Hot Dog

by Laurien Berenson

  “What interview?” asked Peg. She glanced at her watch and then at me. “Time is passing, Melanie. Keep brushing.” Her gaze swung back to Jill. “Did you say you’re from Norwalk, as in Connecticut?”

  “Yes, KZBN Cable—”

  “What are you doing in Rhode Island?”

  “I looked on the Internet,” Jill said brightly. “And this dog show was the closest, so I figured you’d be here.”

  A somewhat cockeyed assumption, I thought. But then again everything about Jill Prescott from KZBN Cable seemed slightly cockeyed. I picked Eve up, laid her down on her side, and went back to work.

  “You really came all this way hoping to find me?”

  “Of course. And now everything’s going to work out perfectly because we can get some shots of you with your dogs. That’s what you do, right? You show Poodles at dog shows. And you’re a special needs tutor at Howard Academy in Greenwich—”

  “Wait a minute.” My hand stilled. “How do you know that?”

  Jill looked affronted. “It’s not as if I don’t have my sources.” She glanced at Sam. “Is this your husband?”

  “No,” I snapped, then added belatedly, “and it’s none of your business.”

  “Don’t mind me. I’m just nosy about things like that. And I figured since you have a child—”

  “Stop right there!”

  “Yes?” Eve lifted an ear at my tone, but Jill’s smile never even wavered.

  “Who are you and what do you want?”

  For just a moment, she finally looked unsure. Not of herself, I was betting. More likely, Jill was questioning my mental capabilities.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I explained all that.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Try explaining it again.”

  Tar was lounging on his table now, finished except for the final hair spray, which would be applied shortly before he went in the ring. Sam nudged me aside, picked up the brush I’d been using, and went to work on Eve. Thank goodness the puppy didn’t have much hair yet. At the rate things were going, it would be a miracle if she was ready in time.

  “I want to do a story about you for KZBN Cable television.”

  The announcement didn’t make a whole lot more sense the second time she said it than it had the first.

  “Why me?”

  “Well, because you’re a local celebrity.”

  I most definitely was not.

  “You know,” Jill said in a wheedling tone, “with your crime solving and all. You’ve been written up in the newspaper lots of times.”

  Once. My name had been mentioned once. Well, twice if you counted the time I’d gotten hurt in a fire at Howard Academy. But that wasn’t crime solving, it was more a matter of being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “I don’t understand what’s going on,” I said. “Where did you get my name? Why do you know all this stuff about me? I have no idea what producer gave you this assignment, but I can assure you he or she was mistaken. I’m not a celebrity and there’s nothing noteworthy about my life.”

  “But there is,” Jill persisted.

  She turned around and handed her microphone to Rich. Like we were going to be talking woman to woman now. Like we were friends.

  “Look, let me be honest with you.”

  “That would be nice.”

  Aunt Peg lifted a brow at my sarcastic tone. Sam merely grinned and kept brushing.

  “Nobody assigned this story to me. I found it for myself.”

  A throat cleared loudly in the background.

  “All right,” Jill amended, “Rich and I found it together. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get started in the entertainment industry? I went to college and majored in broadcast communications. My credentials are as good as anybody’s. But I can’t even get my foot in the door at the major networks. So I decided to start a little smaller.”

  Presumably KZBN fit the bill. I lived two towns over from Norwalk and I’d never heard of the station.

  Jill tossed her head. The artfully arranged blond hair fluffed and resettled. “So here I am, out in the boonies, working for a pittance, and I still can’t get any on-air time. I want to be a reporter, but all the good assignments go to the people who have been there for years. Years! Let me tell you, I have no intention of devoting years of my life to moving up the ranks at some backwater cable station.”

  “So you decided to speed up the process.”

  “Exactly. That’s where you come in. You’re going to be the story that gets me noticed.”

  “There’s only one small flaw in your plan.”

  Sam had his back to us, but it didn’t matter. I could still see his shoulders shaking. He was laughing, damn him. Even Aunt Peg looked amused by this turn of events.

  “I am not a story.”

  “Sure you are.” Jill’s sunny smile was back. “You’re The School Teacher Mom Who Takes a Bite Out of Crime in Her Spare Time. Doesn’t that sound great? I think that’s going to be my lead.”

  Her perkiness was really beginning to get on my nerves.

  “Listen,” I said. “I understand your problem. But what I still don’t see is why you’ve come to me. There are plenty of celebrities living in Fairfield County. Real ones, like Diana Ross, Paul Newman, and David Letterman. Those are the people you should go after. Not me.”

  Jill hesitated briefly. Her cheeks grew pink. Obligingly, Rich leapt in to fill the silence.

  “Those people also have managers, and publicists, and gated driveways,” he said. “You don’t.”

  Right. I should have known.

  “I guess that means I wasn’t your first choice.”

  “Hell, no,” said Rich. That admission was followed by a yelp as Jill stuck a leg under the grooming table and kicked him in the shin. Maybe she was hoping I wouldn’t notice.

  “You were very near the top of the list,” she said determinedly.

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but like the other candidates who turned you down, I’m afraid you’re going to have to take me off your list. There’s no story here.”

  “There is,” Jill insisted. “There has to be.”

  Let me guess, I thought. This was what it felt like to be someone’s last resort.

  “Melanie?”

  I looked over at Aunt Peg and saw that Eve had her topknot in and Sam was scissoring a finish on her trim. Considering her youth, there hadn’t been that much preparation to do. Still it was nice of Sam to cover for me.

  “I’m going up to the ring to get our numbers,” said Peg. “Be ready to go when I get back.” Figure this problem out, her tone implied. And make it go away.

  I couldn’t have agreed more.

  As she left, I turned back to Jill and Rich. “Look, I don’t have time to argue with you right now. My life is not the story you want, and I’m not going to do any interview.”

  “Fine,” said Jill.

  Her acquiescence came entirely too easily. A moment later, I realized why. Rich and Jill exchanged a look.

  “Backup plan,” said Rich.

  Jill nodded.

  That didn’t sound good.

  I knew I’d probably kick myself later, but I had to ask. “What’s the backup plan?”

  “You don’t have to talk to me.” Jill stepped away, and Rich followed. “In fact, feel free to ignore us completely. We’ll just be over here, blending into the background.”

  “And doing what?”

  “Observing,” said Jill. “That’s all. You’re convinced there’s no story. I think there is. Let’s see who’s right. According to my sources, you have a remarkable propensity for stumbling over dead bodies.”

  If I’d had the time, I might have taken exception to that characterization. Instead, I was busy stuffing my pockets with dried liver and squeaky toys that I would use to get and keep Eve’s attention in the ring.

  “One might even think that you attract trouble,” Rich interjected from his new post on the other side
of the hallway.

  Like that might make me feel better.

  “So we’ll just follow along and keep tabs on how things are going,” said Jill. “And the next time you find yourself in the middle of a mystery, I’ll be the one who breaks the news. I’m not just doing this for myself, you know. My story will make both of us famous.”

  “I don’t want to be famous—” I broke off abruptly as Aunt Peg reappeared waving our numbered armbands and bearing the news that the Poodle ring was running early. Fast judging was often sloppy judging; I could tell Aunt Peg wasn’t pleased. “Then again, maybe you’ll get lucky and my aunt will murder the Poodle judge.”

  “That’s not funny,” Peg snapped. She hopped Zeke down off his table and let him shake out on the ground. Now that she was a judge herself, she felt obliged to conduct herself with the utmost decorum.

  “Who’s trying to be funny?” I asked.

  I patted my pockets and unrolled Eve’s leash. Sam grabbed Tar, and we were off.

  We arrived at the ring in a rush and found our judge having her picture taken with the previous breed’s winners. That gave us a minute to catch our breath and regroup.

  I used my long comb to flip through the silky hair on Eve’s ears. Sam pulled out his scissors and rounded the pompon on Tar’s tail. Aunt Peg put some more spray in Zeke’s topknot. Poodle exhibitors are like gypsies; everything we own follows us around.

  Jill and Rich, I was pleased to see, had found themselves a spot all the way over the other side of the ring. Maybe they really would be content to remain in the background. After a couple hours of that, I’d think anyone would be willing to concede that my life was every bit as boring as I’d said it was.

  For most show dogs, the long road that leads to a championship begins in the Puppy Class. In most breeds, puppies are shown for experience and admired by the judges, but not often considered for points. Not so Poodles. Being a flashy, fast-maturing breed judged on their temperament and animation as much as their physical structure, Poodles do a great deal of winning as puppies. The fact that many people—judges and exhibitors alike—prefer the look of the puppy trim to the two highly stylized adult clips doesn’t hurt, either.

  All of which didn’t help Aunt Peg one bit under Rachel Lyons. The two women locked eyes briefly as Peg led Zeke into the lineup for the first class. Mrs. Lyons managed a tight smile. It’s considered bad form to acknowledge friendships in the show ring. In theory, judging is supposed to be bias-free and totally objective. Nobody really believes that, but we all do a decent job of pretending.

  I watched as Aunt Peg put Zeke through his paces. There were only two puppies in the class. The other was several months older than Zeke and a good deal hairier, but with a plainer face and feet that tended to go flat on the slippery floor. He moved with reach and drive, however, and did not, unlike Zeke, bounce straight up into the air every time his handler squeezed his squeaky toy. Aunt Peg didn’t look entirely surprised to be placed second of two, and she accepted her red ribbon with good grace.

  With no entries in the intervening classes, Open Dogs was next, followed by Winner’s Dog, then Puppy Bitch. Unless the puppy won Winner’s and Aunt Peg had to take Zeke back in the ring to contend for Reserve, he was done for the day. Five hours of driving, at least that much time spent grooming, and all she had to show for her efforts was a scrap of satin ribbon.

  Aunt Peg, however, wasn’t displeased. “For a baby, I thought he acquitted himself beautifully,” she said, rewarding Zeke with a piece of liver from the pouch on her belt.

  Eve caught the exchange and wagged her tail hopefully. Poodles don’t miss much, and staying one step ahead of them requires constant vigilance. I was supposed to be saving her treats for the ring, but I slipped her a small piece anyway.

  “Beautifully,” Sam agreed. His hand lifted and fell, mimicking the puppy’s exuberant leaps. “Especially if Mrs. Lyons wanted to examine him at eye level.”

  “His loss doesn’t bode well for Eve and Tar,” I mentioned. All three of the Poodles we’d brought to the show were quite closely related. “If she didn’t like Zeke . . .”

  “Oh, pish,” Aunt Peg said under her breath. “I doubt if Rachel even formed a coherent opinion of the dog. She barely touched either one of them, did you notice?”

  Now that she mentioned it, I had.

  “You can’t judge Poodles properly if you’re going to be intimidated by hair,” Aunt Peg said firmly. “What’s underneath is far more important than the artful presentation on top. If Rachel had come to me, it’s the first thing I would have told her.”

  “Hear, hear!” Terry Denunzio slipped an arm around Aunt Peg’s shoulder and insinuated himself into our small group.

  Terry was assistant to Crawford Langley, one of the Northeast’s busiest and most successful professional handlers. He was impossibly handsome and totally gay and he reveled in both attributes. He was also charming, funny, and a genius when it came to hair.

  “You weren’t supposed to be listening to that,” Aunt Peg said disapprovingly.

  “Why not? You were right.”

  “Of course I was right.” Peg refused to be appeased. “I was also whispering. Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s not polite to eavesdrop?”

  “Good heavens, no. My mother’s a politician.”

  “She is?” That was news to me.

  “Hey, everybody’s got to do something.” Terry leaned down and kissed Eve’s nose, careful not to touch the lacquered hair around her face and neck. “How’s my pretty girl?”

  “Not above listening to flattery apparently.” The puppy’s tail was wagging up over her back. “Where’s Crawford?” I asked. “How come he doesn’t have any Standards today?”

  “We just brought Minis and Toys. Crawford couldn’t see the point of trying to show anything bigger in a ring the size of a hatbox.”

  The excuse made sense, but I wasn’t buying it. Not entirely anyway. Professional handlers make their money showing dogs. Good venues, bad venues, they’re paid to cope. It’s amateurs like me who usually wimp out.

  “Besides . . .” Terry cast a meaningful glance in Tar’s direction.

  Now we were getting to the heart of the matter. Sam’s dog had recently returned to specials competition after a long layoff and he was ready to win. Fortunately, the judges had been agreeing. In the last month, he’d been Best of Variety every time he was shown and had placed in a number of groups.

  “Don’t tell me Crawford’s running scared?” I teased.

  A handler’s specials dog is his showcase. If they think they’re going to get beaten, they stay home. Of course the whole point was never to admit to such insecurities.

  On the other hand, one of the things I liked best about Terry was his big mouth.

  “Excuse me.” Aunt Peg poked me in the shoulder. Hard. “Not that I don’t find all this chatter entertaining, but are you even marginally aware that Reserve Winners just finished and your class is next?”

  I spun around and had a look. Of course, Aunt Peg was right. Back when I was showing Faith in the Puppy Class, I used to stand at ringside and agonize over each passing minute as my nerves grew taut and butterflies danced in my stomach.

  Aunt Peg’s annoyance notwithstanding, I had to say this was a better system. I took a few seconds to flip my comb through Eve’s neck hair, smooth her ears, and ball my skinny little show lead up in my fist. Then I chucked her under the chin and we went sailing into the ring.

  Time to have some fun.

  5

  It would be nice to think that I accomplished a great feat in winning my Puppy Class after Aunt Peg hadn’t managed to win hers, but since Eve was the only puppy bitch entered, my success was pretty much assured. Like her littermate, Eve was under the impression that the show ring had been created expressly for her enjoyment. Though she did, for the most part, keep all four feet on the ground, my Poodle was hard put to contain her enthusiasm for the task at hand.

  Those familiar with ob
edience trials, where dog and handler work as a stolid team and compliance must be immediate and absolute, have been known to say that breed competition is a frivolous exercise, lacking in training and discipline. Nothing could be farther from the truth. By nine months of age, Eve had learned to stand quietly while being examined by a stranger, to keep her attention riveted on me and my cues despite any number of outside distractions, and to trot at my side on a loose leash with her head and tail held high.

  What she hadn’t yet learned to do was control her natural exuberance. All of which would stand her in good stead as her career proceeded.

  Good judges tend to allow youngsters some leeway when it comes to their behavior in the ring. They know that a puppy who shows like a seasoned campaigner often matures into an adult that competes with all the flair of an automaton. Eve took that leeway and ran with it. So no one was more surprised than I when the puppy cavorted all the way to the Winners Bitch award.

  “Congratulations!” Aunt Peg crowed, clapping me on the back as I emerged from the ring, clutching my purple ribbon and wearing what I imagine was a somewhat shocked expression.

  “How did that happen?” I asked.

  “You brought the best bitch on the day, and wonder of wonders, Rachel found you.” What Aunt Peg politely didn’t mention was that there’d only been two other bitches in the entry, neither one a potential star.

  “Eve’s first point.” I was still somewhat dazed. “From the Puppy Class.”

  It seemed all the more impressive since I hadn’t managed that feat with Faith.

  “You’ll have to have a picture,” Peg pronounced. “But first, back you go for Best of Variety.”

  Sam had already walked Tar into the ring and was setting him up on the mat. The only champion Standard Poodle entered, his was the place of honor at the head of the line. The Winners Dog stood second, and Eve and I brought up the rear.

  The judging was over quickly. Faced with a specials dog who looked the part; a sound, if somewhat unexciting Winners Dog; and a puppy who used the BOV class as an opportunity to flip around on the end of her lead like a recently hooked fish, Rachel Lyons wasted no time in giving Tar the top award. Eve, by virtue of being the only bitch in the ring, was Best of Opposite Sex. That meant I now had two nice ribbons to get my picture taken with.