“Sleep well?” Bob asked now, as we walked out into the cold November morning.
“Very.” An expedient answer, if not entirely true. Not that the truth was any of his business.
I’d left the Volvo in the driveway the night before, parked behind Bob’s Trans Am. Since our one-car garage was crammed with enough junk to host a rummage sale, lately I’d gotten in the habit of leaving my station wagon outside. Most mornings recently, I’d had to allow a few extra minutes to scrape the frost off the windows.
But now, to my surprise, not only were the windows clear, but the engine was running. A steamy cloud puffed out of the exhaust pipe. The car was already warm.
“I got the keys out of your coat pocket,” Bob said. He opened the back door and got Davey and Faith inside and belted up. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Mind? A warm car on a frigid winter morning? That was a luxury, not an imposition. Whatever was going on around here—and clearly there was much I still didn’t understand—I decided I didn’t hate it.
In contrast to the dog show scene of several decades ago, cluster shows—where several kennel clubs get together to hold back-to-back events at the same venue—have now become the norm. I’d left most of my equipment at the show the day before, so that morning we had nothing to unload. My things were just where I’d left them, on the edge of Bertie’s setup.
She, like the other professional handlers, would have gotten to the arena at dawn to feed, water, and exercise her string of dogs before the competition began. By the time we arrived, however, breakfasts had been eaten and ex-pens had been folded away out of sight. The business of putting on a show was once more in session.
“Good morning!” Aunt Peg sang out cheerfully as we approached. “Isn’t this a glorious—”
The words seemed to die in her throat. Actually, judging by the expression on her face, it looked as though a bone might have gotten stuck there. A large one. And she was staring right at Bob.
Bob and I have had a chance to talk our past problems through. He and Aunt Peg aren’t so lucky. I suspect she’s never forgiven him for abandoning me and Davey, leaving us young and alone, with no visible means of support, while he went off in search of a life that looked a little easier.
“Bob,” she said, her voice just this side of civil. “What a surprise.”
“For me, too,” I said, hopping Faith up onto her table. “We got home last night and there he was. Imagine that.”
“Daddy stayed all night!” Davey added helpfully. “It was lots of fun.”
“Indeed.”
Deliberately I turned away and reached for my tack box. I hauled it out and opened it up, getting out the brushes and combs I was going to need. Call me cruel, but Bob was on his own now.
“Nice to see you again, Peg,” he said jauntily.
He leaned toward my aunt, but if he thought he’d succeed in kissing her cheek, he was sorely mistaken. At six feet, she looked him straight in the eye, guessed his intent, and evaded him nimbly. Bob should have been chastened. Instead he grinned.
Uh oh, I thought.
“Just passing through, I assume?” Peg asked.
“Actually, I thought I’d stay a while. Frank invited me to his wedding. I figured I’d come a little early and lend him some moral support.”
“Because you have so much experience in being a good husband,” Peg mused. “How’s your new wife?”
“Gone,” Bob said cheerfully. “Pffft!” He waved a hand through the air. “You know how these things—”
“Bob.” My tone was pleasant; the warning was in my eyes. Goading Aunt Peg is not a game.
I could feel her mounting displeasure from across the aisle. Even Faith was getting edgy. Only Bob seemed oblivious.
“Bob and Jennifer have separated,” I explained.
“Divorced,” he corrected. “Mexico.”
“Even better.” Aunt Peg smiled. “Then you’re free as a bird. You could go anywhere . . . else.”
“I like it here.” Bob leaned against a bank of wooden crates, signaling his intent to stay put. “With my family—”
Abruptly my ex-husband straightened. His jaw fell.
Two guesses, I thought. Either someone had run an electrical charge through those crates, or Bob had just spotted Bertie.
I turned and had a look. Right the second time.
Shar Peis must have been scheduled earlier on Sunday, because Bertie was heading back toward the setup leading Ping and Pong. According to the ribbons in her hand, she’d repeated her wins from the day before.
Bertie’s face was lit by a happy smile. Her hair bounced on her shoulders as she walked. A navy silk dress, fitted through the bodice, looser below so she could run in it, swirled enticingly around her long legs.
“Hot damn!” Bob said appreciatively.
“No swearing in front of Davey.”
Now my ex-husband was speechless. His eyes, however, were huge. I wondered if Bertie ever got tired of having this effect on men.
“She’s headed our way,” Bob managed.
“Of course. Those are her crates you’re leaning against. Would you like me to introduce you to Frank’s fiancée?”
“That’s Bertie?”
His expression alone was worth a chuckle. “Didn’t Frank ever describe her to you?”
“Sure. He said she looked good.”
One word here. Men. You know what I’m talking about.
“Hey,” said Bertie. Her gaze flickered toward Bob, then back to me. “I could have used your help again with these guys.”
“It looks as though you won anyway.”
“The judge liked cleavage,” she confided in an undertone. “One of the few who’d notice.”
“I can’t imagine anyone wouldn’t notice you,” Bob said.
I’m sure he didn’t mean to sound obnoxious. Bertie and I both grimaced anyway. I guessed she did get tired of all the attention.
“It happens.” Her tone was dismissive.
“Bertie, I’d like you to meet my ex-husband, Bob.”
“You’re Bob?” She took a minute to have a good look at him. “I thought you might have horns.”
“They’re in back,” said Peg. “Under the hair. Though now that I check, there seems to be less—”
“Aunt Peg!”
Bob flinched slightly. “You people are tough. What’s a guy have to do to catch a break around here?”
“Maybe take Davey for a walk around the show?” I suggested.
“So you can talk about me while I’m gone?”
“Something like that.” I reached out and squeezed his arm. Probably not the show of support he was hoping for, but all I was ready to offer. “Go sit ringside and let Davey explain to you how dog shows work. You’ll have fun.”
“Sure we will. Davey and I always have fun together. Don’t we, sport?”
“Right, Daddy.”
For the briefest moment, Bob leaned closer. His cheek brushed my hair; his lips hovered next to my ear. I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin.
“We used to have fun, too, Mel,” he whispered, his words meant for me alone. “Think about it.”
6
“What was that all about?” Bertie asked.
Brush in hand, dog on table, I was standing perfectly still, watching Bob and Davey walk away. “I don’t know.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“It didn’t look like nothing.” Aunt Peg removed the pin brush from my hand and began to work. Bertie put both the Shar Peis in their crates. “You’ve gone absolutely pale.”
I sucked in a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Bob reminded me that he and I used to have fun together, too. And he told me to think about that.”
“That’s not good.” Bertie shook her head. “Not good at all.”
“What do you suppose he meant by it?”
Aunt Peg and Bertie both stared at me as though I was nuts.
“I should think
that’s perfectly obvious,” said Peg.
“He wants you back,” said Bertie.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Two minutes ago, he was all but drooling over you.”
“That’s just testosterone. A knee-jerk reaction. It doesn’t mean a thing. But a man who comes all the way from Texas to see his ex-wife—”
“And his son,” I interjected.
“Now that means something,” Bertie continued as if I hadn’t interrupted.
“He came for your wedding. That’s what he said.”
“And you believed him?”
“Well,” I conceded, “he is a little early.”
Aunt Peg flipped Faith over and went to work on her other side. “Six weeks early! You don’t suppose we’ll have to put up with him all that time?”
“He told me he was planning to stay with Frank.” Since Peg was busy brushing, I got out the comb, knitting needle, and tiny colored rubber bands we’d need to put in Faith’s topknot.
Bertie looked thoughtful. “Frank hasn’t mentioned anything about that to me.”
“Bertie? I’ve got something for you, sweetheart!”
The voice, high-pitched and dulcet, belonged to Terry Denunzio, friend, gay guy, and assistant to professional handler Crawford Langley. He strutted up the aisle, a small blue envelope held aloft in his hand. Terry doesn’t seem to know how to walk, but he does sashay beautifully.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” he sang, inclining his face toward each of ours in passing.
“What is it?” asked Bertie. “Someone’s passing me notes now? Have we gone back to high school?”
“Maybe you have a secret admirer,” I said. If the note was from Bob, I was going to kill him.
“No secret,” said Terry. “It’s from Sara Bentley. She was here earlier, showing that little dust mop Tidy Bowl in obedience.”
“Titus,” I corrected.
People who show in breed often think obedience dogs are inferior specimens. People who show in obedience tend to look down on us. Go figure.
“Whatever,” Terry sniffed. “She had to leave, but she asked me to pass this along to you when I got a chance.”
“Thanks. It’s probably something about the arrangements for the wedding.”
“And since I’m here anyway,” Terry continued, “Crawford would like you to know that Wanda Francis is judging like a woman who wants to be first in line at the lunch buffet. Her ring is running early, and if your MinPin misses its class and breaks the major, your name will be mud.”
“Yikes!” Bertie grabbed the envelope and stuffed it into her tack box, then flicked open a crate door and beckoned out a small red dog. “I’m on my way.”
“As well you should be.” Terry grinned after her. There’s nothing he enjoys more than shaking things up.
Reaching down, he cupped a hand under Faith’s jaw. She gazed up at him adoringly. Like all the best handlers, Terry has a wonderful hand on a dog.
“Pretty girl,” he crooned. “Sondra likes pretty. Today’s going to be your day.”
“Don’t say that!” Aunt Peg wailed. Dog shows are the one thing she’s superstitious about. “You’ll jinx us.”
“Not a chance.” His gaze slid in my direction. “Besides you’ve been working on finishing this nice bitch for so long, even the rest of us are beginning to root for you. Ta!”
Terry sauntered off. I couldn’t decide whether his parting shot had been meant as insult or encouragement, which was about par for the course where Terry was concerned.
Between us, Aunt Peg and I put up Faith’s tight show ring topknot, using a knitting needle to part the long, silky hair, and fingers and comb to arrange the bubble of hair over her eyes. Then I sprayed while Aunt Peg scissored. Again. It’s a never-ending process. Meanwhile, Faith had the best job. All she had to do was stand there and pose.
Finally the Poodle was ready. I stepped back and had a look. Gorgeous, I decided. My child was going to be the prettiest debutante at the ball.
With great care, Faith was lifted down from the table, allowed to shake once—lightly—then taken to ringside. The entry had grown since the day before. All the owner-handlers who’d known enough to avoid Derek Hunnicutt were now out in force.
While Aunt Peg primped and worried, defending her charge zealously against anyone who might dare to step into their space and jostle the precious hair, I went and picked up my number. Bob and Davey had found seats on the far side of the ring. Davey waved; Bob flashed me a thumbs-up followed by a self-conscious shrug. He didn’t have any idea what was going on, he seemed to be saying, but whatever it was, he was behind me all the way.
My ex-husband might have been confused, but my Standard Poodle was not. She’d been in the show ring, off and on, for nearly two years now, and she knew exactly what was expected of her. Be pretty, have fun, catch the judge’s eye. And hold it.
And Faith was well up to the task.
Judging dogs is a highly subjective process, and there are many reasons why a particular dog might win on a certain day. Some of them simply have to do with being in the right place at the right time. It’s often hard to tell whether or not the best dog has won since nine out of ten knowledgeable ringsiders generally won’t agree on which dog in the ring is the “best.”
However one thing judges and exhibitors do agree on is that some dogs have a certain indefinable quality that sets them apart. A sparkle, a verve, a “joie de show ring” that makes them stand out from the others like single stars shining more brightly than the rest of the constellation.
“He was asking for it,” you’ll hear judges say afterward. “I couldn’t deny him the win.” Truly great show dogs do exactly that. They watch the judge, they play to the audience, they refuse not to be noticed.
That day, under Sondra Fleischman, it was Faith’s turn. She not only asked for the win, she demanded it as her due.
From the moment we walked into the crowded ring, Faith owned that class. She knew it was hers, and it only took Mrs. Fleischman a minute or two to figure out the same thing. As for me, I wish I could take credit for the Poodle’s superb performance, but I was just along for the ride.
And what a ride it was.
The first time Faith and I won a class against competition, I just about fell over. This time, I was ready to be called to the head of the long line. I accepted our blue ribbon with thanks, then hurried Faith back into position for the Winners Bitch class. This was where the points would be awarded. Until she had defeated the winners of the earlier Puppy and Bred-by-Exhibitor classes, all we’d really won was a scrap of blue ribbon.
Mrs. Fleischman gave the three of us a moment to get organized. Usually, at that point, the judge will take another good, long look. She’ll move the class winners as a group, then separately. She’ll consider her decision with care.
Not that day. That day the choice was so clear that the judge had already made up her mind. She simply walked to the head of the line and pointed. At Faith.
A tiny gesture worth four glorious points. And I was holding a new champion.
Elation poured through me, setting off tiny sparks of sensation that felt like a burst of adrenaline run amok. For a moment, I actually went weak in the knees.
Dimly I heard a shriek from ringside. Aunt Peg, I thought, though behavior of that sort is usually beneath her. Davey was laughing and clapping his hands. Bob fitted his fingers to his lips for a whistle that all but stopped the show in its tracks. My family was proud of us, bless their faithful, long-suffering hearts.
Then I realized that they weren’t the only ones making noise. Terry was there, too, applauding happily even though I’d just beaten his boss for a major that I knew he’d miss somewhere down the line. Bertie had also managed to catch the end of the judging. I saw her slap Aunt Peg on the back. As breeder, Peg was basking in the moment, too.
Even Crawford Langley, leading his Open Bitch back into the ring to try for reserve winners, paused to stick out his hand. “Well done.”
“
Thanks.”
I grabbed Faith and scooted over to the marker, anxious to grab my purple ribbon before the judge changed her mind. Or I woke up and realized it had all been just a dream.
“You have quite a cheering section,” Mrs. Fleischman said, handing me my prize. “And a lovely, lovely bitch.”
“Thank you,” I stammered. “You just finished her.”
“Owner handled?”
“All the way.”
“Good for you. That makes it even better.”
There was scarcely time to pause outside the ring before I had to go back in. Winners Dog and Winners Bitch both compete with the champions for Best of Breed (or, in the case of Poodles, Best of Variety). Crawford was back, too, of course, with a white Standard specials dog that he’d done a tremendous amount of winning with.
This time, it was my turn to stand second to him, but Faith and I didn’t mind a bit. Crawford’s dog was Best of Variety. Faith won Best of Winners and Best of Opposite Sex. All in all, it was a perfectly delightful way to finish her show career.
Back at the setup, Bertie gave me a big hug, slipped Faith a yummy piece of dried liver, consulted her schedule, and began grooming a Bichon. Davey and Bob swooped in, offered copious congratulations—though Bob still didn’t look entirely clear on what had happened—and disappeared again.
Aunt Peg, meanwhile, was busy schmoozing with the other breeders, accepting good wishes from her peers, all of whom knew from personal experience just how hard it was sometimes to get even a good one finished.
As for me, I had Faith up on the table. My face was buried in her coat, her nose was nuzzling my ear. I felt her solid body beneath the silly hairdo and smelled her wonderful clean dog smell and told her, over and over, what a good and patient Poodle she’d been.
“Champion Cedar Crest Leap of Faith,” I said, rolling the title off my tongue. The words had a magical sound. Champion Faith. My first. My best. What a wondrous animal she was. Faith wagged her tail obligingly, pom-pom thumping up and down on the rubber mat.
“Now you’ll have to start thinking about Eve,” Bertie said, watching our love fest with a smile.
“She’s not even four months old!”
“That’s not too young to start her training. Just think, as soon as you get Faith’s coat off, you’ll have another to grow in.”
Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery) Page 5
