“A nice young man,” Darla echoed. “He caught one of the Beagles.”
“Did you see Penny, too?” I asked.
“No.” Darla’s slender shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “No Penny. She wasn’t there.” She looked around the kitchen. “Where’s the tea? Didn’t you tell me we were having tea?”
“In just a minute,” Paul said soothingly. “Just let me see our guest to the door.”
Flanked by an honor guard of Pugs, Paul led the way back out. “Now I have a question for you,” he said, when we were alone. “You knew about the note that Monica sent, and that terrible business with the humane society. But here’s what I’ve always wondered. Who was it that turned us in? Was it Monica?”
I looked at him, surprised. It hadn’t occurred to me that he wouldn’t know. Apparently Joanne’s burst of self-righteous zeal hadn’t extended to putting her name on what she’d done.
I wondered if Monica had known that by sending a note, she’d shifted the blame toward herself. I wondered if Paul Heins would consider the humiliation he and Darla had been through grounds enough to commit murder. I looked at his scrawny shoulders and forearms. It didn’t take much strength to bash a rock down on someone’s head.
“It wasn’t Monica,” I said.
He shook his head unhappily. “Then I guess we’ll never know.”
I could have told him, but I didn’t. I couldn’t see how it would help. Now that Joanne knew she’d jeopardized her chances of gaining her coveted board position, she’d be inclined to keep quiet. There was no reason for this to go any further.
“What happened is over,” I said. “Monica can’t tell. And nobody else will. Your secret is safe.” It was small consolation, but all I had to offer.
“I hope so,” said Paul.
He didn’t sound convinced.
Twenty-two
Saturday’s dog show was in Elizabeth, New Jersey.
By Aunt Peg’s reckoning it was a local show, meaning that although I would have to drive through three states to get there, I wasn’t going to spend the night. Like most of the exhibitors I’ve met, Peg travels all over the east coast in search of good judges to show her Poodles to. She doesn’t think anything of hopping down to Delaware for the day, or signing up for a circuit in Maine. I enjoy showing my puppy, but I’m not a fanatic. Elizabeth seemed like enough of a hike to me.
Bob stopped by at eight o’clock Saturday morning and picked up Davey. He’d planned a trip to Mystic Seaport and wanted to get an early start. I was just finishing loading the Volvo when he arrived.
Bob peered in through the window and saw my folded table, the metal tack box that held grooming supplies, Faith’s big crate, and a stack of towels, all piled on the back seat. “What’s going on?” he asked. “It looks like Gypsies have been camping in your car.”
“I’m taking Faith to a dog show. I told you that.”
Bob has a convenient way of forgetting things that don’t seem important to him. “Oh yeah.” He laughed. “You all get your dogs duded up in ribbons and bows and parade around in a circle, right?”
“Wrong.”
My tone was enough to make him reconsider his next jibe. Instead he asked, “You win anything at these shows?”
“A ribbon. Maybe some points toward Faith’s championship, if we’re lucky.”
“No money?”
“No money.”
“Hardly seems worth it to me.”
How could I explain, when I was only beginning to find out for myself how engaging the sport of showing dogs could be? There were many things I enjoyed about going to the shows and sometimes, the few minutes Faith and I spent in actual competition was the least of it. I liked the camaraderie of exhibitors as we all got ready to go in the ring; the challenge of learning how to groom a Poodle so that my puppy could compete on equal footing with the pros; and I really enjoyed the time spent working directly with Faith.
While I was trying to figure out how to condense that all into a short, easy to digest answer, Bob moved on. “Where is the show?”
“New Jersey.”
He stared. “You’re driving all the way to New Jersey in that car?”
“Do I have a choice?” Deliberately, I glanced over at the Trans-Am. I wondered if he’d gotten all the sand out of the seats yet.
“Sorry,” Bob said quickly. “I promised Davey we’d see the ships. You know how it is.”
I did know. Besides, keeping my son happy at a dog show was hard enough. The notion of having to entertain child and man-child both, was more than I wanted to get involved with.
Still, it felt a little odd ten minutes later when I finally got on the road, with only Faith for company. In the last five years, Davey and I had spent so much time together that I had come to take his companionship for granted. Now I wasn’t sure whether to feel free, or bereft.
The New Brunswick Kennel Club holds their spring show indoors at the Dunn Sports Arena. It’s a small venue, so the entry is limited. The rings take up the center of the room and preparation of the dogs goes on around the sides. Even though it was early when I arrived, the grooming area was already just about full. I saw a small space over near Bertie’s set-up and dragged my dolly that way.
She had a gold and white Lhasa Apso out on a table and looked up as I approached.
“What do you think?” I asked. “Can I fit?”
“How much stuff have you got?”
“One dog, with a table and crate.”
“Sure.” Bertie was already moving to rearrange her things into tighter formation. “I think I can squeeze you in.”
“Thanks,” I said gratefully. This was the first time I’d been to a dog show as an exhibitor without Aunt Peg. I’d been half afraid I’d find myself tucked off in some dark corner, all alone.
I finished unloading, parked my car, then walked Faith back into the building and hopped her up on the table. Bertie and the dog had vanished. Presumably Lhasas were being judged. I laid Faith down on her side and began line brushing through her hair. Bertie reappeared ten minutes later.
“Did you win?”
She shook her head as she opened the door to a wooden crate and placed the Lhasa inside. “Best Op.”
That was shorthand for Best of Opposite Sex. The top award for most breeds is Best of Breed. Other breeds have divisions based on size, or coat color, or texture. Poodles, for example, come in three sizes; and for them, the top award is Best of Variety. If Best of Breed or Best of Variety is won by a dog, then Best of Opposite Sex must be awarded to a bitch. If a bitch is chosen to win the breed, then BOS goes to the best dog.
For me, winning Best of Opposite Sex would have been cause for celebration. But for the professional handlers who entered hoping to win the breed and then go on to compete in the group, it meant coming up second best.
“Too bad. Did you get beaten by something pretty?”
“Pretty enough.” Bertie grimaced. She opened another crate, took out a Tibetan Terrier and dropped him lightly onto the table. “Actually, I shouldn’t say that. The dog that beat me was a nice Lhasa. Probably better than mine. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to beat him though.”
In showing dogs, as in any sport, it takes drive and determination to succeed. From what I could see, Bertie had plenty of both. In time, with hard work and practice, she could probably overcome a lack of innate talent.
Unless something got in her way.
Or someone. Like a nosy club secretary with a penchant for finding out other people’s secrets. I wondered what sort of juicy tidbits someone like Bertie might have tucked away in her background.
“Do you mind if I ask a few questions while we brush?”
Bertie rolled her eyes. “Are you still snooping around trying to figure out what happened to Monica?”
“Yes.”
“Are you getting anywhere?”
“Yes.” In a manner of speaking.
“So who did it?”
“I don’t know.”
&n
bsp; Bertie turned away to fish through her tack box before coming up with the leash she wanted. “Doesn’t sound to me like you’ve learned too much.”
“I’ve learned that Monica was good at finding out things people didn’t want her to know.”
“That’s no surprise. Monica was always poking her nose in where it didn’t belong. What else did she have to do with her life? She was still living at home with her mother, for Pete’s sake. If I was stuck doing that, you can bet I’d be looking for a little excitement, too.”
“Is that what you think she was doing, looking for excitement?”
“Maybe.” Bertie thought for a moment. “That, and power. She liked playing head games with people.”
“People like you?”
“People like anybody.” Bertie’s tone was casual, but she didn’t meet my gaze.
“I’ve heard she was in the habit of sending messages to club members. She enclosed notes in their monthly newsletters.”
Bertie developed a sudden interest in the catalogue. She opened it up and flipped through the pages to the judging schedule in the front. “What?”
I knew perfectly well she’d heard what I said. “Did Monica ever send you any notes? Maybe something signed with a sketch of a Beagle?”
“No.” Bertie looked up and snapped the catalogue shut. “Of course not.”
“You’re sure?”
She picked up the Tibetan Terrier and tucked him under her arm. “Sorry, gotta go. I’m late.”
She scooted between two crates and disappeared into the crowds surrounding the rings. I stared after her for a moment, then reached over and picked up the catalogue she’d left on the table. The Tibetan Terrier judging was coming up all right, but it wasn’t due to start for fifteen minutes.
Maybe Bertie wasn’t as smart as I’d thought.
Without Aunt Peg’s guidance, getting Faith ready to go in the ring seemed to proceed at a snail’s pace. I had shown the puppy before. I knew all the mechanics of preparation, but somehow the fine details eluded me.
I was prepared for my scissoring to lack Aunt Peg’s polish. What I hadn’t expected was that the top-knot would go in crooked on the first two attempts. Or that I’d be putting hair spray in the neck hair before I remembered I hadn’t put on Faith’s collar. It was the little things. In the end, they added up to a huge difference.
I was so nervous about being late that I got up to the ring early. Then I had to wait while the winners in the breeds scheduled before us had their pictures taken. Ten minutes passed before the other Standard Poodles even began to assemble outside the gate.
In the classes, dogs are judged first, followed by bitches. As the Poodle judging started with the Puppy Dog class, Crawford arrived ringside with a stunning black bitch. He came over and stood beside me.
“Nervous?” he asked.
“Does it show that much?”
“You look like a deer caught in oncoming headlights.”
“Great. That will really impress the judge.”
“What’s your number?”
I glanced down at my arm where the numbered armband should have been. It wasn’t there. All that extra time and I’d forgotten to pick up my number. Crawford, whose Open class entry went in after Faith’s puppy class, was of course already wearing his.
“I don’t know,” I said, panic rising. “I forgot—”
“Don’t worry, the steward will know. Stand right here. And for God’s sake, take some deep breaths.”
I did. While Crawford went and consulted with the ring steward I held Faith’s leash and concentrated on breathing in and out. It didn’t seem to help.
Crawford returned with the cardboard number and a rubber band to hold it in place. I held out my left arm and he slipped it on.
“Good thing you’re so nervous,” he said casually.
“Why?”
“It makes my job easier. Aside from my bitch and your puppy, there’s not much else here, is there?”
As we were standing in the middle of a decent sized entry of Standard Poodles, I assumed he wasn’t talking numbers. That meant he was talking quality. By ranking her as his chief competition, he was paying her a compliment.
“Really?” I said. “Do you think so?”
“I’m certain of it,” he said, as the dog judging ended. “Now get in there and make sure the judge sees what a nice puppy you have.”
Without his urging I probably would have slunk into the ring and gone to the end of the line. But Crawford wasn’t having any of it. Every time I was tempted to let down, he leaned over the partition and glared at me. With him glowering like that, I didn’t have any choice but to forget about my fears, get down to business, and show the puppy.
It helped that Faith was a natural ham. It also helped that, thanks to Aunt Peg’s fine breeding program, she was indeed a very pretty Poodle. There were only two other puppies in the class, but I was delighted to win it.
“Don’t go anywhere,” said Crawford, as he passed me on his way into the ring. “You have to go back in.”
There were six bitches in the Open class, but Crawford’s black took the blue ribbon easily. The steward called my number and I led Faith back into the ring to try for the title of Winners Bitch and the points. It was over quickly, with Crawford’s bitch prevailing. But when the judge motioned Faith over to the marker for Reserve Winners, I found I couldn’t stop smiling.
“See?” said Crawford. “I told you so.”
“Congratulations. And thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” Crawford said briskly. “It was the puppy. She gave you all the help you needed.”
Not quite, but he was gone before I could argue the point.
I took Faith back to the set-up and put her back on the table. Bertie was away again, probably either showing a dog or trying to drum up more business. I laid Faith down, sprayed conditioner into her neck hair to break up the hair spray and was about to wrap her ears when somebody tapped me on the shoulder.
I turned and saw Paul Heins, looking very dapper in khaki pants and a cashmere sweater. Beside him, Darla was covered in flowers; the motif repeated in the pattern of her dress, the embroidery on her cardigan, and the clasp of her wicker purse.
“Hello,” I said. “It’s nice to see you again.” They both looked well. I hoped that meant that my visit hadn’t caused them any distress.
“We watched you show your puppy, dear,” said Darla. “You did a very nice job.”
“Thank you.”
“Yesterday you had some questions for us,” said Paul. “But overnight I got to thinking, and I was wondering if I might ask something of you.”
“Of course.” I smoothed Faith’s plastic wrap and wound it around the long hair on her ear.
“How did you know that Monica had sent a note enclosed in our newsletter? I hadn’t mentioned that to anyone.”
“From what I’ve been able to determine, Monica sent notes to a number of the Belle Haven Club members.”
“She did?” Paul sounded shocked.
“Yes. At least three that I know about. I suspect there were probably more.”
“Then we weren’t the only ones ...”
“Who had something you didn’t want the rest of the club to know about? No, you weren’t.”
Paul was silent for a moment, thinking about that. I walked around to Faith’s other side, to get to her other ear. I thought I’d put my pin brush on the table, but now I didn’t see it. I was reaching around to check in my tack box when I realized that Darla had it.
She held up the brush and looked at it like she’d never seen one before. Short haired breeds, like Pugs, don’t require nearly as much preparation for the ring as Poodles do. Still, I couldn’t imagine she hadn’t run across a pin brush somewhere.
On the table, Faith shifted restlessly. I knew she was wondering what was holding me up. I reached over and gently took the brush out of Darla’s hands. She smiled at me as I went back to work.
“You know, it�
��s funny,” said Paul. His voice was so low that for a moment I wondered if he was talking to himself. “You spend your whole life trying to build a history of achievement, of accomplishment. You know you’re going to grow old someday, but you can only think about it in abstract terms. You see the broad picture, but not the day to day indignities, the loss of rights and abilities that you once took completely for granted.”
He looked up, his gray lashed eyes finding mine. “Darla and I don’t have much left anymore. But we have each other, we have our dogs, and we have our membership in the kennel club to keep us going.
“For whatever reason of her own, Monica tried to make us feel bad about that. I never thought I’d say this about another human being, but I’m glad she’s gone. Does that make me a terrible person?”
“No,” I said softly. “I think Monica was the one who must have been a terrible person. Terrible enough that somebody wanted her dead.”
“Dear?” said Darla. “Isn’t it time to go? Didn’t you tell me we were going to watch the groups?”
“Yes, I did.” Paul gripped his wife’s fragile arm. “We’ll go right now.”
I watched them walk away. I hoped when I was that age, I had someone to hold my arm and take such good care of me.
Twenty-three
After the Heinses left, Bertie came hurrying back. She stowed a Finnish Spitz in a crate and got out the black and white Tibetan Terrier she’d shown earlier. A brush was tucked inside the waistband of her skirt. She pulled it out and ran it hurriedly through the TT’s coat.
“You must have won,” I said.
“Best of Breed.” Bertie nodded. “The Non-Sporting group’s about to go in. Crawford’s Dalmatian pretty much has a lock on it, but I might get a piece.”
I’d done all I could for Faith without benefit of either tub or hair dryer. I opened her crate and put her inside with a rawhide chew.
“Shall I come and clap?” I asked.
“Sure.” Bertie smiled, as she whisked the dog off the table. “That would be great.”
In a perfect world, judges aren’t supposed to be influenced by applause from ringside. In theory, the only guide they should use in placing the dogs is their own expertise. Reality, however, is sometimes quite different.
Dog Eat Dog Page 16