Doggie Day Care Murder (15 page)

Authors: Laurien Berenson

BOOK: Doggie Day Care Murder

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The notion of this man keeping his protests to a peaceful level was becoming harder and harder to swallow. I hoped the police had interviewed Busch after Steve's murder and that they'd been subjected to the same sort of vitriolic rant. That might move their investigation along.

“Thank you for your time,” I said, rising.

“No problem.” Busch frowned. “Where'd you say you were from again?”

“I didn't, actuallyâ”

“ 'Cause I was thinking that I've seen you somewhere before. Maybe at a town meeting?”

“I don't think so.”

I retreated through the sliding glass door and headed for the front of the house. I wasn't sure I wanted to be around when Busch's memory finally kicked in.

“Hey, wait a minute!” he said abruptly.

My hand was on the doorknob to the front door. I froze.

“Now I remember. I saw you last week. You were over at
that
place.” He jerked his head in the direction of Pine Ridge. “You're one of
them.
”

The condemnation in his tone made it sound as though he were talking about mutant life-forms. Or perhaps aliens. I twisted the knob and yanked the door open.

Busch followed me out onto the flagstone walk. “So this is what it's come down to, is it? Now they're sending spies over here to keep an eye on me?”

The accusation was so patently ridiculous that I paused in my headlong rush to the curb where I'd left my car. Jeez, the guy was a one-man bundle of conspiracy theories.

“Nobody's spying on you,” I said. “Not the government, not the town, and certainly not the Pines.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

I exhaled slowly. Now that I had my car keys in my hand and I'd managed to put some space between us, I was feeling a little more comfortable.

“To tell you the truth, I came to see if you knew anything about Steve Pine's murder.”

Busch laughed. The sound was harsh and unpleasant. “Like who did it?”

“Something like that.”

“I don't know who it was, but I'll tell you this. You find the guy, you send him over here to me and I'll pin a medal on him. What do you think about that?”

I think you're a jackass,
I replied silently.

There didn't seem to be any need to say the words aloud.

W
ell, that had gone well.

Not only had I not learned anything of value beyond the fact that Adam Busch had a very short temper, but I'd left our encounter on the run. I was pretty sure that that humiliating turn of events had to be a first.

After Busch went back inside his house, slamming the door behind him for good measure, I sat in my car and considered what to do next. If I returned home, I'd probably end up involved in some dull domestic chore. It seemed I could make better use of my time by seeing what else might be accomplished while I was out.

The only other person Candy had mentioned by name as having had a grudge against Steve had been client Lila Harrington, owner of JoyJoy, the amorous Shih Tzu. I wondered if she might be as eager to tell me her side of things as Adam Busch had been.

Usually I think of cell phones as the bane of Western civilization. I carry one but talk on it as infrequently as possible. Occasionally, however, even I find their services useful.

I had programmed Candy's number into my phone earlier and now all I had to do was push a couple of buttons to get connected.

“Hey,” I said, when she picked up. “It's Melanie. I need you to give me some more information about Lila Harrington. I was thinking of paying her a visit this morning.”

“Why would you want to do something like that?”

I would have thought the answer was obvious. Candy, however, seemed to be waiting for a reply.

“You asked for my help,” I said.

“I know that.”

“So this is how I help.”

“I thought you were going to be hanging around here.” Candy sounded petulant.

“I did that. Yesterday. And I'll probably do it again in the future. But you want me to explore all the possibilities, don't you?”

“I guess.”

“So tell me something about Lila. Where does she live? Where does she work?”

“Do you have to start with her?”

Actually, I hadn't. I'd started with Adam Busch. But somehow this didn't seem like the right time to bring that up.

“Is there a reason that I shouldn't?” I asked.

“Lila can be . . . difficult.”

“All the more reason to like her as a suspect,” I said cheerfully.

“You don't understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

It was beginning to sound like this conversation might take a while. I started up the car, looked both ways, then eased out away from the curb.

“Lila grew up in Greenwich. On Round Hill Road.”

The address implied wealth. And perhaps a sense of entitlement. But let's get real, I thought. If Lila Harrington had been so far above the rest of us mere mortals, wouldn't she have had her maid watch over little JoyJoy rather than dropping the Shih Tzu off at Pine Ridge?

“She won't want to talk to you.”

“Then I'll leave,” I said reasonably.

“She'll be mad.”

“So what? From what I heard, she's mad at you and Steve already. That's why I want to talk to her.”

“What are you going to say?”

“I don't know yet,” I said honestly. “I thought I'd just . . . wing it.”

“Wing it? What does that mean? Lila Harrington isn't the kind of woman you want to meet with unprepared.”

I blew out a sigh. “Fine. Then prepare me. Tell me what kind of woman she is.”

I reached Long Ridge Road and pulled cautiously into traffic, heading north toward the Merritt Parkway. It seemed like a pretty safe bet that I'd be on my way to Greenwich by the end of the conversation.

“Think old money. Junior League. Young Republicans. Round Hill Country Club.”

“Got it,” I said.

I'd grown up in a middle-class section of Stamford. It was impossible to live that close to Greenwich and not be acquainted with the expensive habits and excesses enjoyed by many of the neighboring town's residents. But still, there was something wrong with the picture Candy was painting.

“So if that's the case,” I said, “why was Lila Harrington leaving her dog with you? Pine Ridge is a day care center, which implies that Lila must have a job. What happened to all the old money?”

“I guess I forgot to mention that part. Most of it seems to have run out. In fact, if the age of her Mercedes is anything to go by, it's been gone for a while.”

Now things were making more sense.

“But trust me, none of that matters. Even if she does have to work for a living, Lila still conducts herself like she thinks she's related to the queen. She has a boutique on Greenwich Avenue that sells Chanel, Dior, Versace, stuff like that. The shop is called Grosvenor, maybe you've heard of it?”

“Nope, sorry.” Bloomingdale's was more my style.

“Anyway,” said Candy, “you can't just go over there and drop in on her.”

“Why not?”

“She'd be horrified, that's why not. And she'd end up blaming me.”

Obviously patience was called for here. It's not a commodity I have a huge supply of, but I gave it my best shot.

“We're talking about a woman who already doesn't like you,” I said again. “That's why I'm going to see her. So I'm afraid I don't understand why you care how she feels.”

“I care because Lila said she was going to sue us. She threatened to put us out of business for good.”

“Suing people has become America's favorite pastime,” I said.

“But Lila was serious!”

I moved the Volvo into the left lane, flipped on my signal, and drove up onto the parkway. “Maybe, but she hasn't actually done it yet. She's still in the threatening stage, right?”

“So far, yes. Which is exactly why I don't want you stirring things up and making her mad all over again. If you'd seen how upset she was . . . It was crazy. Her anger was all out of proportion to what had happened. Threats I can handle, I'm a big girl. But I don't have the money to defend a lawsuit. Especially not right now.”

“Listen to what you're saying. Lila was furious at you and Steve. She made a bunch of threats. But she probably didn't have the money to mount a lawsuit either. So think about this: maybe she found another way to get even.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Still there?” I asked after a few seconds had passed.

“Yes.” Candy sighed. “And I guess I see why you're doing this. But try not to make things any worse than they already are, okay? I mean it, Melanie. I've got enough trouble around here without that.”

“Got it,” I said, and snapped the phone shut.

No use in mentioning that stirring up trouble was what I did best.

Grosvenor was located near the bottom of Greenwich Avenue, tucked in between the movie theater and a gourmet ice cream shop. Considering the boutique's proximity to my favorite bakery, it was surprising I'd never noticed it before.

One glance, however, at the headless, bone thin, mannequins in the small shop's front window revealed the reason why. Couture dresses, fashioned from soft, luxurious fabrics draped the skinny-to-the-point-of-anorexic forms. Not only did I not possess the budget to patronize such a shop, I didn't have anywhere near the required figure either.

I pushed open the door and walked inside. The place even smelled expensive. Mingled scents of leather, silk, and cashmere were overlaid with a hint of jasmine. I wanted to close my eyes and just inhale, but I doubted that would make a good first impression.

Instead, I closed the door behind me as my shoes sank into the white, deep-pile carpeting. White, in a store. What were they thinking? Almost immediately I answered my own question. The customers who shopped at Grosvenor were the kind of women whose shoes never had a chance to get dirty.

The single, medium-sized room was furnished more like a sumptuous parlor than a store. Two Queen Anneâstyle loveseats sat on either side of a graceful butler's table with cabriole legs. Cherry-wood racks, built into the damask covered walls, held a collection of dresses, blouses, and skirts in fabrics so weightless that they seemed to float on their wooden hangers.

Sizes appeared to range from zero to six. The color palette was restricted too. I saw clothing in every shade of beige from ivory to taupe. And black. Those were the only choices. Amazing.

“Good morning, may I help you?”

While I'd been standing there, staring around like a tourist in a foreign country, a slender woman in her forties had slipped into the room through a door in the back wall. She looked at me inquiringly.

If this was Lila Harrington, it was easy to see why Candy had been intimidated. The woman was tall and trim; her makeup, hair, and manicure were all flawless. She was wearing layers of cashmere that swayed around her gently as she walked.

She probably would have been pleased to know that the clothing hung on her every bit as well as it did on the mannequins in the window. And although she was overdressed for the weather outside, air-conditioning had reduced the temperature in the shop to slightly frigid. I imagined she felt rather cozy, while I was feeling underdressed in more ways than one.

“I'm looking for Lila Harrington,” I said.

“I'm she.” The woman tipped her head up and to one side, a gesture of disdain that wasn't hard to read. “Whatever you're selling, I'm afraid I'm not interested.”

I suppose I should have been insulted. Certainly I was meant to be.

I wondered if Lila had ever watched
Pretty Woman
. Didn't she know that shoppers with platinum credit cards and a desire to acquire anything deemed fashionable and au courant came in all guises these days?

“Perfect,” I said, “because I'm not selling anything.”

“Then perhaps you were looking for the ice cream shop next door?”

“Not now.” My smile was beginning to feel a little strained. “But maybe I'll go there next. Thank you for the recommendation.”

“Anytime.” She flicked an imaginary speck from the carved wooden back of one of the settees.

As if dust would have the nerve to settle in this place.

“I'd like to talk to you about Steve and Candy Pine,” I said.

I was hoping to catch her by surprise, but Lila's face betrayed no emotion at all. Either my ploy had failed, or the woman had a serious yen for Botox.

“I'm afraid I don't have time for that.”

Her tone sounded both bored and dismissive. I guess she thought that would be enough to make me take the hint. It wasn't.

“I can see why not.” I walked over to a loveseat and sat down. “Obviously you're overwhelmed with customers. I can wait.”

“There's no need.”

“Trust me. There is.”

The latest issue of
Vogue
was sitting on the coffee table. I picked it up and began to thumb through the pages. Even for someone with a distinct lack of interest in high fashion, there were worse ways to spend time. Some of the photography was great.

Besides, after all the sleep I'd missed the night before, I was still tired. Eventually, if she kept me waiting long enough, maybe I'd take a little nap.

“You can't just sit there,” Lila said in her haughtiest voice.

I looked up. “Why not?”

“Seats are reserved for clients.”

“Okay. When any show up, I'll give them mine.”

“I'm sure you don't mean to be odious.”

I couldn't imagine why she thought that.

“Actually, I think I do. Or maybe persistent is a better word.”

I put down the magazine. “You know, you'll save us both a lot of time if you just talk to me now.”

“I don't have to talk to you at all.”

“Quite right,” I agreed mildly. I picked the
Vogue
up again and went back to browsing.

Five minutes passed, then ten. I was engrossed in an editorial proclaiming charcoal gray to be the new black when Lila cleared her throat loudly.

“Tell me what you want from me,” she demanded.