When I was standing up, he was invisible. Sitting down, he was hard to miss. Laughter eddied around the gallery as Davey waved to the ringside, enjoying the sensation he was creating.
Mortified, I hurried around to the spot where the long table abutted the side of the ring. I knelt down and poked my head underneath. “Davey!” I whispered. “You come out of there this instant!”
“You found me.” Clearly he was disappointed. “I was playing hide-and-seek.”
“Well the game’s over. Come on out.”
“Don’t want to come out. I like it here.”
I couldn’t reach him from where I was, and he knew it. Nor, according to ring etiquette, was I allowed to go in after him. Momentarily stymied, I rocked back on my heels and found myself looking up into the face of the curious steward who obviously thought she was watching me talk to her table.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Er . . . my son seems to be under your table.”
One eyebrow ascended. The woman leaned over and peered under her end of the table. “So he is. Please remove him at once.”
“I’d love to. But he doesn’t want to come and I can’t reach him.”
The steward gave me the sort of scathing look that dog people, whose pets are perfectly trained, reserve for parents whose children are less so. She reached under the table, grasped Davey firmly by the arm, and pulled him to his feet. “Out of my ring, young man,” she ordered. “We are judging dogs here, not children.”
Davey took one look at her stern expression and scampered for the exit. I jumped to my feet and did the same. Knocking no more than one or two people aside, I managed to reach the gate the same time he did, and grabbed him as he shot through.
Ignoring the laughter around us, I took his arm and marched him away. We were out of the tent and past the rings before I even paused. “David Edward John Travis, I have never been so embarrassed. What did you think you were doing?”
“Playing hide-and-seek,” Davey said with perfect four-year-old logic. “Pretty good place, huh?”
We might have debated the merits of that if a shrill cry hadn’t stopped us where we stood. A line of protesters had massed in front of the grooming tent. They were carrying signs and chanting something about freeing all dogs from slavery. The cry seemed to have come from an irate woman who’d crossed their path. She cradled a tiny white Maltese protectively next to her chest.
If it hadn’t been for Davey, I would have moved in closer. Instead I remained where I was and tried to hear what was being said as the woman with the Maltese confronted one of the protesters and received an angry reply.
Since the Poodles had just finished being judged and were on their way back to the exhibitors’ tent, inevitably they got caught up in the fray. One look and the protesters began to circle. No doubt the carefully coifed, exquisitely groomed Standard Poodles embodied everything they were against.
So far the march had been peaceful, but as soon as the protesters targeted Randy Tarnower, I sensed there was going to be trouble. Rather than backing him up, the other Poodle handlers scattered. It took only a moment for Randy and the blue bitch to be surrounded by the chanting group. When someone reached down to touch the Poodle, Randy exploded.
From where I was standing, I couldn’t see exactly what happened. Randy might have thrown a punch, or maybe it was just a shove. In any case, the protester went down, his sign breaking beneath him as he fell. Randy took the opportunity to cut and run. By the time the protester had regained his feet, the handler had disappeared under the tent. The marchers regrouped and continued their demonstration.
“Ashes, ashes,” Davey sang happily. “All fall down.”
We’d seen enough for one day and I took my son home.
That evening Davey went straight to bed, and by morning, he’d come down with a forty-eight-hour flu that managed to last twice that long. When he was finished with it, I had a turn. In the meantime Aunt Peg had gone off on something called the New England Circuit, which I gathered was a midsummer opportunity to hold shows for an entire week straight.
I wasn’t expecting her back until after the weekend, but she showed up Sunday morning. Davey was settled down in front of the T.V. with Big Bird for company, and I was just sitting down to my second cup of coffee when she appeared at the back door.
“You look awful,” she said. “Whatever’s the matter with you, I hope it’s not contagious.”
“Flu, and I’m recuperating, so you can stop holding your breath.” I got up to heat some water for tea. “Where were you when I needed a nurse?”
“Off at the shows, and happy to be there.”
Par for the course. I waited at the stove as the kettle steamed, then whistled. “How did you do?”
“I finally finished that little bitch I’ve been showing. It’s about time.”
“Is that why you came home early?”
Aunt Peg accepted her cup, frowned at the tea bag, and reached for the sugar. “Oh no, I wasn’t planning on staying until the end anyway. I wasn’t even entered today. For Harvey Winesap? I wouldn’t dream of showing to him.”
“Why not?”
“The man is a Bulldog specialist and he’s got no eye at all for a Poodle. There’s no use in taking your dog to a show if you don’t respect the judge’s opinion.”
I came over and joined her at the table. “What does their opinion have to do with anything? I thought the judges were supposed to be comparing each dog to a standard of perfection for the breed.”
“They are.” Aunt Peg paused to stir her tea. “But each judge interprets the standard in his or her own way. Not only that, but each feels that different things are important. Some judges demand sound movement. Others go crazy for style.”
“I was told that the judge at Farmington loved silvers.”
Aunt Peg nodded. “On top of everything else, personal preference plays a part. Judges are supposed to be color blind, but of course they aren’t. There are a dozen different angles you have to think of in deciding whether or not a particular judge might like your dog. And then there are those judges who just don’t have any idea what they’re doing. Like Harvey Winesap. The man hasn’t a clue about Poodles.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“More often than it should. Unfortunately the system is heavily weighted in favor of judges who are approved to do lots of breeds. So even though judges always start with a breed they’re an expert in, very soon most are looking to branch out.
“Poodles are very popular because although the three varieties work from a single standard, they are judged in two different groups. Standard and Miniature Poodles are in the Non-Sporting group, while the Toy Poodles are part of the Toy group. For the judges it’s kind of a two-for-one deal.”
“But they must know something,” I argued. “Otherwise what happens when they get an assignment and it’s time to judge the dogs?”
Aunt Peg chuckled. “There are lots of different ways to cope with that problem. Sometimes they go with the most famous handler or the one with the biggest string. They hope that will make them look like they know what they’re doing. The ringside is usually fooled, and the handlers are grateful. But the breeders and the owner-exhibitors see what’s happening. Then they make sure not to enter under that judge again.”
I sipped my coffee and thought about what she had said. “A few weeks ago, I sat next to a woman who was talking about politics at dog shows and judges being paid off. Does that stuff really go on?”
“Sometimes,” Aunt Peg allowed, “although not nearly so much as some people would have you believe. Dog shows are just like any other sport. Some people are there for the fun of it, and others are there only to win. There will always be those who try to give themselves an extra edge, legal or not.
“Now enough of that depressing subject. Get on with it and tell me who you saw in Farmington.”
Aunt Peg leaned forward on the edge of her seat. I thought that meant I had her undivided a
ttention, but it turned out she was reaching for a bagel from the basket on the counter. I set her up with a plate, a knife, and some cream cheese, and we were finally ready to begin.
“Do you know a man named Jack Berglund?”
Aunt Peg looked up. “I most certainly do.”
“Apparently he has a new stud dog he’s just crazy about. He seemed to think he’d be perfect for my bitch . . .” One look at the expression on her face and my voice trailed away. “What?”
“Perhaps I should have prepared you. Especially after last week.”
“Prepared me for what?”
“Jack Berglund isn’t just a Poodle breeder. He was also a business associate of your father’s.”
I pictured the charming, sophisticated man I’d met the week before. That image jibed perfectly with the memories I had of my father. I could well imagine the two of them doing business together, regardless of what Rose had said.
Aunt Peg must have followed the direction of my thoughts, for she began to shake her head. “That shouldn’t make you less wary of Jack Berglund, but rather more so. I never dabbled much in the money end of things, but I know Max didn’t trust him. Something to do with junk bonds, I believe, and perhaps a hint of a suspicion that he’d led your father down the garden path—”
I’d heard quite enough about my father’s shortcomings already. As far as I was concerned, the subject didn’t need reopening now. “Tell me about Jack’s Poodles,” I broke in.
My lack of manners was enough to bring her up short. Aunt Peg stopped and considered for a moment, then evidently decided to humor me.
“Jack’s kennel name is Shalimar, and he’s been breeding for years. I believe he has a pretty large operation up in northwestern Connecticut. There’s no reason to think his new stud dog might not be worth a look.”
“Good.” I filed that information away for future reference and deliberately changed the subject. “I also met a woman named Anna Barnes. She recommended a dog of hers named Champion Troughbridge Beauty. Like half the other people who’ve described their Poodles to me, he sounded almost too good to be true. Do you know the dog?”
“Yes, I know Beauty.” Aunt Peg smiled. “And I don’t think we have to worry about him or dear Anna. The dog is every bit as good as she says he is. All of her Poodles are. Anna’s getting older now and doesn’t show nearly as much as she used to. That’s probably why you didn’t run into her sooner. Nevertheless, she has no need for Beau. Beauty is every bit as good as Poodle, and he’s already proven his worth as a stud.
“If anything,” Aunt Peg concluded, “I ought to be stealing from Anna, not the other way around.”
Shot down again. By now I should have been getting used to it. “How about a handler named Barry Turk? What do you know about him?”
Aunt Peg thought for a moment. “I’ve been looking at this in terms of a breeder wanting Beau,” she said finally. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t given the professional handlers much thought. Although of course, they do often act as agents for their clients’ dogs.”
“From what I could see, Barry Turk’s operation didn’t look anything like Crawford Langley’s, or even Randy Tarnower’s. Where does he fit in?”
“Somewhere lower down the scale, I’d say. Crawford’s been doing it for years and has all the right connections. Randy’s made his name on raw talent. Either of those two, even with a bad dog on the end of a lead, is a threat. And when they actually have something really good to show, all you can do is try and stay out of the way.”
“And Barry Turk?”
“He’s nowhere near their league. Sometimes I think Barry’s lucky to win even when he has a good one, which in itself is rare. I can’t for the life of me imagine anyone being so foolish as to send a dog to him.”
“Why do people do it then?”
“Oh, he’s a little cheaper, I guess. And I doubt he has a waiting list like some of the others do. Besides, the clients he gets are usually newcomers who don’t know any better.”
“Too new to recognize an illicit stud dog?” I asked.
“Most certainly.”
“I wonder if Beau might have looked to Barry Turk like a ticket up in the world.”
“Maybe in more ways than one. Handlers work on something of a reward system, you know. No matter whether a dog wins or loses, they still get their fee. But some wins are worth a bonus on top of that.”
“So Barry Turk would stand to gain not only the commissions on the breedings he handled, but also the possibility of better dogs to show in the future. That could raise his earnings potential considerably.”
Barry Turk was suddenly looking very interesting indeed. “I think I’ll go look at some stud dogs,” I decided.
The phone was on the counter with Turk’s card beneath it. I dialed the number listed in the corner. One of his assistants answered, and we made an appointment for Tuesday morning.
Davey went to camp on Monday, then home with a friend. I spent most of the day with Aunt Peg going over a collection of photographs which chronicled Beau’s development from baby puppy to majestic show dog. The last shots, taken in the early spring, showed the dog as he was now, clipped down but still displaying the elegance and carriage that were the hallmark of the Cedar Crest line.
Aunt Peg worked with me until she was sure I understood that how a Poodle was trimmed could do a great deal to fool the eye. Since Beau had now been missing for six weeks, it was possible that at least superficially, he could look entirely different. She outlined his virtues and his faults, and drilled me until she was comfortable with my knowledge of both.
We were almost done by late afternoon. Aunt Peg had Simba, who was Beau’s half sister, in the living room, and we were going over her one last time when the doorbell rang.
“Probably a delivery,” Aunt Peg said as the Poodles ran from all corners of the house to mass in the front hall. I followed her out to see.
It wasn’t a delivery. It was Sam Driver. Aunt Peg grinned. I gulped. The Poodles like all visitors; they went wild.
You know how sometimes the hair stands up on the back of your neck and you just know something’s going to go wrong? That’s how I felt. Unfortunately there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
Sixteen
If Sam was surprised to find me at Margaret Turnbull’s house, his expression didn’t betray it. Then again, he was pretty busy as Aunt Peg opened the door and the inevitable onslaught of Poodles all but knocked him over. He handled the barrage with aplomb, however, greeting each of the big dogs with a pat on the head or a tweak beneath the chin.
As the Poodles danced happily around his legs, Sam looked up at me. “I see you took my advice.”
It took me a minute to figure out what he was talking about. Then I remembered that he’d been one of several people who’d directed me to Aunt Peg. Obviously he thought I was there in my guise as a stud-dog shopper.
Before I could reply, he was already turning to Peg. “I apologize for barging in like this. I wanted to talk to you about something, and I took a chance that you might be free. Obviously it’s better if I come back another time.”
“Not at all. I’m delighted to see you.” Aunt Peg was at her gracious best. She counted noses as the Poodles ushered Sam inside, then shut the door behind them. “Now then, what advice did you give to Melanie?”
“Sam was one of the people who recommended that I speak with you about a stud dog,” I said quickly.
“How nice.” Aunt Peg patted his arm. “You have very good taste.”
“You have very good Poodles.”
Just what I needed—a mutual admiration society. Aunt Peg and I were just about through, but it wasn’t only curiosity that kept me from leaving. I knew how she felt about Sam Driver. The minute I was gone, she’d probably spill the beans about everything.
“Of course that wasn’t really necessary—”
“Aunt Peg!”
“You see Melanie is actually my niece.”
S
o much for my good influence. I guessed that meant now I could go.
“Your niece?” Now Sam looked surprised. To his credit, he recovered quickly. “Then I guess that must mean that Beau is missing. I heard a rumor down in New Jersey this past weekend. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Well good, I’m glad you’re here. Come on into the living room and get comfortable.”
Sam walked in and sat down. Gracie, who, until the doorbell rang, had been lying at my feet, crossed the room and climbed up into his lap. That traitor.
Aunt Peg watched with approval as the Poodle turned a precarious circle over his legs, then settled down to drape across his knees. Obviously neither one of them saw anything unusual about having an animal the size of a small pony set up housekeeping in someone’s lap.
“Who was talking about Beau?” I asked.
Driver thought for a moment. “I’m pretty sure it was Mildred Davis. She and Crawford were standing ringside, and I overheard them discussing it.”
“Interesting,” Peg said. “I’ve been trying to keep the whole thing quiet, but you know how small the dog world is. Word was bound to get out sooner or later. Beau isn’t just missing, Sam. I’m quite certain he was stolen. He disappeared from our kennel the night my husband Max died.”
That silenced him for a bit. “So the dog Melanie is shopping for is Beau,” he said finally. “I guess that makes sense in a roundabout sort of way. Have you come up with any leads?”
“We have several,” I said firmly. It was one thing for me to wonder if our methods were working. It was quite another for Sam Driver to question their efficiency. “Not that I’m sure it’s any of your business.”
“Perhaps not. But I’d like to help.”
Aunt Peg grinned enthusiastically. “How?”
“The scheme you’re working isn’t perfect, but it’s not all bad either. It seems to me that things would go a lot faster if there were two of us out there asking questions.”
Aunt Peg and I exchanged a glance.
“Think about it,” said Sam. “I’m a new face on the East Coast. Most of the Poodle people here don’t know any more about me than they do about Melanie. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t accept my queries at face value.”
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