Underdog

by Laurien Berenson

  Rick was standing near the front of the room. Angie was at his side. They were talking to two men who looked familiar in a vague sort of way.

  “Sean Summers and his partner, Doug Henry,” Aunt Peg whispered. “They handle terriers. You’ve probably seen them in the group ring.”

  Now that she mentioned it I realized that nearly all the faces in the assembled group were those I had seen at dog shows. Some were exhibitors; others handlers. A few were judges.

  “I heard that the funeral tomorrow is private,” Aunt Peg continued in a low tone. “It’s just as well. The rest of the weekend nearly everybody here will be at work.”

  “There’s certainly a crowd tonight.”

  “There would be. Rick and Jenny are popular, but Roger and Lavinia Peterson lived in the area back when they were handling. Lots of old friends would come to pay their respects.”

  I looked around the room, scanning some of the older faces. “Speaking of Jenny’s parents, which ones are they?”

  “I don’t see them. They live down in Louisiana now. Maybe they’re on their way.”

  Jenny had died Tuesday night, I thought. How long did it take to get on a plane and fly up?

  Slowly we worked our way to the front of the room. Of course we had to pay our condolences, but I was dreading the moment we’d get there. I’m terrible in situations like this; I never know what to say. One look at Aunt Peg and I knew she wasn’t going to be much help. When we reached Rick and Angie, she was staring off in another direction entirely.

  Rick held out his hand and I took it in both of mine. There were shadows beneath his eyes and his Adam’s apple bobbed prominently in his throat, but he seemed to be holding up pretty well. It was Angie, beside him, who looked like she was on the verge of breaking down. Her make-up was smeared as if she’d been crying and she held a wad of crumpled tissue in one hand.

  “Thank you for coming,” said Rick, and Angie nodded silently.

  I wanted to kick Aunt Peg to get her attention. What could she possibly have been looking at? “I was so sorry to hear about Jenny. She was a really wonderful person.”

  Angie sagged against Rick’s side and he reached out as I’d seen him do so often with Jenny and placed a comforting arm over her shoulder. I’d been holding my emotions in check pretty well, but that simple gesture was enough to bring me to the verge of tears.

  “Angel?” he whispered. “Are you all right?”

  Her lower lip trembled. Wordlessly, she shook her head.

  “Do you want to sit down?” I asked. There were chairs all around, although none up here near the casket.

  Ignoring my question, Angie looked up at Rick. “I want to get out of here,” she said. Her voice was low and choked with emotion.

  “I know this is hard, Angel, but we can’t leave—”

  “I won’t stay here. You can’t make me.”

  She sounded like a child and I realized I’d always thought of her that way. She was only a few years younger than her sister but while Jenny had always seemed mature for her age, Angie had retained the youthful demeanor of a teenager. Right now there was enough of the lost waif about her to bring out my maternal instincts.

  “Come with me to the ladies’ room,” I said. “You can splash some water on your face and sit down for a few minutes. It’ll make you feel better.”

  The vague look Angie gave me made me wonder whether she even knew who I was, but obediently she disengaged herself from Rick and prepared to follow me from the room. Rick gave me a grateful glance and turned to the next person waiting for his attention—Aunt Peg, who’d finally managed to get her mind back on the business at hand.

  People parted for us as we made our way out. Angie walked slowly like an invalid. I took her hand in mine and she didn’t protest. Her fingers were cool and limp.

  One of the doors in the hall was marked “Rest Rooms” and I guided Angie there. There was a small sitting area as well as a bathroom. She sank down on an ornate brocade love seat and covered her face with her hands. Over by the counter I found a stack of paper cups and poured her some cold water. She drank only a sip, then put the cup aside.

  The couch was hard and scratchy when I sat down beside her. Clearly it hadn’t been designed for lingering. Though the room was warm, she felt cold, and I found myself rubbing her back.

  “It isn’t fair,” Angie sniffled.

  There was a full box of tissues on the counter. I got up and brought it over. “No, it isn’t.”

  “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to think about her lying there in that box. I knew she was unhappy but. . .”

  I stopped where I stood. “But what?”

  “I don’t know. . .” Angie shook her head forlornly and her ponytail swung from side to side. “I just never thought she’d go this far.”

  My legs felt heavy, like lead. I sank down on the couch. “Angie, what are you talking about?”

  She looked up as though the question surprised her. Instead of answering, she took a tissue from the box and blew her nose loudly. When it became clear she wasn’t going to answer my first question, I tried something a little easier.

  “What was Jenny unhappy about?”

  The girl’s slender shoulders rose and fell. “Just stuff, you know. . .”

  No, I didn’t know, and stuff could mean anything. Or nothing at all. “You mean like what happened to Ziggy?”

  “Yeah, that too. My sister really loved that dog.”

  “Angie,” I said softly. “How did Jenny die?”

  She turned to look in my direction, but rather than focusing her eyes seemed to stare right through me. “She just stood up and fell over. And then she was dead.”

  “But—”

  Abruptly Angie stood. “I’ve got to get back, or Rick will come looking for me. He looks after everybody, you know?”

  She tossed the wad of tissue in the wastebasket and walked out. The door had swung shut behind her before I even thought to move. What had Jenny died of? Aunt Peg had mentioned she’d thought there’d be an autopsy, but I’d forgotten to follow up. Obviously a cause of death had been established, otherwise they couldn’t bury the body. But what was it?

  I found Aunt Peg back in the room where I’d left her. Angie had returned and was once again standing at Rick’s side. She looked somewhat better although still not strong enough for the task at hand. Aunt Peg was over to one side, talking to Crawford Langley, a long-time Poodle handler who lived in Bedford.

  Crawford was one of the first people I’d met in Poodles after Aunt Peg. According to what she’d told me he’d been the top Poodle handler on the East Coast for many years. He’d had the best clients, the best dogs, the best buzz. In his fifties now, he was gradually being nudged aside by a new generation of up and comers, but fighting every inch of the way to maintain his advantage.

  “Hi, Crawford,” I said, joining them.

  “Melanie.” He nodded.

  “We were just discussing Jenny’s parents,” said Aunt Peg. “Crawford’s an old friend of theirs.”

  “Not that old,” Crawford corrected, his gray eyes glinting. “But we did all get started around the same time.”

  “Why aren’t they here?” I asked.

  “They’ve been in Australia, judging. I haven’t spoken to them, but I understand that they’re flying in tonight.”

  Aunt Peg’s connections were legion, but Crawford Langley’s were no less impressive. “Do you know what Jenny died from?” I asked.

  Aunt Peg frowned. “Now that you mention it, we never did find that out, did we?”

  “Rick told me yesterday when I called to find out about the arrangements,” said Crawford. “Somehow Jenny ingested a fatal dose of arsenic.”

  “You mean she was poisoned?” Aunt Peg’s voice rose and I jabbed an elbow into her ribs.

  “Apparently so.”

  I thought about what Angie had said earlier. “How did it happen?”

  “I don’t know,” Crawford admitted. “But
it must have been an accident. Rick didn’t want to talk about it and I certainly wasn’t about to push him. Gossip being what it is in this sport, I’m sure we’ll all get the details soon enough. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to have a few words with Sean and Doug.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said as the handler walked away.

  “I don’t blame you,” said Aunt Peg, looking no happier than I felt.

  I was standing too close to a large arrangement of orchids. Their heavy scent seemed to permeate everything. I took Aunt Peg’s elbow and guided us both a few steps away. “Angie just told me that Jenny was unhappy. Were you aware of that?”

  “Not in a general sense, no.” She thought for a moment. “I mean everybody has days where everything seems to go wrong. And with Rick and Jenny working and living together, it can’t have been easy. Handling’s a high-stress job. The pressure’s always on to produce results. They’re out there week after week, especially with the top dogs. And if they don’t win, well . . . you’d better believe everyone else is keeping score.”

  “But Rick and Jenny were winning, weren’t they? She told me something about a top Cocker . . . ?”

  “That would be Charlie. Champion Shadowland’s Super Charged. He is good. I think he even has a shot at the Quaker Oats Award this year. Of course, now with Jenny out of the picture, that may change.”

  Aunt Peg had been coaching me on how dog shows worked for nearly half a year now. Little by little I was getting so I could understand most of the shorthand. All of the different breeds recognized by the American Kennel Club are divided into seven groups, according to form or function: Sporting, Hound, Working, Terrier, Toy, Non-Sporting, and Herding. The Quaker Oats Award is an extremely prestigious prize given out just before Westminster to the dog in each group that had won the most group firsts during the preceding year. Jenny’s Cocker Spaniel would have been competing in the Sporting Group.

  “Rick will continue to show the dog, won’t he?”

  “I imagine he will. Of course that will be up to Mrs. Byrd, Charlie’s owner, but this close to the end of the year, they’d be foolish not to go for it. Charlie was Jenny’s dog, though. I’m sure the judges thought of them as a team. With Rick, it just won’t be the same.”

  Aunt Peg turned and looked across the room. “I imagine Harry Flynn will be pleased about that. I wonder if that’s why he’s here.”

  A thin stoop-shouldered man was standing off by himself next to a spray of lilies. His wiry hair had receded back to the middle of his head and was graying slightly at the temples. His suit, a drab shade of brown, had been paired with a loud multi-colored tie whose tails hung down below his belt. Despite the two “No Smoking” signs posted at either door, he’d cupped his hand around a lit cigarette he held down at his side.

  “Is that who you were staring at before?”

  “Staring?” Aunt Peg mused. “Was I really? I just hadn’t expected to see him here, that’s all.”

  “Why? Who is he?”

  “Another sporting dog handler. He’s got a Cocker and a Springer of his own and they’ve both been bumping up against Charlie all year. After he’d lost one too many times, I gather he lodged a complaint accusing one of Jenny’s dogs of being dyed.”

  “Dyed? Is that possible?”

  “It’s more than possible, it happens all the time in Poodles and in some of the other breeds as well. The Cocker in question was black, and Harry alleged that the dog had a rather large white spot on his chest that was being covered up. If that was true, the dog would have been disqualified and the AKC would have taken punitive action against Jenny as his handler.”

  “And what happened?”

  “As things turned out, not much. At the moment, the American Kennel Club doesn’t have a testing procedure in place for proving or disproving an allegation like that. And to disqualify an entry simply on the basis of hearsay? I can’t think of anything that would expose them to a lawsuit faster.

  “In the end, there was nothing they could do. The black Cocker quietly finished his championship and went home, while Jenny continued to win everything in sight with Charlie. Of course, there’s been bad blood between Harry and the Maguires ever since.”

  “It does seem surprising he’d come here then, doesn’t it?”

  “After all the years I’ve been showing Poodles, nothing surprises me anymore. I think we’ve stayed long enough. How about you?”

  I nodded and we headed for the door. Aunt Peg has always been pretty crafty and I wondered later whether her sudden desire to leave was prompted by the fact that Harry Flynn was also making a move in that direction. Whether by accident or design, we met at the door.

  “Mrs. Turnbull,” said Flynn, nodding briefly.

  It was clear he intended to keep on walking, but Aunt Peg thrust me forward. “Harry, I don’t believe you’ve met my niece, Melanie. She’s new to showing dogs.”

  He stopped then and looked me up and down. “Nice to meet you. Since you’re new, I’ll offer you a bit of advice. Find another hobby.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so for a moment I said nothing at all. That gave Aunt Peg the opening she needed. “I didn’t expect to see you here today, Harry.”

  “Why not? Just because we weren’t friends doesn’t mean I wouldn’t show up for something like this. Hey, for me this is good times. Besides, I wanted to make sure the bitch was really dead.”

  Well, that turned a few heads. Including mine. Thank goodness Rick and Angie weren’t close enough to hear.

  Aunt Peg drew herself up to her full height which was a good several inches higher than the handler. “If you weren’t leaving, I’d throw you out myself.”

  “I’ll save you the pleasure, Mrs. Turnbull. Maybe some other time.” He was whistling under his breath as he left.

  Five

  Sam Driver returned from L.A. late Friday night. I found that out when he called Saturday morning to see what I was up to. Davey was still off with Frank, Aunt Peg had driven to Camden for a show, and I wasn’t up to anything. Our relationship was new enough however, that I wouldn’t have dreamed of telling him that.

  He probably figured it out anyway when he suggested we take the dogs and go hiking in the woods near his house, and I jumped at the chance. There’s an art to being coy which, unfortunately, I have yet to master. I told him I’d meet him at his house in an hour.

  Late October in Connecticut is my idea of perfect weather. brisk, but not yet cold. In accordance with the plans, I didn’t dress up. Blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and a pair of sturdy running shoes completed the outfit. I have hazel eyes and brown hair that hangs straight down to my shoulders and I didn’t do much with them either. Before I had Davey, I worried about things like that. Back then, I had time. Now my style is pretty much come as you are.

  Sam lives in Redding. In lower Fairfield County we consider this a northern outpost. Compared to the coastal communities, it is sparsely populated and open land abounds. Sam’s house is a contemporary made of glass and shingles. It’s perched on a hillside and surrounded by woods. My ancient Volvo handled the country roads fine, but balked at the steep, unpaved driveway. By the time I’d coaxed it to the top, Sam had heard us coming and was outside waiting.

  When I opened the door, Faith leapt out of the car first. That was partly because she’s younger and faster than me and partly because I took a moment to compose myself. Sam and I have known each other a few months but I still feel a nerve-tingling rush every time I see him. If I were a dog, I’d probably be sitting up and begging. Of course that’s enough to make me want to slow things down right there. Sam doesn’t feel like a fling to me. In some ways, I’d be a whole lot more comfortable if he did. For Davey’s sake, I’m trying to keep my mistakes with men to a minimum. And for the time being, Sam isn’t pushing. So far, so good.

  By the time I got myself out of the car, Faith had already jumped all over Sam and was chasing one of his Standard Poodles around the yard. Though he has half a doz
en, only one Poodle was outside. Charm is the matriarch of the line and Sam’s undisguised favorite. She was black in her youth, but now most of her coat has gone gray. She still had enough energy however, to give my puppy a good trouncing whenever she ventured near. I left them to their play and turned my attention to Sam.

  He looked good. Sam always looks good. He stands an inch or two over six feet, has slate blue eyes and blond hair that usually looks as though he’s just raked through it with his fingers. He was wearing jeans too, with a down vest over a soft brown corduroy shirt. He held out his arms and I walked straight into them.

  That man can kiss. I tipped back my head, closed my eyes, and held on for the ride. When we broke apart, I was feeling a little tipsy. That gave me a good excuse to hang onto his arm as he whistled for the dogs, picked up a backpack, and pointed toward a path leading off from the side of his yard.

  “The foliage is incredible this time of year and the view from the top of this hill is spectacular. It takes about half an hour to hike up. Is that okay with you?”

  “Fine. What’s in the backpack?”

  “Lunch, cold beer, all the necessities.”

  I’ve tasted Sam’s cooking. It’s several notches up from mine. I kicked back, relaxed, and went with the flow.

  The sun was warm on our backs as we crossed the yard. In the woods it was slightly cooler, but still comfortable. The path was wide enough that we could walk side by side. Leaves crunched beneath our feet. The Poodles circled around us, running in and out of the trees, chasing squirrels and checking for deer.

  “How was L.A.?” I asked.

  “Warm, sunny, same as always.”

  “I don’t think I could live there. I’d miss the seasons too much.”

  “Me too. There’s nothing in all of southern California that looks quite like this.” We’d come to a small clearing from which we could see down over the surrounding hills. Vivid splashes of red, gold, and orange formed a mosaic of color over the countryside below us. We enjoyed the view for a few minutes, then moved on.