Chapter 10

“You realize that this changes everything,” Aunt Peg said, deftly switching the subject. “I wonder what Edward will do now.”

“He has several ideas,” I told her. “One of which is to take back control of March Homes.”

Tar, who had yet to find a spot to settle, decided instead to pick up a thick knotted rope from a pile of dog toys in the corner. He carried it over to Sam, who grasped the other end absently and began to pull. It’s a family trait: we all seem to think better when we have a dog in our hands.

“He has to be thinking in terms of a temporary measure,” said Sam. “Considering that health issues have forced him to retire from judging, I can’t see him wanting to return to the workforce full-time, even in his own company.”

“Quite right,” Aunt Peg agreed. “So he’ll be looking for a successor.” She paused, then added, “Now, there’s a dandy motive for you.”

It was no surprise that she would be thinking along those lines. Aunt Peg has a devious mind herself, so she tends to attribute that same quality to others.

“Here’s another,” said Sam. “If March does go back to work, that should sideline his plans for a book indefinitely. I wonder how many of the women he planned to write about knew about the project. And how many of them might have objected to being part of it?”

“I don’t know the answer to your second question,” said Peg. “But as for the first, I’m guessing that a good portion of them found out about it just recently.”

That was unexpected. “How?” I asked.

“Though I would have credited Edward with better social skills, he sent out a mass e-mail—of all things—at the end of last week. It detailed his plans to write a memoir and said he hoped we’d all feel honored to be included.”

“Honored?” I had to laugh. “Did he mention the capacity in which he meant to talk about you?”

“Not directly.” Aunt Peg shifted her hand downward and began to scratch Raven’s throat. The big Poodle leaned into the caress happily. “Nevertheless, I wouldn’t be surprised if the e-mail didn’t cause more than a few nervous flutters among the recipients. As you’ve already surmised, Edward didn’t find marriage vows—his own or anyone else’s—to be much of a hindrance when seeking out potential partners.”

“What about you?” said Sam. “Weren’t you worried about what he might say?”

“Oh, heavens, no.” Aunt Peg smiled slyly. “What did I have to worry about? Melanie is to be the book’s coauthor, after all. I was depending upon her to simply edit my segment out.”

It’s gratifying to know that every so often Aunt Peg thinks my skills are good for something.

 

Early Wednesday morning I got a call from Charlotte.

“I know you had an appointment with Mr. March today,” she said. “But it’s just too soon. He’d rather not see anyone.”

“Of course. I understand completely.”

“I also wanted to let you know that there’s going to be a memorial service for Andrew on Monday at the Matthews Funeral Home in Westport,” Charlotte continued. “I hope you’ll come. Mr. March waited until after the weekend so he wouldn’t interfere with anyone’s plans, and I’m hoping there will be a big turnout. A gesture of support on the part of the dog community would really buoy his spirits.”

Fervent dog show exhibitors hold their weekends sacrosanct. Since I started going to shows with Aunt Peg, I’ve come to think of midweek parties, weddings, and even funerals as normal.

“Certainly, I’ll be there,” I said. “And I don’t think you’ll have to worry about drawing a crowd. Mr. March has been a prominent member of the dog world for decades. I’m sure everyone will want to pay their respects.”

Given what felt like a reprieve, I spent the rest of the week doing the Mom thing. I caught up on chores, took Kevin to Mommy-and-Me swim class at the Y, and baked three dozen cookies for a bake sale at Davey’s school. Between that and bathing and blowing dry three Poodles, plus making plans to go to Westminster, then shoveling out from another six inches of snow, there should have been plenty to keep me busy.

So why did my thoughts keep wandering back to a crotchety old man I barely knew who needed someone to be his eyes and ears and thought that I was the right person for the job? By Sunday night I’d spent so much time thinking about Edward March and his problems that I’d begun to wonder why I’d ever even hesitated to say I would help. It was beginning to seem like a foregone conclusion.

When I called Aunt Peg and told her, she thought I was daft.

“Of course you’re going to look into things,” she said. “Did anybody ever doubt that?”

Only me, I guess.

“You’ll start this evening, at the memorial service. Absolutely everyone will be there. What a perfect place to find guilty parties.”

It looked like I had my first assignment.

 

Aunt Peg’s assessment of March’s drawing power was correct. When Sam and I arrived at the Matthews Funeral Home Monday evening, the parking lot was already full and cars lined the street for several blocks in both directions. The imposing redbrick building, situated on a knoll overlooking Route 1, was lit up like a candelabra. After climbing the wide steps leading up from the sidewalk, Sam and I had to join a line of mourners waiting to negotiate the entrance.

Once inside, I saw dozens of familiar faces. Some were friends; others I knew only by reputation. Aunt Peg was somewhere in the crowd, as were Crawford and Terry, and my sister-in-law, Bertie. Andrew’s coworkers were easy to pick out. They stood huddled together in a tight group, looking thoroughly bemused by all the dog chatter eddying around them.

Sam and I entered the funeral home together, but the ebb and flow of conversation soon drew us in different directions. Edward March was seated at the front of the largest reception room, near a tiered bank of flower arrangements and a collection of photographs of Andrew, several of which were large enough to be propped up on easels. I kept trying to make my way in his direction to offer my condolences, but he was constantly surrounded by a large crowd of well-wishers.

As I paused mid-room, an arm slid around my shoulders from behind and I smelled Bertie’s perfume. Chanel No. 5. She’s a traditionalist when it comes to scent. We hugged briefly, then stepped apart.

“Some crowd, huh?” she said. “I’m glad I found you. I was beginning to think I was going to have to spend the entire night listening to guys talk about field trials.”

That’s the thing about dog people. You can take us out of the show milieu, but we still just stand around and talk about our dogs.

“Is Frank here?”

Bertie shook her head. “Home with Maggie. You know Frank. Dogs aren’t really his thing. He wouldn’t have known anyone. What about Sam?”

I gestured toward a far corner. “He seems to have found the Non-Sporting side of the room.”

“Who’s got the kids?”

“We’re trying out a new sitter,” I said with a grimace. “Here’s hoping she lives up to her references.”

Bertie nodded sympathetically. She’d been there.

“We barely got a chance to talk at the show last weekend,” she said. “Peg tells me you’ve gotten involved in some sort of book project with Edward March. Did you know Andrew, too?”

“Not really. We’d only just met, and I have to say, he certainly didn’t make a great first impression.”

“It sounds like he took after his father. Edward can be pretty prickly.” Bertie spared a glance in his direction. “For all his standing in the dog community, I don’t think he has a lot of close friends.”

That didn’t come as a surprise. I’d witnessed March’s isolation for myself. But the realization that it extended beyond the older man’s home and out into the real world came with an unexpected stab of pity.

“It seems like a shame,” I said. “Especially considering how prominent a role the dog world has played in his life.”

“I guess,” said Bertie. “But you know what shows are like. People are traveling all the time, and they stay in the same hotels. They groom their dogs together in close quarters under the tents. Sometimes it feels like everyone is living on top of everybody else. And then the element of competition just complicates things further. Even when everyone tries to play nice, there can still be plenty of tension to go around. Edward was a good judge, but socially . . . well, he wasn’t above causing problems.”

“Because he liked chasing other men’s wives?”

Bertie nodded. “And it’s interesting that you would phrase it that way. Because that was my impression, too—that it wasn’t the affair itself that Edward wanted so much as the pursuit and the conquest. It was all just another competition to him. The women themselves were almost incidental.”

“I can see how that might have left a lot of women feeling used,” I said.

“Maybe. But it’s not like they weren’t willing participants. And many of the women he was involved with maintained some sort of relationship with him afterward. Tonight’s a good example. Look around the room.”

We both did.

“See that woman there?” Bertie pointed discreetly toward a short brunette in a tight Chanel suit. “Sybil Forest. She’s one of his exes. That’s her husband beside her.”

The husband was built like a linebacker. From the look of him, he could have torn March limb from limb, should he have chosen to do so.

“Bloodhounds,” Bertie added. For a dog person, no description was complete without the addition of breed affiliation. “And over there?”

We both shifted slightly in the other direction.

“Black pantsuit, gray hair,” Bertie stated.

“India Fleming,” I said. I had shown under her.

“And the blonde next to her . . .”

That woman looked familiar. It took me a moment to remember why.

“Maribeth something,” I said. “Terry pointed her out to me last weekend.”

“Chandler,” Bertie replied. “She has Vizslas.”

Then the crowd between us shifted slightly, and I saw a swing of silky blond hair framing another familiar face. “That’s Charlotte standing with them,” I said.

“Who?” Now it was Bertie’s turn to discreetly crane her neck to look.

“The young blonde is Charlotte, March’s assistant.” I paused and thought back. “She told me that her mother and March were old friends. That’s how she got the job.”

“Her mother didn’t do her any favors, did she?” Bertie muttered.

I thought about March’s squabbling family, his debris-filled house, and Charlotte’s cheery attempts to make everything seem normal. Bertie didn’t know the half of it, I thought.

“There are more,” she said. “Should I keep going?”

“No, I get your point. But how do you know all this stuff? March must be at least seventy. A lot of it must have happened before you started showing dogs.”

“Everybody knows this stuff.” Bertie jabbed a finger into my shoulder. “Except maybe you. You know the dog show world. The good gossip never dies.”

“Who died?” asked Aunt Peg, coming up to stand beside us. “We’re already at a memorial service. Isn’t that enough for one day?”

“We’re talking about gossip,” Bertie told her.

“Perish the thought.”

Someone with less self-control might have rolled her eyes. I settled for a baleful look.

“What?” Aunt Peg asked innocently.

“I must have you confused with someone else,” I said. “Because I could have sworn that you were the person who sent me to help March write a kiss-and-tell memoir.”

“Kiss and tell?” Bertie quickly stifled a giggle. “Are you serious? Nobody told me that part.”

“It’s hardly my fault that Edward looked at the body of work his life encompasses and then chose to take the low road,” Aunt Peg said with a sniff. “Truly, I would have expected better of him than that.”

I leaned closer to Bertie and whispered, “And she should know. After all, Aunt Peg and Edward March are old friends.”

“Oh, dear.” Bertie tried biting her lip in an attempt to maintain decorum appropriate to the setting. Clearly, she was losing the battle. Her hand came up and covered her mouth. “I may have to step outside.”

“And you thought you had all the good gossip.”

“I’ll never underestimate you again,” she said.

“Look.” Peg grasped my shoulders firmly and turned me so I was facing the front of the room. “It’s time to pay attention. Somebody’s about to speak.”

The director of the funeral home had stepped up to a small podium situated on the dais next to the photographs. He waited until the room quieted, then thanked us all for coming to pay tribute to our dear departed friend Andrew. He assured us that Andrew’s grieving family appreciated our presence, and announced that several of Andrew’s friends would like to take this opportunity to say a few words.

First to speak was a man named Sherm Yablonsky. He introduced himself in a voice that quavered initially, then grew stronger as he recounted his favorite memories of March’s son. “Andrew and I were college roommates at Columbia,” he said. “Purely luck of the draw. Most freshmen end up hating the guy they’re assigned to. We immediately became best friends instead.”

When he finished speaking, he stepped off the dais and went and shook Edward March’s hand. Another man came forward to take his place.

“I’m Walt McEvoy,” he said. “Andrew was my boss. He told me what to do, and at least some of the time I did it.” There was a small ripple of laughter from the peer group. “Seriously, I couldn’t have chosen a better guy to work with these last ten years.”

He, too, walked over and shook Edward March’s hand when he was done. Watching as that interplay repeated, I noticed a dark-haired woman in a severely styled black dress who was standing just behind March’s chair. Her eyes were large and luminous, and she appeared to be on the verge of tears. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, and it looked as though the secure hug was all that was holding her together.

Now that I stopped and thought about it, I realized that she’d been occupying that somewhat conspicuous spot for most of the evening. And yet neither March nor any of the other mourners had taken the time to speak to her. No one was paying any attention to her at all.

I elbowed Bertie. “Who is that?”

“No idea,” she whispered back.

When someone else began to speak, I kept watching the woman as she stood and listened politely. She appeared to be about my age, more likely to have been a companion of Andrew’s than his father’s. Why, then, were his friends snubbing her? And what made her remain in place in the face of their obvious incivility?

“Well, that’s that,” said Aunt Peg.

I looked up and realized that the last speaker had finished. People were beginning to head toward the door. Sam was making his way through the thinning crowd in our direction.

“I haven’t had a chance to speak to Mr. March yet,” I said. Once again, he was surrounded.

“You came, and you offered your support,” said Aunt Peg. “I’m sure that’s enough.”

“Ready?” asked Sam. He’d already been to the cloakroom.

I wound my scarf around my neck and slid my arms into the wool coat. Together, we headed out into the cold night.