Death by Dog Show

by Arlene Kay

  “Tell me. Does Sergeant Watts approve of this?” I asked. “Involving civilians in your business?”

  Roar shrugged. “Does Wing Pruett?”

  Touché. I thought of several snarky replies but refrained from playing Roar’s game. “Any luck questioning Jess Pendrake?”

  He laughed out loud. “Luckily, Genna took on that chore. I understand they had quite a tussle. Nothing physical, thank goodness.”

  I would have spent my last dime to witness that scene. Considering the opponents, it was impossible to predict the victor. Personally, my money was on the redoubtable Sergeant Watts.

  “Well? What did she find out?” I watched Roar closely, waiting for a reaction.

  Roar gave an ambiguous shrug that could have meant almost anything. “Ms. Pendrake has quite a temper. Seems once she got started, Genna could barely shut her up. She painted Lee Holmes as a cross between a hyena and a vulture. Very vivid.”

  I gave that some thought. Jess’s hatred for Lee had been fueled by personal betrayal, but the abuse of her dog probably propelled her over the line into crazy land. I had seen her around animals and never questioned for one moment the bond she felt with them. It was real and enduring. Lee or anyone else who threatened it would do so at their own peril.

  “I’ll read this stuff and talk to some of the crowd,” I told Roar. “Bad news spreads fast, and if Lee was involved in selling shady products, someone will know it. His amorous adventures were no secret either, even from his wife.” Despite the trail of frustrated females Lee left in his wake, I had the very strong feeling that the murder had nothing to do with sex. Most exhibitors were philosophical about human frailties and saved their passion for the show ring.

  “Just one more thing I forgot to mention. Someone told me Wing Pruett was in the area before you found Lee’s body. Any truth to that?”

  “Pruett? He only met Lee Holmes that night.” I shook my head. “You’re going to have to dig a lot harder for a suspect.”

  Roar winked and gathered up his outdoor gear. “Wonder why he was in Springfield two days ahead of you. Great city, but kind of an odd coincidence. I’m counting on you, Persephone. I’m a very persistent man when I want something. Remember that.”

  Very few people knew my formal name, and even fewer used it. That meant that Sergeant Roar Jansen had been checking up on me. Was it personal interest or just sound police work? Either way, I could live with it.

  Chapter 12

  “Open up, Perri. This is an emergency.” That desperate plea sounded suspiciously like my pal and constant headache, Babette. When she hit panic mode, ignoring her was out of the question. It simply didn’t work. Roar sighed as I bowed to the inevitable and unlatched the door. Babette, Clara, Ella, and Guinnie immediately bolted into Creature Comforts in a panic.

  “Guinnie’s show lead is missing,” Ella sobbed. “She’ll lose her chance.”

  If only all problems were that easy to correct. I led Ella to the selection of custom show leads, and after much discussion, she chose a vibrant red that contrasted nicely with Guinnie’s coat.

  Meanwhile, Babette had cornered Roar and was quizzing him on Lord knows what. I suspected—no, I feared—that she was asking him his intentions toward me. When Babette trotted out her heavy artillery, anything was possible. Fortunately, time was on my side. Guinnie’s appearance in the ring was scheduled for ten am, and Ella was anxious. The little girl jumped from one foot to another in a frenzied dance that Babette either ignored or didn’t see. “Please, Ms. Babette,” she pleaded. “We’ll be late.”

  “Check your watch,” I told my pal. “Guinnie’s ring time is coming up, and you have to find Alf Walsh and get his arm band. Better shove off.”

  Babette groaned and finally gave up. Meanwhile, Roar took his cue and escaped while the coast was clear.

  “Check back with you later,” he told me. “Don’t let me down.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Babette asked. “Don’t freeze me out of this. We’re partners.”

  “Later,” I said.

  I sent her and Ella off while I attended to some anxious customers with cash in hand. One of them just happened to be that sultry psychic, Bethany Zahn. Had she spent last night with Pruett? I refused to even consider the possibility. Better to focus on the task at hand: tracing Lee Holmes’s business dealings.

  Bethany looked especially toothsome in a bold yellow shift with strategically placed cutouts. In comparison, I felt dowdy and drab, a poor contender in the race for male affection. Her high spirits made mine plummet to the basement, but I refused to question her activities. After all, Pruett was a very big boy with his own agenda. I was neither strumpet nor sexpot. Any man worth his salt would know and appreciate that.

  Bethany stretched in a feline gesture that spoke more eloquently than words. “Perri, I’ve got to hand it to you, girl. Keeping Wing Pruett in line must be a full-time job.”

  I busied myself by sorting the woven leather leads by size and color. If Bethany were really a psychic, there was no need for me to tell her my thoughts. None at all.

  “Let me ask you something,” I said. “Ever hear of an outfit called Le Chien Champ?”

  Bethany got full marks for poise. She furrowed her brow as if she were really trying to help. I got the distinct impression, however, that Ms. Zahn knew something and wasn’t inclined to spill the beans, at least not to me. She might react differently if Roar Jansen posed the question. Men seemed to activate her psychic powers more than mere females ever could. Sergeant Watts was another story entirely. She was fully capable of scaring information out of any recalcitrant subject. Come to think of it, she even made me shiver.

  “Oh, yeah. I remember now.” Bethany projected faux innocence and synthetic charm. “Somebody was hawking that Le Chien Champ stuff a while back. Expensive, though. Too rich for my blood.” She edged toward the door, but I placed my hand on her shoulder.

  “Hold on. Who promoted that product? It’s important, Bethany. Think.”

  She pulled away but managed one parting shot. “I keep information to myself, Perri. A girl never knows when it could pay off for her. It just so happens that I hear stuff. I keep my eyes open.”

  I stepped in front of the door to bar her path. “Please listen. If you know anything, go to the police. Sergeant Jansen. He’ll help you. It’s too dangerous to screw around with a murderer.”

  Bethany didn’t listen. In fact, she scoffed at me. “Listen here, Goody Two-shoes. People confide in me, especially men. They think I’m sympathetic.” She grinned. “Most of them underestimate me too. Think I’m stupid or something. But that’s their mistake.” She reached around me and grasped the door handle. “Try it sometime, or maybe you should ask your boyfriend. He knows all about that and plenty of other things too.”

  I asked the question I most feared. “You’ve said that Pruett was hanging around the murder scene last night. Do you know something for sure, or are you just talking?”

  She threw her head back and stretched like a particularly smug feline. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  * * * *

  The rest of my morning passed in a blur of eager customers with their eyes on the prize. Professional handlers were philosophical, but owners and pet parents could match the intensity of any Little League or stage parent. They showed their commitment by indiscriminately scarfing up dog treats, toys, collars, and leashes for their beloved charges. Not a bad thing at all. I welcomed all purchases, whether celebratory tributes or consolation prizes.

  When Babette and Ella returned, I could read by their expression that all was well. Guinnie had won among champions of her breed and was headed for the Sporting Group competition. If she prevailed there, it was on to the Best in Show. Ella’s sweet face was wreathed in smiles, but Babette’s grin was even more ecstatic.

  “Alf was terrific,” she gushed. “Total professiona
l. You were right, Perri. I know you tried hard, but Guinnie never looked so good. You’d think they’d been together since she was a pup.”

  “I assume she faced stiff competition,” I said. “Yael and Whit Wiley were in the mix.”

  Babette dismissed them with a wave. “Eh! They weren’t even close. Guinnie got five Grand Champion points today, didn’t she, sugar?”

  Ella hugged her pet and nodded. Flushed with victory, Babette agreed to staff my store while I did a spot of detecting. Although her sales skills were deficient, Babette had an uncanny ability to dredge up information from anyone who walked into the store. It wasn’t guile—she was truly interested in them and their adventures. That suited me just fine because Rafa Ramos was assigned to judge poodles in Ring One, and I would be watching from the sidelines.

  Ring One was on the other side of the pavilion. That meant I had to dodge dogs, carts, sightseers, and handlers in order to be on time and snag a good seat. Poodles were popular and always drew a sizable crowd of onlookers. Good seats were at a premium, and benches filled up fast. Show veterans usually brought their own chairs, but I was focused and fleet of foot. I zeroed in on an empty bench space and immediately claimed it.

  Rafa stood at the judging table, carefully studying his notes. I’d never seen him wear a suit before, and I must admit that he looked as slick as the creatures he would soon judge. No wonder Babette was entranced by him—Rafa could easily pose for GQ or some other men’s fashion magazine. His raven hair fell in soft curls past his collar, and those brawny arms were contained in a form-fitting navy suit with rep tie. Nothing to complain about there. Not one thing.

  As the first entrants claimed the ring, Rafa gave each handler his undivided attention. The familiar ritual of circling the ring and standing for examination lulled me into a type of stupor. That ended abruptly when a pair of hands encircled my neck and Pruett whispered into my ear. “How goes it, Ms. Morgan? Missed you last night.”

  I patted the empty space next to me. “Have a seat. You must be tired. Word is you were a busy boy last night.”

  Pruett grinned. “Now, what little birdie told you that, I wonder?” He put his hands into his pockets and stretched out his long legs. “Journalism demands so much, Perri. It’s a cruel master.”

  “Or mistress,” I said with attitude. “No big deal. Word gets out in the dog world, especially when a superstar prowls around.” I hunkered down, watching Rafa as he led the handlers through their paces. The guy knew what he was doing, and the competitors did as well. One of the handlers with an eye-catching apricot poodle was a lithe woman in her early twenties. Both she and her client moved seamlessly about the ring displaying rhythm and a good deal of leg. That duo was fine, but I would have chosen another entrant, a majestic chocolate poodle handled by an older woman. Would Rafa be swayed by appearance? To his credit, the honors went to the chocolate poodle.

  “Can you imagine?” a voice snarled. “Giving that grotesque creature any kind of recognition—it’s criminal. Rafa must be blind.”

  I knew immediately that Whit Wiley was on the scene. He wedged himself between Pruett and me and continued his diatribe. “Presentation is everything at a dog show, don’t you know. After all, he’s not judging hogs at the county fair.”

  For once, Pruett was speechless. I, however, was not. “Funny thing, Whit. I thought this was a dog show, not the Miss America pageant. The dog, not the handler, was the winner.”

  Wiley ignored my comment. “No wonder Rafa and Lee Holmes sparred all the time. Lee certainly sought out lookers—human and canine.”

  I heard opportunity knock and decided to answer. “Hey. What about this supplement business Lee had? Le Chien Champ, I think they called it. Pretty dicey, huh?”

  Whit brushed aside my comment as if it were lint. “Yesterday’s news, darling. Just another of Lee’s pipe dreams. That man had a different get-rich scheme every day.” Whit snickered. “The only one that worked was marrying a wealthy woman, and even that wouldn’t have lasted much longer. Of course, I did hear there were some unhappy customers.” He left the thought unfinished and smirked.

  Pruett ended his silence by edging into the conversation. “He must have signed a prenuptial agreement. Pretty standard when big bucks are involved. Still, you can bet he’d come out of it with something worthwhile.”

  Whit, sultan of snide, happily spread his poison. “I suppose you’ll insist on that when you get married, Mr. Pruett. Better beware, Perri.”

  Pruett tensed, but his reply was silky smooth as he squeezed my shoulder. “When you find the right woman, money doesn’t matter much. It’s fairly low on my list.”

  To my chagrin, I blushed—full-body action. Pruett and I had never once discussed marriage or even promised exclusivity. I’d pushed all thoughts of it from my mind, knowing how fragile my emotions were. Truth was, I cared for Pruett more than any woman should ever admit. After losing Pip to cancer, I had deliberately focused on work and avoided all romantic attachments, fearing that another calamity would break my heart. Enter Wing Pruett, babe magnet with a tender side. Add an endearing moppet named Ella and I was hooked. I vowed to treasure every day and let the chips fall. Couldn’t predict the outcome and refused to try.

  Despite the personal drama unfolding at our bench, Rafa continued the seamless rhythm of the dog show routine. Ribbons were awarded, handlers were commended, and the final cut among the all classes of poodles was made. My personal favorite—Ethan, the chocolate male—was awarded Best of Breed and advanced to the Non-sporting Group finals. Afterward, Rafa was mobbed by a group of mostly female admirers, chatting or asking advice. Pruett squeezed my hand and said, “Well, will you look at that. Rafa scores with all the ladies.”

  Considering that the Spaniard oozed virility from virtually every pore, that was hardly surprising. Dog show denizens were so accustomed to evaluating breeding stock that sex among all species was par for the course and no big deal. Based on physical prowess, beauty, and grace, Rafa Ramos made the grade as a top stud choice. Best in show, for sure.

  “Well, looky there,” Whit pointed toward the scrum. “The long claw of the law reaches out and finds a victim.”

  To my amazement, Genna Watts barreled her way into the crowd and singled Rafa out. One look at her face confirmed just how much she differed from others in the adoring throng. This was no fan girl—no, siree. Genna was clearly there on police business.

  “Oops,” Whit said. “Looks like Rafa may finally pay the piper. Wonder what that’s all about.” He rose and sidled over toward the show ring, getting as close as he dared to Rafa and Genna.

  Whit Wiley was an affront to all vertebrates. I envisioned him slithering around the Garden of Eden, a serpent seeking gullible victims and causing the fall of humankind. In this instance, his plan was foiled by Genna’s curled lip and gruff comment. Whit slunk off to the sidelines double quick, but Rafa kept his emotions in check. He finished his paperwork and calmly followed the sergeant out of the ring toward the exit.

  “That Wiley is really something,” Pruett said. “No surprise if he turns up with shears in his back.” He squeezed my hand and looked toward the opposite side of the arena. “See you later. Gotta follow a lead.” Pruett slid out of his seat and followed the party out the door. I made no attempt to join in or to question him on his whereabouts last evening. Instead, I corralled Punky West and her posse as they led their dogs from the show ring.

  “Nice job today,” I said. “Your dog must almost be finished. Another champion under your belt. Pretty sweet!”

  Punky gave me her aw-shucks routine, but I knew how much success meant to her. Breeder-owner-handler was a tough proposition that yielded more pain than pleasure and deserved praise when it was warranted.

  “You know, Perri, the moment that pup was whelped, I knew he’d be a star. Warms the heart, don’t it?” Punky tossed her mop of curls and grinned.

  I ag
reed and upped the ante. “Hey, you did me a solid by recommending Alf Walsh. Ella loves him, and Babette sings his praises. Nice guy.”

  “Lots of good handlers around,” Punky said, “but not that many nice guys. You know, Alf sobbed like a child when that client of his died. The dog, not the owner.”

  I nodded and broached a more sensitive subject. “Listen, Punky, I need your help. What do you know about this Le Chien Champ business? The cops have been crawling all over asking about it.”

  Punky motioned toward the exit. “Come outside with me while I have a smoke.” She wagged her finger my way before I said a word. “I know. Cigarettes will kill me some day. Heard it all before. Save the sermon.”

  I had enough of my own vices to sort out without lecturing others. Judge not; don’t cast the first stone—a mantra to live by. Hectoring others was simply not my thing, but I didn’t mind ribbing my pal. “I heard smoking gives you wrinkles, Punky. Better watch out, or you’ll lose your edge with the guys.”

  She swatted my behind with her purse. “Honey. After four husbands, that’s the least of my worries. Come over by that tree. The snow’s so deep I can bury the cancer sticks afterward.”

  We trudged through the snow, avoiding the shoveled area where dogs and handlers congregated. Punky pulled out a wrinkled pack of Winstons, lit one, and inhaled deeply. “Lord, that tastes so good! Now, what about that Le Chien Champ stuff interests you? Pure garbage, if you ask me. Another of Lee’s scams. I never got involved, even though he offered all sorts of perks. Wanted to recruit breeders. You know the drill.”

  Since Punky was a keen observer who could spot a phony a mile off, I opted for truth or a reasonable facsimile of it. “I read up on it, and the articles said some dogs died from whatever was in it. Sounds like a motive for murder, if you ask me.”

  She smoked silently for a bit before answering. “Are you on the case or something, Perri?”