Begging for Trouble Page 3

  “I will, but she’s out like a light, so I have to ask, was there really a murder?”

  Ellie ruffled his ears. “Yes. One minute the performers were headed into the finale; the next someone offstage was screaming like a freight train. Sam left to—”

  “Detective Doofus? It figures he’d stick his nose in it.”

  “He was simply doing his job as an officer of the law.”

  “So how did you get involved?”

  “I followed him, of course. I didn’t want him to get hurt.”

  “As if you could stop a bullet.”

  “I didn’t hear any shots, so I thought it might be a fight. When I got to the backstage area, I took a look in the room with a crowd at the door and . . .”

  “And . . .”

  “There was blood. Lots and lots of blood,” she said in a hushed tone. “And Rob was kneeling over the body with a pair of scissors in his hand.”

  “Somethin’ must have happened, because the Bobbi-Rob I know would never kill anyone.”

  “Exactly what I thought, but nobody asked for my opinion.”

  “Then the cops arrived?”

  “Not just the cops. Vince, the medical examiner, her new assistant, the EMTs, the whole investigative team. Before I could find out more, the place was crawling with officials.”

  “Where was Bitsy when it happened?”

  “Under Rob’s makeup table. She would have been left there overnight or, worse, taken to the city pound if he hadn’t asked me to look after her.”

  “Typical cop reaction,” the yorkiepoo pronounced. “Forget the canines. They’re not worth a second thought.”

  “You’re being too harsh. Vince and Sam could have insisted they take Bitsy to canine prison, but they agreed to let her stay with us. They did the best they could.” She rolled to her side and gave him a shove. “Now get down there and stay close in case she has a nightmare or something. If she wakes up, try and get her to talk. I’ll find out what else we can do in the morning.”

  “Bitsy is totally traumatized,” Ellie said as she and Rudy accompanied Vivian to her subway stop. “On this morning’s walk, she did her business, then sat in a trance until I picked her up and carted her the rest of the way home. If she doesn’t act normal by the end of the day, I’m taking her to Dr. Dave for a checkup.”

  “Where is she now?” Vivian asked as they headed up Lexington.

  “Asleep on my bed, I hope. She didn’t spend a very restful night.” Rudy had complained that Bitsy had awakened him several times with pathetic-sounding whimpers. Ellie hadn’t heard the noise because she’d been too enmeshed in her own nightmare involving bloody scissors and blue-dressed harbingers of death. “I can only imagine the horrific scenes playing over in her mind.”

  Viv hoisted her Valentino rosette bag onto her shoulder and smoothed the lapels of her full-length black leather trench coat. “She’s a dog. Do you really think something like that would bother her?”

  “I can’t believe you just asked me that,” Ellie said, frowning. Viv knew how in tune she was with her charges and she usually put up with Ellie’s views, especially when they were relaxed and having fun. But today was a workday, and Vivian was more professional . . . in every way.

  “Sorry. I’m aware you’re wrapped up in your dogs and their lives, but I’m not. I didn’t mean to sound snotty.”

  “No snot taken,” Ellie said with a smile.

  She could only imagine the contrast they made standing side by side. Vivian was almost six feet tall and model slim. Though also considered tall, Ellie stood about four inches shorter, and even when she had been married and starving herself to stay in a single-digit dress size, she hadn’t been model thin since she was a ten-year-old.

  Today’s temperature was warm, the sky sunny, the morning breeze balmy, and Viv looked as if she was on her way to a Vogue photo shoot. Ellie, of course, wore her usual yellow rain slicker over a nubby yellow and navy sweater, worn jeans, and her most practical hiking boots. If the temperature climbed, she could fold up the slicker and hide it in her Fendi peek-a-boo tote, a Christmas gift from her mother and one of the few designer pieces she owned.

  Standing at the subway entrance, Viv said, “So what’s your plan for the day?”

  “First thing I’ll do after morning walks is find out where Rob is and try to get a visitor’s pass to see him. Then I’ll go home for lunch and take Bitsy out.” And let her know how Rob is doing. “After that, it’s second rounds. If Rob is still in custody, I’ll stop at his apartment and pick up whatever will make her comfortable at our place.”

  “And you’re going to call Dave?”

  “If she’s still acting weird, yes. Why? Were you planning on seeing him tonight?”

  “Not really, but phone me if he agrees to come over and I’ll call in a dinner order for the three of us.” Viv headed down the stairs to her subway. “You can bring the dogs to my place, and Bitsy can have her exam there.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Ellie said, giving her a wave. “I’ll let you know.”

  Ellie and Rudy started their morning rounds at the Cranston Arms, and were on the way to collecting their first customer: a rather plump Pug named Sampson, who belonged to Mariette Lowenstein. Ellie had given several potential helpers a tryout at walking the six dogs in this building, but unfortunately, none of them had worked out. She was disappointed that her last assistant, Joy, had quit with no warning, even though she’d been paid a good salary, with bonuses for any extra time she spent lending a hand.

  “Why don’t you call her?” Rudy asked, as he often did when he was in mind-reading mode.

  She and the yorkiepoo were fast approaching their one-year anniversary, so she was getting used to his uncanny ability to sneak into her brain. It happened most often when she was preoccupied or worried.

  “I’ve tried Joy a few times, but she never answers, and she doesn’t call back when I leave a message. I wish I knew what kind of problem she had that forced her to stop working for us.”

  “Keep tryin’. Maybe now that the weather’s gettin’ nicer, she’d be willing to come back.”

  “I guess I’d better hang another round of flyers in the local college bookstores. Those sites brought me the most applicants, even if Joy was the only one who worked out.”

  They arrived at Mariette’s apartment and knocked, though neither of the Lowensteins was usually home at this hour. Ellie used her key to enter, but before she could open the door it swung inward. She gaped at a puffy-faced Mariette, her eyes swollen, her expression sour.

  “Mrs. Lowenstein, is everything all right?”

  The usually attractive and personable middle-aged woman nodded and stepped back to let them in. “I had a bad night. Couldn’t fall asleep, even after I took a pill.”

  “Can I do anything for you? Call the doctor, maybe? Or your husband?”

  Mariette jumped at the suggestion. “Heavens, no. Norm has a full calendar today, as usual. He never has time for—I mean, he doesn’t have time for my problems.”

  Ellie had met Mariette Lowenstein and her husband through Ellie’s stepfather, Judge Stanley Frye. Norman Lowenstein was a judge for the U.S. district court, where, according to Stanley, the cases he tried involved everything from organized crime to people suing the government.

  “Judge Frye told me how hard he works. Isn’t he up for some big-time federal appointment?”

  Mariette heaved a sigh. “Second Circuit Court of Appeals. It’s something I thought we both wanted, but I’m beginning to think—” She put a hand over her mouth. “Lord, just listen to me, going off on a tangent when you have work to do.”

  “I’m always willing to lend an ear to my clients, both human and canine,” Ellie assured Mariette, following her into the kitchen. “So, how have things been going with Sampson and his diet?”

  Shrugging, Mariette ran a shaky hand through her straight brown hair. “You tell me. You’re the one who cleans up after him.”

  Rudy snorted. “Ye
ah, and it’s always a treat.”

  Ellie jerked his leash. “There hasn’t been another incident like the one I had in November—”

  “That blue poo was gross.”

  She tapped her boy in the rear with the toe of her boot. “But Sampson still processes a large amount of waste, and it doesn’t look like he’s lost any weight, which is my main concern.”

  “I’ve managed to keep him out of the wastebaskets, even the one in Norm’s office, which is where he got hold of that transfer paper. But he still begs food at the dinner table, and if I don’t keep the trash up”—she nodded at a metal container on top of the counter—“he’s in it all the time, even though I’ve warned the housekeeper to stow it out of reach. It’s just that . . . well . . . I hate saying no to him.”

  Ellie hated saying no to Rudy, too, as did most owners who cared about their dogs. But pet lovers had to stand firm, exercise their pooches, give treats in moderation, and serve their animals healthy food with no chemicals or additives if they wanted their four-footed friends to enjoy a long and healthy life.

  “Sounds like she’s a pushover, Triple E. You could take a lesson from her every once in a while.”

  Ellie made a note to list the treats she gave her boy, including the number of times each day she fed him a bite from her own fork or spoon, and read it to him the next time he complained. She knew darn well she shouldn’t be giving him anything extra, but a forkful every once in a while wasn’t that bad. It was the owners who made a habit of indulging their dogs’ every whim who weren’t being fair to their pets.

  She gave Mariette a smile of encouragement. “I know what you mean, but you still have to stick to the rules.”

  Sampson ambled in from the hall and plopped his extra-wide bottom on the tile floor. After emitting a large burp, he yawned. “Morning, all. Here for a breakfast nibble?”

  Ellie reached down and gave his wrinkled face a scratch. “Has he had breakfast yet?”

  “He hasn’t even been out,” Mariette answered. “I got in late and—Well, I got in late and took him out to calm myself down. He lost sleep and so did I.”

  “Then you can feed him after we return from his morning walk. We’ll be back in about thirty minutes.”

  “But I’m hungry now,” the Pug said with a moan.

  Ellie raised an eyebrow in his direction. “And make sure it’s a half portion. Not one kibble more.”

  “Aw, Ellie,” Sampson said as they ambled into the outer hall. “You take all the fun out of my life.”

  They stepped into the elevator, rode to a different floor, and set out for their next stop while Ellie lectured the overweight Pug. “Fun is one thing. Eating food that’s bad for you is something else entirely.”

  “How’m I supposed to know what’s not good? Everything is tasty when my tummy is empty,” he groused. “Besides, I got a supercharged metabolism. I need more food than other dogs.”

  “Hah!” Rudy said, his voice snarky. “What you got is too much nap time.”

  Ignoring their chatter, Ellie knocked on Freud’s door, then used her key. Most mornings, Esther Gordon left early for her sculpting studio and her psychologist husband had appointments. “Hey, Freud,” she told the cocky French Bulldog. “How are things going today?”

  “Great.” He gave Rudy and Sampson the usual buttsniff welcome. “Whoa, smells like the big guy’s gonna need some extra outside time today.”

  “Oh, goody,” commented Rudy.

  “I’ll take care of it, but we still have to get Roscoe, Arlo, Lily, and Rocco.”

  She led them to the elevator for another climb. Twenty minutes later she and the canines were outside and across the street in front of the park. The sun felt warm, even at this early hour, so after the pack’s normal route she took a seat on a bench. When Sampson sat at her feet, she thought he wanted to continue the discussion on his dietary needs.

  “I’m not going to tell your mom to ease up on the food restrictions, so there’s no point in asking.”

  “Big Momma will do whatever you say, Ellie. She thinks you’re the man—er—woman,” the Pug pronounced. “After she got in last night, she kept tellin’ me over and over how much she loved me, and how we’d never be apart.”

  Generously proportioned, Mariette stood about fiveten, which made her a very formidable woman. So formidable that the Pug’s pet name for his mistress made perfect sense. But to Ellie, the conversation sounded much too dramatic for Mariette. “That’s surprising. I always thought your Big—er—Mariette was a bit more practical.”

  “She was sad, even a little upset, kinda like she is when she and the judge argue.”

  “Have they argued a lot lately?”

  “Yeah.” Sampson rested a paw on her knee. “But Norm wasn’t there when she got home. He walked out when the news finished and stayed away most of the night. Then, a little while ago, her and the judge were in the back room, arguing about more stuff.” Sampson sneezed, blowing dog spit over her legs. “He left right before you got here.”

  Ellie took the spittle as part of the job. She listened to her dogs when they confided in her about their home lives, even if in jest, but this sounded more serious than usual. The Pug had complained a couple of times about the way his mom and dad did verbal battle, but she assumed it had to do with the pressure Judge Lowenstein was under regarding the position he hoped to be appointed to on the Second Circuit Court of Appeals.

  “Parents argue. It’s the way humans work out their differences. I’m sure Judge Lowenstein is worried about his future on the bench.”

  “I don’t think his job was the problem. Big Momma’s always sayin’ he does bad things.”

  “Well, she’s home now, and the judge is gone, so I’m sure she’ll calm down. Her and Norm will work things out.” Standing, Ellie headed the pack across Fifth Avenue. “Time to go inside. Rudy and I have three more buildings to take care of.”

  They dropped off their charges, finished the walks for building two, and were at the Davenport in record time. Randall, the daytime doorman and Ellie’s good friend, shot to attention when they entered the foyer. “Did you make Mr. Chesney’s opening-night gala? Did you see him afterward, when the trouble began?” he asked, rounding the counter with a newspaper in hand.

  “We were there for the whole magilla. Had a great time, or rather Viv, Dr. Dave, and I did. Sam, on the other hand—”

  Randall cleared his throat. “I can well imagine what Detective Ryder thought about attending a drag show. He appears to be a very—I believe the term is ‘macho’—type of man.”

  “He’s macho, all right, sometimes a little too mucho macho for me, but I’ve learned to take the good with the not-so-good.”

  “So he enjoyed the show?”

  “I think so, at least until the moment the screaming started.”

  “Ah, yes. The entire evening was reported in this morning’s paper. I assumed that Detective Ryder would be in the thick of it if he was there.”

  “It made the papers?” Since the murder had occurred around eleven p.m., she thought it would be on the local news, but not in print.

  The doorman held the newspaper in front of her face and Ellie read the headline: MURDER AT GUESS WHO. DRAG QUEEN’S DEATH STEALS THE SHOW. “The entire story is covered here.”

  “I sometimes wonder where the heck newspaper reporters get their info. I mean, I was there and I don’t know the whole story. Sam finished the night as the detective in charge, and it was a zoo backstage—worse than when Arnie Harris died.”

  He cocked an eyebrow in disapproval. “And how did you get backstage?”

  “No biggie. When the racket started, I followed Sam. I was worried he might get hurt.”

  “I’m sure the good detective loved that move.”

  “Not so much, but he’ll get over it. So what else does the paper say? Anything about Rob?”

  “It just says there was a stabbing, and the police—that would be Detective Ryder—caught Mr. Chesney with the supposed w
eapon in hand. The paper is calling it a crime of passion.”

  “Really? That, I hadn’t heard. Of course, it sounds lurid enough to be information dreamed up by some reporter hoping to make a name for himself.”

  “That’s possible, but—” Randall’s eyes lit up as if a lightbulb in his brain had suddenly switched on. “Are you telling me you once again stuck your nose in a crime scene?”

  “I didn’t ‘stick my nose in,’ as you so nicely put it,” she said on a sigh. “When I went after Sam, I had no idea there’d been a murder.”

  “Ellie,” he warned.

  She rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. Stay out of trouble, mind my own business, blah, blah, blah. I was, I tell you. If I’d known what was going on, I’d have kept my bottom in my chair.”

  “I understand. Still—” The doorman tipped his cap to a tenant leaving the building. “Please don’t get involved.”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose. I had no idea that whatever was happening had to do with murder and would have to do with Rob.”

  Randall glanced at the paper again. “The scenario certainly seems to incriminate Mr. Chesney.”

  “Sam did find Rob with the weapon in his hand, but I think the rest is speculation on the reporter’s part. I simply can’t imagine Rob is capable of doing anything that horrible. And the ‘crime of passion’ thing doesn’t ring true.”

  It hit her that except for Rob holding the scissors and Bitsy being under the dressing table during the murder, she knew virtually nothing about the crime scene. “Does the paper give the name of the victim?”

  “I’m sure it does,” the doorman said, scanning the columns. “Yes, here it is. The dead man was Arthur Pearson, also known as Carmella Sunday. It says he—er—she had been arrested on several occasions for lurid acts and prostitution, but in the last several years she’d done a turnaround and gone into the entertainment business.”

  “She had a part in the show. If I remember correctly, she was wearing a big dance-number costume when they found her, but she wasn’t one of the three headliners.”