Watchdog (9 page)

So as I drove beneath the thruway and turned up onto Fieldpoint Road, I was thinking that no matter how nasty Gloria Rattigan's divorce had been, she couldn't have come off too badly if she still had a house in Belle Haven. After only two wrong turns, I found the address. The house wasn't a beachfront mansion but it was large nonetheless, a three-story Tudor with an expansive lawn and a circular gravel drive. And yes, I realized as I parked the Volvo in the shade and got out, I could see the Sound in the distance above a low band of trees.

If any reporters had come to see Gloria Rattigan, they were gone now. The house looked quiet, almost serene, in the golden October light. At this time of day in my neighborhood there would have been toddlers riding tricycles down the sidewalk, a garbage truck making pickups, perhaps a teenager playing hooky with a boom box attached to his ear. Here there was only silence; as if wealth, the great protector, had cushioned the owners of these homes from the noise and mundane hassles of everyday life.

I left Faith in the car, her nose pressed mournfully against the window, walked to the front door, and rang the bell. After a moment Gloria Rattigan answered the door herself.

She was a slender woman in her mid-forties, with a long, bony face and hands to match. Her hair was the shade of frosted blond favored by women who need to camouflage a lot of gray, and her suit was from Chanel. Manicured fingers toyed with the equestrian themed scarf at her throat as she arranged her somewhat blank expression into a tentative smile.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Melanie Travis. I was wondering if you might have a few minutes to speak with me?”

Gloria closed the door ever so slightly. “Are you a reporter? The police told me the press would probably come.”

“No, but I am here about your ex-husband. My brother, Frank, was in business with Mr. Rattigan.”

“Many people have business dealings with Marcus. What does that have to do with me?”

I searched her face for signs of grief before continuing. For someone who'd just lost her ex-husband under suspicious circumstances, she looked remarkably composed.

“For the last six weeks Frank had been renovating a building in north Stamford that was owned by your ex-husband.”

A small line furrowed between her brows. “Is that the place where Marcus was killed?”

“Yes, that's what I'd like to talk to you about. You see, the police seem to view my brother as a suspect—”

Unexpectedly, Gloria Rattigan smiled. “Your brother is the one who murdered Marcus?”

“No, he didn't. I'm sure of it. But the police—”

“Why don't you come in?” Gloria stepped back and opened the door. “I imagine I can spare a few minutes.”

Let me get this straight, I thought as I followed her through an ornate foyer into a large living room. When I was the sister of a business partner, I could stand on the front step. As the sister of a potential murderer, I'd been invited inside.

“Please sit down,” said Gloria. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

Confused, I shook my head and sat. Gloria chose a spot on a love seat opposite.

“If you don't mind my saying so, you seem to be handling the news rather well.”

“Only on the surface. Inside, I'm jumping up and down with glee.”

Times like these, I can only wish I'd learned how to cultivate a poker face. Unfortunately, everything I was feeling was right there in my expression.

“I see I've shocked you,” said Gloria. “There was no love lost between Marcus and me. If your brother's the person responsible for his death, I'd be pleased to thank him personally.”

I couldn't see the point in declaring Frank's innocence when his presumed guilt was buying me so much goodwill. “I understand that you were married to Mr. Rattigan for a number of years.”

“Fourteen. And some of them were even quite happy.” Gloria reached over to an end table, picked up a pack of menthol cigarettes, shook one out, and lit the tip with a silver lighter.

“And the divorce?”

“That happened last year. It was Marcus's idea. If you ever met him, you'll know that he was the sort of person who always did exactly what he wanted to do, and the rest of the world be damned.”

“Someone told me ...” I paused uncertainly, then pushed on. “That you refer to him as ‘The Rat'?”

Gloria laughed, exhaling small puffs of smoke with each breath. “Why not? If I do say so myself, it was the perfect name for him. I can't say that he liked it much, though. Bastard asked if that meant I thought of myself as a sinking ship.”

I couldn't help myself; I laughed along with her. The interview might not be going the way I'd planned, but it was certainly making me feel better. Obviously Frank was simply the first person the police had stumbled over, suspect-wise. Once they got hold of Gloria Rattigan, they would have to concede there were other possibilities.

“The reason I came to see you was because I was hoping you might be able to tell me if there was anyone who might have wanted to harm your ex-husband.”

Gloria tipped a long wand of ash into the ashtray. “Aside from me, you mean. How many names do you want?”

I thought she was kidding. “How many do you have?”

“Probably dozens. Marcus could be a real shark and it didn't take most people long to figure that out. You can start with just about anyone who ever tried to do business with him. Marcus was tight with money and fond of iron-clad contracts. I doubt if anybody ever came out on the winning end of a deal with him.”

Gloria drew in a deep drag of smoke and slowly let it out. “It's no secret who belongs at the top of the list, though. Anyone could tell you that. Her name is Liz Barnum.”

“Who is she?”

“His secretary. And the bitch he was sleeping with throughout most of our marriage.”

Oh.

That question had worked so well, I decided to try a follow-up. “Why would she have wanted to murder him?”

“Because after working for Marcus for years, slaving for him actually, she finally discovered what a lying, conniving bastard he really was.”

“When was this?”

“When our divorce became final last year. My guess is that he'd been stringing her along, probably feeding her that nonsense men spout. You know, about how she was the only woman he'd ever really loved, and if only he were free . . .”

“Until he got himself free.”

Gloria smiled tightly. “And dumped Liz like yesterday's news. She thought she'd be getting a ring. Turns out she was lucky not to have gotten a pink slip.”

“You mean she still works for him?”

“Yes, crazy isn't it? Supposedly she thinks he's undergoing a period of emotional turmoil. That once he gets things straightened out, he'll realize how much he misses her and come running back.”

For someone who'd divorced her husband a year earlier, Gloria seemed remarkably well informed. “How do you know all this?”

“Do I look stupid to you? Marcus has his spies. I have mine. That's one thing living with him taught me. Always cover your back.”

“You think your husband was spying on you?”

“I don't think so, I know so. He wasn't what you'd call the trusting type. When Marcus was here, we had live-in help, a couple. The wife did the general housekeeping; the husband, the gardening and occasionally some driving. I found out later that their other duty was to report back to Marcus on my activities during the day.”

“Is that what led to the divorce?”

Gloria's fingers brushed at the chintz covered cushion, whisking away an imaginary spot. “That was probably part of it. After a while it seemed foolish for me to adhere to my marriage vows when Marcus was so blatantly abusing his. Unfortunately, it turned out that his views on the subject weren't nearly as liberal as mine.”

I glanced around the room, noticing for the first time that one of the reasons it seemed so large was because it wasn't fully furnished. “So the divorce was his idea.”

“It certainly wasn't mine.” Gloria ground out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Marcus thought he'd walk away with everything. I got myself a good lawyer and he fought like hell. Not that it did much good.”

“You don't seem to have done too badly.”

“Looks can be deceiving. Do you have any idea what it costs to run this house? The mortgage and utility bills alone eat up half the payments I get. Not only that, but the judge went for rehabilitative alimony. It only runs for five years. At the end of that time, I'm supposed to have figured out another way to support myself, and the payments stop.”

“Are you looking for a job?”

Gloria's hand fluttered to her throat. She laughed out loud as if I'd said something funny. “Oh, honey, you are young, aren't you? Me, work? What would I do with a job? I'm looking for another husband.”

 

Out in the car Faith was delighted to see me. She pounced, and licked, and even yipped a few times, just in case there was any doubt. That's one of the things I like best about dogs. You always know where you stand.

When a dog loves you, he shows it. When he hates you, he's equally clear about portraying that emotion. And when a dog's lying to you . . . well, it just doesn't happen.

As for where Gloria Rattigan stood, I had to wonder. On the surface it seemed as though I'd been treated to her honest reaction; her ex-husband was dead, and she couldn't have been happier. Presumably that meant his demise hadn't affected their financial arrangement, and his estate would now pick up the tab for the remaining alimony payments. But could it really be that simple?

And what about the rest of the assets? Marcus Rattigan appeared to be a very successful man. So who inherited everything else?

Back at home I changed my clothes and took Faith out for a jog. As usual, she enjoyed the experience more than I did. Her stride was strong and even, and her ears wraps bobbed jauntily in the breeze. She ignored a fluffy little white dog that chased us, barking madly, for half a block, and curled her lip at a large mutt who harbored thoughts of joining the game.

In the beginning when I could still speak, I told her what a wonderful companion she was. Toward the end, when my legs felt like rubber and just the act of breathing was painful, I could only manage an encouraging pat. She seemed to understand.

As we turned back onto our own block, Davey's bus was just arriving. It stopped at our house and my son emerged, laughing, swinging his backpack, and waving goodbye to his friends. A rush of maternal love carried me the final hundred yards.

Davey saw us coming and held out his arms. I dropped Faith's leash and she ran on ahead. Her greeting just about knocked him over but Davey didn't seem to mind.

“What about me?”

A year earlier my son would have given me a hug. Now he turned a critical eye my way and said, “You don't look so hot.”

“I've been jogging. I looked better two miles ago.”

We trooped inside and had a snack, then Davey sat down at the kitchen table to do his homework. This is a new development in his life and he takes the responsibility very seriously. While he was working, I went upstairs and gave Sam a call. From his preoccupied tone I could tell he was working when he picked up the phone, so I kept it brief.

Though he's too liberal to say so, Sam doesn't like the idea of my getting mixed up with murder. Bearing that in mind, I glossed over most of the details of what had happened. Sam asked about police involvement and sounded relieved when I told him they were on top of things. I figured we could sort out the rest the next time we saw each other and we made plans to get together at the end of the week.

The next morning Davey and I actually got up and went off to school like normal people. No last-minute phone calls, no unexpected dead bodies. This, I thought, must be how the other half lives.

I pulled into the Howard Academy parking lot right on time, stopped to pick up a cup of coffee in the teachers' lounge, and still made it to my classroom with a few minutes to spare. As I was getting things set up for the day, there was a light tap on the classroom door. I pulled it open to find the school's headmaster, Russell Hanover II, standing on the threshold.

“Do you mind if I come in?” he asked.

In a school where children come barreling through doorways all the time, the request seemed needlessly formal. Maybe he was trying to set a good example.

“Please do.”

Russell cast a withering glance at my outfit, which consisted of a turtleneck sweater and corduroy slacks. It hadn't escaped his notice, or mine, that I was the only woman teacher at Howard Academy that dared to dress in pants. As for his appearance, I'm sure that even Honoria Howard herself would have approved.

He was dressed in a lightweight wool suit, which looked to be of English origin. His tie was a somber shade of blue and his conservative button-down shirt bore a muted stripe and a discreet three letter monogram on the pocket. Ralph Lauren makes people pay a mint to dress in the clothes Russell Hanover was born to.

“I just wanted to make sure everything was all right,” he said. “I understand that you were absent yesterday. I trust it was nothing serious?”

“No, nothing serious,” I said blithely.

First Frank had me lying to the police. Now I was lying to the headmaster. Somehow I was sure this was not the direction my life should have been heading.

“Good. Bitsy wanted me to check. She gets concerned, especially about people who haven't been part of our little family for very long.”

Bitsy was Russell's wife, not an employee of the school per se, but an active alum and a very vocal fund-raiser. She was also the former Bitsy Paynter whom the press had lauded as “Deb of the Year” in 1970. She'd told me that the first time we met. As far as I was concerned, that pretty much summed up everything I needed to know.

“It's very kind of you to inquire,” I said, then gave myself a mental kick. One minute's exposure to Russell and I was talking like a character out of Jane Austen. “Please give Bitsy my best and tell her I'm fine.”

“I'll do that. I'm pleased to note that you seem to be settling in quite well. I've had nothing but good reports on your behalf.”

“Really?” The praise made me smile. “That's great.”

“Yes,” Russell agreed. “It is. You've quite lived up to the confidence I had in your abilities. One always finds that reassuring.”

Yes, I thought, I'm sure one does.

“Hey, Ms. Travis!” The classroom door, which had swung partway shut, flew open wide. Spencer Holbrook, cocky grin firmly in place, started to enter the room. Then he saw the headmaster and stopped. “Mr. Hanover.”

“Mr. Holbrook. Working on bringing those grades up, are we?”

“Yes, sir.”

“See that you do. One wouldn't want to have to call your parents.”

“No, sir.” Spencer pulled out a chair and sat down as Russell Hanover let himself out.

I opened Spencer's folder and pulled out his most recent test. It was social studies this time. We stared at the C- together.

“What I don't understand is how you can do so well on your homework and so poorly on your tests.”

“Maybe I'm just not good at taking tests. Maybe I get nervous.”

I didn't think so. Not this kid.

“What's to be nervous about? I've seen your homework. You know the material. All you have to do is write it down.”

“In the heat of the moment, I guess I forgot it.”

Heat of the moment, my fanny. Spencer was up to something. I just had to figure out what it was.

I pulled out the chair beside him and sat. “Let's try and refresh your memory. Mr. Duncan is willing to let you take a make-up test this afternoon during recess. Why don't we see if we can get some of these facts in there to stay.”

Between my normal Wednesday classes and the rescheduled ones from the day before, I was busy all day. I didn't get a chance to talk to Kate Russo until afternoon when she and Lucia showed up to work on their book reports together. Their English class had just finished reading
Animal Farm,
but judging the girls' lack of familiarity with George Orwell's style, I suspected that skimming the Cliffs Notes was about as much of a literary experience as they'd enjoyed.

When they were packing up their things at the end of the period, I drew Kate aside and asked if her dog showing neighbor's name was John Monaghan.

“That's right.”

“Do you happen to know if he ever co-owned any dogs with a man named Marcus Rattigan?”

“Marcus Rattigan, the builder? Isn't he the guy that got killed? I read about it in the paper this morning.”

“Right. Apparently he used to show dogs and he had a really good Wire Fox Terrier bitch named Winter.”

Kate shoved a notebook into her backpack and looked up. “Winter was John's bitch. She's been gone for a while now but he still talks about her all the time.”

“Good. Then he's the man I'm looking for.”

“For what?”

“I need to talk to him about . . . things,” I finished lamely. Kate was bright and curious and she looked entirely too eager to find out what was going on.

“Dog things?”

I nodded. It was close enough.

“I'm sure he'd love to meet you,” said Kate. “John
lives
to talk about his dogs. He's totally addicted, if you know what I mean.”

I could imagine. John Monaghan sounded like most of the people I'd met at the shows. Devoted to the sport of dogs and fanatic in their dedication to the betterment of their breed.

“I'll probably see him this afternoon. Do you want me to ask if you could stop by sometime?” Kate asked.

“Thanks, that would be a big help.”

As Kate started to close her backpack, a telltale yellow-and-black-striped book caught my eye. I reached in and pulled it out.

Kate's cheeks grew pink. “I read the book. Honest. But it's an allegory, you know? I wanted to make sure I didn't overlook any of the subtle nuances.”

“That's what I figured.” I slipped the Cliffs Notes back under cover. “And since you brought it up, the subtle nuances of Orwellian symbolism will be our discussion topic for Friday.”

“Great.” Lucia rolled her eyes. This was probably the first time she'd realized that she, too, was going to have to read the actual book.

“Do you have a horse show this weekend?”

“Of course,” Lucia replied loftily. “I'm leading Zone One in Small Junior Hunters. I go every weekend.”

“Think how much better you'll feel if you get this out of the way first. Friday we'll work on those book reports and Saturday you can go off to your show with a clear conscience.”

They left the room together, grumbling under their breath. At Howard Academy good manners are considered paramount. If I'd actually been able to hear what they were saying, it would have been my duty as a teacher to file a report. Luckily, my hearing tends to fade at just such moments. I was spared the necessity of doing more paperwork, and the girls were freed from the need to explain to their parents why they had to stay for detention.

After school I drove over to Hunting Ridge Elementary and picked up Davey and Joey. Amazingly, they were once again talking about teeth. I hoped Joey hadn't lost any more; Davey was already feeling left behind as it was.