Jingle Bell Bark

by Laurien Berenson

  “You mean it’s not?” Terry clutched at his heart. There’s nothing he loved more than a good dramatic moment.

  Crawford grunted in reply and returned the tiny Toy dog to its crate. The older handler was, as always, a model of composure. His silver hair glinted in the lights from above; his tie was crisply knotted at his throat. In an era where informality was the norm, Crawford was a throwback to an earlier age. His posture was impeccable, as was his reputation in the dog show world. It had taken us a long time to get comfortable with one another. But once we had, our friendship had grown quickly.

  “I hear Peg’s planning to solve a murder.” Crawford straightened and turned to look at me. His gray eyes twinkled.

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “As soon as she got here,” Terry said happily. “Babe, you’ve been holding out on us. Luckily, Peg filled us in on the whole sordid story. Everything from Golden Retrievers to Christmas pageants to school bus drivers gone bad. Frankly, it put reality TV to shame.”

  Golden Retrievers and school bus drivers gone bad? Terry’s description sounded like a come-on for a sleazy internet porn site.

  “Aunt Peg may have put a little spin on things for your benefit,” I mentioned.

  “Who cares? If the story’s good, I’m in.” Like that was news. Terry and a strict interpretation of the facts did not always have the closest of relationships.

  “And didn’t anything bother you about this?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “Doesn’t Aunt Peg strike you as a little old to be playing Nancy Drew?”

  As soon as the words had left my mouth, I knew they were a mistake. Crawford, Aunt Peg’s contemporary as well as her friend, turned around and nailed me with a hard stare. “And just what would you consider to be a good age for getting mixed up in things that are better off left to the police?”

  He had me there. I knew it and so did Terry. Tamping down a grin, Crawford’s assistant patted my arm and backed away. “You’re on your own with that one, doll.” Then he gazed past me and his expression brightened. “Look, Sam’s here. I think I’ll go help him unload.”

  Sam, carrying tack box and table and leading Tar, stopped, looked around, and took in the situation in a glance. “I know you just got here,” he said to me. “Don’t tell me you’re in trouble already.”

  “It was an accident,” I said. “A slip of the tongue.”

  “She called Crawford old,” Terry said, just to fan the flames.

  “I did not!”

  “Didn’t what?” Peg asked, returning from walking Zeke.

  Now the gang was all here. And I was, in all likelihood, dead.

  “Call Crawford old,” I mumbled.

  “I should hope not,” Peg said roundly.

  “Quite right,” said Terry. “It wasn’t actually Crawford she was referring to. It was—”

  “Terry!” Fortunately for me, Crawford’s peremptory tone stopped that runaway train in its tracks.

  “Yes, sir?” A man with lesser acting skills couldn’t have pulled that off. Terry made it sound almost respectful.

  “Shouldn’t you be putting in topknots?”

  “Probably.”

  Among their other entrants, their string of dogs for the day included six Poodles, two in each of the three varieties. Judging by what I could see of the Poodles who were sitting out in the setup on tables and crate tops, there was still plenty of work to be done.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Crawford. He glanced at a schedule taped to the top of his tack box, opened a crate, pulled out a Chinese Crested, and headed back toward the rings on the other side of the room.

  Aunt Peg hopped Zeke up onto his matted grooming table, which was right next to mine. The two Standard Poodles, littermates from the first—and so far only—litter I’d bred, reached across the expanse between tables and touched noses. While I kept an eye on the pair to make sure they didn’t mess each other’s hair, Aunt Peg leaned down and said hello to Faith, who’d been tucked inside my crate.

  Sam, who was busy getting his stuff arranged, got Peg’s second greeting. Like me, he was used to that.

  Amenities aside, Aunt Peg turned back to me. “What was that all about?”

  “You probably don’t want to know.”

  “On the contrary, I’m quite sure I do.”

  “I was um ... questioning the wisdom of your looking into Henry’s murder.”

  She snorted under her breath. “I suppose you think you ought to be the only detective in the family.”

  “If my vote counts for anything,” said Sam, “I don’t think there ought to be any detectives in the family.”

  Peg turned slowly. “Luckily,” she said, “no one asked you.”

  That should have put Sam in his place. Instead it made him smile. With an attitude like that, it was no wonder he’d recently managed to handle Tar into the top spot among non-sporting dogs in New England. The man had absolutely no fear.

  “Michelle Raddison,” Peg said, as the three of us pulled out brushes, combs, and spray bottles and went to work. “What did she have to say for herself?”

  “Plenty.” I related the gist of our conversation, speaking loudly to ensure that Terry, who was eavesdropping shamelessly, wouldn’t miss a thing.

  “I gather Henry must have cut quite a swath among the ladies,” I said at the end. “Apparently, almost everybody at Hunting Ridge knew him and liked him, which is unusual when you stop to consider that he didn’t actually work for the school, he just passed through there a couple of times a day.”

  “Yes, but Henry wasn’t your typical bus driver,” said Peg. “Everything we’ve learned about him so far certainly supports that.”

  “Poison,” said Terry, “is a woman’s murder weapon. Passive, nonviolent, nonconfrontational. Everybody knows that.”

  Hands still flying through Zeke’s coat, Aunt Peg looked over at Terry. “Where did you hear that?”

  “He’s been watching forensic shows on TV,” I said.

  “Scoff if you like, but they get their facts straight. I think you ought to check out those women who were involved with your bus driver. Odds are, he’s got a disgruntled ex-girlfriend or two running around.”

  “He’s also got two disgruntled daughters,” Sam contributed, just to show he was paying attention. “Not to mention a woman he’s involved with currently, and a nosy neighbor with a surly son.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Johnny Bowen said that Henry’s retirement had cut into the profits of his lawn mowing service.” I snuck a peek at Peg. “Maybe you should look into that.”

  “And maybe you shouldn’t be so fresh,” she retorted. “Let’s not forget, you were the one who saddled me with Remington and Pepper in the first place. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t care a whit whether this business got resolved or not. I’d simply be sitting home in Greenwich, reading about it in the newspaper like everyone else.”

  “Want to bet?” asked Sam.

  Aunt Peg frowned. Terry snickered. As for me, I got busy grooming. We’d all arrived at roughly the same time and we all had big black Poodles to prepare for the ring. From ample experience, I knew who was going to get the job done slowest.

  Moi.

  By the time I had Eve thoroughly brushed out, Sam was unwrapping Tar’s ears and Aunt Peg was already putting in Zeke’s topknot. The entry in Standard Poodles was large enough to provide a major in dogs. Peg and I both wanted it. If we were really, really lucky, there was a possibility that both of us could have it. Bearing that in mind, we weren’t about to skimp on our preparations.

  The first thing Aunt Peg had taught me about showing dogs was that the judges you exhibited under had to be chosen wisely. The American Kennel Club recognizes thousands of judges. Their names are printed in a fat little book which is updated every year. Of the several hundred of those that are approved to judge Poodles, not all are necessarily competent to render an opinion on the breed.

  Aunt Peg, like most exper
ienced exhibitors, kept a fat little book of her own. It was filled with notes on judges she’d shown to: her opinion on how much their opinion was worth.

  Peg was broadminded enough to give almost anyone at least one chance. Poodle breeders or ex-handlers, plus those judges who exhibited a special interest in the breed, were preferred. Judges with rough hands or an inattentive attitude toward their job were dismissed from future consideration. Those who were merely ignorant about the breed were tried again after a decent interval had passed, in the hope that they might have learned something.

  Today’s judge, Val Homberg, fell into the first category. A former handler who’d bred Toys on the side, she’d made no secret of her admiration for the Poodle breed. She knew what she wanted in a dog and she fully expected her exhibitors to bring it to her. Val judged quickly; she had no time for specimens that were dirty, poorly groomed, or untrained. But give her what she was looking for and she didn’t play politics. An owner-handler was just as likely to win under her as a pro. Knowing that, we’d all turned out to support her, which accounted for the major entry in dogs.

  Because of the variations in trims, Poodles are one of those rare breeds where puppies often beat the adults to take the points. For that reason, both Zeke and Eve had been shown quite a lot as puppies. Zeke, who’d had the benefit of having Aunt Peg at the end of his leash, had already managed to amass almost all the points he needed to complete his championship. One more win would “finish” him.

  A championship title is attained by winning a total of fifteen points in breed competition. The classes are split by sex—both one dog and one bitch will take home points in each breed at each show. The number of points awarded varies between one and five and is based on the amount of competition. Along the way, each dog must also secure two major wins, meaning that at least twice he must defeat enough other dogs to be awarded three or more points. Fifteen single points do not add up to a championship.

  Eve had been to as many shows as Zeke had during her puppy career, but the competition she’d faced had been stiffer. So far she had seven points to her credit, all of them singles. Today’s three-point major, if she could get it, would round out her current resume nicely.

  Our third entry was Sam’s specials dog, Tar, a.k.a. Champion Cedar Crest Scimitar. Specials are exactly what the name implies—the best of the best. These are dogs that have finished their championships in style and are now being campaigned in the hopes of amassing the coveted Best of Breed, Group First, and Best in Show wins. Tar had been showing as a special since spring. In that time, his record had grown to include eight non-sporting group wins and his first all-breed Best in Show. In short, he’d become a factor to be reckoned with.

  Crawford Langley, who was known for the quality of the Poodles he exhibited, had lately contented himself with specialing only a Mini and a Toy at most venues. His Standard special went only to carefully selected shows where he knew Tar wouldn’t be present. No professional handler shows to be beaten. The fact that Crawford left his Standard special at home was a sign of his respect for Tar’s quality.

  By the time Crawford reappeared with the Chinese Crested, Terry had both their Toy Poodles ready to go. The two of them headed up to the ring. Sam went with them to pick up our armbands. Topknot finally in, I finished spraying up Eve’s neck hair. Aunt Peg was scissoring Zeke’s trim.

  Eve’s littermate looked wonderful standing on his table. He was tall, well muscled, and beautifully masculine. His eyes were dark and expressive; his coat, an inky black.

  “He could finish today,” I commented.

  “Shhh!” Peg glared in my direction. She’s a great believer in jinxes.

  “He would be my first homebred champion.”

  “Not if you keep talking about it,” she grumbled. “Don’t you have some scissoring to do?”

  The question was rhetorical. If we were twenty minutes away from going into the show ring, there was always scissoring to do. I picked up a pair of curved shears and went to work.

  Sam returned and we got ourselves organized. Crawford lost with his Toys, then won with his Minis. Seemingly only seconds passed before it was our turn. Time to go do what the Poodles did best.

  It was show time.

  17

  Dogs always show before bitches. For some reason, which I have yet to figure out, they also always wear odd-numbered armbands, while bitches are assigned even numbers. Aunt Peg, with Zeke, would be the first of us to go in the ring. She stood near the gate as the Standard Poodle judging started with the Puppy Dog class.

  Summoned by the steward, four rambunctious puppies filed into the ring. Two were black, two were white; none, thankfully, looked mature enough to give Zeke a run for his money. Nevertheless, I was delighted to see them. Their numbers, added to those in the other classes, supplied the total that had come up a major.

  Aunt Peg had Zeke entered in the Open class. Usually she shows in Bred by Exhibitor; however, since I was Zeke’s breeder Peg was ineligible for her favorite class. Instead she would face four other opponents all presented by professional handlers in Open.

  As Peg entered the ring, Sam and Tar came to stand beside me.

  “He looks good,” Sam said in a low voice. At ringside, everybody listens in. Those who don’t want the whole world to know what they’re thinking whisper compliments and insults alike.

  “I just told Aunt Peg that. She thought I was jinxing her.”

  “You probably were. That’s how superstitions work. If you believe, you’re done for.”

  We both watched as Val made her first pass down the line of four. First impressions count for a lot in dog shows. The judge has only a very limited amount of time, usually less than two minutes, to devote to assessing each dog.

  Savvy handlers try to grab the judge’s attention right away. The really talented ones never relinquish it.

  “Good,” Sam said as Val paused for a second look at Zeke. “She knows he’s there.”

  The judge lifted her hands and sent the entry around the matted ring. Called in catalog order, Zeke was leading the parade. Trotting smoothly, Aunt Peg raised her hand, let out her leash, and hung back ever so slightly. Zeke, striding out in front of her, looked as though he was showing himself and towing her along behind as an afterthought.

  A subtle point, well made. Aunt Peg’s actions indicated her feelings to the judge: this dog has so much presence and ability, he can do it all by himself. Val, a former handler herself, was well able to appreciate the effort. Nor would the effect be lost on her.

  “That’s it,” Sam whispered when the Poodles had completed a circuit of the ring. “He’s got it.”

  I reached over and punched him in the arm. “Not so fast. At least give the judge a chance to put her hands on him before you go ahead and make up her mind for her.”

  Sam shut up then, but it didn’t matter. He was right, just as I’d hoped he would be. When the judge had completed her individual examinations of all four entries, she left Zeke standing at the head of the line and shuffled only those behind him. A minute later, Val Homberg handed Aunt Peg the narrow strip of blue ribbon.

  “Almost there,” I said under my breath.

  Eve, all but forgotten, waited patiently at my side. One of my hands supported her head; the other lifted her tail. I scratched under her chin absently and watched as the handler of the Puppy class winner brought his Standard Poodle back into the ring. This competition was called Winners Dog, and would decide which of the previous class winners got the points. And the major. Three important and oh-so-coveted points.

  For Aunt Peg, Zeke would simply be another in a long line of beautiful Poodles that she had escorted to their titles. For me, however, his championship would be a first. Though I had finished Faith, I hadn’t had the distinction of being her breeder. Zeke was a homebred, and that made all the difference.

  I’d been there when he was born. I’d broken the sac and dried him off, then helped him find the nipple and take his first drink. I’d
seen his eyes open, and watched him take his first wobbly steps. I was the one who’d planned his breeding and brought him into the world. It was an awesome responsibility, one I knew I would never take lightly.

  Win or lose, Zeke was my baby. He would always make me proud. But now, watching as the judge once again placed him at the front of the line, my heart began to pound.

  “He is going to do it,” I whispered incredulously.

  “Told you,” said Sam.

  As Val sent the two dogs around the ring for the last time, Sam was already beginning to clap. Though the judge hadn’t pointed yet, it was probably just a formality. Nevertheless, I waited, breath caught in my throat, until Val raised her hand and made it official. When she did, I think I might have screamed; thankfully, the moment remains somewhat hazy in recollection.

  I wasn’t just a fledgling breeder anymore, I realized. Now I was the breeder of a champion. My first, and hopefully, the start of many more to come.

  Catching my excitement, Eve bounced up into the air beside me. Only Sam’s quick reflexes kept her from landing on, Tar and laying waste to the hours of grooming we’d both done.

  Aunt Peg was all smiles as she ushered Zeke over to the marker. She had a few words with the judge and accepted the purple Winners ribbon graciously. Zeke stood like a statue, basking in the smattering of applause from ringside.

  “One down,” Peg said happily as she exited the ring and came to join us. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “My turn?” In all the excitement, I’d almost forgotten that Eve and I were due to show ourselves in just a matter of minutes. “You must be kidding. She won’t put both of us up.”

  “Why not?”

  “Two owner-handlers in a row? I don’t think so.”

  “Make that three,” said Sam. “Because Tar and I are planning on winning Best of Variety. Besides, she’s already indicated that she likes the family.”

  Val Homberg had done that, I considered. Faced with a major entry that had some quality to it, the judge had wasted little time in finding Zeke and awarding him the points. Good judges are consistent. they know what they like in a dog, and they look for it time after time. So if Zeke was Val’s kind of Standard Poodle, it made sense that his littermate, Eve, would be too.