Underdog

by Laurien Berenson

  Brucker motioned to one of the uniformed officers. The box and its contents were bagged and removed.

  “We would be who?”

  “Myself,” I said. “My son, Davey, and my aunt, Margaret Turnbull.”

  There was a pause while he took down the names. “What kind of doughnut did Mr. Flynn have?”

  “Glazed.”

  “And were there other glazed doughnuts in the box?”

  “Several. That’s why I gave him one.”

  “And Mr. Flynn was also drinking coffee at this time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you give him that, too?”

  There was something in the deceptively casual way the detective slipped the question in. Surely I wasn’t a suspect?

  “No,” I said, holding my voice neutral. “I didn’t.”

  “Do you know where he got it from?”

  “Harry said he thought one of his assistants must have stopped on the way to the show and picked it up for him.”

  “We spoke with one of his assistants at the hospital.” Brucker consulted his notes. “A Rhonda Levine. She says that neither she nor the other young woman saw Mr. Flynn drinking or eating anything.”

  “They were outside with the dogs at the time—”

  “And that although she did see an empty coffee cup on one of the tables, she had no knowledge how it might have gotten there.”

  I glanced over to the cordoned-off set-up. “Where’s the coffee cup now?”

  “Ms. Levine was cleaning up and threw it out.”

  There were two large garbage cans in the vicinity. I was glad I wasn’t the one who would have to sift through them. “You believe Harry was poisoned,” I said.

  “It’s a strong possibility.”

  “By what?”

  “We don’t know that yet. I understand the dog shows run through Monday. If we have any further questions, will you be available?”

  “My son and I are going home tomorrow night.”

  That occasioned the need for another note. Brucker looked up. “Do you know of anyone who might have wished to harm Harry Flynn?”

  “There were probably lots of people. From what I could tell, he wasn’t a very likable man.”

  “Any names in particular you’d like to give me?”

  I thought for a long minute, then glanced over to the Shamrock set-up. For the moment it was empty. Both Rick and Angie were probably up at the rings. “Yes,” I said finally. “Jenny Maguire.”

  He wrote the name down. “What was her relationship to Mr. Flynn?”

  “Up until six weeks ago, she was a competitor of his.”

  “What happened six weeks ago?”

  “She died,” I said, choosing my words slowly and for effect. “Of arsenic poisoning.”

  That got his attention and he asked a lot of questions, mostly about the circumstances of Jenny’s death and who in Ridgefield had been handling the case. He didn’t ask me who I thought had done it, and I didn’t volunteer the information. It wasn’t that I was trying to shield Rick, only that I couldn’t figure out how this latest development fit into the case I’d been building against him in my mind. What would Rick have had to gain from Harry’s death?

  It was a question I broached to Aunt Peg after Detective Brucker had finished interviewing everyone in the area and moved on to talk to the club officials. His team had dusted Harry’s set-up for fingerprints, sifted through the few belongings there, and were now removing the two big garbage cans from the building. Davey was munching on a hot dog and zooming his matchbox cars in and out of one of the large crates. Though we’d missed lunch earlier, neither Peg nor I had any appetite. We got the Poodles back out of their crates and were breaking down topknots and brushing out hair spray.

  “With Harry out of the way,” she said, “Charlie wins that much more easily. That’s got to look good for Shamrock.”

  “Good enough to be worth killing over?” I asked skeptically. “According to Florence Byrd, Charlie’s going home in a couple of weeks anyway. If Rick wanted to kill Flynn for that reason, he should have done it months ago.”

  “Months ago, Charlie was beating Harry’s dogs handily.”

  “Because Jenny was showing him,” I said, and Aunt Peg nodded. “The poison must have been in the coffee. Harry thought one of his assistants had left it for him. That’s why he drank it. So the murderer has to be someone who was here early this morning.”

  “That doesn’t rule out anybody. All the handlers get here as soon as the building opens to tend to their dogs and get ready for the day.”

  “Rick and Angie were here when we got here. I didn’t see them but their set-up was unpacked.”

  “So was Crystal Mars,” said Aunt Peg. “When Davey and I were walking the Poodles, she was rehanging the banner above her booth.”

  “It sounds like everyone was out and around this morning.”

  “That’s not unusual for a show this size. But I’ll tell you what was unusual, now that I stop to think about it. I saw Dirk here this morning too.”

  “What’s unusual about that?”

  “It’s the first time I’ve seen him at a show when he hasn’t been with Mrs. Byrd. If she wasn’t here, why was he? And if she was here, why? It’s the handlers who need to get a headstart on the day. The owners usually don’t appear until judging time.”

  I reached for my schedule and had a look. “Ascob Cockers went in at noon. I wonder if Charlie won.”

  “He did,” Aunt Peg confirmed. “I saw Angie carrying the ribbon when she brought him back. I mentioned that Harry had been taken ill and she said she’d been wondering where he was. Then she laughed a bit and said she hoped he didn’t improve by group time.”

  “I guess she got her wish.”

  “Did the detective question her and Rick?”

  “He must have.” I smoothed out the long hair on Faith’s ear, wrapped it in a colored plastic sheet, tucked it under and banded it in place. “I told Brucker about what happened to Jenny, and I saw him go over to the Shamrock set-up. Rick was getting ready to show a Bichon and Brucker followed him up to ringside.”

  Faith stood up on her table and began to bark.

  “Cut out that racket!” Florence Byrd said sternly. “Haven’t you ever seen an old lady with a cane before?”

  I quieted Faith as Mrs. Byrd made her way slowly to our set-up. Dirk was nowhere in sight. Aunt Peg opened up a chair she’d stashed between two crates and Mrs. Byrd sat herself down.

  “Well, this is a fine mess,” she said. “Harry Flynn dead, and police everywhere. What is the world coming to? In my day, dog shows never used to be like this.”

  Unless I was mistaken about the amount of winning her dog had been doing recently, this still was her day. If she’d come to complain, I could think of better ways to spend the time. “We were just talking about you,” I said boldly.

  “Really?”

  “And Dirk,” said Aunt Peg, following my lead.

  “We were wondering what time you got to the show this morning.”

  “Just in time to see Charlie win,” Florence said firmly.

  “By then I gather all this business with Flynn was over and done with. I always thought of him as a particularly nasty man. Still, no one deserves to die like that.”

  “Dirk was here earlier,” Aunt Peg mentioned. “I saw him leaving the building before the start of judging.”

  “Dirk had business to attend to. I don’t pry into my employees’ affairs. It’s none of my business and it’s none of yours either.”

  “No,” I allowed. “But it’s something the police might be interested in.”

  “The fact that my driver was in the building this morning? I doubt it. There must have been hundreds of people here.”

  “But not hundreds of people with a connection to Jenny.”

  “What are you trying to say, young lady?”

  Aunt Peg moved over to stand beside me. “I imagine what she’s trying to say is that two people are de
ad, most likely by the same hand. And the sooner this whole thing gets itself cleared up, the better.”

  “The same hand?” Mrs. Byrd’s gnarled fingers clasped the top of her cane tightly. “Does that mean arsenic was involved?”

  “The police don’t know yet. They’re going to be doing an autopsy to find out.”

  “Then it would behoove you not to jump to conclusions, wouldn’t it?”

  Lord, she was making me angry. “I’d rather jump to conclusions, than stand around with my head buried in the sand. You’ve been showing dogs a long time. I imagine you remember the days when people put arsenic in their dogs’ food to improve their coats.”

  “I most certainly do. Fowler’s solution, that’s what people used. You could get it from the druggist. A remarkably stupid practice, if you ask me. Quality care will achieve the same results in the end.”

  “Not everyone has your resources,” said Aunt Peg. “And there will always be people looking to find a shortcut.”

  Mrs. Byrd didn’t appear to be listening. She was staring into the next aisle at Harry Flynn’s set-up. Her face was creased by a perplexed frown.

  “Was there something we could do for you?” asked Aunt Peg.

  “I was just wondering,” she said. “I understand the Springer won his breed this morning. They were judged early, when Flynn was still on his feet.”

  I supposed that was one way of putting it. “What were you wondering about?”

  Mrs. Byrd braced the cane on the floor and pushed herself to her feet. “Are they showing the dog in the group or not? That’s what I came over to see. But there’s nothing going on over there at all.”

  “The set-up has been cordoned off.”

  “I can see that with my own eyes, can’t I? But where are the dogs?”

  Aunt Peg and I shared a puzzled glance. “Rhonda and Yuko must have taken them somewhere,” I said. “Maybe they’ve gone home.”

  “Good for them.” Her thin lips drew into a terse smile. “A little sorting out of the competition never hurts a bit.”

  Unless you’re the one who got sorted out, I thought grimly. Mrs. Byrd reached out with her cane. In the narrow aisle, it thudded off the side of a crate and I quickly cupped a hand around Faith’s muzzle before she could bark again.

  I wondered what business Dirk could possibly have had in the building early that morning. Florence Byrd had told us she’d waited nearly a half century to win the Quaker Oats Award. Now she was this close. How determined had she been to finally get the job done?

  Twenty-six

  After Mrs. Byrd left, I took Davey to the bathroom and for a browse around the many concessions stands. With the application of a little imagination, it’s amazing how many dog toys can double as presents for a child. All right, bribes really. But so far, Davey’d handled the weekend of shows without major complaint. By way of a reward, he ended up with a new ball and a stuffed octopus, both of which he promised to share with Faith. Right.

  When we got back to the set-up, Angie was getting Charlie ready for the group. Like Mrs. Byrd, she kept casting surreptitious glances over toward Flynn’s set-up on the other side of us. Then again, maybe she wasn’t wondering about the competition. Now that word was out about what had happened to Harry, it seemed like half the show had found a reason to wander by and have a look.

  Aunt Peg was sitting in the seat she’d gotten out for Mrs. Byrd. An open issue of Dog Scene lay across her lap. As I drew near, I realized she was talking to Angie about a Standard Poodle in one of the ads. I leaned over and had a look. Neither dog nor handler looked familiar.

  “I’ve heard good things about Trent Parness,” Angie was saying.

  I boosted myself up and had a seat on the grooming table. “Who’s Trent Parness?”

  “A handler in Colorado,” Aunt Peg told me. “Potentially a handler for Charity. Her owners are determined to have someone local.”

  “It’s hard when you sell puppies so far away,” Angie sympathized. “And it’s amazing the way this business has grown. Twenty-five years ago when I started going to shows, everything was so much smaller—”

  “Let me see,” Davey demanded. He marched over and snatched the magazine off of Aunt Peg’s lap.

  “Davey!”

  He ignored my protest and frowned. “It’s only a dog.”

  “Of course it’s a dog,” Angie said, laughing. “It’s a dog magazine. What did you expect?”

  “Cars?” my son asked hopefully.

  “Not likely.” I hopped down and went to look for the bag where he’d stashed his matchbox models.

  “Try page fourteen,” Angie recommended.

  “What’s there?” Aunt Peg asked as Davey flipped through the pages. His counting skills weren’t perfect and it took him three tries to find the right page.

  “Charlie.”

  “Yea!” cried Davey. “A car! Can I cut it out?”

  “Not until everyone’s had a chance to read the magazine,” I said, taking it from him for safe keeping. The ad was one I’d noticed earlier. “Nice picture.”

  Angie was visibly proud. “I got some extra copies from Pat. I’m going to frame one. Rick said I could hang it on the wall in the office.”

  “Speaking of Rick,” said Aunt Peg. “Why is he running?”

  We all turned and had a look. Rick was definitely running our way. “Angie! What the hell’s going on? They’ve called the Sporting group twice!”

  “I thought Hounds were next.” She dropped the brush she was holding, slithered out of her apron and grabbed a wool plaid blazer off the back of a chair.

  “They changed the order. Didn’t you hear the announcement?” Rick swept the Cocker off the table and was already heading back the way he’d come.

  “Keep your pants on,” Angie muttered. She was running a dog comb through her hair as she hurried along behind. “We’ll make it.”

  They did, but only just. By the time Charlie got into the ring, the rest of the sporting dogs had already been around the ring and the first one was on the table being examined. Mrs. Byrd, sitting ringside, looked murderous. Dirk, hovering in his accustomed place behind her, appeared equally grim. I quickly scanned the line of dogs. Harry Flynn’s Springer was nowhere in sight.

  Fortunately for Angie, the judge didn’t take punctuality into consideration. Without the Springer to push him for the win, Charlie coasted to first place easily. I looked to see if Roger Peterson was sitting inside the ring as he had the day before. He wasn’t, but his wife was. I wondered if she’d enjoyed watching her daughter win.

  “Mommy?” Davey tugged at my sleeve. “Can I go play?”

  “With who?”

  “Sarah.”

  I looked the direction he was pointing. With most of the judging finished for the day and all the action concentrated in the group ring, much of the large hall was empty. Crystal’s daughter had brought out a soccer ball. She was dribbling it up and down the mats in one of the unused rings.

  The idea had a certain appeal. After a day and a half of being confined to my side, Davey was sorely in need of physical activity, especially with someone nearer his own age. On the other hand, he was simply too young to be on his own in the big building. Still, it was worth investigating.

  “Come on,” I said, taking his hand. “Let’s go see.”

  “Hi Mrs. Travis.” Sarah smiled and waved as we approached. She shot her ball into an imaginary goal beneath the steward’s table, lifted her hands and yelled,

  “Score!”

  Davey broke away and ran on ahead. He fished out the ball and kicked it back to her.

  “How about taking on a teammate?” I asked her.

  “Sure.” Sarah caught the ball with her foot and sent it flying back.

  “Do you think you’re responsible enough to keep an eye on him for a little while?”

  Sarah cocked her head to one side and planted her hands on her hips. Brown bangs slanted across her eyes. Her expression was a mixture of childish exasperation and
adult resolve. “I’m ten years old, and I’m very responsible. Mom even lets me run the shop at home sometimes.”

  “Then I guess you’re big enough to look out for Davey. Don’t lose him, okay?”

  “Fat chance.” Sarah giggled, watching as my son dribbled away down one of the mats. “He’s got my ball!”

  The Hound group was halfway done by the time I got back. Aunt Peg had saved a spot for me up near the railing and I squeezed in between her and an older man smoking a thin black cigarette. There was a “No Smoking” sign on the wall right across from us but all that nicotine must have impaired his vision because he didn’t seem to notice. By the time the groups were finished, I was feeling distinctly light-headed.

  “I’m going to go find Davey,” I said.

  “You can’t leave now,” cried Aunt Peg. “It’s Best in Show!”

  The Rolling Stones could have been belting out Satisfaction and she still couldn’t have convinced me to spend one more minute standing next to that smoker. I elbowed my way to the back of the crowd jammed at ringside and had a quick scan of the surrounding area. Davey and Sarah were nowhere in sight. They’d probably grown tired of kicking the ball around and gone back to Crystal’s booth.

  Her concession space was on the other side of the big building. With Best in Show going on, the rest of the cavernous space was nearly empty. It was late and the casual shoppers and spectators had long since left. All the booths I passed were closed up tight for the night. Even the lighting seemed dimmer.

  Which is why when I first saw Roger Peterson standing behind the All Natural Dog Munchies booth hugging Crystal Mars, I had to blink twice to be sure. Then I stopped dead. As hugs went, it wasn’t a big deal; more platonic than sexual, and over in a matter of seconds. But the surprising thing was that it had happened at all.

  Peterson stepped back and put his hand into his breast pocket. A small white envelope showed up clearly in the half light. Crystal glanced at it, but didn’t take it. Peterson put it down on the counter and left.

  He cut across through the rings and didn’t notice me standing off to one side. Nor did Crystal, until I drew near. By then, she’d picked up the envelope and tucked it away.