Hot Dog

by Laurien Berenson

  Tar, who had just qualified for the Non-Sporting group, would have his picture taken later. Sam and Aunt Peg headed back to the setup, but I lingered at ringside with Eve until Mrs. Lyons took her next photo break. By then, an assortment of Bichons, Lhasas, and Shibas had shown up for the same reason. Finally, our turn came to pose.

  Now that the competition was over, conversation between exhibitor and judge was permitted. As I handed the ribbons back to the judge, who would hold them in the photo, I thanked her for the win.

  “She’s an adorable puppy,” she replied. “I’m sure you’ll do very well with her.” As I reached down to set Eve’s legs, Mrs. Lyons added, “I see you travel with quite an entourage.”

  “Excuse me?” I straightened, wondering if I’d heard her correctly. Was she making an oblique reference to my connection with Aunt Peg?

  The judge nodded toward the other end of the ring. In the rush of showing, and then winning, I’d forgotten all about Jill and Rich. There they were, my own personal camera crew. Legs pressed against the barrier that was meant to keep spectators out, Rich was taping and Jill was speaking into her microphone. Catching my eye, Rich flashed me a thumbs up.

  Quickly I looked away. “I’m sorry. They seem to think they’re doing a story about me. I hope they didn’t get in your way.”

  “Not at all,” Mrs. Lyons said happily. “Are you somebody famous?”

  “No.”

  I was tempted to add that, on the contrary, Jill and Rich were somebody desperate, but the photographer chose that moment to toss his squeaky toy, and instead I braced to hold the puppy in place as the flash popped. I couldn’t help but notice that the judge’s smile was directed just as much toward Rich as it was toward the still photographer.

  Photo session finished, I hustled Eve back to the setup. “Guess what?” I said in annoyance as the puppy hopped back up on her table.

  Aunt Peg, who already had Zeke half undone, removed a comb from her mouth and asked, “What?”

  “I just found out why Mrs. Lyons put Eve up.”

  “Why?” Sam was sitting on top of Tar’s crate, sipping a soda. Since his Poodle had more showing left to do, he’d merely gathered the dog’s long, silky ear hair into rubber bands, then left him, snoozing contentedly, on his table.

  “Because she saw Jill and Rich taping from ringside and thought I was somebody famous.”

  “You?” Aunt Peg laughed out loud.

  “Yes, me,” I grumbled, affronted by her reaction all the same.

  “A point’s a point,” Sam said philosophically. “Take them any way you can get them. There will be plenty you deserve that you don’t win.”

  As any dog show exhibitor will be happy to tell you, Sam was right about that.

  “When’s your group?” I asked.

  He reached over and consulted the schedule. “Third after Sporting and Terrier. They’re about to start any minute.”

  I went to work getting Eve taken apart. Her topknot had to come down and be brushed out, then replaced with the looser pony tails she wore at home. Her ears needed to be wrapped, and her neck hair sprayed with conditioner to dilute the stickiness of the hair spray that had been holding it in place. That done, I offered her a bowl of cool water, then ran her outside for a quick exercise in the parking lot.

  By the time I got back, Sam and Tar were heading up to the ring. I stowed the puppy in her crate next to Zeke’s and joined Aunt Peg, who was about to follow. It was hard to ignore the fact that Jill and Rich were still trailing along behind.

  “Tar looks good,” I said as we found our places at ringside.

  Group dogs line up in size order, and Sam had taken the position at the head of the line. A liver spotted Dalmatian was behind him, followed by a red Chow. The black Standard Poodle stood on tight, high feet. His neck arched as he surveyed the competition disdainfully.

  “So does Sam,” Aunt Peg mentioned.

  I knew she was dying for me to respond. So help me, I couldn’t think of a thing to say. In the ring, the handlers stood up and the dogs began the first go-round.

  “I gather you haven’t forgiven him yet.”

  “Would you?” I asked pointedly. I’d expected a quick answer and was surprised when she hesitated. Sam had never been able to do anything wrong in Aunt Peg’s eyes.

  “I don’t know,” she said finally. “But then again, the whole point is that you’re not me. You’re a kinder person than I am, you always have been. Somehow I expected this would all blow over when Sam came to his senses and returned.”

  Me? Kind? Only in the comparison, I thought. Next to Aunt Peg, a grizzly bear had softer moments.

  “One piece of advice,” said Peg. “I know you don’t want it, but you’re getting it anyway. Someday the two of you are going to get back together. I know it, you know it, and Sam knows it too. Don’t make him wait too long.”

  There’s nothing longer than the drive home from a dog show where you’ve lost. The aura of accomplishment that follows winning, however, makes the miles seem to fly by. Even though it was only one point, Eve was now officially started toward her championship.

  Not only that, but I had progressed from being a novice exhibitor, who could—on a lucky day—put points on a beautiful bitch that someone else had bred and coached her to show, to being a fledgling breeder who was capable of presenting her own stock creditably enough to get noticed from the Puppy Class. It felt like quite a coup.

  Tar had put the finishing touch on our good day by taking third in the Non-Sporting group. The win was duly recorded from ringside by Rich. I’d fully expected Jill Prescott to lose interest as the dog show day wore on. Instead, she and her cameraman had stuck it out until the very end. Indeed, several times during the trip home I found myself examining the cars behind me in the rearview mirror, checking to make sure I wasn’t being followed. There’s nothing like a little paranoia to keep you on your toes.

  Dusk had already fallen by the time we came to our exit on the Merritt Parkway. Eve was asleep beside me, her body curled comfortably in the bucket seat, her black nose resting on her dainty, shaved front paws. She smelled like hair spray, and conditioner, and very clean dog, an aroma I found as comforting as those nostalgic scents from my youth. As I turned into our neighborhood, Eve lifted her head and blinked her eyes.

  “Perfect timing,” I told her, reaching over to ruffle through the puppy’s thick neck hair. “We’re almost home.”

  I’d figured I’d call Bob when we got in to make arrangements to pick up Davey and Faith. But as we pulled onto our road, my foot eased up off the gas pedal in surprise. Our house, which should have been dark and still, was instead lit up like a neon billboard. Inside and outside, every single light had been turned on. From the end of the street, our small Cape stood out like a beacon.

  Frowning, I let the Volvo coast down the block and into the driveway. What the heck was going on? Had Bob and Davey decided to meet us here? If so, where was Bob’s car? Eve stood up on the seat beside me and began to bark. The noise bounced around the enclosed car, assaulting my ears.

  “Shhh.” I reached over and cupped a hand around the puppy’s muzzle. “Faith can’t hear you yet. You’ll have to wait until you get inside to brag about your day.”

  Because an appearance by Bob and Davey was the only way to explain what I was seeing, I fully expected our arrival to bring Faith racing to the front window of the house. It didn’t.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” I muttered, gathering up some of our stuff. When I opened the car door, Eve leapt over me and ran to the steps. I followed more slowly. Standing back, I stared, perplexed, at the brightly lit house.

  If no one was home, who had turned on all the lights? I was certain I hadn’t left things this way. Though we’d started out early that morning, the sun had already been up. Maybe I’d left on one light in the kitchen, but nothing like this. Aside from the fact that it was overkill, this festival of light had to be costing me a small fortune.

  I joined E
ve at the top of the steps, pulled open the storm door, fitted my key to the lock. And froze.

  Maybe it was power of suggestion: Jill and Rich shadowing me all day until I’d begun to feel a little hunted. Or maybe it was the fact that I do seem to stumble over more than my share of mysteries. Or maybe I was just growing a little more cautious in my old age.

  I pulled the key out of the door and turned the knob. It was locked, just as I’d left it. Dumping my stuff on the stoop, I hopped down the steps and walked around the back of the house. The gate leading into the fenced yard was latched and closed. The back door was securely locked, too.

  Eve, who was happy inside or out as long as she was home and with me, took the opportunity to sniff out a few likely spots and pee. Feeling baffled and more than a little foolish, I surveyed the house from the rear, just as I’d done in front. Everything looked okay.

  Aside from the lights, all was just as it had been that morning when we’d set out. I unlocked the back door and let the puppy bound ahead of me into the kitchen. If there were any intruders, Eve wasn’t too concerned about their presence. She ran directly to the pantry where I keep the dog biscuits, her tail wagging expectantly.

  I stopped just inside the back door and began flipping off switches. Almost immediately, the phone began to ring. Nerves stretched tight, I jumped at the sound and spun around. For no discernible reason, my heart was racing. Breath shuddered in my lungs.

  In the time it took me to recover, the machine picked up. I stood very still and listened. My message played, followed by a beep.

  “Mel?” said a familiar voice. “It’s Bob. We were just checking to see if you were back yet—”

  Of course it was Bob. Who else would it be? Feeling like an idiot, I dashed across the kitchen and snatched up the phone.

  “Bob? I’m here.”

  “Is everything okay?” he said after a pause. “You sound a little strange.”

  “Just out of breath. I ran to get the phone.” It was as good an excuse as any. I pressed the receiver to my ear and began to walk through the house, turning off lights as I went. “Did you and Davey stop over here today by any chance?”

  “At your house? No, why?”

  “All my lights are on. Every one. I’m sure I didn’t leave the place like this.”

  Bob thought for a minute. “You probably left when it was still dark and didn’t realize—”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Maybe you had a short, or a power failure, or a power surge.” Bob’s knowledge of electricity was about as nonexistent as my own.

  “I guess . . .”

  “Everything else all right?”

  “Fine.” I was upstairs now, checking room by room. Everything, even my unmade bed, looked just as I’d left it. Shoulders finally beginning to relax, I headed back downstairs. “Eve won her first point. How are you guys doing?”

  “Davey had a great day. Pam said the kid’s a natural rider. I’ll let him tell you all about it. We’ll be there in ten minutes, okay?”

  “Great.” I hung up the phone, got Eve her biscuit, filled her bowl with fresh, cold water.

  And all while, my thoughts were spinning. I’d had power outages before; power surges, too. They’d never turned on all the lights. But if that didn’t explain what had happened, what did?

  6

  Having followed Aunt Peg’s example and happily devoted the majority of my free time to the sport of dogs, I’ve often wished there was a way to turn my avocation into a career. Unfortunately, unlike my new sister-in-law, Bertie, I lack the talent to be a professional handler. And though I’m now a pretty decent groomer, I’ve only worked on Poodles. Give me a Cocker, a terrier, or a Maltese and I wouldn’t have a clue. As for dog training . . . well, let’s just say, Poodles are easy.

  Fortunately for the state of my bank account, however, I don’t lack for gainful employment. I’m a former special ed. teacher, currently working as a special needs tutor at Howard Academy, a prestigious private school in Greenwich, Connecticut.

  There are many things I love about my job. Among them is the fact that most of the school’s classrooms are housed in a turn-of-the-century mansion that once belonged to robber baron, Joshua Howard. Another is that my students are a lively, intelligent, and highly sophisticated bunch who challenge me every day. But the thing I like best is Howard Academy’s lenient policy toward certain aspects of my life—namely the Poodles. Faith has been coming with me to school for more than a year, and now that Eve is old enough to have basic manners, she’s been accorded the same privilege.

  My students love having the dogs in their classroom. They’re also not above using the Poodles as an excuse to try to avoid work. I figure their antics are a small price to pay for the luxury of not having to leave my dogs home alone all day.

  On Monday, the school day flew by. With temperatures nearing sixty and spring vacation due to start at the end of the week, nobody’s mind was on work. I could hardly blame my students for their inattention. Spring fever was infecting me, too.

  When the last bell rang, I was already packed and ready to go. The Poodles scampered ahead of me, down the corridor and out to the back parking lot. By the time I reached the Volvo, Faith had her front paws up on the side door and was gazing in the window. If I’d have given her the keys, she probably could have unlocked the doors and warmed up the car for me.

  I know what you’re thinking, but Poodles are like that.

  I stopped at home long enough to drop off the dogs and make sure Bob had met Davey’s school bus. The two of them were due at the pony farm for Davey’s second riding lesson. Armed with a list from Pam, Bob and Davey had gone shopping the day before while I’d been in Rhode Island. Upon my return Davey had shown off his new outfit, which included a helmet, paddock boots, and leather chaps.

  He spun around the living room, modeling the ensemble like a runway veteran. Bear in mind, this is my child we’re talking about, the one who thinks it’s okay to wear dirty clothes he finds on the floor if his mother doesn’t get them into the hamper fast enough. Davey is not what you would call fashion forward.

  “Chaps?” I whispered to Bob out of the side of my mouth. “He looks like a cowboy. I don’t know much about horses, but I do know that was an English saddle Willow was wearing the other day.”

  Having secured our approval of his finery, Davey was chasing Faith and Eve around the room. The Poodles seemed mostly unimpressed—they’re not fashion forward either—and Davey’s running was severely compromised by the new outfit.

  “He’s supposed to look like that,” Bob whispered back as the trio of ruffians skidded around our legs. “Trust me. Pam’s instructions were very explicit. I didn’t dare improvise a thing.”

  Much as I would have liked to watch Davey’s riding lesson, I had a prior commitment. A few months earlier, I’d gotten to know a friend of Bertie’s who was running a pet-sitting business. When Sarah moved away over the winter, I’d been reluctantly persuaded to cover several of her clients until they could make other arrangements. In time, all but one had.

  Phil Dutton lived and worked in Old Greenwich, but his job required him to commute to the city twice a week. Mondays and Thursdays his elderly dogs, Mutt and Maisie, were alone in the house for hours. My job was simply to go and break up the monotony of their long day. I let them out and played with them, tuned the TV to a channel they liked, and checked their water and food supplies.

  I’d told Phil several times that he’d be better off with a pet-sitting service that could send someone over earlier in the afternoon. I’d even called around and gotten him some names. But Phil hated to make changes; and he’d decided that Mutt and Maisie were used to me. Since both were sweet old dogs, I couldn’t bear to disappoint them.

  A note on my kitchen counter confirmed that Bob and Davey had come and gone. I let Eve and Faith in from their run in the backyard, refilled their water bowl, handed out biscuits, and headed out.

  My station wagon was sitting in the d
riveway. A light blue Mazda was parked in front of the house. Rich gave me a cheery wave from the driver’s side. Jill smiled her perky smile. I growled under my breath.

  I started to get into the Volvo, then changed my mind and strolled down to the street.

  “Hey,” Rich said as Jill rolled down her window. “Find any dead bodies yet?”

  “If I had, I’m sure you’d have heard about it.”

  Jill made shooing motions with her hands. “Don’t mind us. Just go on about your business. We’re not going to get in your way.”

  They were in my way now, I thought. Sitting there, watching my house. Watching me. I wondered whether they’d been at school earlier when I’d been too busy to notice. I wondered whether I should alert school security.

  Taking such action would probably involve a conversation with Russell Hanover II, the school’s headmaster, the kind of conversation I tried to avoid at all costs. Howard Academy was very well known in the right circles, but when it came to the media, the school kept a deliberately low profile. And when it came to Russell Hanover, I tried to keep a low profile as well.

  “Have you been following me?” I asked.

  I could have sworn Rich started to nod, but when Jill shook her head, he followed her cue. “Not following you,” she said firmly. “Just checking in every now and then, and picking up some background shots. You know, for when the story takes off.”

  “There isn’t going to be a story. Nothing’s going to take off.” Abruptly I frowned. “After the dog show ended yesterday, where did you go?”

  “Home,” Jill answered. “Just like you.”

  Right. If they hadn’t followed me, how did they know I’d come straight home? And what if, rather than following, they’d been leading the way? Was there a possibility they’d beaten me back and . . .

  And what? I wondered. Gotten inside my house and turned on all the lights? What would have been the point? Even to me, the idea sounded pretty far-fetched.