Underdog (14 page)
It gave me plenty to think about.
Fourteen
Aunt Peg and Sam both had Poodles entered in the shows that weekend in Massachusetts. My puppy was staying home. At her age, she was only showing to get experience and once a month was plenty.
Saturday, Standard Poodles had been scheduled for early in the morning; but Sunday the judging time was at a reasonable hour and Davey and I had promised to take a ride up and cheer for the home team. There was little doubt in my mind that I'd feel vastly more comfortable with Sam inside the ring and me out. That way he could put on the performance while I carried the supplies and stood at ringside looking knowledgeable.
Saturday morning I called Alice Brickman to see if Joey could come over for the afternoon. The biggest problem with having an only child is the perpetual search for playmates. When they're by themselves, they're bored. Then when their friends come over, they spend half the time fighting. Your basic lose-lose situation. But I'm a mother, which means I keep trying anyway.
“Joey's cousins are here visiting for the weekend,” said Alice. Judging by the noise in the background, he had a battalion of them at least. “Why don't you bring Davey here instead? When you've got six kids to look after, what's one more?”
Possibly the last straw, I thought, but who was I to argue with a woman who was clearly bucking for sainthood? I ran the idea past Davey and he thought it sounded great. That's another truism of childhood. They would always rather go to the other kid's house because, without fail, his toys are better.
That left me with the whole afternoon free, a luxury which doesn't happen often. I thought about raking some more leaves, but that wasn't nearly decadent enough. I checked the local movie listings, but the only Saturday matinees available were Disney cartoons and another sequel to the
Mighty Ducks.
I could have taken myself out to lunch, or soaked in a bubble bath with the newest Sue Grafton. But in the end, I got in my car and drove up to Ridgefield on a quest for knowledge. I liked the sound of that. It made it seem like I might actually learn something for a change.
Mighty Ducks.
I could have taken myself out to lunch, or soaked in a bubble bath with the newest Sue Grafton. But in the end, I got in my car and drove up to Ridgefield on a quest for knowledge. I liked the sound of that. It made it seem like I might actually learn something for a change.
The Ridgefield Police Department looked nothing like I'd expected. I'd been prepared for industrial gray cinder block, or functional one-story brick. But signs on the edge of town directed me down a small hill, then up a big one. At the top stood a big old Victorian House, painted white on white, with its lawns paved over for parking. Wow. Maybe they'd be serving tea in the front parlor.
Inside, those hopes were quickly dashed. The interior of the building had been transformed into a model of a suburban police department. There was a waist-high counter, large panes of bullet-proof glass, and a small waiting area where I sat after stating my business.
I didn't have long to wait, which was good because the magazine selection varied only in age. Old editions of
Field and Stream
or slightly newer editions of
Field and Stream.
Take your choice.
Field and Stream
or slightly newer editions of
Field and Stream.
Take your choice.
A door led from the back of the station directly into the waiting area and I stood as it opened. The detective was of medium height and broadly built. He had dark eyes beneath bushy brows and darker hair that was neatly combed back and liberally sprinkled with gray.
“Ms. Travis? I'm Detective Petronelli. I understand you're looking to talk to someone about the Jenny Maguire case?” He had large, beefy hands and he held one out to me.
I took it and had my arm pumped up and down. “Yes, I am.”
“Come on in back. We may as well sit in my office and get comfortable.”
His office was barely past cubbyhole size, though it did have a window. Stacks of papers covered the tops of two file cabinets, but the surface of his desk was scrupulously neat. The two chairs we sat in pretty much took up all of the remaining space.
“What can I do for you?” he asked when we were seated.
I hadn't thought about what I was going to say. Now with the detective staring at me intently, I felt as though I should have prepared. “Jenny Maguire was a friend of mine,” I began. “I guess the reason I'm here is because I don't understand how she died, or why. Rick Maguire told me you'd been investigating . . .”
“That's right, ma'am. We have.” Petronelli opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a pen and a pad of paper. “Why don't we nail down a few details, if you don't mind?”
He led me through name, address, and phone number, and I was explaining about how I'd met Jenny at handling class before I realized how deftly he'd taken control of the discussion. Not that I minded. I was more than happy to share my information with him, as long as he'd share his with me.
I told him about Ziggy, presumably dead and now alive. I speculated as to whether Rick and Jenny had been happy together and wondered aloud why she'd filed for divorce then changed her mind. I stated firmly that I had
not
thought her to be a woman on the verge of suicide, and yet her sister had found a note that clearly contradicted my feelings.
not
thought her to be a woman on the verge of suicide, and yet her sister had found a note that clearly contradicted my feelings.
Through it all, the detective took plenty of notes. And when I was done, he still didn't say anything. Maybe he figured if he kept silent, I might just keep on talking.
“Well?” I said.
Petronelli looked up.
“I showed you mine. Aren't you going to show me yours?”
At least I found out he could smile. Then he cleared his throat and we were all business again. “Ms. Travis, I'm sure you realize that I can't give out a lot of information about an ongoing investigation.”
“Ongoing,” I said quickly. “Does that mean you don't think Jenny's death was a suicide?”
“At the moment we're exploring several avenuesâ”
“What about the note?” I stopped as I suddenly thought of something. “Rick did give it to you, didn't he?”
“Yes, ma'am, Rick Maguire did deliver a suicide note to us, one purported to be in his wife's handwriting. We received it several days after Mrs. Maguire died. I believe it had been found by the deceased's sister.”
“In a desk,” I prompted. “Under a pile of stuff. That's what Angie told me. If you were going to kill yourself, wouldn't you leave the note sitting out where someone could find it?”
“Well, Ms. Travis, I don't like to speculate about something like that. However, I will tell you that in this case the possibility of suicide seems remote.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “Why is that?”
“According to the medical examiner's report, Mrs. Maguire died of circulatory failure brought on by chronic arsenic poisoning.”
Petronelli paused as though that should mean something to me. It didn't.
He stood up and picked up a folder from the top of the file cabinet, opened it and began to read. “Traces of arsenic were found not only in the victim's digestive tract, but also the hair, fingernails, liver, and kidney.”
“So she died of arsenic poisoning.”
“
Chronic
arsenic poisoning.”
Chronic
arsenic poisoning.”
“What's the difference?”
“Acute poisoning would mean that she ingested a large quantity of arsenic and died as a result. Not the way I would choose to commit suicide, but an option people have chosen. In the case of Mrs. Maguire, however, traces of the element were found in her organs. Her red blood cells had been affected. It was the opinion of the medical examiner that the poisoning had happened slowly over a period of time. Now I've known people to do weird things but in my experience, someone who's looking to kill themselves just does it. It's quick and it's done. Why cause yourself any more pain than you have to?”
“Slowly over a period of time,” I said, frowning. “Like maybe from handling the rat poison Rick said they kept in the kennel?”
“No, ma'am, we checked the product they had on hand. It contained warfarin, which is an anti-coagulant. A lot of the older rat poisons contained arsenic, but not anymore. Now it's pretty hard to come by.”
I stared out his window. A squirrel, its mouth crammed with nuts, was running up the tree outside. “So she definitely was murdered.”
“Right now, it looks that way.”
“Jenny was at my house a few days before she died. She told me she hadn't been feeling well. She had cramps, some nausea and headaches too, I think.”
Petronelli nodded and made a note in the folder. “That would be consistent with the medical examiner's findings. She was probably suffering from the effects of the arsenic in her system.”
“What about the suicide note?”
“What about it?”
“If Jenny didn't commit suicide, that might be a clue to point toward her killer.”
“I don't think so. The note was written, not typed and we've had our experts look at it. For whatever reason, it was written by Mrs. Maguire. Maybe it was some sort of game she was playing, or a fragment of a letter she intended to send to a friend. She mentions the dog you spoke about earlier and says she has nothing to live for. It doesn't say she was about to kill herself. It looked like a suicide note, true. But the contents are also open to other interpretations.”
I glanced past him. The squirrel was on the way back down for another load of nuts. “Who do you think killed her?”
“I'm afraid I can't speculateâ”
“Who are you investigating?”
“I'm not at liberty to reveal that informationâ”
“All right, don't,” I said, thinking aloud. “But if Jenny was poisoned slowly over a period of time, that would point to someone who lived with her, wouldn't it?”
“I would say that's a possibility. On the other hand, according to her husband and sister, she attended dog shows weekly, where she came in contact repeatedly with the same group of people, many of whom she was engaged in direct competition with.”
So much for trying to narrow the field.
Detective Petronelli saw me back to the front door and handed me his card as I was leaving. “If you come across any other information you think we should have, you be sure and call this number.”
I took the card and tucked it away in my purse. All their resources, all their experts; and I suspected the police were just as baffled as I was.
Â
In the Northeast, during the warmer months, dog shows are held outside. Dog clubs compete for the best sites: usually large grassy fields with ample room for parking, rings and tenting. But as winter approaches, weather forces the clubs to move indoors. Good locations are at a premium and clubs must become highly creative in their hunt for appropriate and available sites.
The show on Sunday in Fitchburg was the first indoor dog show Davey and I had attended. Accustomed as I was to big rings, spacious tenting, and wide open spaces, finding just as much action crammed into a roomâalbeit a very large oneâcame of something as a shock. Rings filled the center of the big hall, with space set up for grooming along the side where we came in.
The other half of the room was filled with a long row of brightly colored concession booths. A quick glance revealed stands hawking everything from grooming supplies to canine art. I even saw a blue and white banner proclaiming the presence of Crystal's All Natural Dog Munchies.
Poodles were scheduled to be judged in ring three and Davey and I found Aunt Peg and Sam set up in the grooming area nearby. Though there were several hours yet before the Standards would be called to the ring, both had their Poodles out on the grooming tables and were busy brushing. All around them, a bevy of other Poodle exhibitors were doing the same.
“There's my young man!” Aunt Peg said to Davey. “Do I get a hug?”
“Maybe.” His eyes took on a speculative gleam. “What will you give me?”
“Davey!”
“I was only kidding.”
“I should hope so.” I nudged him firmly between the shoulders and he skirted around the legs of the grooming table to greet his aunt properly.
Sam had watched the exchange with amusement. “Do I get a hug, too?” he asked me.
“Maybe . . .”
“Like mother, like son, I see. Born negotiators. I like that in a woman.”
“Really? What else do you like?”
“Intelligence and a sense of humor, for starters.”
“Then you've come to the right place. I do believe you'll get that hug after all.”
My ex-husband, Bob, had hated public displays of affection, so I'd intended to step up and wrap my arms around Sam, then quickly pull away. But no sooner had I ducked around two crates and a grooming table to reach him than he opened his own arms and drew me in.
“I'm glad you came,” he said. His body was warm and hard and pressed against the entire length of mine before he released me.
“So am I.”
Aunt Peg cleared her throat loudly. “I'm glad to see you two are finally taking the hint.”
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