Murder at the Falls

by Arlene Kay

  The remainder of our journey was uneventful, and we exited the Mass Pike and approached the Big E without incident. To my surprise, Babette had researched everything pertinent to parking and maintaining her motor coach right down to electronic and cable television hookups. Many dog show veterans chose the convenience of recreational vehicles over the rigors of motel life since upscale establishments banned or severely restricted dogs. The remaining “dog hotels” simply didn’t measure up to Babette’s high standards. Thus, the luxury coach—an inspired, if pricey, solution that paid dividends to me too. I groused about needless spending when my pal had purchased Steady Eddie, citing depreciation, inconvenience, and the numerous animal charities that needed the money instead. Opulence made me uncomfortable, a throwback to my hardscrabble childhood. Still, I was secretly pleased by the comfort and ease of our accommodations. Friendship with Babette conferred many benefits, and chief among them was sharing the spoils of wealth. Money aside, her loyalty and sweet nature were the primary attractions for me.

  Although the Big E reserved a sizable area for large vehicles and trailers, choice slots close to the show venue were at a premium. I worried that our late arrival might relegate us to the far reaches of the fairground—Siberia, as the regulars termed it. If that were our fate, juggling dogs, leather products, and one lively child would present quite a challenge, especially during inclement weather.

  Once again, Babette read my mind. “Don’t fret, Perri. We’ve got a primo spot. I already arranged it.” Try as she might, she couldn’t hide the smirk that covered her pretty face.

  “How’d you manage that?” I asked, mindful that a small child was within earshot.

  Babette fluttered her eyelashes. “Charm and wit.”

  I crossed my arms. “What else?”

  “Suspicious little twit, aren’t you? Okay. You caught me. A well-placed bribe didn’t hurt either. Just a generous cash gift to the guy in charge of the area.” Babette stared me down. “Don’t be an old prig, Perri. It’s the American way. Once that snow starts, things will get crazy here.”

  “What’s a prig, Ms. Babette?” Ella proved yet again that her hearing was exceptionally sharp.

  Babette swung into a reserved slot closest to the show area. “Don’t worry, pumpkin. Ms. Perri is just a stuffed shirt. We have to loosen her up.”

  Ella’s big blue eyes sparkled. “My daddy says Ms. Perri is perfect.”

  Now it was my turn to blush and change the subject. I hated to acknowledge the firm grip that Wing Pruett and his darling moppet had on my heart. Orphans like me fear loss more than most folks. After being wrenched from my parents’ arms and watching my fiancé slip away, I tried mightily to steel myself against further pain. Through a concentrated stealth campaign, Pruett had managed to penetrate those defenses and unleash my fondest hopes. Love does that to a body, but it’s a deep and dangerous game.

  “Come on,” I said, dusting off my jeans. “Let’s hook up this baby and walk around the grounds. I see a few familiar faces already.”

  Babette clambered out of the driver’s seat and immediately made a connection. Our near neighbor, a muscular, middle-aged man with a thick crop of gray hair, held out his arm and helped Babette alight. She sized him up and went all girly on him.

  “Why, thank you, kind sir. I can always use a little help.” In true Babette fashion, she simpered. I really hated when she did that, but it was straight from the Croy playbook, with a bow to Scarlett O’Hara. Most men fell for it, especially when she showed her dimples. This guy was no exception.

  I did a quick appraisal of Prince Galahad. He was tall, tanned, and neatly dressed in a pressed pair of jeans and checked shirt. There was nothing wrong with his body either, but I was more concerned with his motives. Call me protective, but Babette had zero judgment when it came to men. The unlamented Carleton Croy, husband number four, was an opportunist who was more interested in her bankbook than her loving heart. Similarly, any con man worth his salt would assess Steady Eddie and quickly realize the bucks that went with it. I leapt out of my seat, clutched Ella, and unleashed my dogs.

  “Forgive me, ma’am. I should have introduced myself.” Babette’s admirer ignored me and kept hold of her hand. “Rafael Ramos at your service. Most folks call me Rafa.”

  Ramos’s vehicle was a poor cousin of ours, a rusted Airstream that had seen better days. Naturally, Babette seemed oblivious to that as she zeroed in on our neighbor. I knew the signs and decided to immediately nip young love in the bud.

  Babette was still in dreamland. “Rafa? Ooh. Just like the tennis player. That’s fascinatin’!”

  He shrugged and shook his head. “Don’t I wish. Unfortunately, I’m not much of an athlete.” His faux modesty aroused my suspicions. The muscles on this guy proved that he did some serious physical training.

  “Hi, Rafa,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Perri Morgan, and this is Ella. Excuse us while we exercise our crew. We’ve got four hungry canines on board.”

  Ramos unhanded my friend and switched into helpful mode. “Of course. Be glad to help you with the connections on this big boy if you need anything. Sure is a beauty.” He then proved that he was also a dog person. “Wow! Speaking of beauties, your dogs are phenomenal.” He approached Keats and Poe with the palm of his hand open and lowered. When they acknowledged him, he patted their silky heads and did the same to Clara and Guinnie.

  “Do you have a dog, sir?” Ella asked.

  He bent down and smiled. “Call me Rafa, honey. And the answer is yes. My breed is standard poodles. Don’t have any with me this trip because I’m judging.”

  “You’re a judge,” Babette trilled as if he had said “brain surgeon.” The throb in her voice sounded authentic and probably was. “How excitin’.”

  Rafael lowered his head in an “aw shucks” routine. “I just love doing the show circuit. Being around beautiful dogs and lovely ladies—doesn’t get much better than that.”

  “Guinnie is a Grand Champion,” Ella said proudly. “She’s almost at bronze level.” In dog show parlance, there were five levels of Grand Champion, and Guinnie was new to that elevated crowd. She had bronze, silver, gold, and platinum levels yet to conquer, but that didn’t concern me one bit. With Guinnie’s perfection, Ella’s persistence, and Pruett’s pocketbook, no obstacle was insurmountable.

  Rafa nodded. “I can see why. Didn’t I see her written up in the latest issue of Canine Chronicles?”

  Ella’s smile was luminous. She nodded and reached down to give Guinnie another hug. In deference to the little girl, I hoped Rafa wouldn’t probe any further. Grand Champion Camelot Kennel’s Lady Guinevere had come to us under tragic circumstances that were best forgotten. Like most pointers, Guinnie was a gentle, loving companion with plenty of brains. The important thing was the immutable bond between Ella and her dog.

  “Let me take these guys for a run,” I said, whistling to my dogs. “Ready, Ella?” We loped toward the backfields, leaving Babette to her new suitor. I know from experience when to fade from the scene, particularly when it involved a man. Their animated conversation told me that our absence hadn’t even been noticed. No surprise there. Babette was a loyal friend, but any presentable man with a pulse could easily turn her head.

  Ella, on the other hand, saw only Guinnie and the other dogs. Her big blue eyes shone with happiness as she romped with our pack of pups. Loving animals came easily to most children, and I harbored grave suspicions about kids who felt otherwise. Indifference to animals was just plain unnatural—serial killer material.

  A sudden cacophony of noise rudely interrupted my thoughts. I clutched Ella’s hand, steering her toward the trees and to the left of the warring parties. Neither combatant acknowledged us, but I suspect that, in the heat of battle, neither of them noticed us either. To my chagrin, these disturbers of the peace were adults, grown women, not marauding teens. Yael Lindsay, a well-preserve
d sexagenarian with seriously teased hair and an eye-popping diamond ring, shook her fist. “You listen here, Bethany. I run this show. That means no shenanigans by the likes of you. Hussy!”

  Her antagonist, agility master Bethany Zahn, was the seductress so vividly described by Babette. Maybe it was the black leather blanketing her from stem to sultry stern that gave Bethany away or the mane of unnaturally black curls that she twirled. Either way, she radiated sex appeal, snark, and a dollop of dominatrix.

  “Run?” she sneered, hands on hips. “Honey, at your age you couldn’t run if your life depended on it. Join a gym, why don’t you? Better still, muzzle that horny hubby of yours. He’s into agility in a big way, or so I hear.” Bethany smirked at her own wit and sauntered off toward the show entrance without a backward glance.

  I normally eschew gossip, but that little tiff fascinated me—until I recalled the urchin who clutched my hand. Ella Pruett trained her baby blues on me and asked, “Why were those ladies fighting, Perri? Daddy says that’s not right.”

  Honesty was the best policy, especially when it involved a bright, inquisitive child like Ella, who was not easily fooled.

  “Your daddy was right. Shouting never solves anything, honey. Some people never learn.” I clapped my hands, causing Poe and Keats to snap to attention. “Come on. Let’s run a race with these pups.”

  We sped down the field, trailing four dogs that easily outpaced us and leaving the snarling women behind. Canine quarrels were typically sparked by competition—dominance, food, territory, or sex. Humans were no different. Based on the scene I had just witnessed, one or all of those factors might have caused the dustup. I never dreamed that tragedy awaited us.

  About the Author

  Photo by Kim Rodriques Photography

  Arlene Kay spent twenty years as a Senior Federal Executive, where she was known as a most unconventional public servant. Her time with the federal government, from Texas to Washington, DC, allowed her to observe both human and corporate foibles and rejoice in unintentional humor. These locations and the many people she encountered are celebrated in her mystery novels. She is also the author of the Boston Uncommons Mystery series as well as Intrusion and Die Laughing. She is a member of International Thriller Writers. Visit her on the web at arlenekay.com.