Hair of the Dog by Laurien Berenson Page A

“Well, we never had any children of our own.”
    Abruptly, Bill stood. “I have to go see her. She said last week that she didn’t want me hovering around, but this changes everything.”
    I stood as well. Tucker was snoring lightly on the hearth. Biff lifted his head inquiringly. “They’re nice dogs,” I said. “Do you hunt with them?”
    Like his ex-wife, Bill Devane was no dummy. “If you’re asking me if I know how to handle a gun, the answer is yes. In addition to judging at shows, I also officiate at field trials and I enjoy doing a bit of hunting myself now and then. I own a rifle and two shotguns and the police have already examined the lot. Would you like to see them?”
    I shook my head. Considering how little I knew about guns of any sort, I couldn’t see how looking at them would have made the slightest bit of difference.
    â€œJust one last question. The night Barry was killed, I heard you were the first person Alicia called. Is that true?”
    â€œPossibly.” Bill shrugged. “I don’t really know. She called me from the hospital. Of course, I immediately went to join her there.”
    â€œDo you know how long it was after Barry was shot that she called you?”
    â€œI haven’t any idea.”
    â€œBut you were here to get the call.”
    â€œOf course I was here. How else would I have known what happened?”
    Bill was talking to me but he kept glancing toward a cellular phone that was sitting on an end table. I knew he was itching for me to leave so that he could call Alicia. The screen door had barely closed behind me before he was already hurrying back to punch out a number.
    I wondered if Alicia would be glad to hear from him, or if she’d feel like wringing my neck. This changes everything, Bill had said. I wondered if he was right.
    Â 
    Wednesday after camp, Davey and I took Faith and went to Greenwich to see Aunt Peg. The visit was prompted by a message she’d left on my answering machine which hinted that she was feeling neglected. The fact that we’d been reduced to communicating by answering machine was telling, and it was hardly my fault. In the last few weeks, Douglas had monopolized so much of Peg’s time that those of us who were merely relatives could barely get a word in.
    As usual, Aunt Peg’s herd of Standard Poodles was loose in the house when we arrived. They numbered half a dozen or so, all finished champions who were now retired from the show ring. Their elaborate show coats had long since been cut down to the much more manageable kennel trim, which consisted of a blanket of close-cropped hair over the entire body, with a rounded topknot on the head and a pom-pom on the tail. Aunt Peg opened the front door when we arrived and the Poodles came streaming down the steps and across the lawn to greet us.
    Like the pack they were, they immediately surrounded Faith. Family member or not, she wasn’t a resident, and was now considered an interloper. Peg and I both watched carefully while the Poodles milled around, sniffing noses and other assorted body parts. All were bitches, except for Beau, Peg’s retired stud dog. He was king of the realm, and once he’d accepted Faith, everything was pretty much guaranteed to go smoothly.
    â€œShe looks good,” said Aunt Peg, studying my Standard Poodle with a critical eye.
    Compliments from Aunt Peg are as rare as perfect front assemblies, and I couldn’t resist preening a bit. “I finally have her eating pretty well. I guess she’s beginning to fill out.”
    â€œOf course, she needs more hair.”
    More hair, that was all I kept hearing. Already there were parts of Faith’s mane coat that were nearly a foot long. Her topknot hung in a thick, banded ponytail down over her ear, and brushing through her took the better part of an hour because, at fourteen months, she was midway through the dreaded “coat