Live and Let Growl

by Laurien Berenson

  “Eleanora Gates Wanamaker is still alive?” I said.

  “Of course, she’s alive.” Aunt Peg snorted. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  I thought about articles I’d read, and the various pictures I’d seen of Gatewood Poodles that had been born as early as the 1970s. Faith was related to one of Ellie’s Poodles—a dog that appeared many, many generations back in her pedigree.

  “Because she must be very old,” I said.

  “She’s younger than I am,” Aunt Peg snapped.

  Oh.

  I didn’t even have to turn around and look. I knew that Faith was shaking her head.

  “Where does Ellie Wanamaker live?” I asked in a small voice.

  “That’s Miss Ellie,” Aunt Peg corrected. “I’ve never heard anyone refer to her any other way. I gather it’s a Southern thing.”

  “Miss Ellie,” I repeated, feeling thoroughly chastised. “Where will we find her and why does she know about horses?”

  “She grew up on a farm in Midway not far from Six Oaks. Her family has been in the Thoroughbred business for generations. We have an appointment tomorrow afternoon to have a look at Lucky Luna, and I have no intention of showing up unprepared. We’ll be meeting with Miss Ellie tomorrow morning.”

  “Good work,” I said.

  “Indeed.” Aunt Peg sounded rather pleased with herself. “Hopefully by the time we arrive at Six Oaks, we will be well armed with information about what to expect. Miss Ellie is sharp as a tack. I’m quite certain she’ll be able to tell us everything we need to know.”

  Chapter 3

  There were plenty of signs for the Kentucky Expo Center and we found our hotel easily. Bertie and I were sharing a room, but for the time being Faith and I had the accommodations to ourselves. Since the shows didn’t start until Thursday, Bertie wouldn’t be arriving until the following afternoon. Her grooming space was already reserved and she was planning to call me when she got to the Expo Center so I could help her unload and get set up.

  Meanwhile, Aunt Peg had our itinerary for Wednesday’s excursion to the Lexington area planned down to the minute. In the space of a single day, she intended for us to explore central Kentucky, visit with Miss Ellie, meet Lucky Luna, check out the broodmare’s farm, and ascertain the extent of her new responsibilities. It all sounded like a tall order to me, but I learned a long time ago never to underestimate Aunt Peg.

  Besides, I was on vacation. Hadn’t people kept telling me that? As far as I was concerned, Faith and I were just long for the ride.

  The three of us set out early the next morning, heading east on 64 toward Lexington. To my surprise, the first thing Aunt Peg did was turn off her GPS.

  “Miss Ellie gave me directions,” she said. “She was very specific. We’re to be sure to take the scenic route. She wanted us to see and enjoy what she called the very best part of her home state.”

  We turned off the highway just below Frankfort and drove the last ten miles of our journey on local roads. Miss Ellie’s directions were perfect. They took us straight into horse country. My gaze swung back and forth avidly as I tried not to miss a thing. Here, finally, was the Kentucky I’d been expecting: a wide blue sky, lush, green fields, and Thoroughbred farms whose size could be measured in miles rather than acreage.

  And the horses! I saw gorgeous Thoroughbreds everywhere I looked. Plump mares grazed contentedly. Foals leapt and cavorted around them. Herds of yearlings flashed by, racing across wide pastures bordered by four-board double fences. Centuries-old stone walls marked the property lines between farms.

  “Pin Oak,” I said, reading the signs as they flashed by. “Ashford Stud. Lane’s End. I’ve heard these names before.”

  “I should hope so,” Aunt Peg replied. “They’re some of the most important names in the business. I’m guessing that one of the reasons Miss Ellie wanted us to come this way was so that we would see that there are other possibilities in case we’re dissatisfied with what we find at Six Oaks.”

  “You seem to have had a high opinion of Anthony Stone,” I said. “Do you expect to be dissatisfied with the arrangements he made?”

  Aunt Peg glanced at me across the front of the van. “That’s the problem. I’m such a neophyte at this whole business that I have no idea what to expect. I hate that feeling.”

  Under normal circumstances, Aunt Peg was the one telling everyone else what to do. It occurred to me that this was the first time in our long association that I’d ever seen her confronted by something she knew little about and forced to operate outside her comfort zone.

  Welcome to my world, I thought.

  We came to a small intersection and passed by several more farms before abruptly entering a quaint residential neighborhood. “This must be Midway,” Aunt Peg said. “We’re only a mile or two from Miss Ellie’s house now.”

  “I thought you said she lived on a farm.”

  “No, I told you that she grew up on a farm. One that her family has owned for many years. But Miss Ellie lives in town now.”

  Even with Aunt Peg slowing the minivan to the speed limit, it didn’t take more than a minute or two to drive through the entire area of downtown Midway. There were train tracks through the center street and only a single stop light. Commerce appeared to consist mainly of restaurants and antique shops, but I also saw a leather store, a shop filled with Irish goods, and a drugstore advertising a real soda fountain.

  “Midway is halfway between Lexington and the state capitol of Frankfort,” Aunt Peg told me as she turned off onto a side street. “That’s how the town got its name.”

  “How is it that you know so much about the state of Kentucky and yet still maintain that your knowledge of horses is lacking?” I asked.

  “Geography is easy.” Aunt Peg sniffed. “That can be learned from a book. Horses are living, breathing, creatures. I’ve devoted most of my life to the study of dogs and I still find that I’m learning new things all the time. I would have to be very foolish indeed to think that I might be able to understand all the details and nuances of broodmare ownership simply by reading about it.”

  And yet . . . she’d given me a book to read. I just thought I’d mention that.

  Ellie Gates Wanamaker lived in a Victorian-style house on an acre of land just west of downtown Midway. The backyard of the home was stoutly fenced with both boards and wire and as soon as Miss Ellie opened her front door, I saw the reason why. A loud, lively pack of Jack Russell Terriers came flying through the doorway and streaming down the front steps.

  I counted four at a quick glance. There might have been more. It sounded like more. Terriers have a lot to say.

  I was standing beside Aunt Peg’s minivan about to open the sliding door to release Faith when the racing, scrambling, shin-high horde reached me. The Jack Russells swirled around my legs, jostling and bumping each other, as each one vied for access to the best new smells I had to offer.

  Two of the small, sturdy dogs were smooth, and two were rough coated. All were white with tan or black markings. All were keen, nimble, and muscular. And loud. Did I mention loud?

  Cautiously I slid the van door open a sliver and pressed my lips to the crack. “I think you’d better wait here,” I said to Faith.

  “What’s that?” Miss Ellie called down from the porch. She was a wiry woman with sharply defined features and a pugnacious expression on her face. Her spiky gray hair looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in days. “Do you have a dog in there?”

  “We do,” Aunt Peg replied as I slid the door shut.

  “It must be a Standard Poodle.” She looked to Aunt Peg for confirmation.

  Peg nodded.

  “Does she get along with other dogs?”

  Aunt Peg nodded again. If not for the JRTs who’d apparently decided that I was their new best friend, my presence would have been entirely superfluous.

  “Then what are you waiting for?” Miss Ellie demanded. “Get her out of there and bring her inside. What’s the matter with you, wanting to leave
that poor dog sitting in a car?”

  “I was trying to be polite,” I muttered under my breath. It didn’t make the slightest bit of difference. No one was listening to me.

  “Peg Turnbull, it’s been entirely too long!” Miss Ellie came down the steps and pulled her old friend close for a hug. “Why haven’t you come to visit me sooner?”

  “Why haven’t you invited me?” Aunt Peg retorted.

  Miss Ellie sighed. “Life,” she said. “It just gets in the way.”

  I slid the door back once again. Immediately the two terriers nearest the opening hopped their front feet up onto the ledge and had a look inside. Faith, ready to disembark, tipped her head downward. The three dogs touched noses. Tails wagged all the way around.

  I took that as a good sign and hopped her out.

  “Oh my,” said Miss Ellie. “That’s a pretty Standard. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a Poodle as nice as that one. One of yours?” she asked Peg.

  “Aunt Peg bred her,” I said, cutting in smoothly. “But Faith has been mine since she was a puppy.”

  The pack of Jack Russells finished introducing themselves to Faith and took off across the yard. Faith hesitated for the briefest moment—looking to me for permission, which was quickly granted—then went flying after them.

  “That’s a champion,” Miss Ellie said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “And a champion producer,” I told her proudly.

  Finally the woman wrested her gaze away from Faith long enough to acknowledge my presence. Miss Ellie looked me up and down briefly, then stuck out her hand. Her skin was worn and leathered. She had a grip like iron.

  “You must be the niece,” she said.

  “I am. Melanie Travis. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Oh?” She cocked a brow. “Why is that?”

  A forthright question. Miss Ellie looked like a tough cookie; even so, I hadn’t expected to be put on the spot quite so quickly. It occurred to me that Aunt Peg and Ellie Wanamaker might have more than a little in common.

  “I’ve read about you and your dogs in Poodle Variety,” I said. “You had wonderful Standard Poodles.”

  Miss Ellie lifted a hand and waved it dismissively. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Not that long,” said Aunt Peg. “I have fond memories of showing against you when you came to the East Coast for PCA and Westminster.”

  “Not just showing against me,” Miss Ellie pointed out, “but also beating me every chance you got.”

  “Of course.” Aunt Peg just laughed. “That goes without saying. Although it didn’t happen nearly as often as I would have liked.”

  “It’s been over a decade since I lost my last Poodle,” Miss Ellie told us. “And now, as you can see, I find myself surrounded by a band of little terrorists.”

  The terriers in question had led Faith on a great swooping tour of the front yard and were currently busy sniffing beneath the bushes on the side of the house. I hadn’t seen another car pass by in the five minutes we’d been there but I was keeping a wary eye out just in case. Faith knew better than to cross a road, but if those JRTs flushed a rabbit, I was betting they’d be long gone before any of us even had time to react.

  Miss Ellie must have been thinking along the same lines. “Let’s gather up that bunch and head inside,” she said starting up the front steps and whistling for the dogs to follow. “Otherwise the neighbors will start sticking their heads out and wondering what all the fuss is about. I try to convince myself that living in town is easier at my age but, oh, there are days when I still miss the farm.”

  Dodging the terriers who eddied around our legs, we followed Miss Ellie into the house. She led the way to a comfortable living room with a wide stone fireplace and a rounded bow window that looked out over a tree-shaded backyard. Faith had returned back to my side and remained there as Miss Ellie shooed the Jack Russells on through the kitchen and out the back door.

  Most of the homes I visit have multiple photographs on display. Usually they’re an assortment of win pictures from dog shows. But Miss Ellie’s large collection of framed photographs was different than any other I’d seen. Only half of them featured Standard Poodles. The remainder were of sleek racehorses, shown winning at numerous race tracks, each one topped by a jockey clad in a distinctive set of green and white silks.

  I turned to motion Aunt Peg over to have a look and saw that she was standing by the fireplace, studying an oil painting that hung above the mantelpiece. The equine portrait featured a single chestnut stallion. The horse standing in the foreground and staring proudly into the distance. Though the stallion was still, there was a quivering watchfulness about him. It wasn’t hard to imagine him taking flight and racing away across the landscape.

  “Richard Stone Reeves,” Aunt Peg said when I walked over to join her. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Wonderful,” I agreed. “Who is the horse?”

  There was a small plaque affixed to the bottom of the frame but before either of us could read it, Miss Ellie reappeared carrying a silver tray with a crystal pitcher and three glasses.

  “That’s Cockerel,” she said. “My father bred him nearly thirty years ago. He was the best two-year-old of his generation. Injured before he could run in the Derby, he came back and won several good races at four before retiring to the farm to stand at stud.”

  “He’s gorgeous,” I said.

  Miss Ellie nodded. “He was indeed. For a time it looked as though he was going to be the one to reverse Daddy’s fortunes. But like so many other good racehorses, he turned out to be not nearly as proficient at siring good runners as he was at running on the track himself.”

  She set the tray down on a low table between two plump couches. “Sweet tea?”

  “I’d love some,” said Aunt Peg. She’s never turned down a sweet in her life.

  “Me, too.” I sat down across from Miss Ellie and took the glass she offered. Faith turned a small circle on the rug and lay down beside my feet.

  “Now I want to hear all about this new broodmare of yours,” Miss Ellie said once we were all settled. “I’m happy to find you in my own backyard, but I must confess your news came as quite a surprise.”

  “To me as well,” Aunt Peg admitted. “I believe I explained the circumstances under which Lucky Luna became mine?”

  “You did. I know Six Oaks Farm well and I’m acquainted with many of their clients, but I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a man named Anthony Stone. Did he own many mares?”

  “Probably never more than a handful,” said Aunt Peg. “At the time of his death, there was just the one left.”

  “That explains it,” Miss Ellie said with a nod. “Here in central Kentucky, the same families have been around for a long time. Everybody pretty much knows everyone else. So I wondered whether I might have previously run across your benefactor. But it sounds as though he was an outsider.”

  “Anthony was from Boston,” said Aunt Peg. “But I gather he had a rather nice mare nonetheless. I’ve done some reading about Lucky Luna’s pedigree. The solicitor told me she was very well bred. Her sire is a horse named Malibu Moon?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Miss Ellie smiled. “That works. And her dam?”

  “Lucky Mary, by Storm Bird.”

  “Nice cross. Did she race?”

  “Ten starts with four wins.”

  “Stakes caliber?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  They might as well have been speaking Greek for all the sense the conversation made to me. Wisely I kept my mouth shut and sipped my tea. It was very sweet.

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Miss Ellie. “A winning mare from a good family can still be a valuable commodity as a broodmare. Who is she in foal to?”

  Aunt Peg consulted a sheaf of notes she had pulled from her purse. “The stallion has an odd name. Let me look to be sure. Ah, here it is. Medaglia D’Oro.”

  Miss Ellie clapped her hands happily. “Well done!” />
  Peg looked up. “That’s a good thing?”

  “It’s a very good thing. Medaglia D’Oro is an excellent sire. And also a very handsome horse.”

  “Does that matter?” I asked, surprised.

  “But of course.”

  I shook my head. “But we’re talking about horse racing. So the fastest one wins, right? No matter what they look like. So why would it make a difference?”

  “You’re assuming that Peg is going to want to race Lucky Luna’s foal when the time comes,” Miss Ellie told me. “But doing that would necessitate a large commitment of time and money. Under the circumstances, she might want to consider other options.”

  “Like what?” Aunt Peg asked with interest.

  “One possibility is that Lucky Luna’s offspring could be offered for sale to a racing home next year when it’s a yearling. Peg, take a moment and think back. When you initially heard about this mare, I’ll bet the very first thing you wondered about was her pedigree. Am I right?”

  “You are,” Aunt Peg agreed. “Of course I was curious.”

  “That’s because after all your years with Standard Poodles, you approach things from a breeder’s perspective. But there are plenty of racehorse owners who have no interest in that side of things. All they want are horses that are ready to go to the track and run.”

  “Surely not as yearlings,” I said.

  “No, but that’s the age when the majority are sold. And a handsome, successful stallion sires the type of offspring who have all the qualities that capture the buyers’ attention at the sales.”

  “I hadn’t even considered something like that,” Aunt Peg admitted. “I’m afraid I hadn’t thought very far ahead at all. All I meant to do was come and assure myself that Lucky Luna was being well cared for until I can decide what to do with her.”

  “You had better start considering things like that,” Miss Ellie said briskly. “This time of year there are all kinds of decisions to be made. Is Lucky Luna booked to a stallion for this year’s breeding?”