The Ghost Goes to the Dogs, page 12
“Ella?”
“Ella Pruett. You know her. She’s a regular customer at—”
“Our bookshop. Yes, of course. She’s a member of our pet-mystery book club, and she’s one of the core committee members organizing the Pet Week activities. But I never knew she and Jane’s late husband were an item.”
“We were all just kids back then. Our football coach was the one who got them together. Carl was flunking two classes, and Ella agreed to tutor him. Everyone thought Carl and Ella would be the ones who got married after graduation.”
“What happened?”
“Ella graduated valedictorian, and she went off to college on the West Coast. Carl stayed here and took over his father’s real estate business. By the time Ella got a handful of degrees and came back to Quindicott, Carl was married to Jane.” Bud paused. “It was a better match, I thought.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, I don’t like to gossip—”
You’re doing a real good job for an amateur, the ghost cracked.
Quiet, Jack!
“Go on, Bud. You were saying?”
“Well . . .”—he scratched his whiskers—“Ella was always pretty full of herself. Haughty, you know? Her family came from money, and she looked down on a lot of us, even her own high school boyfriend, though Carl’s family was well-off, too—but she didn’t think Carl was very smart. She was wrong about that. Carl Cunningham showed the whole town how smart he was when he doubled his father’s business inside of a year and made a fortune on some shrewd investments. As a schoolboy, he just wasn’t book smart, you know?”
“Sure, I know what you mean,” I said. “But were there any hard feelings? When Ella came back from college, was she disappointed that Carl had moved on and married Jane?”
“That I couldn’t tell you. Though Ella never married. Or did much of anything with her education. Not that I know of. She spent time in New York City, took quite a few extravagant overseas trips, cared for her wealthy parents as they got older. Of course, they’re both long gone now, and she still lives in their big house on Larchmont.” Bud shook his head. “If you ask me, that fortune her family relied on hasn’t been doing so well lately.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She’s letting that valuable property of hers get awful run-down. I don’t think she has much liquidity left. But you know what they say about sandals to sandals.”
“What’s that?”
“You never heard that saying? Sandals to sandals in three generations?”
“What does it mean?’
“First generation starts out lean and hungry. They work sunup to sundown to get somewhere. Their children build on that foundation and go even further, making their fortune and moving up the ladder. But their children, raised in the lap of luxury, are so removed from their grandparents’ work ethic that they fritter away that hard-earned fortune and end their lives in poverty.”
Bud paused. “You know, it’s funny that Ella Pruett should come up in our conversation. I haven’t seen her in months, yet just this morning, she came into the store.”
“What was she looking for?”
“A bullhorn.”
Chapter 26
Here Comes the Judge
Sometimes it’s a dog-eat-dog world and the rest of the time it’s the other way around.
—Lawrence Block, A Dance at the Slaughterhouse
That’s a swell rubber hose you got there, doll, Jack said as we left Napp’s. I knew a cop from Hell’s Kitchen who sure knew how to use one of those.
I glanced at the loop of rubber tubing clutched in my hand.
This is for bathing, Jack. Not beating a confession out of some poor suspect.
I’m simply pointing out that a rubber hose has more than one use . . .
On the short walk back to my shop, I anticipated my use for that one and worked out a strategy for Spencer and me to successfully bathe an eighty-pound dog.
I assumed that would be my most challenging task of the evening.
I was wrong.
When I’d left the shop, everything had been in hand, and we were all happily anticipating the fun festival to come. When I returned, I found Bonnie cowering behind the register, and a glowering Seymour Tarnish leaning against it.
“Welcome to occupied territory,” Seymour said.
“What’s going on? Where’s Sadie?”
“There’s been a regime change at the Paw-some Pals,” Seymour informed me. “Ella Pruett called an emergency meeting and commandeered your event space. Right now Sadie, Brainert, and a few terrorized members of the Pals are listening to Ms. Pruett’s last-minute adjustments to Pet Week.”
“Why aren’t you in there?”
“Because I’ve just been fired.”
“What?!”
“I’m not surprised,” Seymour said. “Ms. Pruett has had it in for me since I moved to Larchmont Avenue. Last year she tried to circulate a petition to force me to change the appearance of my unconventional abode to fit the neighborhood.”
“Why am I just now hearing about this?”
“No big deal. I sicced my lawyer on her, and that was the end of it. But Ella Pruett has a memory like an elephant’s—and as an added bonus, she carries a grudge the size of Jupiter.”
Seymour jerked his head in the direction of the event space.
“One more thing. The new Princess of the Paws-somes requires your presence, tout de suite.”
“She does, does she?”
I bolted across the shop with determined steps. I was not going to allow weeks of work and planning by Jane Cunningham to be upset by a woman I hardly knew—even if she did have a bullhorn!
Smart to go into this battle armed, Jack said.
I don’t need a weapon to handle this.
But you have one, doll. You’re still clutching that rubber hose.
So I was. And it was too late to put it down now.
Before I’d left earlier, Bonnie and I had finished setting up the event space for Pet Week. We’d prepared a book-signing table for our guest of honor, with stacks of Amber Breen’s latest hardcover ready to go, and we’d put her backlist on a portable shelf.
We’d peppered the area with several of the standees that we’d kept from Amber’s string of hardcover hits. Even better, the producer of the hit Kennel Club streaming series had been kind enough to send us posters promoting the new season, which was about to begin.
Now I entered our event space to find that the standees had been pushed aside, the portable shelf shoved into a corner, and the pristine copies of Amber’s new hardcover stacked on the floor.
All of this was presumably done by the rail-thin sixtyish woman in low heels and a powder blue tailored suit who was now standing behind the author’s table, on which sat one thing—a red bullhorn.
I was enraged, and I wasn’t the only one.
“Who do you think you are to come in here and tell us how to run this event?” Hands on her hips, Sadie was facing down Ms. Pruett from the other side of the table. Her tone was as angry as I’d ever heard it, and Sadie was no one to mess with. Everyone in town knew it. Everyone except Ella Pruett, apparently.
“I’m a founding member of the Paw-some Pals and a ranking member of the Pet Week planning committee. That’s who I am!” Ms. Pruett shot back.
“But you haven’t shown up for a single planning meeting since the first one weeks ago. Jane has been our prime mover in organizing Pet Week.”
The other woman sniffed. “It was clear that Jane was going to veto my every idea. And when your busybody niece backed Jane on inviting Amber Breen as our event’s special guest instead of my author choice, I got the message. I know when I’m not wanted. But now the situation has changed.”
“No, it hasn’t,” Sadie replied. “Jane may not be here to oversee things, but her plans are in place. Everything is under control.”
Ella Pruett lifted her chin to peer down her sharp nose at my aunt. “I disagree. With Jane in the hospital, a new chairperson must oversee the events to ensure they go smoothly—and to resolve all the outstanding issues that are obviously going to cause problems. I have no choice but to step up.”
And right now, I decided, I have no choice but to speak up!
“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “Sadie and I are in charge of this room, the events that take place here, and the schedule.”
“That’s right,” Sadie affirmed, “and there will be no changes.”
“There’d better be,” Ella Pruett threatened, “because my changes to the community events will surely interfere with Amber Breen’s appearance here as well as with her signing schedule—”
Who does this broad think she is, Jack cracked, the Queen of Sheba? You want me to scare her into next week?
No, Jack! We’ll handle it . . .
I cleared my throat. “Ms. Pruett, have you forgotten? The primary reason our guest of honor came to Quindicott in the first place is to meet her fans and autograph copies of her new book.”
Sadie jumped in. “Pen’s absolutely right. That’s why Amber Breen is here. And Ms. Breen will not be going along with your last-minute changes. I’ll make sure of it.”
Ms. Pruett pursed her lips. “My word,” she replied in a tone that conveyed about as much sweetness as a rotten lemon. “If you’re going to be that inflexible and difficult to work with, we’ll just have to let Ms. Breen’s schedule stand as it is.”
I couldn’t help but share a triumphant glance with Aunt Sadie.
Unfortunately, the other woman was far from finished.
“Now, let’s turn our attention back to our discussion of Professor J. Brainert Parker’s theater. As I was saying earlier, I don’t believe you have competent security, Professor—”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have fired my head of security,” Brainert tightly noted.
“Exactly my point, Professor. Mr. Tarnish is both unqualified and unsuitable.” Ella rested a hand on the bullhorn in front of her. “If I must, I shall handle security inside the theater personally.”
“Good luck with that,” Brainert muttered.
“Another thing, Professor Parker. I insist that you return to the original sanitation plan you first submitted. The cat boxes must be inside the theater—”
“But that space has been reserved for a Buy the Book kiosk,” Brainert protested.
“Sadie Thornton and her busybody niece can shill their wares during the author signings. I’m sorry but there is simply no space for them in the theater.”
“Well, it’s my theater. I manage it. And I insist that the book kiosk remains,” Brainert replied.
“So do I,” I added.
“There is one alternative, I suppose,” Ella said in her strident voice. “We could erect a tent right outside the theater to serve as a cat comfort station.”
Sadie spoke up. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. We already have a permit for that space. It’s reserved for the mobile veterinarian van—”
“Which I am subsidizing,” Ella Pruett interrupted. She paused to examine her manicure. “Perhaps I should spare the expense and cancel—”
“You can’t do that now,” Sadie protested. “Jane’s booked more than twenty appointments for the vet, and that doesn’t count the walk-ins.”
“Then there are really only two choices,” Ella Pruett declared. “Either the veterinary van gets canceled and a pet comfort tent is erected, or the kitty litter boxes replace the bookstore kiosk inside the theater.”
I glanced at Sadie. Frowning, she returned my gaze. We knew that Jane Cunningham had reached out to some of the less privileged pet owners in Quindicott and convinced them to have their animals checked out by a professional at a deeply discounted cost. I also knew she would not want to jeopardize that plan.
But it was my call, as store event planner, so Sadie left it to me. And there was really only one choice.
“Fine,” I said. “The kiosk goes.”
“I knew you’d see things my way.” Ella Pruett sniffed.
With all that settled, Ella moved on to internal Paw-some Pal matters—which meant hectoring the members who’d shown up for this emergency meeting until they succumbed to her will.
The whole time, my fingers tightened on that loop of rubber hose with my barely suppressed rage.
I confess, Jack, you’re right again.
I thought you’d come around, Penny.
I have. At this particular moment, I can think of only one use for this rubber hose. And it has nothing to do with personal hygiene!
Chapter 27
Wash Away Your Troubles
I am sure there are things that can’t be cured by a good bath, but I can’t think of one.
—Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
Later that day, Sparky’s cleanup went smoother than expected—until it didn’t.
We waited until after dinner, ours and the dog’s. While Spencer took Sparky on his evening walk, I dug through the storage closet in search of beach towels. I calculated that two of them would be enough to dry Sparky.
Our plan was to lead the dog into the bathroom, close the door to prevent his escape, and wrestle him into the tub. From there we expected a struggle, and Spencer and I were prepared to get as wet as the dog.
But Sparky stunned us both by hopping into the tub as soon as he saw it. Wagging his tail, he barked at the faucet until Spencer turned on the tap. Then the dog happily snapped at the flow and splashed his front paws in the rising water.
“Sparky’s having fun!” Spencer exclaimed. “Look, Mom, he loves taking a bath!”
“He does!”
I didn’t bother closing the door. Sparky liked the smell of the baby shampoo, and he appreciated his soapy rubdown. He didn’t mind the shower-hose rinsing, either, though through sheer rambunctiousness, Sparky pulled the tube off the faucet twice, so he could snap at the gushing tap water.
Drying didn’t go quite as smoothly. Sparky did the typical doggy thing and shook his whole body, causing a rainstorm in the bathroom. But despite his shake down, my two beach towels were quickly saturated—and still the dog felt like he’d just come out of the rain. Fortunately, the clean-smelling shampoo took care of any pungent wet-dog aroma.
“Let’s try my hair dryer,” I said, plugging it in. “Ready, Sparky?”
He wasn’t.
Apparently, baths were old hat for Jane’s dog, but Sparky had never heard the abrupt whine of an electric hair dryer. The dog panicked, bowled Spencer over, and was out the bathroom door in a flash, dragging a soggy beach towel in his wake.
In the hall, Sadie yelped and spilled her tea as the dog rocketed past her.
“Where did he go?” Spencer cried.
“To your room.” Sadie pointed.
We found Sparky with his head under his blue blanket. Spencer coaxed him out with a T-Bonz snack, and in a few minutes, his tail was wagging again.
“Sorry, Sparky,” I said as I stroked his moist fur.
Within fifteen minutes, the dog was sleeping, and Spencer was getting drowsy. I tucked them both in and headed to bed myself.
Despite his scare, Sparky was clean and carefree, and I envied him. As I prepared for sleep, I wished that a simple bath could clean my mind along with my body.
What’s got you in the dumps, doll? Jack asked.
Ella Pruett, I replied. She’s the most difficult woman I’ve dealt with since I left my publishing career in New York City.
How so?
What do you mean, Jack? You were there! She’s taken over Pet Week, and she’s making a bunch of changes for no other reason than because Jane originally set everything up. And Ella shut down our kiosk just because I backed Jane instead of her on her guest-author suggestion.
You could have stood up to her. You had that rubber hose.
I could have stood up to her, and I didn’t need a rubber hose. But all those veterinary appointments Jane made for the area’s poorer pet owners— Well, I couldn’t let one woman’s nasty ego trip disappoint those folks.
That’s how people like Ella Pruett always get their way, Jack said. They squeeze everybody around them between a rock and a hard place.
Ella Pruett is a difficult person, for sure. But now I wonder if there’s more to it.
Are you putting a frame to this Pruett dame? Jack asked straight out.
Do I think Ella shot Jane? No, Jack. I can’t see her shooting her rival over who gets a bullhorn or cats versus dogs. But there are things Bud told me—”
About her bobby-soxer romance with Carl Cunningham? Yeah, Elle coming back to town to find heartthrob Carl in wedded bliss could have been a shock that she never got over.
Maybe. But with Carl Cunningham dead and gone, I can’t see that as a motive for attempted murder, either. And unless that man who arrived at Ella’s place is a relative, she has had at least one gentleman caller.
I guess there’s someone for everyone—even if they have a screw loose.
Very funny, Detective. But maybe not so funny. Maybe she is insane.
Nah, Jack fired back. People like Ella are just a pain. A pain in your—
I get the idea!
Okey-doke. But remember, difficult people were my stock-in-trade—and last night, when you met that little Wizard of Oz terrier in my apartment—
Toto Two, yes? The dog that hired you.
Good, you remember. Well, before we parted, you expressed interest in bracing the blab-sheet wordsmith who was a constant pain in my—
Timothy Brennan. I remember!
Good. Because tonight you’re going to pay him a visit.
Which is what you did all those years ago, isn’t it, Jack? Tell me, is he the one who left the dog with you? Was it some sort of prank or a setup for another tabloid dog story he could sell?
