Murder at the Puppy Fest

by Laurien Berenson

  “That’s a great idea,” Libby concurred. In fact she spoke up so quickly I had a sneaking suspicion that she and Aunt Peg had already settled this between them.

  So much for my momentary delusion that I was making my own choices. Apparently all Aunt Peg had needed to do was bait the trap. And then wait for me to fall in.

  When Libby turned to face me, I saw that her expression was grim. “I’ll never believe that my father’s death was an accident. Those cookies were left in his office on purpose. And the worst part is that whoever put them there had to have known him very well indeed. That person was familiar with Dad’s habits and routines. They knew he worked at his desk every morning—even on weekends. They knew that he loved to snack. They even knew his favorite kind of cookie. This hateful thing was done by someone my father trusted.”

  Libby was right to be angry, I thought. Those added details of what had taken place made Leo Brody’s death seem all the more despicable.

  “It sounds as though you mean to implicate your own family,” I said.

  Despite the accusations she’d made, I still half-expected a quick denial. It didn’t come. Instead, Libby nodded.

  “Good,” she said instead. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

  In the ring, the Bulldog judge was passing out ribbons for Best of Breed, Best of Winners, and Best Opposite Sex. Libby slipped the grooming noose off over Troy’s head and slid a slender chain collar on in its place. Then she lifted the liver-spotted Dalmatian off the table and set him down gently on the ground.

  I hurried to ask another question before she left. “What about Becca Montague?”

  Libby’s head snapped up. “She’s not important.”

  “She told me she and your father were friends.”

  “Oh, they were friendly all right. Becca showed up three months ago and she’s hardly let him out of her sight since.”

  “Showed up from where?” asked Aunt Peg.

  “Dad met her at a fundraiser for some worthy cause. One of those deathly dull charity dinners where everyone is either drunk or bored to tears. Becca latched on to my father like a barnacle on the hull of a boat. He has children older than she is. The two of them looked ridiculous together.”

  “Apparently your father didn’t think so,” I pointed out.

  “What he thought of her doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” Libby reached over and grasped my arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “Becca Montague is nobody. It’s my family I’m concerned about. Go and talk to my siblings. Find out what the hell they were thinking. Start with my brother, Graham. He’s always broke.”

  Before I could even begin to form a suitable reply, she was gone.

  * * *

  Aunt Peg and I didn’t wait around to see whether or not Libby and Troy won. Half an hour had passed since Kev and I had left the handlers’ tent. It was time to get back and see how Sam and Davey were doing with Augie.

  Aunt Peg and I cast dignity aside as the three of us dashed between the two tents. We all got wet anyway. Kevin was the only one who thought that was just great. Ducking under the awning of the grooming tent, we threaded our way between the tightly packed handlers’ setups. Sam saw us coming and smiled.

  “Sorry that took so long,” I said. “We got sidetracked by Aunt Peg.”

  “I figured it had to be something like that.” He knew my aunt all too well.

  Augie was currently lying upright like a sphinx on his grooming table. His mane coat was already line-brushed, and his bracelets and hip rosettes had been slickered. Now Davey was using a knitting needle to part the hair on the Poodle’s head, forming the ponytails that would provide a framework for the structured topknot he would wear in the show ring.

  The American Kennel Club currently recognizes one hundred and eighty-four different dog breeds. Those breeds are divided into seven groups: Sporting, Hound, Working, Terrier, Toy, Non-Sporting, and Herding. In most cases, a breed’s group designation is determined by its original function.

  Poodles, with three size varieties, belong to two different groups. Standards and Miniatures are judged in the Non-Sporting Group. Toy Poodles reside in the Toy Group. Bulldogs and Dalmatians are also Non-Sporting dogs, and the judge that was currently examining the Dalmatian entry would be judging Augie and the remainder of the Mini and Standard Poodles later.

  “You’re getting quite good at that,” Aunt Peg said, leaning in for a closer look as Davey deftly slipped a small colored rubber band around a long skein of topknot hair.

  “I’ve been practicing,” Davey replied without taking his eyes off the task at hand. He looked relieved when Aunt Peg kept her itchy fingers at her sides and confined her participation to merely remarking on his progress.

  We all relaxed—even Augie—when she took a step back from the table.

  “Pretty soon Davey will be giving Crawford a run for his money,” Terry Denunzio commented from the next setup over.

  The Poodle breed is dominated by professional handlers, and Crawford Langley is one of the best. His Poodle presentation is superb, and his reputation is impeccable. He’s been at the top of the game for decades. Crawford has the luxury of choosing which Poodles he wants to handle, and those he takes in the ring are almost always the ones to beat.

  Terry is Crawford’s assistant handler and his life partner. Terry’s quick wit and boundless energy act as the perfect foil for Crawford’s calm, dignified demeanor. Over the years, Terry has had more hairstyles and colors than a circus Poodle. Blond, he resembles the boy next door. Now with black locks and a hoop in his pierced ear, Terry’s vibe was decidedly Goth. The look was a little dark for me, but he carried it off with aplomb.

  Terry would be the first to tell you that he’s a people person. You can translate that to mean that his concept of boundaries is a little sketchy. He’s never seen a conversation that he doesn’t want to eavesdrop on, or insert himself into. Terry is one of my best friends but there are times when I just want to smack him. And he almost always deserves it.

  Now, however, I smiled gratefully in his direction. It would be a long time before Davey would approach Crawford’s level of expertise, but it was kind of Terry to pay the compliment and boost Davey’s confidence.

  “Nope,” said Davey. “Not going to happen. I promised I would finish Augie’s championship, but then I’m hanging up my show leash and retiring.”

  Aunt Peg’s eyes flew open wide. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  I sidled her way and stepped on her foot. Aunt Peg winced and nudged me aside, but the move had the desired effect because she also clamped her lips together.

  “Who’s retiring?” Crawford asked. Returning from the ring with an Italian Greyhound tucked under his arm, he slid between two tables and a stack of crates and entered his setup. “Certainly not Davey. You’re too young to retire.”

  “Too young,” Kevin agreed with a giggle. “Young as me.”

  Davey leaned back and gazed downward around the tabletop. Kev was sitting in the grass at our feet. “Nobody’s as young as you,” he told his little brother. “You’re barely older than a baby.”

  Kev’s face crumpled. “I’m not a baby. I’m a big boy!” “Of course you are.” Sam leaned down and scooped Kev up into his arms. “You’re the second-biggest boy in the family.”

  “Big boy.” Kev repeated the words for emphasis. “I have my own dog.”

  That declaration came as a surprise. We all turned and looked at him. Kev gave us a toothy grin, pleased to be the center of attention.

  “Davey has Augie,” he said with satisfaction. “And I have Bud.”

  I thought Terry’s expressive eyebrows were going to fly all the way up into his perfectly coiffed hair. He turned away from the white Standard Poodle he was scissoring and swiveled in our direction. For the record, the swivel is a move that Terry has perfected. His swish is well above par too.

  “You have a new Poodle named Bud? When did that happen?” Terry inquired, tamping down a grin. “And who came
up with that wonderful name?”

  Crawford slanted his assistant a look. “I don’t hear anything wrong with the name. Not when you consider that we’ve shown Poodles named Bubbles, Twinkie, and Doll Face.”

  “Bud isn’t a Poodle,” I said.

  In the silence that followed, you could have heard a knitting needle drop. Or a can of hair spray. Then, suddenly everyone was talking at once. Terry’s voice rose above the rest.

  “What?” His shriek was so high-pitched that dogs on the tabletops all around us pricked their ears and turned to look. “You’re branching out into a new breed? I can’t believe this is happening and we’re just hearing about it now.”

  “Not just one breed,” Aunt Peg informed him. “Many breeds.”

  That was enough to pique even Crawford’s interest. He paused in the act of slipping the IG into a crate. “Which ones?”

  “Beagle, Boxer, Whippet, maybe some Cattle Dog . . .” I said. “All rolled into one.”

  Terry’s mouth fell open. His voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “You mean he’s a mutt?”

  Crawford began to laugh. “That explains the name.”

  “Hey,” Davey complained good-naturedly. He’d finished Augie’s topknot and was standing the Poodle up to be scissored. “I like that name. I picked it myself. And it suits him.”

  “I’m sure it does,” Terry agreed piously. “Bud the mutt.”

  “Bud the mutt,” Kevin echoed happily. The insult went right over his head. “He’s my dog.”

  Terry patted Kev’s arm. “And what a lucky young man you must be.” Then he propped his hands on his hips and stared at the rest of us. “I know there’s a story here. Out with it.”

  Grooming a Poodle is busy work. While the fingers fly, the brain can be miles away. Or in this case, the mouths. While Crawford and Terry put the finishing touches on the three Poodles that comprised their entry in Standards and Sam and Davey went to work spraying up Augie’s topknot and neck hair, my whole family pitched in to tell Bud’s story.

  “He has spots?” Terry said at the end. His tone implied that the mere thought was inconceivable. For a handler who specialized in solid-colored Poodles, maybe it was.

  “He does,” I confirmed. “And short hair.”

  “It’s great,” said Davey. “Bud will never need to be clipped. Or even brushed.”

  “When you put it that way, you make me wonder why we didn’t get a smooth-haired dog sooner,” I said wistfully.

  Aunt Peg was having none of that. “That’s easy,” she declared. “Because wonderful as other dogs are, none can compare to a Poodle. And speaking of which, we’d better look sharp. If your judge is running on time, we have to get moving.”

  Once she pointed it out, I realized that other Standard Poodles around us were beginning to leave their grooming tables and head to the next tent with their handlers. Luckily there was a brief lull in the rain. On a day like this, a smaller Poodle could be carried to the ring tucked beneath its owner’s raincoat. Standards had to make their way on foot through the wet grass. Augie’s bracelets would suffer, but as long as his liberally hair-sprayed mane coat stayed dry, his trim would remain intact.

  Davey held Augie’s leash. Sam took up a position on the Poodle’s other side. Aunt Peg led the way, clearing a path through the crowds beneath the tent and giving no one a chance to jostle our immaculately coiffed entry. Kevin and I brought up the rear. When we reached the ring, the Puppy Dog class was already being judged.

  As a fully mature, almost two-year-old dog, Augie was entered in Open Dogs. On the day, it would be the third Standard Poodle class to be judged after Puppy and Bred-by-Exhibitor. It was also the class with the largest entry. There was a four-point major on the line, so the numbers were sizable in both dogs and bitches.

  Davey had been showing Augie for more than a year. So far, the Poodle had accumulated ten points toward the total of fifteen he would need to complete his championship. He’d also won one of two mandatory “majors,” meaning that he had beaten enough male Standard Poodles at a single show to earn three or more points. The number of points awarded was based on the amount of competition, and majors were always a coveted prize.

  As we waited ringside, I checked out Augie’s competition in Standard dogs. Most were being shown by professional handlers. Only one other Poodle would enter the ring with his owner on the end of his leash, and that woman was a skilled competitor who’d beaten me handily every time I’d shown against her. Not only that, but Davey was the only junior handler in the entire Standard Poodle entry. He and Augie would have their work cut out for them.

  “It seems odd not to have Bertie here,” Sam commented as the Puppy Dogs exited the ring. “I hope she’s feeling okay.”

  Bertie Kennedy was my sister-in-law; she was married to my younger brother, Frank. A professional handler herself, she usually attended many more dog shows each year than we did. Now she was seven months pregnant with her second child, however. This pregnancy wasn’t proceeding as smoothly as her first, so she was taking some time off from the pressures of the show scene.

  “Bertie called yesterday to wish Davey luck,” I said. “She’s going stir-crazy just sitting around with her feet up, but other than that she’s fine.”

  “Quit talking and pay attention,” Aunt Peg said.

  The single dog in the Bred-by class had been awarded his blue ribbon. The eight Standard Poodles entered in Open were beginning to form a queue outside the in-gate. Fingers threaded gently through Augie’s narrow chain-link collar to hold him close to his side, Davey tucked his greyhound comb into his armband and checked to make sure that he had bait in his pocket.

  Sam guided Davey into the line as it began to move forward and sent him off with a pat on the back.

  “Have fun,” I called after him.

  Aunt Peg materialized beside Davey just as the pair was about to enter the ring. As usual, she managed to have the last word. “You show that Poodle like the good dog he is and come back a winner!”

  But hey, no pressure, right?

  Chapter 12

  Black clouds rolled in and it began to drizzle again.

  The Poodles in the Open Dog class lined up nose-to-tail underneath the tent, filling the long side of the enclosure. They’d been called into the ring in catalog order, which placed Davey second to last. That gave him plenty of time to get Augie correctly positioned before the judge took his first look at him on his initial pass down the line.

  I watched the judge check out the first half-dozen entrants in the big class. Then he came to Augie. To my dismay, his gaze barely even paused. Instead, it slid right past the big black dog to the Standard Poodle standing behind him.

  This was the first time I’d ever seen this judge and already I didn’t like him. As he lifted his hands palms-up and the handlers prepared to gait their dogs around the ring for the first time, I leaned in close to Aunt Peg and said, “Who is that guy anyway?”

  “Ricardo Vega,” she whispered back, adhering to ringside etiquette that dictates all conversation about the judging take place in a low voice. “He’s from South America.”

  “He didn’t even look at Augie!”

  “That was just the first glance.” Even as she spoke to me, Aunt Peg’s eyes remained riveted on the ring. “He’ll pay attention when he sees how well that dog moves.”

  I wasn’t so sure. A judge has less than two minutes to evaluate each dog, and first impressions are important. Davey had done exactly what he was supposed to do upon entering the ring. He’d had Augie stacked correctly, standing in a balanced pose with his tail up and his expression alert. There had been no reason for Mr. Vega to dismiss the pair out of hand . . . except perhaps for the fact that Davey was twelve years old.

  I growled under my breath.

  “Now what?” Aunt Peg demanded.

  The Standard Poodles had finished their first circuit of the ring. Seven were being allowed to relax beneath the tent while the judge began his individual examinat
ions with the first dog in line. If Mr. Vega had taken note of Augie’s superior movement, I’d seen no sign of it.

  “I thought you said he was a good judge,” I muttered.

  Exhibitors pick and choose carefully before making their dog show entries. Some judges were quick to reward the professional handler who brought them a large entry. Others favored a single attribute—like color, soundness, or a pretty face—and glossed over everything else. And some judges who raced through the approval system to gain additional breeds simply didn’t have a clue what they were looking at.

  Fortunately, we had Aunt Peg to sort things out for us. Since she’d been everywhere and knew everyone, she was our authority on which dog shows to enter and which judges to support. I was quite certain that she’d approved of Mr. Vega.

  “No,” Aunt Peg replied carefully. “I told you to make the entry.”

  “Because you liked the judge,” I insisted. Why else would she have told us to do all the work required to get Augie ready, not to mention making the trip and standing around all day in the rain?

  “No, because of basketball,” Aunt Peg said. “And soccer season, and vacation, and final exams.”

  She’d lost me completely. “What about them?”

  “It’s always something with you and Davey. Look at that Poodle.” She gestured toward Augie, who’d now moved up to the middle of the line. “That’s a handsome dog. He needs to be finished. He deserves to be a champion. And Davey has barely shown him all year.”

  “Because dog shows aren’t Davey’s only interest. Nor should they be.” Then, abruptly, I realized the implication of what she’d said. “You mean you told us to make the entry just so that Augie would get in the ring?”

  Aunt Peg’s gaze flicked my way. “The two of them needed the practice.”

  Seriously?

  “They could have practiced at home,” I said. “Please tell me you didn’t make us come all this way just to show under a judge who isn’t even going to give Augie a chance.”