“You resented her success, then.”
“No, I resented the way she got her success. Jenny Maguire made it look easy. And it isn’t easy. It’s never easy. You’re scrambling to win, and you’re scrambling to pay the bills. You’re going to bed at midnight and getting up at three A.M. to drive two hundred miles to some Godforsaken fairground in the hope that you can keep everything together one more day. Take it from Harry Flynn. Making a living showing dogs is no picnic. It’s damn hard work.”
He replaced the loop with the Cocker’s lead and swept the dog off the table into his arms. “Does that answer your question?”
He was gone before I could tell him it had.
When I got back to the set-up, Aunt Peg and Sam were engaged in the last stages of preparation for the ring. Peaches and Casey were standing on their tables having hair spray applied to their toplines to make the coat stand up and look as lush and profuse as possible. This was one of those things that had baffled me in the beginning, like using clippers on smooth-coated Whippets and back brushing Old English Sheepdogs. But by now I was inured to almost anything exhibitors might do to get their dogs ready to be shown. I didn’t even look twice.
I did, however, gaze carefully around the set-up. In my absence my son seemed to have disappeared. I hoped it was a good sign that nobody seemed concerned.
“Where’s Davey?”
“He found a friend.” Aunt Peg nodded back over her shoulder and I saw that he was in the next row of crates. He and another boy about the same age were zooming matchbox cars up and down the side of a tack box. “That child’s mother thought to bring toys.”
I’d been afraid toy cars might get in the way and had packed extra juice boxes, crayons, and paper. Aunt Peg clung to opinions, however, like a subway straphanger during a New York rush hour. There was no use even trying to explain. “Do you want me to go pick up your armbands?”
“Yes, please. Number sixteen.”
“Ten for me,” said Sam. “And check and see if the ring is on time, would you?”
Half a dozen other exhibitors were already waiting for armbands at ring three. Bichon Frises were being judged. I read over a spectator’s shoulder, checked the numbers in the ring against those in the catalogue and realized I was watching Best of Breed which meant that the judge was on time and that Standard Poodles were next.
When my turn came, I collected the numbers I needed plus rubber bands to go with them. In the next ring over, Ascob Cocker Spaniels were just finishing. Flynn was nowhere in sight and Angie and Charlie were once again at the head of the line as the judge made her selection for Best Of Variety. Angie got her ribbon, picked up Charlie and strode from the ring. Last time I’d seen her win with the Cocker she’d been elated; now she accepted the prize as her due.
Glancing around, I realized that Rick hadn’t come to oversee her performance. Obviously things had progressed to the point where he trusted Angie to show their most valuable client’s dog without his supervision. And why not? Angie seemed to be doing just fine. In the month since Jenny had gone, she’d blossomed from being the shy assistant to holding center stage. She was taking on the top sporting dog handlers and, for the moment, beating them handily.
“Congratulations,” I said as she walked past.
“Thanks. I didn’t see you over here. Charlie was great, wasn’t he?”
“He was. And so were you. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“A month ago, you’d barely even been in the ring. And now look how far you’ve come.”
Angie frowned. “I could have been doing this all along. I had the talent, I just didn’t have the chance. Jenny never let me try.”
“It helps to have a good dog,” I said dryly.
To her credit, Angie had the grace to blush. “Charlie’s the best. He put Jenny on the map and he can do the same for me. All I need with him is time.”
Time. The one thing Jenny hadn’t had.
Crystal Mars didn’t think that Rick knew much about anything. Since Ziggy was still in Stratford, it seemed doubtful that Jenny had confided in her sister either, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. “I was wondering, do you know a woman named Crystal Mars?”
“No.” The denial came too quickly to be entirely believable.
“She lives in—”
“I told you, I don’t know her.” Angie shouldered past me and disappeared into the crowd.
I might have spent more time wondering about that if I hadn’t turned back to ring three and seen that the first class in Standard Poodles was already being judged. I hurried back to the set-up.
“Puppy Dogs are in,” I said, handing out the armbands. “And Angie just won the Variety with Charlie.”
“That’s seven in a row.” Aunt Peg hopped Peaches down off the table, waited until she’d shaken out, then did some minor repairs to the carefully coifed coat.
“If she’s so good, how come Jenny never let her handle?”
Aunt Peg looked up. “Who says she is?”
“Angie, for one.”
Casey landed on the ground behind me with a quiet thump. She, too, enjoyed a leisurely shake. “Angie’s adequate.” Sam sprayed back a strand of fallen top-knot hair. “That’s about it.”
“Then why is she winning?”
“Half of it’s Charlie,” said Aunt Peg. “As for the rest, that girl’s riding on her sister’s coattails and reputation, that’s all. Now lead the way and block for us. We’ve got to get going or we’ll be late.”
With me in front, arms spread wide to part the crowds so that the dogs wouldn’t get jostled, we took the Poodles up to the ring. Puppy Bitches were in, followed by a Bred-By-Exhibitor class of two. The Open class, where both Sam and Aunt Peg were entered along with four or five others, came after that.
Crawford Langley was also waiting at ringside with his entry as were several other professional handlers I’d met during the summer. The judge was having a hard time deciding between two puppies, a black and a cream, both of whom looked pretty similar to me. I sidled over to where Crawford was standing.
He looked up and smiled, the consummate pro. His gray flannel pants bore a sharp crease and his burgundy jacket was set off by a pale yellow silk pocket square that picked up the flecks in his tie. “Not showing your pretty puppy today?”
Complimenting people’s dogs came as naturally to Crawford as breathing. He was smart and savvy and played the game as well as anybody; and he had a long list of satisfied customers to show for it. He’d also been around long enough to know where most of the skeletons were buried. The problem was getting him to talk about them.
“No, I’m just here as a spectator. Crawford, you’re friends with Roger and Lavinia Peterson, aren’t you?”
“Used to be.” He slipped a comb out of his pocket and smoothed it through the Poodle’s long ears. “Since they moved south, I don’t see that much of them anymore.”
“Did you know Jenny and Angie when they were little?”
“About as well as I knew any kids.” Crawford crooked a brow meaningfully. He was gay and kept his relationships discreet. “Which is to say, probably not very well at all.”
“Jenny moved out when she was still a teenager and Angie followed soon after. Do you know why?”
He gazed over my shoulder into the ring. The Bred-By-class was in. “What does it matter now?”
“It matters because Jenny was murdered.”
His eyes met mine. “Roger and Lavinia didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“Aunt Peg said Jenny and Angie were estranged from them. How come?”
Crawford hesitated. I knew he was hoping the steward would call his class and save him. Thankfully the judge was still taking her time. “It probably wasn’t the easiest house to grow up in.” he said finally. “Roger got around pretty good.”
“Got around. You mean with other women?”
Crawford nodded. “It wouldn’t have been so bad except he did it right under Lavinia’s n
ose. And she wasn’t the type to take anything lying down.”
“Did they fight about it?”
“I’d say so.”
There was something in his tone. . . .
“How bad?”
The judge was handing out the Bred-By ribbons.
“There’s my class—”
“How bad, Crawford?”
“Bad enough.” He started for the gate.
I followed right along behind. “How bad?” I hissed in his ear.
There was a jam-up at the gate. Poodles coming out, Poodles going in. Crawford had to stop for a moment and when he did I was right beside him. He gave me a furious look, but with it came the answer I was after.
His voice was so low that even in the crush of bodies, I had to lean in to hear him. “Bad enough to put Lavinia in a cast once or twice, okay?”
Okay.
At least now I knew.
Sixteen
It was a shame for Aunt Peg’s sake that I’d lit a fire under Crawford like that, because when he finally got into the ring, he showed his Open bitch with a vengeance. And when Crawford Langley was hot, nobody else even stood a chance. The judge, who’d been dithering over every decision she made all afternoon, couldn’t hand him the Winners Bitch ribbon fast enough. Not only that but since there was only one mediocre champion in attendance, she gave him the Variety too.
“Too bad,” I said to Aunt Peg, who was holding the striped ribbon for Reserve.
“Luck of the draw,” she said with a sigh. “Crawford’s bitch is pretty. Sam was lucky to beat her yesterday.”
Today he’d gone third in the Open class behind the two of them. “Luck?” he said, coming up behind us. “I assure you it was all skill.”
“Really?” Aunt Peg teased. “Then what happened today? Lose your touch?”
We reached the set-up before Sam could come up with an answer. While we were gone, Davey had taken command of Aunt Peg’s grooming table. His new friend was beneath Sam’s and their matchbox cars had become guided missiles which they were lobbing at each other across the aisle. The boy’s mother, who was brushing an Afghan, had the frazzled look of somebody nearing the end of her rope.
“Johnny!” she cried as we approached. “If you throw one more thing, I’m going to lock you in a crate!” She glanced over and saw us coming. “Thank God you’re back. I’ve got to get up to the ring. Do you suppose. . .?”
“I’d be happy to.” With practiced ease, I swung Davey down off the table top, removing him from his source of ammunition. “I was about to get Davey some lunch. Does Johnny like hot dogs?”
“Loves them,” his mother said gratefully. She hopped the Afghan off his crate and hurried down the aisle. “I shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes, okay?”
While Sam and Aunt Peg began the work of undoing the Poodles, the boys and I went off to get lunch. I’d thought Davey had plenty of energy, but Johnny was a miniature dynamo. He ate two hot dogs, blew bubbles through his straw until his soda overflowed, and painted several long smears of mustard down the front of his shirt. All this while taking aim and pretending to shoot his finger at everyone who walked by. I jumped with the first round of sound effects, and was still jumping fifteen minutes later.
I’m not only a mother, I’m a teacher. I should be able to cope, right? It pains me to say it but I couldn’t give him back soon enough.
Sam, who’d kept himself carefully removed from the fray, was laughing by the time I returned Johnny to his mother. The two of them immediately began haggling over whether or not he’d been good enough to deserve an ice cream cone. I wondered if they wanted to hear my vote.
“It makes you want to run right off and have more, doesn’t it?” he asked.
I gave him the look that comment deserved as mother and son walked off, presumably in search of ice cream.
“The Non-Sporting group should just about be ready to start,” said Aunt Peg, consulting her schedule. “Let’s go see how far Crawford manages to get with his bitch.”
We left the Poodles in their crates and trooped up to ringside. I was holding Davey’s hand, and Sam had his arm around my waist. Aunt Peg was beaming happily, looking as though she wished she had a camera to record this Hallmark moment for posterity. Sometimes I just want to smack her.
Davey’s patience lasted pretty well through the judging of the Non-Sporting group. A Bulldog won and Crawford’s Standard bitch was fourth. As the Sporting dogs filed into the ring, however, he began to dance in place. I took a firmer hold of his hand and gazed up and down the line, finding Harry Flynn with his liver and white Springer in the middle and Angie with Charlie several places behind.
The buff Cocker looked first-rate. His coat was sleek and shiny and he was bouncing with excitement at being in the ring. Some dogs really love to show; and Charlie looked like he was ready to have a great time. Even though Angie was at the end of the lead, I still thought of him as Jenny’s dog, so rooting for the Cocker was like pulling for a friend.
I nudged Aunt Peg. “Do you think Harry can beat him again?”
“There’s a whole ring full of dogs in there,” she said mildly. “In theory, any one of them could beat Charlie on the day.”
On the day. It meant that judges were supposed to consider the animals only as they appeared before them at the moment of judging. If a dog was having an off show, they were not to remember how well he’d appeared on another occasion. If a dog was young, they were not to excuse the immaturity or speculate what the finished product might look like. The dogs were to be judged solely by their appearance on the day.
But as the judge sent the line of dogs gaiting around the ring for the first time, I could see that, by any criteria, this was clearly Charlie’s day. The buff Cocker was super charged, just like his name said. He bounded around the ring, moving out and covering ground and hamming it up for the ringside.
“There’s Mrs. Byrd,” said Sam.
He pointed and I saw Charlie’s owner seated front row center on the other side of the ring. Up close, she was older than I’d realized before; perhaps mid-eighties, judging by the carefully styled white hair and the birdlike fragility of her frame. Her narrow face was lined with wrinkles, but her blue eyes were clear and sharp. She’d braced her cane on the ground in front of her and was leaning forward on it from her seat as she took in the action in the ring. Behind the chair, Dirk hovered protectively.
“Mom?” Davey tugged at my hand, pulling downward until I squatted beside him. “I have to go.”
“Now?” The judge was making her first cut.
Davey nodded.
“Can you wait just a few minutes?”
He clutched the front of his pants. “I don’t think so.”
Right. I stood back up.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sam.
“Davey and I are going to the ladies’ room.”
“The ladies’ room?”
“He’s five, Sam. It’s not like he can go into the men’s room by himself.”
Sam held out a hand. “Come on, sport. I’ll take you.”
“Into the men’s room?” Davey’s eyes opened wide. “Wow!”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Right, Davey?”
“Right!”
I thought they were carrying things a bit far but I didn’t say another word as they marched away. At least it meant that I got to watch the end of the group and see who won.
The judge had pulled out four finalists and lined them up in the center of the ring: Charlie, the Springer, a Clumber Spaniel, and a Flat Coated Retriever. He sent each on a final lap of the ring and the spectators responded by enthusiastically endorsing their favorites with applause. Just like Queen For A Day, except without the meter.
When the judge made his final arrangement, Charlie was in front. As he pointed to confirm the decision, Angie whooped with joy and gathered the Cocker up into her arms. Harry Flynn, with his Springer, had to settl
e for third.
Sam and Davey weren’t back yet and Aunt Peg was engrossed in a conversation with some people standing behind her so I went to congratulate Angie. Clutching the big blue rosette and silver trophy, she left the ring by a gate on the other side. As I hurried around to catch up, I realized she was taking the prizes to Florence Byrd.
When the two women met, Mrs. Byrd was already on her feet. I was half a side of the ring away but I could see the older woman quite clearly. Whatever pleasure she’d felt in the win was being contained behind a wall of strict reserve. She accepted the ribbon and the silver plate and spared Charlie a pat on the head. Meanwhile Angie was bouncing up and down in place, joyously exuberant enough for both of them.
“We’re hot now. Nobody can touch us,” I heard her say as I drew near.
“You all say that when you win. Yesterday you lost.”
“Yesterday was a fluke. I bet I don’t lose another group all year. Charlie’s a super dog.”
“Good breeding will always tell,” Mrs. Byrd said sternly. The Cocker jumped up against her leg. He couldn’t have weighed much but it was still enough to stagger her slightly. Dirk moved in quickly from behind but the old woman waved him away. “And of course, Jenny made sure he was beautifully trained.”
“Yes . . . of course.” Angie’s smile faltered a bit, then quickly recovered. “But he shows great for me, too. And we’re just getting started together. Next year—”
“Next year, he’ll be retired. The dog’s coming home in December.”
“I know that was the plan, but he’s doing so well—”
Caught up in the crowds near the ring, Harry Flynn pushed past them rudely. He was glowering about something. Or maybe, as I was beginning to suspect, that was just his natural expression. Neither woman paid any attention.
“Charlie’s done well all along,” Florence Byrd said. “But he’s a dog, not a machine. He’s had a long, hard year and at the end of it, he’ll come home.”
Underdog Page 14