Ruff Justice

by Laurien Berenson

  “Go ahead,” Davey told him with a grin. “I’d like to see that.”

  “I’ll just bet you would,” Terry shot right back. He flicked his hand at the assorted Poodles sitting out on tabletops in his setup. “But as you can see, I’m much too busy to give you a demonstration.”

  “My assistant, busy?” Crawford came striding toward us from the direction of the rings. He was carrying a Bichon Frise. “That’s a novelty. Chop, chop. Toy Poodles in twenty minutes. Is the Eskie ready?”

  “Of course.” Terry swept the dog in question up off a table.

  In a maneuver they’d performed a thousand times, Terry and Crawford deftly exchanged one white, fluffy dog for the other. Then the handler quickly left the setup again. Terry popped the Bichon inside a crate and went back to work on his Toy.

  Sam set up the grooming table. Augie hopped on top of it and lay down. Davey opened up the tack box and got out his combs and brushes. Kev sat down in a folding chair with a Richard Scarry book I’d packed in his bag.

  Busy on the other side of her setup, Bertie waited until things had calmed down before beckoning me over. She wasn’t showing nearly as many dogs as Crawford, but with no assistant to help out, I knew she would be running around like crazy all day.

  Bertie was one of the first friends I’d made in the dog show world. Having grown up without sisters of my own, I’d been surprised by how quickly we’d become close. And when—in a thoroughly unexpected twist of fate—Bertie had fallen in love with my younger brother, Frank, we’d become sisters for real. I had no idea how I’d gotten so lucky.

  “You’ll never guess where Peg is,” she said.

  Good question. I stood up on my toes, lifted my head above the crowd of exhibitors, and took a long look around. I knew that Aunt Peg wasn’t showing Coral today. Even so, I was sure she would have arrived before we did. Usually she pounced on us the moment we appeared.

  I didn’t see Aunt Peg anywhere. That was odd.

  Then I dropped my gaze and looked around Bertie’s setup. In addition to the usual profusion of canine paraphernalia, I also saw a portable baby seat and a quilted diaper bag.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Did you bring Josh with you?”

  After Bertie and Frank’s son had been born the previous September, Bertie had taken several months off from the show ring. But by the beginning of the new year, she’d been ready and eager to return to handling. Her client roster had rebounded quickly. Once she was working full time again, Bertie had hired an au pair named Daisy to help out.

  “Yup. Frank has Maggie, and Josh and Daisy came with me. It was Daisy’s idea. That girl loves dogs. She’d come to every single dog show if I let her.”

  “I can understand that,” I said. We all could. “But it still doesn’t explain where Aunt Peg is.”

  “The three of them are over at the rings. Daisy convinced Peg to take her on a tour of the show. Along with expert breed commentary, of course.”

  That was unexpected.

  “And Aunt Peg agreed to that?”

  Bertie looked up. “Sure. Why not? Peg loves lecturing people about dogs. And Daisy is eminently teachable. The two of them are perfect for each other.”

  “Yes, but . . . what about Josh?”

  Bertie grinned. “He doesn’t even talk yet. There’s no point in trying to teach him the finer points of showmanship.”

  I poked her in the shoulder. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Aunt Peg . . . and babies . . . and never the twain shall meet? She adores puppies, but human babies make her itch. When Kevin was little I could barely get her to sit in the same room with him.”

  “Maybe Peg has mellowed in her old age,” said Sam. The setups were close enough that everyone could contribute to the conversation.

  “Or maybe she likes my child better than yours.” Bertie poked me right back. Except that she was holding a knitting needle in her hand and that hurt.

  Rubbing my arm, I stepped back out of range.

  “Poor Melanie,” Terry crooned. “Did you just discover that you’re not the favorite?”

  “Oh pish,” I said, borrowing Aunt Peg’s favorite phrase. “That’s old news.”

  “What’s old news?” asked Aunt Peg.

  Suddenly she and Daisy were back. To my amazement, Aunt Peg was holding Josh. She had the chubby baby cradled under her arm the same way she would have carried a small dog, but Josh didn’t seem to mind. When he saw Bertie his face lit up. He raised both arms and extended them in her direction.

  “I’ll take him,” said Daisy. In her late teens, she was petite and slightly pudgy. A thick fringe of light brown hair was tucked behind her ears. The side of her nose was pierced and she had a small butterfly tattoo on her wrist.

  Daisy whisked the baby out of Aunt Peg’s arms and reached for the cooler that was sitting on top of a crate. “It’s almost time for his bottle anyway.”

  Aunt Peg looked around at the rest of us. “Clearly I interrupted something. Did someone have news to share?”

  For a moment there was only silence. No one cared to admit what we’d been talking about. Then, thankfully, Terry piped up.

  “I know something new,” he announced.

  Nobody was surprised by that. Terry had the biggest ears in town. So he always had the best gossip.

  “There was a robbery last weekend.”

  All eyes turned his way. That was new. Terry looked suitably gratified by our response.

  “Who was robbed?” asked Aunt Peg.

  “Marvin Stanberg. You know, the terrier judge?”

  We all nodded.

  “He was judging last Sunday at Sedgefield, and his house in Trumbull was broken into while he was away at the show.”

  “That’s terrible,” Bertie said.

  “The thieves took his coin collection, some electronics, and a piece of pre-Colombian art.”

  “That sounds like quite a haul,” said Sam.

  “Apparently the police told him that the robbery looked like the work of professionals. The thieves knew just what they wanted and only took the really valuable stuff.”

  “That’s scary.” I blew out a breath. “I assume no one was home at the time?”

  “No. Luckily Marv’s wife, Selma, was at the show with him,” Terry replied. “They’d left a couple of dogs loose in the house—”

  “Rottweilers?” Aunt Peg asked hopefully.

  “Norfolk Terriers.”

  Oh. Not the best watchdogs then. Norfolks would have been more likely to lick an intruder than to bite one.

  “The Norfolks were unharmed?”

  Trust Aunt Peg to think of that.

  “Not only unharmed, but apparently quite happy about the whole experience. The thieves had planned ahead and brought marrow bones to give them.”

  Sam frowned. “Crooks are getting smarter all the time.”

  “Hearing about something like that makes me think I ought to try to convince Crawford to put in an alarm system,” Terry said.

  “I have an alarm system,” Aunt Peg replied stoutly. “It’s five big, black dogs with sharp teeth.”

  As if a Standard Poodle would have been any more help in that circumstance than a Norfolk. Poodles loved everybody. A thief wouldn’t even need marrow bones to make friends with them.

  “I’d imagine the Stanbergs might have thought much the same thing,” said Sam.

  While Aunt Peg and Terry continued to discuss the break-in and Sam and Davey got Augie ready for the ring, I went off in search of Rick Fanelli. I didn’t have much of a description. Tall, skinny, and decent looking for a geek didn’t exactly narrow things down. But Bertie said she thought Rick might show Setters or Spaniels, and using that information I’d found his name in the catalog with an English Cocker.

  Judging for that breed was about to start in ring eight. I got there just as the two Puppy Dogs were called into the ring. There were five entries in the Open class, one of which was listed as being handled by Rick Fanelli. Most of the Open
dogs were already grouped around the in-gate, their handlers wearing identifying armbands.

  Rick wasn’t among them. I hoped his English Cocker wasn’t absent.

  The judged pinned his puppies, and the steward called the Open class into the ring. As I watched the four file through the gate, there was a commotion in the crowd behind me. A man with a dog was pushing his way through the assembled spectators.

  Tall and geeky. It fit. I’d found Rick Fanelli.

  Rick grabbed an armband from the steward and slapped it on his upper arm. Then he dropped his blue roan Cocker on the corner of the mat near the gate. The judge didn’t look happy to have been kept waiting. He took a cursory look at Rick’s dog, then moved to the head of the line and sent the class around the ring.

  I didn’t know much about English Cockers. But no one could go to as many shows with Aunt Peg as I had without absorbing at least some of her freely disseminated wisdom. Soundness, balance, and showmanship were valuable attributes across all dog breeds. So, like most of the other spectators standing ringside, I began to evaluate the class along with the judge.

  Rick’s Cocker wasn’t the worst dog in the class, but in my view it wasn’t the best either. Nor was Rick’s indifferent handling doing his entry any favors. Rick knew the judging routine. He followed the judge’s instructions. But there was no dazzle to his presentation. Clearly missing was that special sparkle that tells the judge, “Look at my dog. He’s your winner!”

  The best you could say about Rick’s performance in the ring was that it was competent. But no one who paid a professional handler to present their dog was looking for competence. The whole point was to get expertise.

  I wasn’t surprised when Rick’s dog placed third out of the four in the class. Rick didn’t look surprised either. He accepted the yellow ribbon from the judge, left the ring, and went striding away. I followed after him.

  Rick’s setup was on the other side of the building. It consisted of only one grooming table and three or four crates. Business didn’t appear to be going too well for Amanda’s boyfriend.

  Rick dumped the Engie on the tabletop as he went by. He shrugged out of his sports coat and hung it on a hanger dangling from the edge of his tack box. Then he snatched up his judging schedule and looked at it with a frown.

  About that time, Rick became aware that I was standing there watching him. He tucked the schedule back in the tack box and said, “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. My name is Melanie Travis. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions if you have a minute.”

  “Melanie Travis,” he repeated. “That name sounds familiar.”

  I should hope so, I thought.

  “I left a couple of messages on your phone this week.”

  “Oh. Right,” he said flatly. “You’re Amanda’s friend.”

  “Not exactly. But I am looking for her.”

  Rick picked up the Cocker and tucked it into a crate. Then he sat on the edge of the table, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, “Why is that?”

  “Amanda hasn’t been seen or heard from since she was at the show last Sunday. Her sister is worried about her.”

  “Abby would be.” Rick looked annoyed. “She’s a piece of work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She and Amanda are twins. You know that, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Abby seems to think that gives her some kind of magical, woo-woo connection to her sister. As well as the right to comment on every decision Amanda makes. It drives Amanda a little crazy, you know?”

  I’m a big believer in catching more flies with honey, so I went with it. “I can see that,” I said encouragingly.

  “Abby is convinced that the two of them ought to be partners in her handling business. She thinks Amanda’s wasting her time and her talent dog-sitting. She’s always on her case about it.”

  “What do you think?”

  Rick shrugged. “I think Amanda has her own life to live. She ought to do whatever she wants. She likes taking care of other people’s dogs. She enjoys going to different houses, looking around at things, and seeing how other people live. Plus Abby’s career is twenty-four/seven. Amanda’s dog-sitting jobs don’t tie her down like that. She likes having the freedom to come and go as she pleases.”

  That was interesting. I leaned against a nearby stack of wooden crates. “Are you saying it’s not unusual for Amanda to disappear for a few days?”

  “When you say ‘disappear’ like that, it makes it sound ominous.” Rick grimaced. “Like Amanda is missing or something.”

  “So she isn’t missing?” I hadn’t expected to hear that. “Has she been in touch with you?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean anything. Amanda and I are both adults. We’re mature enough to give each other space when we need it.”

  I wondered if there was any particular reason why they might be feeling the need for space right now. But I left that for later and said, instead, “You know that Amanda is living above Jasmine Crane’s garage, right?”

  “Sure.” Rick shrugged again. The gesture seemed to be a habitual expression of his feelings. “What about it?”

  “I’m sure you’re also aware that Jasmine was killed last weekend.”

  “I never liked that woman.” Rick’s tone was dismissive. As if his feelings rendered the circumstances of Jasmine’s violent death no big deal.

  “How did Amanda feel about her?”

  “She and Jasmine were friends. They’d known each other a long time. It could be Amanda was upset that she died.”

  You think?

  Rick pushed himself away from the table and stood. “I’d imagine that’s probably why I haven’t heard from her. Amanda might have wanted some time alone to deal with it.”

  “It’s been almost a week,” I pointed out.

  “I guess she’ll come back when she’s ready.”

  My hands clenched at my sides. Rick Fanelli was a supercilious jerk. I wanted to throttle him. Not that it would do any good.

  Instead I said, “My number is in your phone. Will you let me know if you hear from her?”

  “Sure.” Rick flapped a hand in the air to send me on my way. “If I remember.”

  It was hardly a promise. But it was probably as much as I was going to get.

  Chapter 9

  Back at the setup things were moving right along. Augie’s topknot was in and he’d already been sprayed up. Under Sam’s watchful eye, Davey was now scissoring the final finish to his trim.

  Scissoring is an art. It requires an artistic eye, a steady hand, and plenty of patience. When it’s done correctly, a Poodle’s coat will look as smooth as glass. Davey was still learning but his scissoring technique was already better than mine. One day, if he stayed with it, he might even surpass Sam.

  Crawford had won the variety in Minis, then been passed over entirely in Toys. I hoped that didn’t mean it would be his turn again in Standards. But with a major on the line, Crawford was only one of half a dozen professional handlers Davey was going to have to beat today to get the points.

  Augie was a handsome dog and a deserving champion. He was mature and ready to win. But the Standard Poodle ring was always highly competitive. Even if Augie showed his heart out, it would still take a brave judge to put up a thirteen-year-old boy in such strong company.

  Our judge was Mr. Bill Beauman from Tennessee. I was quite certain we’d never shown to him before. As we made our way over to the ring, I asked Aunt Peg what she knew about him.

  “He likes a quality Poodle. And he knows one when he sees one. Augie should be just his cup of tea.”

  That sounded promising.

  “But he also has no patience for games, or politics, or handlers who don’t know what they’re doing. So Davey had better be on his toes.”

  Aunt Peg moved on ahead of me and went to stand beside Augie as the first two Standard Dog classes were judged. Taking Davey’s comb from his armband, she smoothed down the black Poodle’s
already smooth ears. Davey ignored her fussing and focused on the ring.

  My son had his game face on today. When the steward called Augie’s class, he was ready.

  There were nine Standard Poodles in the Open class, enough to fill one side of the large ring. Davey and Augie were right in the middle. As the group got themselves lined up and settled in, Terry—who had his hand cupped around the muzzle of Crawford’s Puppy Bitch—came over to watch with us.

  “Where did you disappear to earlier?” he asked.

  “You are so nosy.” Even as I spoke to Terry, my eyes remained fastened on the activity in the ring. “Maybe it’s none of your business.”

  “I like the sound of that. Do tell.”

  “I went to talk to Rick Fanelli.”

  Terry’s eyebrows rose. “Why would you want to do that?”

  I gave him a quick look out of the corner of my eye. “I needed information.”

  “I can’t imagine why you’d need anything from him.” Terry shook his head. “Rick Fanelli’s an idiot.”

  “He’s an idiot with a missing girlfriend.”

  “Amanda Burke?”

  Of course he would know about that. I nodded.

  Terry snorted under his breath. “If I was Rick’s girlfriend, I’d be missing too.”

  “Shhh!” Aunt Peg nudged me hard enough to nearly push me off my feet. “Pay attention. The judging is about to start.”

  Augie looked just the way I wanted him to on the first go-round. He was alert and happy, and moving beautifully. As Mr. Beauman perused the group gaiting around the ring, his gaze lingered on our entry for several extra seconds.

  That was a good sign. In the show ring, a judge had only a brief amount of time to devote to evaluating each dog. First impressions counted for a lot.

  Augie wasn’t the only Standard Poodle in the class who caught Mr. Beauman’s eye. Crawford’s dog was similarly favored—as were three others, all with professional handlers. Still, Davey and Augie were doing everything right. Now all they had to do was keep it up. I had my fingers crossed so tightly that my hands began to cramp.

  One by one, the judge performed his individual examinations. As he glanced back and forth between the dogs in front of him and those he’d already judged, we could see Mr. Beauman beginning to sort things out in his mind. The class was large enough that he decided to make a cut. Starting at the front of the line, he pulled out five finalists in the order in which they’d been standing. He then dismissed the remaining four dogs from the ring.