Best in Show

by Laurien Berenson

  “Welcome to PCA,” I said with a grin. “The greatest show on earth.”

  “You can say that again. Bertie told me you left the seminar early to go give Eve a bath. You must have been working all afternoon. She looks terrific.”

  Like many dogs, Eve didn’t like elevators. Automatically, Sam and I headed for the back stairs.

  “Thanks. Have you eaten yet? I was about to go looking for some dinner. I just want to take Eve up to my room and give Davey a call. . .”

  “I just saw Davey,” said Sam. “He and Faith are both doing fine.”

  “Where did you see them?”

  Reaching the landing for the second floor, I pushed the door open. Eve dashed through and ran on ahead down the hallway. Though she’d only been in residence for two days, she stopped outside the right room. Maybe she read the number on the door.

  Sam fell into step beside me. “I stopped in Stamford on my way down here. I thought you might want an update.”

  “I’m dying for one. I spoke with Davey briefly last night. Aside from the fact that he and Faith were still alive, what I heard wasn’t entirely reassuring.”

  “That’s what I figured.” Sam was grinning. “Davey told me to tell you that the s’mores were great and the firemen let him ride the truck around the neighborhood.”

  “Perfect,” I muttered. As I lifted my card key from the lock, Eve pushed the door open with her nose and scooted past us into the room.

  “Davey also said that you shouldn’t bother to call tonight since he and Bob are going out to a video arcade.”

  “Bob doesn’t have enough video games for them to play at home?” I turned in the doorway as I asked the question and found Sam standing much closer than I’d realized.

  “Apparently not.” He moved closer still. My back was braced against the door. His arms came up on either side of me, trapping me there. Sam lowered his head to mine. His lips hovered next to my ear. “Can we stop discussing your ex-husband now?”

  I swallowed heavily. I could feel the heat and the hardness of his body. The slightest move brought friction. I heard Sam’s breath catch.

  One hand skimmed down over my shoulder and settled on my breast. My heart thudded beneath his palm. Sam’s lips sought mine but I pulled my mouth away.

  “Close the damn door,” I said.

  Wednesday morning the PCA National Specialty opened in earnest. Earlier in the week, things had been fairly low key. With the start of the conformation classes, the pomp and pageantry of the event increased exponentially. A full slate of activities was planned. First came the judging of the dog classes in all three varieties. At their conclusion, the Parade of Champions and Obedience Title Holders would be held, followed by the Affiliate Club Council Meeting.

  The parade was a perennial favorite. Open to any Poodle that had achieved either a breed or obedience title, it was a showcase for winners from the past as well as an opportunity for breeders to give retired favorites another taste of the limelight. Each Poodle was introduced in turn and a resume of its accomplishments read. Each was then gaited around the big ring to the sound of appreciative applause.

  Poodles are born performers; they love being the center of attention. Though most of these dogs now lived the pampered lives of cherished pets, that was set aside as soon as they entered the show ring. Heads and tails snapped up eagerly. They adored being back, and it showed. By the time the entire group, usually a hundred Poodles or so, did their final lap together to the accompaniment of the music from Fame, more than a few spectators would be sniffling happily.

  The day’s judging started promptly at eight A.M. The Standard and Miniature Poodle Puppy Dog classes, 6 to 9 Months of age, were up first. Entries were large, and as always the competition would be incredible. Winning a ribbon of any color was an honor; even making the cut was a thrill.

  By the time Eve and I arrived at the show site at seven-thirty to check in with Edith Jean, the arena had not only been open for several hours, it was bustling with activity. As soon as we entered the building, I could feel the excitement in the air. Already most of the ringside chairs had been staked out. The catalog table was doing a brisk business.

  I got Eve settled in her crate and hurried over to the raffle table. It looked as though Edith Jean had just arrived as well. She was unpacking and setting up.

  “Good, you’re here,” she said.

  My gaze swept over the table. “Is something wrong?”

  Edith Jean shoved a box under the table and looked up. “Not that I’m aware of. I just wanted to make sure we got everything ready in time. It looks like today’s going to be busy.” Her right hand was still bandaged. Today the vet wrap was neon yellow.

  “How’s your hand? Does it still hurt? I’m sure I could find a doctor—”

  Edith Jean stood up straight and propped both fists on her hips. “If I needed a doctor, I guess I could figure out where to get one myself, now couldn’t I? Quit bugging me about it, I’m managing just fine.”

  That might have been an understatement. The woman was a bundle of frenetic activity. My left hand is practically useless when it comes to fine motor skills, but Edith Jean was not only coping with her handicap, she was working at top speed. Already she had the cash box open and counted, the rolls of tickets out, pens lined up neatly beside them. All that remained was to finish setting up the table.

  “Here,” I said, taking another box from her. “Let me do that.”

  “Tell the truth,” E.J. confided, “I’d rather keep busy. I’m so nervous about today’s judging I could just about spit.”

  “There’s no point in being nervous now. Bubba’s class won’t even be held until this afternoon.”

  “Try telling my stomach that.”

  The older woman did look pretty wound up. “Do you want me to get you some coffee?” I asked. “Or maybe a nice cup of tea?”

  “Sure, that’s just what I need. A good jolt of caffeine.”

  At least she hadn’t lost her sense of humor.

  “I saw Harry Gandolf at the hotel yesterday afternoon. He was looking for you.” Best not to mention what I’d seen him try to do, I decided. Edith Jean was doing enough worrying already. “I didn’t think you wanted to see him so I didn’t tell him where you were.”

  “I appreciate that, dear. I imagine he’ll find me soon enough, though. Hard not to know where to look, now.”

  She was right. Word would get around soon enough that despite the tragedy that had befallen her, Edith Jean had not abandoned her post. We’d probably be swamped with well-wishers again today. With luck, we might sell raffle tickets to all of them.

  “Do you mind if I ask you something I’ve been wondering about?”

  “Shoot,” said Edith Jean.

  “It’s about Betty Jean.”

  She glared at me, her eyes narrowing. “You know what I wish? I wish everyone would stop walking on eggshells around me. I don’t mind talking about Sister. Hell, I’d rather talk about her than pretend like she didn’t exist. Why does everyone think I’m going to faint if they say her name?”

  “They’re trying to be sensitive,” I said.

  “Do I look like I need sensitive?”

  Not particularly, I thought. Right that minute, Edith Jean looked like a feisty old southern broad who could wake up with the sun, shoot her own breakfast, skin it, fry it, and slap it on a plate. Possum, probably.

  “I was just wondering what Betty Jean was doing outside the hotel the other night. Apparently she was by herself, and she didn’t have a dog with her. . .”

  Edith Jean nodded. “I see what you’re asking. Sister and I were both outside at first. This was after we’d been in the grooming room for a couple of hours. You know how time just sort of gets away from you when you’re working on a Poodle?”

  Did I ever. My marathon grooming session with Eve the day before had been proof of that. “Sure,” I agreed.

  “That’s pretty much what happened to us. Not that Bubba needs a lot of work a
t this point. Or that Roger would even let us touch a pair of scissors to that puppy.”

  I looked at the cagey expression on Edith Jean’s face and ventured a guess. “You weren’t grooming Bubba at all, were you? You just took the puppy down to the grooming room to show him off.”

  “Let’s just say that Harry Gandolf isn’t the only one who knows how word of mouth works.”

  Gamesmanship. PCA was rife with it. Though we all stayed at the same hotel, the judges were banned from mingling with the exhibitors in an attempt to prevent them from succumbing to influence. That didn’t stop the exhibitors from trying to psych each other out, or gather public opinion to their side.

  “Then what happened?” I asked.

  “We were down there a good long while. Plenty of time to let everyone get an eyeful. After that, we took Bubba out back behind the hotel. He’d been on the table a while and needed to pee.”

  Just as I’d done with Eve. In their own way, certain doggy rituals were entirely predictable.

  “I was watching the puppy and you know Sister, she was always looking to make herself useful. She went and picked up a poop-scoop. After she’d picked up Bubba’s mess she just kept on going, cleaning up after all the other dogs whose owners hadn’t had the good sense to do it for themselves.

  “Bless her heart. There she was, wandering around in the dark and scooping away like she thought she had a prayer of seeing what she was doing. ‘Sister,’ I said. ‘Y’all come along inside now. Bubba’s getting a chill.’ You remember it was cold out there the other night.”

  Chilly, yes. Cold, no. But the sisters came from Georgia. This far north, they probably felt as though they were on the verge of the polar ice cap.

  “Of course Sister didn’t pay any mind to me. That was the way she was. She thought she was doing the club a favor and she figured I’d just wait until she was done. Well it’s not like I was going to stand around forever. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Stay out here all night. I’m going to go take Bubba inside.’ And I did.”

  “So she wasn’t with anyone when you left?”

  “Oh, there were other people out there, all right. Most of them had Poodles and they were wandering around the field in the dark just like Sister was. Maybe she stopped to talk to someone after I was gone. . .” Edith Jean dropped her gaze and looked away.

  I was about to ask another question, but I never got the chance. The loudspeaker came on, putting an end to our conversation. The announcer welcomed us to the show and asked us to rise for the singing of the national anthem. At the song’s close, someone in the building let out a joyous whoop of anticipation. PCA was officially open for business.

  In the rings, the Standard and Miniature judges stood ready to do their jobs. Ring stewards called their first classes. A dozen entries filed into the Mini ring; nearly two dozen into the Standard.

  Edith Jean had already packed the raffle basket for me. Now as I stood up on my toes and tried to see over the spectators standing between us and the ring, she put it into my hands. “You’re dying to watch some, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I admitted guiltily. Especially with Betty Jean gone, I was supposed to be Edith Jean’s right hand. But with the best Standard Poodles in the country gathered right under my nose for the next three days, how could I not be intensely interested in seeing them?

  “Go on,” she said, giving me a gentle push. “Take the raffle basket and do some mingling around the ringside. And if you happen to watch a bit of the judging while you’re in the neighborhood, well, nobody ever said you had to be hard at work every single minute.”

  “But—”

  “Go. Enjoy yourself. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  The basket felt heavier on my arm than it had the previous day. I was halfway to the ring before I glanced down and saw why. Edith Jean hadn’t just filled it with the essentials I would need to sell tickets. She’d also added the thick dog show catalog that I’d stashed beneath the table with my purse. It was placed right on top for easy reference.

  I turned and looked back. Edith Jean was already busy, showing off the money tree to a potential customer. Waving the catalog, I mouthed my thanks. E.J. used her bandaged hand to wave back and kept right on working.

  I spent the next hour selling tickets and keeping an eye on the judging in the Standard ring at the same time. The puppy classes were of particular interest to me since that was where I would be showing Eve the next morning. I wanted to see how the judge set up his ring, find out what gaiting pattern he favored, and see if I could make a stab at discovering what he was looking for in a Poodle puppy.

  Whether we had a chance of winning or not, I wanted Eve to make a good impression. One of the best ways to insure that was to be prepared. I already knew from checking the catalog that there would be thirty-six entries in Eve’s class. Sorting them out correctly would be a huge task.

  Being selected to judge at the national specialty is an enormous honor. It’s also a lot of work. Judges have to hold their focus through class entries that are larger than the total number of Poodles they would see at a normal show. The caliber of the dogs they’re deciding among is higher as well; often only the tiniest difference separates a blue ribbon from a white one. Tommy Lamb, the Standard judge, was managing his ring with flair and authority. He looked well up to the task.

  Aunt Peg and Sam were seated at the corner of the Standard ring opposite where Mr. Lamb was standing. Their placement was no accident. When the judge sent his puppies straight out and back to check their movement coming and going away, they would have the same view that he did, the best in the house.

  As the judge made his cut in the first class, I headed over to join them. Sam stood up as I approached. “Peg said not to save you a seat. She seemed to think you’d be working at the raffle table.”

  “I am working,” I said, holding up my basket. “Can’t you tell?”

  Aunt Peg never even tore her gaze away from the action in the ring. “Quiet,” she said.

  “Why? The judge isn’t saying anything.”

  “He might.”

  Hard to argue with logic like that.

  “Take my chair,” Sam whispered. “I’ll stand behind you. Do you want me to buy some tickets while you’re here?”

  “That would be great.” I scooted around him and sat. Sam took the basket and rummaged around for the supplies he needed.

  “Who are we rooting for?” I asked Peg under my breath.

  “That one.” She flicked her finger discreetly in the direction of a big black puppy. “Yoko’s dog. Check your catalog. He’s Eve’s half brother, sired by the same dog you bred Faith to.”

  Of course Aunt Peg had been in charge of making that decision. Just as when she planned her own litters, she’d chosen a stud dog after weighing a variety of important factors including health, genetic test results, and temperament, as well as good looks. The litter of puppies I’d gotten as a result had been everything I’d hoped they would be.

  In the ring, Mr. Lamb pulled Yoko’s puppy out of the line and put him in third place. He looked up and down his entry again, then sent them all around one last time.

  “Good,” Peg said as the judge lifted his hand and pointed, awarding the puppy the yellow ribbon. “That means you’ll have a chance tomorrow.”

  “You mean I might win?” I asked, shocked.

  “No.” Peg sounded equally shocked by my presumption. “I mean you might get noticed in your class.” She turned and looked at me sternly. “He’ll like Eve’s type. As long as you don’t blow it, of course.”

  Of course, I thought. Wasn’t that always the way?

  12

  “Do I have to buy more raffle tickets?” Aunt Peg asked.

  Now that the first class was over, there was a lull in the ring while the judge marked his book, handed out the ribbons, and took a few minutes to speak into a tiny tape recorder about his placements. PCA requested that each judge write up a critique of his or her entries. Taping their impressions
as they went along helped them remember what they’d been thinking at the time. With the ring momentarily empty, Peg had deigned to notice my presence.

  “If you want,” I replied. My aunt was one of those club members who believed in supporting her club to the fullest. And I wasn’t about to turn down a sale, especially not one that gave me a good excuse to continue sitting and watching.

  “Here, let me,” said Sam. Though he’d finished his own transaction, he still had the basket. He lifted out the roll of tickets and began to unspool a dozen.

  “You handle that like a pro.”

  “I should, I’ve had enough experience. You’re not the only one who’s served time on the raffle committee.”

  I turned in my chair and stared up at him. “You worked for the sisters, too?”

  “No, this was a while ago. Ten years at least. It was before the Boones took over.”

  “You were on Rhonda Lowell’s committee.” Aunt Peg smiled at the memory. “She was a taskmaster.” Her gaze shifted my way. “She didn’t allow any sitting down on the job.”

  “No lunch or coffee breaks either,” said Sam. “She had three assistants and by the second day, we were all dead on our feet.”

  “I don’t think I know her,” I said. The name didn’t sound familiar.

  “You wouldn’t. She didn’t last,” Aunt Peg said. “Gave up showing dogs and found herself a new hobby.”

  “Something more challenging,” said Sam. “Something faster paced.”

  “Lure coursing?” I guessed.

  “Olympic bobsled team.”

  Ahhh. Suddenly, being indentured to Edith Jean’s raffle table didn’t sound like such a bad thing after all.

  The next Standard Poodle class, Puppy Dog, 9 to 12 Months, began to file into the ring. The big group followed catalog order, handlers finding their place in line according to the numbers on their armbands.