Murder at the Puppy Fest

by Laurien Berenson

  “We’ll see,” Aunt Peg replied. “He hasn’t had his hands on him yet.”

  At this point, I doubted that would matter. Exhibitors quickly learned how to read judges’ body language. So far I hadn’t seen even a modicum of interest directed toward our entry.

  “Have you even seen Mr. Vega judge before?” I asked.

  She gave her head a small shake. “He’s visiting from Brazil. They have lovely Standard Poodles there. I figured he was worth a try.”

  Worth a try. That was hardly high praise.

  Aunt Peg went back to staring at the class. By now Mr. Vega had examined nearly all the dogs in the ring. He had yet to sink his hands deep into the coat of a single Poodle—an action necessary to inspect a dog’s structure beneath what might be deceptive trimming. The judge had also paused for a friendly chat with two of the professional handlers while going over their dogs.

  Aunt Peg had begun to frown. “I may have miscalculated,” she admitted.

  We watched as Davey set Augie up to be examined while the preceding Poodle gaited down and back. When Mr. Vega turned back to the line and saw Davey, his lips pursed in a frown. His inspection of Augie was cursory at best.

  When Davey moved the Standard Poodle to the end of the ring and back, Mr. Vega stared off into the distance. The pair had barely finished their pattern before being sent back around to stand at the end of the line. None of us were surprised when Augie wasn’t included in the four class placements. He and Davey filed out of the ring with the other losers.

  Shoulders slumped in disappointment, Davey made his way back to where we were waiting. “That was terrible,” he said.

  “Tell me about it,” Terry agreed. Crawford’s nice Standard dog had only placed fourth.

  Handler and assistant exchanged Poodles beside us, with Crawford handing off his beaten dog and taking his Open Bitch entry from Terry. Crawford snapped the dog’s armband out from beneath the rubber band at the top of his arm and tossed it in the trash. He didn’t look any more pleased about the way things had turned out than we were.

  The difference between us, however, was that while we were finished for the day, Crawford still had a good chance of getting “his piece” in either the bitch competition or Best of Variety.

  “I thought Augie looked good,” Davey said glumly. “He was trying really hard.”

  Though he hadn’t mentioned his own efforts, Davey had been trying hard too. That made the day’s outcome all the more disappointing.

  “There will be another day,” Aunt Peg said briskly. “That’s only one judge’s opinion.”

  “Yeah,” Davey grumbled. “A stupid judge.”

  “Hey,” I said sharply. “That’s not nice.”

  “No, but it’s true. He never even looked at Augie.”

  “Yes, and that’s a shame after all the hard work you did. But different judges look for different things in a dog, and today just wasn’t your day. You and Augie have done really well together, but you can’t win every time.”

  “Why not?” Davey slid a glance my way. “My soccer team wins almost every game. I like winning all the time.”

  “Of course you do.” Terry reached over and pretended to bop him on the head. “But then what would Crawford and I do? We have to have a chance too.”

  Davey ducked down to avoid the slap and came up grinning. “You guys can have all the wins in bitches. And sometimes Best of Variety.”

  Crawford joined the conversation. “Says the kid who’s heading for early retirement. Give me a break.” He stopped and shook his head. “Do you want to know the secret to winning at dog shows?”

  We all fell silent. Crawford was one of the most successful handlers in New England and the Mid-Atlantic states. Over the course of his long career, he’d won more groups and Bests in Show than most exhibitors could even dream of. If he was willing to share his knowledge and insight with us, we all wanted to listen.

  Crawford leaned down so that he and Davey were eye to eye and said, “Work hard. Learn from the most talented people you can find. Show up every day. And always do your best.”

  “What about when my best isn’t good enough?” The plaintive note in Davey’s voice tugged at my heart.

  “That’s easy,” Crawford told him. “Then you work at it until you get better.” He straightened and gazed down at Augie. “Tell me something. Where does that Poodle sleep at night?”

  My son looked relieved to be asked a question for which he knew the answer. “He sleeps next to my bed.”

  “So I guess he must be a pretty good dog?”

  “Pretty good? He’s the best!”

  “Suppose you could trade him for the dog that just beat you and won today’s major?” Crawford asked. “Would you do it?”

  In the ring, the Winners Dog class had just ended. The Open dog had picked up the points. The Standard Poodle who’d been second in the Open class was awarded Reserve.

  “No way.” Davey curled an arm around Augie protectively.

  Crawford smiled. “So it looks to me like you think you have the best dog at the show. Right?”

  Davey nodded slowly.

  “Even if he doesn’t always win?”

  My son nodded again.

  “Then count yourself lucky.” Crawford glanced over toward the ring. The Standard Puppy Bitch class was in. We still had a few more minutes before Open Bitches. “And if you want to complain about losing, you get back to me when you’ve lost as many times as I have. Let’s see, I started when I was a teenager so let’s call it forty-five years. With all the dogs I show, I bet I’ve lost ten thousand times by now, give or take. You don’t see me moping around, do you?”

  “No,” Davey admitted. Then he flashed Crawford a cheeky grin. “But that’s because your specials dog is going to win the Variety.”

  Caught by surprise, Crawford barked out a laugh. “Kids,” he said to Sam and me. “You can have ’em. I give up.”

  I walked around to where the handler stood and gave him a quick hug. “You did great,” I whispered in his ear. Then I stepped back and said out loud, “Ten thousand times? Really? That’s just depressing.”

  “You think that’s depressing, watch this.” The Open Bitches were getting ready to enter the ring and Crawford moved to join the end of the line. “Here comes ten thousand and one.”

  * * *

  Saturday’s dog show had a lot in common with the one the day before. Both shows were hosted by the same kennel club, and both took place at the same location in Carmel. The weekend’s second show also featured a major entry in Standard Poodles. Thankfully there were two major differences: better weather and a different Poodle judge.

  Unfortunately neither of those changes resulted in a significantly better outcome for Davey and Augie. The trouble started as soon as the pair entered the ring for their class. Since the entries hadn’t been called in catalog order, Davey took a position closer to the front of the line.

  At most dog shows, Davey allowed Augie to free-bait during the judge’s first look. That meant that rather than stacking the Poodle, he walked him naturally into a good position. Then, instead of standing behind Augie and holding up his head and tail, he stood out in front facing him while offering a piece of bait to draw his attention.

  The maneuver had several benefits. In a long row of dogs—most of whom needed their handlers’ support—Augie’s different positioning made him stand out. Also, having Augie’s eyes trained on Davey emphasized the Poodle’s wonderful expression. Lastly, Augie’s independent stance sent a clear message to the judge: Nobody has to make me look the part. I’m that good all on my own.

  Today, however, Davey hustled Augie into the line, then quickly set him up, lifting each foot and placing it precisely where he thought it should be. When he was finished, Davey pulled back and had a look. Frowning at what he saw, he began the job all over again, hastily re-setting all four feet.

  That much fiddling on Davey’s part had the predictable result of making Augie fidgety. When
the judge walked past them for the first time, the Poodle wasn’t standing straight. Instead, his body was bowed in the middle as he cranked his head around to look at Davey. Augie’s expression was one of obvious confusion.

  From there, things went steadily downhill. At the previous dog show, Davey had tried to do well. Now he stepped his efforts up a notch. Rather than simply letting Augie be very good, Davey was aiming for perfection.

  Only minutes into the class Davey was second-guessing everything he did. His usually fluid movements became choppy and rigid. Even worse, it wasn’t long before the anxiety he was feeling worked its way down the leash to Augie. Suddenly unsure of what he was meant to do, the Poodle lost his confidence and his performance fell apart.

  Even worse, in contrast to the judge from the day before, this one clearly liked Augie. He went out of his way to give the Poodle every chance to succeed. There’s a reason it’s called a dog show, however, and in the end there was only so much leeway the judge could give the pair. With other nice dogs in the class being shown flawlessly by their handlers, we counted ourselves lucky when Davey and Augie were awarded the white ribbon for fourth place.

  Once again, Davey exited the ring looking dejected. “I thought the judge liked Augie.”

  “He did,” Aunt Peg replied crisply. “You’re the one who blew it.”

  Davey’s head came up in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  Aunt Peg opened her mouth to speak, but I quickly stepped between them. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “But I have several useful things to say!”

  “We’re sure you do,” Sam agreed. “But now is not the time. Why don’t you come with Kevin and me? We’ll watch the rest of the judging from the other side of the ring.”

  “I’m quite comfortable right here,” Aunt Peg declared. “I can see perfectly well from where I’m standing.”

  “Standing quietly,” I ordered.

  When I turned back to Davey, he was staring away from us, his gaze focused on the ring where Crawford’s Standard Poodle had just been named Winners Dog. I reached down and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Remember a few years ago when you gave Junior Showmanship a try?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “As I recall, you didn’t like it much.”

  “No, not really. I thought it would be fun, but it wasn’t.”

  “Because you felt like you were under a lot of pressure to win, right?”

  I didn’t have to name names. We all knew who had supplied that pressure.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Well, that’s what you did to Augie today.”

  Davey turned and looked at me. I could see that he was puzzled.

  “Showing Augie is also supposed to be fun. Finishing his championship is a project for you and Sam to enjoy together. There’s no time limit on this. Nobody cares how long it takes.”

  Aunt Peg harrumphed under her breath. Davey and I both ignored her.

  “You lost yesterday—” I began.

  “I lost today too, in case you didn’t notice,” Davey said unhappily.

  I stopped and sighed, then started over. “It looked like you felt the need to change some things.”

  “I guess.” Davey shrugged. “Crawford told me to try and do better.”

  Oh. Right.

  “Yes, but he didn’t mean that you should change everything all at once.”

  Davey nodded. “I guess maybe Augie got a little confused.”

  “That’s what it looked like,” Sam told him. “And when Augie got confused, he stopped having fun.”

  “Now may I speak?” Aunt Peg said archly.

  “If you can say something nice,” I warned.

  Aunt Peg ignored me and directed her question to Davey. “Do you know what the word ‘Poodliness’ means?”

  “Umm . . . no?”

  “Then I’ll explain it to you. What sets a Poodle apart from other dogs is his intelligence combined with a sense of fun. A Poodle has joie de vivre. When he walks into the show ring, he should look like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. A good Poodle shows itself off. He exhibits a kind of gaiety that makes the judge smile—and want to take that dog home with him. That,” Aunt Peg finished with satisfaction, “is Poodliness.”

  Davey glanced down at the dog by his side. “Augie can do that.”

  “Of course he can. Augie has Poodliness in spades. But not today.” Aunt Peg gestured toward the ring. “The two of you were stiff as a board in there. No judge in his right mind could have rewarded that performance. You need to take a deep breath and learn to relax. Trust me, that will fix everything.”

  Sam and I exchanged a look. Learn to relax coming from Aunt Peg? The thought was mind boggling.

  We watched the remainder of the Standard Poodle judging. Crawford won in dogs, lost in bitches, and won again in Best of Variety. After the final ribbons were awarded, the judge took a short break for pictures.

  Sam, Davey, and Aunt Peg took Augie back to the handlers’ tent. Kev and I lingered behind. Dalmatians were scheduled to be judged after Standard Poodles and they’d already begun to gather outside the gate. The day before, I hadn’t had a chance to watch Libby Rothko show Troy. Now I decided to remedy that.

  Kevin was entranced by the spotted dogs milling around us. “Just like Bud!” he crowed with delight.

  I choked back a laugh. I had no desire to hurt my son’s feelings, but this collection of handsome carriage dogs looked nothing like Bud.

  “Do you want to watch?” I asked.

  Kev nodded enthusiastically. Hand in hand, we moved closer to low slatted boards that marked the ring’s boundary. Inside the enclosure, the show photographer was taking pictures of French Bulldogs. Crawford waited nearby with the Standard Poodle that had gone Winners Dog.

  Terry was outside the ring, holding Crawford’s Best of Variety winner. That dog wouldn’t have his picture taken now in the hope that it would be necessary to take a photo later—after he had won or placed in the Non-Sporting group. Terry sidled over to stand beside Kevin and me.

  “What do you make of that?” he asked, nodding toward the far side of the ring.

  I gazed across to where Terry had indicated. Two women, one of them holding a liver-spotted Dalmatian, were engaged in a furious conversation. Their body language was so combative I was amazed that I hadn’t noticed them sooner. Then abruptly, I realized that the woman with the Dal was Libby Rothko.

  Beside me, Terry was bouncing up and down on his toes. “I love a good chick fight,” he said, making no attempt to contain his glee. “And any minute now, those two are going to come to blows.”

  Chapter 13

  “I know that woman,” I said to Terry.

  “Which one?” His gaze slid my way only briefly. He was loath to take his eyes off the action. “The one whose face is turning purple or the one whose hands are balled into fists?”

  “Angry face,” I said. “The one holding the Dalmatian. That’s Libby Rothko.”

  “The name sounds familiar,” Terry mused.

  “Her father was Leo Brody.”

  That got his attention in a hurry. “The Leo Brody?”

  “Yes. The man who died last week in Greenwich.”

  “Interesting,” Terry said wryly. “There must be a major show in Dals. I hope the funeral isn’t today.”

  Apparently I wasn’t the only one who found it a little odd that Libby was competing in a dog show only days after her father had lost his life.

  “No and shut up,” I said fondly.

  As if that would work. It didn’t even slow Terry down.

  “Who’s the other babe?” he asked.

  The second woman was older than Libby. Her round face and plain features were now sharpened into a furious scowl. Short frosted hair curled around her earlobes, accenting a pair of large gold earrings. Though the woman’s attire was casual—slacks and a T-shirt with an embroidered neckline—her sandals were much too fussy for the grassy setting. A d
og person would definitely have known better.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “I’ve never seen her before.”

  “Well, she’s not one of us,” Terry scoffed. “Look at those sandals.”

  Great minds, I thought.

  I dug an elbow into Terry’s side. “Go find out what they’re fighting about.”

  “You mean listen in?” He tried to sound scandalized and failed utterly.

  “Of course I mean listen in, you ninny. I can’t go over there. Libby knows who I am. But if you wander past, she’ll never even notice.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Terry’s eyebrows waggled. “I am a highly noticeable person.”

  Of course he was. That wasn’t even up for debate.

  “Go anyway,” I said. “You know you want to. And hurry! Get there before the fight ends.”

  It turned out I didn’t have to worry. In the time it took Terry to lead his Standard Poodle out from beneath the tent and make a circuit of the ring, matters had intensified between the two women. Neither one of them paid any attention to Terry’s eye-catching looks. Libby and her companion probably wouldn’t have noticed if I had driven by in a Sherman tank.

  I was so busy watching Terry stake out a perfect spot near the still-battling women that I didn’t see Crawford coming until he was right beside me.

  “What are you two getting up to now?” he asked pleasantly. His gaze skimmed back and forth between Terry and me.

  Before I could reply, Kevin stepped in. “There’s a fight,” he informed him. “We’re listening in.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.” Crawford turned and had a better look. “Seems like Libby’s got a real bee up her butt.”

  “You know Libby Rothko?”

  “Sure, she’s had Dals for ages. Good ones too. Three, four years ago, she had a nice specials dog. We butted heads in quite a few groups.”

  “Who’s the other woman?” I asked curiously.

  “That I can’t tell you. I’m pretty sure she’s not a regular.”

  Probably the shoes again.

  Crawford reached down, cupped the tall Poodle’s muzzle in his palm and prepared to move away. “When you get done corrupting my assistant, send him back to the grooming tent. It might surprise you to know that we’ve got real work to do.”