Watchdog (11 page)

“Yes,” I admitted unhappily. “It's the first time he's been involved with anything like that, and he's gotten himself in way over his head.”

“I can see why you'd want to help him then.” John set Becca aside and rose. “You let me know if there's anything else I can do for you.”

“Thanks, I will. Maybe we'll run into one another at a dog show someday. I have a Standard Poodle bitch that just got her first two points last weekend.”

“With you handling?” John asked as he escorted me to the door. “You must be good. That's a tough breed for an owner-handler.”

“I have a couple of very experienced coaches,” I said modestly. “Faith is my first show dog. I'm a long, long way from accomplishments like yours.”

“So was I, once. It took a lifetime of hard work to get where I am today in dogs. You just have to stay focused on your goals and work on taking things one step at a time.”

I picked up Davey from the Brickmans and Faith from home, then drove downtown to run some errands. We stopped at the supermarket and the dry cleaner. On the way back I let Davey convince me that one scoop of ice cream apiece wouldn't ruin our dinners.

Faith took hers in a cup, which she balanced neatly between her front paws on the seat. She didn't spill a drop. Davey's cone, meanwhile, dripped from the top, the sides, and finally, a hole in the bottom. It's a sad thing when your dog has better eating habits than your son.

Back at home I was putting the groceries away when Gloria Rattigan called. “I'm glad I got you,” she said. “I thought of something I probably should have mentioned the other day. We were talking about people who weren't too happy with Marcus, remember?”

“Sure.” I shoved an armload of frozen vegetables into the freezer and pushed it closed with my hip. “Did you think of someone else?”

“Roger Nye. He's our next door neighbor here. Has been for years. He and Marcus got into a huge fight summer before last. And I mean, huge. Roger's normally a pretty mild mannered guy, so this made a big impression on me. I don't know what Marcus did, but whatever it was, Roger swore up and down that he'd never forgive him. As far as I know, they never spoke again.”

“Do you think Mr. Nye would be willing to talk to me?”

“I don't see why not, especially if I call and ask him to. You haven't forgotten about Liz Barnum, have you?”

“No.” The secretary was next on my list.

“If I think of anyone else, I'll be sure and let you know.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

It was nice of her to be so helpful, but I couldn't help but wonder why she was bothering. Considering how pleased she'd been by her ex-husband's death, Gloria Rattigan hadn't struck me as a particularly nice person.

“Just one more question,” I said. “Do you happen to know who will inherit Marcus's estate?”

“I'll say I do.”

A burst of raucous laughter assaulted my ear and I held the receiver away as Gloria continued.

“The lawyers contacted me yesterday. Bastard never got around to changing his will after we got divorced. Probably figured he'd live forever, that's just the way Marcus would think. Aside from a few bequests, the rest of it comes to me. Isn't that a hoot?”

It was a hoot, all right.

“I guess that means the search for a new husband is off?”

“Are you kidding? I'm still looking, I've just changed the parameters. Thanks to my newfound prosperity, I'm going for less money and more muscles.”

I hung up the phone and had a good laugh. It's hard not to admire a woman who knows how to roll with the punches.

On Fridays Howard Academy has early dismissal. According to the school brochure, which stressed the importance of family values, this was to enable students to get an early start on their homework so they'd be free to spend the rest of the weekend with their busy, hardworking parents. I didn't believe it for a minute.

Seven weeks into the school year, I was pretty certain that the real reason we got out early was to give Russell and Bitsy a head start on their getaway weekends to sun and snow. Not that I was complaining, mind you. Any system that allowed me to be finished with the week's work by 2 P.M. on Friday afternoon was perfectly all right with me.

Unfortunately, the weather that day was damp and drizzly. The chill of winter-to-come was in the air. I was supposed to go out jogging but, not surprisingly, I couldn't seem to muster any enthusiasm for the chore. Instead I got in the car and drove to Marcus Rattigan's office in downtown Stamford.

Anaconda Properties was located in a new high rise office building, one of several that had sprung up near the railroad tracks during the development boom of the mid-eighties. The building was twelve stories of concrete and reflective glass and offered underground parking. A sign out front announced that office space was still available.

I skimmed the directory, found Rattigan's company listed on the tenth floor, and rode the elevator up. The office suite devoted to Anaconda Properties was on the south side of the building. Double doors were flanked by frosted glass windows and bore a small brass plaque with the company name and logo, an image of a coiled snake, ready to strike. How appropriate.

The doors were unlocked and led directly into a small reception area that was sparsely furnished in modern, high-tech style. A woman with delicate features and lustrous chestnut hair was sitting behind a desk, talking on the telephone.

“Please hold a moment,” she said as I walked in. She pressed a button on the phone and looked up. “Yes, may I help you?”

“I'm looking for Liz Barnum.”

Her carefully tweezed eyebrows lifted slightly. “I'm Liz Barnum. May I ask what this is in reference to?”

“I'd like to talk to you about Marcus Rattigan.”

“Are you a reporter?”

“No, I—”

“You're not with the police.”

“No.”

“Then I have nothing to say.” Liz glanced at the door expectantly, her hand hovering above the phone console as she waited to resume her call.

I wasn't about to give up that easily. “I think you've met my brother. Frank Turnbull? He was working with Mr. Rattigan on the conversion of an old general store in north Stamford.”

“You're Frank's sister?” She looked at me carefully, as though searching for a family resemblance. What she saw must have been good enough, because she punched a button, said, “I'll have to call you back,” and hung up the phone. “How is Frank?”

It seemed I'd said the magic word. Interesting.

“Naturally he's very upset about what happened. He's even more concerned about the fact that the police consider him to be a suspect.”

“That's crazy. Your brother doesn't look like he'd hurt a fly.” Liz stood up and walked to a door in the back wall. She opened it to reveal a large office. “Let's talk in here where we'll have more privacy.”

I followed her inside. The office was not only big, it was sumptuous. One entire wall was windows. Rain beat down against the glass now, but on a clear day the view of Long Island Sound must have been spectacular. A desk dominated one side of the room. On the other, three leather chairs were grouped around a glass-topped table.

“Is this Rattigan's office?” I headed toward the desk.

“It was.” Liz pulled out a chair and sat down. “You won't find anything useful, though. The police have already been through everything. They took Marcus's calendar, his computer, and all his current files.”

“Must make it hard to keep the business running.” I had a look anyway. Aside from a blotter and pen set, the desktop was empty. The credenza beside it held only a printer and a fax machine.

“At the moment we're just treading water, waiting until the estate gets settled and we see what happens next.”

I wondered if she knew that Rattigan's wife was his main beneficiary. If she didn't, I wasn't going to be the one to tell her.

I left the desk and went over and sat down. Liz crossed her legs and smoothed the creases from her short skirt. Her nails were bitten back to the quick.

“Frank tells me that according to Rattigan's calendar, he had an appointment with my brother at the coffee bar on the evening that he died.”

“That's right.” Liz nodded. “I took the call myself.”

“Except that my brother didn't make that appointment.”

The phone buzzed in the other room. I glanced at Liz. She didn't get up.

“Don't worry, someone will get it. It's probably just more reporters anyway. And yes, Frank did set up that meeting. He called around two-thirty. I told him that Marcus was out of the office inspecting a site, but that I expected him to check in and I'd give him the message.”

Two-thirty. That probably was about the time Frank had called, but he'd been adamant about the fact that he hadn't left any messages.

“Is that the way things usually worked between the two of them?”

Liz reached out and straightened an ashtray on the table. She seemed to be having a hard time sitting still. “What do you mean?”

“I imagine Marcus Rattigan must have been a very busy man. And in the grand scheme of things, I wouldn't think that the deal he had going with my brother was all that important. So I guess what I'm trying to ask is, was Frank in the habit of arranging meetings that way? And was it unusual for Rattigan, busy as he was, to simply acquiesce to such a demand?”

Liz thought briefly before answering. “Now that you mention it, I guess it was a little odd. Usually when the two of them got together, they met here. Marcus wasn't the kind of man who would jump to answer anyone's summons. I'm sure Frank realized that. But I was pretty busy when the call came in. I guess I just didn't think about it at the time.”

“It didn't occur to you that it might not be my brother on the phone?”

“No. Like I said, I was busy. I wrote the information down in the book and forgot about it.”

Nothing there that would help Frank's chances with the police. It was time to move on to a trickier topic. “I understand you and Marcus Rattigan have known each other for a long time.”

“I worked for him for nearly eight years.”

“You had a closer relationship, too, didn't you?”

“You've been talking to Gloria,” Liz said dryly. “How is the old bat?”

“Coping nicely, from what I could see.”

“Why shouldn't she be? She's probably happy he's gone. He dumped her and she never got over it.”

“Like you did.”

“Well, well.” Liz's smile was brittle. “I guess you have been doing your homework.”

I sat forward in my chair, leaning closer across the space that separated us, as I willed her not to tune me out. “I'm sorry if you think this is an intrusion, but I don't have any choice. Somehow my brother has managed to land himself in the middle of a murder investigation. The police have all but told him he's their chief suspect, and even I can understand why they might see things that way.

“The problem is, my brother didn't kill Marcus Rattigan. If the best way for me to help him is to try and figure out who did, then that's what I'm going to do.”

Liz stood up and crossed the room. She stared out the rain-streaked window. “Is that why you came to talk to me? Because you were looking for someone else to blame?”

“I'm looking for the truth,” I said quietly.

“So be it.” Liz nodded. “The truth is, Marcus and I had an affair. It wasn't any big secret, at least not after Gloria found out. Did you ever meet Marcus?”

“Once.”

A phone buzzed again in the outer room. I ignored it; Liz did, too.

“You probably didn't care for him, then. He didn't make the best first impression. And yes, he could be brash and aggressive. He had neither the time nor the patience to deal with people who couldn't see the same visions he did. But that was the public man. Once you got to know him, he could also be sweet and compassionate.”

Liz looked at me and shook her head. “I see you don't believe me. It doesn't matter. After all, it's over now. Marcus was a wonderful man. Working here together week after week, month after month, it was just very easy to fall into bed with him.”

“And to believe that he was going to divorce his wife and marry you?”

“Yes, I suppose so. At the time, that's what I thought I wanted.”

“Then he and Gloria got a divorce and he dropped you, too.”

“Oh, my.” Liz grimaced. “Gloria really did spin you a story, didn't she? I imagine that's what she wants to believe. I'm sure it makes her feel better.

“The truth is, Marcus and I made a mutual decision to part. It turned out that what was fun and thrilling when we had to sneak around wasn't nearly so exciting when it was all out in the open. Our affair had run its course, and it was time to let it go.”

Maybe, I thought. And maybe not. “You didn't find it awkward being here with him afterward?”

“No, why should I? As I said, we both agreed that breaking up was for the best. We were mature adults. There wasn't any reason we couldn't continue to work together.”

For the third time since we'd entered the office, the phone buzzed. This time Liz headed for the door. “I'm afraid that's all I can tell you. Please give your brother my best.”

I followed her out into the reception area. As I passed a hallway that opened off of it, a door was flung open and a man came striding out. He was tall and blond and looked extremely agitated.

“Liz, what the hell's going on around here? Why isn't anyone answering the phone?”

“I was taking a break,” Liz said calmly. She lifted the receiver, greeted the caller, and placed him on hold. “I'm back now, so you can relax.”

The man glanced in my direction. “Who's that?”

“Melanie Travis,” I said, offering a hand.

He hesitated a moment as if hoping for more information, then took my hand and shook it briefly. “Ben Welch.”

“Ben is vice president of Anaconda Properties,” said Liz. “He is . . . was ... Marcus's second in command.” She looked at Ben. “Melanie was just leaving. And you have a call on line two.”

I watched as he walked back to his office. A second in command might know all sorts of useful things. “Do you suppose Ben would mind—?”

“Probably not, but he doesn't have time. With Marcus gone, he's juggling both their schedules. He doesn't have a spare minute for days.”

Earlier she'd told me the firm was treading water.

The phone buzzed again. Liz sat down at her desk and reached for the receiver. Clearly my time was up.

“Thanks for talking to me,” I said and let myself out.

 

Sam's arrival that evening was heralded by a chorus of barking from Faith. She likes to announce visitors and I've never minded the noise, figuring that a four-legged burglar alarm—which was all I could afford—was a good deal better than none. Usually she quiets right down as soon as she recognizes the guests, but that night she kept on barking. When I looked out my bedroom window, I saw the reason why.

Sam had gotten Tar out of his Blazer, and the puppy was racing in large, looping circles around the front yard. He feinted to the left and then the right, dodging behind the tree and around Davey's bike. Ears flapping, feet scrambling, tail wagging, he was adorable. Faith, standing on her hind legs and looking out the window, could see perfectly well that another dog was having all kinds of fun in her yard while she wasn't having any.

By the time I got downstairs, Davey had opened the front door. Now everyone was in the yard giving the neighbors a show. Predictably my son was shoeless and without a jacket in the crisp October air. Faith was doing her part to add to the excitement by bowling Tar end over end across the grass.

A dumber woman might have gone outside and joined the fray. Instead I stood in the doorway and let them all come to me. The two Poodles went racing past first, heading toward the kitchen and the water bowl.

Davey was next, holding Sam's hand and chattering about his day. If my son had anything to say about it, they'd have passed right by me and headed straight for the Lego model he was building in the living room. Luckily Sam had other ideas. He let go of Davey's hand and gathered me into a hug.

“That's gross,” said Davey. “I hope you're not going to kiss, too.”

“We might.” Sam looked down at him over my shoulder. “In fact, I'd say it's a real possibility.”

Davey made a rude noise.

I frowned at my son, and heir. “If you don't like it, go somewhere else.”

“Can't.” Resigned, Davey sat down on a step. “If I leave, how will I know when you're done?”

“We'll call you,” I said.

Davey shook his head.

There's definitely something inhibiting about having a six year old staring at you. Especially when he's your six year old. Sam began to chuckle. His hold around me loosened.

“Later?” I asked with a sigh.

His lips brushed lightly across my cheek, his response was low in my ear. “Count on it.”