“I’m sure Harry realized that,” I said. “In fact, he spent the first two days he was here attempting to cut down on those variables by identifying his chief opposition and trying to remove the dog from competition.”
“Trying to do so?” Peg’s brow lifted. “Or succeeding at it?”
“Well, he did win,” I said, wondering what she was getting at. “But as you mentioned, there were other, perhaps unexpected, variables that came into play. The fact that Bubba was tired from spending much of the afternoon basking in everyone’s admiration. That whistle during the Winners class that distracted Roger—”
Aunt Peg shot me a telling look before glancing down to scribble something in her catalog. Being nosy, I looked over and deciphered her script. Beside the name of the Poodle currently being examined in the ring, she’d written flat feet.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “You think Harry engineered that distraction. The whistle came from high in the stands. Nobody would have been sitting up there to watch, it’s too far away. Harry must have had a hand in it. But he was down on the floor at the time, and there’s no way I can see of figuring out who helped him—”
“Melanie,” Aunt Peg interrupted my rambling. Her tone was stern. “It doesn’t matter who whistled.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re asking the wrong question.”
It wouldn’t be the first time. “What’s the right question?”
“Who whistled isn’t important. What matters is, why did Roger look?”
“What?” The concept was so simple that for a moment it left me baffled.
“Why did Roger look?” Peg repeated. The judge was now examining a skittish brown bitch. My aunt noted the word brown in her margin as if that single word conveyed a wealth of meaning. Then, for the first time since the class began, she turned her attention to me.
“So someone made a noise, so what? It happens. Roger’s a professional. Presumably he knows how to handle distractions. Upon reflection, that’s what struck me as odd about the whole incident. Not that someone whistled at the puppy, but that Roger allowed it to affect his performance. Now, you may be right, perhaps Harry did set something up. Maybe he thought a loud noise like that would upset Bubba, though I can’t think why it would necessarily. Or maybe Harry had nothing to do with it and he simply got lucky.”
That was an awful lot of maybes. And having observed Harry Gandolf in action over the last few days, I’d come to the conclusion that he was the kind of person who preferred to make his own luck. Still, Aunt Peg had a point. One that bore thinking about.
When I didn’t answer right away, Peg went back to watching the class. Dale was moving his black bitch. She sighed softly and wrote the word lovely beside its name.
“You want to be in there with them, don’t you?” I asked.
“Of course I do,” Peg said sharply. “This is the first time in years I haven’t shown at PCA. Having the luxury to watch is all well and good, but it’s not enough. I feel incomplete just sitting here, as though I’m only doing half what I’m supposed to do.”
It wasn’t that Aunt Peg didn’t have anything to show. When I’d bred Faith, she’d chosen a puppy from the litter to keep for herself, a male sibling of Eve’s whom she and Davey had named Zeke. Aunt Peg had started showing him in the spring when I’d brought Eve out. The puppy dog was big and handsome; already he had both his majors and needed only a few singles to finish.
PCA would have been the perfect place to show Zeke off, except for one small glitch. The Standard Poodle judge, Tommy Lamb, and Aunt Peg were old friends. Decades earlier when Peg and her husband, Max, had started out in Poodles, Tommy had served as one of their first mentors. Over the years, the relationship had developed into a strong and abiding friendship.
Under the circumstances, showing to Tommy would have been a lose/lose proposition. If Aunt Peg did well, she risked the chance of people crying favoritism. If she did poorly, Tommy would be left in the unenviable position of needing to explain why he hadn’t liked a dog whose bloodlines he’d once had a hand in creating.
Either way, Aunt Peg was better off on the sidelines. That didn’t make the unaccustomed inactivity any easier for her to take, however.
“You’ll miss next year, too,” I said in an effort to make her feel better.
Aunt Peg thought for a moment, then smiled. The expression blossomed over her face like a flower opening to the sun. “No, I won’t. Next year, I won’t miss a thing. I’ll have the best seat in the house.”
The selection process for the following year’s judges had been completed not long after Aunt Peg had received her judge’s license. In a stunning tribute to the lifetime of hard work she’d devoted to the Poodle breed, Peg had been chosen on the first ballot. The following year, she would hold the position that Tommy Lamb held now. Aunt Peg would be judging Standard Poodles at PCA.
“Why do you think I’m watching so closely?” she asked. “I don’t want to miss a move Tommy makes. I’ll be lucky to do half the job he does.”
I’d seen Aunt Peg judge. She would do a superb job; and luck wouldn’t have anything to do with it. “One more thing,” I said.
“Have you ever noticed that with you it’s always ‘one more thing’?”
“I must take after you,” I said dryly.
For once, Aunt Peg didn’t have a retort handy. I pressed my advantage. “Rosalind Romanescue.”
“Now what?” Exasperation sharpened her tone. She frowned at a blue bitch in the ring who was backing off from the judge. No tail, she scribbled and left it at that.
“I talked to Crawford about her. He’s a believer. Not only that, but he has the stories to back it up.”
“I told you she was the real thing.”
“No,” I felt obliged to point out. “You told me she was all you could get on short notice.”
“I found her talk delightful. I’m thinking of having her communicate with my bunch.”
I was well acquainted with the six rambunctious Standard Poodles that ran Aunt Peg’s house. Trying to hold a coherent conversation with that group would require an air traffic controller, not an animal communicator.
“Crawford got her name from Roger Carew,” I said. “Roger got it from the Boone sisters.”
“Really?” The last bitch in the class was being examined. Aunt Peg tore her gaze away. “Rosalind knew Betty Jean? I guess that explains her reaction.”
“When?”
“At the seminar, remember? Right off the bat someone called out a question about what had happened the night before. When she didn’t answer, I pulled her aside and explained about Betty Jean. For a moment, I thought she wouldn’t be able to continue. Then she pulled herself back together and went on as if nothing had happened.”
“You didn’t think that was odd?”
“Why should I have? At the time, I had no idea she was acquainted with the Boones. If I had, I probably would have handled things differently. Maybe taken a small recess to allow Rosalind to regain her composure.”
“Except that she apparently didn’t need one. As you said, after a moment’s hesitation she simply carried on as if nothing were wrong.”
Aunt Peg and I both pondered that as Tommy made his cut. To nobody’s surprise, Dale’s bitch was pulled out on top. The audience agreed with the selection. Applause followed the black Poodle to the head of the new line.
“Maybe she and Betty Jean were merely acquaintances—” Aunt Peg began.
“Maybe she already knew Betty Jean was dead,” I said at the same time.
We both stopped speaking and looked at one another.
“You might go ask,” Aunt Peg proposed.
As if this murder was my problem. As if I hadn’t already told Sam that this time I was nothing more than an interested bystander. As if we both didn’t know that given my past proclivities, it was somehow inevitable I would do exactly that.
“Right,” I said.
20
&nbs
p; Dale Atherton won the Bred-by class to the tune of enthusiastic applause from ringside. His black bitch would be one of the favorites in the Winners ring later that afternoon. As the judge handed out the ribbons and took a minute to record his impressions of the class, I pulled out my basket. It was time to try and sell some more tickets.
I had to admit that by day four, the routine was getting old. In the beginning, it had been sort of fun—better, anyway, than the myriad other jobs Aunt Peg might have found for me. Now, however, I was growing tired of hitting people up for money, even if the proceeds did go to a good cause.
That probably explained why my tally for the next hour’s work consisted of two small sales and an equal number of lost pens. On the plus side, I was able to make change for a spectator vvho’d lost a bet and direct a harried mother to the restrooms. I also kept an eye out for Rosalind. Unfortunately, the communicator was nowhere in sight.
As the Standard Open Bitch class was called into the ring, I went and got Eve. A half hour run around the outside of the building cleared both our heads.
The puppy was still tired from the morning’s excitement. At least that was what I tried to tell myself when she didn’t protest as I returned her, yet again, to her crate. Instead Eve simply walked inside, turned a small circle, and lay down. Her easy compliance made me feel guiltier than an argument would have. It was sad to think that she was coming to accept as normal the restrictions that being at the show placed on her behavior.
As I was bidding Eve good-bye and promising I’d be back soon, I heard a familiar voice coming from the neighboring setup. Dale Atherton was there, keeping a watchful eye on his bitch as they awaited their next turn in the ring. Bertie had stopped by and the two of them were chatting. I threaded my way through the columns of stacked crates that separated the aisles and went to join them.
“Thanks for saving me earlier,” I said to Dale.
“Saving you?” Bertie asked. She looked lovely, as always.
Dale, no slouch in that department himself, was also charmingly modest. “It was nothing.”
“Damien Bradley,” I said for Bertie’s sake.
“I thought you said he seemed like a nice man.”
“That was yesterday. Now I’ve changed my mind.”
Dale smiled. “That happens around Damien.”
“Your bitch looked beautiful in her class,” I said. “Good luck later.”
“Thanks, we’ll need it. The competition is pretty steep this year, especially in Standards.”
“How many did you bring with you?” asked Bertie.
“Unfortunately, Olivia’s my one and only. Usually I’d have a bigger string, but this year I picked up a new client who’s kept me pretty busy with his Minis. I had to cut down on the number of outside Poodles I was taking.”
“Christian and Nina Gold,” I said.
Dale nodded. “GoldenDune is a big operation. I’ve had as many as ten to fifteen Poodles of theirs at a time. Of course I don’t take that many to all the shows. Christian was insistent about PCA, however. He wanted his Minis to make a statement here, with entries in as many classes as possible.
“Especially with the two rings running simultaneously, that didn’t leave many openings for anyone else. Livvy’s different, though. I bred her myself. I figured I could make the entry and if the timing worked, I’d go ahead and show her. If not, I’d just pull her. Try explaining that to a client who expects to see their Poodle in the ring.”
Bertie nodded sympathetically. She’d been there.
“Not that I’m complaining. Christian and Nina have been great to work with.” Olivia, lying on her grooming table, reached out and nudged his hand with her nose. Dale rubbed the Poodle’s muzzle fondly before continuing. “Just being affiliated with an operation of the size and scope of GoldenDune has been good for me. A year ago, not that many people knew who I was. Now I guess I’m moving up in the world.”
Dale paused, looking somewhat flustered. On him, the look was adorable. “I’m babbling, aren’t I? I do that when I get nervous. I didn’t think Livvy would win the Bred-by class. Oh, I knew she’d look good, but I didn’t think she’d win. And now that she has, I can’t help but think that Tommy must have really liked her. Maybe we have a shot at Winners.”
“I’d be surprised if you didn’t,” said Bertie. She wasn’t a Poodle expert but like many accomplished dog fanciers, she had an eye for a good one.
“That’s precisely the problem. I went in the ring thinking we were just here to have some fun. Then suddenly my no-pressure afternoon went to high pressure, just like that.” Dale stopped speaking and looked at the two of us. “All right, you’re still letting me babble on. Enough about me. One of you talk for a while. Change the subject.”
“How about Monday night?” I asked. “We could talk about that.”
“Monday night?” He looked puzzled.
“When Betty Jean Boone was killed?” Bertie guessed.
I nodded. “Dale was there. At least, right afterward, anyway.”
The handler thought back. “I’m happy to talk about it, though I don’t have much to say. I thought I heard someone scream and I opened my door to see what was going on.”
“You got to Betty Jean before I did,” I said. “And I was already outside. You must have been standing right next to your door.”
“I was.” Dale lifted a hand and rubbed his jaw, much the same as he’d stroked the Poodle a minute before. “A friend had been with me in my room. We’d just said good-bye—at least that’s what it felt like to me—when I heard the scream. Of course, I wanted to make sure she was all right.”
She? Bertie and I exchanged a quick glance. Remembering Dale’s disheveled appearance when he’d come to the door, I supposed it wasn’t surprising that he’d been entertaining a woman.
“Your friend might have seen something,” I said thoughtfully. “Has she spoken with the police? I’m sure they’d be interested in hearing from her.”
Dale was already shaking his head. He looked as though he regretted saying as much as he had. “Trust me, that’s not about to happen. I heard from the police too because I was outside just as you were. But the woman in question is a very private person. She told me she didn’t want to get involved and I respected her wishes.”
“But—”
“Besides,” Dale overrode my objection, “I’m sure she didn’t have any information for the police or she’d have said something. When I came out of my room, she was already gone. The incident must have happened after she passed by.”
Firm as Dale’s conviction sounded, I wasn’t convinced that he was doing the right thing. Maybe I’d mention something to Detective Mandahar if I saw him again.
“I guess I’d better be getting back to the raffle table,” I said.
Bertie watched as I hefted the basket up and slipped it over my arm. “How’s business?”
“Slow to nonexistent. I’ve pretty much worn out my welcome. People see me coming and run the other way.”
“As if that’s anything new,” Bertie said with a grin. “Want me to try taking a spin around the arena with that thing?”
About to leave, I stopped abruptly. The idea had definite appeal. “It’s probably against the rules.”
“What rules?”
“I don’t know. There must be some rule that covers it. There are rules about everything else. You aren’t even a member of the club.”
“Are you?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I got conscripted.”
“And I volunteered. So what?” Bertie took the basket off my arm and checked out its contents. “This looks pretty much self-explanatory. Okay, Dale, you’re up first. How many tickets do you want?”
“Who said I wanted any?”
Bertie batted her long dark eyelashes. “Who said I was giving you a choice?”
You’ve got to admire a woman with moxie. As I walked away, Dale was already reaching for his wallet. Somehow I suspected slow wasn’t a word in Bertie
’s vocabulary.
Since Bertie was busy doing my job for me, I decided to wander around for a while and simply enjoy the show. What a novel concept. Between working on the raffle, taking care of Eve, and then prepping and showing the puppy, I’d hardly gotten to take a deep breath much less watch more than a small sample of the competition. Many Poodle exhibitors planned their yearly vacation around the specialty show. I wondered if all of them went home as tired at the end of the week as I seemed destined to be.
Judging in the Toy ring had already finished for the afternoon. In Standards, Tommy Lamb was about to place his Open Bitch class. I saw an open spot near the gate, wriggled through the crowd, and found myself standing by the rail just as he pointed toward the striking black bitch at the head of the line. Cheers erupted around me. I hadn’t been there long enough to see whether or not I liked the winner, but I joined in anyway. Any win at PCA was worth celebrating.
The bitches who’d made the final cut but hadn’t received ribbons filed out. I moved over slightly to give them room to get by. With the Winners class up next, I wasn’t about to cede my ringside position.
Harry Gandolf came through the gate. He handed off his Standard bitch to a waiting assistant, then paused and looked around.
I knew he’d be interested in watching what came next. Impulsively I scooted over, bumping the couple on my other side who sighed and gave way. “Hey,” I said. “There’s room here. Come stand by me.”
Harry might have been surprised by the invitation, but he knew better than to question his good fortune. Already an announcement had been made over the loudspeaker; the earlier class winners were entering the ring. People stood seven or eight deep at ringside and those in the back were pressing forward, hoping to get a better view. Excitement and anticipation hummed in the air.
“Melanie, right?” Harry’s shoulder dug into mine as we were jostled rudely from behind. He lifted his hand and cradled my elbow to steady me. “Sorry about that.”
Best in Show Page 17