“I don’t know if fun is the right word, but it certainly is interesting. Did you know that Kenny Boyle’s been busted for overbilling his clients?”
“Busted?” I laughed. “That doesn’t sound like your kind of word.”
“It didn’t used to be. But with all the trouble you manage to get yourself into, I’ve had to develop a whole new vocabulary.”
“I was under the impression that most handlers padded their bills,” Sam mentioned. He’d gotten Tar out of his crate and put the puppy up on the table. “How come Kenny was singled out?”
Kenny Boyle specialized in the working breeds. His client list comprised some of the most influential, and well-heeled, members of the dog community. We all knew who he was.
“Apparently his padding bought him a new van and sent his son to private school.” Peg’s finger stabbed the page. “It says so right here.”
I looked at Sam and grinned. “She’s hooked.”
“It’s my duty to stay informed,” Peg said primly. “Now that I’ve seen an issue, I think I may subscribe after all.”
“Hooked,” I repeated.
Peg harrumphed and went back to her reading. Davey settled down beside her and ate a belated lunch. While Sam worked on getting Tar’s topknot back up, I got Faith out of her crate and took her for a walk. With a litter of puppies all jockeying for space, her bladder isn’t as big as it used to be.
The group judging started at two o’clock; and the Non-Sporting Group was the third to be judged. Groups that start early entice spectators to stay and watch, and the gallery was sizable when Sam walked Tar into the ring.
Some handlers see a benefit in heading up the line, and the Dalmatian and Standard Poodle, the two big dogs of the Non-Sporting Group, often vie for that first position. Since this was Tar’s first group appearance, however, Sam was content to let the puppy take his time and look around. They settled in behind the Dal, where Tar would have a lead to follow.
“He really looks good,” I said to Peg. She, Davey, and I had found a place right up front.
“He should. That puppy is the culmination of thirty years of hard work. Pity they don’t all turn out so well. Now let’s see if Sylvia Koenig remembers how much she liked him earlier.”
If she didn’t, the crowd at ringside seemed more than ready to remind her. Since Poodle puppies show in a different trim than the adults do, it was immediately apparent to all who were watching that Tar was a young dog who’d already triumphed over his elders in winning Best of Variety. That alone was enough to get their attention.
Then they saw him move.
By the time Tar’s turn came to be individually examined, he already had a following. Peg and Davey and I were clapping, of course, but our applause was merely a small part of the acclaim that followed the puppy’s performance. As Tar finished gaiting down and back and did a flawless free-stack in front of the judge, someone whooped loudly. Looking across the ring, I saw Brian, Aubrey, and Tim all standing together. Tim grinned and flashed a thumbs-up.
Seeing the sensation her puppy was causing, Aunt Peg turned pink with pleasure. Even the judge permitted herself a small smile as Sam spun Tar around and raced with him to the end of the line. Everyone knew they were watching something special. When the show was rehashed during the week, Sam’s puppy would be the dog they all talked about.
“Told you so,” said Terry, wiggling in beside us. Though Crawford had lost with his Standard Poodle, and his Dalmatian, he was in the ring with a Lhasa Apso. “You’re going to beat us again, too.”
“Maybe,” Aunt Peg said under her breath. “But the Bulldog’s going to win.”
She spoke with certainty as she always did. There was no use trying to figure out how she knew these things. Questioned, she’d tell you it was a combination of experience, knowing the dogs’ records and the judges’ preferences, and intuition. Or maybe it was just luck. But whatever contributed to them, her predictions were seldom wrong.
“Not Tar?” I asked, disappointed already, though the judge hadn’t even made her cut.
“It’s not his time yet,” Aunt Peg said complacently. “He’ll win his shares of groups, but not this one. That Bulldog’s owned the East Coast all spring, and rightly so. Not only that, but there are some other very good dogs in there. I’d be very pleased if Tar managed a ribbon in this company.”
As the judge examined the other entrants, I let my gaze drift. On the other side of the ring, Brian was talking on his cell phone. I saw him frown, then reach up to cover his other ear with his hand.
Obviously it still wasn’t enough to block out the noise, because he turned abruptly and shoved his way back through the crowd. Aubrey watched him go but made no attempt to follow. Tim’s gaze was focused on the dogs in the ring.
Aunt Peg’s elbow jabbed me in the ribs. “She’s pulled him.”
I looked back in the ring. The judge was making her cut. The Bulldog was on top, followed by Tar, then a Shiba Inu. Crawford’s Lhasa was in fourth place.
“I think that’s it,” said Peg, hands poised to clap as the judge sent the dogs around.
When Mrs. Koenig pointed to Tar for second place, Davey and I whooped and hollered like tourists who’d never been to a dog show before. Terry smirked at our undignified behavior, then joined in the fun by whistling through his fingers. Surprised by all the commotion, Sam cast a startled glance our way, and grinned.
Clutching the big red ribbon, he headed for the gate. Peg, Davey, and I made our way through the crowd to meet him. Our progress was hampered by the hordes of spectators, and Sam had already come through the gate when we got there. Unexpectedly, Brian Endicott was standing beside him.
Even from a dozen feet away I knew something was wrong. Sam had gone absolutely still; his face was white. Brian looked as though he might be sick. Tar’s leash dangled limply from Sam’s hand. The puppy, sensing his owner’s distress, stopped playing and looked up questioningly.
Another exhibitor, passing by on the way out of the ring, congratulated Sam. He didn’t answer. He didn’t even seem to hear.
Dropping Davey’s hand, I ran on ahead. “What?” I demanded. “What’s happened?”
Brian swallowed heavily. Words seemed beyond him. I looked at Sam.
“Brian just heard,” he said. “Sheila is dead. She was murdered last night.”
Seven
“No,” I said. My voice was firm, as if denying the news could change it. “You must be wrong.”
“Wrong about what?” asked Peg, coming up beside us.
I glanced down at Davey and shook my head. “Why don’t you two go get some ice cream?” The cheery words seemed to stick in my throat. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”
Aunt Peg’s gaze ricocheted between us, trying to discern the problem. After a moment, she reached out and took Tar’s leash and ribbon from Sam. “That sounds like a good idea. Maybe we’ll put the puppy in his crate, too. Okay, Davey?”
“Okay,” my son agreed, oblivious to the strained silence of the other adults. “I want chocolate!”
“And so you shall have it,” Peg said, leading boy and dog away.
“What happened?” I said as soon as they had gone.
“I don’t know.” Brian’s hand trembled slightly as he shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit up. “Maybe there’s been some kind of mistake. Do you think that’s possible?”
“Who gave you the news?” asked Sam. “Who did you talk to?”
“Some guy from the state police in Somers. You know how Sheila was supposed to meet me here? I’ve been calling around all day, trying to figure out where she was. A few minutes ago, there was an answer at her house. A detective picked up, asked who I was, and then told me that Sheila was dead.”
That didn’t sound like the kind of thing someone would have been mistaken about to me.
“I’ve got to get over there,” said Brian. “I want to see for myself what’s going on.”
The news seemed to have energized him. He seeme
d agitated, almost frantic. Sam, on the other hand, was withdrawing into himself. His features looked blank. His eyes were stunned, void of all emotion.
“I’m coming with you,” he told Brian. As an afterthought, he turned to me. “Can you take Tar home?”
I nodded.
“I’ll call you later.”
He started to walk away, but I caught up, grabbed his hand and gave it a strong squeeze. Sam stopped and looked in my direction. Even so, he seemed far away. Whatever he was seeing, it wasn’t me.
“It’ll be okay,” I said softly.
“How?” For just the briefest moment, feeling broke through, and his voice was anguished. “How can things possibly be okay?”
Then he was gone.
I stood and watched him go. Watched the two men—once friends, then adversaries, now reunited by tragedy—stride away together.
Sam had been right, I thought. My reassurances were as empty as they’d sounded. Things weren’t going to be okay. Something, maybe everything, was going to change. I just hoped we’d be able to put our lives back together when it was over.
I found Aunt Peg and Davey back at the setup. Peg was undoing Tar’s tight, show ring topknot. Davey was industriously working his way through a hot fudge sundae.
I sighed. Loudly.
“I wanted something that would keep him occupied,” Aunt Peg said.
Right. In light of what had just transpired, it didn’t seem worth arguing about. I stopped beside my son’s chair. “It’s such a nice warm day. Why don’t we move you out from under the tent so you can sit in the sun?”
“Okay.” Davey hopped up. “Look what Aunt Peg got me. It had three scoops of ice cream and two cherries!”
“That’s an awfully big sundae. Want some help finishing it?”
“No!”
No surprise there. I took his chair and placed it out beside an exercise pen, holding three Norwich Terrier puppies. Davey was watching their antics and spooning up hot fudge at a rate guaranteed to overload his circuits when I went back in to rejoin Aunt Peg.
“Well?” she demanded.
“Sheila Vaughn has been murdered.”
“Oh Lord. Did Brian have any details?”
“None that he mentioned. He and Sam are on their way over to Sheila’s house now. I’ll take Tar home with me, and Sam’s going to call me later.”
“What are you two whispering about?”
I’d been so intent on the bad news, I hadn’t even noticed Terry’s approach. Now I shut my mouth, wondering how much we should say.
But while I hesitated, Peg jumped right in. “Sheila Vaughn’s been murdered.”
Talk about letting the cat out of the bag.
Terry’s eyes grew large. He immediately looked at me. “Good thing you have an alibi. You’ve been here all day. I can vouch for that myself.”
“That’s not funny!” I snapped.
Terry wasn’t chastened.
Even Peg looked faintly amused. “You have to admit, it does remove one problem from your life.”
“And substitutes another,” I said irritably. “You should have seen Sam’s face when he heard. He was devastated.”
“As well he would be,” Peg said. “Sam’s not the sort of man to turn his back on someone he once loved. On some level, I imagine he still cared for her deeply.”
“He did,” I grumbled. “Which will make this that much worse for him.”
“Gotta go.” Terry looked like a man with a secret he was dying to share. Within minutes, the news would be all over the show ground. “Keep me posted, okay?”
Terry didn’t wait for an answer. He skipped away down the narrow aisle, dodging around Tim and Aubrey, Brian’s two assistants, who were heading our way.
“Oh dear,” said Aunt Peg. “Do you suppose they know what happened?”
I didn’t even have to speculate. The first words out of Aubrey’s mouth provided the answer.
“Have you seen Brian?” she asked. “We were watching the groups together, then all of a sudden he just disappeared.”
“Brian had to leave.” I was unsure how much I wanted to divulge. Although with Terry on the loose, the news was probably already spreading like parvo.
“Oh? Any idea where he went?”
“To North Salem,” said Aunt Peg. “To Sheila’s house.”
“What’s with her, anyway?” Tim asked. “She was supposed to be here.”
“I’m afraid there’s been some bad news.”
“About Sheila?” Aubrey prompted. She didn’t seem upset by the prospect.
“Is she okay?” asked Tim.
“Not exactly,” I hedged.
“She’s dead,” Peg added helpfully.
“Dead?” Tim grinned. “This is a joke, right?”
“No,” I said. “No joke. According to the police, Sheila was murdered.”
“By whom?” Aubrey demanded, as if she thought this was the sort of information we ought to have.
“I don’t know. The state police were at her house when Brian spoke to them a little while ago. He and Sam both left to go over there. I don’t know any more than that.”
“Sam ...” Aubrey mused aloud. Her lips pursed as she thought. “He was Sheila’s ex, right? I wonder if there were any hard feelings there.”
“There weren’t,” I said firmly, feeling a small tremor of shock. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that Sam might be a suspect. “He and Sheila hadn’t seen each other in years until recently.”
“That’s what I mean,” Aubrey persisted. “The timing seems pretty suspicious, doesn’t it?”
In other circumstances, I might have appreciated her curiosity. Now, it was really getting on my nerves.
Beside her, Tim was fidgeting like a Jack Russell with a bone in its throat. He coughed loudly. “Aubrey, shut up. Now.”
“Why?” Her shocked look clearly indicated that she wasn’t used to being addressed in such a manner by her assistant. “I’m sorry about what happened, but it’s not like we were friends or anything. I mean, you can’t help but speculate—”
“About Melanie’s fiancé?” he finished for her.
“Oh!” Aubrey gasped and cast a startled glance my way. A dark flush started beneath her collarbone and worked its way up her neck. “Oh God! Don’t pay any attention to me! I was just saying stupid things off the top of my head. It’s not like I think Sam could do something horrible like that ... Well, how would I know if he could or not? I mean, we just met ...”
Aubrey was so flustered she could barely speak, much less form coherent thoughts. Now Tim was rolling his eyes. If Sam were there, he would have laughed. That thought made me smile.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ve speculated about a few mysteries myself.”
“Hopefully with more tact,” said Aunt Peg, who didn’t look appeased.
“Sorry about that,” said Tim, steering Aubrey away.
She was digging through her purse. “Do you have Sheila’s home address?” I heard her ask Tim, her voice fading as they walked. “I’m sure Brian needs me ...”
“Interesting pair,” said Aunt Peg. “I wonder where they were when Sheila was killed.”
Good question.
Unless I missed my guess, it would be the first of many.
I waited all evening to hear from Sam. Resisting the urge to call him. Knowing that he had to be busy; otherwise, he’d surely have gotten in touch.
I told Davey only that Sam had been called away on business, but that we’d be hearing from him soon. By nine o’clock, when I put my son to bed, there’d still been no word.
What could possibly be going on in North Salem that would take this long? I wondered. Sam had left the dog show five and a half hours earlier.
When I finally did hear from Sam, it wasn’t by phone. At nine-thirty, headlights swept through my living room as his Blazer turned in my driveway. I had the front door open before he’d even gotten out of the car.
Faith and Tar ran
past me to greet him, the two Poodles nudging each other aside playfully in their attempt to get there first. Sam stopped and braced for the canine onslaught. He bent low over both dogs, talking to them, ruffling his hands through their hair. It seemed to take forever before he straightened and looked at me.
As he stepped into the pool of light by the door, I saw that his face was haggard. Somewhere, he’d shed the sports coat and tie he’d been wearing at the show. His shirt was open at the throat, the cuffs were rolled back. There was dirt on the knees of his khakis and a grass stain on his shirt.
I met him on the bottom step and realized that he smelled of Scotch. Sam wasn’t a drinker. Beer, sure; and the occasional glass of wine. But until that moment I wouldn’t have been able to tell you what kind of hard liquor he preferred.
His gait was steady, but his eyes were bloodshot. I wondered how much Scotch you had to consume for the scent to linger.
I didn’t kiss him. Maybe I should have. I thought about that later.
But his expression was so forbidding that it seemed like a better idea to wrap my arm around his and lead him up the steps. Subdued, the two Poodles followed us inside.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Hell no,” Sam growled. He walked into the living room and sank down on the couch. “Do I look okay?”
All evening, I’d been concerned. But now, seeing the shape Sam had gotten himself into, I was suddenly all out of pity. “Frankly, you look like shit.”
“Perfect.” His head lolled back on the cushion. His eyes closed. “No reason the outside shouldn’t match the inside.”
“How about some coffee?”
One eye opened. Sam brushed a hand over it as if the lighting in the room was too bright. “I’m not drunk.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“And if I was drunk, I don’t think I’d be ready to get sober just yet.”
“Fine,” I said, sitting down opposite him. “What about your dogs?”
Aside from Tar, Sam had three other Standard Poodles, who lived with him in Redding. When he knew in advance that he was going to be away overnight, he had a pet-sitter come and stay with them.
Unleashed (A Melanie Travis Mystery) Page 6