Chow Down

by Laurien Berenson

  What had I been thinking?

  The answer to that was immediately apparent. I hadn’t been thinking, I’d been competing. I’d been polite and acquiescent. I’d answered questions instead of asking them. I’d showcased Faith’s good points to the best of my ability, just like a good contestant was supposed to do. And all I’d gained from that was the knowledge that despite the fact that the details as we knew them didn’t add up, everyone else involved in the contest preferred to sweep the episode under the rug and forget about it.

  I wished I could dismiss my own curiosity so easily.

  That night, I began the arduous task of getting Eve ready to compete in a dog show. Spectators who see the dogs only as they appear in the ring have no idea of the amount of time and effort it takes to get a Poodle ready to compete. In actuality, the preparations begin when a puppy is only a few months old.

  The long mane coat that comprises the major element of a Standard Poodle in continental trim takes nearly two years to perfect. The precious hair on the ears, the top of the head, and the back of the neck is allowed to grow nearly undisturbed from birth. Frequently bathed and blown dry, it’s brushed often enough to keep it from matting and usually protected by banding and wrapping.

  At the age of almost twenty-four months, Eve’s coat was in its prime. I’d devoted countless hours over the previous two years to its care and upkeep. Now, with an additional five or six hours of work on my part, Eve would be ready to enter the show ring over the weekend.

  I’d been spending so much extra time with Faith recently that I should have realized Eve might be feeling a little neglected. Now when I went to set out the grooming supplies, the younger Poodle followed me eagerly into the grooming room. Some dogs hate to be groomed but Eve, like her dam, was a natural show-off. She loved to look her best.

  The Poodle watched as I plugged in the clippers and oiled the blades. It’s about time, she seemed to be saying.

  In our old house, I’d had to do my grooming in the basement. In our new home, there was room for everything. Having been accustomed to a concrete floor, dim lighting, and heat that didn’t always kick in, I now felt like I was working in deluxe accommodations.

  The room Eve and I were standing in was an area off the kitchen, intended by the builders to be a laundry room. Sam had taken one look at that arrangement and exchanged it for one he liked better. Some tinkering with the plumbing had allowed him to move the washer and dryer to a walk-in closet upstairs. The empty space that remained had quickly been converted to a state-of-the-art dog grooming room.

  Thursday night was dedicated to the task of clipping. Eve’s face, feet, and hindquarter all needed to be shaved down to the skin, a deed performed several days in advance, giving the black hair time to grow a short, smooth cover over the silvery skin before the Poodle went in the ring that weekend.

  Sam came in, pulled up a stool, and sat down to keep me company while I worked. He and Davey had been occupied with the tree house all afternoon, and the topics over dinner had ranged from Davey’s upcoming session of soccer camp to why the tomatoes in our salad were classified as vegetables instead of fruit. This was our first chance to do more than gloss over the highlights of my visit to Norwalk that morning.

  “Things must have gone well,” he said. “Faith was looking very pleased with herself when she got home.”

  “Faith always looks pleased with herself. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s a smug dog.” I turned Eve’s paw in my hand, clipping carefully between each of her toes. “Faith was a hit this morning. The only way she could have done any better would have been if she’d deigned to eat the Chow Down dog food they offered her.”

  “She didn’t?” Sam laughed. I knew he was picturing the scene in his mind. And enjoying every minute of it, the fiend.

  “Thankfully she wasn’t the only finalist who found it less than palatable. MacDuff was good, but I gather Yoda was the only one who actually dove right in.”

  “Odd for a Yorkie.”

  “You’d think. But this one apparently loves to eat. Also, I suspect she’d been slipped a sample ahead of time to practice with.”

  “Yoda’s the dog who belonged to the man who died?”

  I nodded. “Larry Kim. His wife, Lisa, plans to continue with the competition. She says it’s what Larry would have wanted her to do.”

  Sam sat in silence and thought about that. I kept working. Finishing with Eve’s second paw, I cooled my blades with a blast of spray, then reached around and picked up the third.

  “Okay, here’s the thing,” he said after a minute’s consideration. “If I fall down and break my neck at a dog show, I don’t want you to simply continue on as if nothing has happened. Don’t keep a stiff upper lip. Don’t go marching into the ring anyway. And for God’s sake, don’t go all out for the win.”

  “No?” I was amused by his train of thought.

  “No way. I want you to dissolve in tears on the spot, maybe scream and rant a little, and tear your hair—”

  “My hair, not Eve’s?”

  “Hell no, don’t touch the Poodle’s hair.”

  “Just checking.” Nice to know that even in times of crisis, Sam had his priorities straight. “This dissolving thing . . . Would that be like the bad witch in the Wizard of Oz?”

  “If you can manage it.” Sam considered the options. “It would certainly be a nice touch under the circumstances.”

  “Okay, I’ll try.”

  I finished clipping Eve’s feet and turned her around on the tabletop so that her hindquarter faced the best light. Carefully, I began to work the clipper blade up her back legs against the growth of the hair. Meanwhile, my husband was apparently contemplating his own demise.

  “Is there anything about this conversation that strikes you as just the tiniest bit strange?” I asked. You know, just to make sure we were on the same page with this life-and-death thing.

  “What seems strange to me is that three days after Lisa Kim’s husband plunges to his death—accidentally or not, apparently still to be determined—his loving wife seems to care so much about the outcome of a dog food contest.”

  “I was wondering about that, too.”

  “Maybe they weren’t such a loving couple.”

  “Hard to say. I hadn’t seen enough of them to have an opinion. Could be though, that her behavior has nothing to do with how she feels. Maybe now, especially with Larry gone, Lisa needs the money.”

  Sam looked up. “How much money?”

  “The winner of the contest is guaranteed a hundred thousand dollar modeling contract as the spokesdog for Chow Down dog food.”

  “You never mentioned there was a payoff like that involved.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “Nope.”

  I nudged Eve’s tail to one side, concentrating on perfecting the circular line around her hip rosette. “The information is on the web site. I guess I just assumed maybe you’d seen it, or that Davey had mentioned it to you.”

  “Davey’s a little hazy on the details when it comes to high finance,” Sam said. “As far as I could tell his major motivation for entering Faith in the contest was getting the chance to see her on TV.”

  “The thing about that contract is that it’s enough of an incentive to give everyone a decent motive. Even without the added bonus of having your dog appear in magazines and on TV.”

  “I wonder what the police are doing,” said Sam. “Coverage in the paper has been pretty sketchy. The first article simply said that they were looking into a suspicious death at Champions’s headquarters. I haven’t seen anything since that labeled it a homicide.”

  “Lisa told me this morning that Larry suffered from vertigo. She thinks he must have tripped and fallen. It sounds as though the police might be buying her version of the events.” I turned off the clipper and stopped and thought. “Suppose Lisa’s right and Larry did fall. Why didn’t the other person who was there with him do something? Or say something? Why didn’t they raise the alarm
?”

  “Good questions.”

  “Instead, I heard a door slam shut. Like maybe someone was running away.”

  Eve, standing between us on the table, was watching the conversation like a third participant. Now she turned and looked at Sam as if waiting for him to reply.

  “Then Doug Allen showed up,” he said, replaying the events as I’d related them to him several days earlier. “He opened the fire door two floors up.”

  “Right.”

  “How soon after Larry fell did Doug appear?”

  I thought back, remembering standing there frozen, then stooping down to catch Yoda as she came flying down the stairs. “Right away. It couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds.”

  “Or maybe it was no time at all,” said Sam.

  I set the clipper down. “What do you mean?”

  “How sure are you that someone actually left and came back through the fire doors? You couldn’t see them from where you were, right? You just heard the doors opening and closing?”

  “Damn,” I said softly.

  Sam was looking very pleased with himself. “I guess that’s why you finally married me,” he said. “So I’d be handy for pointing out things that you miss.”

  “Get real, Driver. I married you for your body.”

  “Oh.” He colored slightly.

  “Besides, you’d recently inherited a small fortune. Maybe I married you for your money.”

  “You didn’t.”

  I grinned wickedly. “Want to bet?”

  “Sure.” Sam reached over and yanked me into his lap. “It seems to me that you started wearing my ring when I was just a poor, struggling software designer.”

  Good point.

  “People will do all sorts of things for money.” I was still thinking about Lisa and the rest of the contestants.

  “Like bump off the competition?” Sam asked, following my train of thought.

  “Maybe.”

  “Why Larry?”

  “Convenience? Opportunity? Or possibly because Yoda was the only one of the finalists that actually liked the dog food? That had to give her a leg up on the rest of us. Maybe whoever pushed Larry down the stairs thought that would eliminate the Yorkie . . .”

  I stopped as something else occurred to me. “Chances are, Larry was holding Yoda in his arms when he fell.”

  “Lucky she didn’t get hurt.”

  “Precisely. What if the killer wasn’t after Larry? What if he was trying to hurt Yoda?”

  “You think maybe Larry died trying to shield his dog from harm?”

  To some people that might have sounded far-fetched. Not to me and Sam. Our Poodles were like members of the family. Each of us would have done anything to keep someone from injuring them.

  “Maybe Lisa was right,” I said. “Larry’s death was an accident and Yoda was the target all along.”

  “If that’s the case, you’d better keep an eye on Faith.”

  As one, our gazes went to the other Poodles, three of whom were lying on the floor near the doorway. A quick glance told me that Sam’s Poodles were all accounted for. Davey was in the living room, playing a video game; I could hear the sound effects from where we were. Faith, no doubt, was in her usual position, lying on the couch next to him.

  “Greed is one of the oldest motives in the world,” said Sam. “And don’t forget something else. If and when the police go looking for possible killers, every single one of the contestants will be a suspect. That includes you, babe.”

  12

  Saturday came and I took Eve to a dog show. Exactly as I’d done dozens of times before. This time felt different, however. Most show days, I’m feeling hopeful about our chances. On rare occasions, I’m already resigned that things aren’t likely to go my way. But that morning, there was a feeling of expectation in the air.

  I had begun showing Eve when she was a young, rambunctious puppy. Dogs are allowed to be entered in A.K.C. shows once they’ve reached six months of age and I had started taking Eve to shows shortly thereafter. In the beginning, we were going mostly for the experience. But even with my inexpert handling, Eve had begun to pile up points pretty quickly.

  By the time she turned a year old, the Poodle had already amassed seven of the fifteen points needed to complete her championship. After that, things had slowed down. For one thing, Eve had had to take some time off to grow into her new adult trim. For another, there’d been a number of changes in my life in the past year, and I’d been too busy to devote as much time as I previously had to showing dogs.

  Another factor was that Aunt Peg had cut back on her own show schedule. At one point, we’d gone to nearly every show together. Now Peg was more involved in agility trials and in handling her own judging assignments. Sam had been specialing Tar, but he’d been picking his group and Best in Show judges carefully. Considering how many less-than-stellar panels kennel clubs managed to put together, that inevitably meant that there were many weeks when the duo opted to remain home.

  One thing I’ve learned over the years about going to dog shows: they’re not nearly as much fun when your friends aren’t there to share them with.

  Showing sporadically, Eve had picked up five more points, including her first, all-important, major. Now, one more major win would make her a champion.

  Davey was spending the weekend with his father, but I’d been surprised to discover Friday evening that both Sam and Aunt Peg had put their other plans on hold to accompany me to the show. I was hoping that that didn’t mean the two of them were assuming I would get the job done. It was one thing to compete in a major entry, and quite another to actually bring home the points.

  Sam and I arrived at the indoor facility in Springfield, Massachusetts, where the show was to be held, in midmorning. Aunt Peg had driven up on her own and beaten us there. Once again, Crawford and Bertie had managed to situate their setups in adjacent rows. Thankfully they’d also saved a little bit of space for me.

  Sam backed his SUV up to the nearest door and we spent ten minutes unloading. Crawford and Bertie were busy over at the rings. Terry was grooming a Bichon Frise. Aunt Peg was hovering in the background. Hovering and looking like she was itching to get to work on something.

  I’d no sooner set my grooming box down than she had it open and was pawing through it, pulling out combs and brushes and lining them up on top of Eve’s crate. Meanwhile, Sam deftly maneuvered me aside and hopped Eve up onto the grooming table.

  All at once, I felt distinctly superfluous. The two of them were setting up shop faster than a grifter at a flea market.

  “Stop,” I said.

  Sam paused fractionally. Aunt Peg pretended she didn’t hear me.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. My eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What are you two even doing here?”

  Sam glanced my way. “Do I need a reason? Last time I checked, I was a newlywed. Of course I would want to accompany my lovely wife wherever her endeavors take her.”

  “That’s so romantic,” Terry said. He thinks every conversation within earshot should involve him. And he has very big ears. His idea of earshot covers a pretty wide range.

  “It’s not romantic,” I said. “It’s a crock.”

  “Melanie! Such language.” Aunt Peg had found all the tools she needed. She laid Eve down on her left side and began to brush through the Poodle’s mane coat in long, even rows.

  “How come neither one of you is showing today?” I asked.

  “Nothing in hair,” Peg replied crisply. Her nimble fingers never even slowed.

  “Too lazy,” Sam said with a shrug.

  “And yet you came all this way just to watch.”

  “And help out.”

  “Help me, you mean.”

  Terry sidled over. “From here, it looks as though it’s Eve they’re helping.”

  His voice carried, as I was sure he’d meant it to. I put a hand to his shoulder and pushed him away. Grinning broadly, the troublemaker retreated back to his own setup. />
  “We wanted Eve to look nice,” Aunt Peg said. “You know, in case she needed to have her picture taken.”

  Only winners had their pictures taken. We all knew that perfectly well.

  I gazed at the pair of them in exasperation. “Are you that confident about our chances?”

  “If they were that confident,” said Terry, “would they both be here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It looks to me like they came to do up your dog for you,” said Terry. “Best of both worlds, if you ask me. You’re here, but you’re getting a day off. If I were you, I’d sit back and enjoy it.”

  “I don’t need a day off,” I said mildly. “And I’m perfectly capable of preparing my own Poodle to go in the ring.”

  “Of course you are, dear.” Aunt Peg kept right on brushing.

  Sam, caught in the act of sliding a comb through the rubber band holding the colored wrap on Eve’s ear and snapping it loose, looked only briefly guilty. Then he resumed working, too.

  The two of them didn’t trust me to do a good enough job, I realized. Sam and Peg hadn’t come all the way to Massachusetts to share my potential moment of triumph. They’d come to make sure that I didn’t blow it.

  Well that was depressing.

  “Oh honey,” said Terry. “Don’t go getting all crestfallen on us. You so do not want to take this personally.” He patted an empty grooming table next to the one he was working on. “Let those two work their magic. You come sit by me and we’ll dish about everybody at the show.”

  I had to admit, the idea had a certain appeal. As did the notion that Eve would look perfect when Sam and Aunt Peg were finished working on her. I wouldn’t have to lift a finger to achieve that effect; all I’d have to do was accept the end of the leash when they handed it to me and walk into the ring.

  Giving Eve’s nose a good-bye pat, I turned sideways, slid through the bank of stacked crates that separated our setup from his and went to join Terry. “Okay, I said. “Do your worst. Who do you want to talk about first?”