A Pedigree to Die For (30 page)
Thirty-one
He was bluffing, he had to be.
I looked to Aunt Peg for confirmation and saw that her skin was ashen, her mouth slack. She'd sagged back against the grooming table and wouldn't meet my eye. In the wake of that bombshell, she had nothing to say. Jack, however, was talking plenty.
“Max contacted me,” he said, folding his arms over his chest calmly. “He told me that Beau was for sale. Of course I was interested, just as he knew I'd be.”
“Why did you come for the dog in the middle of the night?” I asked.
“That was his idea, not mine. He said that Peg would never agree to the sale; that he wasn't planning to tell her. I guess he'd made up some story to explain the dog's disappearance. I don't know what it was, and I didn't ask.”
To say I was unconvinced by Jack's version of the facts was an understatement. The two policemen were listening; no doubt hoping to hear something conclusive one way or the other. Aunt Peg, who should have been protesting vigorously, was still curiously silent.
Officer Denny had his notepad back out. “If there's a bill of sale that backs up what you've told us, I'd like to see it.”
He wasn't the only one. I hoped that the prospect of producing hard evidence would make Jack back down, but it didn't. Instead he took us up to the house. He and the two officers walked ahead. Aunt Peg, Beau, and I brought up the rear. Her fingers were tangled in the Poodle's topknot, and the grim look on her face precluded conversation.
That left me to my own thoughts, and they weren't pleasant. Aunt Peg should have been blasting Jack Berglund right out of the water. So why was I the only one objecting to everything that he said? Was it possible that I'd devoted three months to looking for a dog that wasn't really stolen? Had Aunt Peg finally recovered Beau only to face losing him again? Maybe she was in shock; maybe she was in denial. Whatever it was, I hoped she snapped out of it soon.
Jack led us straight to the library where he unlocked a lower drawer on his desk. There was none of the fumbling for records I'd seen on my earlier visit. Whatever he intended to produce, Jack knew exactly where it was.
He passed the paper to the policemen first. They read it and handed it to Aunt Peg. I read over her shoulder. It was a bill of sale, all right. It was dated May twenty-eighth, the night that Uncle Max died.
Aunt Peg glanced at the paper for only a few seconds before letting it drop from her fingers. Go on, I thought, tell them it's a scam, a forgery. Jump up and down. Cry foul. Make a scene.
Aunt Peg did none of the above.
“Is that your husband's signature, Mrs. Turnbull?” Officer Mosconi asked.
She nodded, and I exploded.
“It's not!” I cried. “It can't be.”
“It is, Melanie,” Peg said quietly.
“But how? Why? It makes no sense. You and Uncle Max loved Beau. There would have been no reason for Max to sell him, especially not to someone like Jack Berglund.”
“People have been known to do all sorts of things for money,” said Officer Denny.
Aunt Peg shook her head. Her eyes were glassy with disbelief. “It wasn't the money. Max would never have parted with Beau for money.”
“Oh no?”Jack snatched up the bill of sale and waved it triumphantly, and I wanted to slug him.
Fortunately I didn't have to. Aunt Peg drew in a deep breath, and I could see her hardening her resolve. Clearly she was struggling with a set of facts she could scarcely believe; but just as clearly, she was finally ready to fight back.
“There isn't enough money in the world to make Max do business with someone like you.” Peg took several steps forward, crowding Jack back against the edge of his desk. “Max never forgot what you did to his brother, and he never forgave you either. If he sold Beau to you, there could be only one reason. He intended to ruin you.”
“Ruin me?” Jack frowned. “That's ridiculous. He couldn't turn me into the A.K.C. without turning in himself. He knew how the dog was going to be used, he had to have known. In the eyes of the A.K.C., he'd be just as guilty as me.”
“The American Kennel Club had nothing to do with what Max must have planned for you,” Peg said grimly. “What you don't knowâwhat nobody knowsâis that Max and I had punch skin biopsies done on all our Poodles last spring. All the dogs passed but one.”
There was absolute silence in the room as Aunt Peg delivered the
coup de grâce,
“Beau has SA, Jack. He can never be bred again.”
coup de grâce,
“Beau has SA, Jack. He can never be bred again.”
Thank God there was a couch behind me; otherwise I'd have ended up on the floor. Above me, everyone was talking at once. Jack was insisting that Peg had to be wrong, the two officers were clamoring for an explanation.
I remembered what Aunt Peg had told me about the disease, months ago when Sam Driver had brought up the subject of genetic testing. Any dog affected with sebaceous adenitis would require careful management in order not to develop skin problems. All of his progeny stood a chance of having the disease and were, at the very least, carriers. Once a dog was diagnosed with SA, he had to be totally eliminated from a breeding program. Any ethical breeder would do so immediately.
No wonder Aunt Peg had been frantic to get Beau back. But why hadn't she trusted me enough to tell me the truth? And what about the other Standard Poodle breeders who'd already bred their bitches to Beau? In light of this information, all of the puppies produced would need to be tested. If introducing Beau's genes to the Shalimar line could have ruined it, what did that say for the state of Cedar Crest?
Damn Aunt Peg and her judicious omissions!
I glanced up and found her watching me. She looked worried. Well, she ought to be, because she had a lot of explaining to do.
“You weren't planning to admit it, were you?” I asked quietly.
“Of course I was. Eventually.”
“You told me and Frank that Beau was being bred at least once a month.”
“Up until the diagnosis, he was. Of course we didn't allow him to be used after that.”
“But you didn't tell about the SA, because if you had I'd have heard it from someone else. News like that is big.” I was growing angry now. Damn it, I hate to be deceived. “What about the puppies he already had on the ground? They're all carriers, aren't they?”
In spite of everything, Aunt Peg smiled. “You're a quick learner, Melanie.”
I didn't want her compliments. Right that moment, I didn't want anything from her at all. Right from the start, she'd controlled my involvement in every facet of the dog game; making me think I was an ally when all I'd ever been was a dupe. Deliberately, I turned my back.
A moment passed, then she went to confer with the police who were taking a statement from Jack Berglund. With my luck, he was probably pressing charges for trespassing. On the wall behind the couch was the inevitable display of dog-show photographs. I let my gaze drift over them.
I wasn't hoping for revelation; I was simply trying to look anywhere but at the gathering of people in the room. But as I skimmed over the pictures and thought back to those I'd seen in Jack's trailer, another missing piece fell into place. Finally, I knew who had killed Uncle Max.
They were all still talking, but when I stood up and cleared my throat loudly, the room fell silent. “You weren't alone when you went to get Beau, were you, Jack?”
“Of course I was. Neither Max Turnbull nor I had any desire to advertise what was going on.”
“But you had told somebody what you were going to do.”
When he didn't deny it, I knew I was on the right track. The pictures were the key. Once I'd seen enough of them, the pattern was clear. It wasn't the brown bitch he hadn't wanted me to see, but rather the judges who'd awarded his dogs wins. Instead of forming a random selection as should have been expected, one person appeared with unexpected regularity: Carl Holden.
“Aunt Peg told me your line's been going downhill.”
“That's her opinion,”Jack said stiffly.
“And yet you've continued to win.”
“Can I help it if the judges like what I bring them?”
“One judge in particular, isn't it? Someone who was giving your Poodles extra wins they didn't deserveâ”
“My Poodles were always deserving. Carl's an excellent judge. That's why he was able to recognize their quality and reward it accordingly.”
“And one good turn deserves another, doesn't it?”
“Melanie,” said Aunt Peg. “What on earth are you talking about?”
It was nice to be the one with the information for a change. I might have savored the power it gave me a little longer, but the choice was taken out of my hands when the doorbell rang.
Officer Denny was taking notes again. It was left to Mosconi to escort Jack to the door. When they got back to the library, I was surprised to see Sam Driver with them.
“Well, it's about time,” said Aunt Peg.
So much for being the one with information. “What are you doing here?”
“Peg left a message on my machine saying there was trouble and that I should get up here as soon as I could.”
I gave Aunt Peg a look. And here I thought she'd had faith in me.
“A little extra backup never hurts,” she said primly.
Sam glanced around the room. “It looks like you have the situation pretty well in hand.” He crouched down and called the Poodle over to him. “This must be Beau.”
“It is,” I said. “But apparently that's only the beginning.”
It took us ten minutes to bring him up to speed. Like all the major players in the room, as the story unfolded, he alternated between elation and looking as though he'd been run over by a bulldozer. By the end he was reduced to shaking his head. “Then you were already onto what Holden was doing?”
“No,” Aunt Peg and I said together.
“And I still don't know what's going on,” she added.
Jack, who seemed delighted by something that would turn the spotlight away from him, invited us all to have a seat while we listened to what Sam had to say.
“I've been talking to Susan Lewis,” he began.
“The woman at your house,” I said.
“The A.K.C. rep,” said Aunt Peg.
The A.K.C. rep
? Oh.
? Oh.
“One and the same,” said Sam. For the benefit of the two police officers, who were looking baffled, he explained. “Dog shows are held under the auspices of the American Kennel Club. In order to make sure that everything is running smoothly and correctly, the A.K.C. sends a representative to nearly every show to keep an eye on things. The rep for this part of the country is Susan Lewis.”
“What does that have to do with Carl Holden?” asked Aunt Peg.
“The A.K.C. has been conducting an investigation of his judging practices. Early in the year, they were tipped off that he was accepting bribes in exchange for handing out wins.”
“I don't believe it,” Aunt Peg said flatly.
“Think back,” said Sam. “What about that big case only a few years ago where several judges were censured? It wouldn't be the first time.”
“Not Carl,” Aunt Peg insisted, loyal to her old friend. “He's too good a judge. There's no need for him to be involved in anything like that.”
I thought about what Officer Denny had said earlier. People have been known to do all sorts of things for money. But then, I didn't know Carl Holden. To me, he was simply another piece in the puzzle. Aunt Peg, however, looked positively stricken.
Absently she patted her lap and Beau, who been leaning against her legs, climbed up and settled in. He was much too big for the space he was occupying, but neither of them seemed to notice. She circled her arms around the Poodle's neck and hugged him close to her chest.
“There's more,” said Sam.
I figured there would be.
“The A.K.C. has been investigating Holden quietly for months. They questioned anyone they thought might have information they could use.”
“They didn't talk to me,” said Aunt Peg.
“No, but they did speak with Max, and apparently he had more than an inkling about what was going on.”
From the look on Aunt Peg's face, I figured she wasn't the only Turnbull who was good at withholding information. Either she was an excellent actress, or Max had never discussed the situation with her.
“And did Max give the A.K.C. the evidence they needed?” she asked.
“He told them he would if it was necessary. But first he planned to confront his old friend and suggest that he turn himself in. Max gave Carl a week to decide.”
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