A Pedigree to Die For

by Laurien Berenson

  “I held my breath,” said Davey, looking rather pleased with himself. “Just like Uncle Frank taught me.” He took off his slicker and dropped it on the ground, then began to check through the ample contents of his pockets.

  Looking at the two of us, Jack shook his head in bewilderment. It was easy to see he’d never had any children of his own. Compared to some of the stunts Davey had pulled in the past, this was a relatively minor incident.

  “You’re sure you’re both all right?”

  “Positive,” I said firmly.

  I sat up and hauled my feet out of the water. We were wet, but at least it wasn’t cold. Davey and I were in for an uncomfortable ride home, but I doubted we’d catch pneumonia. I pulled off my flats and dumped them out. Davey followed suit with the red sneakers.

  It was all too much for Jack Berglund. Clearly our little adventure had violated his notion of proper etiquette for social occasions. Visibly upset, he tried to salvage the situation by hovering over us solicitously.

  “What can I do to help?” he asked as I picked up Davey’s slicker and shook it out.

  “How about a towel?” I suggested, mostly just to give him something to do.

  “A towel, of course. Two towels even.” Still brimming with agitation, he strode over to the pool house and yanked open the door. My attention was on Davey, so it was a moment before I realized that a black Standard

  Poodle had shot out through the open doorway and into the yard. Jack’s yelling, however, was hard to miss.

  “Hey there! Come back!”

  The dog ignored him and galloped away. Shrugging, Jack continued after the towels. The Poodle danced around the yard, delighted.

  “Come back! Come back!” yelled Davey, getting into the spirit of things. The Poodle ignored him also.

  I stood and stared, but I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. It was Beau; it had to be. Who else would Berglund have stashed away inside the pool house? The Poodle’s coat was long and shaggy, and his face was unclipped; but there was something about him that was immediately arresting—the way he carried himself, perhaps, or the assurance with which he moved.

  Quickly I tried to remember everything Aunt Peg had told me to look for. It was no use. I’d gone totally blank. The Poodle skidded past us, racing around the pool. As he galloped by, so close that I could have reached out and touched him, I realized with a small sense of shock that he looked familiar. But that was impossible, wasn’t it?

  The kennel dogs, hearing the commotion in the yard, burst out into their runs and began to bark. The Poodle skidded to a stop and stiffened. His head and tail snapped up at attention; and suddenly I had my answer. It wasn’t one dog he reminded me of, but rather a whole group. Standing alertly with his neck arched and his tail high, this dog was the very image of a Cedar Crest Poodle.

  The hair on the back of my neck began to tingle, and the sensation worked its way down my spine. After three long months, I’d finally found the dog I was looking for.

  “Beau?” I called the name as loudly as I dared, but the Poodle was too far away to hear me. Then Jack emerged from the pool house, towels in hand, and the dog took off toward the kennel.

  “There he goes!” Davey cried gleefully.

  Jack tossed the towels to me, then went after the Poodle. I wrapped Davey up warmly in plush yellow terry cloth and went to join in the chase. Unfortunately by the time I reached the kennel, Jack had already caught the collarless dog and was leading him inside by the muzzle. Davey flopped into a chair in the front room, but I followed them on inside.

  “What Poodle is that?” I asked as he released the dog into an empty pen.

  “His name’s Scotty. He belongs to the neighbors.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  Jack reached in to ruffle the dog’s topknot. “They dropped him off yesterday before they left on vacation. I’m looking after him while they’re gone.”

  He had to be lying. But how could he have come up with a story like that so quickly? And why didn’t he look even the tiniest bit nervous?

  Unsure now, I moved in for a closer look. Deftly, Jack angled me away. Outmaneuvered, I gave ground and asked casually, “Is he a stud dog, too?”

  Bad question, if the look on Berglund’s face was anything to go by. “No, he’s not. The problem is, he thinks he is. He and Ranger have been driving each other crazy. That’s why I had to put him in the pool house.”

  Standing as we were in a room full of strong, high-walled pens, that sounded like a terrible reason for locking a dog in a pool house; but I nodded as though it made perfect sense. “He seems to have a good temperament. Was he one of your puppies originally?”

  Even as Jack answered, we were already moving away from the pen and back to the outer room. “No, they bought him before they moved in. I never asked where he came from and they never said. He’s just the children’s pet.”

  I guess Davey had had enough excitement for one day, because for once he was actually waiting where I’d left him. Thoroughly damp and grinning happily about it, he jumped up when we appeared. Jack escorted us out to our car.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I said, and he nodded.

  We parted the best of friends.

  Davey napped on the ride home, and I spent the time back trying to decide how I was going to present what I had seen to Aunt Peg. Though I was just about certain that I’d found Beau, I had no proof. The farther away I got, the more I began to worry. What if the visit had been nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy? Maybe the reason that Poodle had looked like Beau to me was because I’d expected him to.

  By the time we reached Greenwich, I’d decided to aim for cautious optimism—I would describe the visit as it had gone and see if a recital of the facts brought her to the same conclusion I’d reached.

  Davey was still asleep when we arrived, so I parked in the shade and left him in the backseat. I’d barely climbed the steps when the front door flew open. The herd of Poodles surged out, but I barely spared them a glance. One look at Aunt Peg’s face and I knew how anxiously she’d awaited my arrival. Everything she was feeling was right there: impatience, frustration, but most of all, a naked yearning for wonderful news.

  “Well?” she demanded, and I couldn’t disappoint her.

  “He’s there.”

  For a moment I almost thought she was going to cry. But of course, she didn’t. Instead she practically ran me into the living room and shoved me down on the couch, damp clothes and all. She wanted news, and she wanted it fast. Quickly I told her about our visit, glossing over the details until I came to the part about the mysterious Poodle in the pool house.

  Aunt Peg listened with remarkable patience as I described the scene down to the last detail.

  “Of course I asked who the Poodle was,” I told her.

  “But Jack had a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything.”

  “So what makes you think that the dog was Beau?”

  “He didn’t look like someone’s pet, for one thing. No matter what Jack said. And besides, he reminded me of your dogs.”

  Her brow lifted. “You mean he resembled them?”

  “Yes.” I wished desperately that I had more to offer. “The way he held himself made me think of them.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s something,” Aunt Peg said. “Did he look like the pictures I showed you?”

  I honestly didn’t know, and I admitted as much. “When you come right down to it, there’s not all that much difference between one black Standard Poodle and another.”

  At least not to me, I thought. Aunt Peg could sort out a dozen or more at twenty paces. How she managed it, I had no idea. My damp clothing was itching like crazy, and I sat back on the couch with a frown. Aunt Peg had spent the whole summer coaching me on how to develop an eye for a dog. I hated having to tell her that just when I’d needed it most, my knowledge had proven inadequate.

  “I suppose the hair was different, too,” she said with a sigh.


  I nodded.

  “You didn’t get a chance to call him by name, did you?”

  “I tried, but outside I was too far away. And then once we went into the kennel, Jack was all over me.”

  We sat in silence for several moments, considering.

  Finally Aunt Peg spoke. “Give me your gut reaction.”

  She’d already had it, earlier. But now that she’d heard how nebulous my evidence was, I couldn’t blame her for asking again.

  “It was Beau.”

  Unexpectedly, she grinned. “I think so, too.”

  “So now what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  That was hardly the decisive response I’d been hoping for. “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Aunt Peg said slowly. “Don’t forget, I spoke with them before. In order to get a search warrant, they’re going to need proof—something nice and solid—which is precisely what we don’t have. The problem is not in proving Beau’s ownership once we get our hands on him. It’s in getting the police to go out there in the first place.”

  I had thought that the hard part would be finding Beau. It had never even occurred to me that once that happened, we might be stymied all over again by the process of trying to reclaim him.

  “Tell me about the puppies you saw,” said Aunt Peg. “Was there anything worth discussing there?”

  I related what little there was to tell. They were ten black, furry little balls, as indistinguishable from each other as if they’d been made from a mold.

  Aunt Peg nodded as though she hadn’t expected anything else. She had to be feeling just as frustrated as I was, but she was doing her best not to let it show. “Never mind,” she said. “Let me work on it overnight. I’ll think of something.”

  I could only hope she was right.

  Twenty-eight

  I took Aunt Peg at her word and gave her overnight to think. But she didn’t call on Friday morning or the rest of the day either. It was Davey’s last day of camp and all the parents were invited to the closing festivities which included several skits, an arts-and-crafts display, and a parent-child kickball game.

  Emily Grace pulled me aside at the end and handed me an envelope containing a fifty-dollar bonus. “Thanks for everything,” she said.

  “Thank you.” I tucked the envelope away. “I can’t believe the summer’s just about over. School starts in two weeks.”

  “Real school.” Emily reached down and tweaked the brim of Davey’s baseball cap. “You’re going to be in kindergarten. Wow!”

  “I’m going to ride the bus,” Davey told her proudly. “It’s going to stop right on our block.”

  “We’ll miss you at Graceland.” Emily looked up suddenly. “Just because he’s graduated, let’s not lose touch, okay?”

  “Okay.” I grinned. “We’ll do lunch.”

  “You’re on,” she said, and we hugged to seal the deal.

  I probably forgot to mention that Sam had left a message on my answering machine at the beginning of the week. That’s because I was trying not to think about it. I hadn’t returned his call, though I’d started to several times. The problem was, I couldn’t quite think of what I was going to say. So like a coward, I said nothing.

  Aunt Peg did call Saturday morning, but it wasn’t to offer any solutions. Instead she said she was on her way to a dog show in Danbury. “I’m still hoping for a brainstorm. But in the meantime I’ve got a puppy entered and ready to go. Why don’t you and Davey meet me there?”

  The idea had merit. Not the least of which was the possibility that I might run into Sam at the show. The meeting would be casual and uncontrived. And Sam would start right off by telling me that the blonde was really his sister . . .

  Right. And maybe Jack Berglund would bring Beau along and deliver him into Aunt Peg’s outstretched hands. Nevertheless the schedule wasn’t exactly full and the forecast promised a beautiful, sunny day. The Volvo performed like a champ, and we arrived at the show ground an hour before the start of the Poodle judging.

  The first thing I saw, upon checking the catalogue, was that Sam wasn’t even entered. So much for Plan A. Plan B consisted of simply enjoying the day with my son. And that was nice, too. Without a mission to accomplish, we approached the show as spectators, wandering wherever Davey’s whims took us.

  Back in the grooming tent, voices were subdued. Predictably, the conversation centered around Randall Tarnower’s murder, and the talk was rife with speculation. Kim was there to show several of Randy’s dogs, and it was clear she relished the attention she was receiving.

  The Poodle judging came and went with little fanfare. The entry wasn’t large. Aunt Peg won the puppy bitch class with Lulu, and I could sense her displeasure when Jack Berglund won the Open class and they went head to head for Winners Bitch. Lulu was probably the better Poodle, but the Shalimar bitch had her beaten on coat, maturity, and training. The judge took no time at all in making his decision. Jack won the points, and Peg’s puppy was reserve. No champions had been entered; the Winners Bitch was awarded Best of Variety, too.

  After the Poodles were finished, the Chow Chow judging began. Davey was delighted by the bushy orange dogs, and we lingered for a bit to watch. Unfortunately the routine wasn’t nearly so interesting without the added spice of caring about the outcome, and we soon strolled on to see what the other rings held.

  First Scotties, then Basset Hounds caught Davey’s eye. When we came to the Chinese Crested ring, however, I was the one who stopped and stared. The toy dogs were small and entirely bald, except for a profuse tuft of fluffy hair that sprouted from the top of their heads.

  “Look, Mommy,” said Davey, giggling. “Cartoon dogs.”

  The judge was making his selection for Best of Breed from a large group of champions, which he sorted through with deft authority. He looked familiar, and after a moment, I figured out why. He was Aunt Peg’s friend, Carl Holden.

  Davey was enthralled, so we watched until the end. Carl handled his ring like a master, and the funny, playful Chinese Cresteds drew a large gallery of spectators. Among them, I saw to my surprise, was the blond woman I’d met at Sam Driver’s house. I stared for a moment, but she was intent on the drama being played out in the ring and didn’t look back.

  At least now I knew why she’d seemed familiar. Though she didn’t have Poodles, she must have exhibited another breed, for I was sure I’d seen her at the shows.

  Carl made his selection for Best Of Breed. Pictures were taken, and then the ring was opened up so the group judging could begin. All of the breeds recognized by the American Kennel Club are divided by seven groups, according to common heritage or function. Standard and Miniature Poodles are in the Non-Sporting group. Toy Poodles are judged with the Toy Group. Each Best of Breed winner is eligible to compete in its group. The seven group winners then go on to vie for the title of Best In Show.

  The Toy Group was scheduled first, and once again Carl was judging. More than a dozen Toy breeds filed in and took their places. Even to my admittedly untrained eye, there were several outstanding specimens in the ring, and I was pleased when my favorites, the Shih Tzu, the Chihuahua, and the Toy Poodle all made the cut.

  In the end, however, the group was won by a rather lackluster Maltese. I wasn’t the only one who was disappointed. The knowledgeable spectators ringside showed their displeasure by giving the winner no applause at all. Carl handed out the ribbons and quickly left the ring. Wondering, I watched him go. Then Davey reached over and tugged on my hand, and the thought that had been forming was lost.

  “Hey, Sport,” I said, “you’ve been very patient. I think you deserve a treat.”

  I had ice cream in mind, but Davey’s eyes immediately lit up. “Wow,” he said. “Anything I want?”

  I may be a pushover, but I’m not that dumb. “Anything within reason,” I qualified.

  “Come on.” Davey grabbed my hand. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked
as we skirted around the group ring and cut across the field.

  “To the parking lot. You said I could do anything I want. I want to see the big rigs.”

  Big rigs. I had to smile. He had a book by that name at home. It was filled with construction vehicles and heavy machinery. I doubted that the trailers and motor homes he’d find at the dog show were big enough to qualify, but if he was happy, I supposed I could humor him. We could always go for ice cream later.

  Most four-year-olds have short attention spans, and Davey is no exception—unless cars and trucks are involved. Then he’s happy to look for hours. We strolled up the first row of vans, trailers, and motor homes, then back across the second. They were long rows; my own attention was wandering when Davey ran on ahead.

  The object of his fascination was a shiny silver behemoth of a motor home. Before I could catch up, he bounded up the steps and tried the door. To my surprise, it opened easily.

  “I like this one. Let’s go inside.”

  “Davey, wait!” As I snatched him off the step and swung him to the ground, I heard dogs barking within, but no irate human appeared to ask what we were doing.

  “Honey, we can’t go in there. It belongs to someone. It’s like their house.”

  “Oh.” Only momentarily deterred, Davey tried the next door. It, too, was unlocked. Obviously Aunt Peg wasn’t the only one who relied on her dogs for security.

  “Come on,” I said, taking a firm grip of Davey’s hand. “I think we’ve seen enough big rigs for one day.”

  We were almost back to the show when a familiar blue and white motor home with a striped awning caught my eye. Neatly lettered on the cab were the words, “Shalimar Kennels.”

  I stopped. I had to. Davey was eager to move on, and I probably should have let him lead me away. But if God wanted to drop a golden opportunity like that into my lap, who was I to pass it by?

  I strolled over and tapped casually on the door. Nobody answered. My hand was shaking as I reached for the handle, but I grasped it firmly and flipped the latch. Like the others we’d seen, the door was unlocked.