Sam lives in Redding, which is in northern Fairfield County. There isn’t a lot of major crime in this area, and the event had made his morning paper. Aside from telling him that Aunt Peg and I had been there, however, there wasn’t much I could add to what he already knew.
We wrapped up the conversation quickly. With Davey asleep, Sam and I had better things to do.
Aunt Peg called first thing Saturday morning. Sam, having perfected his middle of the night vanishing act, was long gone by then. Peg has a soft spot in her heart for Sam. She’s determined to nurture our relationship like a rare violet she’s trying to coax into bloom. I could have sworn she was disappointed that he hadn’t picked up the phone.
“I thought you were seeing Sam last night,” she said.
“I did.”
“And you’re not feeding him breakfast ... ?” Aunt Peg let the suggestion dangle. Where subtlety was concerned, she and Geraldo had a lot in common.
“And who would have been taking care of his Poodles?”
That shut her up. Like Peg, Sam’s hobby is breeding Standard Poodles. She would never have left her own dogs unattended overnight, and could fully understand why Sam wouldn’t either. I never even had to mention the fact that with Bob about to reappear, I’d decided that the less change there was in other areas of Davey’s life, the better.
“Speaking of Sam,” I said. “How come you haven’t been dragging him along to these Belle Haven meetings?”
“Sam’s a very busy man. He knows the club’s there. When he’s ready, he’ll take steps to join.”
Well that made me feel about two years old. As if she trusted Sam to make decisions about his own life, but not me. I don’t usually sulk. In fact, in most situations I’d say I’m much too mature for behavior like that. But sometimes Aunt Peg has a way of bringing out the worst in me.
“Listen!” she said cheerfully. “I’ve got a great idea.”
If there’s one thing worse than sulking, it’s having nobody notice.
“Why don’t you and Davey come along to the Rockland show today? It’s not far, just across the Tappan Zee Bridge. I’m showing Hope,” she added as an incentive.
Hope was Faith’s litter sister. Since Aunt Peg knew what she was doing, her Standard Poodle puppy had more hair and was better trained than mine was. She was also being shown more. Faith wasn’t entered again until the end of the month. In the meantime, I was delighted to have the chance to see her sister in the ring.
“Sure,” I said, then stopped. “Oh wait. I forgot. Bob—”
“Is arriving late this afternoon. Isn’t that what you said? Frankly, I can’t think of anything worse than sitting home all day waiting for him.”
Now that she mentioned it, neither could I. We made plans to meet in the grooming area, and I went off to get Davey dressed and break the news to Faith.
Aunt Peg has a theory about Standard Poodle puppies and dog shows. Because so much of the emphasis in the ring is on animation and showmanship, she feels it’s vitally important that puppies never think of going to a show as anything but fun. Which means they’re never simply thrown in the car and taken along for the ride. Aunt Peg wanted Faith to think of dog shows as a special treat, an activity where most of the attention would center around her. Since that wasn’t the case today, the puppy was staying home.
The Rockland County dog show is held in the field house at Rockland Community College. There’s lots of room to park, and plenty of space inside for concession stands and large rings. A portion of the room was set aside for grooming. Even in a spacious facility like Rockland’s the area was crammed with crates, exercise pens, and portable tables.
Davey’s getting to be an old hand at going to dog shows. He used to point and stare at all the different breeds, and once tried to talk himself into ownership of an Old English Sheepdog. Now he’s able to walk by even the wrinkly skinned Shar-Peis without comment. I hate to think that at the ripe old age of five, he might be getting jaded.
Exhibitors tend to cluster together by breed in the grooming area. That makes it easier to talk to your friends, and it was no surprise when we found Aunt Peg holding court in the middle of the Poodle section. I’d met many of the breeders and professional handlers the summer before when I was looking for Aunt Peg’s missing stud dog; and since I’d started showing Faith, they’d accepted me as part of the group.
“Not showing your pretty puppy today?” asked Crawford Langley as Davey and I passed by on our way to Aunt Peg’s set-up.
Crawford was a professional handler, once among the best in Poodles. Now getting older, with a career that was winding down, he still knew how to play the game just about better than anybody. He had several Standard Poodles out on top of tables, as well as a Maltese and three Papillons.
“No, I came to watch the rest of you work.”
“Fine by me.” Crawford smiled. “That’s one less for me to beat.”
Aunt Peg had her things set up in the next aisle over. I boosted Davey up on top of Hope’s empty crate and opened the bag we’d brought with us, filled with things I hoped would keep him busy for the next several hours. I had let Davey do the packing. True to form, there were toy cars, picture books about cars, and a fire engine coloring book. At least he was consistent.
“Do you need any help?” I asked Aunt Peg, just to be polite. I couldn’t imagine any dog show situation she wouldn’t have well in hand.
“I’m fine.” Hope was lying quietly on her side on the grooming table, while Aunt Peg line brushed through her coat with a pin brush. “If you ask me, Crawford’s the one who could use some extra hands. His assistant’s in the Yorkie ring and Papillons go in five minutes. How’s he going to show all three at the same time?”
Crawford inclined his head slightly in our direction. “Do I hear the sound of someone volunteering to help?”
“Sure.” I left Davey to his coloring book and what I hoped was Aunt Peg’s watchful eye. “What do you need?”
“I’ve got two dogs in the Open class,” said Crawford. “The older one only needs a major, so I doubled entered in case the numbers didn’t make it. It turned out to be a major on the nose, so now I’ve got to show them both.”
Nine months earlier, that all would have been gibberish to me. But now I knew just what he was talking about. Dogs who have not yet attained their championships are entered in shows for the purpose of accumulating points. Breed classes are divided by sex and points are won by beating others of the same sex.
Fifteen points makes a champion, with the proviso that along the way each dog must have two “major” wins; that is, it must defeat a substantial number of its peers at a single show. The number of dogs necessary to make a major varies from breed to breed and from one part of the country to another. Crawford hadn’t intended to have to show two of his clients’ dogs against each other, but the way the entries had turned out made it impossible for him to do anything else.
He looked over my shoulder and scanned the area. “I’ve got someone coming to handle the other dog. But if you could bring the bitch up to ringside for me, it would be a big help.”
As he spoke, Alberta Kennedy came hurrying across the room. “Corgis ran late,” she said breathlessly. “Am I in time?”
“Just made it. We’re going up now.” Crawford picked up the female Papillon and placed her carefully in my arms.
Bertie picked up one of the males. Her dress today was dove gray, high-necked, and fell to mid-calf. I’d have looked like a nun wearing it. Bertie looked like Miss America trying to go incognito.
Crawford, who picked up the third Pap and led our procession toward the ring, didn’t spare her a glance. Considering he was gay, that wasn’t surprising. But since
Bertie’s obvious assets were lost on him, I figured either he had to be desperate to ask her to handle one of his dogs, or else she was good at what she did.
Standing ringside during the Open Dog class, I decided on the former. Bertie was perfectly competent, but with
none of the spark that set the truly talented handlers apart. Indeed, from my vantage point, her attention seemed centered less on her dog than on someone standing outside the ring.
There were five dogs in the class and Crawford’s Papillon was quickly moved to the head of the line. The judge glanced at Bertie’s entry and she favored him with a dazzling smile. The next thing I knew, her Papillon was standing second.
Whatever works, I thought.
Bertie cast a surreptitious glance over her shoulder and I homed in on whom she was looking at. Cy Rubicov was standing ringside, watching the judging.
One thing I’ve discovered about dog shows: sometimes there’s a surprising amount to be learned just by keeping your eyes and ears open. Some people might call that nosiness. I think of it as practical—kind of along the same lines as Bertie wearing a push-up bra.
We were both just making the most of the gifts God gave us.
Eleven
Crawford’s Papillon went on to win the Open class. He stayed in the ring to vie with the winners of the other dog classes for the title of Winners Dog and the points that went with it. That accomplished, Crawford came out and exchanged the dog for the bitch I was holding.
“I won’t win again,” he said. “Winners Dog was my piece for the day. But he needs to go back in for Best of Breed, so stay close, okay?”
I nodded, and Crawford hurried back into the ring.
With the dog classes over, Bertie’s duties were finished. The Papillon she’d handled for Crawford had gone Reserve, and wouldn’t be needed for further judging. If she wished, she could return the dog to Crawford’s set-up and be on her way.
As I waited by the gate, however, I saw that Bertie was in no hurry to leave. Cradling the little dog in her arms, she’d sidled through the crowd at ringside and was now engaged in animated conversation with Cy Rubicov.
As her height topped his by several inches, Bertie was leaning forward ever so slightly to bring herself down to Cy’s level. The fact that the move pressed her breasts together and thrust them forward was, I’m sure, lost on nobody. Her long fingers, with their brightly polished nails, stroked the toy dog’s silky hair.
I was too far away to hear what they were saying, but the body language was eloquent. Cy was rocking back on his heels, chest puffed out, a broad smile on his face—a man supremely aware that the best looking woman at ringside was with him. I remembered Aunt Peg telling me that Cy backed a lot of top winning dogs, among them a Dalmatian being handled by Crawford Langley, and wondered if it was a coincidence that Bertie had made herself available to help out.
As Crawford had predicted, he quickly lost with the bitch. We switched Paps at the gate, and he went back in the ring to show the dog for BOB. When I looked back to where Cy and Bertie had been, only the handler remained. She was staring off into the distance, a distracted frown on her face.
Tucking the bitch under my arm, I went to stand beside her. “Must be tough,” I said.
“Hmm?”
With Cy around, Bertie had sparkled; now the wattage was turned way down. She’d been the first person to reach Monica after me. I wondered if she’d simply been running in that direction, as I had. Or could she have been with Monica, wielded the rock and run, then doubled back to see what would happen next?
“Drumming up new clients,” I said. “It must be tough trying to build a business.”
“I do all right,” Bertie said carefully. “I don’t have a big string yet, but then I don’t take just any dog. Some handlers don’t mind being seen in the ring with all kinds of garbage, as long as they get paid. That’s not for me.”
“I guess that’s why getting the right kind of client is so important.”
“It’s everything. A good dog, with the right kind of money behind it, is a big winner. Unfortunately, there aren’t nearly enough of those to go around.”
“Good dogs, or big money clients?”
“Both.”
I imagined that Cy Rubicov, with his buying power, would qualify on both counts. Clearly, Bertie would love to have one of his dogs to show. I wondered how he felt about the prospect; and what, if anything, Monica Freedman might have known about their relationship.
“The other night when Monica was killed, I was near the road when the Beagles came by. I ran to the van from that direction. Where were you?”
“The next row of cars over.” Bertie frowned. “I never saw the dogs at all. I just heard that infernal racket, and went over to tell Monica to shut them up.”
“As you approached the van, did you see anyone else?”
“I saw you.”
That was the truth, certainly. But I wondered if it was all of it.
“We came from two different directions,” I said slowly. “The murder had just taken place. How do you suppose the murderer managed to slip away so quickly without anybody seeing him?”
“We were all questioned by the police,” said Bertie. “If I’d seen anything, I’d have told them.”
“The police weren’t there. But we were. All of us, members of the Belle Haven Kennel Club, were right there when it happened.”
“You’re not a club member.” She lifted one manicured hand to flip her hair back over her shoulder. “Is that why you’re so interested in pinning this on someone who is?”
“I’m not trying to pin anything on anybody—”
“Sharon told me you solved a murder before.”
“I guess I did.”
“So now you think you’re going to solve this one?” There was no mistaking the sarcasm in her tone.
“Look,” I said. “What I told you a minute ago is true. We were all there. Fourteen of us, including Monica. Now she’s dead. Doesn’t that make you curious about what the rest of us were up to?”
“Not at all. Nobody liked Monica much. You probably won’t find even one club member who’s sorry she’s gone. Besides, it has nothing to do with me. And I try not to worry about things that don’t concern me.” Her lips lifted in a smile that was smooth and vacuous. “Wouldn’t want to get wrinkles, you know.”
Right. The Barbie doll act might work with some people, but I’d already glimpsed the intelligence that lay beneath the surface. It was interesting, though, that Bertie thought she had to try. What did she know about Monica’s death that she felt she needed to hide?
“All done.” Crawford came up behind us. The third Papillon was under his arm, the blue and white striped ribbon for Best of Winners in his hand. “Ladies, thank you for your help.”
“Any time,” Bertie purred.
She deposited the dog she was holding into the crook of his other arm. As Bertie headed off toward the next ring, Crawford and I started back to the grooming area.
“I met Bertie the other night at a kennel club meeting,” I said, falling into step beside him.
Crawford grunted softly under his breath.
“She seems very nice.”
This time he didn’t bother to grunt.
“Is she is good handler?”
His gaze shifted in my direction. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious.” I tried to inject the enthusiasm of the eager novice into my voice.
Judging by the look on Crawford’s face, he wasn’t buying it. He’d been involved with dogs for more than three decades, and by now he knew where all the important skeletons were buried. He also knew enough not to gossip with eager novices.
“Bertie still has a few things to learn. But she’s young yet. She’ll get there.”
I’d met more than one new handler who’d sought to establish himself by taking other handlers’ clients. If that was the case with Bertie, Crawford certainly didn’t seem worried. Then again, I’d seen the way Bertie acted around him—all sweetness and innocence. I hoped for his sake he’d taken the time to peer beneath the glossy exterior.
“You’re back!” Davey cried, as we came into view.
I slipped the Pap into the crate Crawford indicated and hurried back to Aunt Peg
’s set up. Not long ago, perching Davey on top of a high Standard Poodle sized crate had been enough to keep him in one place. Now he set aside his coloring book, eyed the distance to the ground, and launched himself over the edge.
I leapt to catch him and missed by about a foot. Luckily there was no crunch of broken bones when he landed in a heap on the hard floor. Davey scrambled quickly to his feet.
“Lunch time!” he announced.
I checked my watch. “It’s ten-thirty.”
“It can’t be ten-thirty. We’ve been here for hours.”
Half an hour. Maximum. But then I’d already learned that my five year old son’s perception of time and mine were vastly different. I think he was living his life in dog years.
Aunt Peg had Hope lying on the grooming table with her left side—the side that would face the judge in the ring—facing upward, which meant she was almost finished brushing. “You could try the food concession,” she said. “I bet they have doughnuts.”
“Yea!” cried Davey. “I want jelly!”
Just that quickly, without even being consulted, I was outvoted. I slipped my hand firmly over Davey’s and we set out.
The concession booths ran along the two opposite sides of the building. Davey and I cut across the middle of the big room, past rings filled with Bulldogs, Irish Setters, and then at the far end, Beagles. I found myself slowing, then stopping all together, despite Davey’s efforts to drag me on.
Beagles, like Poodles, come in more than one variety and are divided by size. In their case, the two classifications are thirteen inch and fifteen inch, with the height being measured at the withers.
The fifteen inch Beagles were in the ring, being judged by a plump woman with neat, gray streaked hair and a firm hand on a dog. None of these Beagles pulled at their leashes, and there wasn’t a howl to be heard. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help being reminded of Monica’s dogs, probably the last thing she’d seen before the killer snuck up behind her and snuffed out her life.
Dog Eat Dog Page 8