Underdog

by Laurien Berenson

  Rick glared down at her, then up at me. “Don’t make accusations you know nothing about. Talk like that will get you in trouble.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “No.” His voice was hard. “I’m telling you like it is.”

  Twenty-four

  “I did something really stupid,” I said. The Poodle judging was over and Aunt Peg and Davey had finally reappeared. My son grabbed Faith’s leash and they began to play. I held a whispered conference with Aunt Peg. “I told Rick what I knew about him and Jenny.”

  “And?”

  “He admitted they’d been having some problems, but denied everything else.”

  “Of course he denied it. I wish I’d been here. Why didn’t you wait for me?”

  As if accusing someone of murder was something you planned to do in advance. “It just happened. I was working with Faith and Rick came over. He tried to give me some handling tips, and I blew up. I know it was a mistake, but the whole situation just makes me so angry. Jenny’s gone, and nobody even seems to care.”

  “I’ll bet Rick cared when you called him a murderer.”

  “He did. And he also said something else that was interesting. He said if he had ever hurt Jenny, it would have happened quickly, out of passion.”

  Aunt Peg looked up. She’d put Peaches up on her table and was spraying the mane coat with a conditioner that would dissolve the hair spray. “That makes sense.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  Both of us frowned at that, but neither had any more input. Aunt Peg got back to work, and Davey and I put on our coats and took the puppy with us outside for a look at the big rigs. When we came back in, the group judging had started. Roger Peterson had already finished doing Hounds. The Non-Sporting group was in, and Sporting was next. Angie and Rick were at their set-up, getting Charlie ready. On the other side; Harry Flynn was working just as hard on his Springer Spaniel. Each group was pointedly ignoring the other.

  I slipped Faith into her crate and took Davey up to the group ring. Aunt Peg was there somewhere cheering for the Poodles; but the crowds were so thick I couldn’t find her. There was an opening on the rail just behind the steward’s table. I moved in close to the ring and picked Davey up so he’d be able to see.

  The Tibetan Terrier had just won the Non-Sporting group, with the Standard Poodle placing fourth. As the sporting dogs came filing into the ring and lined up in size order I realized that several of the day’s judges had taken advantage of the empty steward’s chairs to sit and watch. Roger Peterson was among them.

  A young sandy-haired judge was sitting next to him. The younger man gestured toward Charlie and said, “That’s the dog to beat in this group. I had him myself in Annapolis last summer and he’s every bit as good as he’s supposed to be.”

  Roger Peterson merely grunted.

  “You must have judged him yourself,” said the man pushed, probably hoping to make a good impression on his esteemed colleague.

  “No,” Peterson said shortly. “I haven’t.”

  “But—” The man stopped, his face coloring as he made the connection between them. Neither Angie nor Jenny was eligible to handle a dog in their parents’ ring, and there was no way the Petersons could have judged Charlie. “Listen, I’m sorry . . .”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  The officiating judge sent the line of dogs around the ring. From the beginning, Charlie was a stand-out. The individual examinations began and I shifted my attention back to the two men in front of me.

  The younger judge was squirming in his seat, probably trying to figure out how to make up for his earlier faux pas. Roger Peterson was watching the dogs. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t paying any more attention to his daughter than to anyone else.

  When Charlie’s turn came on the table, the young judge leaned over and whispered, “She does a very nice job with that dog.”

  “Good enough.” Having been prodded, Peterson studied his daughter’s technique. “Jenny was better.”

  Angie swept Charlie down off the table. At the judge’s direction, she gaited the Cocker in a straight line down and back the length of the big ring.

  The younger man tried again. “They make a good-looking team, don’t they?”

  Peterson considered the pair for a moment, then finally nodded. “Angie’s been working at it. Must have been. With Jenny, all that talent just came naturally. Angie always had to work for everything she got.”

  As he spoke, the group judge started down the line, selecting the dogs that would make her first cut. It soon became obvious that if Angie was going to win the blue ribbon, she was going to have to work for that, too. The judge liked Charlie, but she was also interested in Harry Flynn’s Springer.

  As she singled those two out for special attention, the spectators at the ringside chose up sides and enthusiastically applauded their favorites. It wasn’t easy to clap with Davey in my arms, but I managed. The judges sitting inside the ring, remained carefully neutral.

  From my vantage point, I had a good view of the crowds lining the ring. Dirk’s height made him easy to pick out. He was standing behind Florence Byrd’s chair. She was staring intently into the ring, while Rick knelt beside her and whispered something in her ear. When the judge motioned the Springer to the head of the line, all three faces fell.

  The judge placed Charlie second behind him, then stepped back for a last look. There was absolute silence in the hall. The judge lifted her hand—to send them around, I thought—then used it to wave Angie and Charlie into first place. The applause that accompanied the win was loud and sustained.

  Angie looked stunned as she brought the Cocker over to stand near the first-place marker. Immediately her gaze slipped over to where her father was sitting. Peterson was facing forward and I couldn’t see his response. But after a moment he excused himself, stood up, and left the ring.

  Davey still in my arms, I pushed through the crowds and followed. Father and daughter met up in the crush outside the gate.

  “Congratulations,” Peterson said formally.

  “Thank you.” Angie was glowing. “That’s the sixth group I’ve gotten with him. Wasn’t it great?” She sounded like a little girl, hoping desperately for daddy’s approval.

  “Very nice,” Peterson said, but he wasn’t smiling. He reached out to finger the Cocker’s coat. “Watch his top-line. If the Springer’d gotten you, that would have been why.”

  Peterson dropped his hand and walked away. Angie was surrounded by well-wishers, but I knew she had to be hurting. Less than a minute. That was all the time that jerk had had to spare for his daughter. Feeling for her, I hugged Davey to me fiercely.

  “Hey!” he cried, struggling. “You’re squishing me!”

  “Sorry, sport.” I loosened my grip and let him slide to the ground. “Let’s go see if we can find Aunt Peg, okay?”

  It was late and the crowds were beginning to thin out. We located Aunt Peg on the far side of the ring, arguing with Crawford over the merits of a Briard in the ring. Together, we watched through Best in Show. Charlie was a strong contender, but the top award was won by the Doberman. Nobody at ringside seemed surprised.

  We went back to the set-up to pick up our Poodles and head back to the hotel. All around the grooming area, exercise pens were blossoming in the aisles. The air smelled heavily of warm kibble and frozen Bil-Jac. The show was over for the day, but the professional handlers still had hours of work to do. It wasn’t an easy way to make a living.

  As a reward for Davey, we ate dinner at McDonald’s. McNuggets and milkshakes all around. With the Poodles in the cars, we didn’t linger. Our motel was only a mile from the show grounds, but in that stretch of road, Aunt Peg managed to pick out a small pink building with a neon sign that read, “Doughnuts Divine.” Driving ahead of me in her own car, she honked and gestured. Planning ahead for breakfast, no doubt.

  We all went to bed when we got to the motel. It was just as well I was tired, because I fell rig
ht to sleep which meant that the first chance I had to get nervous about showing Faith was the next morning. Early the next morning. The motel must have mixed our wake-up call with someone else’s because they roused us before six. Standard Poodles weren’t scheduled until afternoon.

  We showered and dressed, then gave the dogs a luxurious half-hour walk. On the way to the show, there was plenty of time to stop for coffee and doughnuts. When we reached the show grounds, Aunt Peg and Davey took the Poodles and went on ahead. Since they’d left me to juggle the big pink box, plus a flimsy cardboard tray containing my coffee, Aunt Peg’s tea and Davey’s milk, I followed more slowly.

  Even though it was early, things were already humming in the grooming area. Davey and Aunt Peg had taken the Poodles up to the rings for a practice spin on the mats, so all of our tables were free. I set out breakfast, digging around in the bottom of the tack box for a roll of paper towels to use as napkins.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare, would you?”

  I straightened and looked around. The Shamrock set-up was open, but empty. I turned the other way. Harry Flynn gestured toward the pink box. “Looks like there might be a dozen or so in there. One would sure go great with my coffee.”

  He wasn’t one of my favorite people, but thanks to the fact that Aunt Peg had done the ordering, we did have plenty of doughnuts to spare. I opened the box and had a look. “Is glazed, okay?”

  “Fine by me.”

  I fished it out, wrapped it in a paper towel and handed it over. As I crossed the aisle into his set-up I saw that his coffee was in a big cardboard mug with the words “Doughnuts Divine” lettered on the side.

  “Didn’t stop off myself,” he said following the direction of my gaze. “The girls are outside exing the dogs. One of them must have picked it up for me.” He lifted the mug and took a swallow. “Fresh and hot, just the way I like it. Can’t think why they didn’t have the sense to get some doughnuts too, but I thank you for this one.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, as he took a big bite and washed it down with another swig of coffee. Flynn seemed to be in what for him was an expansive mood. I decided to visit for a bit. “That’s a nice Springer you’ve got.”

  He nodded. “Nicer than he’s getting credit for at the minute. The Cocker’s had everything his own way for too long, if you ask me. Next year, he’ll be out of the way. That’s when Bandit will really take off. Still, I’d like to think I’ve got a shot or two this weekend.”

  “I thought you were going to win yesterday’s group.”

  “Yeah.” Flynn chuckled under his breath. It wasn’t a happy sound. “So did I, for about a minute. I guess that’s how long it took the judge to remember that Florence Byrd was the one who got her on the panel at two all-breeds next spring.”

  I wondered if that was true or not. Flynn sounded so cynical, it was hard to take anything he said at face value. According to Aunt Peg, he’d also been the driving force behind a rumor that one of Jenny’s dogs was dyed. Every breed has its share of persistent malcontents. I decided I didn’t want to spend any more time in the company of this one.

  “Nice talking to you,” I lied. Ingrained manners are a bitch. As I skirted around the crates and went back to our set-up, Flynn was stuffing the last piece of doughnut into his mouth.

  Aunt Peg and Davey returned, and we all stood at attention while the loudspeaker played a tinny rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. At eight o’clock precisely, the show began.

  With plenty of time to kill, Aunt Peg decided to go watch the obedience competition. She offered to take Davey with her, and I settled in a chair with the latest issue of Dog Scene. I saw a picture of Rick winning with a Brittany; and several pages farther on, one of Angie beaming over a group win with Charlie.

  I was reading the gossip page when Harry Flynn passed by on his way back from the ring. It was the thump that made me look up. Walking by the end of the aisle, he’d stumbled into one of our big crates. Flynn was leading his dog rather than carrying it. He righted himself slowly and didn’t look at all steady on his feet.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Flynn didn’t answer. He staggered into his set-up and put the Beagle in a crate. Concerned, I followed. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

  “Don’t feel so good.”

  Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. His fingers tangled in the leash he’d just taken off the Beagle as if he couldn’t figure out how to free them. When I reached to take it from him, his skin felt cold and clammy. Suddenly he sagged back against the grooming table, clutching at his stomach.

  “What’s the matter?” I said. “What can I do?”

  “Get. . .” He pushed the words out with effort. ”. . . help.”

  “Of course. Who?”

  His knees crumpled beneath him. I grabbed for his arm, but Flynn felt like a dead weight. As I tried to help, the handler sagged to the floor. “Doctor,” he whispered. The word sounded harsh and painful.

  Then I was running, out of the grooming area, past the rings, over to the blue draped podium where the officials were sitting. “I need a doctor!”

  Three faces looked up from their paperwork. A man on the end smiled. “We have a vet.”

  “No, I need a doctor! It’s an emergency!”

  “I guess we could make an announcement. . .”

  “There’s a man in the grooming area who’s very ill. He needs help quickly!”

  The official frowned. He looked at the other two as if wishing they could take a meeting. “Maybe we should call the local paramedics.”

  “Yes, please do that. Hurry!” I pointed out where we were. One of the officials went to the phone. Another came with me. We ran together back to the set-up, dodging around crates and busy exhibitors.

  Harry Flynn was right where I’d left him and he didn’t look good. He was still on the floor, and he’d drawn his knees up to his chest. His mouth was half open; so were his eyes.

  The official stopped running so suddenly I plowed right into the back of him. He turned around and firmly pushed me away. Still I was close enough to see as he stooped down and laid his fingers along the top of Harry’s throat, feeling for a pulse.

  “Is he . . . ?”

  “Barely.”

  We stayed with him until the paramedics came. By that time Harry’s assistants had returned. Both were young women, one American, one Japanese. They clutched each other and looked close to tears. The grim looks on the face of the medical team as they strapped an oxygen mask over Harry’s face and lifted him onto the stretcher didn’t help matters any.

  The ambulance left the grounds with lights on and siren blaring.

  Twenty-five

  After that the show went on as usual. Most exhibitors aren’t rubberneckers. There’s a lot of time and money invested in their participation in a dog show, and it would take more than an ambulance to distract them from their business. In this case, the paramedics had done their job so quickly and efficiently, most people seemed unaware that anything unusual had occurred.

  One of Harry’s assistants had gone with him in the ambulance. The other, the Japanese girl, had stayed behind to tend to the dogs. She was brushing a Scottie and introduced herself as Yuko. I asked if there was anything I could do.

  “Bring Harry back?” she asked hopefully, her English limited.

  “Not yet. We’ll hear something later. I’m sure they’re taking good care of him at the hospital.”

  She nodded unhappily and went back to her dog.

  Davey came skipping back to the grooming area, with Aunt Peg following more sedately behind. “Guess what we saw?” my son demanded.

  I lifted him up and swung him onto a crate top. “What?”

  “An ambulance. With sirens and flashing lights and everything!”

  “Oh,” I said. “Right.”

  Aunt Peg’s gaze narrowed. “Is something wrong?”

  “Harry Flynn collapsed.” I told her what had happened.

  “Any ide
a what caused it?”

  “No, but he looked really bad. I hope we’ll hear something soon.”

  When news came, it wasn’t good. By early afternoon, Harry Flynn was dead. I wished someone would mention a heart attack, but no one did. Poisoning was suspected. The medical examiner was going to do an autopsy.

  It was the police who delivered the news; a tall, spare black man named Detective Brucker. He brought a handful of uniformed officers with him. They cordoned off Harry’s set-up and began asking questions of everyone in the area.

  We’d just gotten back from the ring after the judging of Standard Poodles. Faith had shown nicely and beaten two other puppies. Aunt Peg’s bitch, Peaches, had taken the points and gone Best Opposite. We were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves until we got back to the grooming area and found the police waiting.

  When Detective Brucker found out that I was the last person who’d spoken to Harry, he put me at the top of his list of people to see. Peg and I banded the Poodles’ hair out of their way and put them in their crates, then she took Davey for a walk. The detective and I put a pair of chairs in the aisle between the two set-ups.

  We started with the preliminaries, and it quickly became obvious that the information I possessed was woefully lacking. I hadn’t known Harry well; and aside from giving him a doughnut, I hadn’t been paying any attention to him or how he’d spent his morning.

  “You want to talk to his assistants about that,” I told Detective Brucker.

  “We will. But first I’d like to nail down your involvement.”

  My involvement?

  “You arrived at the building at what time?”

  I thought back. “A little before eight.”

  “And you came inside and offered Mr. Flynn a doughnut?”

  “Actually he asked for one, to go with his coffee. He saw the box I was carrying and we had plenty of extras.”

  “What happened to the rest of the doughnuts?”

  “Mostly we ate them. I think there might be one or two left.” I indicated the box, which had been shoved into a tote bag underneath a table.