Hounded to Death

by Laurien Berenson

  “It’s a good thing Bertie has a decent head on her shoulders,” Aunt Peg remarked, tracking the pair’s progress for a moment before turning back to the door.

  “Why?”

  “Because her friend Alana is a bit of a flit. In my day she would have been known as a good-time girl. I’d be shocked if she came to the symposium because she’s interested in getting her judge’s license. More than likely she’s just here to socialize.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  I may have sounded a little defensive, and with good reason. I was eons away from applying to become a judge, if indeed I ever did. But I had plenty to learn in the meantime and this symposium, coming up at just the right time, had seemed like a nifty vacation opportunity. Did that make my intentions any more pure than Alana’s?

  “You’re a different case entirely,” said Aunt Peg.

  It was spooky how often she was able to read my mind, probably a skill she’d honed through decades of nonverbal communication with her Poodles.

  “You’ll go to lectures and take a few notes, meet some new people over meals, maybe have a massage and take a hike in the woods, then go home feeling that you’ve had a successful stay. Alana, on the other hand, will drink too much and party too hard. She’ll flirt with half the men here, and won’t think her week is successful until at least one fight has broken out on her account.”

  My gaze drifted toward the bar where Alana was now draped languidly over a stool, a pose that showed off her long, bare legs to perfection. “What’s her connection to the dog show world?”

  “Tenuous at best. Several years ago she was involved with an older man who had a wonderful line of Old English Sheepdogs. She started going to shows with him and must have enjoyed herself because even after their relationship was history she continued to put in an appearance, usually at upper tier shows like Tuxedo Park or Ox Ridge.

  “She fashions herself as some sort of freelance do-gooder, the moral arbiter of the dog world. Every six months or so she’s passionately devoted to a new cause, which could be anything from genetic research to saving pound puppies.”

  “She sounds fascinating,” I said, mostly because I can never resist goading Aunt Peg.

  “What she is, is dizzying. Try to keep up with her at your own peril. I haven’t got the energy.”

  Energy, my aunt had in abundance. Patience, she did not. I suspected it was the latter that kept her on this side of the room while Bertie and Alana were now holding court on the other.

  “Oh dear,” Aunt Peg said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “He’s here.”

  “Who?”

  She didn’t answer, and after a moment I realized I should have known. Richard Donner must have arrived.

  I looked in the same direction she was staring and saw a perfectly ordinary-looking man. His dark hair was seasoned with gray at the temples, his nose was a shade too big for his face. But his shoulders were broad and his torso still lean. Wearing corduroy slacks and a blue cashmere sweater, he had the easy stride of a former athlete.

  He paused in the doorway for a moment and surveyed the activity in the room. I thought perhaps he was looking for Aunt Peg, but then he turned and waited for an older woman behind him to catch up. She was nearly a foot shorter than he was and her white hair was sprayed up like a halo around her face.

  Richard leaned down and said something, his lips close to her ear, and she nodded and smiled. When the older woman headed toward the bar, Richard placed a determined smile on his face and came toward us.

  “Quick!” Aunt Peg said under her breath. “What should I do?”

  “Smile.”

  “I’m smiling,” she said through gritted teeth. “What else?”

  “Act natural.”

  “Natural? Natural? There’s nothing the least bit natural about this whole situation. What the hell does that mean?”

  My aunt is not a woman given to swearing. Nor one who usually succumbs to nerves. I was seeing a whole new side of her, and it was not necessarily her most appealing one.

  “How do I look?” she demanded.

  Any second Richard would be upon us. Just as well because then she would have to stop spitting out rapid-fire questions.

  I leaned over and whispered, “Perfect. You look perfect.”

  Her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly and I hear her exhale a soft breath. Then she held out both hands to clasp the one Richard was offering.

  “I’m Peg,” she said simply.

  “I know,” he said. “I could tell that from across the room. You’re the most striking woman here.”

  Jeez, I thought. Good answer.

  “And this is my niece, Melanie.”

  Richard and I scoped each other out.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said after a moment. “If you’re anything like your aunt, I’m sure you’re a formidable woman.”

  So my aunt’s new beau was a man of many compliments. But praise that had sounded just right when directed at Peg seemed over the top when applied to me.

  “I find myself growing more and more like her all the time,” I said mildly.

  Beside me, Aunt Peg was beaming. Not just smiling, but actually beaming. Either she was really, really happy, or else she was so tense that her fine motor skills had short-circuited.

  I was hoping for the former, but I was beginning to suspect the latter.

  “Perhaps I should leave you two alone so you can get to know one another?” I asked.

  “Yes, please,” Richard said smoothly.

  “No!” cried Peg.

  That settled it. Nerves, it was. I was torn between feeling compelled to come to her aid and wanting to enjoy the moment at her expense.

  Petty of me, I know. But it wasn’t like she didn’t make a habit of abandoning me to the wolves.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Richard. “I’m going to go to the bar and get a drink. Maybe while I’m there, I can refresh yours?”

  Aunt Peg nodded.

  She was drinking scotch neat. Considering that her usual beverage of choice was tea, it wouldn’t take too many more of those before the occasion acquired a pleasing, rosy hue.

  “While I’m gone, you two can decide what you’d like to do.”

  Richard took Peg’s tumbler and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Don’t leave me here alone with him,” she said as soon as he was gone.

  “Why not? I thought you were looking forward to meeting him.”

  “I was. But now that the time has come, I find it’s harder than I thought. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I tried to make small talk with an attractive man? What if I say something stupid?”

  I chuckled under my breath. “My being here won’t prevent that.”

  “All right, then, what about awkward silences? Who’s going to smooth those over?”

  “Why should there be any silences? Don’t you already know Richard? How long have you been corresponding?”

  Aunt Peg considered. “Three months at least. But writing is entirely different. You can go back and edit what you say. There’s time for a second draft. In e-mail, I always sound brilliant.”

  Hard to believe she could suffer a crisis of confidence, isn’t it?

  “If you want me to stay,” I said, “I will.”

  “Thank you.” Peg looked past me and scanned the room. Fresh drinks in each of his hands, Richard was threading his way back toward us through the crowd. “Next to you, I’m sure I’ll come off wonderfully.”

  That was me, ever useful.

  Richard had not only wrangled a pair of drinks; he’d also met up with a couple of friends along the way. Perhaps he’d hoped that enlarging the circle of conversation might put Peg more at ease. Or maybe he simply hadn’t wanted to feel outnumbered.

  Introductions were quickly performed. Derek Ryan was a Beagle man from northern Kentucky. He had a strong handshake, kind eyes, and a habit of standing much too close. Marshall Beckham looked like
a stork. He was tall, slender, and serious; and when he heard Peg’s name, he immediately shifted his attention her way.

  “Peg Turnbull?” he repeated. “You’re Margaret Turnbull, of Cedar Crest Kennels fame?”

  Peg nodded graciously.

  “I saw you win the group at Westminster! Champion Cedar Crest Chantain, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded again. Marshall was speaking much too fast for any of us to get a word in.

  “I can’t believe it. This is fantastic! What a turnout there is here. First Charles Evans, the man is one of my heroes…and now I’m meeting Margaret Turnbull. Somebody pinch me. That win at Westminster was quite a coup for an owner-handler! And what a lovely dog.”

  “Thank you. Beau was always one of my favorites.”

  In the face of Marshall’s barrage of words, Aunt Peg was finally beginning to relax. Dog talk always did the trick. She was an old hand at that.

  “I have Bichons,” Marshall said. “And I handle them myself. Certainly not with your flair, but I pride myself on doing okay. I know you’ve recently been approved for the breed and I hope you’ll consider coming out to Ohio to judge. I’d be delighted to have your opinion of my dogs.”

  Peg smiled. “All I need is an invitation.”

  Now that they’d navigated their way to common ground, the conversation was up and running. And the fact that Peg had been revealed as a minor celebrity in the dog community didn’t hurt either. Richard regarded her with fresh appreciation and she basked in his attention.

  No need to worry about her saying anything stupid. She could have told him that the moon was blue and he would have agreed.

  After the first few minutes I began to feel superfluous. Slowly I edged back from the closely grouped circle. None of them even noticed my retreat. Toting my warm ginger ale, I headed in the direction of the bar.

  Bertie hailed me as soon as I reached the counter. “Hey!” she cried, her voice raised to be heard above the din. “Come and meet my friend Alana.”

  As Bertie introduced us, Alana looked me coolly up and down. I recognized the tactic. She was checking out the competition and doing her best to make me feel about three inches tall in the process.

  Don’t get me wrong. In most situations I can more than hold my own. But there was something about the way Alana ran her flat gaze over my body that made me feel fat and unappealing. As if I’d been mentally compared to her svelte beauty and found wanting.

  “Stop it,” Bertie ordered. She smacked her friend on the arm. “Melanie is my sister-in-law and my best friend. She’s not someone for you to chew up and spit out.”

  Bertie turned to me. “Don’t mind Alana. She doesn’t have many women friends.”

  “I can see why not,” I said.

  Bertie slid off her stool and offered it to me.

  Gratefully I hiked up and sat. It was nice to get off my feet.

  Alana cocked a brow.

  “Pregnant,” I said. “Deal with it.”

  “Well, shit,” said Alana. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” She leaned over and gave me a hug. “Congratulations! When’s the baby due?”

  “March.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  Alana waved to the bartender. “This deserves another drink!”

  News of my pregnancy had an immediate softening effect on her. Either she was genuinely happy for me or else this development had changed my status in her eyes. I’d been removed from the ranks of competitors and placed in a new category where friendship might be possible.

  “Not for me,” I said. “I find I have a limited tolerance for ginger ale. In fact I seem to have a limited tolerance for just about everything these days.”

  “I don’t blame you a bit,” said Bertie. She’d been pregnant just a year earlier. The experience was still fresh in her mind.

  “Neither do I,” Alana echoed in the spirit of our new kinship. She picked up her new drink and downed half of it in a single gulp. “If you ask me, tolerance is a highly overrated virtue.”

  Bertie leaned over and said, “How’s Peg doing? She seems to be surrounded by men. Is one of them the famous Richard?”

  “Broad shoulders, blue sweater.”

  “Not the tall one with the besotted look on his face?”

  “No, that’s Marshall Beckham. An aspiring owner-handler. Apparently he thinks he’s in the presence of some sort of minor deity.”

  “Peg’s been known to have that effect on people.” Bertie shifted around and had another look. “Richard looks all right, doesn’t he? I’d say there’s definite potential there.”

  Alana leaned toward us to join the conversation. “Who are we talking about?”

  “Richard Donner,” I said. “Do you know him?”

  “Sure,” Alana replied. “The guy who travels with his mother.”

  The din in the room made conversation difficult and for a moment I wondered whether I’d heard her wrong. Then I remembered the sweet looking, little old lady Richard had entered the room with earlier. Could that have been…?

  “There she is.” Alana raised a not-too-steady hand and pointed. “The woman with the ratty little Chihuahua sticking its head out of her purse? That’s Florence Donner. She and Richard go everywhere together.”

  4

  I almost laughed. Then I caught myself.

  Whatever mean-spirited thoughts I had harbored earlier—payback for all the times Aunt Peg had maneuvered me into in an embarrassing situation and then left me there to fend for myself—she certainly didn’t deserve something like this.

  “You’re not joking, are you?”

  “Why would I joke about something like that? It isn’t the least bit funny. If you ask me, it’s kind of pathetic. A grown man traveling around to shows with his seventy-year-old mother. You’d think he’d want to get a life.”

  My stomach sank. Apparently Richard had wanted to get a life. And he begun that quest by wooing Aunt Peg over the Internet.

  “Florence Donner and Richard Donner are mother and son?” Bertie said, surprised. “I never made the connection.”

  My gaze swung her way. “You know her?”

  “I’ve shown under her. She judges some of the Toy breeds.”

  “Is she any good?”

  The question, though not germane, was almost automatic. Dog show exhibitors’ fortunes rise and fall with the quality of the judges they show to. We’re always on the quest for good judges and we’ll travel almost any distance to find them.

  Bertie shrugged. “She’s not bad.”

  Alana looked at us. “What’s up with you two? Why are you so interested in Richard Donner?”

  “He and my aunt have been corresponding by e-mail for the last few months. Apparently they’ve become quite good friends.”

  “Is that her over there talking to him now?”

  I nodded.

  “Your aunt is Peg Turnbull?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well then,” said Alana, sliding down off her stool. “There’s only one thing to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  I figured she was going to advise us to warn Aunt Peg about this unexpected development. But Alana surprised me. She grabbed my arm and headed determinedly into the crowd.

  “Let’s go introduce you to Florence.”

  “Bertie!” Swept along like a tug in the wake of a much larger barge, I cast a beseeching glance back over my shoulder.

  “Coming.” She slapped her glass down on the bar and followed. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

  Florence Donner was speaking with several people, but the impetus of our approach, which had already caused the crowd to part before us, now made her companions draw back as well. Alana smoothly inserted herself into the space they’d vacated, so accustomed to that sort of deference she didn’t even notice it.

  “Florence,” she said.

  “Alana.” The older woman tipped her head slightly to one side. “Imagi
ne seeing you here.”

  Had the temperature in the room cooled suddenly, or was it just us?

  Then I noticed that the little fawn-colored Chihuahua, whose domed head had been sticking up through the opening at the top of Florence’s commodious purse, had abruptly tucked himself back inside. Apparently I wasn’t the only one present who was skilled in reading the nuances of human behavior.

  Ignoring Florence’s less than welcoming demeanor, Alana reached back and hauled Bertie and me forward. “I’d like you to meet Melanie Travis and Bertie Kennedy. They’re friends of mine.”

  “Really? How very fortunate for them.”

  I held out my hand and after a brief hesitation, Florence Donner followed suit. Her slender fingers felt dry and fragile in my grasp. I didn’t dare actually shake her hand for fear I might break something.

  “You.” Florence’s sharp gray eyes focusing on Bertie. “I’ve seen you before.”

  “You have a good memory,” Bertie said. “I showed to you last year at Harrisburg.”

  “Of course I have a good memory. I remember every dog I’ve ever judged. And most of the people too. Did you win under me?”

  “Yes, with the Pomeranian. No, with the Pug.”

  Florence clapped her hands in delight. “So the jury’s still out on how you feel about me, isn’t it?”

  Bertie grinned. She was enjoying herself too.

  “The Pug could have done better on the day. The Pom?” She shrugged. “Not so much.”

  “So you say. But did you have your hands on the other dogs in the ring?”

  “No, but—”

  “But nothing! That’s the beauty of being the judge. You’re the only one who has all the information. And the only one whose opinion counts.”

  Florence nodded briskly. The debate had been settled to her satisfaction and she would brook no further argument. Aunt Peg was going to have her hands full with this one.

  The two women were either going to end up the best of friends, or else they were going to kill one another. And I suspected I was going to have a ringside seat for much of the action.