Death by Dog Show

by Arlene Kay

  When Babette got into a snit, tact and patience were the only things that worked. I pasted a sweet smile on my face and waited for her to cool down.

  “Okay,” Babette said, “as you know, Bethany has no love for Yael. She’d probably love to drop a dime on her. But she didn’t. Her scoop concerned Rafa.”

  “Rafa!” Screeching was unbecoming. By an act of will, I kept my voice as monotone as possible. “What’d he do?”

  “Apparently he was roaming around the building that night, practically foaming at the mouth. Probably explains why he stood me up.” Babette skipped a beat. “He accused Lee of stealing his grooming shears. Said when he got his hands on the thief, those shears would come in handy.”

  Oops. Threats of mayhem were never a good idea, especially when the intended target ended up dead that same day. “I suppose Bethany shared that with Sergeant Watts?”

  “Nope. Dog people band together. No one likes a snitch.” She bit her lip, a sure sign that something else was coming up. Something bad.

  “Anything else?”

  Babette dithered until I seized her by the shoulders.

  “Fess up. How bad can it be?”

  “Bethany’s a known liar, so don’t take this seriously.” She stifled a cough. “According to her, Pruett ran by at the same time, going toward the fields. The area where you found Lee.”

  We stared at each other, frozen by implications too hideous to consider. Pruett had left Steady Eddie at least fifteen minutes before I had. He was following leads, not committing murder. I knew that as surely as I knew my own name, but Roar—or, especially, Genna—might see things differently.

  Fortunately, Ella and Guinnie bounded just then into the living area, ending that particular conversation. Better to defer action until I had a chance to mull everything over. Besides, in approximately five minutes, we would have a visitor. Knowing Babette, the presence of a male—any male—would keep her fully occupied. When I reminded her, she bustled off to make repairs; hair fluffing and a touch of lipstick were in order.

  Alf Walsh was a big hit with all the females in attendance. I explained Pruett’s absence and left the rest to the ladies. Guinnie immediately took to him, and Ella delighted in describing in excruciating detail the many attributes of her pet. Babette played hostess, plying our guest with wine and tasty snacks, and eliciting the most critical bit of information he possessed—his marital status.

  “Afraid I’m not much of a catch,” he said in a soft, southwestern drawl, probably Texas or Oklahoma. “Married and divorced before I finished my first champion.”

  That drew empathetic sighs from Babette. “Don’t feel bad. I just got divorced myself.” She tactfully omitted the three deceased spouses who had preceded Carleton Croy. Some men got nervous picturing a widow with a trail of dead husbands, even if those passings were of natural causes and the decedents quite elderly.

  After discussing our handling needs, I relaxed, confident that Guinnie and Alf would be a perfect fit. His references included several reputable breeders of standard poodles as well as owners of a number of other Sporting breeds. Pruett would validate those bona fides since he thoroughly scrutinized any being in proximity to Ella. Babette was a much easier sell. She immediately concluded that Alf Walsh was someone of discernment and taste whose company was more than welcome. His appearance was average at best, but Alf possessed the traits she valued most: he was both available and male.

  We spent a pleasant hour discussing the ups and downs of the professional handler’s life. Alf was conversant with the dog show world and entertained us with carefully edited anecdotes about the canine and human foibles he had encountered. I gave him points for delicacy since he avoided the seamier side of competition. Ella dozed on the couch with Guinnie, but children tended to have exceptional hearing at the most inopportune times.

  “You must know Rafa,” Babette said. “That’s his Airstream next to us.”

  Alf got a guarded look in his eyes. “Everyone in poodle circles knows Rafa, especially the ladies. Wish I had his way with females.”

  “I don’t know,” said I. “Seems like Guinnie and Ella are already on your side.”

  Alf chuckled. “Just my speed—dogs and kids. But seriously, Rafa is a good guy. Too bad about this trouble with Lee.”

  Babette leaned toward him and stage-whispered. “We think Rafa is innocent even though we just met him. Perri used to be in the army, and her instincts are right on target.”

  I hastened to downplay my stint with the military and stressed my strictly amateur status now. “Murder is very bad business for everyone concerned. I didn’t know him, but Lee Holmes certainly incited a lot of drama. What was your take on him?”

  Alf shook his head. “Not my kind of guy. Some fellows are fine to have a drink with or play cards. Stuff like that. Not Lee. He was either on the scent of some woman or cooking up a get-rich-quick business deal.” He took a sip of his wine. “Course, anyone with a lick of sense steered clear of Lee and his schemes. That’s where he and Rafa clashed. Lee was touting some high-end supplement guaranteed to make any dog a superstar. Pricey stuff but supposedly safe and effective.”

  I knew there was more to this story and that it probably had not ended well. Babette couldn’t wait to hear the particulars. Her big blue eyes widened as she encouraged Alf.

  “And? What happened?”

  Alf shook his head and hesitated. “Maybe you should ask Rafa or check the Internet. Plenty of stories out there. I just felt bad for Yael. She’s a real lady and didn’t deserve that blowback.”

  I thought I detected a faint blush on Alf’s cheeks when he mentioned Yael. Hmm. Seemed like he had a soft spot for the Widow Lindsay after all. I filed that tidbit away for further consideration.

  Conversation lagged, and after leaving a contract for Pruett to review, Alf stood up and took his leave.

  Babette could barely contain herself. As soon as the door closed, she stood, hands on hips, and pounced. “I liked him. Alf, I mean. Simple guy with no obvious agenda. Kind of attractive, too, in a down-home Texas kind of way. Comforting. Now what do you make of that story about Lee Holmes and Rafa?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows? After we take the pups out for a final walk, I plan to hunker down and search the Internet. If Lee Holmes harmed someone’s dog with his schemes, that would be more than enough motive for murder.”

  “It would for me,” Babette raised a clenched fist. “If he hurt my Clara, I’d personally kill the bastard and enjoy every minute of it.”

  * * * *

  Pruett went MIA that night. By exercising rigorous discipline, I focused on the task at hand and avoided checking my watch. In the three hours I spent hunched over my computer, I read innumerable harrowing and heartbreaking accounts of contaminated products that injured or killed dogs. More than I could endure. Those tales by bereaved owners tugged at my heartstrings and roused my anger; there were far too many examples of human greed and canine suffering to digest in one sitting. I put my head down on the counter, intent on taking just a quick break. That ended when my iPhone chimed the next morning at seven am. I rubbed my bleary eyes, turned off the computer screen, and tried mightily to stretch the kinks out of my upper back. I had little to show for my efforts except a galloping case of eyestrain and a stiff neck. Nothing so far had linked Lee Holmes to the corporations involved. That would require even more research.

  Babette buzzed in soon after that in full perky mode. I love Babette, but perky was something I found unendurable even when I was alert and at peak performance.

  “My goodness, Perri,” she chirped. “Just look at you. Rode hard and put away wet, as they say.”

  My tolerance evaporated quickly. “A gross expression that is unfair to horses. Who says that, anyway? Excuse me for spending the night trying to make some sense of Lee’s murder while you snored your way into slumber.”

  Bab
ette clucked sympathetically. “Touchy, touchy. Let me get you some espresso. That’ll revive you.” She struck a pose. “Besides, I do not snore.”

  I refused to be sidetracked. Sulkiness has its comforts, and I cherished them. “Forget it. I have to take the dogs out first.”

  Babette tugged at the belt on her ruby-red cashmere robe. It was a lovely shade and straight from the racks of Neiman Marcus. She looked like a million bucks, camera-ready and perfectly made-up and coiffed. In that instance, I came close to hating her.

  “Better get your snow gear on. We got another six inches of that wet stuff last night, according to the local station.” She flipped the kitchen blinds open. “Good thing those plows are up and at ’em already.”

  Naturally, it never occurred to her to lead the potty patrol. That was a task more suited to a grungy, unkempt menial like yours truly. I took a deep breath and counted to ten. Babette meant no harm, and I knew that. In her world, distasteful tasks were delegated to others, either employees or helpful pals like me.

  “No Pruett, I see.” She tilted her head like an inquisitive sparrow. I curled my lip in a semi-snarl but was spared from making a response by the appearance of Ella and Guinnie.

  “Hi,” the little girl said with her irresistible smile. “Don’t worry. I can take the pups for their walk, Ms. Perri.”

  “Hey! Don’t take my job away, little girl. We’ll both go for a jaunt.” Ella’s sweet smile instantly raised my guilt level and erased my anger. “Come on. Boots, scarf, hat, and gloves. Then off we go.”

  Babette flashed a benign grin our way. “Perfect. I’ll rustle up breakfast while you do that. How about pancakes and sausage, Ella?”

  Even though I knew for a fact that those cakes were prepackaged by Babette’s faithful personal chef, I chose not to spoil the illusion. That would be churlish and unworthy of me. Besides, no sense in denting my pal’s good mood or spoiling her image. Babette Croy, the Martha Stewart of canine competition, beamed as she sent us on our way.

  Our caravan of four dogs and one and one-half humans trudged slowly through the snow toward the field. Correction. The humans trudged, the canines floated over the icy terrain like butterflies, joining an increasing crowd of show-goers with the same agenda. While Ella frolicked with the pups, I tried to process the information I had gathered during my computer search. Such absorption came at a cost, however. When Roar Jansen tapped me on the shoulder, I jumped like a scalded cat.

  “Sorry,” he said with a sly smile. “You were deep in thought.”

  He annoyed me, but it was hard to stay angry when a gorgeous guy beamed down at you. I surveyed the terrain, expecting to see his partner the garden gnome glaring at me from the sidelines.

  “On your own today?” I asked. “That’s unusual.”

  Roar showed those perfect white teeth again, along with a pair of dimples. “True. Genna decided to do some research at the office.” He planted his hands on his hips. “Why? Do I need protection?”

  I shook my head. “Not from me, Sergeant. I’m harmless.”

  “Really? I don’t believe that for one minute.” Roar stripped off his mittens and reached into his backpack. “Actually, I was hoping to pick your brain. So much noise in the system about Lee Holmes just complicates everything.”

  “True.” I found comfort in a monosyllabic response—saying less, absorbing more.

  “Can we go someplace and talk?” Roar’s dancing eyes made even that mild request sound salacious. “Today’s Thursday. That means I’ve only got a few more days until this show finishes and all my suspects disperse. I could use some help.”

  He was right, of course. By Sunday afternoon, the Big E would be a ghost town until the livestock show, the next special event on the calendar, geared up.

  “I’m desperate for caffeine,” I said. “Let’s head back to Steady Eddie and fill up. Right now, I can’t string together a coherent sentence.”

  Roar rolled his eyes. “I was hoping for some privacy, but okay.”

  “Look. Let me get in gear, and we can go over to my store.” I signaled to Ella, and we led the pack back toward espresso heaven. I could have predicted Babette’s reaction to our unexpected visitor. She patted her hair and batted her long lashes at Roar as she invited him to breakfast.

  “We have plenty,” she said with a sly grin. “Pruett never showed last night. You can have his share.”

  Roar raised his sandy eyebrows but wisely said nothing. Fortunately, Ella was furtively sharing her breakfast with Guinnie and missed the entire exchange. I stayed steadfast and silent. Our only conversation concerned the day’s show, prospective judges, and potential competitors. Babette forgot about matchmaking and scrutinized the brochure to verify the ring times for Clara and Guinnie. Thursday was the first official day of the show, and Ella was all atwitter. Babette agreed to reconnoiter with Alf Walsh and to chaperone the proceedings. The glint in her eyes made me think that she had transferred her affections from the elusive Rafa to Alf, at least temporarily.

  After breakfast, Roar Jansen followed me and the Malinois into the arena as I unlocked my store and turned on the lights. “Officially we’re still closed,” I said. “Don’t answer the door until we have our discussion, or we’ll never have any privacy.”

  “Good. I don’t want to share you today.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. I ignored the implication and focused on the murder instead. Roar wasn’t having it. “Forgive me in advance. This might sound impertinent, but I must ask. Are you and Pruett a couple?”

  I shrugged. “I guess you could say that.”

  Persistence was the trademark of a skilled investigator, and Roar was very good at his job. “Engaged?” He touched my right hand. “Don’t see a ring or anything.”

  I tried mightily to control the flush that stained my cheeks. “I thought you were interested in Lee’s murder.” For once, I yearned for the mood-killing presence of Sergeant Watts, the perfect antidote to romance.

  “I am, Ms. Morgan, but that question was personal. Thought I’d get it out of the way before we started.”

  “Pruett and I care for each other. No engagement.” I channeled the stiff upper lip of Brits everywhere. “There. Did that satisfy your curiosity?”

  He flashed those dimples again. “Sure. Means there’s still hope for me. You’re not a suspect, so there’s no conflict of interest. I think we have a lot in common.”

  I’m no femme fatale. I have few illusions about my charms. Roar Jansen probably made those moves on every reasonably attractive female he encountered. Trouble was, shopworn or not, those smooth lines worked. I stayed strong, resisting the impulse to smooth my hair, dab on lipstick, or stutter like a schoolgirl.

  “Back to business, Sergeant. From what I’ve gathered, Lee Holmes was a thoroughly despicable character, what they used to call a cad. Cheated on his wife enraged his business partners, and disappointed just about everyone he had anything to do with. That leaves a field of suspects a mile wide.”

  “Popular with the ladies, though.” Roar raised his eyebrows. “Regular Don Juan, so I hear.”

  It took one to know one, but I restrained myself. “Somehow I don’t think this has anything to do with sex. Lots of people on the show circuit screw around. Too many lonely nights and enough alcohol to tempt a saint. Leads to bad judgment, sometimes a fistfight or two. But murder? Not likely.”

  Roar folded his arms. “Okay. Help me out. What made someone plunge those pretty pink shears into Lee’s aorta? Killer made sure that boy was good and dead. Feels very personal to me.”

  “Any luck with Roy Vesco?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. Said he had an alibi, so Genna checked it out. Not airtight but good enough for now.”

  The next question was delicate. That didn’t stop me, but at least I recognized the danger. “And Kiki? Women can be dangerous too. All those hormones surging.”

&nb
sp; Roar ran his fingers through sun-kissed strands of hair. “Glad you said it, not me. Don’t want to be accused of sexism. Department frowns on it, you know.”

  “Well?” I recognized evasion when I heard it.

  “Kiki swore that Lee never touched her.” Roar laughed and leaned back against the wall. “Seemed kind of put out about that too. Personally, I think that girl is all talk. Probably still saving it for Roy.”

  Having seen Kiki in action, I was confident that her untouched status was subject to change at any moment. I mentioned my research into dog deaths and faulty products. “Lee fronted for several businesses. Maybe one of them was involved. Check out the comments online. Heartbreaking.”

  His eyes turned flinty. “Guess we’ve gone full circle then. Lee’s partner in one of those dirty little schemes was none other than your friend Rafa Ramos, and your boyfriend was tracking them down for his exposé. Mighty suspicious.”

  “True. But there were others involved, plus those who lost their pets. It’s hard sometimes for people to realize how attached someone gets to a companion animal. They mean as much as human family members, or more.”

  For a moment, Roar lost focus. He gulped, stared into space, and said nothing. “Believe it or not, I get it. Dogs have always meant a lot to me.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved a printout. “Here. Check this out. Le Chien Champ. Some very interesting names involved. You might even recognize a few.”

  He held my hand just a touch too long, prompting me to pull away. “You married, Roar?”

  “Nope. Not anymore. Doesn’t mean I’m not looking, though.”

  “Keep looking,” I said. “Knock yourself out. Don’t let me stop you. Meanwhile, I’ll focus on this Le Chien business. You wouldn’t mention it if it weren’t important.” I was confident that Roar had a definite plan in mind and was probably using me as a stalking horse. Most women would fall all over themselves to help this cop cutie. Too bad I wasn’t one of them. My heart was bulletproof, diamond-hard, and out of reach. A super journalist named Pruett held the only key.