“Dog show photographer. For a while, Sara figured that was the perfect choice. She likes taking pictures, plus she got to go to all the shows and visit with her friends.”
“For a while?”
“Well, she wasn’t really getting hired all that much. The big shows, the established ones, have been using the same guys for years. What Sara should have done was try to drum up business at specialties, or the new start-up dog clubs. But that wasn’t where she wanted to be.”
“Exit one photographer,” I said.
“She still takes a good picture,” Bertie admitted. “I used her for some pub shots on a Lhasa I was showing last year and they turned out great. And that stint kind of led to her next career.”
“Which was?”
I leaned back in my chair, enjoying the possibilities. I’d become a teacher and a mother young enough to rule out any such frivolity when it came to making choices. Listening to Sara’s history gave me a vicarious thrill. I wondered how long it would be before we worked our way around to the wedding-planner gig.
“Dog sitter/pet groomer,” said Bertie. “Freelance, of course. Because, as Sara has pointed out many times, she could never work for anyone but herself.”
“And that didn’t work out either?”
“No, it has. For the most part, anyway. At least she’s still doing it. I don’t think she has a lot of clients, but there seem to be enough to make her think she’s in business.”
“Enough to buy her a Mercedes?”
“Oh, that.” Bertie waved a hand. “Mummy’s money paid for that. Good God, you didn’t think Sara was actually trying to support herself with all those jobs, did you?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“No, no, no.... Sara’s mother comes from old money.” Bertie pursed her lips and made a face, as if to illustrate Sara’s patrician forebears. “Delilah got into showing dogs as a child in the old days, when kennel maids did all the actual work, and ladies, if they showed their own dogs at all, wore white gloves to do so. She was Delilah Cooper-Smith then, Delilah Waring now. Sara’s father was the first husband.”
“Divorced?”
“Deceased.” Bertie smiled, then added mysteriously. “Some say Delilah was to blame.”
“Don’t tell me he was murdered.”
“No.” Bertie’s green eyes sparkled with “gotcha!” glee. “Heart attack. But Delilah isn’t the easiest woman to live with.”
I grinned along with her. If your hobby is solving murders, I’ve found it helps to have a sense of humor.
“So after all these other occupations, Sara became a wedding planner exactly when?”
“Um . . .” Bertie’s gaze shifted from mine. “Yesterday.”
“Good golly, Miss Molly.”
Since Davey got old enough to mimic everything I say, I’ve tried hard to give up swearing. Some days that vow is harder to keep than others.
“But she’ll do a good job, I’m sure of it. Sara needs the business, and if her friends don’t support her, who will? Besides, how many established wedding planners do you think I could find to take me on with six weeks’ notice?”
There was that.
“Okay,” I said. “But why did you bring her here? What do I have to do with any of this?”
Bertie pushed back her chair and rose. “I thought you’d have figured that out by now.”
She walked out of the kitchen, heading for the front door. Unfortunately, I hadn’t figured anything out. I jumped up and followed.
“What?”
“I need your help.”
“With Sara?”
“No, not with Sara. She’s all set. That’s what I wanted you to see. It’s your Aunt Peg I’m worried about. You know how she tends to . . .”
“Meddle?” I supplied. “Interfere? Try to run peoples’ lives?”
“Precisely. I want you to get her to let me do this my way.”
Fat chance.
“I want you to keep her under control.”
No chance.
Believe me, I’ve tried.
But hey, I thought, welcome to the family.
2
That weekend, I had Faith entered in back-to-back dog shows in Hartford. Having lost a large section of neck hair in the spring, the Poodle had been out of the show ring for most of the year. By October, however, her mane had finally recovered enough to suit Aunt Peg’s exacting standards.
I’d started entering her in the shows again, and Faith had quickly picked up the remaining single point she needed. At the moment, she was in the thoroughly unenviable position known as “stuck for a major.”
In order to complete its championship, a dog must accumulate fifteen points in competition within its own breed and sex. Unfinished dogs do not have to compete against already finished champions (as they do in England), and the number of points awarded is based on the number of dogs or bitches beaten. The most a dog can win on a single day is five; the fewest, with competition, one. Included in that fifteen must be two “major” wins—shows where the dog has won at least three points, meaning that he has beaten a considerable amount of competition.
The theory behind the rule is sound. It prevents a so-so dog from gaining its championship by piling up singles by winning over sparse or inferior competitors. In practice, however, it often leads to a situation where a good dog, through no fault of its own, spends weeks or even months trying to secure that last, coveted, major win.
Exacerbating the problem is the fact that points are based not on the size of the pre-entry, but on the number of dogs or bitches that actually show up to be judged. It is very possible to get back a judging schedule that lists a major entry, only to arrive on the day and find that half the competition has stayed home. Other factors, including time of year, availability of good judges, and whether or not area breeders have puppies that need to gain experience in the ring, also combine to play a role.
Faith had accumulated eleven points, including one major, before she lost her coat in the spring. Her first weekend back, she’d won another single. But though I’d entered her every weekend since, the shows had only drawn enough Standard Poodles for one or two point competition. This was the first time the possibility of a major had been offered.
I was tired of waiting, and I was tired of throwing away money on useless entry fees. I planned to go to both shows, and I was hoping like mad to win.
Aunt Peg, however, had had major reservations.
“Derek Hunnicutt?” she’d said in dismay when she heard that I’d sent in entries. “You entered that bitch under Derek Hunnicutt? Whatever for?”
“Because I think he’ll draw a major.”
“Of course he will. He’ll draw every professional Poodle handler in the Northeast. They all love him, and with good reason. They’re the only ones he ever puts up.”
“At least I’ll have a shot. It’s better than sitting home because there’s no major to even try for.”
“That’s what you think now. If you think waiting for the right judge and the right major is frustrating, just see how you feel after having done all the work of getting her ready and taking her in the ring and then watching it come to nothing.”
“But Faith’s a very pretty bitch—”
“And you think Derek will notice? He’ll be much too busy looking for recognizable faces at the other end of the lead to worry about a little thing like that.”
Politics. As is true in so many facets of life, the dog show world is rife with them. Some judges really want to judge dogs, and they’re good at it. Some would like to do a good job, but they’ve applied for and been approved to judge more breeds than they are actually familiar with. And then there are those who seem to care only about keeping the all-important handlers with their big strings of dogs happy.
Because Aunt Peg had overseen Faith’s career up until that point, she had been entered only under Poodle specialists or other judges who had a real affinity for the breed. So though I’d heard plenty of horror stories about
careless or incompetent judging, I had yet to experience it for myself.
Aunt Peg had sighed. “Who’s doing Sunday?” she asked in a disgruntled tone.
“Sondra Fleischman.”
“Well, at least that’s something.”
“You approve?”
“Clearly it’s not up to me to approve or disapprove.”
Now, it seemed, was the point where I was meant to apologize. I didn’t, which meant that the silence lingered.
“I’ll see you there?” I said.
“Of course you’ll see me there! Who else is going to hold your hand when Derek ignores you entirely?”
Good old Aunt Peg. She never disappoints.
Saturday dawned clear and cold. And I mean dawned. With a late morning judging time and more than an hour’s drive to the show site, Davey and I were up before daybreak. My son loves this sort of adventure. Me, I’d rather stay in bed. But the thought of a possible major lured me like a siren’s call.
By November dog shows in the Northeast have moved indoors for the winter. The good thing about that—especially in a breed that depends as heavily on coat and presentation as Poodles do—is that you don’t have to worry about the weather. The bad thing is that indoor venues are often smaller than optimal, with cramped rings and grooming areas that quickly become crowded to capacity.
Though we left home at an early hour, I knew we’d be far from the first to arrive at the arena where the show was being held. As I entered the building holding Davey’s hand and dragging crate, grooming table, and tack box on a dolly behind me, the room was already mostly full. I scanned the side that had been set aside for grooming. Empty space or a familiar face, I’d have taken either one.
“Over here!” cried Aunt Peg, waving her hand over her head and drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity. “We’ve saved you some room.”
Davey’s fingers slipped through mine as he ran on ahead. His aunt leaned down and scooped him up into her arms.
Even without the theatrics, I’d have had an easy time picking Aunt Peg out. At six feet tall, she has always stood a full head above most women of her generation. She turned sixty-one on her last birthday, but no one who knows her would dare to think that something as mundane as chronological age might ever slow Peg down.
She was Faith’s breeder and had kept a puppy from the same litter herself. Hope, Faith’s sister, had finished her championship in the spring and was now “cut down” and enjoying her retirement from the show ring. That it was taking me a good deal longer to accomplish the same feat with Faith had escaped neither of us.
“Whose setup is this?” I asked, pulling the dolly up the narrow aisle. Aunt Peg was busy rearranging the equipment: stacking crates, pushing tables together, and rolling a hair dryer out of the way to free up some space. “Are you sure there’s enough room?”
“It’s Bertie’s stuff. She won’t mind a bit,” Peg told me, a general well in command of her troops. “She’s off showing a Yorkie, but as soon as she saw me come in earlier, she told me she’d save you a spot.”
I’d just bet she had. Obviously Bertie was hoping I’d keep Aunt Peg off her back. The question was, what made Bertie think I wanted her on mine?
“This will suit perfectly,” said Peg. “I can help you get Faith ready for the ring and tell Bertie about some thoughts I’ve had all at the same time.”
As I kicked out the legs on my grooming table and hauled it up into position, I wondered whether Bertie was actually busy in a ring somewhere, or if she’d simply tucked the hapless Yorkie under her arm and run for the exit. The answer to that question probably depended on how long Aunt Peg had been there before my arrival.
“Here comes Bertie now,” Peg said, beaming as the slender redhead hurried toward us up the aisle. “Did you win, dear?”
A strangled sound came from deep within my throat. Faith, who’d just been hopped up onto the tabletop, cocked her head in my direction. The Poodle is very adept at picking up my moods, and I knew she sensed my astonishment.
Dear? Aunt Peg was calling Bertie dear? That couldn’t be a good sign.
“Third in a class of three,” Bertie grumbled.
“Too bad. You’ll do better next time.”
Sheesh, I thought. When I lost, Aunt Peg enjoyed listing everything I’d done wrong in graphic detail. When had she turned into such a Pollyanna?
“Melanie?” Directed at me, Aunt Peg’s tone sharpened. “Don’t you think now might be a good time to start brushing that bitch? I can see you’ve let her trim go. I’m going to have some serious scissoring to do.”
I opened my tack box and got out slicker, pin brush, and wide-toothed comb. Next I hung a spray bottle of water from the tabletop, for misting Faith’s coat to tame static. Ready to go to work, I laid the Poodle flat on the table, left side down. The left side is the show side, that is, the side that faces the judge in the ring. For that reason it’s always worked on last, to make sure that the finish is fresh.
Aunt Peg considered my efforts with a critical eye as I started line brushing Faith’s mane coat. Davey had climbed inside Faith’s crate and was amusing himself by barking at passing dogs, none of whom seemed overly impressed by his performance. Bertie slipped the leash off the Yorkie, did a quick wrap job on its hair, and put the dog back in its crate. Judging by the expression on her face, she was just biding time, waiting for the boom to fall.
It didn’t take long.
“Poinsettias,” said Aunt Peg. “I think they’re very pretty, don’t you? Especially around Christmas time.”
“Beautiful,” I agreed. “Vibrant. Red.”
Aunt Peg speared me with a suspicious gaze. “What’s wrong with red?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I believe I heard Bertie mention that she wanted the flowers at her wedding to be yellow.”
“Wedding?” Peg said innocently. “Did I say anything about a wedding?”
“Not yet . . .” I muttered.
“I’m bored,” Davey stood up and announced.
Usually I greet that pronouncement with a sigh. Today it sounded like music from heaven. Maybe Aunt Peg could be convinced to step in and provide my son with some entertainment. The two of them often enjoyed browsing around the shows together and scoping out the best concession stands.
Just as I’d hoped, Peg heard her cue and held out her hand. “Come with me, young man. Let’s go have an adventure, shall we?”
“What did I tell you?” Bertie said as soon as they walked away. Bertie is one of the most competent people I know. The fact that Peg could reduce her to desperation was actually pretty interesting. “You can see why I need your help. Frank and I just got engaged and your aunt’s already called me half a dozen times. You just heard for yourself what she’s like. I’m not sure how much of this I can take.”
“So she likes poinsettias,” I said, shrugging. “She’ll get over it.”
“Not that! Who cares about the stupid flowers? The other thing. She called me dear!”
Aha. Light dawned. I began to grin. “So she did. She never calls me dear. Maybe she likes you better.”
“Don’t mess with me, Melanie. This is serious. That woman is formidable enough when she’s acting like a dragon. You know, normal. That’s okay, tough I can deal with. It’s all this unexpected niceness that’s killing me. What am I supposed to do about that?”
“Enjoy it while it lasts?” I suggested. “Trust me. I know Aunt Peg better than you do. She won’t be able to keep it up for long.”
By the time Aunt Peg and Davey returned, Davey’s arms were filled with new toys for Eve, and I’d already finished brushing Faith and put in her topknot.
Faith wears the continental trim, which is one of two approved show cuts for adult Standard Poodles. She has a mane coat of long, thick hair on the front half of her body, puffs of hair known as bracelets around each of her ankles, rosettes on her hips (more rounded puffs of hair), and a pom-pom at the end of her tail. All of this hair must be studiously
shaped before she goes in the ring.
I’m getting pretty good at the job, but Aunt Peg is a master. While she and Davey were gone, I’d started scissoring Faith’s bracelets. Peg didn’t comment but she did take the scissors out of my hands, lift the hair with a comb, and deftly smooth out a straight edge I’d left.
“Hold her nose,” she instructed, referring to Faith.
In order to get the lines right, the Poodle must be posed for grooming exactly as it will be seen in the ring. That means that the dog’s head must be high in the air. Even well trained dogs, which Faith was, have a hard time holding that pose for long periods of time. My function, therefore, was to hold it for her, easing the strain on her head and neck at the expense of my own arm and shoulder.
“Bertie’s hired a wedding planner,” I mentioned. Having little else to do besides stand there with my hand in the air, I blithely ignored Bertie’s sudden look of dismay and frantically shaking head. “Did she tell you?”
“No, I don’t believe she’s had a chance to mention that yet.” Peg’s gaze swung from me to Bertie, who smiled weakly. “Who did you get?”
“Sara Bentley. She’s going to do the whole thing.”
The scissors flew up and over Faith’s mane coat, opening and closing like the wings of a hummingbird as Aunt Peg considered the news. “Sara Bentley. That name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it.”
“She used to show dogs,” I said. Aunt Peg’s knowledge of the dog show world and the people who inhabit it could fill an encyclopedia.
“Of course. Shelties. Delilah Waring’s daughter. Little Sara. Used to show in Junior Showmanship. Delilah would dress her up for the ring like she was a porcelain doll. Little Chanel suits, can you imagine? She must have had them made.”
“She’s not little Sara anymore.”
“Certainly not. That was years ago. Before . . .”
Peg’s lips pursed, but that wasn’t what tipped me off that she was thinking about something important. Her hand stilled; the scissors stopped moving. This had to be serious.
“Before what?” I asked.
Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery) Page 2
