Raining Cats & Dogs (A Melanie Travis Mystery) by Laurien Berenson

Bertie mentioned.
    “Now you two are ganging up on me?”
    “You got it, babe.” Bertie stuffed an enormous piece of cake in her mouth and smiled blissfully. “So hurry things up, okay?”
    I guessed I had my orders.
    Like that hadn’t happened before.

8
    M onday morning found me at work, as usual. For the last two and a half years, I’ve been employed as a special needs tutor at an upscale private school in Greenwich. Howard Academy offers classes for kindergarten through eighth grade. Upon graduation, most of our students go on to their parents’ alma maters, schools like Choate, Taft, and Ethel Walker.
    I love my job, and for the most part, I adore the kids I work with. They’re lively, sophisticated, and intelligent. Some of them are sweet, many are spoiled; and it always surprises me how many are being raised almost entirely by nannies and au pairs. One thing the majority of them have in common is that when there’s a problem with schoolwork, their parents don’t want to deal with it. In fact, according to Russell Hanover II, the school’s headmaster, they don’t even want to hear about it.
    It’s Mr. Hanover’s job to deliver only good news to those people who pay the bills for our hefty tuition, it’s my job to see that the good news is justified. Children who fall behind academically come to me during the course of the school day for additional tutoring, and we work closely together on the subjects with which they need help.
    Mostly, I’m supposed to teach, but more importantly, I’m supposed to get results. Consequently, depending on what’s needed, I might be called upon to assume the role of guidance counselor, mentor, best friend, or, occasionally, drill sergeant. At least my job is never dull.
    One of the best things about Howard Academy is that it is a dog-friendly environment. From the time Faith and Eve were puppies, they’ve accompanied me to school, spending their days lounging on a big cedar dog bed I keep in the corner of my classroom. Over time, the Poodles have become unofficial school mascots. It’s not unusual for kids to greet them before speaking to me upon entering the room.
    Their absentee parents might not approve of such manners, but I don’t mind a bit.
    Brittany Baxter was my first student Monday morning. A seventh grader, she was twelve going on twenty. Other girls in her class wore braces, had pimples, or were coping with awkward growth stages. Not Brittany. All blond hair and creamy skin, she glided into the room like a queen, effortlessly pulling off the difficult feat of looking sexy in the school uniform: a plaid wool skirt, white button-down shirt, and knee socks.
    “Hey, Ms. T,” she chirped. “What’s up?”
    “Not your grades, apparently. I just got the results of your latest test from Mr. Weinstein.” Ed Weinstein taught upper-school English, a subject with which, based on the test I’d seen, Brittany had only a nodding acquaintance. “He’s under the impression that you haven’t been keeping up with your reading.”
    “I can’t imagine why.”
    Brittany batted her long eyelashes in my direction. The child was like a heat-seeking missile casting around in search of a target. Day by day her arsenal of sexy affectations—most probably gleaned from watching MTV—grew exponentially. If Brittany didn’t fully understand her own power yet, she certainly would soon.
    “Besides,” she said when I didn’t react to lash-fluttering, “Mr. Weinstein is way too strict.”
    “He’s only hard on you because he wants you to get good grades.”
    “Yeah, I know. And work to my full potential, right?”
    It was hard not to smile, but I managed it. Obviously, this kid had already heard the lecture.
    “Besides,” she said, “I do plenty of reading.”
    Teen fashion magazines, no doubt.
    “Yes, but do you read the books that are assigned for class?”
    “Sometimes.”
    Brittany dumped her things on a round table and crossed the room to hunker down in front