Best in Show

by Laurien Berenson

  Aunt Peg was already making notations in the margin of her catalog. While the class got organized, she spared me a quick glance. “Speaking of helping with the raffle, are you sure you shouldn’t be over at the table with Edith Jean?”

  “She was the one who sent me away,” I said.

  A woman sitting near us got up and left and Sam snagged the empty chair. “I heard about what happened to Betty Jean. I’ll have to stop by and offer my condolences.”

  “Did you know Betty Jean?” I asked.

  “No. I’m sorry to say I don’t even remember what she looked like.”

  “You’re not alone. The sisters don’t appear to have known anyone in the dog show world very well. They shipped their good puppy off to a handler this past spring and have kept tabs on his career from afar. Aside from coming to PCA each year, I get the impression that they pretty much kept to themselves. Which will make it even harder on Edith Jean when she has to go home alone.”

  “What about family back in Georgia?”

  “Apparently there’s nobody else,” I said quietly. “Just the two of them and their Poodles. I wonder if Edith Jean has a job to go back to. At least that might help a little.”

  The puppy having its individual examination in the ring was a gangly apricot that bounced around like a jumping jack. Presumably having written off his chances, Aunt Peg spared me a bit of attention.

  “Neither of the sisters worked,” she said. “That’s why they had so much time and energy to devote to running the raffle. That committee is one of the most labor intensive. The job starts in March when they begin soliciting donations and goes on through the end of June when they send out thank-you notes. The club offered to give the sisters a break after they’d done it a couple of times but they declined. I’m not sure how they support themselves, perhaps there’s a bit of family money keeping them going. But I know they didn’t have jobs.”

  The apricot puppy was sent around to the end of the line. According to the information I’d gleaned by watching Mr. Lamb’s first class, that meant he wasn’t going to make the cut.

  Sam had finished filling out Aunt Peg’s ticket stubs, which meant that I was fast running out of excuses for lingering. “I guess I’d better be going.”

  Sam stood up and handed me back my basket. Aunt Peg, concentrating once again on the action in the ring, was oblivious to my departure.

  The start of the conformation classes had drawn a whole new crop of spectators. Like the others I’d spoken to earlier in the week, most were happy to support the club by purchasing raffle tickets. Twice over the next several hours I had to return to the table to empty my basket of cash and ticket stubs. Edith Jean was delighted by my progress.

  “Don’t forget now,” she said when I checked in for the second time. “The Toy judging starts at one o’clock sharp. I’ll need you to take over the table so I can go watch.”

  “I’ll be here,” I assured her. I fully intended to watch the showdown myself, even if I had to stand on the chair behind the raffle table and look over the crowds to do so.

  Back at the Standard ring, the Novice class was being judged. At most shows, this class goes unentered. Here there were four in competition, one of which was handled by Damien Bradley. I checked out the Poodles, decided none was likely to figure in the day’s outcome, then glanced across the ring to where Sam and Aunt Peg were sitting. They’d been joined by Rosalind Romanescue.

  According to Aunt Peg, the animal communicator’s seminar had turned out to be a bigger success than anyone could have anticipated. Indeed, interest in her services had been so strong that Rosalind had decided to stay on for the remainder of the show, using the extra time to schedule additional consultations. I wondered what she thought about as she watched the dogs in the ring. Was she trying to talk to the Poodles or merely enjoying the show?

  The judge was handing out ribbons once again. Damien’s entry took second. The popular Bred-by-Exhibitor class was next. Jostled by the moving crowds as I turned away, I bumped into someone standing behind me.

  “Sorry,” I said automatically. The basket was slung somewhat negligently over my arm. I reached out to steady it so its contents wouldn’t spill.

  “That’s quite a load you’re carrying,” said Christian Gold. “What have you got there, muffins?”

  “Raffle tickets.”

  Nina was standing beside her husband, her hand tucked through the crook in his elbow, her rose-tipped fingers resting lightly on his arm. “We met on Monday,” she said, peering at me and offering a small smile.

  Christian handed her his open catalog and reached for his wallet. “I guess we’d better have some.”

  “I’ve already sold your wife two dozen tickets,” I felt obliged to mention.

  He waved a hand. “Make it a dozen more.”

  “Do you want to hear about our prizes?”

  “Let me guess. Whatever they are, I bet they’ve got Poodles on them.”

  “Pretty much, yes.” I found myself smiling with him.

  “That’s about what I figured. Can you tell I’ve been here before? I’m Christian Gold, by the way.”

  “Melanie Travis. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Same here.” Christian fished a pen out of the basket. I picked up another. Between us, we filled out all the stubs.

  Nina, perhaps unwilling to risk her manicure, didn’t offer to help. Instead, she stared past us into the Mini ring. Her face bore such a look of intense concentration that I wondered for a moment if one of the Golds’ Poodles was being shown in the class. Almost immediately, I discounted the thought. If Christian had had a dog in the ring, he would never have allowed himself to be distracted by something so mundane as raffle tickets.

  I took his money and handed him the rest of his stubs. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Christian was already turning back to the ring. “How’re we doing, honey?”

  “He’s made the cut,” said Nina.

  “Damn.”

  Interesting reaction. “Do you have a dog in the ring?” I asked.

  “No, next class,” said Christian. “Ours is an Open Dog. Our handler’s in there, though. We’re waiting for Dale to get done here so he can go back to the setup and work on our Mini. It looks like he’s going to be held up a few more minutes”

  For a professional handler, PCA was a continual juggling act. Though only two rings ran at the same time, the top handlers had entries in nearly every class. Excellent backup crews of assistants, and judges who were understanding about handlers slipping into and out of the ring as needed, were what made the system work.

  “Good luck,” I said.

  “Thanks.” Christian smiled. “We’ll need it.”

  Nina merely nodded.

  I didn’t take it personally. PCA has that effect on most people, Aunt Peg included. People were secondary here; it was all about the dogs.

  By the time I took one last pass around the two rings, grabbed Eve and ran her outside for a walk, then headed back to the raffle table, it was nearly one o’clock. Time for me to take over from Edith Jean. I hadn’t eaten since grabbing a protein bar for breakfast, but it was looking as though lunch was going to have to wait.

  To my surprise, as I approached the table, I didn’t see the older woman anywhere. Several people were browsing among the items; picking them up, examining them, then carefully placing them back on the table. Edith Jean should have been answering questions and keeping an eye on things. I wondered where she’d gotten to.

  The trophy table was next to ours. As I walked past, Charlotte Kay, chairman of the trophy committee, waved me over. “Edith Jean told me you’d be by any minute. She just scooted down to the ladies’ room before the start of the Toy judging. I’m watching your table for her.”

  She glanced down, frowning slightly as she looked at her watch. “Actually, Edith Jean left a good ten minutes ago. She should have been back by now.”

  “I’ll go find her,” I said.

  Judging
by the expression on Charlotte’s face, we were both thinking the same thing. One Boone sister dropping dead was bad enough. Two would be two too many.

  I handed Charlotte my basket for safekeeping and headed toward the far end of the large, sod covered arena. The dog show was set up on the ground floor of the building. Tiers of permanent seating rose on all sides above us. On one end, behind the grooming area, an enormous garage door led outside to the unloading zone. At the other end, wide concrete tunnels burrowed beneath the seats and led to the exits. Restrooms appeared at intervals along the tunnels; I knew from experience that the nearest ladies’ room was right around the first corner.

  I hadn’t gone two steps inside the tunnel before I heard voices. One I recognized immediately as Edith Jean’s. It took me a moment to place the second, perhaps because I wasn’t expecting it: Harry Gandolf. I hesitated before rounding the corner, not wanting to intrude.

  That didn’t stop me from listening, though.

  “Three hundred,” Harry was saying. “And that’s the easiest money you’ll ever make. Just tell Roger to pull the puppy.”

  “I said no once and I’ll say it again. Bubba came to PCA to have his shot and that’s what he’s going to do.”

  If Edith Jean had sounded worried or upset, I’d have barged around the corner and confronted them. Instead her tone was scornful; the older woman was more than capable of holding her own with a scoundrel like Harry Gandolf. I shrank into an alcove and pressed myself against the wall. Thanks to all that concrete, the acoustics were great.

  “Five hundred,” said Harry. “And that’s my final offer.”

  “You could offer me ten times that much. The answer is still no.”

  “Look, I’m trying to be reasonable here. There’s a lot riding on what happens today. I can’t afford to lose. All you need to do is be reasonable too. After what happened, everyone will understand if you decide not to show.”

  “Roger won’t,” Edith Jean snapped. “He’s down at the other end, getting Bubba ready right now.”

  “Roger works for you, he’ll do whatever you say. Just take the money and tell him you changed your mind. Tell him you’re distraught. Tell him anything you want.”

  “How about good luck and God bless?”

  I chuckled quietly. You go, girl, I thought.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Harry demanded. “Don’t you understand what I’m offering? Even in the backwoods of Georgia, people must know that five hundred dollars is a lot of money.”

  “I’ll tell you what else we know, sonny. We know that sometimes it’s not about the money.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Harry. “It’s always about the money. You and your sister sure had me fooled. I didn’t expect you to be such hard bargainers. Seven hundred.”

  “Keep your money, I don’t want it.”

  “I’ll bet you need it, though. With your sister dead and gone—”

  “Shut up!” cried Edith Jean. “Just shut your mouth, do you hear me?”

  I took that as my cue. Pushing away from the wall, I strode around the corner. Harry looked surprised to see me, but Edith Jean was the one who grew pale.

  “There you are,” I said, keeping my voice light. Impulsively, I reached out a hand to steady her. “We’ve been waiting for you back at the raffle table. Is everything all right?”

  “Just fine.” Her eyes darted back and forth between me and the handler. I knew she was wondering how much I’d heard; I wondered why it mattered. She wasn’t the one who’d been doing something wrong.

  “You go on back and take over from Charlotte,” she said. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

  “I’d rather wait.” I glared at Harry for good measure.

  Edith Jean patted the hand I’d placed on her arm. “There’s no need for that.”

  “I think there is.”

  “Don’t mind me,” said Harry. “You two may have time to stand around chatting, but I have things to do.”

  “What a creep,” I said as he walked away.

  Edith Jean sighed. “You can sure say that again.”

  13

  Edith Jean and I walked out to the raffle table together. “You’re sure you’re okay?” I asked.

  She snorted contemptuously. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m a tough old bird. Anyway, Harry Gandolf sent himself on a fool’s errand, coming after me like that. It doesn’t matter if he gets me all riled up, I’m not the one showing the dog. As long as Roger stays calm and gets the job done right, everything will be just fine.”

  “Good luck,” I said. “I’ll be rooting for Bubba.”

  Edith Jean gave me a jaunty thumbs-up and disappeared into the crowd. I went to retrieve the ticket basket from Charlotte and thank her for watching out for us.

  “Don’t mention it,” she said. “I was happy to help out. Besides, with all these trophies on display, I’m stuck here anyway. I don’t dare take a single step away.” She had a point. The value of the silverware spread out on Charlotte’s table, some of it decades old, dwarfed what the raffle had to offer.

  “Edith Jean is on her way to the ring,” I said. “Her puppy is in the next class.”

  Charlotte nodded. “I know both sisters were all excited about Bubba’s chances. For Edith Jean’s sake, it would be nice to see him pull off the win.”

  Something in her tone nagged at me. “But?”

  She looked uncomfortable. There was a long pause before she spoke. “Bubba’s a cute puppy, and he certainly had a lot of buzz going for him in the spring. But just between you and me, he’s no world-beater. If he does go up—and he very well might—let’s just say that sentiment will have played a part in the judge’s decision.”

  “You really think Mr. Mancini might be influenced by Betty Jean’s death?”

  “Under the circumstances, it would be hard for him not to be. Look at the setup: we have two older women who’ve been involved in the breed for years. This is the first time they’ve ever had a Poodle of this caliber, and one of the sisters dies unexpectedly on the eve of the puppy’s PCA debut. I’m sure the spectators will be on Bubba’s side, and frankly I’d be surprised if the judge didn’t give him a little extra credit too.

  “I know Edith Jean thinks very highly of that puppy and why shouldn’t she? We all love our own dogs. But three days ago, an objective observer probably would have told you that Bubba didn’t stand a chance much beyond maybe taking his own class. Now he’s one of the favorites.”

  I’d been curious to watch Bubba’s class before; now I couldn’t wait for his appearance in the ring. Walking back to the raffle table, I thought about Charlotte’s assessment of the situation. Like most PCA committee heads, Charlotte’s credentials were impeccable. She was both a breeder and a judge; in Poodle circles, her opinion mattered. And if she thought that Betty Jean’s murder had advanced Bubba’s cause, she probably knew what she was talking about.

  By the time the first Toy class had ended, I’d eaten the box lunch that Edith Jean had left for me, modeled a Poodle necklace for a woman who wanted to see what it looked like on an actual neck, searched in vain for a signature on the Poodle print, and sold a respectable amount of tickets. So far, it was just another afternoon at the office. But when Bubba’s class was called into the ring, I sat up and began to pay attention. I hauled my catalog out from beneath the table and opened it up to the appropriate page.

  There were seventeen puppy dogs entered in Bubba’s class. The high number on Roger’s armband placed the two of them near the end of the line. Judges are expected to judge at a pace of roughly twenty-five dogs an hour, and Mr. Mancini was known as someone who liked to move right along. Even so, it wouldn’t be Bubba’s turn to be examined for at least twenty minutes.

  Thumbing ahead several pages, I found Harry’s dog, Ro-Mac’s The Vindicator, listed in the entries for the Open Class. Though Vic was close to the same age as Bubba, Harry had chosen to enter his puppy in a more competitive class, one that was open to Poodles of al
l ages. Choosing to put a puppy there was a handler’s way of saying to the judge: Look at my dog. He may still be in puppy trim, but he ready to take on the older dogs. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that he’s just another youngster.

  The strategy was a sound one. More often than not, it had been known to succeed.

  Reading Vic’s listing in the catalog, I noticed something I hadn’t realized before. Harry Gandolf wasn’t just the puppy’s handler, he was also its owner. I wondered if that had anything to do with why he was so determined to see his Toy Poodle go up. Being awarded the purple ribbon at PCA conferred an enormous amount of prestige upon the recipient, but there wasn’t any financial gain attached to the win. I’d just heard Harry offer Edith Jean seven hundred dollars to pull her puppy from the competition. It’s always about the money, he’d said, but in this case, I’d have been hard-pressed to figure out how.

  Fortunately, there was a lull in the activity at the raffle table during Bubba’s class. I may have been partially responsible for that since I’d spent much of the time ignoring my duties. Instead, I stood on a chair and gazed over the heads of the spectators between me and the ring. I did draw a few stares, but most were sympathetic. At PCA, nobody wants to miss out on the action when a Poodle they care about is being shown.

  Generally speaking, silver Poodles are prized for their gorgeous color, but not necessarily for their showmanship. Obviously no one had told Bubba that. The little Poodle was clearly enjoying his moment in the spotlight.

  Not having had my hands on Bubba, I had no idea how well built the puppy was, but he certainly knew how to play to the crowd. In the world of Poodles, black and white are the most common colors. The remaining colors—browns, blues, apricots, and silvers—find their way to the show ring much more rarely. In the entire Toy entry, Bubba was one of only a handful of silvers. In his class, he was a standout.

  I’d never seen Roger Carew handle a dog before, and now I was impressed. He presented the Toy with flair and finesse. He also possessed that rare skill that the best professional handlers hone to a fine art: the ability to blend into the background, to show off a dog with such subtlety that it looks as though the dog is presenting himself.