Underdog

by Laurien Berenson

  “I’m afraid I can’t speculate—”

  “Who are you investigating?”

  “I’m not at liberty to reveal that information—”

  “All right, don’t,” I said, thinking aloud. “But if Jenny was poisoned slowly over a period of time, that would point to someone who lived with her, wouldn’t it?”

  “I would say that’s a possibility. On the other hand, according to her husband and sister, she attended dog shows weekly, where she came in contact repeatedly with the same group of people, many of whom she was engaged in direct competition with.”

  So much for trying to narrow the field.

  Detective Petronelli saw me back to the front door and handed me his card as I was leaving. “If you come across any other information you think we should have, you be sure and call this number.”

  I took the card and tucked it away in my purse. All their resources, all their experts; and I suspected the police were just as baffled as I was.

  In the Northeast, during the warmer months, dog shows are held outside. Dog clubs compete for the best sites: usually large grassy fields with ample room for parking, rings and tenting. But as winter approaches, weather forces the clubs to move indoors. Good locations are at a premium and clubs must become highly creative in their hunt for appropriate and available sites.

  The show on Sunday in Fitchburg was the first indoor dog show Davey and I had attended. Accustomed as I was to big rings, spacious tenting, and wide open spaces, finding just as much action crammed into a room—albeit a very large one—came of something as a shock. Rings filled the center of the big hall, with space set up for grooming along the side where we came in.

  The other half of the room was filled with a long row of brightly colored concession booths. A quick glance revealed stands hawking everything from grooming supplies to canine art. I even saw a blue and white banner proclaiming the presence of Crystal’s All Natural Dog Munchies.

  Poodles were scheduled to be judged in ring three and Davey and I found Aunt Peg and Sam set up in the grooming area nearby. Though there were several hours yet before the Standards would be called to the ring, both had their Poodles out on the grooming tables and were busy brushing. All around them, a bevy of other Poodle exhibitors were doing the same.

  “There’s my young man!” Aunt Peg said to Davey. “Do I get a hug?”

  “Maybe.” His eyes took on a speculative gleam. “What will you give me?”

  “Davey!”

  “I was only kidding.”

  “I should hope so.” I nudged him firmly between the shoulders and he skirted around the legs of the grooming table to greet his aunt properly.

  Sam had watched the exchange with amusement. “Do I get a hug, too?” he asked me.

  “Maybe . . .”

  “Like mother, like son, I see. Born negotiators. I like that in a woman.”

  “Really? What else do you like?”

  “Intelligence and a sense of humor, for starters.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place. I do believe you’ll get that hug after all.”

  My ex-husband, Bob, had hated public displays of affection, so I’d intended to step up and wrap my arms around Sam, then quickly pull away. But no sooner had I ducked around two crates and a grooming table to reach him than he opened his own arms and drew me in.

  “I’m glad you came,” he said. His body was warm and hard and pressed against the entire length of mine before he released me.

  “So am I.”

  Aunt Peg cleared her throat loudly. “I’m glad to see you two are finally taking the hint.”

  Sam looked over my shoulder at her and lifted a brow innocently. “What hint?”

  She harrumphed under her breath and turned away to rummage in her grooming box. Knowing Aunt Peg, she probably had doughnuts in there, along with the leashes, combs and sprays.

  The latest issue of Dog Scene Magazine was sitting on top of Peaches’s empty crate. I pushed it to one side and put Davey in its place. The crate was standard sized, which meant it was just high enough to keep him in place. Left to his own devices on the ground, he’d be gone in a matter of minutes.

  “What’d I miss yesterday?”

  Aunt Peg came up with a pair of eight-inch curved scissors. She nudged Peaches to her feet. “Sam’s Casey took the points in bitches.”

  “Congratulations! That’s great.”

  “Not so great,” Aunt Peg said pointedly. “I went reserve. He’s told me today’s my turn.”

  Sam slipped me a wink.

  “I saw that,” said Peg.

  “I figured you might.” Sam grinned. Not much got past Peg. “Today’s judge should like Peaches better.”

  “Yesterday’s should have too. She’s the better bitch.”

  “Says who?”

  Aunt Peg drew on the dignity of her nearly sixty years. “The voice of experience.”

  “Pardon me, but I think that voice is biased.”

  If I didn’t step in now, they could quibble over the respective merits of the two dogs for the next half hour. “So Sam won with Casey,” I said, wrapping up. “What else happened?”

  “The Doberman went Best.”

  Not a Doberman, the Doberman. That meant he was currently one of the very top-winning dogs, one that was so well known to the show going fraternity that his name didn’t even have to be mentioned. Of course, being relatively new to Poodles and totally lacking when it came to Doberman Pinschers, I had no idea who she was talking about. Not that that seemed to bother Aunt Peg. She simply plowed on without me.

  “Harry Flynn’s Springer won the Sporting group.”

  “What about Charlie?”

  “Second.”

  “Who showed him?”

  “Angie again,” said Sam. By now he knew enough about what was going on to be keeping tabs, too. “She and Rick must have worked things out because Charlie seems to be her dog now.”

  I leaned back against the edge of the grooming table, being careful not to crowd the Poodle. “What happened? Did Angie blow it?”

  “Not really,” said Aunt Peg. “Charlie simply got beaten by another very good dog. Every judge has a different opinion, and that’s what makes every dog show different. The Springer’s a nice one. There’s no reason he shouldn’t win, except that right now, Charlie’s the one with all the momentum. He’s got a very nice ad in Dog Scene this week.” She gestured toward the crate. “It’s a tribute to Jenny. Take a look.”

  I did and saw that Davey had decided to occupy his time by thumbing through the trade journal. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Reading.”

  That was wishful thinking on his part. He barely knew the letters of the alphabet. I glanced down over his shoulder and saw that he’d stopped at a picture of a particularly large Great Dane. “About what?”

  “A pony. See?”

  “Yes, I do. Do you mind if I look for a minute?” He shrugged and I lifted the magazine away and thumbed through the pages.

  Dog Scene was the bible of the dog show world. Published weekly and mailed free to judges, it contained news, gossip, updates on AKC rulings, and most importantly, advertisements about all the top-winning dogs. What was the point of scoring a big win under a good judge if only the people who were actually at the show knew about it? Dog Scene, with its large audience and its flashy ads, made sure that all the people who should have been in the know, were.

  “Where did you get this, Aunt Peg?”

  “Pat came around passing out freebies under the theory that every exhibitor is a potential advertiser. I’m too cheap to subscribe, so I was happy to get one. The ad’s near the beginning. Go back, I think you’ve passed it.”

  Of course, I should have known. In ads, as in real estate, location is everything; and the big players paid a premium for preferred positioning. I flipped back and came very quickly to a picture of a buff Cocker Spaniel.

  Champion Shadowlands Super-Charged, the headline read. The page might h
ave been intended as a tribute to Jenny, but the dog was still prominently featured.

  “Hey, wow!” cried Davey. “Great car!”

  “Where?”

  “There. See?”

  Of course, now that he pointed it out, I did. I’d been looking at the picture which was of Jenny and Charlie winning Best in Show at Devon in early October, presumably their last show together. But Davey was right, the ad did contain a car. A cartoon model of a souped-up sports car was roaring along just below the words Super-Charged in the dog’s name.

  “That’s Charlie’s logo,” said Aunt Peg. “It runs in all his ads.”

  “Why does a dog need a logo?”

  “To make him stand out and to give people something easy to remember,” Sam explained. “After a while all those pictures of dogs and judges begin to look pretty much alike. And don’t forget these same dogs are advertised week after week. Somebody started the idea a couple of years ago and now they all do it.”

  I flipped though the next few pages and saw what he was talking about. A Chow Chow named Ruxpin had a teddy bear; and a Whippet named Lullaby featured a musical score. I turned back and read the rest of Jenny’s ad. The copy was indeed intended as a tribute. It had been written with great feeling by Florence Byrd and there was a catch in my throat before I’d finished reading.

  I wondered if Charlie’s owner knew that her handler had been murdered. Or, as I was beginning to suspect, that Jenny had been trying to escape from an unhappy marriage. Letting out a deep sigh, I slapped the magazine closed and put it back down on the crate.

  “Can you watch Davey for a few minutes?” I asked Aunt Peg.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “There’s someone I want to see.”

  Fifteen

  Crystal Mars’s booth was midway down the concession line in front of a large window. Bounded by two merchandising behemoths whose dog care supplies were stacked halfway to the ceiling, her stand looked small and almost spartan by comparison. Maybe she should have brought along some wind chimes.

  Crystal’s waist-high counter held two bowls offering free samples of kibble and biscuits. There was a stack of brochures and a chart displayed on a tripod, touting the nutritional value of her foods compared to the other leading brands. Behind the counter was a pile of twenty-pound bags, a small metal cash box, and a chair for Crystal to sit on.

  It was no-frills salesmanship, but it seemed to be working because when I arrived at the booth, there were several people in line waiting to hear what Crystal had to say. One thing I’d learned about dog people in the last few months: they’re always looking for a better way. Softer brushes, richer shampoos, healthier and more palatable foods—they’re willing to try just about anything. Whatever they’re using is the best they’ve found so far, but they’re always open to suggestion.

  I browsed at the booth next door until Crystal had a free moment. By the time the line had been dealt with and she’d sat down to light up a cigarette, I’d purchased a large nylabone and a braided leather leash, and was seriously considering the merits of a forced air dryer. And they say raising children is expensive.

  I walked the few feet over and found Crystal opening quarter rolls into the cash box on her lap and inhaling smoke as though she was wishing she could mainline it.

  “Crystal?”

  “Yes?” She set the cash box aside and reached to stub out her cigarette.

  “Melanie Travis, remember? I was out at your kennel a couple weeks ago.”

  “Sure, hi. How’s the kibble working out?”

  “Great. Faith loves it.” I looked around behind the counter, hoping I might find a playmate for Davey. “Where’s Sarah?”

  “Home with a sitter. Her team had a soccer game today and I hated for her to miss it.” Her hand hovered reluctantly over a disposable foil ashtray. “Listen, do you mind if I smoke? I’ve been waiting all morning for this.”

  “Go ahead. Just blow in the other direction, okay?”

  “You got it.” She took another drag. “With only one dog, you can’t be out of the kibble already. Ready to try some biscuits?”

  “Sure.” That would buy me some time. I glanced down at the selection. “The medium size, I guess.”

  “Whole wheat, charcoal, or peanut butter?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Crystal looked offended. She leaned down under the counter and pulled out all three bags so I could have a look. Not surprisingly, they all looked like dog biscuits. I pointed to the peanut butter, that being one of Davey’s favorite foods. Like child, like Poodle, I hoped.

  “I wanted to ask you how Ziggy was doing.”

  “He’s fine.” Crystal laid the bag of biscuits on the counter and went to write up a slip. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “No reason. It’s just. . .” I stopped, feeling an absurd desire to look back over my shoulder. “Did you know that the police think Jenny was murdered?”

  Her hand stilled in mid-air. “I heard it was an accident.”

  “So did I, at first. But it wasn’t. She was poisoned, apparently on purpose.”

  She finished quickly with the slip and shoved it to me across the counter.

  “Crystal, Jenny must have had a reason for hiding Ziggy away. If we could figure out what it was—”

  “I told you before.” Crystal snatched up my five-dollar bill and made change. “Jenny wanted to get the dog away from her husband.”

  “That was her side of it. It isn’t Rick’s.”

  She stared at me accusingly. “Did you tell him where Ziggy is?”

  “Not so far.”

  “I guess that’s something.” She was still frowning.

  “Why did Jenny pick you to leave Ziggy with?”

  “I guess she knew I’d take good care of him.”

  “Even though you two weren’t friends?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Rick.”

  “Rick Maguire doesn’t know what he’s talking about. It’s not the first time he’s gotten something wrong and I’m sure it won’t be the last.” Crystal reached over and stubbed out her cigarette. “Look, I don’t have time for this. I’m trying to run a business here.”

  I looked around. I was the only customer standing at the booth and I’d just paid four ninety-five for a bag of dog biscuits. I figured that entitled me to one more question.

  “Was Jenny thinking about divorcing Rick again?”

  “How would I know the answer to that?” She looked exasperated now; but also resigned, like maybe she’d realized that I wasn’t going to leave until I was ready.

  “Her sister told me she didn’t care about the kennel and the business. She’d have left all that behind. But she cared about Ziggy. Is that why she wanted to get him away?”

  “Look.” Crystal braced both hands on the counter and leaned toward me, lowering her voice. “All I know is what I saw. Jenny always had Ziggy with her. She took him everywhere. So you’d think she would have been unhappy when she left him with me, but she wasn’t. Just the opposite. It was almost like she was excited or something. Then bang! A week later she’s dead. Something weird was going on. That’s all I know.”

  On the way back to the grooming area, I bumped into Harry Flynn outside the Springer Spaniel ring. I could say it was fate, or even an accident, but considering I had to manhandle three people out of the way in order to throw myself in his path, I’d say good timing had more to do with it.

  He’d just won Best of Breed with his dog which should have meant I’d be catching him in a good mood.

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” he snarled as we both righted ourselves. Being smaller, I was the one who’d suffered more damage. Harry wasn’t tall, but he was tough. He’d rolled over me like a bulldozer.

  “Harry Flynn.” I tried out a smile.

  “Yeah?” Now that he was going again, he didn’t even break stride. “Who are you?”

  “Melanie Travis.” I fell in beside him. “We met
at Jenny Maguire’s funeral.”

  “If you say so.”

  We were weaving a circuitous route through the crowds back toward his set-up at the other end of the grooming area. The throngs of people pushing toward the rings were too thick for me to remain beside him. Instead I dropped behind a step and let Harry run interference for me. We reached his set-up and he tossed the purple and gold rosette on top of a tack box and slipped the Springer into a wire mesh crate.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” I said. “Do you have a minute?”

  “No.”

  “How about if I talk while you work?”

  “Make it fast.” He was already pulling another dog out. “I got Cockers coming right up.”

  “It’s about Jenny Maguire.”

  “What about her?”

  There was no use beating around the bush with this man. “Why did you hate her?”

  He hefted the Cocker onto the table and slipped a grooming loop over its head to hold it in place. “Who says I did?”

  “You did . . . sort of. At the wake you called her a bitch.”

  “Hell, lady, I call lots of people bitches. Sort of an occupational hazard, I guess you might say.” He laughed heartily at his own joke. The rough and raspy laugh of a two-pack-a-day man, it was harsh enough to sound painful.

  “You also implied you were glad she was dead.”

  “No crime in that, far as I know. Any time the competition wants to do itself in, more power to them.”

  “It seems like you’ve been doing more winning now that she’s out of your way.”

  “Maybe,” said Flynn. He took a spray bottle and spritzed the Cocker lightly with water. “What about it?”

  “I guess you heard she was murdered.”

  “So somebody didn’t like her.”

  “Somebody like you?”

  Flynn turned on a hand-held dryer and smoothed the Cocker’s coat. “I don’t know why you’re so interested, but as it happens, you’re right. I didn’t like her.”

  “How come?”

  “How come?” He chewed on that for a moment. “How come? Because she didn’t have to start from scratch and make her own way like the rest of us. With her parents’ name behind her, you knew the judges were going to sit up and pay attention right from the get-go. And they did, too.”