Best in Show

by Laurien Berenson

  You think I was overreacting? Think again. This was PCA, the pinnacle of Poodledom. The specialty known for its dignity and decorum.

  Edith Jean wasn’t just asking the impossible. Worse, she was asking for the absurd.

  “You have to,” she said in a small voice. “If you don’t help me, who will?”

  I thought fast. There had to be someone . . . anyone . . . whose name I could invoke. Briefly, Terry came to mind. He’d enjoy the theatrical aspect of this little performance. His image was quickly followed by another, however: Crawford chasing me around the arena wielding a big pair of sharp scissors.

  “I’d do it myself if I weren’t an invalid.” Edith Jean sounded pitiful now. She held up her right hand, still swathed in gauze and vet wrap.

  Invalid my foot. The older woman had had her hand wrapped all week. It hadn’t hampered her actions at all. She’d counted change and hefted big boxes with equal aplomb. Nor had it prevented her from doing anything else she’d wanted to do. If that hand still hurt, I certainly hadn’t been able to tell.

  “Let me think about it,” I said.

  Immediately Edith Jean smiled. “You’re such a sweet girl.”

  No, I wasn’t. I was a liar and a hypocrite. What I’d really be thinking about was a way to put a stop to this impending debacle. Or at the very least, my participation in it.

  “How did you get Danny to agree?” I wanted to know.

  “Agree to what?” Miss Innocent asked. As if we hadn’t just been talking about hijacking the dog show to serve her nefarious purposes.

  “You know—to read your statement.”

  “That part was easy. Have you ever known a young man who couldn’t use a little extra cash?”

  “You offered to pay him?”

  “Not at first. But eventually we were able to strike a deal. We agreed that no matter what number you drew from the barrel first, he would simply palm it and then read out a number that matched one of the stubs from his own tickets. That would give him first choice of the raffle prizes. I’d pretend to check with him, then set aside the money tree”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Oh, but I can,” Edith Jean said brightly. “I’m in charge of the raffle. And what I say, goes.”

  “But that’s fraud, or theft, or impersonating a ticket-taker . . . or something.”

  “Yes, well, desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  “Edith Jean, listen to me.” I dumped the fanny pack on the table and crossed my arms over my chest. If I left them loose, I was half afraid I might resort to shaking her. “These aren’t desperate times. And you don’t have to do this. You can have a memorial service for Betty Jean when you get home.”

  “No, that won’t work. I want everything over and done with before I leave Maryland in the morning. I want to say good-bye to Betty Jean here. When I go home, there’ll only be Edith Jean. Just me, I mean. That’s the only way.”

  Maybe she was losing her mind, I thought. Alternatively, maybe I was losing mine. I did know one thing, however. I had to find Aunt Peg—and fast. A problem of this magnitude—especially one that concerned her beloved dog show—was beyond my capabilities.

  “I have to go,” I said. “I’ll be back in a bit, is that okay?”

  Edith Jean looked in the direction of the ring. From our spot on the sidelines, we were just about able to see the tops of the handlers’ heads. Vic, the Winners Dog, was still in contention. Standing second to last in the long, long, line he wouldn’t be called upon to perform for at least another hour. Even then, I doubted Edith Jean would much care how he did.

  After the Toy BOV judging concluded, Bubba would return to the ring. As a Puppy class winner, he was eligible to compete for Best Toy Puppy. I knew she would want to see that, but I was sure I’d be back in plenty of time.

  “You go on,” she said. “There isn’t much happening here anyway. I’ll manage just fine.”

  “Thanks.” I grabbed my catalog and hurried away before she could change her mind.

  Even though Standards wouldn’t be judged until afternoon, I’d hoped Aunt Peg might already have her corner seats staked out. No such luck. A pair of Toy breeders from Florida were sitting in the spots Peg and Sam had occupied for most of the week. They were staring into the ring with such rabid intensity that they were oblivious to my scrutiny. And my frustrated sigh.

  I knew Aunt Peg was at the show site somewhere, but in a building that size, it didn’t narrow things down much. Maybe a jog through the grooming area would turn something up.

  “Hey,” said Bertie, appearing out of the crowd. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “I’m looking for Peg. Have you seen her?”

  “We had breakfast together at the hotel. Her idea. For some reason, that woman feels obliged to keep pumping food into me. I ditched her as soon after that as I could.” Bertie looked over, realized she was talking about one of my nearest and dearest relatives, and flushed guiltily. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t mention it. Sometimes I feel exactly the same way. Now, however, I have to find her. Edith Jean Boone is planning an insurrection for this afternoon. Somebody has to stop her.”

  “Not the memorial service again? I thought the board put the kibosh on that.”

  “They did. Or at least they think they did. The problem is, Edith Jean isn’t paying any attention.”

  “That should be interesting.” Bertie sounded annoyingly happy about this turn of events. “I ought to come to this show every year. Are all PCAs this much fun?”

  “You’re perverse, you know that?”

  “Of course. It’s one of the things your brother likes best about me.”

  He would, I thought.

  “If I see her,” said Bertie, “I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.”

  “Thanks.” We headed off in opposite directions. When I reached the edge of the grooming area, I stopped and looked around, eyes skimming quickly over the tightly packed aisles.

  By now, after five solid days together, everyone at the dog show was beginning to look at least vaguely familiar. From a multitude of diverse backgrounds we’d all come together, united by a single purpose. Several people glanced up as I gazed around. Each one smiled before going back to work.

  That was the beauty of PCA. Who needs goodwill ambassadors when you can have Poodles?

  Standing at the head of the wide center aisle, I stepped aside to let a wide-eyed family wander past. Tourists, probably at their first dog show. Both parents stared at the spectacle in wonder. Their elementary school–age children looked similarly awestruck. They probably had a pet Poodle at home. To them, these Poodles were Fifi or Pierre with a better haircut. Today’s tourists were tomorrow’s exhibitors. Judging by their expressions, this family would go home with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads.

  Turning back to my quest, I bumped into a handler who’d come up beside me. “You looking for me?” asked Damien Bradley.

  “No. Why would I be looking for you?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering.”

  “Well, don’t,” I said. “I’m not.”

  “Yeah, right. I’m sure you think you’re pretty clever. I’ve heard all about you.” He brushed past me and started to walk away.

  I spun around and followed. “What have you heard?”

  Damien stopped so abruptly that I barreled right into him. Smooth move on my part. Damien seemed to think so, too. He snorted under his breath.

  “You’re the lady who solves mysteries. The one who figures things out.”

  “Sometimes,” I said. “Not always.”

  “Want some advice?” Damien leaned in close, making sure his words were for me alone. “Stay away from Edith Jean Boone. That old broad’s nuttier than a Snickers bar.”

  Tell me something I don’t know, I thought.

  24

  I finally found Aunt Peg upstairs on the concourse level, chatting with the publisher of the breed’s premier magazine, Poodle
Variety. Rather than ruin both their days, I grabbed Aunt Peg’s arm and dragged her out to the tiered seating where we’d be able to talk privately.

  “That was rather rude of you,” she sniffed. “I suppose there’s something absolutely vital you have to discuss with me right this second.”

  “Yes.”

  Aunt Peg looked startled. “I was joking,” she said.

  “I’m not.”

  She sighed and sat down. “This is PCA, you know. Would it be too much to ask that for once you might attend a dog show and simply enjoy yourself?”

  Since I was still standing, I used the extra height to good advantage and glared down at her. “Who was the one who got me mixed up with the Boone sisters in the first place?”

  “That-would be me,” Aunt Peg admitted.

  “And who brought Rosalind Romanescue down here to fill in at the last minute, unaware of her connection to a woman who would shortly turn up dead?”

  “Me again, I suppose.”

  “Who asked me to find out why Roger Carew looked up during the Winners class at an unidentified whistler?”

  “Have you?” Aunt Peg brightened.

  “Actually . . . no. But that’s not the point.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking, dear. What is the point?”

  I sank down into a seat beside her. Now that I finally had Aunt Peg’s undivided attention, it was hard to know where to begin. Then I realized that as I’d hesitated, she’d opened up her catalog. Now she was looking past me, squinting down at the faraway action in the Toy ring. It figured.

  “The point is that PCA is in big trouble.”

  That got her attention fast, as it was meant to.

  “Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

  “The Edith Jean Boone kind. She’s planning on having her sister’s ashes scattered in the ring this afternoon right before Best in Show.”

  “Oh, that.” Peg looked relieved. She snuck a glance back at the judging. “Don’t worry, Nancy had a little chat with her about that. Edith Jean understands how inappropriate it would be.”

  “No, she doesn’t. What she understands is that the board turned down her request. But that doesn’t mean she has any intention of listening to you.”

  “What choice does she have? It’s not as if she can simply commandeer the facilities.”

  “She won’t have to,” I pointed out. “The ring was already allocated to her when the show committee decided to hold the drawing for the raffle there.”

  “I see.” Rather suddenly Aunt Peg did. “Should I ask what part you intend to play in this drama?”

  “I’m in charge of drawing the tickets from the barrel. Edith Jean is also hoping that when the fateful moment arrives, I’ll scatter the ashes for her.”

  “She doesn’t think anyone will notice when you lug an urn into the ring with you?”

  “Fanny pack,” I said.

  “Pardon me?”

  I tried not to smile. “She put the ashes in a fanny pack.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I wish I wasn’t.”

  Abruptly Aunt Peg stood. “I can see I’m going to have to round up Nancy and Cliff and the rest of the board, and see what can be done about this.”

  “You’d better hurry,” I said. “And by the way, one more thing. Rosalind was the screamer.”

  Peg looked briefly baffled. “I thought you were looking for a whistler.”

  “Not then, earlier. When Betty Jean was murdered. Remember the scream we heard? That was Rosalind.”

  “And why didn’t we know this before now?”

  “Because Rosalind didn’t hang around to see what happened next. She saw the body, screamed, and then went inside the hotel.”

  “How very odd.”

  “Odder still, Christian Gold seemed to think he could use her telepathic ability to threaten his Specials bitch into winning the Variety today.”

  “That would be a first,” Aunt Peg said, considering. “At least I hope it would. Although if Christian was trying to influence the outcome by sending telepathic messages, you’d think he’d have been better off sending them to the judge.”

  Good point.

  Aunt Peg started to walk away, then stopped. “Sam did find you yesterday afternoon, didn’t he? He seemed rather desperate to know where you were.”

  “Umm . . . yes.” My voice squeaked.

  “He didn’t tell me what he wanted. . .” Her eyes searched my face. I probably looked guilty as hell. “Is everything all right?”

  “Just fine.”

  “Because if it’s not—”

  “It’s fine, Aunt Peg.”

  She didn’t look convinced. “Whatever it was, try not to hold it against him. He was probably just nervous about today’s competition with Tar.”

  Now I was blushing. Heat flooded my cheeks. Thankfully, Aunt Peg had started to walk away again. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’m sure that was it,” I said, following her out of the stands. “Believe me, I won’t hold it against him at all.”

  Aunt Peg and I parted when we reached the lower level. I went racing back to the raffle table. Best of Variety had just been decided in Toys. Best of Winners had gone to the Winners Bitch, so Vic had to be content with what he’d already won on Wednesday. I doubted Harry was displeased; he’d gotten what he needed to make his sale.

  “You’re just in time,” said Edith Jean. “Bubba’s about to go back in for Best Toy Puppy. I thought I might have to shut the table down for the duration. See ya!”

  Off she went to see Bubba compete. Once again, I climbed up on a chair to watch. The silver Toy was fully rested and raring to go. He showed with every bit as much enthusiasm as he had in his first class and easily defeated his two opponents. That meant that he would compete again at the end of the day for Best Puppy in Show. Presumably this time Roger would know enough to tuck him away in a crate until he was needed in the ring again.

  Edith Jean must have had the same thought, and she wasn’t taking any chances. She reappeared at the table, only to send me away. “I need you to deliver a message.”

  “Sure.” Immediately I regretted my impetuous reply. I hoped she wasn’t sending me to deliver any ultimatums to the board. “To whom?”

  “Roger. Obviously I can’t go talk to him now. Bubba would get all excited and Roger would never be able to get his focus back. I want you to go over to the grooming area and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

  “Like let half the people in the building pat your puppy?”

  “Exactly.” She waggled a finger under my nose. “Bubba is to rest and conserve his energy, do you hear me? You tell him the orders came from me.”

  “Will do,” I said. It beat minding the raffle table any day.

  The only problem was, when I reached the grooming area, Roger and Bubba were nowhere in sight. Miniature Poodles, up next in the ring, were out in full force on dozens of grooming tables. I saw Dale Atherton applying finishing touches to Rita’s trim while Christian looked on critically. Nina stood nearby, reapplying her lipstick and checking out her reflection in a small gold compact. I saw Mary Ludlow Scott conferring with Cliff Spellman and Aunt Peg. Judiciously, I gave the group wide berth. I saw Crawford waiting to be called to the ring and looking cool and calm in an ice blue jacket and matching tie.

  Terry, holding the Mini dog about to be shown, smiled and waved. “You look like a woman on a mission.”

  “I’m looking for Roger Carew. I thought he’d be back here with Bubba.”

  “Didn’t he just win Best Toy Puppy?”

  I nodded.

  “Pictures,” said Terry. “He’s probably still up at the ring, waiting his turn.”

  I should have thought of that, and probably would have if I’d ever had occasion to have a picture of my own taken at PCA. You can go ahead and file that thought under the “when pigs fly” category. I took Terry’s advice, spun around, and headed back the other way.

  If anyth
ing, the crush at ringside was greater than it had been in the grooming area. Though the action was temporarily on hold as the Toys finished up and the Minis prepared to enter, none of the lucky spectators who’d already staked out good seats wanted to relinquish them. As droves of additional fanciers arrived to watch the new variety, people simply packed in tighter and tighter.

  I fought my way to the front near the gate. Out in the middle of the ring, the Toy Best of Variety winner was posed with his handler in front of a beautiful floral arrangement. Mr. Mancini was holding the dog’s purple and gold rosette and gazing down at him approvingly. Lined up on either side of them were various club notables holding prizes and challenge trophies. The tiny Toy was all but dwarfed by his attendants.

  The Toy bitch who’d won Best of Opposite Sex was waiting in the wings. She’d be photographed next, followed by the Best of Winners. Standing over to one side, Roger Carew was holding Bubba in his arms, hands carefully positioned so as not to muss the beautifully coiffed hair. He was talking to another handler who was also waiting for a picture. That man had his back to me but as I slipped into the ring to join them I realized it was Harry Gandolf.

  “I told you there was nothing to worry about,” I heard him say to Roger. “Everybody ended up with a piece of the pie, including you. So it all worked out for the best.”

  Roger started to reply. Then he saw me approaching and swallowed what he’d been about to say. Apprehension flickered in his eyes. The hasty smile he mustered looked more than a little forced.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “You have a message for me from Edith Jean.”

  “How did you know?”

  “You’re the third person to arrive bearing the same instructions.”

  Ah, well. Edith Jean could be quite thorough when she put her mind to it.

  “Then I’ll just offer congratulations,” I said. “To both of you.”

  “Thanks.” Harry began to edge away. “See you around,” he said.

  Roger barely nodded in acknowledgment. From where we stood I could see that the BOS bitch was being photographed. It wouldn’t be Harry’s turn for another few minutes.