bertie said. “So get back to work before she comes in here, finds out you’ve been slacking off, and beats your butt.”

“Threatening children is out of fashion in today’s educational process,” I told Bertie.

“Yeah,” Sydney agreed, not looking cowed in the slightest.

I gave her the glare. You know the one. She pretended to go back to her book. Bertie shook her head, sucking back a grin. I hadn’t known her as a child, but I’d be willing to bet that she and Sydney had a lot in common.

I grabbed my chair and pulled it, scraping across the linoleum floor, until Bertie and I were sitting knee to knee. “What’s going on?” I demanded.

“Hell if I know. But whoever that body in the cottage belongs to, it’s not Sara, because she sounded fine when I spoke to her an hour ago.”

Even on second telling, the news sounded incredible.

“Are you sure it was Sara you were talking to?”

“Positive. And here’s the weird thing.”

Like the rest of this conversation was normal.

“When I picked up the phone, Sara said, “Hi, it’s me,” like she always does, and started telling me about some bands she was planning to audition. Like nothing was wrong at all.”

“She didn’t say why she’s been missing for more than a week? Or mention the fire that burned down her house? Or ask about her dog that she just about abandoned? Not to mention the dead body that everyone thinks is her?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. She didn’t talk about any of that.”

“Did you
ask?”

“How stupid do I look? Of course I asked. Sara just kind of sighed and said that there’d been a few complications in her life recently, but that I shouldn’t worry about a thing—the wedding was going to be fine.”

“A few complications?” Yeah, and Cujo was a misguided puppy. “What about that note she left for you? Did she explain what that was about?”

“It never came up.”

“It sounds like a lot of things never came up.”

“So sue me.” Bertie didn’t sound any happier about the situation than I was.

“But if the body in the cottage isn’t Sara . . .”

“Who is it?” she finished for me. “And how did it get there?”

“Oh my God,” I said abruptly. “You’ve got to call Sara’s parents. Aunt Peg saw Delilah yesterday, and she was trying to get dental records. The Warings still think Sara’s dead.”

“Sara said she’d been in touch with them.”

“When?”

“She was out of town over the weekend. It wasn’t until she got back late yesterday that she heard about what had happened. She said she contacted her parents right away.”

“Sara’s been out of town, or whatever she wants to call it, for more than a week,” I pointed out irritably. “Frankly, this whole thing seems really fishy. Did she give you a phone number where you could get in touch with her?”

Bertie shook her head. “She said she’d call me in a day or two when she had more wedding stuff to discuss.”

“The heck with the wedding. Did you tell her that you’d been worried about her? Did you mention the dozen messages you’d left on her machine, or the fact that you asked me to look for her?”

“I tried. But every time the conversation veered in that direction, she blew me off.”

“She won’t be able to blow off the police. Now that she’s more or less surfaced, I’d imagine they’re going to want to talk to her right away.”

Outside in the hallway, the bell chimed, signaling the end of third period.

“I’d better go,” said Bertie.

As if there was even the ghost of a chance that I’d be able to concentrate on schoolwork now.

She said good-bye to Faith and Sydney and slipped out of the room with much less fanfare than when she’d entered. I walked back over to the table where my student, whom I was supposed to have spent the last half hour helping, was gathering up her things.

“I am so sorry,” I said to Sydney. “I’ll talk to Miss Beck and explain what happened to your report.”

“Are you kidding?” The girl’s eyes were shining. “That was great. Do you really know someone who’s dead?”

“Not exactly.” I reached for her notebook. “There’s a woman whom everyone thought was dead, but it turns out she’s alive after all. That’s what Bertie came here to tell me.”

“Because you’ve been looking for her,” Sydney prompted.

Nothing wrong with this girl’s ears.

“Yes.” I flipped through the pages until I came to the one she’d been working on.

“That is so cool.”

Before Bertie arrived, Sydney and I had had time to do little more than discuss the outline format. Now the entire page was filled with a perfectly creditable chapter-by-chapter synopsis.

“So is this,” I said, handing the notebook back. “Nice job.”

Sydney slapped the pad shut and jammed it into her backpack. “It’s only schoolwork. It’s not like it’s that hard.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Keep up the good work.”

“Sure, Ms. Travis. You too.” As she shouldered her backpack and headed out of the room, I heard her say under her breath, “Looking for dead people. What a great job. That’s what I want to do when I grow up.”

Good luck, kid, I thought.

F
rank and Bob had offered to pick up Davey after school and take him over to the YMCA, where tryouts were being held for winter-league basketball. At Davey’s age, this part of the process is mostly a formality. The goals of the program are to teach the game, exercise good sportsmanship, and have fun; and every kid who shows up and wants to play gets put on a team.

Frank and Bob had decided between themselves that this was the sort of activity where a boy ought to be accompanied by the men in his family, and I was happy to agree. As a single mother, I’m all in favor of this male bonding thing. Besides, once the league was up and running, basketball games would be held weekly throughout the winter months, so I’d have plenty of opportunities to watch my son play.

Since Sara had turned out to be alive, I decided to table my trip to the police station and swing by Aunt Peg’s instead. I figured Sara could explain to the police for herself what she’d been up to, and Bertie’s news was simply too good to deliver to my aunt over the phone. Though I’ve had a modest amount of success uncovering murderers, this was the first time I’d ever had a murder victim return from the dead.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Aunt Peg said as I got out of the car.

I’d barely turned in the end of her long driveway before her front door opened and half a dozen Poodles came streaming down the steps. Slowing to a near crawl, I nudged the Volvo through the canine welcoming committee and parked beside the flagstone walk. Faith was standing on the front seat beside me, front paws braced against the dashboard, nose pressed to the windshield. When I opened my door, she hopped across my lap and shot out.

I’d expected that. What I hadn’t planned on was Eve just as quickly hopping in to take her place. At four months of age, the puppy already weighed thirty pounds. She knocked me back into the seat and thoroughly cleaned my face with her smooth, pink tongue. By the time I’d surfaced, Aunt Peg was standing beside the car.

“What do you mean you’ve been waiting for me?” I set the puppy on the ground and quickly shut the car door before any of the other Poodles could decide to get in. “How did you know I was coming?”

“I’ve been thinking about you all day. I figured it was only a matter of time until you showed up. Where’s Davey?”

“Basketball tryouts.”

Aunt Peg’s brow lifted. “Isn’t he a little short to be playing basketball?”

“It’s a grade school league.”

“I should hope so.”

Peg waved a hand, whistled once, and headed toward the house. The Poodles came running. Obediently I fell in with the crowd. If I was lucky there might be a biscuit in it for me.

“There’s been a development,” Aunt Peg said importantly. She stood at the door, counting noses and tapping her leg with her fingertips to hurry along the stragglers.

“At least one. Sara Bentley isn’t dead.”

She shut the door and turned. “And here I thought you’d been busy at school all day. How did you find out?”

“From Bertie,” I said, feeling seriously deflated. I’d expected my news to cause more of a sensation than that. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” Aunt Peg admitted. “Not for sure, anyway. But Delilah called earlier to tell me that the body had been identified this afternoon and that it wasn’t Sara. As I’m sure you can imagine, she was terribly relieved.”

The Poodles ran toward the kitchen, pushing and scrambling down the hallway. They knew where the supply of biscuits was kept. Aunt Peg and I followed.

“How did they figure it out?” I asked. “And who was it?”

“Apparently the police got a lucky break. Yesterday they found a car registered to a woman named Carole Eikenberry parked in the woods behind the cottage. While Delilah was getting Sara’s dental records, they were attempting to do the same for Ms. Eikenberry. Both sets became available this morning, and the mystery was solved.”

“Carole Eikenberry?” The name meant nothing to me. “Did Delilah know anything about her?”

“Only that she believes the young woman was a friend of Sara’s.”

We reached the kitchen and Aunt Peg paused in front of the pantry. Seven black Standard Poodles milled around her legs in happy anticipation. “You think I’m going to give you a biscuit, don’t you?”

Fourteen ears perked at the word.

“Why should I do that? What have you done to deserve a treat? All you did was answer the door.” No one, human or canine, offered a rebuttal.

Aunt Peg sighed, opened the cupboard, and pulled out the box. Her Poodles had her very well trained.

While she was busy handing out biscuits, I snagged a box of Mallomars from the pantry and went and sat at the table. “I wonder if Sara knows about Carole,” I mused.

“I wonder what Sara thinks she’s doing,” Peg snorted. “Considering she isn’t dead, you’d think she’d have the decency to put in an appearance. And what was that you were saying about Bertie?”

“She spoke with Sara this morning. That’s what I came to tell you.”

“Bertie saw her?”

“No, they spoke on the phone. Sara called to discuss plans for the wedding.”

Aunt Peg sank into a chair and helped herself to a cookie. The Poodles settled at our feet, munching happily. “You must be kidding.”

“I’m not. Bertie said she kept trying to steer the conversation toward more pertinent matters and Sara just brushed her off.”

“That takes nerve.”

Indeed. “Sara told Bertie she’d been out of town and only just found out about what had happened. She said she’d already spoken to her parents and told them she was okay.”

Even before I’d finished speaking, Peg was already shaking her head. “Delilah called me with the good news this afternoon. And she specifically mentioned getting the information from the police. She didn’t say a thing about talking to Sara.”

Considering my own history, you wouldn’t think I had a lot of room to cast aspersions. In this case, however, it was more than justified. “Any way you look at it, that is one strange family.”

Aunt Peg nodded absently. Like me, she knows all about strange families. “Sara will have to come back now, that’s all there is to it. I’m sure the police will want to question her.”

“What do you suppose Carole was doing in Sara’s cottage?” I wondered out loud as I helped myself to another cookie. “Did she go there to see Sara, find the place empty, and let herself in to wait?”

“And just happen to get caught in a fire?” Aunt Peg asked skeptically. “I doubt it. More likely she set the blaze herself. But why?”

“Not my problem,” I said firmly.

“Don’t be a spoilsport.”

Another Mallomar found its way into my hands. My third. I guessed I’d be adjusting my portion size at dinner.

“I believe you told your future sister-in-law that you’d help locate Sara.”

“And I believe she’s been located.” I nibbled around the chocolate edge. “More or less.”

Aunt Peg didn’t look satisfied, but rather than press the issue, she changed the subject. “Speaking of family obligations, I assume you’ve arranged to take the day off from work on Friday?”

“Of course.”

That one was easy. Friday was the day of the Tuxedo Park Poodle Specialty, Aunt Peg’s first judging assignment. There was no way I was going to miss it.

“And you’ll be there first thing?”

“I’ll leave for Tarrytown just as soon as I put Davey on the bus.”

We’d both seen the judging schedule. The Puppy Sweepstakes, judged by a club member, started at nine. Aunt Peg’s assignment began with Toy Poodles at eleven. There would be a lunch break at twelve-thirty, followed by Miniature and then Standard Poodles in the afternoon. She’d drawn nearly a hundred Poodles, an impressive total for a new specialty show, and a tribute to Peg’s reputation in the breed.

“You’ll do great,” I said, though she hadn’t asked for my reassurance. “Look at the size of your entry. The club must be thrilled. Everyone’s going to be there.”

Aunt Peg stopped eating. “There are some moments when that pleases me enormously,” she said slowly. “And others when I think that’s exactly what I’m afraid of. I’ve begun to have those stupid dreams. You know the ones where you show up for the final exam and haven’t cracked a book all semester? I think it must be my sub-conscious, trying to tell me that I’m not ready.”

“Oh pish!” I borrowed one of her favorite words. “You’ve been ready for this for years. You’re going to have a blast. Besides, if not now, when? You’re not getting any younger.”

Peg’s chin snapped up. “Well
that’s
encouraging.”

Blithely I plunged on. “Better to take on a new task like this before your memory goes entirely. Not to mention your knees. If you study it the night before, I imagine you can probably manage to retain most of the breed standard. And if not, you know they’ll let you take a copy into the ring with you.”

The standard is a highly detailed description of the breed in question. It’s the bible by which a breed of dog is bred or judged, and these were low blows I was delivering. I could see by Aunt Peg’s expression that they were hitting the target.

“My memory is quite sharp,” she snapped. “And my knees are perfectly adequate for the job at hand. As to the breed standard, I’ll have you know I helped draft the most recent revision—”

“Did you?” I asked innocently. “Then I guess you must be pretty well equipped to do the job.”

“Better than most!” Aunt Peg announced.

“That’s what I thought.” I stood up and gave her a quick hug. “See you Friday.”

I love it when a plan comes together.

My next stop was the supermarket, where I picked up the ingredients I’d need for dinner. More efficient women shop with a long list once a week, but I’ve never been able to get the hang of that system. Besides, planning ahead wouldn’t cover contingencies like tonight, when I suspected that I’d be cooking for four rather than two.

There probably wasn’t a pair of bachelors on the planet who would pass up a meal of homemade meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and glazed carrots. Just to make sure I had all the bases covered, I threw a six-pack of beer in the cart, too.

Faith had already eaten, and preparations for our dinner were well underway by the time the guys returned. I was setting the dining room table when the front door opened. Davey led the way, dribbling a basketball up the steps. A rumpled gray sweatsuit, bought big enough to fit for more than a few weeks, pooled around his waist and ankles. His face was wreathed in smiles.

“Hey, Mom!” he cried. “I made the team!”

“That’s great. Did you have fun?”

“Uh huh.” His head bobbed enthusiastically. “And guess what? Uncle Frank’s going to coach. He volunteered.”

“He did?”

I glanced at my brother as he came through the door. Frank wasn’t the volunteering type.

“Yeah, well, you know . . .” he said. “I thought maybe I’d get in some practice.”

“Playing basketball?”

Frank’s cheeks grew pink. He cleared his throat. “Uhh, no, with kids. You never know when it might come in handy.”

The silverware I’d been holding clattered down onto the table. “Frank Turnbull, are you trying to tell me something?”

For a moment he looked confused. Then Frank realized what I meant. “No!” he practically shouted. “Good God, Mel, bite your tongue. I’m just planning ahead, that’s all.”

I retrieved the fallen knives and forks. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. Really positive.”

“About what?” asked Bob. He hopped up the steps two at a time and closed the door behind him. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing important,” Frank assured him. “Melanie was just jumping to conclusions and I was setting her straight.”

“Melanie? Jumping to conclusions? How out of character.”

“Cut it out, you two.” I brandished a fork. “Or I won’t invite you to stay to dinner.”

Frank wasn’t impressed. “It’s a little late for threats, considering you’ve already set four places. What are we having?”

“Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and glazed carrots.” I added pointedly, “If you’re lucky.”

“Ahhh,” Bob sighed, then sniffed the air. “There’s nothing like the siren song of a home-cooked dinner. It’s been years since I’ve had meals as good as the ones you used to cook.”

This is what’s known as laying it on thick.

I headed back to the kitchen. “What about Jennifer?”

Bob and Frank trotted along after me like a couple of well-trained dogs. Davey, meanwhile, grabbed Faith and headed upstairs.

“She meant well. But she did things with spices that you wouldn’t believe. Lots of spices.” Bob shook his head sadly. “All together in the same dish. Jennifer’s cooking was more in the grin-and-bear-it category.”

“She’s young. She’ll learn.”

“Not on my time.”

I went to the refrigerator and got out two beers. There were frosted mugs in the freezer and a small wedge of Brie on a plate.

“You’re an angel of mercy.” Frank didn’t wait for a mug. He downed half the bottle in his first gulp. “Those kids ran me ragged.”

I pulled out a chair and pushed him down into it. It didn’t take much. “And the season hasn’t even started yet.”

“You’ve got to get in shape.” Bob patted his own flat stomach. My eyes followed the gesture. Unexpectedly, I found my gaze lingering.

Bob had looked good when we were married; he looked even better now. Maturity suited him. The boy I’d known a decade earlier had grown into a man who could hold his own in any company.

His shoulders were broader, the breadth of his chest more pronounced. At the same time, his torso was leaner and he’d shed some puppy fat from his face. Once, Bob had barely needed to shave; now, his jaw was shadowed with stubble. The look suited him.

Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, I lifted my eyes and found that Bob was staring at me with the same intensity I’d been training on him. Slowly his mouth widened into a sexy grin.