“Do you want to talk to Peter now, or would you rather see Augie after the judging?” Sam asked.
“After,” I said firmly.
That choice was easy. Everyone was more relaxed after they’d already had their turn in the ring. Plus, if we wanted to play with the puppy, we wouldn’t have to worry about mussing his hair.
Sam looked off across the room. “In that case, I’m going to go watch Toys. They’re about to start, and I see Peg over there by the ring. Coming?”
“No, I think I’ll stop by and say hi to Bertie first. And then maybe find a few other people.”
“March’s list?” asked Sam. He knows me so well.
I nodded. “I’m sure at least a few of the women on it must be here.”
“Go to it, then. Just don’t forget. Ring eight at noon. Augie will be in the first class.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
We parted ways, and it wasn’t until half the room was between us that I realized he had the child and I had the diaper bag. Without fail, there’s something about being a parent that makes you feel like an idiot at least once a day.
Even in the crowded grooming area, Bertie wasn’t hard to locate. She’s tall and has flaming red hair and eyes like an eagle. I’d barely begun to navigate my way between the tightly packed tables and the columns of stacked crates before she flagged me down. I changed course and headed in her direction.
Bertie had a Bearded Collie and a Samoyed on side-by-side grooming tables and an arsenal of makeup and applicators laid out on a nearby crate top. As usual, she was moving quickly and efficiently, while at the same time managing to appear neither busy nor stressed.
If I could bottle that skill, I’d be a millionaire. I slipped in between the tables and gave her a quick hug.
“Aren’t you missing something?” she asked.
I pulled the cumbersome diaper bag off my shoulder and tossed it into an empty crate. “What?”
“The baby that goes with that bag.”
I leaned down and peered into the crate. “There’s supposed to be a baby in there?”
She poked me in the ribs with the pointed end of a long-handled makeup brush. I yelped and hopped out of range.
“Kevin is at the Toy ring with Sam and Aunt Peg.”
“And you’re not,” Bertie pointed out.
Unnecessarily, from my point of view.
“So something must be up,” she said. “What is it?”
I glanced around. Everyone in the vicinity was busy attending to their own dogs. I lowered my voice, anyway.
“The police think that Edward March murdered his son.”
I thought that Bertie might be shocked by the accusation. Or, at the very least, surprised. Instead, she just nodded.
“Did he?” she asked.
“I don’t think so.” I thought for a moment. “No, strike that. He didn’t. He wants me to help him find out who did.”
“Well, it’s about time.”
“Excuse me?”
“And in case nobody else has already said it, welcome back.”
“From where?” I asked, utterly baffled.
“Your self-imposed exile. The eighteen-month-long sojourn into mommy-hood, to the exclusion of just about everything else.”
“I haven’t been that bad.”
“You’ve been worse. Mommy-and-Me Japanese classes? Really? The kid barely even speaks English yet.”
I sighed. Another failed experiment.
“The other mothers convinced me that the Pacific Rim was the way of the future.”
Bertie wasn’t listening. “And that art class?” She shook her head. “Don’t even get me started.”
“Kevin’s very good at finger painting,” I mentioned in my own defense.
“What he’s good at is splatter. It’s the age. At two, they all look like they’re going to grow up to be Jackson Pollock.”
Good thing she didn’t know about the violin lesson, I thought. The one where Kevin decided that the delicate instrument would make a dandy battering ram.
“All I’m saying is, I know you had a rough go of it the summer before last. You never told me the details, but I heard enough to figure out that you needed some time away. But solving mysteries is what you do. It’s what you’re good at. And it’s about time you climbed back on the freakin’ horse.”
“Melanie’s getting a horse?”
Terry was passing by, a Toy Poodle tucked under each arm. As always, he had no compunction about inserting himself into someone else’s conversation. Now he stopped and stared.
“Yes, I’m getting a horse,” I told him, deadpan. “A black stallion. It’s being delivered this week.”
“For real?”
“Absolutely. Sam’s building me a barn in the backyard. I’m going to ride the horse in the Kentucky Derby.”
“Oh.” Terry looked disappointed. “Now I know you’re pulling my leg. Sam couldn’t build a barn if it came with a full set of blueprints and six Amish farmers.”
All too true. I love Sam dearly, but handy with a hammer he isn’t. But even so, that was the part of the story Terry had had a problem with? Amazing.
“That’ll teach you to eavesdrop,” I said.
“No, it won’t.” Terry stuck out his tongue and kept moving.
“So here’s my question,” I said, turning back to Bertie. “I want to talk to some of March’s exes. You know, the women he was planning to write about in his book.” I pulled out my list and showed it to her. “Have you seen any of these women here today?”
Her gaze skimmed quickly down the paper. “Well, sure,” she said with a laugh. “They’re dog people, and it’s a dog show. Where else would they be?”
Pretty much what I’d figured.
“Maribeth’s here. She showed earlier. And India is judging.” Her finger ran down the page. “I saw Patsy Revere, too. In fact . . .” Bertie glanced up. “She’s right over there.”
Bertie grasped my shoulders and positioned me so that we were facing the same direction. Across the way, I saw an Irish Setter standing on a table, wearing a towel. Another nearby was sitting up on his table and panting. His long pink tongue lolled in and out of his mouth.
“Brunette,” Bertie said. “Hair in a bun. Cobalt suit. Bright red nails.”
That’s how you know you’ve become a dog person: you automatically notice the canines first. Deliberately, I shifted my gaze from the red setters to their handlers. That done, Patsy was easy to pick out.
“Got it,” I said. “Thanks.”
It was time to make myself useful.
Chapter 14
Up close, Patsy Revere looked older than she had from a distance. Mid- to late fifties, I guessed, but battling the effects of aging with every weapon at her disposal. Her face was beautifully made up, her brows plucked to a high arch, which lifted her entire expression. Her hairdo was more chignon than bun; the style pulled the skin taut across her cheekbones. A wide belt cinched her jacket tightly around her waist, highlighting an hourglass figure.
Even at the upper end of the range I’d assigned her, Patsy was still at least a decade younger than Edward March. Another reminder that he hadn’t always been the crusty curmudgeon I knew now. Indeed, considering his track record with the ladies, at some point March’s appeal must have been pretty formidable.
As I approached, Patsy checked her watch, then plucked a tube of lipstick out of her purse. She leaned down to reapply it, using a mirror pasted to the inside of the open lid of her tack box. I waited until she had finished, then stepped up and introduced myself. Patsy rubbed her lips together to blot the deep red stain and stuck out a hand.
“Nice to meet you,” she said as we shook. “Are you looking for puppies? I don’t have any at the moment, but I can give you my card. I’m expecting a litter in the spring.”
As she spoke, my hand lifted automatically toward the Irish Setter sitting on the table beside us. His head was turned in our direction, his large, dark eyes watching us
curiously. I had no idea what went into preparing an Irish Setter for the show ring, but experience with Poodles had taught me not to touch anything that looked like it might require grooming. Instead, I simply extended my fingers in greeting. The dog lowered his head and sniffed them delicately.
“Wow,” I said. “He’s gorgeous.”
Patsy smiled. “Thank you. I think so, too. Here’s hoping that today’s judge agrees.”
“Is he a specials dog?”
“Champion Patmore The Patriot,” Patsy confirmed. “He’s the sire of the litter I have due in April.”
“I’m sure your puppies will be wonderful,” I said. “But I’m afraid all I’m looking for is information. I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk. Is this a good time?”
“Good enough, I suppose. We’re not due in the ring for twenty minutes or so. What kind of information do you need?”
“It’s about Edward March—”
“Oh, Lord.” Patsy rolled her eyes. “Not that stupid book of his.”
“Well . . . yes,” I admitted. “I was wondering how you felt about being included.”
“If I thought the project would ever actually come to anything, I’d probably be annoyed. But since that possibility seems remote at best, I’m trying not to waste my time thinking about it.”
“Why don’t you think it will happen?” I asked curiously.
“Edward writing a book? I can’t even begin to imagine it.” She stopped and looked at me. “Do you know him?”
I nodded.
“I should have guessed. You’re another one, are you? I thought I knew most of the names, but there were a few I didn’t recognize. Plus, you look a little young. I never thought of Edward as a cradle robber.”
“Oh, no!” I could feel my face growing hot as I hurried to correct her. “I don’t know him that way. We just met a few weeks ago. My aunt volunteered me to help him write his book.”
Patsy snorted under her breath. “Your aunt must not like you very much.”
“Sometimes I wonder,” I said with a sigh. “But this wasn’t really her fault. Neither one of us had any idea what kind of book March intended to write before I met with him. I was expecting it to be about Irish Setters.”
“Do you have Irish Setters?” Her tone clearly conveyed the fact that if I did, she’d have known about it already.
“No, Standard Poodles.”
“Who’s your aunt?”
“Margaret Turnbull.”
“Well, that explains it.”
Any notion I might have had that I was the one leading the conversation was rapidly disappearing. “Explains what?” I asked.
“How you got involved in Edward’s business. Peg does love to stir things up.”
“Tell me about it,” I muttered.
“So . . . ?” Patsy waited expectantly. When I didn’t jump in, she frowned as though I’d missed my cue, then continued. “Why are you here? Have you come to hear my side of the story?”
“No, not exactly.” I paused. “Unless you want to tell it to me?”
“I can’t imagine why I would. Actually, I’d be happier if the whole discussion simply went away.”
She gazed at me as though I was missing my cue again. Blandly, I smiled back. I had no intention of going away just yet. Instead, I circled back to something she’d said earlier.
“Why can’t you envision Edward March writing a book?” I asked again.
“Because writing is hard work. It requires commitment and perseverance. One look at that long list of Edward’s women should be enough to tell anyone that commitment was never his strong suit. He’s the kind of man who only wants to be there for the good times. Hit that first little bump in the road and he’s out the door and on to the next.”
“Is that what happened between the two of you?” I asked. Maybe I did want to hear her story, after all.
Patsy picked up a comb and began to run it idly through the setter’s silky ear feathers. I simply stood and waited.
“What happened between us is that Edward broke up my marriage,” she said after a minute. “That’s certainly no secret. But it is old news that I’d just as soon not have dredged up again.”
She moved on to address the setter’s legs. The smooth stroke of the comb through hair was almost hypnotic. As she stepped around behind the dog, Patsy resumed speaking.
“Not that my divorce was entirely Edward’s fault. I’m a big girl. I can accept my share of blame. Greg and I were already having problems before Edward appeared on the scene. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what attracted him to me in the first place.”
“That you seemed accessible?”
Patsy lifted her head and looked at me over the setter’s back. “No, that I was unhappy. Edward always thought that he was the answer to a woman’s prayers. And for a couple of months, I believed him. He had me convinced that he could turn my life around.”
“Then what happened?”
“Greg and I separated. It probably would have come to that anyway, but Edward was certainly the catalyst. And then overnight, he was gone. Faced with the fact that I was now free to engage in a nonclandestine relationship with him, Edward couldn’t get away fast enough.”
“You must have hated him for that,” I commented.
Patsy chuckled softly. “I guess I did . . . for about ten minutes. Then I got real. Me and Edward, long term? That would never have worked. He was just as much of a fling for me as I was for him.”
At least that was what she wanted to believe, I thought.
“You must have heard about what happened to his son.”
“Yes, I heard.” Patsy shook her head. “Those two . . .”
I waited, but she didn’t continue. Instead, she slipped the grooming loop off the setter’s neck and settled a collar in its place. Then she cupped her arms around the big dog and lifted him down off the table.
All around us, the other Irish Setter exhibitors were preparing to head up to the ring. Patsy’s dog danced from foot to foot as he gave his body a big shake. Patsy grabbed a handful of cooked chicken from a Baggie in her tack box and stuffed it in her pocket. In another moment, she’d be gone.
“What about them?” I asked.
She didn’t seem to be listening.
“Edward and Andrew,” I said, trying again. “What about them?”
Patsy had already skirted around the grooming table, the big Irish Setter following in her wake. I thought I’d lost my chance, but then she paused and glanced back at me.
“Those two were so much alike that they drove each other crazy,” she said. “Frankly, I’m almost surprised that something terrible didn’t happen between them sooner.”
Well, that was a cheery thought with which to start the day. I’d been hoping to find someone with a grudge against Edward March, not someone who would confirm Detective Wygod’s theory that March and his son had been their own worst enemies. Maybe I could do better with India Fleming.
The good thing about India was that in the sea of people milling around the large exhibition hall, she was easy to find. The bad thing: she was standing in the middle of a show ring, judging Manchester Terriers. I consulted the schedule posted by the gate and found that she was due for a lunch break in an hour and that her assignment didn’t end until three. None of which was helpful at all.
So I went back to my list. The third woman Bertie had seen was Maribeth Chandler. When Terry had pointed her out to me previously, she’d been showing Vizslas. With that in mind, I headed over to the side of the room where most of the sporting breeds were being judged. If Maribeth was like most exhibitors, even though her breed was done, she’d still be hanging out watching her friends and their dogs compete.
I didn’t see Maribeth at the Golden ring. Or in the crowd gathered around what appeared to be a large Labrador Retriever specialty. But at the Weimaraner ring, I hit pay dirt. She was standing just outside the gate, conferring with the steward.
Maribeth was
tall and slender. With her smooth blond hair and patrician features, she looked every bit as aristocratic as the sleek hunting dogs clustered around her at the gate. I saw her pick up a couple of numbered armbands from the steward. Then she threaded her way back through the crush of exhibitors to deliver them to another woman, who was holding two Weimaraners on slender leashes.
Maribeth ran a couple of rubber bands up the woman’s arm, slipped the armbands underneath, and snapped them into place. Then she reached over and took one of the leads. The first class was called, and the congestion began to clear. The other woman headed for the ring with her first entry.
I made my way over to where Maribeth was standing with the second Weimaraner. There were several entries in the Puppy class. Her friend had taken a spot at the end of the line, and it looked as though we had a few minutes before her dog would be judged.
Maribeth glanced my way as I approached, then looked again and smiled in recognition. That was so unexpected, I nearly turned around to see if there was someone else behind me that she was looking at. But then she juggled the looped end of the leash from one hand to the other, shifted the Weim around to her other side, and extended her hand.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Maribeth Chandler. We haven’t met, but I know you’re Charlotte’s friend. She pointed you out the other night.”
Charlotte’s friend? I had no idea. But if that would give me an entrée, I certainly wasn’t above using it.
I grasped her hand, and we shook. The Weimaraner wagged her stubby tail. It looked as though she was pleased to meet me, too.
“Melanie Travis,” I said. “You’re Charlotte’s mother, right? You look just like her.”
“Thank you.” Maribeth’s smile widened. “You’ve just made me feel ten years younger.”
What is it with women and aging? No matter how accomplished she is or how good she looks, every woman I know is insecure about her appearance. Hollywood and the media have a lot to answer for.
“Charlotte is delighted to have someone else to talk to at work now,” Maribeth continued. “As I’m sure you’ve discovered, Edward can be a little . . .”
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