Gone With the Woof by Laurien Berenson

same space. Andrew was clever. I’ll give him that. When I looked around, I saw how neatly he’d ingratiated himself with my best customers. Now when they needed something, they went straight to him. While I was busy elsewhere, I’d been shunted aside, marginalized, in my own company.
    â€œMy own son saw to it that I’d lost my customers’ confidence. These were people I’d known and done business with for years. In the end, I knew I had to do what was best for both the company and for my family. So I stepped down.”
    The three of us sat in silence for several moments. I watched the play of sunbeams on the glass-fronted cabinets and wondered if March was in shock. It didn’t sound that way. If anything, he seemed to be thinking very clearly. And his first thought—with his son dead for only a matter of hours—had been to take back control of the company he’d lost.
    â€œCharlotte said the police don’t think Andrew’s death was an accident,” I mentioned.
    â€œThe officer told us that this morning,” said March. “They must be wrong.”
    â€œIf they’re not,” I said slowly, “they’ll look for someone who has a motive.”
    â€œWho?” March demanded. “Who would have wanted to harm my son?”
    I gave him a moment to think about that.
    Then I said, “Based on what you’ve just told me . . . you.”

Chapter 9
    â€œT hey wouldn’t dare!” March thundered.
    â€œTrust me, they would.”
    Charlotte’s eyes widened in shock. “How do you know that?”
    â€œUnfortunately, I’ve been involved in a couple of murder investigations.”
    All right, maybe it was more than a couple. But this didn’t seem the right time to be sharing details about my complicated past.
    March’s eyes narrowed. “Margaret told me you were a teacher.”
    â€œI am. I mean, I was a teacher. Now I’m a full-time mother.”
    â€œOne who dabbles in police investigations?”
    His skepticism was warranted. In March’s place, I’d have probably felt the same way.
    â€œNot on purpose,” I said in my own defense. “I just seem to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time.”
    â€œYou sound like a bad-luck penny.” March drained his glass again. “Margaret should have warned me about you. Things were fine around here until you arrived.”
    I gave him the look that that comment deserved. Fine? Seriously? In what universe could this household, with March’s dysfunctional family relationships, secret hoarding, and apparently out-of-control love life, be considered even remotely fine?
    â€œMr. March, you need to pay attention to what Melanie’s telling you,” Charlotte interjected. “A detective will be coming back to talk to us. So maybe you should be thinking about what you want to say.”
    â€œYou think I ought to make something up?”
    â€œNo,” I said quickly. “Don’t do that. You should only tell the police the truth.”
    â€œYou just told me I had a motive for killing my own son. Surely, you don’t expect me to lead with that?”
    â€œNo, but I don’t think you should hide it, either. The police are going to find out what happened. They’ll investigate everybody around Andrew.”
    â€œEven me?” Charlotte gasped.
    â€œEven you. But unless you had a reason for wanting to harm him—”
    â€œOf course not!”
    â€œThen you have nothing to worry about.”
    â€œIf we have nothing to worry about,” March said sharply, “why are you trying to scare us?”
    â€œI’m not trying to scare you. I’m simply telling you what might happen. You think of yourselves as grieving friends and relatives. The police are more likely to see you as potential suspects. It’s what they do. Those closest to the victim always undergo the most