Death by Dog Show

by Arlene Kay

  “Perri, we need to talk,” she said. “You won’t believe what I found out today.”

  “Okay. Right now, I’m kind of pressed for time, though.”

  Bethany showed her dimples in a big grin. “This won’t take long. I heard you’re playing detective.”

  Despite my denials, she persisted. “Look. I’ll stop by your store tonight around eight. Trust me, you’ll be glad I did.”

  In every thriller I had ever read, this scenario spelled trouble. Typically, the informant ended up dead, and the hapless stooge—in this case me—was accused of the crime. I had no desire to play that role or subject myself to Sergeant Watts’s gimlet eye. None at all. Genna had probably earned an advanced degree in torture from Torquemada U. and ached to practice her skills. Not on my watch.

  “Look, Bethany. Come by our motor home instead. Have a drink, and let’s chat.”

  She considered my offer and flashed a saucy smile my way. “Okay. I suppose Pruett will be there too. Don’t worry. I don’t mind sharing with him. In fact, he could get just about anything out of me. Okay then, Perri. See you at eight.” She winked at me and sashayed toward the restroom area. Jealousy was counterproductive, a mean-spirited and worthless emotion that was unworthy of me. Nevertheless, I sprinted out the door straight toward Steady Eddie, having heard enough trash talk from horny women to last me all week.

  Chapter 9

  Bethany didn’t die. Instead, she rapped on the door of Steady Eddie precisely at eight pm, sporting a fresh coat of makeup, warm winter gear, and a grin that would shame the Cheshire cat. By rights, I should have resented her, but despite the flashy persona, there was an air of vulnerability about the pet psychic that I found sympathetic. That didn’t mean that I trusted her around Pruett. Far from it. For his part, Pruett seemed very much at ease, as he crossed his long legs and slowly sipped Babette’s pricy bourbon.

  “Come on in,” Babette trilled. “Girl, you look like a snow angel. That stuff is really coming down, isn’t it?”

  Bethany shook herself like one of her spaniels, scattering the white stuff over the entryway. “They’re talking about canceling Wednesday’s show,” she said. “Judges can’t get in, airports and highways closed.” She grinned at Pruett. “Real snuggling weather.”

  Pruett wisely chose to focus on his bourbon instead of boudoir talk. “This stuff is extraordinary,” he sighed. “You, Mrs. Croy, are a woman of taste and distinction.”

  Babette never shied away from a compliment, especially one from a gorgeous male. She batted her lashes and positively glowed. “Why, thank you, kind sir. My late husband Wilbur taught me all about it. That man was a true connoisseur. In fact, he was sipping Buffalo Trace Bourbon when he passed away.”

  My pal knew all about whiskey and husbands. Wilbur, hubby number two, died at eighty-one with a smile on his face. He passed his considerable holdings on to the bride who had brightened his final years—Babette. One could only applaud her talent for unearthing wealthy men who doted on her and left this earth happy. Of her four husbands, only Carleton Croy, the youngest and most impoverished, had disappointed, but Babette was philosophical. As she observed, that’s what prenuptial agreements were for. Carleton left with nothing more than he brought to their ill-fated union.

  “I’ll try some of that,” Bethany drawled, making a dead set at Pruett. “By the way, where’s that cute little girl of yours? Ella, right?”

  Pruett beamed like the proud papa that he was and nodded toward the bedroom. Now it was his turn to glow. Ella held the key to his heart, and any praise for her was warmly received. “She’s with Guinnie,” he said. “It’s past her bedtime. Ella’s, not Guinnie’s.”

  “When do you go to bed?” Bethany asked, looking him over. “You look well-rested enough.”

  Babette and Bethany giggled as if that were comic gold; however, I pushed the agenda forward. “Tell us, Bethany, we’re dying to know. You mentioned some important information.”

  She tousled her curls and hunkered down at Pruett’s feet. “Okay. But keep this between us. I have my career to think of.”

  Maybe it was my imagination, but the atmosphere in the room suddenly grew tense. Babette clenched her fists into tight knuckleballs, Pruett folded his arms and stayed impassive, and I took one deep, cleansing breath. Bethany certainly knew how to stage a show and engage her audience.

  She jumped to her feet and immediately started pacing. “I found something out that you all should know. Remember that kooky chick who handles German shepherds?”

  I nodded. “Jess Pendrake. Saw her just today.”

  Bethany’s tawny eyes narrowed. “Well, she had one hell of a reason to hate Lee Holmes. See, he leased one of her shepherds, kept him for six months, then reneged on the deal. Can you believe it?”

  Pruett wrinkled up his lip and said, “What? Leasing a dog!”

  I sometimes forgot that this was very foreign territory for him. Until last year, Pruett had avoided all things canine whenever possible due to an unfortunate experience in childhood. Actually, dog leasing was not uncommon among serious breeders and handlers. At first, I too had reacted emotionally to the concept, since like most pet parents, I couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from my dogs. When several breeders explained their rationale, I understood. Still didn’t like it, though.

  Bethany twirled a strand of hair around her fingers and beamed at Pruett. “Think of it this way, Wing. Most breeders have up to twenty dogs in their kennels and spend forty weeks a year crisscrossing the country. No way can they take every pup with them. If they have a hot show prospect, it makes sense to let someone from another part of the country keep him for a while.”

  Pruett shook his head. “So the breeder gets paid? Sounds kind of cold to me.”

  “Yeah,” Babette said. “I couldn’t bear it if Clara ever left my side.”

  This was strictly Bethany’s show. I stayed silent as she continued the tutorial.

  “Be practical,” she said. “Selling puppies sounds cold too, but placing them in loving homes is different. Besides, there are safeguards in the leasing contracts. Breeders demand that the dog be shown to rack up championship points.”

  Pruett displayed his practical business side once again. “Doesn’t sound like much of a deal for the lessee.”

  Bethany leaned over and pinched his cheek. Frankly, I could have done without that little gesture, but Pruett seemed to enjoy it. “Look,” she said, “the lessee, as you call him, gets the right to breed the dog to his bitch without paying a stud fee. That’s a big deal, so everyone makes out. Stud fees can easily climb into four figures for a high-value dog.”

  Babette and Pruett were unconvinced. In the midst of the debate, however, we overlooked the fact that a child with big eyes and open ears had wandered into the room. Ella clutched Guinnie in a death grip and said in a tremulous voice, “Daddy, don’t send Guinnie away. Please.”

  Pruett leapt from his chair and embraced the little girl. “Don’t worry, honey. We’re just talking. No one will take Guinnie away. Promise.”

  “Time for the pups to take a potty break before you go to bed,” I told Ella. “Come on.”

  Thoughts of walking the dogs banished all of Ella’s immediate concerns. That was the wonderful thing about being seven years old. In the end, four adults and four canines and a kid saddled up and trekked through the snowy field for an evening romp. Bethany amused her audience by sharing anecdotes from the work-life of a pet psychic. While Babette rolled her eyes and jabbed me in the side, Pruett hung on to every syllable she uttered. I am a rationalist but not a confirmed skeptic, so I carefully evaluated Bethany’s claims. Inter-species communication seemed plausible enough, and some humans showed a rare ability to bridge the gap. If Bethany were less toothsome, just a tiny bit homely, I might have really embraced her skills.

  When we returned, Ella and Guinnie sped off to bed, while th
e adults sipped some more bourbon. Bethany had yet to share her big news with us, so I decided a subtle nudge was in order.

  “You mentioned that you had some interesting news.”

  She opened those big green eyes and stared me down. Apparently, proximity to Pruett had robbed the woman of her senses. I immediately prompted her. “You know. About the murder.”

  Luckily, the light of reason dawned. Bethany lowered her voice to conspiratorial levels and said, “It has to do with that dog-leasing stuff. Jess Pendrake had a leasing contract with Lee. You remember that shepherd of hers, Grand Champion before he was a year old? I can’t for the life of me recall his name.”

  Talk about your pregnant pauses. I resisted the impulse to shake her like a terrier with a rat, substituting a friendly grin for the kick in the pants that she so richly deserved. Fortunately, Babette had no self-control at all. When she sought answers, she got them double quick.

  “Who the hell cares what his name was, Bethany. Spill! We don’t have all night.”

  For a moment, the psychic’s temper flared, but after pasting a specious smile on her face, Bethany continued. “Jess leased her ‘special’ to Lee Holmes about two years ago without signing a contract.”

  Pruett frowned. He understood human nature too well to approve of forgoing contracts. Babette, on the other hand, was impulsive, but she had a litigious attorney who reined her in.

  “So, what happened?” I asked. “Jess seems fairly cynical about men.”

  “That’s just it! Lee put the big rush on her, and she totally bought it.” Bethany smirked. “She doesn’t get hit on by hot guys very often.”

  I held my tongue, but in truth, I doubted Jess had ever been courted by any guy, hot or not.

  “Lee totally screwed her over,” Bethany said. “He bred that dog five times and hardly ever showed him. Didn’t get Jess’s approval either. She threatened to sue him, and Yael finally intervened. It was a big mess.”

  Small wonder that Jess was bitter. My opinion of Lee Holmes sunk even lower.

  “Does Sergeant Jansen know this?” I asked. “You really should contact him.”

  Bethany gave Pruett a big-eyed stare as phony as her hair color. “I don’t know. What do you think, Wing?”

  Babette curled her lip and muttered something rather rude. Fortunately, Bethany’s psychic powers didn’t extend to hearing, so a nasty scene was averted.

  “That’s something Roar should definitely hear,” Pruett said.

  “My experience with cops is mixed,” Bethany said. “Could you go with me?”

  He reached into his wallet and produced his business card. “Sure. Call me tomorrow when Roar talks with you. No problem.”

  “I guess I should probably leave,” Bethany said. She peered out the side window. “It got awfully dark outside, didn’t it? All that ice and snow.”

  She was fishing, using the oldest bait in the universe. Fortunately, Pruett, master of the dating game, wasn’t easily hooked. He grabbed a flashlight and gestured toward the door. “Don’t worry. Perri and I will walk you to your car.” He flashed that prize-winning grin. “Guess I could use a little exercise.”

  * * * *

  I could hardly wait to quiz Pruett on Bethany’s revelations. Personally, although I distrust all varieties of psychics, her story rang true. Jess Pendrake was a simple soul who could easily be hurt by an attentive male. The dog show world was small enough for gossip to spread like a plague of mange. Jess’s heartbreak would be magnified tenfold by the humiliation of knowing that her colleagues were tuned in to her troubles and snickering about them behind her back. Canine disputes were resolved openly, but humans preferred the lingering death by a thousand cuts. Lingchi, the ancient Chinese called it.

  “Do you believe her?” I asked Pruett.

  He sighed and immediately went into cynical investigative reporter mode. “Maybe. I suppose this dog-leasing business could escalate into violence.”

  “Count on it, especially with a volatile type like Jess. Dogs are her entire life and her livelihood. The betrayal would be enormous.”

  He squeezed my hand and loped toward Steady Eddie. “Seems easier to just sue the bastard. Murder is messy.”

  How like Pruett to reduce a complex emotional issue into a tabloid headline. Murder was indeed messy, but lawsuits took an emotional and financial toll.

  “Jess is not rich, you know. One of the breeders just paid six thousand dollars in court costs to get back a neglected dog. Jess doesn’t have that kind of cash.”

  He shook his head of raven hair and scoffed. “Wow! That’s crazy.”

  Staring at Pruett temporarily distracted me. Lord, that man was fine! I collected my thoughts and got back to business. Discipline before ecstasy. “You’re passionate about journalistic integrity, right? Well, for dog people, especially breeders, it’s the same thing. That’s why I sympathize with Jess, looney as she is.”

  Pruett nodded absently, as though he were evaluating the case. “Maybe I’ll give Roar a call. Who knows if Bethany will chicken out? Homicides make even honest folks do weird things.”

  He was right about that. Average citizens cringed at the thought of facing the police. Believe it or not, even the normally audacious Babette Croy grew skittish when the cops arrived. Although Roar Jansen could easily charm information out of almost any woman, his partner was another matter indeed. Even the most intrepid soul would clam up if the long arm of Sergeant Watts reached in.

  Pruett grabbed his cell phone and dialed Roar’s number while I rejoined Babette. I could tell by the way her voice rose that she was jittery and itching to discuss the case.

  “Well? What do you think?” she asked. “Do you believe that trollop or not?”

  No use in cautioning my pal or pointing out that Bethany was not a hussy. Not really.

  “Jess had no love for Lee Holmes. That’s for sure. But to be fair, her motive was no stronger than Rafa’s.” I scanned the room. “Where is he, by the way?”

  Babette feigned an interest in the TV guide. “Mark my words, missy. You better keep an eye on Ms. Bethany Zahn if you expect Pruett to keep it in his pants.”

  I folded my arms and said nothing. That technique always worked with a chatterbox like Babette. This time it took precisely forty seconds for her to crack.

  “Okay,” she said through gritted teeth. “Rafa took off this afternoon, and I haven’t seen him since. Big deal. He doesn’t owe me an explanation.”

  “What about his Airstream? Any signs of life in there?”

  She shook her head dolefully. “I took a peek when you guys left, but nothing doing.”

  “When does he judge?” I grabbed the show program off the coffee table and leafed through it. “Looks like he’s free until tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock sharp in Ring Two, unless they cancel the show.” We exchanged glances. “Maybe we should join him there. Show him some support.”

  Babette nodded and linked arms with me. “The power of two. Can’t beat it with a stick!”

  Chapter 10

  The next morning, Mother Nature held sway over all creatures, human and canine alike. Two feet of snow had a dampening effect on the entire Northeast and the show world in particular. After conferring with AKC officials, the sponsoring club officially canceled Wednesday’s activities, citing the inability of judges to reach the Big E. That made sense, but with a murderer on the loose, it also added to the frustration. For the sake of propriety and propinquity, Pruett had returned to his hotel room in downtown Springfield the prior evening. I missed him but realized that the decision was sound. Despite Steady Eddie’s expanse, three adults, a child, and four dogs were just too tight a squeeze. Besides, like the proverbial letter carrier, neither snow nor sleet would keep him from his appointed rounds. That superduper new Porsche was equipped with every possible amenity, including four-wheel drive and, for all I knew, wings. He
had promised to join us for a strategy session before the police arrived, and if I knew my Pruett, nothing, including snow mounds, would deter him.

  I bounded out of bed, took a quick shower, and spent a concentrated twenty minutes improving my appearance, or at least trying to. Cosmetics were more in Babette’s wheelhouse than mine, but for pride’s sake, I applied a dot of concealer, a dab of shadow, and a light coating of apricot lipstick. Fortunately, my one point of glory—my hair—cooperated nicely without too much fuss. I slipped on a pair of warm wool slacks and an emerald twinset, and surveyed the results. Vanity was not one of my failings, but I did offer a silent prayer of thanks for the long, slim legs bestowed upon me by the Creator and the DNA of some unknown ancestor. Babette constantly carped about how unfair clothing designers were to the vertically challenged, but that was one problem I didn’t face. She altered every pair of slacks to suit her rather short legs and complained loudly about it.

  “They’re stumpy, Perri. Admit it. Squat.” My pal loomed over me, clutching two steaming mugs of latte. Naturally, she could only loom when I was seated, since five inches in height separated us.

  “What are you grumbling about?” I said, even though I had heard this song, with all its verses, many times before.

  “My legs. Even though I exercise like a demon, they’re still just stumps. Next to you I look dumpy.”

  No use arguing when the Croy pity party was in full whine. I inhaled that blessed caffeine and let her rant.

  When she finally took a breath, I seized my chance. “Big whoop. I stand next to you and look flat-chested,” I reminded my pal, acknowledging her bounteous bosom. “Face it. No woman is totally satisfied with her body. Be glad that you’re alive and have two healthy legs. Not everyone is that lucky.” I hugged her. “Besides, you are beautiful—inside and out—and you know it.”