Gone With the Woof by Laurien Berenson Page A

scrutiny.”
    Lying beneath the table, Robin lifted her head and pricked her ears. A moment later, the doorbell rang.
    I stood up and pushed in my chair. “I should be going,” I said.
    â€œNo, don’t.” March’s brusque mask slipped. All at once he sounded tired and overwhelmed, and I could see the toll the day’s events had taken on him. “Stay for just a few more minutes. If that’s the detective, Charlotte and I could use the moral support.”
    While Charlotte went to answer the door, I called Sam and told him that I might be gone longer than expected. I forestalled his questions with a promise to tell him everything later.
    As I clicked the phone shut, Charlotte returned. She was accompanied by a middle-aged man with fleshy features and a sharp gaze. Robin woofed softly and started to rise. March put a hand on her shoulder. The setter resisted for a moment, then lay back down at his feet.
    â€œThis is Detective Wygod,” Charlotte announced to the room at large. Her voice sounded overly bright. “Detective, I hope you don’t mind if we talk in the kitchen. Can I make you some coffee?”
    â€œNo thank you. I’m good.”
    Wygod looked first at March and the cane that leaned against the table. Then his gaze shifted to me and the empty tumblers. Last of all, he glanced at Robin. She stared back.
    â€œI guess that one’s not a watchdog,” he said.
    Way to get started on the wrong foot, I thought. Detectives were supposed to be observant, but Wygod had obviously missed the interplay between March and the setter. Maybe he’d been too busy considering our a.m. drinking habits?
    â€œShe is when she needs to be,” March said mildly. He didn’t rise, but he did hold out his hand. “I’m Edward March. This is my friend Melanie Travis. And you’ve met my assistant, Charlotte. Please, have a seat.”
    Wygod shook March’s hand, then pulled out a chair and joined us at the table. He was wearing a wool suit, no tie. A cashmere sweater covered his open-neck shirt, causing the jacket to pull tight across his shoulders.
    â€œI know this is a bad time,” he said. “And I’m very sorry for your loss. Believe me, we’ll do everything in our power to find out what happened.”
    â€œI appreciate that,” March replied. “And please know that we’d like to assist your investigation in any way we can.”
    â€œExcellent. I have several questions I’d like to ask about this morning’s events. Your son, Andrew, he lived here with you. Is that correct?”
    â€œNot exactly. He lived on the property, but not in this house. His cottage is several hundred yards away. Now that it’s winter, you can just about see the roof from the back terrace. He also has his own driveway.”
    â€œSo then you wouldn’t necessarily have been aware of his activities?”
    â€œThat was the point, Detective. Andrew is—was—thirty-six years old. A grown man. He wanted his privacy, as did I. He built that cottage himself ten years ago. The distance suited us both.”
    â€œDo you know how your son happened to be outside, on the road, by himself at seven o’clock this morning?”
    â€œHe was a runner,” said Charlotte. “Andrew ran a couple of miles every morning before work. He’s been doing it for years.”
    â€œHow many people were aware of his schedule?”
    March looked perplexed. He glanced at Charlotte. She shrugged.
    â€œI would think there’d be any number of people,” March said finally. “The neighbors, or anyone else who drives this road frequently at that time of day. Friends of his and other runners. He liked to compete in mini-marathons when he had the time. Andrew ran track in high school, so that’s how many years he’s been going out to run every morning.”
    I hadn’t realized that the incident had taken place so