Chow Down

by Laurien Berenson

  “Wait, wait, wait!” cried Terry. He was striding toward the setup from the direction of the rings. A Chihuahua was tucked securely beneath each of his arms. “Don’t start talking yet. I don’t want to miss anything.”

  “I’ve been talking all day,” I pointed out as he stashed the Toy dogs in their little crates. “You’ve missed most of it.”

  “You missed seeing Eve finish her championship, too,” Aunt Peg said.

  “Gawd!” Terry swore. “Don’t you just hate it when work gets in the way of your good time?” He scooted between the grooming tables and wrapped his arms around me. “Congratulations! It’s about time. You kept us waiting forever .”

  “I was enjoying the journey.”

  “Pish,” Aunt Peg muttered. “You just kept allowing yourself to get side-tracked—”

  “By real life,” I said. “Imagine that.”

  Where dog show people are concerned, there often is no such thing. And most think that’s a perfectly normal state of affairs. Ask any exhibitor who won Best in Show last March in Louisville and they can probably tell you. Ask that same person who the current secretary of state is and you might well get a blank stare.

  “But Eve’s done now,” Sam said. “And she and Melanie are going in the group this afternoon.”

  “You won the variety, too?” Terry leaned in and hugged me again. It was a little depressing to realize that he smelled better than I did. “Good job!”

  “Mrs. Raines liked her,” I said modestly.

  “As well she should have.” Peg was brisk. “Did anyone check and see who’s doing the Non-Sporting group?”

  “Harry Bumgartner,” Terry said.

  “Oh my.”

  “Bad news?” I asked.

  “Harry’s a Whippet specialist,” said Bertie. “He likes his dogs skinny and fast. And he has no idea what to do with hair. The Non-Sporting group just confuses him. He usually goes with the Dalmatian.”

  I knew there had to be a reason why Sam hadn’t entered Tar in the show. But when I’d entered Eve under Charlotte Raines it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d need to worry about the group judge.

  “Never mind,” said Aunt Peg. “Eve has finished her championship in grand style and that’s what really matters.”

  Terry flapped his hand in the air. “Enough about Harry Bumgartner, who has to be one of the least interesting people one would ever meet at a dog show. Back to the Reddings, whom you were about to spill the beans about. Presumably they’re your second set of suspects?”

  I looked at him with interest. “Who were the first?”

  “Dorothy Foyle and MacDuff, of course. You do remember talking about them earlier, don’t you?”

  “MacDuff is a suspect?” Bertie said with a laugh. “That must be one very talented Scottie. Do you suppose Dorothy sent him into the stairwell to trip Larry?”

  “Do shut up,” Terry said pleasantly. “We’re trying to do some serious detecting over here. Melanie has the floor.”

  “Melanie doesn’t need the floor,” I said. “Unfortunately Melanie doesn’t have anything terribly useful to say.”

  “You went and talked to Bill and Allison . . .” He refused to be deterred.

  “And they didn’t have anything useful to say, either. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “Then make something up. Tell us a good story.”

  Aunt Peg glared in Terry’s direction. “Don’t listen to him. And don’t make up a thing. We’re supposed to be looking for clues here, not spinning fairy tales. The Reddings must have seen something. They were there.”

  Murder solving by committee. It was enough to make my head spin. Is it any wonder that Kinsey Milhone works alone?

  “I was there,” I pointed out. “And I didn’t see anything.”

  “You heard Larry, fall down the steps. That’s something. Where were the Reddings while that was happening?”

  “They were out in the parking lot. They said they left as soon as the meeting ended. Lisa Kim said she did the same thing. She told the police she was outside when Larry fell, but neither Bill nor Allison saw her there.”

  “Maybe Lisa was lying,” said Terry. I think he watches Law & Order too. “Maybe she was actually in the stairwell with Larry. I’ll bet she’s the one who screamed.”

  “What makes you think that?” asked Sam. He doesn’t really approve of my mystery solving predilection, but sometimes he gets interested in spite of himself.

  “Because women always lie. It’s the nature of the beast.”

  Wrong answer. All four of us glared at him.

  Terry wasn’t even slightly fazed. “Oh, like you think that isn’t true. Try asking any woman her weight. What about dress size? Age? Do you color your hair? Did you buy that on sale? Who ate the half pound box of chocolate I left sitting on the counter?”

  “Women lie sometimes,” Bertie said. Pointedly she ignored Sam who’d begun to snicker. “And what makes you think men are any better? Just try asking a man what sports he played in college. Or when he’s going to mow the lawn. Or whose idea it was to meet the guys for lunch at Hooters.”

  “Hooters?” asked Aunt Peg.

  “Use your imagination,” I told her.

  “I am,” she muttered unhappily.

  “Maybe Lisa was in the parking lot,” Bertie mused, “and the Reddings are the ones who weren’t where they said they were.”

  “Or maybe they’d split up,” Sam offered. “Bill could have been outside with Ginger while Allison was screaming in the stairwell with Larry.”

  “Now there’s a visual to make your hair curl,” said Terry.

  “Not mine,” said Peg. “I’m still stuck on the Hooters thing.”

  I lifted my hands and cradled the sides of my face. “You people are giving me a headache!”

  Aunt Peg leaned over and peered at me closely. “That’s not our fault, you’re just hungry. Eat something, dear, you’ll feel better.”

  The Non-Sporting group was scheduled second to last, which meant that we had to hang around the show nearly all afternoon. Bertie continued to show her clients’ dogs, Aunt Peg wandered off to talk to various other people she knew, and Sam and I gave Eve a breather in her crate and went to watch the judging in other breeds.

  Even though I’ve reached the point where I know quite a bit about Poodles, I’m still a novice when it comes to dogs like German Shorthaired Pointers or Great Pyrenees or Rhodesian Ridgebacks. I could usually pick out the soundest entries but the intricacies of breed type eluded me. It seemed nothing short of astounding that there were judges who were licensed to judge every single one of the A.K.C.’s more than one hundred and fifty breeds. No matter how long I was involved in dogs, I was certain that I’d never succeed in compiling that comprehensive a body of knowledge.

  An hour before our group was due to start, we headed back to the setup. The handlers’ section of the large hall had emptied out considerably. Space had been tight earlier, but now, as exhibitors finished for the day and went home, areas had begun to open.

  My single crate and grooming table had been tucked in beside Crawford and Terry’s much larger setup, with Bertie’s equipment and supplies on the other side. But as Sam and I approached we saw only empty space where the Bedford Kennels setup had been earlier. Even Bertie was packing up for the day.

  “Good, you’re back,” she said. “I was about to start loading up and I didn’t want to leave Eve sitting here all by herself.”

  “I hope we didn’t hold you up,” I said. “I just assumed Crawford and Terry would still be here. I can’t believe they’ve left already.”

  Normally it wasn’t unusual for Crawford to have an entry in at least two or three of the seven groups. On many occasions, he needed to stay through Best in Show. Aside from the event the previous week, I couldn’t remember a time when the professional handler hadn’t remained at a show ground until the bitter end.

  “He and Terry finished with their class dogs an hour ago,” Bertie said.
“Crawford took a Maltese in the Toy group, and then they packed up and left.”

  I leaned against the edge of the grooming table and frowned. “Something’s wrong. This is so unlike Crawford. He lives for dog shows. He and Terry are always the first to arrive and the last to leave at night.”

  “Not only that,” Bertie added for Sam’s benefit, “but he’s been sending me clients.”

  Sam looked back and forth between us. “That doesn’t necessarily mean that anything’s wrong. Maybe Crawford’s just overbooked. I’d imagine plenty of people would love to have a handler with his reputation showing their dogs. It wouldn’t surprise me to know that he has to turn people away.”

  “But that’s just it,” I said. “He’s bringing fewer dogs than ever to the shows. And what happened to all his specials? When was the last time you went to a show where Crawford only went into one group and didn’t even pick up a ribbon?”

  “How old do you suppose Crawford is?” Bertie mused.

  Sam and I both thought about that.

  “Maybe Aunt Peg’s age?” I guessed. “Early sixties?”

  “No,” said Sam. “Crawford looks great for his age but he’s older than that. I think he might be approaching seventy.”

  “Wow,” I exhaled slowly. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

  “Funny thing is,” said Bertie, “a couple of years ago it looked like Crawford’s career was beginning to wind down. He just didn’t have the same oomph he’d had earlier. But then Terry came along and it was as though he’d gotten a second wind. Maybe this time he really is getting ready to retire.”

  “Don’t you think he’d have said something?” I asked.

  “Crawford?” Sam shook his head. “He’s about as private as they come. The last thing he would want would be for people to make any sort of fuss over him.”

  “Precisely,” I said, “and that’s what worries me. Look at what’s been going on recently. Crawford’s been working half days and showing only little dogs. He doesn’t spend any time socializing with us and when he is around he acts like a real bear.”

  “Who’s a real bear?” Aunt Peg asked. Heading our way across the grooming area, she was eating a powdered doughnut, carrying two shopping bags, and frowning at Eve, who was still lying in her crate. “And why isn’t that Poodle out on a table getting ready for the group?”

  “We were getting to that,” said Sam. He leaned down to remedy the situation, flipping the latch on Eve’s metal door, then catching her deftly as she leapt out into the aisle.

  “No you weren’t,” Peg replied. “You were talking again. Who’s the unlucky subject this time?”

  “Crawford,” I told her. “We’re hoping he’s all right.”

  “Of course he’s all right,” Peg said briskly. She polished off the last of the doughnut and dusted off her hands. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  I gestured toward the empty space that earlier had been filled by the Bedford Kennels setup. “Because all of a sudden, he seems to be taking things pretty easy.”

  “So? He’s entitled.”

  “Of course he’s entitled,” said Bertie. “He can do whatever he wants—”

  “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to know that you think so.” Aunt Peg watched as Sam hoisted Eve onto the grooming table. Her practiced eye skimmed over the Poodle’s topknot, deciding what needed to be repaired.

  “That’s not the point,” I said. My aunt was being deliberately obtuse. “I’m worried about Crawford. He loves being a handler. Dog shows are his whole life. I just wouldn’t want to think that anything is wrong—”

  “Then don’t think it.” Peg’s tone was short. She picked up a comb and a can of hair spray and began the delicate task of smoothing Eve’s topknot back into place. “Nobody asked you to. Crawford doesn’t want anyone worrying about him, and why should he? There’s nothing the matter. Nothing in the slightest.”

  Case closed. Or at least that was what the others seemed to think.

  Sam retrieved some tools from the tack box; he began to fluff Eve’s tail with a comb. Bertie went back to packing up her things. They all had jobs to do and I just stood there worrying.

  I should have found Aunt Peg’s words reassuring but instead they had the opposite effect. My aunt loves to solve problems. She’s a master at digging around for clues and ferreting out hidden motivations. She’s endlessly curious about what other people are up to and she tends to think that their secrets are fair game.

  So the fact that she didn’t want to discuss my concerns about Crawford was worrisome. It made me think that maybe she knew a whole lot more about the subject than I did. And that maybe what she knew wasn’t good.

  Thanks to Sam and Peg’s dedication to the cause of Poodle pulchritude, Eve looked like a star in the group. Unfortunately, the judge, Harry Bumgartner, didn’t notice. Rather quickly he put up the Shiba Inu, followed by the Dalmatian, the Schipperke, and the Boston Terrier. The rest of us were thanked for our participation and politely sent on our way.

  That small disappointment, however, did nothing to detract from the triumph I’d felt earlier. At long last, Eve was a champion. She was the second I had finished all by myself, and the second produced by her dam, Faith. Those accomplishments were more than enough to keep me smiling for the long drive home to Connecticut.

  16

  That evening, there was another email from the contest committee waiting for me when I turned on my computer. Once again, Faith and I were being summoned to a test of the Poodle’s suitability to represent Chow Down. This one would take place on Tuesday in Manhattan.

  The five finalists and their owners were going to be transported to Central Park where the judges planned to observe how members of the dog food–buying public responded to each of the different contestants. The judges also wanted to see how the dogs comported themselves in a new and unfamiliar environment, as that was something they’d be subjected to regularly if chosen to fill the role of spokesdog.

  I read the email through twice, then sat back in my chair and sighed. It was beginning to look as though my entire summer vacation was going to be taken over by this silly contest.

  “Something the matter?” asked Sam. He walked into the bedroom and sat down on the bed.

  Davey was still with Bob, he wouldn’t be returning until the next afternoon; but Sam wasn’t alone. As usual, he was trailed by a procession of Poodles. One thing about owning a dog: you never lacked for company.

  “Not really. It’s just annoying. Though perfectly predictable, I suppose.”

  “Chow Down?”

  I nodded. “Faith and I have been summoned again. We’re going into the city on Tuesday.”

  Sam leaned forward and read over my shoulder. “It’s an interesting idea, I suppose. But what if you guys don’t draw any response at all? This is New York we’re talking about. Everyone from rock stars to Donald Trump wanders around there on a daily basis. A group of people with five nice looking dogs? Nothing unusual about that. You might not even get noticed.”

  I clicked the email closed and signed off. “I hope we’re not meant to do stupid things to draw attention to ourselves.”

  “And, by association, the product?”

  “Right. That’s what this whole thing is about, after all, publicity. The more buzz the company creates around the product, the bigger the Chow Down launch is going to be.”

  “All those MBAs sitting over at Champions Dog Food are no dummies,” said Sam.

  “And this is only the beginning. Doug Allen mentioned something about a press conference and maybe an appearance on a morning show.”

  Sam reached over, laid both hands on my shoulders, and began to knead the knotted muscles gently. “I’d imagine the contest committee must be thrilled at the extra press they’re getting from the coverage of Larry Kim’s death. Now that the police have finally decided to open an investigation, the papers have been all over the story. And every time some reporter writes a piece about it, they mention Champions Dog
Food and the Chow Down contest.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s the kind of attention they were hoping for.”

  “I disagree,” said Sam. “What those marketing types really want is brand recognition. And that involves getting their name in front of the public as often as possible. The context isn’t nearly as important as the fact that it’s there. People tend to skip over ads and commercials but they read news stories. They want to feel like they’re staying informed.

  “This kind of press is like gold for the Champions Company. Larry Kim died at their headquarters, but not through any negligence or wrongdoing on their part. Chow Down wasn’t to blame, it just happened to be in the vicinity. That puts them in the enviable position of receiving lots of free publicity with virtually no downside.”

  Sam was probably right, I realized. And now that the press had begun to pay attention to the story they probably wouldn’t let go of it any time soon. Reporters from more than one paper had already noticed that the tale had several great hooks: a grieving widow, a cute little dog, and the fact that Larry had been on the premises to compete in a contest for Chow Down dog food.

  “It’s a win-win situation for Champions,” said Sam. “Of course they’d deny in public that they’re capitalizing on Larry’s death. But in private, I bet they’re reading the papers every day and congratulating each other on how lucky they got.”

  “Sad to think that somebody’s death could be considered a stroke of luck.” I leaned back and let my husband’s hands work their magic. The kinks in my neck and shoulders were melting away. My bones were turning to liquid.

  I closed my eyes and sighed again. This time there was bliss in the sound.

  “You don’t really want to keep talking about dog food, do you?” I asked.

  “Not if you have a better idea.”

  Oh yeah, I thought. I was pretty sure I did.

  Tuesday midmorning found Faith and me standing in the parking lot of the Champions Dog Food Company, preparing to board a large bus. The vehicle had been procured and customized for the express purpose of conveying the finalists, their owners, and the contest committee into the city. A colorful banner wrapped around three sides of the bus. It featured the Chow Down logo, along with larger-than-life-size pictures of Brando, Ginger, Yoda, MacDuff, and Faith.