I’d only seen Arthur once and then just briefly, but Miss Ellie’s startled reaction when she’d happened upon the man had made me take a closer look. Now, however, a thorough inspection of the people who were standing at ringside didn’t prove to be productive. I didn’t see anyone who even resembled the older man that I remembered.
The Twelve-to-Eighteen Month Class was pinned. Two Open Dogs filed into the ring. The judge quickly decided between them. A minute later, the two dogs from the Open Class were awarded Winners and Reserve. At this rate, the breed judging would be over in no time.
Still there was no sign of Arthur. I’d clung to a small hope that he might be exhibiting a bitch or a special, and could possibly appear at ringside midway through the judging. But so far, no such luck.
The catalog for the cluster of events—four dogs shows and a dozen specialties, plus obedience and rally trials—was big and cumbersome and I hadn’t brought one with me when I’d set out earlier. Now I found myself itching to take another look at the Newf entry on the off chance that I might have missed something.
A woman seated not far from where I was standing had a catalog open in her lap. Though she glanced down and referred to the book occasionally, for the most part she was concentrating on the dogs and the judging. I stepped over next to her.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Would you mind if I had a look at your catalog?”
She didn’t even look up. Instead, eyes still fastened on the ring, she simply lifted the heavy tome and passed it up to me.
The book was already open to the Newfoundland page. A brief scan revealed nothing I that hadn’t already seen. Sticking my finger in the page to hold it, I thumbed back quickly to the previous three shows and checked through their Newfoundland entries yet again. Still nothing.
I flipped the book back to the correct page and blew out a frustrated breath.
The woman looked up. She held out her hands. I passed the catalog back into them.
In the ring, the Bred-by bitch class had just finished. There was a brief pause in activity while the Open bitches got themselves assembled in the correct order on the mat.
“What are you looking for?” the woman asked. “Maybe I can help.”
“That would be great,” I said.
I grabbed a free chair and slid it over. As I sat down next to the woman, the class began. She didn’t shift her eyes away from the ring but she did nod slightly to acknowledge my presence.
“Last Thursday, there was an older man here showing a Newfoundland. Medium height, poor posture, dark hair mixed with gray? A friend of mine spoke with him. She called him Arthur. Would you happen to know who he is?”
“I might,” the woman replied. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’d like to speak with him about something important. I was hoping to find him here today.”
“In that case, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.” The woman paused to watch the judge complete his examination of the last bitch in line. She paid close attention as the Newf gaited back and forth across the diagonal mat. “If I’m guessing correctly who you’re talking about, Arthur’s dog is entered but he isn’t here. He hasn’t shown up since that very first day.”
In the ring, the judge motioned the bitch at the head of the line up to the front. The woman beside me clapped her hands together and jumped slightly in her seat. I reached over and grabbed the catalog before it could slide off her lap and fall to the floor. She didn’t even appear to notice.
“I’ll take them just that way,” the judge said, pointing. “One, two, three, four.”
The bitch the woman was rooting for took the blue. Prudently I remained silent as the two other bitch class winners returned to the ring. Together we watched the outcome. It happened quickly. The Puppy and Bred-by bitches were barely even settled in place before the judge motioned the Open bitch over to the Winners marker.
“Well done!” the woman cried. Then she glanced back my way. “My friend’s been trying to finish that bitch for ages. Now then, where were we?”
“Arthur,” I said. “I was hoping you could tell me how I can get in touch with him?”
“Yes, of course.”
She flipped to the back of her catalog, tore out a blank page, and scribbled down some information. “I believe Arthur Ludwig is the man you’re looking for. He lives in Frankfort. It’s Sea Haven Kennel and I’m sure there’s a Website. You’ll be able to find Arthur’s phone number there.”
“Thanks so much,” I said. “That’s great.”
“Happy to help,” she told me. “If you’re looking for a puppy, Arthur will do right by you. He and his wife started Sea Haven many years ago, and after her death he devoted himself to his dogs with a passion. Arthur has bred some very, very good Newfoundlands.”
“Thank you,” I said again. “You’ve been a great help. And congratulations to your friend.”
Best of Breed was just wrapping up in the ring. The man with the Winners Bitch exited the ring and came trotting in our direction. He held the Newf with one hand; in the other were the ribbons he’d just won. He raised them in the air and shook them gleefully.
I left those two to their celebration and headed back down the long room to the Poodle ring. Aunt Peg would probably be halfway through her Minis by now. But at least I’d be able to see all of the Standard judging.
I threaded my way quickly through the Sunday crowd, dodging past everything from wayward children to dog crates on wheels. Harried exhibitors rushed to and from their rings. Spectators stood two and three deep at the more popular breeds, clogging access to the aisles.
At one point, confronted by a knot of people who were simply not moving, I came to a precipitous halt. Waiting for the confusion in front of me to sort itself out, I let my gaze wander over the nearby rings. Bull Terriers were in one, Bloodhounds in another. A third was filled with Springer Spaniels.
Then, suddenly, I went still. My eyes slid back to the Bloodhound ring. A faint memory tickled the edge of my subconscious.
I seemed to recall that there was something Miss Ellie had said . . . or done....
I took a closer look at the Bloodhounds that were in the ring. One was being shown by a tall man with bushy dark eyebrows and a mustache to match. He wore a tweed jacket and corduroy pants and he looked vaguely familiar.
And then all at once I remembered.
When we’d passed the Bloodhound ring on Thursday, Miss Ellie had paused momentarily. She had blown a kiss to a man standing ringside with a dog. To that man who was now in the ring. He had smiled and waved in return.
The Bloodhound judging was wrapping up. Best of Breed was in the ring. There wasn’t time now to go see Poodles. If I wanted to find out more about Miss Ellie, I had to grab this chance in front of me before it was gone.
I adjusted my course and veered in that direction.
Chapter 15
I reached the Bloodhound ring just in time to see the man with the tweed jacket lose in Best of Breed. He didn’t appear to be unduly upset by his dog’s defeat. Instead he shrugged philosophically and shook the winner’s hand on his way out of the ring.
I waited a short distance away while he accepted commiserations from several bystanders, then stopped to chat with another group of onlookers. They appeared to be engrossed in the favorite pastime of dog show exhibitors everywhere: engaging in a postmortem of their breed’s judging.
By the time Mr. Tweed Jacket finally left his friends and strode away from ringside, Wirehaired Dachshunds had already taken over his ring and their judging was halfway finished. I caught up to him just as he walked through the wide doorway that connected the main pavilion to the grooming area.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you have a minute?”
“Just about.” He glanced down at his watch. “But if you’re looking for a puppy, I should tell you that this dog isn’t mine. I just handle him for his owner. I can give you the owner’s name though.”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” I said.
“You’re the one I want to talk to.”
“Okay then.” He kept moving, his long strides covering the ground quickly. We appeared to be heading toward a setup in the back of the room near the windows. “Who are you?”
“Melanie Travis.” Automatically I stuck out my hand. Of course he didn’t take it. He didn’t even look. “And your name is . . . ?”
“Liam Dailey. What’s this about?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Ellie Gates Wanamaker.”
Abruptly he came to a halt. The Bloodhound skidded to a stop beside him. Now Liam was finally looking at me. He was also frowning.
“No comment,” he said.
“What?” I asked surprised.
“No comment.” He looked annoyed. “You’re a reporter, right?”
“No, I’m a friend.”
“Not a friend of mine, you’re not.” Liam took off again.
At least this time, we didn’t have far to go. Twenty feet later, we’d nearly reached the other side of the room—and apparently Liam’s setup. He slid nimbly between two grooming tables, then slipped the collar off over the Bloodhound’s head and guided the big dog into an empty crate. A moment later, I heard the sound of water being lapped up noisily.
“I was a friend of Miss Ellie’s,” I said as Liam latched the crate shut and straightened.
He turned around and looked at me. “Are you still here?”
“Yes.” It seemed obvious to point that out but . . . he’d asked.
“Why?”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“I’m pretty sure I already said no.”
“That was when you thought I was a reporter,” I pointed out.
“I’m still not convinced that you’re not.”
“I don’t get it. Why do you think a reporter would be chasing you?”
“Because Ellie Wanamaker died two days ago. And that’s news.”
“In the dog show world, sure.” I was still perplexed. That made me sarcastic. “Who do you think I write for, Dogs in Review?”
“Not just in the dog show world.” Liam stopped and peered at me across the top of the grooming table. “So you really knew Miss Ellie?”
I nodded. “We met for the first time early in the week.”
“Bad timing for you.”
“You could say that.” This conversation was going nowhere fast. It was time to play the I’ve Got Connections card.
“My aunt and Miss Ellie were old friends,” I told him.
Liam didn’t look impressed. “Who’s your aunt?”
“Margaret Turnbull.”
“Standard Poodles?”
“The very same.”
Usually the mere mention of Aunt Peg’s name is all it takes to make people sit up and pay attention. Not Liam Dailey. He didn’t look even slightly impressed by this new information. All at once, Kentucky began to feel like it was a very long way from Connecticut.
“I don’t do Poodles,” Liam said with a shrug. Like that settled that.
I braced both hands on the top of the table between us and leaned in, stiff-armed, toward him. “I don’t do Bloodhounds,” I snapped. “What’s your point?”
“My God, you’re an annoying woman. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“You’re not the first,” I admitted. “Now are we going to talk about Miss Ellie or not?”
Liam grimaced. But he was weakening. I could tell.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said. “Five minutes. That’s all I’m giving you.”
“I thought you said you only had a minute.”
“Sure, I said that. I was trying to blow you off. For all the good it did.”
“I’ll take the five,” I told him. “And you’d better be prepared to talk fast.”
Five minutes later, Liam Dailey and I were on our way to becoming the best of friends. We were also sipping Kentucky bourbon. His was coming from a flask, mine out of a paper cup.
Drinking in the middle of the day isn’t my style. Especially not something like bourbon that rolled over my tongue as smooth as velvet then raced down my throat like liquid fire. Three small sips and I was already feeling a bit light-headed.
I suspected that was precisely what Liam Dailey had had in mind.
“Miss Ellie blew you a kiss,” I said.
I’d already clarified my relationship with Ellie Gates Wanamaker yet again, and then explained how I’d come to be escorting her around the show earlier in the week. I’d told Liam how shocked I’d been to hear of Miss Ellie’s death and confessed that I was talking to some of her friends in an attempt to make sense of what had happened.
“Of course she blew me a kiss,” he replied. “I’m that kind of guy.”
“What kind?” I inquired.
“Friendly.”
You couldn’t prove that by me. At least not until the bourbon had come out. But obviously he and Miss Ellie had shared an entirely different kind of relationship.
I lifted my cup, tipped it to him, and took a companionable sip. “Are you that friendly with all the women exhibitors?” I asked him. “Or was there something special about Miss Ellie?”
Liam matched my drink with one of his own. As he swallowed, he pursed his lips, savoring the burn. “It sounds to me like maybe you’re implying something untoward.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. I blinked and thought about it. Heck, maybe I was. Liam’s bourbon definitely packed a punch. “But if I was . . . would it be true?”
“Miss Ellie and I were buddies,” said Liam. “Mates, that’s all. We got along. We understood each other. We shared the same interests.”
“Dogs?” I said.
Liam nodded.
“Horses?”
“That, too.”
“Bourbon?”
“The lady liked a taste now and again,” Liam said. “Dog shows are my workplace. Sometimes the days drag on a bit. It never hurts to liven up the proceedings. Miss Ellie made very convivial company.”
Liam held up his hand and extended the flask in my direction. “More for you?”
No.” I shook my head for emphasis. “Thank you.”
Convivial indeed. The man was a pro at recruiting mates and creating a sociable atmosphere. But if I got any more convivial I might find myself lying flat out on the floor beneath the grooming table.
“Not everyone found Miss Ellie’s company as congenial as you did,” I said as Liam wiped his palm across the mouth of the flask to dry it, then screwed the cap back into place. He reached over and slid the slim container into his tack box.
Liam looked back with a laugh. “Oh, Miss Ellie was no saint. I don’t believe I said that, did I?”
“No,” I replied slowly. “You didn’t.” I waited a beat, then added, “Would you care to elaborate?”
“It’s not as though I’m telling tales out of school,” Liam said. “Miss Ellie was a fierce competitor. Everybody knows that. She liked to win. But even more than she liked to win, Ellie Gates Wanamaker absolutely hated to lose.”
“It sounds as though she might have made herself some enemies,” I mentioned.
“I don’t doubt she did.” Liam reached around me and opened a midsize crate. He slid in a hand and withdrew a Beagle. The dog’s tail was already wagging happily as the handler placed it on the next grooming table down the line. “It’s the nature of the game, isn’t it?”
“Are we talking about anyone in particular?” I asked.
“If you don’t mind my saying,” said Liam, glancing my way. “That seems like a funny question. Especially now that the lady is gone and it wouldn’t appear to be important anymore.”
“Or maybe that’s exactly why it is important,” I said.
That was definitely the bourbon talking. I really hadn’t meant to blurt that out.
“Oh? Then I’m thinking you must know things I don’t.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
I burped slightly. My hand flew up to cover my mouth. Bourbon again.
<
br /> Deliberately I set my cup down on the edge of a nearby crate. To my surprise, I realized that the cup was empty. Maybe I was a more convivial person than I thought.
Liam unfurled a show lead and slipped it over the Beagle’s head. Then he grabbed an armband out of his tack box and slid it beneath the rubber band that encircled his upper arm.
“Then we make quite a pair.” He looked at me, his eyes hardening. “You know nothing. And I don’t either. Excuse me. I have to be getting up to the ring.”
“One more thing,” I said. “Were you here on Friday, showing dogs?”
“Of course.” Liam picked up the small hound and tucked him beneath his arm. “I’ve been here every day this week. Like I said, this is my job. So I put in my time. Just like I’m supposed to do.”
He brushed past me and started back across the room toward the main pavilion.
“Good luck! ”I called after him.
Liam just kept walking.
* * *
I left Liam’s grooming area and made my way to the other end of the large room where Bertie’s and Crawford’s setups were.
Bertie was my best friend, I thought happily. And now it occurred to me that I hadn’t spent nearly enough time with her this week. She was probably down at her setup right now, missing me. Of course she was. What else would she be doing?
Though my legs had felt perfectly steady when I was leaning against Liam’s grooming table, now they seemed to have developed a definite wobble. For some reason, I didn’t find that worrisome. In fact, quite the opposite.
Striding down the long room past hordes of exhibitors all hard at work preparing their dogs for the ring, I couldn’t seem to stop smiling. No, make that grinning. In fact, my goofy grin was so wide that it made my ears hurt.
But here’s the funny thing. As I hurried past them, people kept smiling back at me. People I didn’t even know. They all seemed delighted to see me. What a friendly place Kentucky was!
Liam was right, I realized suddenly. Convivial was the way to go!
By the time I arrived at my friends’ setups, I was slightly breathless. That didn’t stop me from singing out cheerfully, “Good morning, everyone!”
Bertie was brushing through a Sheltie. Terry was setting the topknot on a Shih Tzu. Crawford was probably in a ring showing something. Anyway, he was nowhere to be seen.
Live and Let Growl Page 14