Death by Dog Show

by Arlene Kay

  I lowered my voice and mentioned that Roar and Punky had hooked up last night. That didn’t shock him, but he raised his eyebrows when he heard about Rafa and Yael.

  “She’s at least ten years older than Rafa. Maybe more.” Pruett, the sophisticated man about town, sounded scandalized.

  I bit my tongue and avoided mentioning the obvious. If Rafa were older, no one—Pruett included—would think anything was amiss. Older men with big bank accounts often coupled with much younger women. In this instance, Yael had the bucks, so why not use them to attract a hottie like Rafa?

  “But she just lost her husband,” Pruett said. He pursed his lips like a prim schoolgirl.

  “From what I gather, Lee Holmes wasn’t much of a loss. Maybe Yael doesn’t want to be a hypocrite.”

  Pruett made some vague sound of disapproval and pointed toward the group ring and Guinnie. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stay. Several clients had contacted me about custom collars, and a number of mother-daughter combos had pre-ordered my belts. I’d already spent too much time away from my business.

  “Later,” I said, blowing him a kiss. When our eyes met, an electric charge radiated from my head to my nether parts, accompanied by a full body flush. It was totally unbecoming in a woman of thirty and quite a heavenly sensation. I floated on a cloud of blissful lust all the way back to Creature Comforts.

  Chapter 19

  After a profitable afternoon spent ringing up sales, I decided to reward myself with a temporary respite. Guinnie had won the group competition and was slated for the Best in Show ring at four pm. Her loving daddy pledged to film the proceedings and stream them for Ella that evening. Naturally, we both hoped against hope that Guinnie would be crowned Best in Show.

  Yael Lindsay slipped into my store just as I extinguished the lights. Growls from Keats and Poe warned me of an intruder before she got very far.

  “Anything you need?” I said. “You caught me as I was just closing up.”

  I noticed that she had ditched her widow’s weeds for a becoming coral pantsuit and upped the makeup quotient as well. Nothing like a night of wanton sex to stir up the old hormones.

  “Why were you stalking me?” she asked. Her tone was decidedly frosty.

  For once I was totally gobsmacked. The most I could manage was a wholly inadequate “Huh?”

  Yael narrowed her eyes and hissed. “Don’t think you’re fooling me, Ms. Morgan. Mind your own business. My husband’s murder had nothing to do with you.”

  For once, I abandoned the good manners and deference to my elders that adults had drummed into me since childhood. Yael was old enough to be my mother. That earned her a modicum of civility, but that’s where her rights ended. “Frankly, your husband’s death doesn’t really interest me, Mrs. Holmes. I found his body, of course.”

  She stepped back as if I had struck her. This doyenne of dogs was unaccustomed to a peasant purveyor like me having the effrontery to strike back. Emboldened, I upped the ante.

  “I want justice for Bethany Zahn, though.”

  “She was a slut!” Yael’s voice grew shrill. “No better than a whore.”

  “Perhaps.” I kept my tone calm and unemotional, knowing that would enrage her still more. “She was blackmailing someone. I’m certain of that.”

  Yael Lindsay grew pale beneath her carefully applied paint.

  “Makes one wonder,” I said, “who around here had anything to lose. Most folks are barely making ends meet.”

  Yael sputtered and nearly collapsed against the counter. For a moment, I feared she would stroke out, but she regained her composure and staggered to the entryway, issuing a parting shot as she did. “I warn you. There will be consequences.”

  With Keats and Poe at my side, I followed behind and locked the door. “Yes. I’m positive of that.”

  * * * *

  The Best in Show competition always thrilled me, even when I wasn’t a participant. With Guinnie in the hunt, the thrill quotient expanded tenfold. I grabbed a seat on the bench next to Pruett and scanned the field. All the competitors were nice dogs, but two in particular stood out as threats to Guinnie: a sleek and sassy bichon frise and a charming petit basset griffon vendeen, or PBGV, as the breed is commonly known. Both were Silver Grand Champions, and the PBGV in particular was a crowd favorite. Guinnie’s elegance and style might be an impediment if the judge preferred smaller, more popular breeds, although through my slightly biased eyes, she led the pack. Best of Show judge was considered a plum assignment in the conformation world, and this man, an unknown from Canada, certainly looked the part. His height and crop of thick white hair seemed more suited to a senator or Supreme Court justice than a magistrate at the Big E. If only his judgment bore that out as well.

  Alf Walsh lounged at the entrance, speaking softly to Guinnie and stroking her fur. Punky, handling her black standard poodle, waved to me from behind them. Poodles were another breed that placed near the top at virtually every show. I never counted Punky out since a great handler upped her dog’s chances for success in any ring. Punky was a winner who knew every trick in the book. Some said she even wrote that book.

  “Well, look at that,” Pruett whispered, nodding toward a black Newfoundland, accompanied by none other than Kiki Vesco. Devoted swain Roy waited in the wings, nervously cracking his knuckles as his dream girl joined the lineup. Apparently, Kiki had bowed to convention by at last heeding the informal dress code. She sported a conservative, black-skirted suit paired with sensible low-heeled shoes. Kiki still managed to look seductive, even in that attire, but I resigned myself to that. Some females exude pheromones at any age. Unfortunately, I’d missed that particular heavenly gift. Any allure I had was limited to a full-court press for wholesomeness. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm with a dog lead.

  My eyes turned back to the ring and the business at hand. I adore Newfies and usually root for them but not with Kiki at the helm. That little heifer had plenty of years to learn her craft and way too much attitude for a novice. Early victories would only feed that monstrous ego and lead to more trouble. Besides, Guinnie deserved the win.

  Pruett’s hand shook as he adjusted his iPhone. I laughed, thinking how a man who had conquered mobsters, cartels, and assorted white-collar thugs could be reduced to a puddle of nerves by a seven-year-old child. Emmy Awards and Pulitzers paled in comparison to these high stakes for Pruett, the devoted daddy. I loved him all the more for his vulnerability.

  “Want me to handle the filming?” I asked, patting his shoulder. “That way you can study things for Ella.”

  He pulled a macho act. “Nope. I got it.”

  As the judge waved the contestants around the ring, I noticed Whit Wiley lurking on the sidelines. Between lurking, slithering, and slinking, that guy had all the basic reptile moves covered. I hoped against hope that he was the murderer but realized that the possibility was remote. Wish fulfillment only works when supported by evidence, and thus far Whit was clean.

  Yael Lindsay sat soldier straight in her personalized chair, watching every move the handlers made. Most pros brought their own chairs, emblazoned with the kennel name or their favorite pup’s moniker. Yael’s chair had a regal flair that looked more like a throne than the humble fold-ups the rest of the crowd favored. Not surprising. The Big E was her domain, and she was its monarch. The rest of us lived to serve.

  Pruett suddenly elbowed me none too gently in the ribs. “Look!”

  Sure enough, Sergeant Watts had slipped from the sidelines and crouched next to Yael. The cop covered her mouth as she whispered in the doyenne’s ear, although her steely look never wavered. The message—whatever it was—caused Yael to curl her ladylike lip and hiss something I couldn’t quite catch. I craned my neck to see if Roar was also on the premises. No such luck. It was hard to imagine any relationship between the regal Yael and a down-market cop like Genna, unless the latter was gearing up for an arrest. Anyt
hing was possible, but that seemed very unlikely unless West Springfield was prepared for one enormous lawsuit.

  Meanwhile, the judge made his first cut, paring the field down to five dogs. I held my breath as Guinnie was selected to join the party. Her competition included Punky’s standard poodle, the PBGV, the white bichon, and, belatedly, the black Newfie, with Kiki trailing behind. The other handlers stepped back as the fortunate five semi-finalists were ordered to go once around the ring.

  “Be objective,” I cautioned myself. “All are fine specimens of their breeds.” I wished in my heart of hearts that Ella could have seen her beloved pet in real time. Guinnie was a queen, a show dog without peer—she owned the ring. Unfortunately, the judge didn’t see it quite that way. In the end, he awarded Best in Show to the PBGV, with Guinnie snagging Reserve Best in Show. Not quite the prize she deserved, but still worthy of praise. Pruett stood with Alf and Guinnie as they received a handsome silver plate in recognition of the win. I recorded the big event on my iPhone, while spending a few moments mooning over the prime specimen of his breed that was Wing Pruett.

  Sudden inspiration jolted me back to reality. Everywhere, professionals and spectators were recording the proceedings, just as we had. On the night Bethany was murdered, the same situation had prevailed. iPhones were thick as the proverbial fleas in an unmown meadow. I saw it happening, but it didn’t register until now. Surely, that would help pinpoint where the principals were when Bethany left the arena. The time frame was narrow, and most dog enthusiasts savored every memory of their beloved pet’s triumphs. Even though that evening had been ostensibly a remembrance of Lee Holmes, it was still all about dogs. I searched for Roar but saw only the gnarled features of his partner. No sense in sharing my thinking with her. She’d probably interpret it as an admission of guilt or something equally inane and drag me down to the station.

  Pruett returned from the photo session flushed with victory. “Ella will love this silver plate,” he said. “Guinnie was simply phenomenal. That Alf really knows his stuff.”

  I knew that he had already e-mailed a photo to his little girl, and who could blame him? There was plenty of cause for celebration. It would thrill Ella, who, unlike the adults in the room, now knew not to quibble about first versus second place. I shared my theory with Pruett about iPhone videos.

  “Hmm,” he said, stroking that cleft in his chin. If he was trying to distract me, it almost worked. “Good idea. I’ll phone Roar right away. Of course, he’s probably thought of that already.” He sped off to commune with his buddy, while I hunkered down to visit the World Wide Web on my computer. My phone was way too cumbersome and inadequate to the task. Most people shared their triumphs and tragedies via social media these days with a worldwide community of similar interests. Dog people were no different, and in fact they tended to be even more obsessed. I scurried back to Creature Comforts and fired up my machine.

  As I suspected, someone had devised a special tribute page to the late and unlamented Lee Holmes, complete with photos, flowery language, and completely specious accounts of his virtues. Fortunately, Lee’s memorial gathering at the Big E was prominently featured. I scanned several photos, including a particularly hideous one of me and a glamour shot of Bethany Zahn displaying cleavage and a triumphant grin, pointing at someone or something. She seemed downright ecstatic, despite the somber surroundings and the subdued crowd. I consoled myself with the thought that at least her final moments were happy ones full of expectation. Knowing Bethany, that meant the promise of either sex or money. Maybe both. The photographer had snapped her standing alone under the large clock on the east wall. The time was clearly visible: 9:30 pm. I knew that she slipped out of the auditorium precisely at 9:45 because I’d checked my watch before following her. Twenty minutes later, she was dead.

  Someone—someone she trusted—had left before us and was lying in wait. Bethany probably expected an assignation or a payoff. She ran quickly, joyfully, toward the Equine Pavilion unaware that a grisly fate awaited her. My stomach roiled as I studied the photo. I wasn’t her friend, and I hadn’t really liked Bethany. I thought she was harmless, but obviously that was wrong. She posed a threat to someone who was willing to ruthlessly eliminate her rather than risk exposure. That murderer was probably among the shining faces and sober smiles of my colleagues, hoisting a toast to Lee Holmes, the man who started it all.

  Guilt was noticeably absent in the page’s many Facebook photos. Yael was composed yet hardly disconsolate, balancing a plate of fruit on her lap and dressed in duds straight from Bergdorf’s fall collection. Babette had spotted them right away and spilled the beans. I was no fashionista in fact, I had never set foot in Bergdorf’s hallowed halls. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder how in the world Yael had managed that. Dog show attire tended to be practical rather than trendy. Drool, excrement, and tuffs of dog hair blanketed the area as if they were weapons destined to destroy designer duds. I shrugged. Maybe she always packed an elegant little black dress in case Lee should do the gentlemanly thing by popping off. Perhaps there was a more sinister twist to the wardrobe question: she knew in advance that something bad would happen and had come prepared for the occasion.

  Nothing of interest stood out in the other photos except a candid shot of Rafa and Alf Walsh, arms folded in front of them, scowling from the sidelines. Both wore heavy sweaters and dark jackets. Dark clothing would hide bloodstains, at least temporarily. I bit my tongue to infuse some sanity back into my thoughts. Half the men and women at the event wore dark clothing. Why single out Rafa or Alf?

  Babette, Roy, Punky, and Whit were mere faces in the crowd, as was a glimpse of the police presence of Genna and Roar. Wait a moment! Against all odds, Genna must have blended seamlessly into the crowd. I recalled scrutinizing the participants during the ceremony and the social hour that preceded it. Nothing seemed out of order then. Roar was there, of course. He was always floating about, thrilling the ladies and exchanging high fives with the guys. I clicked on a video that one of Punky’s pals had uploaded. It featured the postprandial nattering of a number of guests and appeared to be anything but funereal. As the camera panned the crowd, everything I saw looked jarringly normal—just dog people gathered in knots, drinking and exchanging greetings.

  True to her word, there was no sign of Jess Pendrake. She might well be a murderer, but to her credit, she was definitely not a hypocrite. Pruett, on the other hand, was busy charming the socks off Kiki, the seductress at large. As he hovered over her chair, Kiki threw back her head, not unlike a cat that had just lapped up some superior cream. Funny. I had missed that scene on the fateful night. What else had slipped by me?

  None of the videos showed the clock or caught any other image of Bethany. My brainstorm now seemed more like a trickle than a torrent. Any one of the principal suspects might well have slipped away and dispatched the psychic without anyone, including me, noting their absence. None of the snapshots or videos were conclusive on that point, and according to Babette, the gathering broke up well before eleven. The murderer had ample opportunity to steal back to the Better Living Center and re-join the party. Winter clothing could easily mask bloodstains or other traces of mayhem.

  Keats and Poe leapt up to alert me that we had company. Since they didn’t bark or growl, I wasn’t concerned. It had to be someone they knew and trusted. True to form, Babette, accompanied by the ever-faithful Clara, flounced into my shop with the bloom of romance still flushing her cheeks.

  “Wondered where you’d gone to,” she said. “You sure move fast, girl.”

  I buttoned my lips and said nothing.

  Babette strode over to my computer and rudely pushed me aside. “Whatcha got there? Oh, that’s the Facebook page for Lee.” She gave a derisive snort. “Bunch of BS, if you ask me. Outright lies.” She pointed to the shot of me. “Smile for a change, Perri. You always look so serious. Like some kind of prison matron. And looky there. Pruett sure charmed the p
ants off Kiki. Smile looks like a darn Cheshire cat, the little hussy.”

  Although she tends toward the dramatic, Babette can often be useful. This was one of those times. “Hey,” I said, “I didn’t see Genna there, did you?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Couldn’t miss that sourpuss. Probably out nailing drunks somewhere or rousting old ladies.”

  I pointed to the crowd shot featuring Genna.

  For once, even Babette was stymied. Her eyes widened as she studied the glimpse of the intrusive Sergeant Watts. “Well. I’ll be . . .”

  It seemed unlikely, but I had to consider every angle. Genna had the skill and strength to wield those pretty pink shears or the lethal blade of the plough gauge. Frankly, she also had the attitude—mean. What I couldn’t reconcile was motive. It seemed unlikely that a cop would embark on a murderous rampage for no reason. Unless...Lee Holmes was an infamous womanizer who sought quantity over quality. Jess Pendrake was certainly proof of that. Had he also romanced and discarded Genna? I shuddered as I thought of the consequences of that ill-advised action. If Bethany found out, Genna might have neutralized the threat decisively and emphatically.

  “Yoo-hoo,” Babette cried. “Anyone home in there, Perri?”

  I quickly explained my latest theory and the evidence behind it. Babette wrinkled her brow and stayed silent for several minutes as she pondered it.

  “Genna Watts? Gee, Perri, I don’t know about that one. She’s certainly mean enough.” She shivered. “More than enough. Vicious. Unlikable too. But a cop as a double murderer? Doesn’t seem right somehow. What did Pruett say about it?”

  I admitted that we hadn’t yet discussed the theory. However, the more I considered it, the more I liked it. Who better to cover up evidence than a cop? Not just any police officer, but one of those charged with investigating the crime. From the outset, Genna had bullied witnesses and accused everyone, including me, of complicity in the crime. Was that her normal behavior or a smoke screen? Only one person really knew Genna, and that was her partner. Roar would probably protect his colleague to the very end, although he was smart and dedicated enough to bring a murderer to justice.