The one on the far left consisted of three teenagers standing in front of Rockefeller Center. One was clearly Joyce, the second one was a skinny dark-haired girl wearing jeans and a parka, while the third one was Annabel. All three of the girls looked cold and unhappy.

"Annabel was a lot heavier then," Bernie commented. Probably over two hundred pounds, she thought.

"She lost a lot of weight after her dad left them. To be honest, I don't think she ever recovered from his departure. After that, everything had to be about her. I don't know. I should have just walked away, but I didn't. I felt sorry for her. I guess when it comes down to it I'm not very bright. Sometimes you see what you want to see, not what's really there."

"So did she sleep with your husband too?" Bernie asked.

Joyce laughed. "No. She was too old for him. He likes them young. Once they get over twenty-five they're past their sell-by date. She would have been welcome to him, believe me. No. I wasn't that lucky."

"You guys were still friends when she died," Libby said.

"I thought we were," Joyce replied. "But evidently I was wrong."

"What happened?"

Joyce took a deep breath and let it out. "You're going to find out anyway so I'm going to tell you. She stole my ideas."

"Your ideas?" Libby echoed.

"Exactly. The Puggables were my idea. In fact, I even sewed up a few of the original models. But Annabel never gave me any credit. More importantly, she never gave me any money. She used my ideas to make herself rich. If it wasn't for me, Annabel and Richard Colbert would still be living in their little ranch on b.u.t.termilk Drive."

"You could have sued her," Libby pointed out.

"It wasn't that simple. First of all, I didn't have any proof. Secondly, you have to have money to hire a lawyer. Thirdly, she made me doubt myself."

Now it was Bernie's turn to lean forward. "What do you mean, doubt yourself?"

"I mean this," Joyce said. "I just sat down one night at my sewing machine and created this family of pugs out of some leftover fabric that I had. I made them for Annabel's birthday, because I thought it would be this nice thing to do. I stuffed them, put bows around their necks, and gave them to Annabel. She loved them. In fact, she loved them more than she loved Trudy. I know for a fact she didn't like the dog. In fact, Richard was talking about getting rid of her.

"But they must have seen the commercial possibilities because the next thing I knew, I saw ads in the paper for the Puggables. Then they had to keep Trudy." Joyce picked up her knitting again. "And while it's true I didn't name them, they looked exactly like the ones I'd made for Annabel."

"Didn't you go tell her that?" Bernie asked.

"Of course I did, but she told me I was wrong. That the ones I'd made were different. This all happened right around the time I was having trouble with my husband and mentally I wasn't in a state to question anyone. I believed her-probably because I couldn't bear to think she was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g me over as well.

"Later when I asked to see the ones I'd made for her, she told me she didn't have them. That Trudy had ripped them to shreds." Joyce spread her hands apart. "I suppose I was an idiot, but she was my friend and I wanted to believe her."

"Of course you did," Libby said.

"And then everything settled down. And she gave me stuff-like the Chanel jacket that I wore to Trudy's birthday. Sometimes she'd take me with her when she went to Florida. Then last year I had this idea for the dog biscuits that we were going to call Trudy's Treats. The recipe was totally unique. And we were going to make them into different vegetable shapes. Each vegetable would be a different flavor. And Annabel loved it. She said we'd sign a contract. We'd go into business together. I kept asking when that was going to happen, but she kept putting me off."

"So when did you find out that wasn't the case?" Bernie asked.

"At the party."

Libby c.o.c.ked her head. "Not before?"

"No. Not before."

"You're sure of that," Libby said.

"Ask Ramona if you don't believe me," Joyce said. "Ramona," she repeated. "Trudy's trainer. In fact, if you want someone who had a motive to kill Annabel, talk to her. Yes. Definitely talk to her."

"And why should we do that?" Bernie asked.

"Because two days before the party, Annabel told Ramona she was going to hire someone else to mount Trudy's campaign for Westminster."

"So?" Libby said.

"What do you mean, so? This was Ramona's chance. Losing that was a real slap in the face. Everyone in the dog world would know. They'd figure something had to be wrong. Otherwise why would Annabel let her go? She'd probably never get another chance like that again. Plus, she'd lose the house she's living in. The new trainer would move in. Not that Trudy had a chance of winning. This was just another one of Annabel's vanity things-like the house that she built."

"And may I ask why you're telling us this?" Bernie inquired.

"Let's just say that Ramona is not one of my favorite people and leave it like that." And Joyce rose, indicating that it was time for Bernie and Libby to go.

"So what did you think?" Libby asked Bernie once they were outside. "Do you believe Joyce?"

"About Ramona? About the story she told us?"

"Both."

Bernie thought for a moment. "Well, I certainly believe what she said about Annabel and Richard not liking Trudy. That squares with everything we know. And I believe what she said about Annabel being a b.i.t.c.h. I don't think there's any argument on that score."

"Well," Libby said, "she was certainly anxious to steer us in Ramona's direction."

"Those two must have quite a history," Bernie observed as she reached into her bag to get her keys.

"I would say," Libby agreed.

Bernie put the key in the ignition. The van started with a loud grinding noise that seemed to be coming from the rear. She tried it again. Definitely the rear. Then the noise stopped.

"Joyce seems really nice," Libby observed.

"One never can tell," Bernie said as she pulled out onto the road. "Just because someone knits doesn't make her a good person."

"Have you ever heard of anyone knitting who was a bad person?"

Bernie smiled. "Madame Defarge in A Tale of Two Cities. I believe she was knitting the names of the people about to be beheaded into the scarf she was making."

Libby sighed. She'd never been able to get into d.i.c.kens.

The van was three-quarters of the way down the block when Libby happened to glance around.

"Now that's interesting," she said.

"What?" Bernie asked.

"I think I just saw Joyce getting into Richard's car and both of them driving away. She must have called him right after we left."

"Or, more likely, before she answered the door," Bernie said, doing the math in her head. "Are you sure it was Richard's car?"

"It was the same one parked out front when we went to Annabel's house the first time."

"Well, he certainly didn't waste any time getting here," Bernie observed.

"I wonder what they have to talk about," Libby mused.

"Somehow," Bernie said, "I don't think they're reminiscing about dear old departed Annabel."

Chapter 19.

Sean hung up the phone and thought about what Clyde had told him. It was highly speculative, but still worth pursuing. In cases like this, one had to follow every tiny lead wherever it took one because you never knew. Things that seemed ridiculous to him were things that could drive other people to a homicidal rage. And had. He should know. He'd seen someone get stabbed over a penny debt once.

He'd tell Bernie and Libby what Clyde had told him when they got home and see what they wanted to do with it. It would probably amount to nothing, but there it was. Of course, in the old days he would have jumped in his car and gone off to find out. But this wasn't the old days. This wasn't even close. Not even remotely. Who would have thought he would end up like this?

Sean sighed. Okay. He was being negative and he hated people who were like that. Things could always be worse. But still. There was no denying that he wasn't happy. For valid reasons. He was not happy because it was the middle of February. He was not happy because it was another cloudy, dreary day.

He was not happy because the shop had run out of lemon bars, so he couldn't have one for dessert with his lunch. He'd had to settle for a piece of Linzer torte, which he also liked, but it just wasn't what he wanted at that moment. He was not happy because his daughters seemed to be spending most of their time these days bickering and he was tired of hearing it. What they found to argue about never failed to amaze him. Really.

But he was most especially not happy because Ines had planned to come over to play Scrabble with him at one o'clock, but she'd had to cancel due to an emergency at the Longely Historical Society, although what could go wrong there, besides a fire or a flood-which there wasn't-was a mystery to him. Not that he was wasting much time wondering. He was pretty sure he'd find out when she called later.

Then he'd wanted to work on his crossword puzzle and finish reading his book. But he couldn't find either of those. Bernie had cleaned the house and put them heaven knew where. Given Bernie's penchant for relocating things to odd places, he'd probably find them in the laundry basket three weeks from now. And then he'd just about decided to break down, call Marvin, and see if he could drive him to the mall-this not being able to drive was a terrible thing-when his day had gotten even worse.

A girl with pink and purple hair had burst in on him. She was carrying a dog in her arms and demanding to speak to his daughters. And when he told her they weren't here, she'd put the dog down and burst into tears, which he couldn't deal with at all. Well, it wasn't that he couldn't deal with it-between being married and being a law enforcement officer, he'd dealt with plenty of crying females in his life one way or another-it was that he didn't want to deal with it. All that emotion just tuckered him out.

He'd had to calm her down, which he had done by feeding Samantha but-you-can-call-me-Sam the last of his chocolate-covered almonds, the expensive French ones that Ines had gotten for him when she'd been in Paris. And now, somehow or another, he had a snorting, wheezing pug sitting on his lap.

Actually, the pug had run straight over to him, stood up on her hind legs, and clawed at his pants. Samantha had picked up the pug and put it on his lap, saying, "Isn't that cute. She really likes you," before he'd had a chance to do anything. Like give the thing a little swat on the behind with the flat of his hand.

He didn't think it was cute at all. He was not a big fan of dogs. Actually, he was not a big fan of animals of any kind. It's not that he disliked them. In fact, he liked them. To a degree. But he'd grown up in the country and firmly believed that animals belonged outside, not sitting on him and trying to filch the last piece of his Linzer torte off the table.

"I a.s.sume this is Trudy," Sean said to Samantha as the dog looked up at him with big bug eyes. Her tongue curled out of her mouth. She looked like an alien. What were these things used for? Nothing. They had no earthly use at all as far as Sean could see. Why would you breed something like this?

Samantha nodded. Her eyes began to mist up again. "I've done a terrible thing," she wailed.

"I'm sure it can't be that bad," Sean said hastily. Actually, he couldn't imagine the girl in front of him doing anything worse than jaywalking. If that. When you got beyond the hair color and the weird clothes, she looked like a skinny, frightened little girl.

"It is. I'm going to be put in jail. That's why I came to see your daughters. I needed their advice, but they're not here." And Samantha started to sob again.

"Okay," Sean said hastily. "Tell me instead."

"Thanks for the offer, but you can't help me. No one can. When my father hears what I've done, he's going to throw me out of the house. Then I'll have nowhere to go. I'll have to live on the street and they'll find me frozen to death."

Sean interrupted her rant. "Let's not get overly dramatic. I used to be the police chief here, so I think I'm certainly qualified to advise you on any situation you've gotten yourself embroiled in."

Samantha wiped her nose on her sleeve. "You don't know what I've done," she said as the tears streamed down her cheeks.

"You killed someone."

Samantha stopped crying. Her eyes widened in indignation. "What? Are you kidding me?" She put her hands on her hips. "Of course I didn't kill anyone. Don't be stupid."

"Then you sold c.o.ke to an undercover agent and you're looking at serious jail time," Sean said as he pushed the dog away from the food.

"Don't be ridiculous. What a thing to say!"

"Okay. You took Trudy."

"How did you know I took Trudy?" Samantha asked.

"Because you're here and Trudy's here, so great detective that I am, I put two and two together."

"How do you know she's Trudy?"

Sean shrugged. "Who else can she be?" Sean was not someone who believed in random events.

"Cool," Samantha said as she got up off the floor and went into the bathroom to wash her face, leaving Sean alone with the dog.

Trudy leaned against Sean's chest and licked his hand.

"You want to get down?" Sean asked.

Trudy snorted. He tried to push her off, but she proved to be amazingly hard to move for something of that size.

"You just want to get closer to the food, don't you?" Sean asked her.

She wagged her tail and gave Sean's hand another quick lick. Well, she might not have it in the looks department, Sean thought, but she was smart. He'd give her that.

"All right," he said. "I guess everyone deserves dessert now and then." And he broke off a piece of the Linzer torte and held it out to Trudy, who very carefully took it out of Sean's hand and ate it. "You have manners too." Also not a bad thing.

Trudy snorted and worked her way deeper into Sean's lap. She lifted her head up and gazed into his eyes. Actually, Sean reflected, she was kind of cute in an ugly sort of way. And really, if he thought about it, dogs like this did do valuable work. In a sense. They couldn't herd sheep or protect a house against prowlers, but he could see that they would be good companions. And that was important too. Especially for shut-ins and people who couldn't get around easily.

Of course, there was always the flea problem. He hated fleas. You got them in your house and you never got them out. They were scary little things. They could hibernate for up to two years. Then when the conditions were right, they'd spring out and bite you.

"Okay," Sean said when Samantha came out of the bathroom. "Why don't you tell me why you stole Trudy?"

"I didn't steal her," Samantha replied indignantly. "I rescued her."

"Just tell me," Sean said.

He wasn't in the mood to get into a semantic discussion right now. As he listened to Samantha's story-and it was a story and not a very good one at that-he began to formulate a plan. This situation might not be so bad after all.