Worst In Show: A Jamie Bravo Mystery

by Layce Gardner

  “I lied about your age,” he says.

  I head for the kitchen. “Is there any coffee made? I need about a gallon of coffee.”

  He does some deep breathing while I sit at the bar and he makes me a big cup of morning elixir. By the time he pours the milk into my cup, he’s relatively calm. Ivan dances around his feet, his toenails click-clacking like doggy tap shoes. “I demand an explanation. Where were you last night?”

  “About this amber alert… Are the cops really out looking for a ten year-old version of myself who may be driving my car?”

  He sits across from me. “No. I made that part up. But don’t think for one minute I don’t realize what you’re doing.”

  I take a big gulp of coffee and sigh from relief. It won’t be long now before it works its magic and fires up my neurons. “How could you know what I’m doing when I don’t even know what I’m doing?”

  “You’re avoiding the question. You are deliberately not telling me where you were last night. Which in a way, is telling me where you were.” He reaches down and pulls Ivan into his lap.

  “Okay, Mr. Smarty-Pants, where was I?”

  Travis holds a fingertip to his temple and closes his eyes like he’s reading my mind or seeing into the past. “You spent the night with that detective, London.”

  I almost spit out my coffee. “How’d you know that?”

  “Simple deduction. You came home which means you aren’t dead or injured. And the only time you stay out all night is when it’s a sexual liaison. If you had spent the night with Veronica, you’d be grumpy and mad at yourself. If you had spent the night with Gloria, you’d be over the moon happy. If you had spent the night with London, you’d have mixed feelings to go along with that smile on your face.”

  I hadn’t realized I was smiling.

  “Which begs question number two,” Travis says.

  “Which is?”

  “Was it any good?”

  “I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that it’s private.”

  He smiles knowingly. “That means it was super-duper good.”

  I walk out of the room, taking my coffee cup with me.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “You’re the mind reader. You tell me.”

  “What the hell do you have in here?” I’m lugging Travis’s suitcase across the floor of the Civic Center. It must weigh a hundred pounds. Travis tags along beside me, holding Ivan who only weighs about seven pounds. “Why do I have to carry the heavy stuff?”

  “Quit bitching, Jamie. You know I can’t take the chance of sweating through my suit. Underarm stains could make or break our chances of winning.”

  Travis is dressed to the hilt in a gold lame suit with a black silk shirt and a glow in the dark green tie. Everyone he passes gawks at him.

  When Travis came out of his bedroom dressed in the suit he had said, “It’s all about presentation, Jamie. I don’t want to be forgettable. I want us to POP!” On the word ‘pop’ Travis did Jazz hands.

  “Where on earth did you get that suit?” I had asked. It didn’t seem possible that he could’ve had it made in such a short period of time.

  “It’s Camilla’s. She wears it during her drag king numbers. We’re about the same size.”

  “In other words you’re wearing a woman’s suit,” Jamie said.

  “No, it’s a man’s suit usually worn by a woman and now being worn by a man,” Travis corrected.

  Somehow that made sense. Then again, maybe I need more coffee.

  Travis places Ivan up on our grooming table. He pours bottled water into a small cup. He slips a finger condom with French ticklers over his index finger, liberally applies some toothpaste and begins to rub his finger across Ivan’s teeth.

  “That’s amazing. I’ve never seen a dog willingly get their teeth brushed.”

  “I have a secret,” Travis whispers.

  “What secret?” I whisper back.

  “Bacon flavored toothpaste.”

  “Can humans use it? Why hasn’t it been invented for us? Why do we just get mint? I want bacon.”

  A shadow looms over the table. I turn to find Auggie Bosco standing over us. He has a ferocious looking Doberman on a leash. Ivan would make a nice snack for a dog like that. Especially now that he tastes like bacon.

  The Doberman’s tail wags and he touches noses with Ivan. They sniff each other then go into a tail-wagging, butt-sniffing contest. Ivan is the right height because of the table. The Doberman doesn’t have to bend down to sniff Ivan’s butt. How convenient.

  “Well, what d’ya know?” Auggie says. “They’re making friends. Maybe we could make a play date to go to the dog park when this is over. Roxie has trouble making friends ‘cause everyone is afraid of her.”

  “Sure,” Travis says. He scratches Roxie behind the ears. “Ivan doesn’t have a lot of friends either.”

  “I like your suit. I’m gonna talk to my handler. He dresses like a gangster. I think that might hurt Roxie’s chances.” Auggie motions for a man standing nearby to join us. “Carmine, get over here. Look at this suit. Nice, huh?”

  “Flashy,” Carmine mumbles. He is wearing a suit that looks like it belongs on a funeral director. Or on the body in the casket.

  “You need a suit like this,” Auggie says.

  “Does it come in men’s sizes?” Carmine asks.

  Travis swallows hard and forces a smile. “If you want, I have an extra tie I brought along with me. It might add some panache to your style,” he says.

  “Hey, that’s nice of you,” Auggie says.

  Travis reaches into the bag and pulls out a pink polka-dotted tie. He hands it to Carmine, saying, “It’s Oscar De La Renta.”

  “Won’t Oscar miss it?” Carmine asks.

  It takes Travis a full minute to realize Carmine is serious. “Oscar is a good friend of mine. He won’t mind.”

  “Put it on,” Auggie commands.

  Carmine grits his teeth, but obeys.

  “Mr. Bosco, sir,” I say. “Can I talk to you a moment?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  “Alone?”

  He nods and joins me a few feet away from the tables. “I don’t mean to tell you your business, Mr. Bosco, but I feel I should warn you that there’s an undercover police officer on the premises. She’s working with me on the dognapping case.”

  “You mean the woman who’s dressed like a janitor? She’s my second cousin’s youngest daughter. We’re old friends.”

  “Oh.”

  “No worries. We keep out of each other’s business. Besides, I’m retired. Nowadays I pretty much golf, quilt and show my girl.” He pats Roxie’s head.

  The quilt remark throws me for a loop but I try not to show it. No way I’m going to tell a tough guy he can’t quilt.

  Just then London rolls by with her cart and broom. She’s dressed in Juan’s gray coveralls. She looks at Auggie. “Uncle Auggie,” she says with a nod. She stops her cart and says to me, “Jamie, can I have a word with you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Alone?”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Bosco.” I join London several feet away from the others. This is becoming like one of those square dances where partners keep changing. “What’s up?” I say nonchalantly.

  “You were gone when I woke up this morning,” she says.

  I stumble over my words, “Um… yeah. I was late. Overslept. Had to run. You know, to get Travis and Ivan and be here on time.”

  “Hmmm,” she says. “I thought maybe you were trying to avoid me.”

  “Huh? No! No way!” I say much too emphatically.

  “I had a great time last night,” she says.

  I nod a whole bunch of times. When it becomes apparent that she’s waiting for me to say something, I add, “Me, too.”

  “Listen, Jamie, I get it,” she says. “It doesn’t take a detective to know that you’re in love with the school teacher. But I thought you should know I’ll be there whenever you want.”r />
  “What’s that mean?”

  “Maybe I have a soft spot for women who don’t want me, I dunno. But I wouldn’t mind seeing you on a steady basis. If the school teacher thing doesn’t work out.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says.

  “Okay,” I say again.

  She changes the subject. “I brought back-up with me.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  She looks toward the concession stand. “The guy with the ponytail who’s making the soft pretzels. That’s Clem. The other one is Sam. You’ll see him around. He’s picking up trash.”

  “Good to know,” I say. “You know, in case things get messy.”

  “Speaking of messy,” London says. “Isn’t that your school teacher over there with your ex?”

  I look to the stands. Crap. She’s right. Gloria and Veronica are sitting side by side in the bleachers. Gloria waves at me. I wave back.

  When I turn back around, London is gone.

  Forty-Eight

  I sneak up into the stands to sit beside Mr. and Mrs. Friedman. The reason I sneak is because I don’t want to be invited to sit with Veronica and Gloria. It’s bad enough I lost out dating Gloria, but doubly bad because I lost out to my ex. It would be triply bad if I had to sit beside them and watch their newfound love play footsie.

  The Friedmans are dressed in matching red blazers with crisp white shirts and knickers. I think they may have fox hunts and dog shows confused. The other ladies, Mrs. Hildegard, Mrs. Myers, Mrs. Heinz, and Mrs. Pittman, are sitting behind them. I know they came to show their support, but it feels more like they’re pressuring me. I told them that I kept Lenny home so he didn’t have a chance to harm the dogs. That doesn’t stop Mrs. Myers from sobbing into her hankie.

  Beaumont’s dog wins blue ribbon for its group. Auggie Bosco’s dog wins for its group. That means both their dogs move onto Best in Show. I watch every move Lenny makes and I know Travis and London are also watching, but he doesn’t do anything noteworthy. I’ve read up on the odds. Auggie’s Doberman has a 1 in 35 chance of winning a big show like Westminister but here at Lakeland they’re not favored. Ivan doesn’t really have a chance and the others have had some marks against them already.

  Without the Norwich Terrier, Beaumont’s dog does stand the best chance of winning. He is a fine specimen. And who knows what other tricks Lenny and Beaumont have up their sleeves. If they had managed to get to one of the judges in their pocket it might just be the ticket for their dog to win.

  I also keep tabs on Veronica and Gloria. They’re sharing a bag of gummy bears. That’s what Veronica and I used to do. Gloria keeps looking over her shoulder and smiling at me. What does that mean? Is she still interested in me? Is she trying to make me jealous?

  A woman’s voice booms over the PA system that the halftime entertainment is a dog performance show by Dave’s Famous Hot Dogs. And I don’t think she’s referring to the eating kind of hot dogs. She means the trained kind of dogs.

  Famous Dave is tall and skinny with a pencil mustache. And by pencil mustache I don’t mean it’s thin like a pencil, I mean it’s drawn on his upper lip with a pencil. He is dressed like a carnival barker. He has on a tux with tails and a top hat. He strides out onto the floor and, with the help of two scantily clad assistants of the female persuasion, sets up the stage with ramps, tunnels, hurdles and various hoops and boxes. The audience murmurs in anticipation.

  There is a drum roll and Famous Dave blows three short toots on his whistle. A bunch of dogs, seven or eight total and all different shapes and sizes, run onto the showroom floor, burst through a paper hoop, and trot around in a big circle.

  Spanish music with a heavy staccato beat blares over the PA system and the lead dog, a German Shepherd, skids to a stop and raises up on its hind legs. All the other dogs do the same. They put their front paws on the shoulders of the dog in front of them. They dance in a conga line. The audience applauds wildly.

  I have to admit, the show is entertaining. I mean who can resist a doggie conga line?

  Next, a beagle dressed in a blue coat with shiny gold buttons marches in and the other dogs line up behind it, facing a ramp.

  A Border collie jumps up on one end of the ramp and the German Shepherd sits on the other end. Turns out that the ramp is actually a teeter-totter. They teeter and totter for a few minutes then the German Shepherd jumps off and the Border Collie flies through the air, and executes a somersault. It lands on a small trampoline, bounces high, does another somersault then lands on the floor on its four feet.

  Amazing! I clap and whistle along with the rest of the audience.

  “What a beautiful German Shepherd. She makes me miss Lady Sybil so much,” Mrs. Heinz says, patting her heart.

  “I know what you mean, dear. That Beagle reminds me of my Lucy. She used to walk on her hind legs just like that,” Mrs. Pittman says.

  The Hot Dogs take turns jumping through a hoop that Famous Dave moves higher and higher and a niggling idea keeps on niggling me. I take a closer look at the Hot Dogs: There’s a Norwich Terrier, a Beagle, a German Shepherd and a Weiner dog. What are the chances of those four dogs being in this show?

  I poke Mr. Friedman in the ribs and whisper, “Can I see your binoculars?”

  He hands them over. I study the dogs as they run through their tricks. I don’t see anything hinky about them. But then again, I don’t know what to look for. I hand the binoculars to Mrs. Hildegard. “Look at the Norwich Terrier and tell me what you think,” I say.

  Mrs. Hildegard trains the binoculars on the Norwich Terrier and I watch her face go from placid to surprise. She lowers the glasses and says, “That’s Matty!”

  “Are you sure?” I say.

  “I would recognize my baby anywhere,” she replies.

  This is almost too good to be true. I hand the binoculars over to Mrs. Heinz, saying, “Look at the German Shepherd.”

  Mrs. Heinz gazes through the glasses a long time. When she lowers them to her lap, her eyes are brimming with tears. She nods.

  I hand the binoculars to Mrs. Myers. “Does Max have any distinguishing marks?”

  “Why, yes. His tail is just a bit crooked on the end. It’s a congenital trait,” she says. She looks through the binoculars then stands, yelling, “That’s Max!”

  I pull her back down. “Sshhh. Not yet. We need a plan.”

  “But it’s him. I know it is,” Mrs. Myers says.

  By now Mrs. Pittman has reached the same conclusion, “And that’s my Lucy. I can’t believe it! That man has stolen our dogs!”

  “No, Lenny Russo stole the dogs. He must have he sold them to Famous Dave. He wasn’t going to kill them after all.”

  “What should we do?” Mrs. Freidman asks.

  “Give me a minute,” I say. I don’t want to tip our hand and give Famous Dave enough time to escape with the dogs. I also don’t want Lenny or Beaumont Fontelle to get away. It has to be a surprise attack. Then it hits me what needs to happen. I saw it once on a Lifetime TV movie. Or maybe it was an episode of Saved By The Bell. I don’t remember which one, but it worked like a charm.

  I turn to the four ladies and say, “I’m going to need your help in order to get the dogs back.”

  They nod in unison.

  “Count us in,” Mrs. Hildegard says.

  “It could be dangerous.”

  “Nothing’s too dangerous to get my baby back,” Mrs. Pittman says.

  “Bring it on. I’m ready,” Mrs. Heinz adds.

  “What would Cher do?” Mrs. Myers muses. “She’d kick some dognapping butt, that’s what. Let’s do it!”

  It doesn’t take long to get my troops in position. London stands behind Lenny pretending to sweep. Travis takes up position close to Beaumont Fontelle. And the four ladies and I push through the crowd until we are standing ringside to Famous Dave and his Hot Dogs as they perform.

  “Wait for a quiet moment,” I instruct. “Like right before they do a big trick. Notice how Famo
us Dave has a pause to build up suspense? Look, here comes one now.” I raise my arm like a conductor readying his orchestra to begin playing. I count off the beats… one… two… three.

  “Now!” I yell.

  The four ladies cup their hands around their mouths and call their dogs:

  “Lady Sybil!”

  “Max!”

  “Matty, come here, girl!”

  “Lucy! Yoo Hoo, come to Mama!”

  On cue, the dogs turn, look at their beloved owners and bark for joy. They hop over ramps, run through hoops and leapfrog over each other in their rush to their owner’s arms.

  The ladies kneel and embrace their dogs, accepting kisses from their fur babies. It is more heartwarming than a Hallmark commercial. Seriously, my eyes tear up and I get the sniffles.

  The audience is clapping. They must think we’re part of the show.

  Famous Dave is the only person who isn’t amused. He runs toward us, tooting his training whistle and shouting, “Those are my dogs! Leave my dogs alone!”

  Lenny realizes a beat too late what’s going down. He turns to run, but ends up smacking into London. She strong-arms him to his knees and slaps cuffs on him.

  Travis morphs into super butch mode and tackles Beaumont Fontelle as he flees for the nearest exit. Beaumont lands face-down in the center of the show floor. Travis steps one loafer in the middle of Beaumont’s back and yells, “Stay down! I am making a citizen’s arrest!”

  That’s about the time that the Channel 2 News team bursts onto the scene. I don’t know how they got wind of the arrests and got here so soon. Then I see Mrs. Friedman pointing at Beaumont Fontelle and directing the news crew. Leave it to Mrs. Friedman to have the presence of mind to get the media in on the action.

  I step back from the whole mess and find a nice empty seat away from the fracas. I put my feet up on the chair in front of me and place my hands behind my head. I take this time to watch the cops do their thing and the media do their thing after I done did my thing.

  I’m feeling pretty darn good. My first big case and I cracked it.

  Gloria surprises me by sitting down next to me.