by Arlene Kay
Babette fluttered her eyelashes. “Charm and wit.”
I crossed my arms. “What else?”
“Suspicious little twit, aren’t you? Okay. You caught me. A well-placed bribe didn’t hurt either. Just a generous cash gift to the guy in charge of the area.” Babette stared me down. “Don’t be an old prig, Perri. It’s the American way. Once that snow starts, things will get crazy here.”
“What’s a prig, Ms. Babette?” Ella proved yet again that her hearing was exceptionally sharp.
Babette swung into a reserved slot closest to the show area. “Don’t worry, pumpkin. Ms. Perri is just a stuffed shirt. We have to loosen her up.”
Ella’s big blue eyes sparkled. “My daddy says Ms. Perri is perfect.”
Now it was my turn to blush and change the subject. I hated to acknowledge the firm grip that Wing Pruett and his darling moppet had on my heart. Orphans like me fear loss more than most folks. After being wrenched from my parents’ arms and watching my fiancé slip away, I tried mightily to steel myself against further pain. Through a concentrated stealth campaign, Pruett had managed to penetrate those defenses and unleash my fondest hopes. Love does that to a body, but it’s a deep and dangerous game.
“Come on,” I said, dusting off my jeans. “Let’s hook up this baby and walk around the grounds. I see a few familiar faces already.”
Babette clambered out of the driver’s seat and immediately made a connection. Our near neighbor, a muscular, middle-aged man with a thick crop of gray hair, held out his arm and helped Babette alight. She sized him up and went all girly on him.
“Why, thank you, kind sir. I can always use a little help.” In true Babette fashion, she simpered. I really hated when she did that, but it was straight from the Croy playbook, with a bow to Scarlett O’Hara. Most men fell for it, especially when she showed her dimples. This guy was no exception.
I did a quick appraisal of Prince Galahad. He was tall, tanned, and neatly dressed in a pressed pair of jeans and checked shirt. There was nothing wrong with his body either, but I was more concerned with his motives. Call me protective, but Babette had zero judgment when it came to men. The unlamented Carleton Croy, husband number four, was an opportunist who was more interested in her bankbook than her loving heart. Similarly, any con man worth his salt would assess Steady Eddie and quickly realize the bucks that went with it. I leapt out of my seat, clutched Ella, and unleashed my dogs.
“Forgive me, ma’am. I should have introduced myself.” Babette’s admirer ignored me and kept hold of her hand. “Rafael Ramos at your service. Most folks call me Rafa.”
Ramos’s vehicle was a poor cousin of ours, a rusted Airstream that had seen better days. Naturally, Babette seemed oblivious to that as she zeroed in on our neighbor. I knew the signs and decided to immediately nip young love in the bud.
Babette was still in dreamland. “Rafa? Ooh. Just like the tennis player. That’s fascinatin’!”
He shrugged and shook his head. “Don’t I wish. Unfortunately, I’m not much of an athlete.” His faux modesty aroused my suspicions. The muscles on this guy proved that he did some serious physical training.
“Hi, Rafa,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Perri Morgan, and this is Ella. Excuse us while we exercise our crew. We’ve got four hungry canines on board.”
Ramos unhanded my friend and switched into helpful mode. “Of course. Be glad to help you with the connections on this big boy if you need anything. Sure is a beauty.” He then proved that he was also a dog person. “Wow! Speaking of beauties, your dogs are phenomenal.” He approached Keats and Poe with the palm of his hand open and lowered. When they acknowledged him, he patted their silky heads and did the same to Clara and Guinnie.
“Do you have a dog, sir?” Ella asked.
He bent down and smiled. “Call me Rafa, honey. And the answer is yes. My breed is standard poodles. Don’t have any with me this trip because I’m judging.”
“You’re a judge,” Babette trilled as if he had said “brain surgeon.” The throb in her voice sounded authentic and probably was. “How excitin’.”
Rafael lowered his head in an “aw shucks” routine. “I just love doing the show circuit. Being around beautiful dogs and lovely ladies—doesn’t get much better than that.”
“Guinnie is a Grand Champion,” Ella said proudly. “She’s almost at bronze level.” In dog show parlance, there were five levels of Grand Champion, and Guinnie was new to that elevated crowd. She had bronze, silver, gold, and platinum levels yet to conquer, but that didn’t concern me one bit. With Guinnie’s perfection, Ella’s persistence, and Pruett’s pocketbook, no obstacle was insurmountable.
Rafa nodded. “I can see why. Didn’t I see her written up in the latest issue of Canine Chronicles?”
Ella’s smile was luminous. She nodded and reached down to give Guinnie another hug. In deference to the little girl, I hoped Rafa wouldn’t probe any further. Grand Champion Camelot Kennel’s Lady Guinevere had come to us under tragic circumstances that were best forgotten. Like most pointers, Guinnie was a gentle, loving companion with plenty of brains. The important thing was the immutable bond between Ella and her dog.
“Let me take these guys for a run,” I said, whistling to my dogs. “Ready, Ella?” We loped toward the backfields, leaving Babette to her new suitor. I know from experience when to fade from the scene, particularly when it involved a man. Their animated conversation told me that our absence hadn’t even been noticed. No surprise there. Babette was a loyal friend, but any presentable man with a pulse could easily turn her head.
Ella, on the other hand, saw only Guinnie and the other dogs. Her big blue eyes shone with happiness as she romped with our pack of pups. Loving animals came easily to most children, and I harbored grave suspicions about kids who felt otherwise. Indifference to animals was just plain unnatural—serial killer material.
A sudden cacophony of noise rudely interrupted my thoughts. I clutched Ella’s hand, steering her toward the trees and to the left of the warring parties. Neither combatant acknowledged us, but I suspect that, in the heat of battle, neither of them noticed us either. To my chagrin, these disturbers of the peace were adults, grown women, not marauding teens. Yael Lindsay, a well-preserved sexagenarian with seriously teased hair and an eye-popping diamond ring, shook her fist. “You listen here, Bethany. I run this show. That means no shenanigans by the likes of you. Hussy!”
Her antagonist, agility master Bethany Zahn, was the seductress so vividly described by Babette. Maybe it was the black leather blanketing her from stem to sultry stern that gave Bethany away or the mane of unnaturally black curls that she twirled. Either way, she radiated sex appeal, snark, and a dollop of dominatrix.
“Run?” she sneered, hands on hips. “Honey, at your age you couldn’t run if your life depended on it. Join a gym, why don’t you? Better still, muzzle that horny hubby of yours. He’s into agility in a big way, or so I hear.” Bethany smirked at her own wit and sauntered off toward the show entrance without a backward glance.
I normally eschew gossip, but that little tiff fascinated me—until I recalled the urchin who clutched my hand. Ella Pruett trained her baby blues on me and asked, “Why were those ladies fighting, Perri? Daddy says that’s not right.”
Honesty was the best policy, especially when it involved a bright, inquisitive child like Ella, who was not easily fooled.
“Your daddy was right. Shouting never solves anything, honey. Some people never learn.” I clapped my hands, causing Poe and Keats to snap to attention. “Come on. Let’s run a race with these pups.”
We sped down the field, trailing four dogs that easily outpaced us and leaving the snarling women behind. Canine quarrels were typically sparked by competition—dominance, food, territory, or sex. Humans were no different. Based on the scene I had just witnessed, one or all of those factors might have caused the dustup. I never dreame
d that tragedy awaited us.
Chapter 2
I spent my time focused on business, relegating that catfight between Yael and Bethany to the dustbin of my mind. Selling my wares, satisfying customers, and making new friends—that was enough for me. I had neither the time nor the desire to indulge in blood sports at the Big E, especially with Pruett due to arrive any day.
Unfortunately, I forgot about Babette and her all-consuming interest in the affairs of others. She was all smiles when we returned, giving us a coy act that fooled no one, not even little Ella.
“You look happy, Ms. Babette,” Ella said. “Where’s your friend?”
Babette fussed with Clara’s collar to avoid answering. When she raised her head, her cheeks were flushed with an emotion I was all too familiar with. Some people called it infatuation. When Babette Croy was involved, I called it trouble.
“Where is Rafa?” I asked. The Airstream looked deserted and more disreputable than ever.
“He had a meeting with the organizers,” Babette replied. “He is a judge, after all. And guess what? Rafael lives in Spain part-time, just like the famous tennis player. He came all this way just to judge poodles. In fact, he’s doing the Non-sporting Group too.”
Ella dipped into her gear bag for Guinnie’s comb. She hugged her pet and carefully groomed the pointer’s silky coat. “Two ladies were fighting,” she told Babette.
That let the proverbial cat out of the bag and activated Babette’s scary senses.
“Oh?” She shot me a venomous look. “And you planned to tell me when?”
I shrugged, trying to resurrect my innocent girl-next-door persona. “No big deal. Just a difference of opinion between two adults who should have known better.”
Babette put her hands on her hips and planted herself in my path. “Come on. Who were they? Don’t make me beg.”
Bargaining was one of my strong suits, and in this instance, it paid big dividends.
“Help me set up my shop, and I promise to tell you everything. Besides, didn’t they schedule some kind of welcome reception tonight? We don’t want to miss it.”
Unlike me, my friend was a social butterfly. Nothing phony; it came naturally to her. I knew she would move mountains to attend the opening ceremony at the Big E. No doubt she intended to dazzle the locals and assert her claim on Rafa while she was at it.
“Okay, but you better spill, girlfriend—every little detail.” She gave me the Babette special, a stare that could instantly pulverize lesser mortals. I bit back a retort and remained strong.
Instead of caving, I loaded up a pushcart with leads and collars, and shoved it her way. “You bet.”
Ella helped stack more products, including my custom belts and engraving tools. With the combined sweat of two and a half dogged workers, we were able to stock my little stall in no time. I kept an eagle eye on Ella as she scampered gleefully around the aisles with Guinnie in tow, making friends everywhere she went.
Floor space in the Better Living Center was already at a premium. A profusion of dog crates, grooming tables, and custom camp chairs littered the outer perimeter of the arena. Savvy show veterans staked their claim to real estate before the start of the competition to ensure that they and their canine charges were comfortably settled. To do otherwise was to risk getting stuck with an uncomfortable berth or none at all.
Babette called time after an hour and led us back to Steady Eddie. “Come on, ladies. We need to freshen up before the social.” In Croy-land, “freshen up” was a euphemism for putting on the glam. It worked for her, but it was simply not my thing. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not totally without vanity. While my friend pawed through her wardrobe, I unbraided my hair, my one point of vanity, changed into a new pair of jeans, and applied lipstick. My jewelry was simple, but meaningful at least to me. It consisted of a small pair of ruby studs that Pip had given me, and a beautiful diamond key, courtesy of Wing Pruett. Ella had a child’s version of that necklace, a fact that absolutely delighted her.
“Ms. Babette—look. Perri and I match.” She pirouetted around the room.
“Well, aren’t you two just something?” Babette said. “Two Tiffany models right before my eyes. You’ll be the stars of the show.”
Mrs. Croy was looking pretty snazzy herself, garbed in a sumptuous cashmere twinset and velvet slacks. In deference to her surroundings, she toned down the bling—no diamond over two carats anywhere on her person.
We settled the dogs in their crates and traipsed toward the center, where the opening cocktail party was in full swing. Already the wind had picked up, and a hint of snow was in the air. I feared that Pruett might have a tough time getting here from DC.
At first glimpse, the mostly female crowd was an unremarkable assemblage of handlers, vendors, judges, and members of the sponsoring dog clubs. There was a noticeable absence of scent in deference to the canine sensitivity to perfume, but that didn’t deter most participants from gamely showing off their party duds. Rafa Ramos stood out for two reasons: the gaggle of groupies surrounding him and his bulging muscles. Lord, that man’s forearms were veritable tree trunks! Sequoias. I bit my lip, mindful that Pruett would soon be there to quench any lingering lust of mine.
“Well, will you look at that?” Babette pointed toward Rafa. “I should have known that floozy psychic would make a run at him. The woman has no scruples.” She bared her teeth in a grimace so savage that Ella recoiled. I squeezed her hand and ignored Babette’s antics. To be fair, Bethany had a number of competitors vying for Rafa’s affections. Presentable men were in short supply, and show veterans were well aware of the sexual shenanigans and alcohol-fueled brawls that marked the off hours. Tennyson’s “nature, red in tooth and claw” described human antics as much as canine.
Babette had a fiery temper, but she was easily distracted. I nudged her toward the back corner of the room, where another interesting tableau was unfolding. Yael Lindsay huddled against the wall in deep conversation with Whit Wiley, a fellow pointer enthusiast and bitter rival. Word had it that Whit planned to unseat Yael by any means possible so that he might rule the pointer roost. I knew him slightly as a customer, and what I knew was unsavory. He bought my products but always tried to work a “deal”—his term for a sharp price reduction. Several times he also tried to return products that had obviously been used in the ring.
Babette stood on tiptoe, straining for a better view. Her refusal to wear glasses or contact lenses handicapped her snooping, but she bravely soldiered on. Beauty before function was her motto!
“Holy cow! Isn’t that Whit cozying up to the chief heifer? He’s up to something. Believe me. That guy always plays the angles.” Babette gaped, forgetting for an instant about Rafael Ramos.
Whit Wiley’s impeccable grooming and surface pleasantries masked the smarmy side of his personality. Although intelligent and well-spoken, his veneer of civility was only half an inch deep. Given a chance, he would sabotage competitors or friends indiscriminately. He’d done that to me more than once.
“Creep,” I muttered. Ella was within earshot, so I restrained myself.
Babette shrugged. “He’s not so bad. At least he supports agility and obedience competitions. Yael and her gang are such purists. With them it’s conformation or nothing.”
“What’s conformation?” Ella asked.
I ruffled her hair. “Dog shows, honey. The kind of things Guinnie does.” I pointed toward a long table laden with food. “Oh, look. They’ve got cake. Let’s get some.”
The three of us sped toward a yummy-looking cake with thick buttercream icing and, in the middle of the top, a marzipan figure of a pointer that resembled Guinnie. Fortunately, I have no weight problems, but Babette waged war against flab every day. Since she was a good sport as well as a sugar addict, we patiently waited our turn, then dug into the treat with gusto.
“Better watch it, ladies,” said a familiar deep
voice. “You’re way too sweet already.”
Ella squealed, and I nearly swooned as the strong arms of Pruett enveloped us.
* * * *
Wing Pruett, dubbed “Sexiest Man in DC” by Washingtonian Magazine, had earned that title ten times over in my opinion. If tall, lithe men with perfect features and mounds of luscious hair tickle your fancy, Pruett was your go-to guy. I was wary of him when we first met. Investigative journalist? Like most Americans, I had little use for the press, especially celebrity scribes. Perfect-looking men raised my hackles as well. Conceited and pompous—I labeled him immediately before even knowing him. Later, I learned how unfair that label was. True, he looked good and knew it, but any such man with a mirror would realize that. Unlike many superstars, however, Pruett never allowed physical perfection to rule his life. That—plus his genuine love for Ella and a host of beguiling ways too private to mention—had won my heart. Tonight, garbed in black jeans and leather jacket, he stole the show without even trying. I swear the temperature rose ten degrees the moment he set foot in that room. Female heads swiveled, and eyes fixed on the supple form of Ella’s dad and my guy. Pruett accepted a kiss from Babette but kept his arms wound tight around me and Ella. I tried playing it cool but failed miserably. Besides, coolness was vastly overrated.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I said. “Ella missed you.”
Pruett flashed his saucy grin my way. “Just Ella? How about you, Persephone? Did you miss me too?” Only he and Babette ever used my formal name, and Pruett enunciated all four syllables, slowly and sensuously. I flushed but fought to maintain a shred of dignity.
“Oh, were you gone?” I kept my tone playful. “Funny. I didn’t see your Jag in the parking lot.”
Oddly enough, that flustered him. Pruett lowered his eyes and murmured. “I drove something else.”
Babette had no inhibitions, and tact was never her strong suit. “Oh yeah?” she said. “You got something new?”
Automotive lust was harmless enough as addictions go, but for some reason, Pruett considered it a weakness. Knowing Babette would pester him for an answer, he tried a diversionary tactic. “I got an SUV. Ella’s dog show gear didn’t fit in a sedan.”