Hair of the Dog

by Laurien Berenson

  “I guess you heard about what happened to Barry,” I said.

  She shrugged, being careful not to let the motion travel down her arm and affect the precise line she was scissoring.

  “Pretty shocking, huh?”

  “You mean that somebody was murdered, or that it was Barry Turk?”

  “Both.”

  Bertie finished the side she was working on, straightened, and leaned back to take a look. “I guess you didn’t know Barry very well.”

  “No, I didn’t. Did you?”

  “Better than I wanted to, all things considered.”

  I remembered a show I’d been to in the spring, where Bertie had been helping Crawford, learning the ropes and piling up favors at the same time. He probably wasn’t the only established handler she’d approached.

  “Did you ever work for Barry?”

  Bertie snorted. “Are you kidding? Just being in the ring with him was bad enough.”

  “Bad how?”

  She glanced around the tent. “It wasn’t just me. You can ask nearly any woman here.”

  “Ask them what?” I asked, feeling suitably dense.

  “Barry Turk,” she said. “The dog show world’s poster boy for sexual harassment.”

  Six

  After the encounter I’d had with Barry at Aunt Peg’s party, maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was.

  “Bertie, what are you talking about?”

  She reached around behind her, took a narrow show lead out of her tack box, and slid the loop over the Bichon’s head. “I don’t even think it was that much of a sex thing with Barry. It was ego, and power. Combined with the fact that he found himself irresistible and seemed to think everyone else did too. It’s been going on for years.”

  “What’s been going on for years? What did he do?”

  “Make himself a real pain in the ass, mostly. You always knew you had to watch yourself when Barry was around because chances were he’d try something. A little squeeze maybe, or a suggestive comment whispered so that only you could hear. It was always just enough to throw you off balance, and I’m sure that’s what he was after. When I’m in the ring, I need to be concentrating on my dog, not wondering whether Barry Turk is going to sidle over and rub up against me.”

  I could certainly understand that. In the limited amount of showing I’d done, I’d already learned how stressful it could be. Judges were expected to evaluate twenty-five dogs an hour. Add in the paperwork and technical details they had to see to, and it worked out to less than two minutes to form an opinion of each dog.

  With that kind of pressure, a handler had to be on her toes—and keep her dog at its best—the entire time she was in the ring. A distraction like the one Turk had threatened her with could easily mean the difference between winning and losing.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t just you?”

  Bertie frowned. She was slipping a supply of dried liver into her pocket to use as bait in the ring.

  “I mean, look at you. I’m sure Barry wasn’t the only one who was interested.”

  “No, but he was the only one who came after me in the ring.” She ran her comb through the Bichon’s tail, then flipped it back up over the dog’s back. “And what I look like had nothing to do with it. Barry was like an experienced stud dog. He went after any female he saw.”

  “What did you do about it?” I asked curiously.

  “Nothing,” said Bertie. “Mostly I just tried to laugh it off. But there were other women he tried the same thing with, who got really upset. They talked about filing a complaint with the rep.”

  The rep was the A.K.C. representative, on hand at nearly all shows to ensure that rules were followed and things were running smoothly.

  “And did they?”

  Bertie shook her head. “You know how it is. Barry’d been around a while and he went out of his way to suck up to anyone who mattered, so he had enough friends in high places. The women were afraid they wouldn’t be taken seriously, and that they’d only wind up making things tougher on themselves.”

  “Men have always counted on logic like that to protect them,” I said angrily. “ff women don’t speak up, nothing ever changes.”

  “It did this time, didn’t it?” Bertie picked up the Bichon, ready to head up to the ring. “Maybe we all just got lucky.”

  The food stand had doughnuts and brownies both. I bought enough to need a box to carry them in, then added tea for Peg, coffee for Douglas and me, and a carton of milk for Davey. When I returned to the setup, I was the most popular person in the area for at least five minutes.

  There turned out to be a boy Davey’s age in the next aisle, and while the two of them compared toys, I helped Aunt Peg finish getting Tory ready for the ring. It sounds more important than it was. All I did was cup her muzzle in my palm and hold her steady while Aunt Peg scissored her trim.

  Although the lines of each dog’s trim are set at home, the finish is always perfected just before the Poodle goes in the ring. The work is exacting and can take a fair amount of time. All show Poodles are trained to stand quietly on their tables, but in order to make the hair fall correctly—that is, exactly the way it will when the dog is in the ring being shown—the Poodle’s head must be held in a very upright position. A dog at attention would stand that way willingly, one being groomed wouldn’t bother.

  It isn’t the easiest pose to hold, especially since Tory tended to relax by leaning into me. Every time I was tempted to let down, however, Peg reached around and poked me with her scissors. I noticed she hadn’t asked Douglas to come and stand with his hand up in the air. Instead, he sat comfortably in a folding chair and heaped her efforts with praise.

  “Those lines are so precise,” he said. “It must take years of practice to learn how to do that.”

  “It does,” Peg agreed, never one to belittle her own achievements. “It’s not learning how to use the scissors that’s important, but developing your eye so that you can see the best trim for each dog. Look around the tent.”

  Douglas and I both did. As Standard Poodles were due to be judged soon, there were a number of them out of their crates and up on the tables.

  “Every single dog you’re seeing right now has a slightly different trim. Even though they’re all in continental, the lines on each will vary to accentuate the dog’s good points and camouflage his faults.”

  “Look here, for instance.” Peg placed her hand on Tory’s front leg just below the elbow. “This bitch is square, just like the standard calls for. Even so, judges tend to reward for an exaggerated look, and that means long legs and a short back.”

  Her fingers brushed the bottom of Tory’s mane coat. “See how high I’ve scissored this line? That gives her the illusion of more leg. Luckily, she has a good front and I can get away with it.”

  When she pointed it out to me, I could see what she was talking about, although I never would have noticed it on my own. Douglas, however, just shook his head.

  “Sorry, Peg,” he said. “To me, they all look alike.”

  “Been there,” I said, smiling.

  When she was finished scissoring, Peg took down Tory’s topknot, brushed through the long, thick hair, then replaced the rubber bands in a tighter formation that would set off her face and expression. Between brushing, scissoring, and spraying, I’d seen her spend nearly two hours getting a Standard Poodle ready to go in the ring. Then, when the judging was over, it could take half as long again to undo everything she’d just done. Peg, however, didn’t seem the slightest bit perturbed by the effort it all took. She hummed softly under her breath as she worked her magic with comb and hair spray.

  When judging time approached, we all accompanied her to the ring. Holding Davey’s hand tightly in mine, I stood with Douglas at ringside and tried to explain how the competition worked.

  It was easy for him to understand the individual examinations, where the judge ran his hands over each dog’s body, making a mental image of the structure beneath the hair
. And he was enough of an athlete himself to understand why so much time was devoted to assessing the dogs’ movement. But in the end, he still couldn’t detect the subtle differences that set a really good Poodle apart from one that was merely average.

  “I can see I’m going to have to work on this,” said Douglas, clapping with delight when the judge awarded Tory the purple ribbon for Winners Bitch. “Peg’s entry certainly looked the best to me, and of course I’m delighted she won, but I really have no idea why.”

  “Tory’s very sound,” Davey said knowledgeably. “And she has nice feet too.”

  I stared down at my son. What he’d said was true, but how had he known that?

  Peg left the ring briefly while Reserve Winners Bitch was judged. Douglas started toward her, but Davey and I both held back.

  “We’ll see her after,” I said. “She has to go right back in.”

  “Best of Breed, right?” Douglas guessed. “I may not know much about dog shows, but I have heard of that.”

  “Best of Variety,” Davey corrected Douglas. “That’s because they’re Poodles.”

  This time I could only shake my head.

  “What’s the difference?” asked Douglas.

  I couldn’t help myself. I waited a beat just in case Davey wanted to go on and explain that too. He didn’t, so I did.

  “You’re right in thinking that most dogs are judged for Best of Breed. But some, like Poodles and Cockers and Dachshunds for example, have separate varieties within the breed. Poodles come in three sizes: Toy, Mini, and Standard, so they’re divided by size. Cockers are divided by color. And Dachshunds are divided by the kind of coat they have, either smooth, longhair, or wirehair.”

  “Stop.” Douglas held up a hand. “You’re making me dizzy. Just tell me one thing. Did Peg accomplish what she set out to do today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. That’s all I need to know.”

  Not only did Tory win the points, she also beat the Winners Dog for Best of Winners. Then there was a twenty-minute wait before Peg could have Tory’s picture taken with the judge. Douglas wandered off to check out the concession stands and took Davey with him. I could definitely get used to having that man around.

  Afterward, Peg and I strolled back to the grooming tent in a celebratory mood, passing Crawford’s setup on the way in. He and Terry were taking a lunch break, and they’d been joined by Ron and Viv Pullman. The Pullmans had apparently watched Crawford handle their Chow to Best of Breed, and were eager to discuss Leo’s chances of winning the Non-Sporting group.

  “Who won in Standards?” Crawford asked as soon as he saw us.

  “Pogo,” said Peg, hopping Tory back up onto her table.

  “Good,” Crawford replied.

  It never ceases to amaze me how exhibitors manage to keep track of all their competition. They know one another’s dogs by show name, by call name, and by handler as well. Pogo was a young Standard Poodle who’d been doing well in the variety but wasn’t yet much of a factor in the group. One name, and Crawford immediately knew where he stood.

  “Pogo.” Viv frowned slightly. “I don’t believe I’ve seen that dog. Is he new?”

  “Jack Stacey just started specialing him this spring.” Ron’s arm was looped around his wife’s shoulders, and he gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Leo’s been beating him pretty easily.”

  “Pogo’s not a bad dog.” Crawford was ever the diplomat. “Just young. Next year he’ll be more of a threat.”

  “Who cares about next year?” Terry plucked a cherry tomato out of his salad and popped it in his mouth. “Today we’re winning Best in Show.”

  “Don’t say that!” Ron cried. “You’ll jinx us.”

  “Maybe he’ll bring us luck,” said Viv.

  Crawford, as usual, declined to comment.

  “Did you hear Melanie’s news?” asked Terry.

  Viv and Ron both turned to look at me, but all I could do was shrug. I had no idea what he was talking about either.

  “She’s going to figure out who murdered Barry Turk!”

  Oh, Lord.

  “Really?” Ron didn’t look impressed. I couldn’t blame him a bit.

  “You have big ears,” I said to Terry.

  “You bet I do.” He placed his fingers behind his lobes and waggled them impishly. “And a big mouth too.”

  “We’re working on correcting both,” Crawford said sternly.

  “But we’re not succeeding,” said Terry, mimicking the stern tone.

  I had to laugh, in spite of myself. Viv did too.

  Ron was silent for a moment, as if thinking something over. “I imagine you’re aware that Barry used to handle Leo?”

  I nodded.

  “Does that make me a suspect in your investigation?”

  Whoa, I thought. Everyone was taking this much too seriously. “I don’t have any suspects. Or an investigation. Alicia requested that I ask a few questions and I told her I would. That’s all there is to it.”

  Viv shook her head sadly. “I have to admit, I do feel sorry for her.”

  Abruptly Ron’s arm slid down from around his wife’s shoulders. “Why on earth would you say something like that?”

  “Because it’s true. Obviously she was in love with Barry. She left Bill for him.”

  “And got stuck with a man who refused to do the right thing by her,” Peg chimed in.

  “Do the right thing?” I repeated. “As in marry her? Is that what Alicia wanted?”

  “Of course she did, hon,” said Terry. “Anyone with eyes could see that. You straight people are so conventional.”

  “Alicia mentioned it to me a couple of times,” said Viv. “We used to talk when Leo was there. She said she felt like she was living in limbo with Barry. She wanted a commitment. I don’t think she ever gave him an ultimatum or anything, but it was pretty clear she was beginning to get fed up.”

  When I’d seen Alicia at her house, she’d offered to tell me anything, but she certainly hadn’t told me that. I wondered if there were any other important facts she’d neglected to mention. I also wondered just how much of a temper Alicia had. It looked like there was more than one reason that the police had settled on her as their prime suspect.

  “Barry and Alicia were already living together,” I said. “Why wouldn’t he marry her?”

  “Because that’s the kind of bastard he was,” said Viv.

  “Because he liked his freedom,” guessed Terry.

  “Because he was a fool,” Ron said.

  Crawford leaned into the group and spoke up for the first time. “Barry didn’t marry Alicia because he didn’t have to. He knew she’d stay with him regardless, and she did.”

  “I wonder if the baby would have made a difference,” said Peg.

  “Baby?” Viv turned and stared. “What baby?”

  Terry grinned with delight. “I guess we won’t be keeping that cat in the bag any longer.”

  “Alicia is pregnant?”

  “Apparently so,” Ron told his wife.

  “Three months. She told me about it yesterday. How did you find out?” I asked Terry.

  “Who had to find out? It was perfectly obvious to anyone who was paying attention. Poor Alicia, for a while she had morning sickness something awful. And if you’ve ever been in a Portosan at a show, you know nobody visits them unless they absolutely have to. When I saw Alicia heading that way two and three times in a morning, it was pretty easy to figure out.”

  “Portosans? Is that what you’re all standing over here talking about?” Austin Beamish’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried with authority. He strolled up to join the group. “And here I thought it would be something interesting.”

  “We know the only thing that interests you,” said Ron. I wondered if I was imagining the edge to his voice. “And that’s who’s winning Best in Show this afternoon. Care to clue us in?”

  “I wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to speculate this early in the day.” Austin’s gaze swep
t around the group, settling on Peg, Viv, and me. “Ladies, may I say you’re all looking extremely lovely?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Peg responded lightly, but I could tell she was flattered.

  “Now, now,” said Douglas, coming to join us with Davey in tow. “Enough of that. Get your own girl, Austin.”

  “I would, but all the best ones seem to be taken.”

  “Pish,” said Peg. “Surely you don’t expect us to believe you’re looking for sympathy?”

  “I doubt it,” Ron said dryly. “More likely he’s come over to size up the competition.”

  “You’ve seen through me again.” Austin peered around the setup until he found Leo’s crate. “And how’s your boy today?”

  “Very well, thank you,” Crawford shifted his weight ever so slightly, blocking Austin’s view. “I trust Midas is the same?”

  “Always. Luckily for me, that dog never seems to have a bad day.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Crawford was obviously unimpressed by Austin’s attempts to psych him out. “Tell Tom I hope I have the chance to give him a run for his money later. Terry? We’ve got Affenpinschers in twenty minutes.”

  “Yes sir!” Snapping to attention, Terry cleared away the remains of their lunch.

  Ron and Viv wandered off; and Douglas and Austin continued a conversation about municipal bonds that they’d apparently started at Peg’s party. While Aunt Peg took Tory’s topknot down and spritzed her coat with a conditioner that would dilute the hair spray, I reached for my catalogue and looked up the group schedule. Non-Sporting was first, at two o’clock.

  “Go get some lunch,” said Peg. “And bring back plenty for me. I’m starving.”

  Was there ever a time when she wasn’t? Peg tends to argue the point, but I don’t think it’s any coincidence that in the year we’d been going to dog shows together, I’ve put on five pounds. As if that isn’t bad enough, but it seems to have attached itself to all the least becoming places. When Aunt Peg puts on an extra pound or two, I think it lands in her feet.

  With a selection consisting of greasy hamburgers or generic hot dogs, lunch was hardly a gastronomic treat. After we ate, I took Davey for a walk around the back parking lot, where the exhibitors park the vans and motor homes they use to transport their strings of dogs to the shows. Davey is into big rigs, so the knowledge that he’ll eventually have a chance to investigate the trucks up close is usually enough to ensure his good behavior for the rest of the day.