“You’ve got the bitch,” said Bertie. “Her name is Ping. Mine’s the litter brother.”
“Don’t tell me. Pong?”
“How’d you guess?” She smiled. “They’re both in Open. Pong’s the only male, so with any luck I can pick up two points by beating the bitch for Best of Winners. Ping’s going to have a harder time of it, but if she does win, I’ll need you to show her for me in the breed.”
Things went pretty much just as Bertie had predicted. Though Ping had to settle for Reserve Winners Bitch, Pong did indeed get two points. Not only was he Best of Winners, but he also won the red-and-white ribbon for Best of Opposite Sex.
Making the win even more gratifying, the litter mates’ breeder-owner was standing ringside to watch her Shar Peis compete. Judging by the woman’s jubilant expression, this was one client Bertie wouldn’t be losing any time soon.
On our way back to the setup, Bertie suggested that we detour past the obedience rings. “I looked at the schedule,” she said. “Open A was supposed to start at noon, so I’m pretty sure that Sara and Titus will be hanging out. With so little time before the wedding, I just want to make sure she’s on top of everything.”
“It’s only been three days since we got together at my house,” I pointed out.
“And I’ve only got six weeks to pull this whole thing together. Let’s hope Sara’s been busy.”
Like the rest of the show, the obedience area was crowded. Inevitably, casual spectators are drawn to these arenas. It takes years of study and a skilled eye to sort out the difference between the winners and the losers in breed competition; obedience is much more straight-forward. Even a novice can usually tell whether a dog has followed his owner’s command or not. Plus, the exercises are fun to watch.
Each obedience class requires different obstacles to be set up for the competition. For Open, it was a high jump built of solid planks and a broad jump placed on one side of the matted floor. It only took a moment to locate our ring, which was at the far end, currently occupied by an exuberant Border Collie.
As we headed that way, I gazed around the area, looking for a sable Sheltie. Yes, I know, most people would have looked for Sara. But I’m a dog person; we tend to do things differently.
“There she is.” Abruptly, Bertie stopped walking.
I managed not to crash into her, but Ping, following closely behind her brother, wasn’t so lucky. She and Pong went down in a heap, then apparently decided that was a great opportunity to engage in a wrestling match. Almost immediately, they had their leashes tangled, in part because Bertie wasn’t paying any attention to their antics.
“Uh oh,” Bertie said under her breath.
“What?” I looked up, leaving the playful dogs to their own devices. At least they didn’t have any hair to muss.
Sara was standing somewhat away from ringside beside a wire mesh crate that held Titus, sleeping, inside. She wasn’t alone; an older man was standing next to her. From where we stood, it looked as though they were arguing.
“Who’s that with Sara?” I asked. Ping, pushed by her brother, rolled into my legs and nearly knocked me over.
“Grant Waring. Her stepfather.”
“They don’t look too happy.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not unusual. Sara doesn’t come from a close family. Hell, they’re not even a normal family. I guess Delilah must be showing something in Shelties. Grant hates dog shows. He never comes unless Delilah drags him along.”
Bertie was too distracted to notice, but people were beginning to stare at us. In a setting where everyone took enormous pride in their dogs’ training and deportment, our tussling Shar Peis stuck out like a pair of circus clowns at the opera.
“Let’s give her a minute,” she said. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Good idea,” I agreed. “Besides . . .”
I lifted my hand, intending to gesture toward the problem at our feet. Unfortunately, Ping chose that moment to lunge once more at her brother. With a snap, the end of the short show lead flipped out of my fingers and ricocheted down to slap the Shar Pei on the flank.
Ping’s first reaction was surprise. Delight quickly followed as she realized she was free. Before I could grab her, she’d taken off.
“Oh, criminy!”
I jumped over Pong’s prostrate body and ran after her, zigzagging between spectators toward the ring. Luckily the class was now between competitors and the stewards were adjusting the jumps. Otherwise, I’d have committed the cardinal sin of allowing my dog to disrupt another’s performance. As it was, Ping and I were merely providing something akin to halftime entertainment.
Grant Waring was a fit, good looking man in his fifties, sporting a full head of steel gray hair and a tan that had to have been acquired somewhere other than Connecticut in November. His blue jeans were snug; his loafers, polished. A bulky fisherman-knit sweater hinted at an admirable physique beneath.
“That is not an option,” I heard him say as I scrambled toward him, trying to grab Ping’s leash.
“It is if I say so,” Sara snapped. “It’s my decision, and you can just—”
Grant stumbled forward as the galloping Shar Pei barreled into him from behind. With considerably more grace than I’d have shown under the circumstances, he recovered quickly, reaching down to snag Ping’s leash and pull the dog to a halt.
“Well,” he said, “what have we here?”
“Sorry. She got away from me.” I took the lead from his hand and hauled Ping back.
The Shar Pei was now jumping up and trying to wrap herself around Grant’s leg. To his credit, he didn’t look too perturbed about the situation.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Happens at my house all the time.”
“Hi, Sara, Grant.” Bertie materialized behind me, leading the other half of our dynamic duo. For safekeeping, she took Ping’s leash from me and added it to the other she held in her hand.
Grant’s brow furrowed as he studied Bertie with a slight frown. Bertie is one of the few women I know who are truly gorgeous. She has thick auburn hair, a wonderful complexion, and the kind of tall, athletic build that looks good in anything she chooses to wear.
Most men don’t frown when they look at her. In fact, they usually fawn all over her. It’s a good thing my brother isn’t the jealous type, or he’d have to buy himself a shotgun.
After a second, Grant’s expression cleared. “Bertie, right? I’m afraid it’s been a while.”
“Too long,” Bertie agreed easily. “Sara and I have been out of touch, but she’s recently agreed to work on a project for me.”
“Really?” Grant glanced at his stepdaughter with the same sort of quizzical expression he’d just trained on Bertie. “May I ask what kind?”
“I’m getting married over Christmas. Sara’s planning my wedding for me.”
“Then congratulations are in order. Who’s the lucky groom?”
One look at Grant Waring and I knew he was the type of man who moved in a tightly contained social circle where everyone belonged to the same clubs, sent their children to the same private schools, and wintered at the same Florida coastal town. Good manners required him to ask after Bertie’s betrothed, though there wasn’t a hope in hell that the two of them had ever crossed paths.
“His name is Frank Travis. He owns a small business in Stamford. In fact,” Bertie added, suddenly remembering my presence and performing an introduction, “he’s Melanie’s brother.”
“Please pass along my best wishes,” Grant said smoothly, taking my hand in his. His eyes were a warm shade of brown. For the moment that they focused on me it was as though nothing else in the world was more important to him.
“I’ll do that.”
“Sara.” He turned back to his stepdaughter. “I’m sure you and your friends have a lot to talk about. I will see you at home later.”
“Yes.” Sara didn’t look happy about it.
“Everything okay?” Bertie asked as Grant str
ode off.
“Sure, fine.” Sara glanced at me. “Don’t mind Grant. He’s always like that.”
“I thought he was charming.”
“He can be. That’s one of his better qualities. Don’t get me started on his bad ones.” Sara looked back at Bertie. “Were you looking for me, or is this just a coincidence?”
“Looking,” said Bertie, glancing at her watch. “Though now I’m running out of time again. I just wanted to find out if you were making any headway with the plans.”
“Of course. I’ve made tons of calls. What do you think of leasing one of the dining rooms at the Greenwich Country Club? Imagine the terrace that overlooks the golf course, trimmed with fairy lights and filled with flowers.”
“It sounds wonderful. There’s only one problem. I’m not a member of the Greenwich Country Club.”
“I am and I’ve already spoken to them about it. If it meets your approval, I’ll go ahead with the arrangements. See?” Sara patted Bertie’s arm reassuringly. “Headway. There’s more, too, but you probably don’t have to discuss it all now. You were right—I am good at this. In fact, I think I’m really going to enjoy it.”
“Phooey,” I said as Bertie and I walked the Shar Peis back to the setup. “We forgot to ask her about that story Aunt Peg told us.”
“That’s all right. With Grant around hassling her, this probably wasn’t the best time. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be seeing plenty of Sara over the next few weeks. I’ll find out the scoop if you want.”
Aunt Peg and Davey were back at the crates, waiting for us when we returned. The hamburgers they’d brought for us were flat and cold in their soggy, grease soaked buns. Fortunately, the half-dozen brownies Peg had also piled into the cardboard carry box had survived the wait better.
Munching, Bertie, Peg, and I readied Bertie’s last three class entries: a Keeshond and two Chinese Cresteds. Then, satisfied that she had everything under control, I got Faith out of her crate and began to pack up. The Poodle’s long black topknot, done up now in wraps and bands to keep it out of her way, flipped and bobbed as she danced on the tabletop.
Damn, I wished she had finished today. I was really looking forward to the day when I could cut off her hair and let her live like a normal dog, one who knew what it felt like to have her owner scratch the top of her head, or to run full tilt through the woods.
“It’s getting to be about time,” I whispered to Faith.
Pressing my nose against hers, I cupped my palms under the sides of her jaw and rubbed back and forth over her lips and teeth with my thumbs as I stroked her cheeks with my fingers. Faith leaned forward into me, wiggling her body with delight and enjoying her favorite non-hair-invasive caress.
“Tomorrow,” Aunt Peg said firmly. She’d been eavesdropping on our private conversation.
“What about tomorrow?”
“Get up, get in the car, come back here, and do it all over again.”
Showing dogs, in a nutshell.
Some days it was just like having a job.
5
There are times when it seems like nothing goes the way you planned.
Late Saturday afternoon, when Davey and I got home from the dog show, there was a car parked in our driveway. A screaming red Trans Am with Texas plates. It took me a few seconds to make the connection. It took Davey even less time than that.
“Daddy!” he shrieked. I braked hastily as my son threw open his door and scrambled out. “Where did you come from?”
Good question, I thought, parking the Volvo as Bob climbed out of his car and stood in the driveway. I hate surprises; have I mentioned that? My ex-husband knows it, or he would if he ever stopped to think about such things. Unfortunately, taking my wishes into consideration has never been a strong suit of his.
Bob swooped his son up off the ground and swung him around in an exuberant circle. “I came from Texas, where do you think? I’m here to visit my two favorite people in the whole world.”
Watching Davey’s legs fly by above her head, Faith jumped up and tried to join in the fun. Her barking was loud enough to alert the entire neighborhood that the Travis family was home. And in case anyone missed the point, Davey’s high-pitched screams of glee provided the final punctuation.
It was only a matter of time before someone called 911. Either that or a psychiatric facility.
“Let’s move this sideshow indoors.” I started up the steps, hoping everyone would follow.
“Good idea,” Bob agreed, rallying the rest of the troops.
Though a year and a half had passed since I’d seen him last, it didn’t look as though much had changed. His sandy brown hair was cut a little shorter and looked as though it might be thinning on top. The creases around his eyes had deepened, probably from squinting into the Texas sun. But he still handled himself with that appealing self-confidence and easy grace that had made my heart pound a decade earlier.
At the door, Bob stopped and carefully wiped his cowboy boots on the mat before coming inside. That was new.
“Your two favorite people?” I said as Davey and Faith ran on ahead to the kitchen.
“Sure, why not?” Bob leaned forward and brushed a kiss across my cheek.
I stepped back before he could add a hug. “What about Jennifer? Your new wife?”
The one who’d finally reached voting age in the spring, I could have added but didn’t. I was taking my new, mature attitude out for a test drive.
“It didn’t work out.”
I peered at Bob closely, looking for signs of sadness or maybe remorse. I found neither. “How come?”
“She decided to go back to college.”
So help me, I almost laughed. So much for the new maturity.
“I’m sorry,” I managed to say instead.
“Don’t be, I’m not. It obviously wasn’t the best decision on either of our parts and we parted pretty amicably.”
I pulled off my jacket and hung it on the coatrack. Making himself at home, Bob followed suit. I waited until he turned back to me, then asked bluntly, “Bob, what are you doing here?”
“What do you mean?” He seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “Frank invited me. I came for the wedding. I’m going to be an usher.”
“The wedding is six weeks away.”
“So I’m a little early.”
As soon as Bob tilted his head to one side, adding that boyishly innocent look that I suddenly remembered from years gone by, I knew I was in trouble. He was hiding something. That, and hoping to cajole his way past my questions until he was ready to let me in on his plans.
I wondered what it was this time. Last time he visited unexpectedly, he’d been hoping to gain joint custody of his son.
“Don’t you have things you need to be doing in Texas?”
“No.”
“A job?”
“I’ve made some good investments.”
This was said with becoming modesty. Eighteen months earlier, my accountant ex-husband had seen his oil well come in. Literally. I guessed things had been going pretty well for him since then.
Bob started to follow Davey toward the back of the house. I put a hand on his arm to stop him. Before we continued our conversation in front of our son, I needed a clearer picture of what was going on.
“So what are your plans?”
“Plans? Who needs plans? I thought maybe I’d just hang loose for a while.”
“Hang loose?” The skeptic in me nearly added a snort.
Bob put his hand on top of mine and patted gently, like a cowboy trying to soothe a skittish filly. His fingers felt warm and solid against my own. “Don’t worry, darlin’. Everything will be fine.”
Not in this lifetime, I thought.
Just as Aunt Peg had forecast, the next morning I got up, got in the car, drove back to the show site, and did the whole thing all over again. With one small exception. This time I had Bob with me.
“Dog show?” he’d said the evening before, when I informed him th
at Davey and I had plans for the following day. “Sounds like fun.”
The man was lying through his teeth.
The only time I’d ever seen him pay any attention to Faith, he’d compared her to a bear. And I knew for a fact that he thought her elaborate trim was downright silly. Add to that the fact that he wouldn’t know anyone at the show or understand what was going on. But if Bob wanted to make himself accommodating, far be it from me to discourage him.
Once again, Poodles had been assigned a late morning judging time; once again, we had to leave early. The Bob I had known liked to sleep in. He must have suspected that if he wasn’t ready I’d leave him behind, because he was standing by the front door, jacket on, holding two steaming cups of coffee five minutes before the appointed hour.
He’d made one for me, too. Darn it.
Then again, I thought, how hard was it to get to the door on time when you’d only been sleeping at the top of the stairs?
Last time Bob had visited, he stayed in a motel. This time he was planning to bunk with Frank, but the drive had taken less time than he’d anticipated. My brother wasn’t expecting him until after the weekend, and so he’d come to our house first.
It hardly made sense for him to leave, sleep for a few hours, then come right back, Bob had argued the night before. Why not just let him stay?
All I can say is, I must be getting soft in my old age.
Our small house only has two bedrooms, as Bob knows perfectly well since he lived here for two years of our marriage. He’d glanced in my direction hopefully. The glare I sent back could have melted sludge.
Nothing if not able to read the subtle nuances, he’d switched his attention to our son. “How about it, sport? Want to share your room with me? I’ll bet you have a sleeping bag stashed somewhere. Can I borrow it and sleep on your floor?”
We ended up with Bob in the bed and Davey, to his delight, on the floor. I somehow forgot to mention ahead of time that Faith sleeps on that bed, too. As I was closing my door I heard a startled yelp—human, not canine—followed by a fit of giggles from Davey, and I figured that they’d gotten things sorted out.
Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery) Page 4
