Worst In Show: A Jamie Bravo Mystery

by Layce Gardner

  “I’m going to plant that bug on Lenny’s dog.” She hands me another small button. This one’s beige. “You’ll put that in your ear and be able to hear everything that Russo says to Fontelle.”

  “Ooooh. That way if they talk about where the dognapped dogs are napping I’ll be able to hear them.”

  “Right. You seem a little off, today. Are you okay?”

  “Not really,” I say with a shrug. “I didn’t get much sleep. I was up half the night worrying. See, this really attractive woman kissed me last night and I think I may have given her the wrong idea by kissing her back.”

  “Wrong idea? You think having an affair with me is wrong?”

  “Is that what this is? It’s an affair?”

  London leans in closer to me. I can smell her shampoo. And her body wash. Her laundry detergent. And, yep, there it is. Sexual tension. She says in a husky voice, “I don’t know what this is, Jamie. All I know is that I can’t get you out of my mind. I want to put my lips everywhere on your body.”

  I gulp. “Oooookay then. I think maybe I need to get Ivan ready.”

  She takes the black bug and puts it in her pocket. “I’ll go plant this on Fontelle’s dog.”

  “So, stupid question. If you’re here as the police and you’re putting a bug on the dog… why do you need me?”

  “It’s my day off. I’m on my own time now. This isn’t official, Jamie. I’m just helping you out.”

  “Got it.”

  “Put that in your ear. Let me know when you find out anything.”

  I nod and stick the beige plastic doohickey in my right ear. She turns and mops her way to Lenny’s table. Travis takes that as his cue to show back up. He asks, “What’s going on between you two?”

  “What?”

  “I said what’s going on between you and London?”

  “I can’t hear you, I have a bug in my ear,” I say.

  Travis rolls his eyes. “Because it looked to me like you two were salivating all over each other.”

  I change the subject. “Where’d you go anyway? What’s this big plan you were talking about?”

  He smiles. It’s his evil smile. The smile he wears when he’s done something that will probably get me in trouble. Just like that time in third grade when he glued Madison Gilroy’s braid to the back of her chair and then blamed it on me.

  “Spit it out, Travis, what did you do?”

  He shrugs innocently. “I figured out a way to make sure Ivan wins the first round.”

  “You figured out a way for him to win the Toy category?”

  “I believe that’s what I just said.”

  “How?”

  Suddenly, Travis gasps and grabs my arm. He’s looking over my shoulder. “Don’t look now, but I think I just saw London stick her finger up a dog’s butt.”

  I laugh. I guess I don’t have to ask London where she hid the bug.

  Forty-Two

  “Places, please,” the stage manager calls out. The harried little woman trots from table to table, repeating, “Toy category is in ten minutes. Please, take your places.”

  “Here goes nothing,” Travis says, picking Ivan up off the table. “You ready big man?”

  Ivan licks Travis’s face. I cringe. I know where that tongue’s been and I wouldn’t let it anywhere near my face for love nor money.

  I stroke Ivan’s chest and look him straight in the eye. “You just do your best. We’re proud of you for getting out there but it would be a plus for my investigation if you could make it to the next round. Just saying.”

  “Gee, no pressure or anything,” Travis says. He sets Ivan on the floor and slips the lead over his neck. Ivan stands tall, puts his tail in the air. He looks the picture of confidence.

  “Well, I guess I better go,” I say to Travis. “The Friedmans have saved me a seat next to them. You sure you got it all covered?”

  “Of course,” Travis says. “I was born to do this.”

  “Okay. I’d wish you two luck, but you don’t need it.” I walk away, weaving through the handlers and dogs in the Toy group as they line up in order. I watch a Pug pull on his leash. His curly tail is now straight and tucked between his legs. He looks frightened. Or sick.

  Next to the Pug is a Pomeranian who is sitting and scooting across the floor doing that weird wormy butt thing.

  After the Pomeranian, I see a poodle baring her teeth and snapping at her handler.

  I’m no expert, but if these three are any indication of the Toy group maybe Ivan stands a chance after all.

  I climb up into the stands where the Friedmans sit looking very dog-peoplish. They’re both wearing tweed and have binoculars hanging around their necks. Leo Friedman is wearing a tweed English driver hat. He looks perfect. Mrs. Friedman has a gold-tipped cane lying across her lap.

  “Did you hurt your leg?” I ask as I squeeze in next to Mrs. Friedman.

  “No, dear, it’s for the disguise. It makes me look regal, don’t you think? Like I’m the queen?”

  Travis looks more like a queen than she does, but I don’t tell her that. “Oh yes, very regal indeed.”

  “Here, dear, I brought you a pair of binoculars too,” Mrs. Friedman says, digging in her over-sized purse. She hands me a gun.

  “Um… this isn’t binoculars. This is a gun.”

  Mrs. Friedman looks over the top of her bifocals. “Oh, dear. That’s my .38 special.” She sticks the gun back in her purse and hands me a pair of binoculars.

  I try to stay calm. Guns scare me. Guns in the hands of an old lady who thinks they’re binoculars scares me even more. “Silly question. Why’d you bring a gun to the dog show?”

  “In case she has to shoot the bastard,” Mr. Friedman says.

  “Who bastard? I mean, what bastard?”

  “Beaumont Fontelle and his henchman, the dog thief. If he steals dogs what else is he capable of?” Mrs. Friedman says.

  “Okay, but don’t get trigger happy,” I warn. “I don’t want to be bailing you out of jail for murder.” I also don’t want to be the victim of friendly fire, but I keep that to myself, too.

  “Uh oh,” Mr. Friedman says. “It appears that a tempest is brewing portside.”

  I look to where he’s pointing and see that Lenny is having a heated three-way conversation with another handler and one of the judges. I tap up the bug in my ear. I can hear, but barely. Just a few words here and there. Next time I’ll remind London not to put the bug so far up there.

  Here’s what I hear:

  Judge: You’re disqualified. There’s a... pink bubblegum... your dog’s tail.

  Handler: I’m telling you... before we got out here. I know my dog... my groomer. And neither one of them chews gum.

  Judge: I don’t care how it got there. You are disqualified.

  I look through the binoculars. Sure enough, Lenny is smiling smugly. The other handler points an accusing finger at Lenny.

  Handler: I saw you chewing gum... minutes ago.

  Lenny: Me? I’ve never chewed gum... life.

  The Handler is red-faced. He’s working himself into heart-attack zone.

  Handler: You know... awfully funny that every time you and Beaumont Fontelle... some mishap occurs... who is favored to win.

  The Judge steps in between the Handler and Lenny.

  Judge: That’s enough of that... is disqualified. You need to leave... now.

  The Handler and his dog stalk away. He sneers over his shoulder at Lenny.

  Handler: This isn’t over. Mark my words. This is far from over.

  Lenny: Yeah, yeah. You’re... a sore loser.

  Judge: That’s enough out of you, too.

  I watch through the binoculars as the three judges crowd around Lenny’s dog and an Irish Setter. They lift both dogs’ tails and look under them, over them and in their mouths. And, surprise, surprise, Beaumont Fontelle’s German Shorthair Pointer wins the group. Lenny holds his blue ribbon aloft and trots around the perimeter of the stage.

  Five minu
tes ago I didn’t think it was possible to hate Lenny any more than I already did.

  I was wrong.

  Something about being in the stands as part of an audience makes me crave a hot dog, peanuts or a bag of popcorn. But I guess they don’t have those guys who walk around selling that stuff at dog shows. They should have though. In my humble opinion.

  Sidebar: I meant that sarcastically.

  I don’t have to wait very long until Mrs. Friedman bounces in her seat, points and says, “Look! It’s Travis and Ivan!”

  I look through my binoculars and, sure enough, there’s my boys strutting their stuff in a big circle around the show floor. What Ivan lacks in looks, he more than makes up for in confidence. Travis’s purple suit catches the lights and has a kaleidoscope effect as he moves. What Travis lacks in looks, which he doesn’t, he more than makes up for in confidence, too.

  “I must say, Travis does have a sense of style,” Mrs. Friedman says.

  “I think the judge with the mustache is staring at Travis’s butt,” I say.

  “I thought it was all about the dog,” Mr. Friedman says.

  “No, dear, it’s about the whole package—the handler and the dog. And Ivan is a spectacular specimen of the Chinese Crested.”

  I look at Ivan with fresh eyes. Mrs. Friedman is right. Ivan is a good looking canine of an ugly breed. Or maybe not good looking per se, but at least he is the best looking ugly dog out there. I am proud of him. He’s come from humble origins and look at him now, standing on the judges examination table letting those strange men lift up his tail and run their fingers all over him.

  The dog parade continues with the Pug and his handler. The Pug balks and pulls on his leash in the middle of the show floor. A hush falls over the audience. I raise my binoculars to take a closer look.

  Uh oh. The Pug stops despite the entreaties of his handler. He squats. He poops.

  The crowd gasps.

  His handler bursts into tears.

  The judges scribble in their notebooks.

  London, still disguised as Juan the janitor, rushes onto the scene with a pooper scooper and quickly removes the offending pile.

  The Pug and his handler are barely off the floor before the Pomeranian and his handler trot onto the scene. The Pomeranian prances halfway around the circle before he also squats and poops.

  The audience is now getting into the spirit of the thing by laughing uproariously. The Pomeranian kicks his little hind feet like he’s burying his poop. His distraught handler leads him from the floor without bothering to look at the judges. He already knows the score.

  I must say I’ve never seen so much poop come out of one little dog. That poop pile should be preserved and measured. Somebody should contact Guinness World Records.

  London rushes back out to remove the pile. Unfortunately, she trips and ends up stepping in the pile instead of scooping it up. She hops around one-footed before finally kicking off her shoe, and sending it flying to the sidelines. She scoops what’s left of the poop. You have to commend her commitment to her job. The audience laughs and applauds her exit. If London ever quits the police force, she could definitely have a career as a rodeo clown.

  Next up is the Yorkshire Terrier. It’s no surprise to anybody that when he comes out, he also squats and poops.

  What’re the odds that all the dogs in the Toy group have the shits? All the dogs except Ivan, that is.

  I turn my binoculars on Travis. Travis is standing still, smiling that evil smile of his, and it dawns on me. This was Travis’s plan. He must’ve fed all the dogs some kind of ex-laxy snack.

  I’d be horrified if it weren’t so funny.

  The rest of the Toy group enter en masse and poops. It seems the Astroturf show arena is the prime poop spot. Melee ensues.

  This show is better than the Harlem Globetrotters. Toy dogs are running and pooping everywhere. Their handlers are screaming and chasing after them. Judges are dancing around, yelling, flapping their arms, trying to bring about order, but only managing to step into piles of poop.

  The audience is laughing and gasping for air.

  I laugh so hard, I cry and hold my belly. Mr. and Mrs. Friedman are doing the same thing.

  Omigod, this is way more fun than the Shriner circus.

  It takes the better part of an hour to get things back on track and the floor cleaned up. Ivan sits proudly on a tall pedestal and receives his blue ribbon.

  He doesn’t seem the least bit bothered that he won by default.

  Hey, a win is a win is a win.

  Forty-Three

  I believe in serendipity. Most people call it luck, but I think luck is fickle. Serendipity is not. There’s a simple equation for serendipity and it goes something like this: hard work plus opportunity equals serendipity. What that means is if you work hard enough at something and you recognize opportunities before they pass you by, then you end up with something good falling in your lap.

  That something good falling in my lap happened when I am in the women’s restroom. Ivan had already been crowned winner of the Toy group and Travis was busy soaking up all the attention from the paparazzi. (Yes, there is a sub-group of paparazzi just for canines. And it’s not pretty.) I’m at the sink washing my hands when I hear a man’s voice say, “Hi, sexy. Did I do good?”

  Startled, I look up into the mirror, half expecting to see some guy standing behind me.

  Nobody is there.

  The voice says, “I’ve been looking for you.” That’s when I realize the voice is coming from the bug that’s still in my ear. I’d recognize that voice anywhere. It’s Lenny Russo.

  I quietly exit the women’s restroom, walk around the corner, down a dimly lit hallway when I see them. It’s Lenny and Beaumont Fontelle at the end of the hall having a tete a tete. And when I say tete a tete I mean French and when I say French I mean French kissing.

  Yup, that’s right. They’re lip-locking each other.

  You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. I knew Travis said Lenny played for the other team but he didn’t tell me Lenny was the catcher and Beaumont was the pitcher.

  I scoot around the corner, but can’t resist peeking back around. Fortunately, they are so into each other they don’t see me watching from the shadows. Beaumont’s dog is standing only a couple of feet away. Reception over the butt bug couldn’t be better.

  I watch as Lenny pulls out of the kiss. He plays with Beaumont’s lapels, saying in a coquettish tone, “Are you coming over tonight?”

  “I can’t tonight, you know that,” Beaumont says.

  “But I need you,” Lenny says.

  “I know, I know, I need you too, baby. But the wife has a big shindig planned and I can’t miss it.”

  Lenny pushes Beaumont away, saying, “You’re such an ass. I don’t know why I got involved with you in the first place.”

  “I know why you did.” Fontelle says. He grabs Lenny, pulls him into an embrace and presses his hips into Lenny’s.

  “I have half a mind to tell your wife what’s really going on,” Lenny says.

  “Believe me, you don’t want to do that. You’re not the only mobster on my payroll.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  Beaumont traces his fingertip over Lenny’s lips, saying, “As soon as the election is wrapped up, I’m all yours. You know that, Baby.”

  Lenny turns his head. “You better make good on that promise, Beaumont. I didn’t risk jail time only to have you dump me.”

  “As soon as we win Best in Show, we’ll be rolling in the dough,” Beaumont says. “We can buy our own private island paradise. After the election,” he amended.

  “I don’t care about the money,” Lenny says. “I just want you.”

  “Well, I care about the money. I need this last big take. I win this thing and I’ll have enough to pay off all my gambling debts and keep those guys from busting my kneecaps. Then you and I can start our new life,” Beaumont says.

  “Promise?”

  “
I promise. Now what did you do with the stolen dogs, Lenny? Did you get rid of them like I told you to?”

  “No worries. It’s all taken care of,” Lenny says.

  “You killed them?”

  Lenny shrugs.

  “I told you to kill them, Lenny. We can’t have those dogs showing up someday and be traced back to us.”

  “I can’t kill a dog. What kind of person do you think I am?” Lenny says. “I stole them for you, isn’t that enough?”

  “I thought you were a mobster, Lenny. I thought you had the guts to do this job,” Beaumont says.

  “Is that why you got involved with me?”

  Beaumont pokes Lenny in the chest with a meaty forefinger. “Kill the dogs, Lenny. Get rid of them tonight. Capish?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I capish.”

  I quickly duck back around the corner and dart into the women’s restroom. I sit on the toilet and put my head between my knees. I can’t believe this. Lenny is going to kill the dogs! I have to think of something fast or the dogs will meet their untimely demises tonight.

  Forty-Four

  I call an emergency meeting at Mrs. Friedman’s apartment. All the ladies who had their dogs stolen show up on a moment’s notice. I don’t know how they managed in such a short time, but they even bring cookies and tea and finger sandwiches. They arrange themselves in a semi-circle in the Friedman’s living room, teacups in their hands, staring at me expectantly.

  I stop pacing and announce, “Well, there’s good news and there’s bad news.”

  Nobody moves a muscle. I decide to give them the good news first because they are all within heart attack range. I don’t want to be the one that brings it on. I need to break it to them gently. “The good news is that your dogs are alive.”

  There is a collective exhale of breath.

  “You’re sure of it?” Mrs. Pittman asks.

  I nod. “I heard it straight from Lenny Russo’s mouth. I overheard him talking to Beaumont Fontelle. Your fur babies are definitely alive.”

  Mrs. Myers leans forward on the sofa and asks, “Where are they? Do you know?”