“Want a bite?”
“No, thanks. I’d better be getting back to the group ring. Ron’s probably wondering where I’ve gone.”
“We’ll see you back there,” I said. “We can all cheer for Leo together.”
The line at the ice cream stand had grown. While I waited my turn, I pondered what I’d just heard. Peg had once mentioned that Ron had been involved with Chows for nearly twenty years. That had to have been longer than he’d known Viv, unless their relationship had started when she was in grade school.
Watching the Pullmans at the shows, I’d gotten the distinct impression that as far as the dogs went, Ron was in charge. So why had Viv claimed to be responsible for a decision as important as who would handle their top winning dog?
Ice cream in hand (or on shirt, depending which one of us you looked at), Davey and I made our way back to the big center ring, where the groups were being judged. In our absence, Toys had come and gone and Midas had coasted to an easy victory in the Sporting group.
I found Aunt Peg standing with Bill and Alicia as the Non-Sporting group entered the ring. Peg took one look at my chocolate-bedecked son and placed him directly in front of her, where she could keep an eye on his sticky hands.
“You had ice cream?” she said, censure clear in her voice. “And you didn’t bring me any?”
“We’ll go back again,” I offered. Now that Alicia had told me she was moving back in with Bill, I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to reveal to either one of them, but I did want to ask Peg about what Viv had said. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Not now. After Non-Sporting.”
The dogs formed a line along one side of the ring, with the biggest in front and the smaller ones to the rear. The idea was to give each dog the opportunity to gait at the speed that suited it best. The Standard Poodle was in front, followed by the Dalmatian. Crawford and Leo were four or five places back. The Chow was larger than the Mini Poodle and the Finnish Spitz, but didn’t move as fast.
“Wow, there’s Terry,” cried Davey, leaning into the ring. Terry was near the end of the line with a Tibetan Spaniel. As my son waved enthusiastically, I grabbed the back of his T-shirt and hauled him back.
“He waved to me! Did you see him?”
Terry had indeed waved. While the rest of the handlers were busy fussing over their dogs so that they would look their best when the judge made her first pass down the line, Terry was gabbing to the exhibitor beside him. He appeared only marginally aware of the dog on the end of his lead. Luckily the little Tibetan Spaniel was stacking itself.
I’ve been coming to dog shows for a year, but the subtle implications of the behavior I see in the ring still sometimes eludes me. “Why isn’t he paying more attention?” I whispered to Aunt Peg.
“Because he’s not supposed to win,” Peg whispered back. No one at ringside talks in a normal tone of voice. It’s too easy to be overheard. Even when what you’re saying seems to be innocuous, it’s safer to keep your guard up. The judge was passing in front of us now, pausing to have a look at the Keeshond that was set up just on the other side of the rail.
Peg waited until the judge had moved on before continuing. “Leo is Crawford’s top specials dog. Obviously he’s the one Crawford is hoping to win with. No handler with a top winning dog would agree to take another special in the same group. After all, he can show only one at a time. I’d guess that the Tibetan Spaniel is a class dog of Crawford’s that got lucky and won his breed. Crawford doesn’t want him giving Leo any competition.”
“Then why show him at all?”
All Best of Breed and Best of Variety winners are eligible to show in the group, but they aren’t required to if they didn’t want to. Group winners, however, are required to compete for Best in Show.
“Maybe his owners are here and wanted to see him in the group ring,” Peg said in an undertone. “Besides, don’t forget that the woman who’s in there judging now is the same one who did these breeds earlier. She liked that Tibetan Spaniel enough to give it the Breed.
“Crawford certainly wouldn’t want to insult her good judgment by not showing the dog. On the other hand, I’m sure he’s told Terry to make sure the dog isn’t a threat. Crawford wants to make it perfectly clear to the judge which of his two entries he intends to win with.”
“Jeez.” I felt frown lines wrinkling my forehead. “I’m never going to get the hang of all this.”
“Sure you will. Another ten or fifteen years of showing and you’ll be an old pro.”
What a pleasant prospect that was.
The Chow prevailed easily, setting himself up for a confrontation with Midas, among others, in the Best in Show ring. While the Hound group was being judged, Peg, Davey, and I went back for another round of ice cream. On the way, I told her about what I’d seen and heard earlier.
“What on earth would Viv and Austin have to argue about?” she asked.
“I wondered the same thing. Viv said it was nothing.”
“Maybe it was.” She didn’t necessarily sound convinced.
“What about the business with Viv and Leo?” I prodded. “Doesn’t that seem odd?”
Sometimes when dog-related things don’t make sense to me, Peg is able to put another spin on the situation and everything sorts itself out. This time, however, her reaction was the same as mine.
“I’ll say it does. I can’t imagine Ron letting her make a decision like that.”
“Maybe he didn’t, and she’s covering for him. Maybe Ron and Barry had a huge fight, and now with Barry dead, he’d just as soon nobody knew about it.”
“My, you have a devious mind.” Peg grinned happily. She likes it when her relatives demonstrate unexpected ability. “I was thinking along less sinister lines myself. Ron’s been breeding Chows for years, you know. His first wife, Mona, was very involved with the dogs and the dog shows.”
As we reached the Häagen-Dazs cart, I reminded Davey that we had apples back at the setup.
“Ice cream,” he said stubbornly.
“You just had ice cream.”
Aunt Peg ended the argument by placing an order for two more ice cream bars. “He’s a growing boy,” she said. “Let him eat.”
“I do let him eat. He can have all the fruit he wants.”
“Oh, pish.” Peg paid the man and distributed the booty.
Once again, it was left to me to remember napkins. “Tell me about Mona,” I said as we started back.
“I don’t think Mona’s the issue, really. It’s just that she seemed to be an equal partner in Ron’s breeding program in a way that Viv isn’t. Maybe there’s a bit of lingering jealousy there. Or perhaps Viv is just trying to make herself seem more involved than she really is. After all, nobody can dispute the fact that the decision turned out to be a good one.”
“I like the big-fight theory better,” I decided.
“Me too,” Peg admitted. “Do you suppose Ron knows anything about guns?”
“These days, it seems as if almost everyone does.”
“I know about guns,” Davey said proudly. He pointed his ice cream bar toward us and moved his finger as though pulling a trigger. “Bang!”
“Great,” I muttered. “What else do you know?”
“Guns are very dangerous. They can kill people. Just like drugs.”
Aunt Peg lifted a brow.
“Just Say No,” I explained. “Hunting Ridge is a very progressive school.”
“I should say so,” said Peg, not sounding entirely pleased about the things her five-year-old nephew was learning.
I couldn’t say as I blamed her. I’m sure I’m not the only mother who finds herself torn between wanting to protect her child’s innocence, and understanding the need to prepare him to deal with the real world.
When we got back to the ring, the Terrier group was just ending. The Irish Terrier collected the blue ribbon and joined the line up for Best in Show. By now the crowds had thinned and I was able to pick out Ron and Viv, who were stand
ing with Terry at one end of the ring. Across on the other side, Austin was with a group of people I didn’t know. It seemed just as well that the two men had the length of the ring separating them.
As the Best in Show judging began, Aunt Peg watched the proceedings with great attention. Unfamiliar with most of the participants, I was less absorbed. Could Ron have murdered Barry? I wondered. What could they have been fighting over that was that important? And if he’d already voiced his unhappiness by moving Leo to another handler, why come back three months later with a gun? The whole thing made no sense at all.
A burst of applause brought me out of my reverie. Peg and Davey were both clapping like mad—Peg, no doubt, because the dog she favored was at the head of the line, and Davey because he hates to be left out. As I looked into the ring, the judge turned and pointed at Leo and Crawford.
Even from thirty feet away, I could hear Terry squeal with delight. And that gave me an idea.
If anyone knew why the Pullmans’ Chow had left Turk’s kennel and gone to Crawford, it was Crawford himself. Getting him to talk, however, was about as easy as teaching a Bulldog to retrieve. In the hustle and bustle of a dog show, I would never be able to pin him down.
A visit to his home might be another matter. Especially if I already had a nice, innocuous reason for being there. Terry’d offered twice to cut my hair. This seemed like an excellent time to take him up on his offer.
Here’s a tip for anyone who wants to pay a visit to a professional handler and is hoping to generate goodwill: go in the middle of the week. Thursday and Friday are spent preparing for the weekend shows, and Monday is the day to recover and get everything put back together. Tuesday and Wednesday are about as close as handlers ever get to a day off. Their dogs still have to be fed and exercised, but the bulk of the work can be set aside for later.
I spoke with Terry Monday night and he told me to come Wednesday morning. He didn’t mention whether or not Crawford would be there, and I didn’t ask. I’d wing it, I decided, and hope for the best. Bedford, where Crawford’s kennel was located, was only a short hop over the state line into Westchester County. Even if I didn’t get to ask any questions, with luck, the haircut would make the trip worthwhile.
Thunderstorms were forecast for late afternoon, but when I dropped Davey off at camp, the day had yet to cloud over. The sky was a vivid shade of blue with only the merest wisps of airy white clouds scudding across the horizon. Faith was on the front seat of the Volvo beside me. Terry had said that Crawford wouldn’t mind if I brought her along.
Of all the kennels I’ve ever visited, Crawford Langley’s is the nicest. It’s set way back from the road on a parcel of land that’s bigger than my whole block in Flower Estates. The house is a white colonial, large and well maintained.
The kennel building is behind the house and looks as though it was designed to match. Runs spread out from either side: covered, to the left; uncovered, to the right. In addition, several acres of land have been fenced off into a series of large paddocks.
As I parked beneath the spreading branches of a beautiful old maple tree, two Standard Poodles were busy entertaining themselves by chasing each other along the chain-link fence in their adjoining paddocks. Fence running, it’s called, and it’s a wonderful source of exercise. Immediately Faith stood up and pricked her ears.
“You want to join them, don’t you?”
Her paws did a little dance on the seat. Faith didn’t need to know how to talk. Her method of communication made her feelings perfectly clear.
I slipped the looped end of the lead over her head and hopped her out of the car. Being a Standard Poodle, Faith’s manners are impeccable. But as I led her to the house, she was still casting envious glances back at the two playing Poodles.
Terry answered the door wearing cutoff denim shorts and a loose tank top. His feet were encased in a battered pair of Top-Siders and he hadn’t bothered to shave. Don Johnson has to try to look this good. On Terry, it just seemed to come naturally.
“Welcome,” he said. “Come on in.”
Faith whined softly under her breath. Terry glanced at her, then out into the field, then up at me. “It’s your choice. She can come inside with us, or I can set her up out there in the empty paddock.”
Faith leapt up in the air and placed her front paws on Terry’s chest. “Paddock it is,” he said.
At least they’d pretended to consult me.
Five minutes later, Faith was happily fence running with the other Standard Poodles. Terry had checked to make sure that the water bucket in the paddock was full. I’d looked at the angle of the sun and decided that one end of the paddock would remain shaded for at least another hour. We left Faith making new friends and went inside.
“Come on in the kitchen.” Terry led the way through the back door. “Crawford is such a neat freak. If we’re going to make a mess, we may as well do it someplace he never goes.”
“I heard that,” said Crawford. He was pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter. Like Terry, he was dressed casually. Even so, his khakis were creased and his hair was neatly combed. “Are you implying I can’t cook?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Terry pulled out a chair from a bleached wood table beside a window and invited me to sit. “You heat up Lean Cuisine better than almost anyone I know.”
Crawford ignored him, directing his next question to me. “The boy wonder tells me you’re letting him cut your hair. Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“I’ve heard he’s very good,” I said, hoping I hadn’t heard wrong.
“Honey, I’m not just good. I’m faaabulous.” Terry opened a drawer, whipped out a sheet, and fastened it around my shoulders. “By the time I’m done, you’ll look like Whoopi Goldberg.”
I started to rise. Terry’s firm hand on my shoulder pushed me back down. “Just kidding.”
A comb, a spray bottle of water, and a pair of scissors appeared in his hands. All at once, I felt like one of Crawford’s Poodles, standing on a grooming table and waiting to be done up. I wondered if there weren’t easier ways to gather information.
On the other side of the table, Crawford pulled out a chair and sat down. Sections from the morning’s New York Times were scattered over the tabletop. Crawford took a pair of glasses out of his pocket, picked up the front page, and began to read.
“Relax,” he said. “Terry’s actually pretty talented.”
That made me feel better. Marginally. “Does he do your hair?”
“No.”
I started to get up again. Terry, busy spritzing, pushed me back down. “You have to sit still. Otherwise I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”
Consequences? That sounded serious. I forced a smile. “Not too short, okay?”
“Did the Pope tell Michelangelo how to paint the Sistine Chapel?”
“Actually”—Crawford looked up from his paper—“I believe he did.”
Seated between the two of them, I felt like the straight man in a Three Stooges comedy. I just hoped I had enough hair left at the end of all this for someone to call me Curly.
Scissors flashed in the corner of my eye as Terry made the first cut. “Congratulations on Leo’s Best in Show on Sunday,” I said to Crawford. “The Pullmans must have been thrilled.”
“I’ll say—” Terry began.
“They were very pleased.” Crawford deftly cut him off. “The dog showed beautifully.”
“You’ve done very well with him.”
He nodded.
“Especially since you’ve had him only a matter of months.”
Crawford flipped the top corner of the paper down and stared at me over the top of his reading glasses. “Melanie,” he said sternly. “You are not nearly as subtle as you think you are.”
I wasn’t?
“If you’re here to have your hair cut, I’m Liberace. Knowing you, you probably want to talk about Barry’s murder. So why don’t you just get to it.”
“
Okay.” That wasn’t an invitation I was about to turn down. “What do you know about Barry Turk and sexual harassment?”
The question seemed to surprise him. Crawford set down the paper and took a moment to think about it. “I heard rumors,” he said finally. “Didn’t know if they were true, didn’t particularly want to know.”
“Apparently he’s been bothering women handlers for years. One, Christine Franken, gave up handling because of what he did.”
“Really?” asked Terry.
“I wouldn’t know,” said Crawford. “I do remember when Christine was starting out. One month she was showing for Austin Beamish. Next month she wasn’t. It’s not an unusual story. Lots of people who think they’re going to make it as a pro don’t.”
“She says Barry set out to put her out of business.”
“Barry wasn’t out to make any friends, that’s true. This is a competitive sport. Every time you walk into the ring, it’s either the other guy or you.”
“Speaking of which, why did Ron and Viv take the dog away from Barry last spring and bring him here?”
“I don’t know.”
I stared at him, hard. “You don’t know, or you don’t want to say?”
“Both.” Crawford pushed aside the newspaper and stood. “Anything I’d tell you would be pure speculation. I don’t care to do that.”
He picked up his coffee cup and left the room. When I turned to watch him go, Terry gently repositioned my head. He was bending close, lifting the hair with the comb, and feathering in layers.
“Three words,” he said softly. “Cherchez la femme.”
Nineteen
Look for the woman? What woman? Viv? She’d told me she’d been responsible for Leo’s switch in handlers. Maybe I should have believed her.
Obviously enjoying himself, Terry was humming under his breath.
“Viv Pullman,” I said. “You’re talking about Viv, right?”
“No.”
No? What other woman was there?
He finished the side he’d been working on and began to pin up the other. Without the benefit of a mirror, I had no idea what he’d done. I reached a hand up to my shoulder. The hair that had been there was gone.
Hair of the Dog Page 18
