A Pedigree to Die For

by Laurien Berenson

  Aunt Peg was nodding as he spoke.

  I wasn’t that easy to convince. “So far we’ve done just fine on our own.”

  “Have you? It’s been what . . . ? At least six weeks. And you still don’t seem to have any idea where Beau is. I’d say you can use all the help you can get. Two people can cover a lot more ground than one.”

  “Which probably means that much of the same work will get done twice.”

  “I don’t see that as a problem,” Sam told me. “In that case, there’s less chance that we’ll miss something important. ”

  His argument made sense, but that didn’t mean I was buying it. The harder Sam pushed, the more I wanted to shove him right back. It wasn’t the first time he’d had that effect on me, and the whole thing left me feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

  Aunt Peg had listened to both sides. I could see she was wavering. “It’s very kind of you to offer—”

  “Believe me,” Sam broke in, “there is nothing kind about my offer at all. I want Beau. I have for a long time. I still haven’t given up on the idea that you might agree to sell him to me, but barring that, at the very least, I plan to breed to him. So you see I have a stake in getting the dog back, just as you do.”

  He sounded sincere, I had to give him that. So why did it all seem so smooth, and maybe just a little too easy?

  He and Aunt Peg were smiling at each other like old friends. Thick as thieves, I thought. The aptness of the phrase brought me to my feet.

  “Aunt Peg, could I see you in the kitchen for a minute?”

  “Now?” Her tone clearly questioned the quality of my upbringing.

  I nodded.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Sam?”

  “Of course.” Gracie tilted back her head and licked his chin. He was scratching behind her ears when we left the room.

  I waited until the kitchen door had swung shut behind us. Aunt Peg had no such inhibitions. “Now what?” she demanded.

  If she’d been any louder, we might as well have stayed in the living room and spoken in front of him. Deliberately I lowered my own voice. “I think we need to move a little more slowly here. Has it occurred to you that despite what he says, Sam Driver may be the one who has the dog? He admitted himself that he was desperate to get him. Maybe he only came over here today to see how much we’ve learned.”

  Aunt Peg’s lips twitched at that. “Then we’ve certainly disappointed him, haven’t we? Melanie dear, what he said was true. It’s been six weeks and we’re no closer to finding Beau than we were at the beginning. We have to widen our search. And if Sam can help us do that, so much the better.”

  I knew that I was fighting a losing battle. The problem was, half of me agreed with Aunt Peg. Unfortunately, the other half wanted to run like hell. So I dug in my heels and kept arguing.

  “Once we agree to work with Sam, he’s going to know every move we make.”

  “Yes, and while he’s watching us, we can be watching him. Quite frankly, if he isn’t on the up and up, I can’t think of a better way to keep an eye on him.”

  As usual, she had a point.

  “I’m beginning to get the impression you’re not going to let me talk you out of this.”

  “It’s about time,” said Aunt Peg. “Now that we’ve got that settled, do you suppose he should go with you to visit Barry Turk tomorrow?”

  For all I knew, seeing the handler might provide the discovery we’d been waiting for all along. No way was I going to have Sam Driver horning in on my big moment.

  “Definitely not. This is my lead. I’m going to follow it up.”

  “As you wish.” Having won the war, Aunt Peg conceded the last battle. “Now let’s go back out and see to our guest.”

  Sam was sitting in the chair where we’d left him. He started to rise when we entered, then glanced down at Gracie and thought better of it. “Is everything all right?”

  “Just fine,” Aunt Peg said happily.

  We spent the next few minutes discussing which of the upcoming shows Sam and Aunt Peg had entered, and who among the circle of local exhibitors I’d already spoken to. Counting on Aunt Peg’s discretion is a little like hoping for clouds during drought season, but for once she followed my lead and never even mentioned Barry Turk’s name. By the time she and I walked Sam to the door, the plan was a go.

  Outside, Sam paused on the step. “You know I haven’t had a chance to meet many people in Connecticut yet. All I’ve done since I got here is work and go to dog shows. I was thinking maybe we could get together sometime and you could show me some of the local sights.”

  I have to admit, the invitation caught me by surprise. But immediately the cynic in me had an answer ready. Sam knew he’d won over Aunt Peg. Now, no doubt, he wanted my compliance, too. If so, I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

  “Connecticut’s actually a pretty dull state,” I said. “There isn’t much to see.”

  “Really?” Sam grinned. “I guess you don’t work for the Chamber of Commerce.”

  “I’m a teacher,” I said shortly, not that he’d really asked. Then I threw out the clincher, the one that separates the men from the boys. “And a mother. I have a four-year-old son, Davey.”

  “You’re married then?”

  “Divorced. So I like to make sure I spend as much time with Davey as I can.”

  Over his shoulder, Aunt Peg was watching the exchange with amusement. I felt like a ninth grader coming home from a date to find her parents waiting on the porch.

  “Bring him with you,” said Sam.

  If it was a bluff, he was pretty damn convincing. But when I shook my head, Sam didn’t push it. Of course then I had to tell myself that I wasn’t disappointed he hadn’t tried harder.

  “Shame on you,” Aunt Peg said we watched him stride down the walk and get into his car. “Letting a man like that get away.”

  I didn’t need her to tell me what I was already telling myself. Instead I snapped back, “If you’re so interested, why didn’t you take him up on his offer?”

  “I wasn’t the one who was asked.”

  “This is the nineties, Aunt Peg. A liberated woman doesn’t have to wait to be asked.”

  She snorted under her breath. “A lot of us were liberated in my day, too. We just didn’t feel obliged to hit people over the head with it.”

  Peg shut the door, and we watched through the glass as Sam’s car disappeared down the driveway. We both turned away when it was gone.

  “How long are you going to keep using that child as a buffer against things you don’t want to face?” Aunt Peg asked abruptly.

  “As long as I want to.”

  For once, that shut her up.

  Now I had two problems to contend with—Aunt Peg’s missing Poodle and a partner I didn’t want. It was a tossup as to which one worried me more.

  Seventeen

  Davey had camp on Tuesday morning, so I was covered there. Unfortunately when I dropped him off, Emily Grace came running over to the car. She apologized for the short notice and asked if I could sub.

  I hated turning her down, for her sake and mine, too. I could have used the money. But I’d made a commitment to Aunt Peg and especially now, with Sam in the picture, I didn’t want to slacken my efforts. The sooner I located Beau, the sooner life could return to normal.

  The trip to Barry Turk’s kennel in Poughkeepsie took just about an hour. To my surprise, the directions led me into the midst of a heavily populated, residential area. Somehow Turk had managed to squeeze a kennel housing forty dogs onto less than half an acre of land. The sound of their barking hit me like a shock wave when I stepped out of my car. I couldn’t imagine how the neighbors let him get away with it.

  Barry Turk’s house was a dilapidated, shingled ranch. At one point it must have been white, but now it had faded to a weathered shade of gray. The kennel building, visible beyond, was in similar condition. Its roof sagged in one corner; and the short, narrow runs that fanned out on either side to cover ever
y available inch of space looked as though they were held together with bailing twine. Dogs, many of them Poodles, raced up and down within, eyeing me with manic fascination.

  I was standing there watching them when the front door to the house opened and Barry Turk emerged. “You must be Mrs. Travis,” he said, holding out his hand. “Beth told me to expect you.”

  He was short but powerfully built. His hair was too long, and he was at least two days past his last shave. I took his hand but held it for as short a time as possible.

  “She said you had some stud dogs I might be interested in.”

  “Could be.” Turk ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back out of his face. “I’m not going to hand you a line like some people do, saying their dogs are perfect. They may be what you want, maybe not. You’ll just have to see for yourself.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He set off at a brisk pace. With little conviction and even less enthusiasm, I followed. An overgrown path led back to the kennel, which looked worse and worse the closer we came. The idea that Beau might be housed in such a place was thoroughly depressing.

  “That was a Standard you were looking for, right?” Turk asked as he held open the screen door.

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Outside the kennel was bad enough. Inside, it was appalling. The room we’d entered was a small office, but beyond that I could see the area where the dogs were housed. I’d expected pens like at Aunt Peg’s, but instead I saw crates, dozens of them, stacked from floor to ceiling. Although it was a sunny day, inside the building was dark and airless, with a damp, musty smell.

  “Wait here,” said Turk. He walked into the kennel room and pulled the door shut behind him.

  He was gone only a few moments, but I used the time to walk over and have a look at his desk, whose surface was a jumble of bills, premium lists, and pink-slip phone messages. On top was a bill that looked as though it was ready to be sent out. Three columns listed the shows attended, the charges, and the name of the Poodle shown: Baytree’s Mood Indigo.

  I loved the name. That’s why I remembered so quickly where I’d seen it before. The blue bitch Randall Tarnower had been winning with for the last month was Bay-tree’s Mood Indigo. How could two handlers be showing the same dog? I wondered.

  As the door to the kennel room opened, I slid my gaze quickly to the top of the page. The bill was going to Richard Beck in Wellesley, MA. I turned away from the desk, but I wasn’t fast enough.

  “See anything interesting?” asked Turk. He released a huge black Standard Poodle into the room, then closed the door behind him.

  Since I’d already been caught, I figured I might as well brazen my way through. “I didn’t realize you handled Richard Beck’s Poodles.”

  “Used to, don’t anymore. You want to see any of Beck’s dogs, call Randy Tarnower.” Turk crossed the room and shoved the bill away beneath some papers. “Maybe he’ll have time to talk to you, maybe he won’t. He’s pretty busy these days, stealing everyone else’s clients.”

  “Stealing them? How does he do that?”

  “It’s easy,” Turk snapped. “When you’ve got his connections. Now are you going to look at this dog or not?”

  “Sure,” I said, but I’d already seen enough. The Poodle in question was in continental, which ruled him out immediately.

  Still, I waited while Turk snapped his fingers, and said, “C’mere, Joe, show the lady what you look like.”

  Joe, however, had no intention of obliging. Now that he was free, he dashed back and forth across the room, careful to keep himself just beyond the handler’s reach.

  “This dog’s owner spoiled him. When he’s been here a little longer, he’ll learn some manners.” From the intent look in Turk’s eyes, I had little doubt he meant what he said.

  “Maybe he doesn’t get enough exercise,” I suggested pointedly. The handler just shrugged. Either he was too dumb to realize that his operation had been insulted, or else he didn’t care.

  Abruptly the side door opened and Beth entered the room. Careening around the desk, Joe took a running leap into her arms. I probably would have been bowled over by having sixty pounds of flying Poodle hit me at that speed, but Beth must have been accustomed to such exuberance, because she recovered nicely, hardly missing a step.

  “Joe baby,” she crooned, scratching the dog’s muzzle. “What are you doing loose?”

  Then she noticed us and her smile faded. She dropped Joe to the ground and led him by the muzzle to where Turk was waiting, hand outstretched.

  “Sorry, Barry,” she said as though the Poodle’s behavior was all her fault. “I didn’t know anybody was in here.”

  Turk took the dog without a word and posed him for my inspection. Unable to come up with a quick excuse, I made the expected show of going over him, placing my hands in all the appropriate spots and nodding every so often as though I was making mental notes about the dog’s conformation.

  “So?” said Turk.

  In the short time I’d been going to dog shows and studying the winners, I’d developed an idea about what a proper Poodle should look like. That, combined with Aunt Peg’s coaching, had given me a basis against which to make comparisons. Although I probably couldn’t have chosen the better between two very good Poodles, I could certainly tell a good one from a bad one.

  It was easy to decide which category Joe fell into.

  He was big and coarse and overdone. His expression was totally devoid of the ready intelligence so typical of the breed. Tired by his exertions, he was panting heavily, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. To someone whose knowledge of the breed had been fostered by Poodles with the style and elegance of Aunt Peg’s, this dog was an anathema.

  “Very interesting,” I said. It was better than the other alternatives I’d come up with. “Do you have any others I can see?”

  “A bunch.” Turk nodded, and Beth did, too. Monkey see, monkey do, I thought none too kindly. He handed Joe back to his assistant and said, “Come on this way.”

  We left the building and went around the back, where the runs were slightly larger. The first four were filled with Standard Poodles. The two nearest us I rejected on sight as one was white and the other was still in show trim. The other two, however, were definite possibilities, and I moved in for a closer look.

  Turk began to expound on the Poodles’ good points and I nodded as though I was listening. That was enough to keep him occupied while I examined the dogs themselves. Aunt Peg had warned me not to be fooled by the length or condition of the coat itself. Bearing that in mind, I ignored the fact that these two Poodles looked like a pair of woolly, unkempt sheep. From what I’d seen, it seemed reasonable to assume that six weeks under Turk’s supervision could do the same for any dog.

  A closer inspection, however, proved disappointing. One dog had much too common a head; and his eyes were several shades lighter than the deep mahogany of the Cedar Crest Poodles. The other was long and low. Either he had too much body or else not enough leg; but the end result was that he lacked the square proportion so integral to a correct Poodle outline.

  Satisfied that neither one was Aunt Peg’s missing stud dog, I turned back to Turk, who, incredibly, was still talking. “Is this all of them?”

  “Yeah,” said Turk. “All that are here right now. It’s a pretty good selection, if I do say so myself. I imagine one of them would suit your needs.”

  I turned to head back toward the house. Much as I hadn’t wanted to find Beau in this situation, the disappointment I felt was acute. “Thank you for taking the time to show them to me. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve made my decision.”

  “Do that,” said Turk.

  As we reached the front of the kennel, he sketched a wave then veered off into the office, leaving me to find my own way out. On the other side of the building, Beth was hosing down runs. I strolled over to say goodbye.

  “Did you see everything you wanted to?” she asked. When I nodded, she
added, “Barry can be kind of a pain to deal with, but he means well.”

  A man who meant well wouldn’t keep his dogs packed into a dark, airless room like sardines, I decided, but I kept the thought to myself. “You’re great with the dogs. They really seem to like you.”

  Beth looked up and smiled. “Hey, thanks.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “It’s a job.”

  “So’s McDonald’s.”

  “At McDonald’s I wouldn’t learn anything.” Beth finished the run she was working on and moved on to the next. “Here I’m picking up plenty. Another year or so and I’ll be able to go out on my own.”

  “So you want to handle dogs professionally?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is there money in that?”

  I’d slipped the question in casually, but still it made Beth stop and think. “You’d be surprised,” she said finally.

  Turk knocked on the office window and gestured irritably. Quickly Beth turned off the spigot and began to coil the hose. “I gotta go. He hates it when I keep him waiting .”

  I left Beth to her work and climbed gratefully into the cool, clean interior of my car. Had Turk really needed her? I wondered. Or had he just not wanted us to talk?

  Davey and I spent the afternoon at the beach, building sand forts and splashing in the mild waves of Long Island Sound. Even wearing sunblock, his skin still turned golden. With his blond curls and chubby thighs, he looked like a cherub, racing down the beach to chase a receding wave.

  He’d used up so much energy, I knew an early dinner was called for. We grilled hot dogs on the hibachi out back, then toasted marshmallows when the coals died down. Sometimes it’s nice just to kick back and be a mother.

  I called Aunt Peg while Davey was in the bathtub, rinsing off the last of the sand from every crack and crevice. She listened as I described Barry Turk’s operation, then asked several pointed questions about the dogs I’d been shown. I knew she was frustrated at receiving the information secondhand, especially from someone whose knowledge of dogs couldn’t begin to rival her own.