“And yet you were probably here at dawn,” I said to him.
A professional handler’s day is long, and it starts early. It wasn’t unusual for Crawford to bring several dozen dogs of various different breeds to a single show. Their schedule was hectic, to say the least. Even now, Crawford was nowhere to be seen. Most likely, he was up at the rings, showing a dog, while Terry stayed behind at the setup to do prep work on the others.
“Before dawn,” Terry corrected. “You know Crawford. He likes to crack the whip.” His eyebrows waggled comically. “Lucky for me, I like that.”
“Do you mind?” I squeaked. “There are children present!” I reached up and covered Kevin’s ears.
Thinking it was a game, Kevin responded with a toothy grin. He clapped his hands enthusiastically and just missed boxing Sam’s ears. Davey only laughed. He has known Terry for most of his life and doesn’t take anything he says too seriously.
“I don’t mind a bit,” Terry replied. His eyebrows were still dancing. Any moment now, his body would join in. “That’s the whole point.”
“No, the whole point is that you’re supposed to be brushing dogs.”
Crawford, back from the ring with a Chow Chow on a slender leash and a purple ribbon tucked in his pocket, leveled me a look. He thinks I’m a bad influence on his partner, probably with good reason. “Melanie, if you don’t have enough to do, I can put you to work.”
“No, thank you. I’m here to watch Aunt Peg judge.”
“Is that so? Her ring is over there.” Crawford squinted toward ring three. “It looks to me like she’s doing Yorkies.”
“Well . . . maybe I need to ask a few questions, too.”
Crawford muttered something I couldn’t quite hear. I suspected that was just as well.
“It’s not like you didn’t see that coming,” Terry told him. He turned back to me. “So, who are we dishing about this week?”
Bertie snorted a laugh under her breath. She swept a Bichon off a tabletop, tucked it under her arm, and left for the ring.
“That’s my cue to bow out, too,” said Sam. “The kids and I are going to go see the sights.” Holding Kevin carefully in place, he dropped a quick kiss on my lips. “Try not to annoy Crawford too much, okay?”
“You should listen to that man,” Crawford told me as my family left, heading toward ring three. “He knows what he’s talking about.”
He slipped the Chow into an open crate, then tucked the ribbon into his tack box. At shows, Crawford’s almost always on the run. Now I waited for him to grab another dog off a table and head out. Pumping Terry for information is much easier when Crawford isn’t in the background, grumbling about our conversation.
Now, however, he shrugged out of his sports coat and hung it on a hanger attached to a stack of crates. Then he pulled out an apron and slipped it on over his head. A white Standard Poodle was lying on its side on a grooming table next to him. Crawford picked up a pin brush and spray bottle.
I must have looked surprised, because he glanced my way and said, “What? You don’t think I can brush out a dog?”
“Of course you can. You just never seem to have time to.”
He pointed to a schedule taped to the inside lid of the tack box. “Next up, Standards at one o’clock.”
Since I obviously hadn’t already figured it out for myself, Terry leaned over and whispered, “Crawford has fewer dogs today because he isn’t showing under Peg.”
Of course. I should have realized. Crawford and Aunt Peg were old friends, and both would want to avoid any appearance of favoritism or impropriety in the judging. The fact that Aunt Peg was doing all the toy breeds meant that half his string must have stayed home.
Crawford pulled a pair of reading glasses out of his apron pocket and perched them on his nose. Then he misted the dog on the table and went to work. Expertly.
Geez, I thought, even his line brushing was perfect.
“So,” he said. “Ask.”
Crawford giving me an opening? That was a first. And I certainly wasn’t about to squander the opportunity.
“Edward March is writing a book.”
“Oh, goody,” cried Terry.
“Not really,” I said. “It’s going to be a kiss-and-tell memoir filled with juicy details about his amorous adventures in the dog show world. March thinks it will be a best-seller.”
Crawford lifted his head and gazed at me over the rims of his glasses. “And we care about this, why?”
“I’m his coauthor,” I admitted.
I thought he might snort or grumble. A discreet swear word wasn’t out of the question. But once again, Crawford surprised me. Instead, he began to laugh.
“I’ll give you this, Melanie,” he said. “You’re a constant source of entertainment. How in hell did that happen?”
“Aunt Peg.”
The two words alone were explanation enough. Both men nodded.
“I’d read that,” said Terry. “Seriously. It’s not like Edward March would lack for content.”
“Apparently not,” I agreed unhappily. “The only reason I got involved with the project in the first place is because I thought he meant to write a history of dog shows and great dogs. Instead, it seems that March thinks of himself as the Don Juan of the dog show world.”
“Understatement has never been one of his problems.” Crawford’s hands continued to fly through the Standard Poodle’s hair. “Especially when it came to promoting his own dogs.”
Crawford was modest to a fault. At the very top of his game, he was the least self-aggrandizing person I knew. I could see how March’s attitude might have gotten on his nerves.
“Were March’s Irish Setters as good as I’ve heard?” I asked.
“Sure. Over the years, they were some of the best. I don’t know how many he has left anymore.”
“Only one,” I said. “I’ve been to his house twice, but I’ve never seen her.”
“That’s not surprising. Irish Setters are big, active dogs. Last time I saw Edward before he retired, he was looking pretty fragile. I think his health was worse than he wanted to let on.”
“No wonder he wants to relive his glory days,” said Terry. “Last hurrah and all that. Is he actually going to name names?”
“So he says. Though I can’t imagine that the women he was involved with are going to be happy about it.”
Terry shrugged. “There aren’t that many secrets in the dog world, hon. We probably already have a fair idea of who’ll be popping up.”
“Like who?” I asked. “Anyone I know?”
Crawford sent us both a stern look. “Facts are one thing. We don’t deal in gossip.”
“Speak for yourself.” Before Crawford could stop him, Terry gestured toward a nearby ring where half a dozen Vizslas were gaiting around the perimeter mats. “Maribeth Chandler, for one.”
I squinted in that direction. “Which one is she?”
“Frosted blonde.” Terry sniffed. “Like that’s not a giveaway she’s gone gray. Front of the line. Looks like she’s about to win Best of Breed.”
“I thought the Poodles moved fast,” I said. The Vizslas were racing around the ring at the speed of light.
“High-energy breed,” Crawford commented, trying to steer the conversation back to neutral ground.
Blithely, Terry ignored him. “Maribeth’s a high-energy woman. Good thing the judge has her at the head of the line, otherwise she might run someone over. I wouldn’t want to be the one to get in her way.”
As we watched, the judge lifted his hand and pointed at Maribeth’s Vizsla. She gave a happy little jump, swooped down and patted her dog, then ran to stand beside the BOB marker.
“Okay, that’s one person,” I said. “Who else? Tell me someone I know.”
Crawford and Terry exchanged a meaningful look. Then they both lowered their heads and studiously went back to work.
That couldn’t be good.
“Terry?”
“Hon, you don’t wan
t to know.”
Perhaps not, but the way things were shaping up, I could hazard a guess.
Aunt Peg. Edward’s Margaret. It had to be.
Chapter 7
“When?” I asked
Fingers still moving through the hair, Crawford glanced up innocently. “What are we talking about?”
“Aunt Peg, apparently.”
“This is your fault,” he said to Terry.
“Me? I didn’t say a thing.”
“Last hurrah? Naming names?”
“All right, maybe I said that.” Caught red-handed, Terry still looked unrepentant. “But I never mentioned Peg.”
“You didn’t have to,” I said with a sigh. “Whenever anything exciting is happening, it’s a safe bet that Aunt Peg will be right in the middle of it. I wondered why March called her Margaret. Nobody ever calls her Margaret.”
“Edward would have,” said Terry.
Crawford shook his head. “You’re really going there, aren’t you?”
Ignoring him, I asked, “Why?”
“Edward always called the women he was involved with by their full names. That was his shtick, his own little secret touch. He thought it made them feel special.”
“It doesn’t sound like much of a secret to me,” I grumbled.
“There’s a reason for that,” Crawford said shortly. “Edward has never been able to resist talking about himself. That’s probably why he decided to write a book. Now, between the two of you, I think you’ve pretty much pushed my patience to its limit. It’s time to talk about something else.”
I nodded in acquiescence. Crawford had already opened up far more than I’d expected him to. As for Aunt Peg, who was currently in the middle of her assignment, I’d deal with her later.
“Who’s going to win Best in Show?” I asked.
It was a mystery to me, but somehow Aunt Peg always knew these things ahead of time. She said it was a combination of knowing the dogs’ records, the judges’ preferences, and a little bit of a tingle in the air on show day. However she managed it, most of the other ardent exhibitors always seemed to be similarly clued in.
“The Peke,” said Terry. “Anyone who doesn’t know that hasn’t been paying attention.”
See what I mean?
“Is he a good one?”
“Oh, honey.” Terry laughed. “You really have had your head under a rock.”
“Ling was number one all systems last year. He’ll retire next month, after Westminster.” Crawford nodded in the direction of the rings. “Go take a look for yourself. Peg’ll be judging him in half an hour or so.”
I couldn’t tell whether Crawford was hoping to educate me or just get rid of me. Nevertheless, it seemed like a good time to move on. I found Sam and the boys sitting ringside, watching Aunt Peg judge.
Pomeranians were in the ring. To the inexpert eye—that would be mine—the animated balls of fur looked more like plush toys than real dogs. Kevin must have agreed, because he was bouncing up and down on Sam’s lap, both hands outstretched in the direction of the ring. Luckily, his desire exceeded his grasp.
Davey was watching Aunt Peg’s judging technique intently. There was an empty seat between them, and I slipped into it.
“Did you find out everything you needed?” asked Sam.
“And more,” I replied ruefully.
Sam pulled his gaze away from the ring and stared at me for a long moment.
“What?” I asked him.
“I know I was originally in favor of your working with March, but I had a whole different project in mind. There’s no reason to continue if you don’t really want to. Just call him on Monday and tell him you’re bowing out.”
Now we had Davey’s attention, too. He leaned around me and inserted himself into the conversation. “You mean, like, quit in the middle of an assignment?”
“Now look what you’ve done,” I said to Sam.
Parenthood. It’s a veritable minefield of good intentions.
As I’d arranged with March at the end of the previous week, on Monday morning I headed back to Westport. I hadn’t yet decided what I was going to do when I got there: did I want to follow Aunt Peg’s advice or Sam’s? At the moment my only plan was to show up as promised and wing it. Believe it or not, that’s a strategy that has worked well for me in the past.
The weather was crisp and dry; the temperature was in the thirties. Though it had been overcast all weekend, now that it was time to go back to work, the sun was shining brightly. The glare off the drifts that lined either side of March’s narrow country road was almost blinding.
It hadn’t snowed in several days, and the road itself was mostly dry. But mindful of the winding turns and the ice that still lingered in shaded areas, I wasn’t going very fast. Even so, when I rounded the last curve before March’s driveway and came unexpectedly upon a brace of police cruisers parked by the side of the road, I had to slam on my brakes.
Immediately, I felt like an idiot. I’ve been driving in snow since I was sixteen. I ought to know better.
The Volvo skidded only briefly. Thanks to gifted Swedish engineering, I quickly regained control. Pumping now instead, I slowed down beside the first police car.
There were three officers at the scene. Two were unspooling a long skein of yellow tape. It looped around two trees and ran along a low stone wall that bordered the road. Cones marked off another restricted area on the road itself. The entire right-hand lane was blocked off.
The third officer lifted his hand to wave me past. Instead, I stopped beside him and rolled down my window. March’s driveway was still a hundred yards away, but now that I was stopped, I noticed a narrow break in the stone wall and a small lane that meandered back onto the estate. Charlotte had mentioned that Andrew lived on the property and had his own entrance. I wondered if that was it.
The officer leaned down and looked in my window. His mirrored sunglasses covered half his face and removed any vestige of an expression.
“What happened?” I asked.
“There was an accident here earlier. I’m going to have to ask you to move along.”
“Was someone hurt?”
“Ma’am, is that your driveway?”
“No.”
“Then I need you to keep moving and not block the road.” The officer straightened and stepped away from the car.
Right. As intended, that told me exactly . . . nothing.
My past experiences with the police have been a varied lot, ranging from cooperative to contentious. Occasionally, they take me seriously. Most times—like now—I think they just wish I would go away.
So I did.
Driving well within the speed limit and making judicious use of my blinker, in case anybody with a badge happened to be watching, I eased down the road and turned into March’s driveway. Maybe he and Charlotte would know what was going on.
I parked in my usual spot, gathered up my purse and laptop, and was on my way across the driveway when an Irish Setter came bounding around the side of the house. Ears flapping, feathers floating, she gamboled gracefully through the knee-deep snow. Then, abruptly, she stopped, and her head came up. She caught sight of me and changed direction.
The red setter woofed softly. It sounded more like a greeting than a watchdog’s warning bark. She trotted toward me, hopping easily over the small drifts of plowed snow that bordered the pavement.
There are those who say that Irish Setters are the most beautiful breed of dog, and looking at the one before me, I certainly couldn’t argue. With her mahogany red coat, long-limbed elegance, and dark, soulful eyes, she was the picture of canine glamour. She approached with her tail up in the air and waving slowly back and forth. The fringe of hair beneath it rippled with the languid movement.
“Aren’t you pretty?” I crooned. “You must be Robin, right? Is that who you are?”
The setter’s tail began to wag faster. Whether it was because I had guessed correctly or because she was simply an agreeable dog, it was hard
to tell. I held out my hand and was politely sniffed. Now we were friends.
As she stepped in closer and investigated the length of my pants—no doubt gathering information about the Poodles at home—I ran my hands over her long, sleek body. Her hair was soft and fine, and she was shivering slightly in the cold.
“Come on, girl,” I said. “Let’s get you inside.”
Robin followed me up the front steps to the house and waited at my side as I rang the doorbell. Once, then again. Then I tried knocking. Still there was no response.
Odd, I thought. Maybe this was Charlotte’s day off.
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed March’s number. He didn’t pick up. I snapped the phone shut and looked at my watch. It was still Monday, now shortly after 11:00 a.m. March should have been expecting me.
I looked down at Robin. “Now what?” I asked.
That was reflex. I’ve been known to hold entire conversations with my Poodles. Not only that, but they’re better at communicating their wishes than many people I know.
Not unexpectedly, the setter didn’t answer. She was shivering harder now, though. I could see the small tremors rippling the length of her body. And yet she continued to wait patiently beside me, certain that I would figure something out.
If I’d been the only one standing outside the house, I probably would have given up and gone home. I was already conflicted about the project. If March couldn’t even be bothered to keep our appointment, I would have figured that I had my answer.
But there was no way I could leave Robin outside by herself in the cold. And I couldn’t very well take her home with me, either. As if sensing my internal debate, the setter gazed up at me trustingly.
Damn. I’ve always been a sucker for a dog with big, soft eyes.
“Back door,” I said aloud.
There had to be one. Most likely, that was how Robin had come out. Maybe it was unlocked.
I threw my stuff back in the car, gave silent thanks that I was wearing boots, and stepped into the snow beside the driveway. Now that we were moving again, Robin wanted to lead the way. She ran on ahead, leaping and bounding through the low drifts. The setter disappeared around the side of the house, then doubled back a moment later to see if I was still following.
Gone With the Woof Page 6