“I’m not sure,” I replied honestly. “I think Sara knows more about what’s going on than she’s willing to admit.”
“Tell me about it,” Bertie agreed. “For the most part, all she did was confirm what we already knew. And there’s no way I bought that act of hers.”
“What act?”
“Puleez.” Bertie pursed her lips. “That whole crying jag. One minute we’re both pushing her pretty hard for information and the next, she bursts into tears. Give me a break. I’ve never even seen Sara cry before. I doubt if she’d know an honest emotion if it came up and bit her on the butt.”
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “I thought Sara seemed genuinely upset about what happened to Carole.”
“That’s what she wanted us to think, anyway. Sara’s not the type of person who really gets involved in her friends’ lives. And how close could she and Carole have been? She didn’t even know the woman was planning to show up.”
“You’re looking at it backwards. I think they must have been very close. Close enough that Carole didn’t feel the need to call ahead before coming over.”
“There is another possibility,” said Bertie. “Maybe Sara’s good buddy, Carole, is the one who set the fire. That would explain what she was doing there Saturday night and how she managed to get caught in the blaze.”
“A scenario like that pretty much assumes that Sara was lying to us,” I pointed out.
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Bertie sounded disgusted. “Like when she said she left that note to make me feel better. I don’t believe that for a minute. Sara had to know she’d stir things up. That’s probably what she had in mind all along.”
“Here’s something else,” I said. “When you spoke with Sara on Tuesday, didn’t she tell you that she’d been away for the weekend and just gotten back and heard the news?”
Bertie thought for a moment. “That’s right.”
“Then tonight, when I asked her where she was on Saturday night, she said she’d been in Manhattan with friends. I imagine she was telling the truth about that because she’s probably expecting the police to check on it.”
“Which means she was lying to me earlier,” Bertie said grimly.
“It looks that way.”
I sat in silence for a while, pondering the evening’s events. “I think Sara’s still afraid of something,” I said after a few minutes had passed. “Or someone.”
Bertie didn’t look particularly sympathetic. “Maybe she ought to be. The way things are shaping up, the next person likely to do her harm is going to be me.”
“Hey,” I said, spreading my hands innocently. “You were the one who wanted her back.”
“Just shoot me now,” Bertie muttered, “and put me out of my misery.”
“It’s going to be a beautiful wedding.”
“If nobody else dies in the meantime.”
Good thought.
23
Be careful what you wish for, the Chinese proverb advises. Because you just may get it.
Bertie had wished for Sara to be found, and look how that had turned out. I had wished for a father for Davey—thinking Sam, Sam, Sam—and now Bob was back in the picture. Maybe this was God’s way of playing some giant cosmic joke.
If so, I wasn’t laughing.
What I was doing was putting all those matters temporarily aside and enjoying a day off. Davey was at school and Bob had promised to meet the bus at our house that afternoon. The two of them would see to Faith. I was on my way to the Tuxedo Park Poodle Specialty in Tarrytown, New York to watch Aunt Peg perform her first, provisional judging assignment.
Whoopee!
Specialties are dog shows where only a single breed is judged. The Poodle Club of America is the governing body for Poodles and it recognizes several dozen affiliate clubs in various parts of the country. The Tuxedo Park Poodle Club was a new organization whose membership had grown steadily. I knew Aunt Peg had been enormously pleased and flattered by their invitation.
While hiring judges for an all-breed show can be a delicate juggling act, with dozens of considerations that must be taken into account, specialty clubs have only one mandate: get the best. Aunt Peg not only had superb credentials in the Poodle breed, but she also had the benefit of being an unknown quantity as a judge. Every potential exhibitor would feel that he or she had an equal chance.
Poodle breeders in the Northeast would come to the show because they’d known and admired the Cedar Crest dogs for decades. Owner-handlers would come to support one of their own and hope she supported them in return. And the pros would come because they couldn’t afford not to. Someone of Aunt Peg’s stature figured to move up quickly in the ranks of important judges, and they wanted to scope out her preferences and technique.
Though I’d pretended otherwise, I could understand why Peg was nervous. In her place, I’d have been nearly catatonic. But when I reached the civic center, walked in, and found her sitting by herself in a small side room with a book and a cup of tea, Aunt Peg appeared perfectly serene.
“Hello,” she said, glancing up and setting her book aside.
“What are you doing hiding in here?”
“Has the Sweepstakes started?”
Still standing in the doorway, I looked back out into the main room. “The Minis are in the ring already.”
“Good. That’s what I’m doing here. Not watching.”
Of course. I’d forgotten the rules Aunt Peg had explained to me. She obviously had not.
In order to avoid any appearance of impropriety, the A.K.C. sets guidelines that govern judges’ behavior. Aunt Peg was not supposed to watch the judging prior to her own assignment, and she was prohibited from fraternizing with the exhibitors. There were close to two hundred people in the outer room. Due to her long association in the breed, Aunt Peg knew every one of them—which was why she’d deliberately sequestered herself.
“I probably shouldn’t have come so early,” she said. “But I allowed extra time for traffic, or in case I got lost on the way. And what if I’d had a flat tire?”
None of those seemed a viable concern to me, but I nodded anyway. It was what she needed.
“When I got here, they were still setting up the rings. The show chairman very kindly volunteered to baby-sit me—not that she put it quite that way, of course—but I’ve done her job often enough to know that she had a million better things to do, so I sent her off and came in here by myself.”
Good old Aunt Peg, self-sufficient to the core.
“Nice corsage,” I mentioned.
A carnation the size of a small grapefruit had been pinned to the lapel of her suit, just above the small blue ribbon that identified her as the judge. It was obviously a gift from the show committee. In the ring, the sweepstakes judge was similarly adorned.
“They meant well.” Aunt Peg lowered her head and took a sniff. “And it does smell rather nice. I only hope it doesn’t scare the baby puppies half to death.”
“Let me just get a cup of coffee.” I’d passed the kitchen area on the way in. “I’ll be right back to keep you company.”
As I waited my turn in the food line, I gazed around at the show. The venue the club had chosen was roomy and bright. As was usually the case, half the main room had been set aside for grooming. The other half was comprised of two large, fully matted rings. In the front one, the puppy sweeps was in progress. The ring behind that featured an obedience trial, Poodles only.
The most notable difference between this specialty and the many all-breed shows I’d attended was how quiet it was. As a general rule, indoor dog shows tend to be noisy. Dogs left in crates bark from boredom or excitement. And as soon as one or two get started, others are only too happy to join in.
Not Poodles, however. Trained not to bark on their tables or in their crates, they don’t. Other than conversation, the only sound in the room was the persistent hum of the big free-standing blow-dryers and an occasional smattering of applause from ringside.
“It’s about time. Is she all right?”
“She certainly appears to be. But there’s something else. She’s pregnant.”
“No!” Several emotions played across Aunt Peg’s face as she calculated the effect of that news. “Delilah doesn’t know that, does she?”
“No, but Grant does. He was supposed to break the news to her but hasn’t.”
“I can imagine he wouldn’t look forward to that task,” Peg mused. “Telling Delilah that her unmarried daughter is about to make her a grandmother? It’s not something I’d jump at the chance to do.”
Sipping my hot coffee, I recounted the highlights of the previous evening’s conversation. Not surprisingly, Aunt Peg was annoyed by how few questions Sara’s reappearance had managed to clear up.
“So that’s it?” she asked incredulously. “The girl is back and now we’re all just supposed to go on with our lives as if nothing happened?”
“Well, except for Carole Eikenberry, presumably.”
“Sara must know more than she’s telling. I can’t believe the police haven’t gotten more answers out of her.”
“Maybe they did. She said she’d spoken to them. And there was one other idea that occurred to me. . . .”
“What?” Aunt Peg pounced.
“Not yet.” I shook my head firmly. “I may be way off base with this. I’d rather do some checking before I say anything.”
Promptly at eleven o’clock, the steward called the first class into the ring. Aunt Peg’s judging assignment began with Toy Poodles, Puppy Dogs, 6-9 Months Old. Three tiny, adorable Poodle puppies came prancing through the gate, scampering on the rubber mats and playing at the end of their ribbon-thin leads.
Aunt Peg, who had spent the previous ten minutes arranging the tables in her ring, picking nonexistent bits of fluff off the mats, thumbing through her judge’s book, and standing, stiff-shouldered, in what hardly looked like joyous anticipation, now took one look at the three small entries that awaited her attention, and smiled blissfully.
Standing ringside, I let out the breath I’d been holding. Everything was going to be just fine. Aunt Peg, who had dedicated the majority of her life to the betterment of the Poodle breed, was about to have a ball. She raised her hands, sent the trio of puppies around the ring, and got down to work.
I spent the rest of the morning watching her judge. By the second class, Aunt Peg had hit her stride. Her touch on the smallest variety of Poodles was deft, her fingers gentle but sure. Unlike some judges, who are put off by the hair and the spray, Aunt Peg thrust her hands eagerly into the coats, feeling for the correct bone structure beneath the beautiful trims.
When the big Open Dog class took command of the ring, I watched as Aunt Peg deliberately kept one entry on the table longer than the others. The little white dog sported a topknot of gargantuan proportions. Peg flipped the hair to one side, taking a long and careful look at the rubber bands that held the ponytails in place. Then she lifted her gaze and stared hard at the dog’s professional handler, who was doing his level best to look entirely innocent.
Aunt Peg wasn’t fooled and neither was the ringside. As soon as she declined to place the otherwise deserving Toy, her theatrics had the intended effect. Within minutes, word circulated throughout the grooming area. Fake hair—also known as wiglets and switches—was quickly removed from entries undergoing the final stages of preparation for the ring. The A.K.C. makes the rules, but it’s up to each judge to enforce them. Aunt Peg was serving notice, right from the start, that she wasn’t about to tolerate any shenanigans in her ring.
Best of Variety in Toys went to a beautiful silver champion, whose Japanese handler had brought a string of Poodles all the way up from Maryland for the show. While Aunt Peg posed for win pictures, I grabbed some lunch from the food stand. Peg would be served an elegant sit-down meal with the club president and the other judges, and I wouldn’t see her again until the end of the hour-long break. In the meantime, there was something I wanted to do.
Crawford Langley’s large setup was near the front of the room in a sunny area beside two wide windows. More than a dozen Standard and Miniature Poodles, in varying stages of readiness, were sitting out on their grooming tables. (The Toys, having already been judged, had been put back in their crates.) Crawford was scissoring a tall, black Standard dog whose ears and topknot were still done up in aqua-blue plastic wrappers. At the other end of the aisle, his assistant, Terry, was blow-drying the legs on a brown Mini puppy. His dryer, hooked to the wall by a bright orange electric cord, hummed as he worked.
“Hey, doll,” Terry said as I approached. “Is Peg doing a fabulous job or what?”
I knew he’d be pleased. Crawford had been Winners Bitch and Best of Winners in Toys. The bitch’s owners were probably already planning a celebratory ad to crow about the five-point major win.
“Fabulous,” I agreed. The effusive word sounded better coming from him. “Better still, I think she’s having fun.”
“I should hope so,” Terry sniffed, “considering we’re working our fingers to the bone making everyone look absolutely gorgeous for her.”
There was an empty grooming table behind me. I pulled it over and scooted up to sit on top. “You and Crawford make your dogs look gorgeous even when you show to Ed Huntly,” I pointed out.
Huntly was a Bulldog man, and pretty was a concept entirely lost on him. That never stopped Crawford from trying, though.
“What can I say?” Terry preened. If there’d been a mirror handy, he’d have checked his reflection. “Being beautiful is a curse some of us just have to bear.”
“Luckily, you seem to be holding up well.”
“At my tender age, I should hope so. You, on the other hand . . .” His baby blue eyes passed critically up and down over my outfit: navy corduroy pants, wool turtleneck, and comfortable loafers. “. . . could use some work. I don’t mean to pry, dear, but have you ever read a fashion magazine?”
“No,” I said, just to goad him. Ever since Terry had started cutting my hair a year earlier, he seemed to think that gave him license to comment on any aspect of my life he found lacking. “But I do have the last three issues of Dogs in Review sitting on my coffee table at home. Does that help?”
“Mais oui. If you’re aiming to look like an Irish Setter.”
Terry paused to turn the brown Poodle over: pushing the nozzle aside with an elbow, lifting the Mini with one hand, deftly slipping the damp towel out from beneath it with the other, then replacing it with a dry one and resettling the puppy on top. Terry made the adjustment look easy. The Mini was snoozing again in no time.
“So,” he said casually, “what have we heard from Sam?”
I felt a pang, just like I always did, just like I probably always would, whenever someone mentioned his name.
“Nothing.” I forced a smile. “You?”
Terry had had a crush on Sam since the first time they’d met. The fact that Terry was gay and Sam straight had never deterred Terry from enjoying his infatuation.
“Not a word.” He looked at me and his voice softened. “He will come back, you know.”
I shrugged. It took everything I had to hold my expression steady. “I guess. When he’s ready.”
“I’m no expert on relationships, but I think you ought to work this one a little harder.”
“Work it?” Outrage stiffened my shoulders. “What is there to work? Sam left me.”
“Did you go after him?”
“No. Would you have?”
“Probably not.” Terry shrugged. “Plenty of fish in my sea. The trouble with you is, I don’t see you baiting your hook. You’re in limbo, doll. And that ex of yours that just showed up?” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t even get me started.”
“Bob? I didn’t know you two had met.�
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“He was at Hartford, right? Taking the child around, showing him the sights. Or vice versa.”
I nodded, relaxing. Bob was much easier to discuss than Sam. “What’s the matter with him?”
“Nothing, I suppose, if you’re old enough to remember Urban Cowboy.”
“Bob lives in Texas.”
“As if that’s an excuse.”
Terry finished the puppy’s second hind leg and turned off the dryer. I’d grown so used to the noise, the quiet came as a surprise.
“If you’re finished with that puppy, Marla hasn’t been brushed yet.” From the other end of the aisle, Crawford slanted a critical look in our direction.
Crawford Langley was an imposing figure, and he knew it. Since teaming up with Terry, he’d let his hair go gray; now it matched the steely shade of his eyes. His posture was impeccable; his taste in clothing, superb.
He was the top Poodle handler in New England, an enviable position that he’d held for as long as Aunt Peg had been showing dogs. In the ring, Crawford never underestimated an opponent. Outside it, he was unfailingly gracious and always discreet.
Unlike his flamboyant partner, who enjoyed good dish more than anything. Thanks to Crawford’s vast network of connections, Terry had sources everywhere. A situation I hadn’t been above exploiting from time to time.
Someday Crawford may figure out how to get me to stop pumping Terry for information, but it hasn’t happened yet.
“Marla?” I asked.
“Open Bitch.” Terry sighed. “Big hair. Bad hair. Pouf it up and it just falls flat. That’s why we always save her for last.”
“Can you talk and brush at the same time?”
“Do pigs eat truffles?”
Terry opened a large wooden crate, reached in and cupped his hand around the muzzle of a white Standard Poodle bitch with a stunning head and tight, arched feet. As soon as I saw the face, I recognized Marla; I’d shown against her with Faith last year when Marla was in the puppy class. Even then, her limp, wispy coat had been a liability, and I didn’t think Crawford had managed to put many points on her.
“Aunt Peg will love that head,” I said, sliding off the tabletop as Terry hoisted the bitch up onto the other side.
Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery) Page 18