“Difficult?” I said.“Crotchety? Imperious?”
“All of the above, I gather, depending on his mood. Charlotte does her best to make him happy, but judging by the stories she tells, Edward isn’t the easiest boss.”
“She told me you were the one who got her the job,” I said.
Maribeth nodded. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Edward was growing frailer. He needed someone to look out for him. And Charlotte has a wonderful liberal arts education that prepared her to do absolutely nothing in the real world. I thought they might suit each other. Of course, I never could have anticipated the recent . . . complications.”
That was an interesting euphemism for a sudden, unexplained death.
“Did you know Andrew?” I asked.
“Only in the most superficial way. Edward and I were close a number of years ago. But I imagine you already must know that? Charlotte said Edward hired you to help him with his book.”
“That’s right.”
“Andrew was just a child then. A bright boy, precocious. Always up to some kind of mischief. But under the circumstances, it wasn’t as if we would have been spending time together.”
If Andrew had truly been a child during their affair, then March’s wife, Isabelle, had still been alive. I could certainly understand why March would have made an effort to keep his two lives separate.
In the ring, Maribeth’s friend had reached the head of the line. We both stopped talking while the judge examined, then moved, the exuberant puppy.
“Good boy,” Maribeth murmured under her breath as handler and dog gaited in a reasonably straight line, trotting out and back along the mat that bisected the middle of the ring.
“Is he a good one?” I asked. I knew nothing about Weimaraners except that they were beautiful to look at.
“He will be when he grows up. Today he’s only here for the experience and to make the major.”
Dogs become champions by amassing a total of fifteen points in same-sex competition. A win in the classes—the non-champion portion of the breed judging—can be worth anywhere from one to five points, depending on the number of dogs or bitches beaten on a given day. Included in that total of fifteen points, a dog must also secure at least two majors—awards of three points or more—which ensures those wins have been accomplished against a significant-size entry.
The intent is to guarantee that only quality dogs will achieve their championships. One problem with the system, however, is that in certain parts of the country, and during certain seasons of the year, major entries can be very hard to come by. It’s not unusual for dogs that have amassed all their singles to sit out of the show ring and wait, sometimes for months, just for the chance to compete for those elusive big wins. It’s also not unheard of for breeders to band together and manufacture majors by filling the classes with inexperienced puppies or dogs that are not quite ready to be competitive.
Maribeth’s friend’s puppy won the Puppy class. She picked up her blue ribbon from the judge, exited the ring, and waited just outside the gate to return.
“What class is she in?” I nodded toward the Weimaraner bitch. Though she waited patiently at Maribeth’s side, her keen eyes were riveted on her owner fifteen feet away.
“Open. She only needs a major to finish. Sue is hoping that today is her day.”
The mantra of hopeful dog show exhibitors everywhere.
There were more questions that I wanted to ask, but it was hard not to get caught up in the drama of the judging. The Open class was won by a strong, balanced dog who controlled the show ring effortlessly. It came as no surprise when the judge awarded him the points over Sue’s puppy and the winner of the Bred-By Exhibitor class.
Sue quickly exited the ring with the puppy. She reached around and pulled off the top armband to expose the bitch’s number underneath, then dropped the first in the trash on her way to where we stood. Maribeth and Sue switched leashes—and dogs—with a minimum of fuss. Then Sue was quickly gone again, back to the gate to await her next turn.
As the following class, Puppy Bitches, filed into the ring, I turned back to Maribeth. “We were talking about Edward’s book a few minutes ago,” I said. “How did you feel about it?”
“Disinterested,” she said flatly.
“How come?”
“The life and loves of Edward March? Who’d be crazy enough to publish something like that? Nobody would want to read it. Nobody would care.”
She probably had a point.
“Edward is just stroking his own ego. Trust me, he’s very good at that. And that e-mail of his was a joke. An honor to be included, my ass. Only a man would come up with a line like that.”
Point number two. In case you’re keeping score.
“I don’t know why he doesn’t just make up fake identities for the women. After all, you can be sure that half the stories will be made up. Or at least . . .” Maribeth snorted under her breath. “Significantly enhanced.”
We smiled together complicitly.
“I guess I heard wrong, then,” I said. “I heard that some of the women on March’s e-mail list were upset.”
“Maybe some were.” Maribeth shrugged, her gaze never leaving the ring. “Not me. I’ll be more upset if Sue’s bitch doesn’t take home this major.”
So I stayed and watched until the end of the Weimaraner judging. Sue’s bitch won the major handily and then went on to take Best of Opposite Sex. Last I saw, she and Maribeth were hugging each other and jumping up and down in celebration just outside the ring.
It was nice to see somebody go home happy.
Chapter 15
“There you are. Finally!” Aunt Peg bellowed. “Where have you been?”
In keeping with accepted protocol, Peg usually whispered her thoughts at ringside. But when she felt the need to take a recalcitrant relative to task, her voice carried. Now it seemed as though half the people in the vicinity of the Poodle ring turned to see what was the matter.
I glanced into the ring just to make sure that I hadn’t missed anything crucial. Nope, my watch hadn’t stopped. Minis were still being judged.
Sam, bouncing Kevin on his knee, patted an empty chair between him and Peg that he’d saved for me. I slipped into it gratefully.
“I was at the Weimaraner ring,” I said.
“Such a lovely breed.” Briefly distracted, Aunt Peg brightened. It didn’t last. “Not that that’s any excuse. You’ve missed nearly all the Poodles.”
“Not the Standards,” I told her cheerfully. “Not the ones that matter.”
“They all matter.”
The bellow was back, seemingly louder this time because I was sitting right beside her. Take it from me, it’s not easy to be related to a judge.
“You’re scaring the dogs,” I mentioned.
That got her attention.
Aunt Peg’s head immediately swiveled back toward the Poodle ring. The Mini Open Bitch class was lined up on the mat opposite us. Peg looked at each entrant in turn.
“Which one?” she asked.
“The silver.” I pointed to the third Mini in line. “She dropped her tail.”
“Silvers do that,” Aunt Peg muttered.
Did I hear a smidgen of guilt in her lowered tone? I sincerely hoped so.
On my other side, Sam was staring at the ceiling with great fascination. What could I say? It wasn’t as if I hadn’t warned him before he’d married into the family.
“Here,” I said, reaching over to pluck Kevin off his lap. “My turn.”
Kevin’s face had that pouty look he gets when he’s deciding he might be bored. I opened the diaper bag and got out a juice box. That would keep him entertained for at least five minutes. Even more if I didn’t open it for him.
“Did you talk to Peter?” I asked Sam. “Have you already seen Augie?”
“No. I decided to follow your lead and wait until after the judging. Everything will be calmer then, and we’ll have more time. Plus, I’d hate to meet the pupp
y and fall in love with his personality and then discover that I don’t like what I see in the ring.”
Aunt Peg poked me in the shoulder harder than was strictly necessary. She hates to be left out of a conversation, especially one that’s taking place right beside her and most likely pertains to dogs.
“What are you two whispering about?” she demanded.
“Poodles,” I said innocently. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“Speaking of which,” said Sam, “I had an idea.”
“I like ideas,” said Aunt Peg. “I hope it’s a good one. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
Seated between them, my head turning back and forth as they spoke, I felt like a spectator at a Ping-Pong tournament. “Would somebody like to change seats with me?” I asked.
“No,” Peg and Sam said in unison. They both looked equally perplexed by the question.
I couldn’t imagine why. As the monkey in the middle, apparently I was an impediment to their conversation.
Now Aunt Peg leaned forward to speak to Sam, talking over Kevin’s head like the two of us were invisible. “Don’t worry about Melanie. She’ll get herself sorted out. Tell me your idea.”
“It’s actually more for Melanie,” said Sam.
“She appears to be busy with a juice box,” Peg noted.
“I’m right here,” I said. “I can hear everything you’re saying.”
“Then join in,” Aunt Peg said with more than a touch of asperity. “It appears that Sam would like to talk to you.”
This, I thought, must be how the Three Stooges hold a conversation.
Aunt Peg reached over, grasped Kevin firmly beneath the armpits, and levered him across and onto her ample lap. “Stick with me, young man,” she said. “I’ll make sure you get something to drink. Unlike some people.”
She sounded smug now. Wait until Kevin managed to spill his juice onto her carefully marked catalog. Or started tearing out the pages and throwing them into the ring.
Not my problem, I thought. I angled my body in Sam’s direction.
“What have you got?” I asked.
“I’ve been thinking about Davey,” said Sam. “And the fact that even though he lives in a house full of dogs, he’s never had one of his own.”
It doesn’t take much to trigger a mother’s guilt. There’s always something you feel you could be doing better, especially when there’s a newer, younger child in the family taking up so much time. A wave of self-reproach washed over me.
“He had a frog once,” I mentioned in my own defense.
“I don’t remember that. What happened to it?”
“He took it outside to play and lost it in the grass.”
Sam pursed his lips. He might have been trying not to laugh.
“That was a while ago. Davey was much younger then.”
“Good to know,” said Sam. “I think he’s probably old enough now to take responsibility for a pet, don’t you?”
I did. And I thought it was a great idea.
“Of course, there’s no guarantee that we’ll even like Augie,” he continued. “Much less that we’ll like him enough to want to add him to the family. But if we do . . .”
“Davey would be thrilled,” I said. “A dog of his very own? He’d love that. He could feed him and walk him and teach him tricks.”
“I know Junior Showmanship wasn’t his thing,” said Sam. “But I bet he’d enjoy breed competition more. Or maybe even agility. The two of us could work on coat care and then show Augie together.”
Sam and Davey already had a terrific bond. But I loved the notion of the two of them having an activity that would bring them even closer.
“The best part,” I said, thinking aloud, “is that it would give Davey something special that was just for him because he’s the oldest.”
“That sounds brilliant,” Aunt Peg said from behind me. Of course, she’d been listening in. “I don’t know why you two didn’t think of it sooner.”
As the Mini judging drew to a close, the Standards began to gather outside the ring. I scanned the group anxiously, looking for Peter and Augie. Earlier, I’d been curious about the puppy, but now it felt as though the stakes had been raised. For Davey’s sake, I really hoped that everything would work out.
“There.” Sam pointed, and I saw the pair approaching.
Peter Kirkwood was living proof of the axiom that people tend to look like their pets. He had black, curly hair, a long nose, and a ready smile. Now he was looking down, concentrating on the big Poodle puppy bouncing along at his side.
I stood up, hoping for a better view. To my frustration, due to the crowd of people between us, Augie was barely even visible.
In deference to the puppy’s inexperience, Peter stopped and waited by the ring’s far corner, keeping him well away from the crush of dogs and exhibitors milling near the gate. I caught a quick glimpse as Augie stepped in front of his owner and poked his head over the rail and into the ring. Then he scooted back, and the two of them melted into the throng.
“Pretty face,” I said. It was all I’d had time to see.
As usual, Aunt Peg had done better. “He looks like his sire,” she said.
Though Tar was Sam’s dog, Aunt Peg was his breeder. And with her decades of experience, she was notoriously demanding when it came to her favorite breed. Coming from her, the comment was high praise.
“I’m still reserving judgment,” said Sam. “Let’s see what he looks like in the ring.”
To our mutual relief, Augie didn’t disappoint. Not even close.
There were three puppies in his class, and at just six months of age, he was clearly the youngest. But what he lacked in hair and experience, he more than made up for with correctness and presence. Not to mention his enthusiasm for the new experience.
Augie looked at the crowd of spectators lining the ring and wagged his tail. He tried to lick the judge. He gamboled up and down when he was supposed to be trotting out and back. But when, on the last go-round, he finally settled into stride and showed how he could really move, I heard Aunt Peg sigh.
“That’ll do,” she said.
Augie placed second in the class, beaten by a mature white puppy with a profuse coat and a professional handler at the end of his lead. The award was immaterial; we’d already seen what we needed to see. By the time the dog classes ended, Sam and I were standing up.
Aunt Peg and Kevin remained in place to watch the remainder of the Standard Poodle judging, but Sam and I were too impatient for that. We hurried around the ring to follow Peter and Augie back to the setup. We were only a few steps behind when they got there.
Peter hadn’t yet had a chance to hop Augie back up onto his grooming table. The puppy stood on the floor beside his crate. With tail up and nose down, he was investigating a tuft of hair that had blown across his path.
While Sam and Peter greeted each other and talked about the class, I hunkered down to the puppy’s eye level and waited to see what would happen next. It took Augie only a moment to notice me. One more and he’d tugged Peter closer so that he could bound into my arms and say hello.
The puppy’s tail was waving a happy tattoo high in the air. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief. When he hopped up on his hind legs to place his front feet on my shoulders, I unbalanced and tipped over backward. We went down together in a happy heap.
Peter quickly reeled in Augie’s leash, gathering the puppy back to his side. “Sorry about that,” he said.
“No.” I laughed, getting up and dusting myself off. “That’s perfect.”
One look at Sam’s face and I knew he agreed. We were both in love already. Perfect indeed.
Augie went home with Peter. It would take a few days to work out the details, but as far as Sam and I were concerned, the sale was already a fait accompli. By mutual agreement, we decided not to say anything to Davey until it was time to bring the puppy home.
Usually, I’m great at keeping secrets. This time, I was dying to blurt out t
he news. So in order to keep myself from spoiling the surprise, I made an effort to stay busy.
The next person I wanted to talk to was Andrew’s recently dumped ex-girlfriend, Julia Davis. Although I’d seen her at the memorial service, I had no idea how to get in touch with her. So the next morning I called March’s house. Charlotte picked up, and I explained what I needed.
“No problem,” she said. “I have her number right here. Julia moved recently. She’s living in Norwalk now.”
“You seem to know a lot about her,” I said. “You two must be friends.”
“Julia used to come to the house sometimes with Andrew. Then, while they were here, Andrew and Mr. March would lock themselves away to talk business. So Julia and I would hang out. That’s when we got to know one another.”
“What was your impression of her relationship with Andrew?”
“What do you mean?” Charlotte sounded suddenly wary.
“March makes no secret of the fact that he didn’t like her. He told me that Julia was trying to trap Andrew into marrying her, that she was only after him for his money.”
“That’s not fair,” Charlotte said heatedly. “Julia was in love with Andrew. She wanted them to have a future together.”
“And what did Andrew want?”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte replied. “You would have had to ask him. But you need to understand something. Mr. March has a way of setting impossibly high standards for everyone around him. He thought that Julia wasn’t good enough for Andrew, but that wasn’t Julia’s fault. I’m not sure Mr. March would have thought that anyone was good enough for his only son.”
Charlotte read off the address and phone number, and I jotted them down. Norwalk and Westport were neighboring coastal Connecticut towns, but they were worlds apart in terms of ambience and prestige. I pulled out a map and found that Julia’s apartment was located on the edge of an industrial zone near the turnpike.
A quick call confirmed that she’d see me. I imagine it helped that I dropped March’s name into the conversation and implied that I was calling on his behalf. We made an appointment for later that morning.
Gone With the Woof Page 14