Death by Dog Show

by Arlene Kay

  “I repeat. What do you suggest?” I folded my arms to show I meant business.

  “Talk to people. See if you can find any clues. No one will tell the police anything, but you and Wing are different.”

  Funny thing. Rafa was playing the same tune as Yael, albeit in a different key. I made a snap decision, one that I would later regret. After all, people confided in me and told me I had an honest face. Maybe I could inveigle some of them to share information. As for Pruett—that boy could get milk from granite. It was the secret to his success and the flaw that often imperiled him.

  “Listen, Rafa, you’ve got to come clean with me. What business arrangements did you have with Lee? Pruett mentioned that you co-owned a dog at one time.”

  Rafael Ramos knew how to handle victory. Instead of gloating, he cracked his knuckles and leaned forward. Keats and Poe moved toward me, emitting a low growl as they did so. Rafa knew dogs as well as he knew women. He immediately backed against the wall and spoke to them in a soft, soothing voice.

  “Platz,” I said. That was the Schutzhund command for “lie down but remain alert.” Both dogs immediately did so.

  “It’s a long story,” Rafa said. “Might take some time, and you have a group showing soon.”

  I checked my watch. “Yikes! Guinnie’s up in ten minutes. Let’s meet at Babette’s trailer after the show. That way Pruett can hear everything too.”

  Rafa nodded in agreement. “Sounds good. Meanwhile, I have a group of class poodles to judge. You know how jumpy owners get when they’re trying to finish that championship. One more thing to consider, Perri. Pruett mixed it up with Lee too. I understand he was on the scene when the cops came. I’m not the only suspect.” He strolled out the door and melted into the crowd before I could say anything more. For some reason, I didn’t really trust Rafa. Wasn’t even sure I liked him. The man was a magician who would likely pull a vanishing act when Babette needed him most. For now, I would withhold judgment, but like my dogs, I would remain vigilant.

  Chapter 8

  Guinnie’s next challenge was a big one. If she prevailed in the Sporting Group competition, she would receive a one-way ticket to Best in Show, and that meant the big time! Competition was intense, but I had no doubt that she was the superior dog. Every handler in the Sporting Group harbored the same feelings about his entry.

  Ella, Babette, and Pruett met me ringside. Their faces, rife with high-carb satisfaction, told me that Popeye’s had once again hit the mark. I banished thoughts of Cajun chicken and focused on Guinnie. There were at least two contenders in the Sporting Group that might give her trouble. One, a sweet-natured Brittany spaniel, had already reached Grand Champion status. I also kept my eye on a sprightly English springer spaniel, whose lineage included two Westminster winners. Both dogs were presented by well-regarded handlers who acted mighty friendly with the judge. I bit my tongue and told myself not to invent excuses. Losers did that. Winners kept their eye on the prize. I spied Pruett snapping video with his iPhone as we trotted around the ring, while Ella and Babette cheered lustily for Guinnie. My hopes soared when the judge made her first cut, leaving us in the running with the springer, the Brittany, and a curly-coated retriever. As we stacked our dogs for a final inspection, the judge lined us up, decreed “once more around the ring,” and then pointed to the Brittany, with Guinnie coming in second.

  I was philosophical about it, but Ella sobbed inconsolably. “Poor Guinnie. Look, she’s crying.” The little girl threw her arms around the pointer and held on tight.

  “Hey,” I said. “Look at the bright side. Guinnie beat out six other dogs and still got three points toward her Bronze Grand Championship. That’s impressive.”

  Pruett ruffled his daughter’s hair and spoke softly to her. “Guinnie is a class act, Ella, and you have to behave the same way.” He put his arm around me. “Come on. Ms. Perri must be really hungry.”

  I rubbed my tummy and nodded. “Popeye’s, here I come. Hope you guys left me some.”

  “Oh yeah,” Babette said. “Biscuits, red beans and rice, not to mention that chicken.” She smacked her lips. “I might just have seconds on everything. How about it, Ella?” She took the little girl’s hand and skipped toward the shop I had set up with the name Creature Comforts.

  As we walked behind them, I told Pruett about my encounters with Rafa and Yael. “It’s weird. Two different people with conflicting goals want us snooping around a murder scene.”

  Pruett’s face wore a look of undeserved innocence. “Go figure. Maybe Rafa can clear things up tonight.”

  We both knew that if Roar Jansen found us interfering in his investigation, he would not be a happy camper. His partner’s reaction would be even worse.

  “You weren’t the only one who was busy today,” Pruett said. “I had coffee with Bethany Zahn. Whew! What a talker.”

  I rolled my eyes, picturing the scene between the two. Bethany had probably wound her shapely self around Pruett like a reptile. “So. What happened?”

  He immediately went into crack reporter mode, pulling out his iPad and checking his notes. “Okay. She hinted that Lee was interested in her too. Naturally, she denied any involvement.”

  “Huh! I heard her with Yael.”

  “According to Bethany, she was only messing with Yael. Can’t stand her and thinks she’s an interfering busybody.” He stopped at the door to my shop and kissed my cheek. “Look. I want to check out some things. See you tonight.”

  “Hold on one minute, buster.” I wagged my finger at him. “The last time you said that, you ended up babysitting a corpse. Plus, you have other responsibilities too. Unless you want your little girl to cry her eyes out again, find a professional handler for Guinnie. It makes a difference.”

  Pruett looked down at me with a heat-seeking gaze that curled my toes. “You know the dog world better than I do. Pick someone, and I’ll pay the freight. Please. For Ella.” He winked and blew me a kiss. And with that, my handsome prince disappeared into never, never land intent on doing Lord knows what in pursuit of his story.

  * * * *

  Business was brisk that afternoon. Chicken satiated my hunger, but cash in hand soothed my soul. I was a self-supporting, small business entrepreneur. Out of necessity, I kept a sharp eye on my balance sheet and economized wherever possible. Detective work had its charms, but it really didn’t pay the bills. Ask any foster child and you’ll get a similar story: Appreciate good fortune, but never count on anything you didn’t earn through hard work.

  I was knee-deep in customers when Roar Jansen and Genna Watts stepped inside. Guilt, or something very much like it, made me quickly shoo out stragglers, summon my great big Brownie smile, and greet the detectives.

  “Things are really jumping around here,” Roar said. The impact of his smile hit me yet again. The powder-blue sweater he wore was merely icing on a very tasty cake. The guy was a babe, and he obviously knew it. Fortunately, I was impervious to his charms, but not oblivious. Sergeant Watts, a woman with little charm to spare, narrowed her eyes and grunted. She forswore social niceties and immediately got down to business.

  “You didn’t mention the other murders,” she said, pulling out a tattered pad.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Virginia. Last year. You and Mr. Pruett jumped right in. Oh yeah. Mrs. Croy too.”

  Genna turned brusqueness into an art form, and it annoyed the hell out of me.

  I straightened up to my full sixty-nine inches and stared her down. Two can play the intimidation game. In fact, I was rather good at it.

  “Did I hear my name?” Babette asked. She and Ella bounded into the shop with Clara and Guinnie in tow.

  The sergeant had a scowl that could tame a rampaging lion. It even temporarily subdued the ebullient Babette. “Maybe we should go downtown and discuss this,” Genna growled, knowing full well what that would do to my day’s profits.


  Fortunately, Roar interceded, applying a liberal dose of soft soap. “No need. We just wanted to touch base with you.” He walked slowly toward the grooming tools on display. “Hmm. Looks just like the murder weapon, doesn’t it, Genna? No pink ones, though.” He turned toward me with that disarming grin. “Big sellers, I bet.”

  I matched his grin with one of my own. A number of men had called it “fetching,” although I couldn’t swear as to its impact. “Grooming goes with the territory, Sergeant. Ask anyone.”

  Roar nodded. “Oh, I have. Funny thing, though. Ms. Lindsay told us just today that you and Wing Pruett were investigating things for her.”

  Denial was pointless in these situations. I chose the high road. “Poor woman. She’s so distraught. Almost delusional.”

  Things might have calmed down had Babette not put her considerable oar into the water. “You’d be darn lucky if we joined in. Just ask the cops in Great Marsh.”

  That set Sergeant Watts off big-time. “Oh, we did. They had some choice words for all three of you. Especially Ms. Morgan.”

  Sometimes dignified silence was the better part of valor. In this instance, it drove Genna to distraction. Fortunately, Roar was far more nonchalant. He just shrugged and ambled toward the door. “Guess we’ll be seeing you around, Perri. Watch yourself.”

  His partner had the last word. “And stay out of our way.”

  * * * *

  Ella peaked out from behind a stack of boxes. “That lady doesn’t like you, Ms. Perri. She’s mean.”

  Trust a child to recognize a shrew when she saw one. In the interests of good parenting, however, I took the high road. “Don’t mind her, honey. She’s got a tough job to do.”

  Under her breath, Babette mumbled. “And that bitch is no lady either.”

  I poked my head out the door and checked my watch. “Things are winding down anyway. Let’s head over to Steady Eddie and relax.”

  “Amen,” said Babette, who hadn’t had a particularly tiring day. She gave a huge yawn and said, “I am pooped.”

  I got a sudden brainstorm and decided to act on it right away. “You two go on back. Leave Keats and Poe here with me. I need to talk with some handlers first. Be right with you.” At first, Babette protested—until I mentioned that Rafa would soon be there. That activated the beauty machine and all its attendant rituals. Babette pulled out a mirror and patted her hair. “Guess I should shower and change clothes.” She held out her hand to Ella. “Come on, honey. Grab Guinnie, and let’s make tracks.” Accompanied by two trusty canines, the humans virtually skipped out the side door of the Big E.

  They had vanished before I turned out the lights.

  * * * *

  I was a woman on a mission. With a little luck and persistence, I just might find the right handler for Lady Guinevere before her next show date. I also had an ulterior motive. By mingling with the professionals, I might glean more information about Lee Holmes, Rafa, and any other interested parties. It was certainly worth a try.

  My first stop was the enclave where the poodle fanciers congregated. Most dog shows have distinct areas, segregated by breed, where dogs, owners, and handlers set up camp. It was strictly an informal arrangement, but in my experience, anyone with open ears and a friendly smile could burrow in and learn a lot.

  With Keats and Poe at my side, I sauntered through the area, admiring the dogs on display. Despite the frivolity of the mandatory “show cut,” standard poodles were tough, wickedly smart dogs that were frequently one step ahead of their owners. After ensuring that Rafa was nowhere around, I approached an area where several exquisitely manicured pups lounged on their grooming tables as if poised for a photo shoot. Their handlers, easily identified by protective capes, tools, and blow-dryers, were bunched in a knot, chatting and snacking. Most were strangers to me, but I spied at least one familiar face, a breeder-owner-handler from Maryland. I sidled over to her and settled into the personalized chair with Poodle Power Kennels stenciled on it. Most show veterans brought their own sturdy fold-up chairs emblazoned with the name of their kennels or show dogs on them. She was no exception.

  “Punky,” I said, smiling at the wisp of a woman clad in black, “I need some advice.”

  Patricia “Punky” West put her hands on her hips and grinned at me, “Sugar, you came to the right spot. I’m full of advice, and some of it is even good.”

  “Yeah, Punky, you sure are full of it.” A blowsy blonde, sporting two inches of dark roots, hooted. She had once bought poodle shears from me, but her name eluded me.

  Punky was barely five feet tall, but she was a silver pocket rocket, packed with energy and good humor. Her kennel was renowned in poodle circles for producing solid champion dogs and companion animals. Like most reputable breeders, she scrutinized prospective adopters with an eagle eye and welcomed back any of her “babies” needing a new home.

  I explained my quest for a professional handler and a bit about Guinnie. The blonde, who introduced herself as Shirley Renaud, immediately volunteered a name. “What about Alf Walsh?” she asked. “Understand he’s got some availability. Great guy too. Firm but gentle with the big breeds. I have his card somewhere.” She rooted in a knapsack and extracted a rumpled, coffee-stained card with Walsh’s name and cell number. “He was campaigning a big white male, but the poor dog got sick and left the show circuit. Broke his leg or something. I can’t quite recall. Anyway, Alf was frantic.”

  “Campaigning” a dog was a time-intensive, costly endeavor that only serious owners with deep pockets even considered. It entailed virtually surrendering your dog to his handler for cross-country show appearances. Rewards were never guaranteed, although successful competitors amassed points toward national rankings. Campaigning was not for the faint-hearted or impoverished. Even pooches that reached the pinnacle of dogdom rarely enriched their owners’ coffers. Conformation was a world unto its own, with risks and rewards that only a few could grasp.

  “I’ll look him up,” I said. “Frankly, I’m not skilled enough to give Guinnie the push she deserves. Her owner is a darling child, and Wing Pruett would do anything to please her.”

  The din of female voices suddenly stopped as Punky, Shirley, and several of their cohort gaped at me.

  “Did you say Wing Pruett?” Shirley asked. “The hot magazine guy? Perfect body, gorgeous hair, plenty of attitude?”

  I nodded.

  “Lordy, Lordy, that man is fine.” Shirley rhapsodized. “Lead me to him. Hell, I’ll show the dog for free if he’s part of the deal.” Her compatriots chuckled in agreement.

  I kept my composure and managed a weak smile. After all, Pruett’s magnetism was nothing new. Half the women in DC either lusted after him or had already dated him. Celebrities took such adoration in their stride, but I was no celebrity. That disparity between me and Pruett emphasized anew how unlikely our relationship was. I was strictly a one-man kind of gal, wary of trusting most men and certainly no babe magnet. He was a superstar.

  Punky patted her pal on the shoulder and looked my way. “I think he’s spoken for, right, Perri?”

  “More or less. Nothing formal.” I spread my hands in a hapless gesture and changed the subject. “So. Any other suggestions? I met Rafael Ramos recently, but he’s a judge, so he’s not available.” That name changed the trajectory of the conversation immediately. Shirley lowered her voice and glanced over her shoulder. “You know about the murder, I guess.”

  I shrugged. “Unfortunately. I found the body. Gruesome.”

  “Rafa didn’t do it,” Punky whispered. “He couldn’t have.” She balled her hands up into tight fists.

  “He’s a great guy,” Shirley chimed in. “That’s more than I could say for Lee Holmes. Such a creep!”

  I played my innocence card. “I didn’t really know Lee. His wife competes in pointers, so she’s an acquaintance. Poor thing.”

  Punky
leapt up and began combing the black poodle nearest her. “Poor thing, my foot. She’s well rid of him. Let me tell you. Yael Lindsay got nothing but heartbreak from that man.”

  Shirley nodded in agreement. “Besides, I figure Roy Vesco got him alone and evened up the score. You probably heard about the fracas last night.”

  “Hard to judge,” I said, “when love is involved.”

  “Love! That’s a hoot. Kiki’s a born troublemaker. Always rubbing up against men, even that Whit Wiley, if you can believe it.” Shirley curled her lip in disgust. “Talk about desperate. I’m never sure which team that guy even plays for. Probably both.”

  Punky halted the grooming and pointed a finger at her friend. “Come on, Shirl. Knock it off. Kiki is young, not even thirty.” She hugged the poodle and spritzed him with water. “Take my word, Lee had plenty of other enemies. Always cheating people in business deals and lying about it. Leads to trouble, mark my words.”

  Time for me to interject something into the conversation. “He and Rafa co-owned dogs, didn’t they? They must have been close at one time to do that.”

  Both women nodded in unison.

  “You said it. Rafa did all the work, while Lee preened. Ask anyone who knew him. That Lee was one lazy sucker. Dumb too.” Shirley snickered. “Guess the good Lord was giving out looks, not brains, the day Lee turned up.”

  I sighed and tried one last gambit. “The police grilled us big-time. I almost felt guilty myself after facing them.”

  Shirley rolled her eyes. “Speaking of hotties. The lead detective could grill me any time. Once over easy. Even his name is sexy—Roar. I might confess to the murder just to spend some up close and personal time with that boy.”

  Neither woman even mentioned Sergeant Watts, but in view of the conversation, that was hardly surprising. After a few more comments, I thanked them and ambled toward the exit door. Before I left, Bethany Zahn blocked my path. Today’s outfit was a striking gold-mesh number that contrasted nicely with her tawny eyes. Her makeup and sculpted hair lent just the right touch to the persona of a pet psychic. Most dog show regulars saved the glam for their canine charges, but there were exceptions like Bethany.