Live and Let Growl

by Laurien Berenson

  “Is everything else good at home?” I asked.

  “Couldn’t be better,” Sam replied. He put Kev back on the phone long enough to say good-bye and then we ended the call.

  Faith watched me slide the phone back in my pocket regretfully. Sitting beside me, she had listened in while I’d chatted with Sam. When Kevin had shrieked into the phone she’d stood up and wagged her tail. Too late, it occurred to me that I probably should have held the phone to her ear and let her hear a few words from the rest of her family. Faith would have liked that.

  “Next time,” I promised her.

  Since Bertie still needed to return to the Expo Center to care for her dogs, we opted for an easy dinner in the hotel’s café. Aunt Peg ordered salmon. I had a Caesar salad with chicken. Bertie ordered a Hot Brown.

  “Oh my.” Aunt Peg peered at Bertie’s dish when our entrées arrived. A hodgepodge of ingredients were layered on a large plate and the whole thing appeared to be smothered in white sauce. “What is that?”

  “A Hot Brown is a traditional Kentucky dish,” Bertie told us. She had read the description on the menu. “It originated right here in Louisville. It’s got bread, and turkey, and tomatoes, and cheese.”

  “Bacon, too,” I said somewhat enviously. My Caesar salad suddenly looked Spartan by comparison.

  “Not just bread,” the waiter informed us. “It’s Texas toast. And Mornay sauce. You’ll love it. Everybody does.”

  Aunt Peg leaned in for a closer look. “It looks like a heart attack on a plate,” she decided. A weight gain over the winter had had no effect on her sweet tooth, but it had convinced her to start watching other elements of her diet.

  Bertie just grinned. “You know you wish you’d ordered one, too.”

  “I could make a substitution,” the waiter offered.

  He started to reach for Aunt Peg’s plate. She slapped his hand away.

  “Don’t you dare. My salmon looks delicious.”

  “So does your broccoli,” I told her archly. “And that tiny little dab of couscous.” I slid my bread plate in Bertie’s direction. “That thing is too big for one person. Cut me off a sliver so I can taste it.”

  “Keep your hands to yourself,” Aunt Peg chided me. “Bertie is eating for two.”

  “The sad thing is, I could easily finish this whole dish,” Bertie said. “And possibly have seconds. When I’m not throwing up, I’m starving. I wasn’t like this the first time around. Do you suppose that means I’m having a boy?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to know the sex ahead of time,” I said.

  “I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to spend the next six months guessing which it is.”

  The waiter refilled our drinks, then left us to our meal. We all dug into our entrées, some of us with more enthusiasm than others. Surreptitiously watching Aunt Peg pick at her salmon and broccoli, I suspected that we’d be having something filled with sugar for dessert.

  “So tell me about your trip to Lexington,” Bertie said as we ate. “Did you find out what happened to Miss Ellie?”

  “She had a fall,” I said.

  Aunt Peg snorted.

  “Into a ravine,” I added. “She broke her neck.”

  “Ouch,” said Bertie.

  “If that’s the way it happened,” Aunt Peg muttered.

  As usual, Sam’s guess had been right on the money.

  “You were right there with me earlier,” I said to Aunt Peg. “You heard what Gates and Billy had to say. Neither one of them was suspicious about what happened.”

  “Maybe they lack imagination,” Peg retorted.

  Certainly no one had ever accused Aunt Peg of that.

  “Ellie Gates Wanamaker was not a stupid woman,” she said.

  “I don’t believe anyone said that she was,” I replied.

  “Gates told us that Miss Ellie had been walking that land since she was a child. That she knew every nook and cranny on the farm. So why did she fall in a hole?”

  “Maybe she slipped,” I said.

  “Maybe somebody pushed her,” Aunt Peg uttered darkly.

  Bertie looked up from her plate. “Who?”

  “If I knew that,” Aunt Peg said, “I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  Bertie shook her head. “No, what I mean is . . . who would want to? What would anybody have to gain from Miss Ellie’s death?”

  Aunt Peg didn’t reply. Despite the agile workings of her always devious mind, she had no more idea of the answer to that than I did.

  “There is one thing,” I mentioned.

  “Oh?” Aunt Peg beamed approvingly in my direction.

  Interested in the conversation, she’d stopped eating. Bertie, on the other hand, was working her way through that gooey mass of carbohydrates as if she thought she might never see another meal.

  “It was really interesting walking around the dog show with Miss Ellie on Thursday,” I said. “Tons of people recognized her. It was almost like escorting a celebrity.”

  Aunt Peg flapped a hand impatiently, motioning me to get to the point.

  “But not everyone’s reaction was positive. In fact, I got the impression that some people weren’t at all happy to see her.”

  “You must have been mistaken,” said Aunt Peg.

  “I don’t think so. I mean, we were together for several hours. So it’s not like it only happened once.”

  “Like what happened?” Bertie wanted to know and Aunt Peg nodded.

  “Some people were delighted to see Miss Ellie, of course. But others looked really surprised—hey were pointing and whispering as we passed by. There were even a few exhibitors who deliberately snubbed her.”

  Aunt Peg frowned. “That doesn’t sound right. Did Miss Ellie say anything about it?”

  “Not a thing. It was as if the unfavorable attention was beneath her notice. Finally I asked her about it. Miss Ellie just said that she’d enjoyed a great deal of success in the show ring and that the people who weren’t happy to see her were those who’d lost to her.”

  “That’s nuts,” said Bertie. “Anyone who shows dogs gets used to taking their lumps. Nobody wins all the time, no matter who they are. Besides, didn’t she stop showing dogs a long time ago?”

  “Indeed,” Aunt Peg concurred.

  “Miss Ellie told me it’s a Southern thing. Apparently people around here hold grudges forever. Remember the Hatfields and McCoys?”

  “Those guys were real people?” Bertie laughed. “I thought that crazy feud was a made-up story like The Dukes of Hazard.”

  “No, it really took place,” I said. “And the feud lasted for more than two decades.”

  “Please tell me that those guys weren’t feuding over a dog.”

  That made us all laugh. Not because the thought was inconceivable, but sadly because it wasn’t.

  I polished off the least piece of chicken in my salad and said, “We ran into a couple of people at the show who were almost hostile. One was a man named Arthur who bumped into Miss Ellie and then stood there staring at her like he was looking at a ghost. She greeted him by name but he didn’t say a single word to her. He just turned around and left.”

  “How very strange,” said Aunt Peg. “What breed?”

  Nobody was surprised by that question. Aunt Peg characterizes people by their dog affiliation. Not only that, but her designations often have merit.

  “Newfoundlands,” I said.

  Bertie shook her head. “I don’t think I know him.”

  “Nor I,” Aunt Peg agreed. She had finished her salmon and was now casting a covetous gaze at a hot fudge sundae that had been delivered to a nearby table.

  “The other incident was even more odd. A woman with a Bedlington”—I figured I might as well lead with that information and forestall the inevitable question—“came sidling over to Miss Ellie and said, ‘I just want you to know that I never believed those nasty rumors I heard about you.’ ”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” said Aunt Peg. “An
d what was Miss Ellie’s reply to that?”

  “Bless your heart.”

  “Excuse me?” Bertie lifted a brow.

  “Bless your heart,” I said again. “Judging by the context when she used it on me, I’m pretty sure that it’s the Southern equivalent of go jump in a lake.”

  Bertie grinned. Aunt Peg looked seriously disgruntled.

  “That is not helpful,” she said. “And why am I just hearing about these things now?”

  I shrugged. “Because when they happened, Miss Ellie was alive and well and none of it seemed like a big deal.”

  “Well, in light of subsequent events, perhaps you might want to rethink that opinion,” Aunt Peg told me. “Do you have a name for the woman with the Bedlington?”

  “Miss Ellie called her Mandy Jo.”

  “That’s a good start,” said Aunt Peg. “I’d imagine we can get the rest from a catalog.”

  “The same is true for Arthur, the Newfoundland man,” Bertie pointed out. “And if he’s not in the catalog, maybe you can locate him at ringside during the judging.”

  As if my need to identify these people was a foregone conclusion.

  Just to make sure that there weren’t any misunderstandings, I said, “That assumes I’ll be looking.”

  “Oh pish,” Aunt Peg replied. “Of course you’ll be looking. How else are we supposed to find out what happened to Miss Ellie if you don’t ask questions?”

  “You asked Gates plenty of questions,” I pointed out. “And you didn’t like his answers.”

  Peg was unruffled by my complaint. “His answers were fine. But there also seems to be a distinct possibility that there are better answers to be had. It never hurts to do a little checking around. If I’m wrong, you may feel free to tell me so.”

  Like that was ever going to happen in my lifetime.

  “Cheer up,” said Bertie. “It will be more fun than helping me prep dogs.”

  “And a better use of your talents.” Aunt Peg never misses an opportunity to point out that my grooming technique could still use some improvement.

  When the two of them both ordered hot fudge sundaes to finish the meal, I didn’t even try to fight the impulse to follow suit. Calories be damned. It looked as though I was going to need to keep my strength up.

  Chapter 13

  Sunday morning started out much the same way as the previous dog show days had. Bertie was out of bed and over at the show site before the sun rose. Faith and I slept another hour. Then the Poodle and I enjoyed a luxuriously long walk before meeting up with Aunt Peg so that we could go over to the Expo Center together.

  Aunt Peg had been looking forward to Sunday’s assignment all week as she would finally be given the opportunity to judge all three varieties of her favorite breed. Having studiously avoided asking Bertie and me which Poodles we’d seen on previous days and which had fared well under earlier judges, I knew she couldn’t wait to get her hands on them.

  Entries usually drop on the last day of a long, tiring, cluster of shows. But Aunt Peg’s numbers not only held steady, they even rose slightly. That was a sure testament to her popularity as a judge because in order to avoid the appearance of favoritism, neither Bertie nor Crawford would be showing under her. I’d been watching Aunt Peg judge for several years now and I knew there were many good reasons for the approval she’d earned from exhibitors.

  Aunt Peg’s judging was as insightful as it was decisive. She had a thorough understanding of the Poodle breed and a very firm opinion about what kind of Poodle she wanted to see in front of her. She wasn’t swayed by a dog’s previous show record, nor by who was holding the end of its lead. She ignored prejudicial ringside chatter entirely. Everyone who showed under Aunt Peg—professionals and owner-handlers alike—knew that they would each be given the same fair and equal opportunity to succeed.

  That morning, Aunt Peg wasn’t the only one who was eager to get started. Sunday’s dog show was the final event of the Kentuckiana Cluster. So that last day would be my only opportunity to seek out answers about Miss Ellie before the competition ended and all the other exhibitors packed up and went home.

  I had checked the judging schedule the previous evening. Newfoundlands weren’t due to be judged until noon. I had also learned from the catalog that the name Arthur wasn’t listed among that breed’s owners or handlers.

  Bedlington Terriers, on the other hand, would be in the show ring midmorning. Not only that, but there was an Open Bitch entry named Bluefield’s Caprice who was owned by Amanda Jo Proctor. With luck, the Bedlington would still be in attendance this late in the weekend and I could locate Mandy Jo during the judging.

  Just as we’d done the other mornings when we reached the show site, Faith and I went directly to Bertie’s setup in the grooming area. She, along with Crawford and Terry next door, were all hard at work getting dogs ready, but there wasn’t a single Poodle in sight. It looked very odd to see all the tabletops at those two setups utterly devoid of my favorite breed. Bertie was brushing a Bearded Collie. Terry and Crawford were prepping an assortment of Toys.

  I dropped Faith’s leash and let the Standard trot on ahead for the last few feet. Faith went directly to Terry. Stepping in beside him, she lifted her nose to check out the pocket in his pants where bait for the ring would be stored later.

  Feeling her light touch, Terry swiveled around and looked down. One hand remained beneath a Maltese’s chin, the other flicked gently in Faith’s direction.

  “Mind your manners there, missy,” he said. “Before you go any farther, you’ll need to at least buy me coffee.”

  “Faith!” I snapped my fingers and the Standard Poodle scampered happily back to my side.

  “Sorry about that,” I said.

  “Don’t be.” Terry waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “That’s the closest I’ve come to a good time all day.”

  Crawford cleared his throat. “Day’s young,” he said.

  Behind me, Bertie snorted out a laugh. After a moment, I joined in. Even Terry looked nonplussed. Crawford was usually the soul of decorum. A comment like that was very unlike him.

  “What’s so funny?” Crawford looked up innocently.

  “You,” I told him. “You always listen to us goofing around at dog shows but you never join in.”

  Crawford just shrugged. “Light day today. No Poodles to do up. Plus”—he lowered his head and went back to work—“I guess I’ve been thinking a bit about Miss Ellie.”

  “What about her?” I asked.

  “Just that you never know what life is going to throw at you. Something happening out of the blue like that makes me want to try harder to appreciate every single day.”

  I knew just how he felt. I scooted Faith into her floor-level crate, then walked over to Crawford’s setup and leaned against the rim of an empty table.

  “You never really got a chance to talk to her, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Crawford said. “And now I’m sorry that I brushed her off the way I did. I was sure she’d come and find us later when everything was over. I thought we’d take some time then to sit down and have a nice chat.”

  “We all thought Miss Ellie would be around at the end of the show,” said Bertie. “I never even got to meet her.”

  “I wonder why she disappeared,” Terry mused aloud.

  “So does Aunt Peg,” I said.

  “No surprise there.” Crawford shook his head. “I’m guessing you’ve been deputized to find out.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Oh, goody!” cried Terry.

  Crawford shot him a dark look.

  “But aren’t you curious, too?” I asked.

  Before he could reply, Terry stepped in. “We don’t have to be curious,” he said happily. “All we have to do is stay here and get our work done while we wait for you to bring back answers. Easy peasy. So what’s first on your agenda?”

  “Bedlingtons.” I looked back and forth between him and Crawford. “Do either of you know a woman
named Mandy Jo Proctor?”

  If we had been in the Northeast, it would be a pretty sure bet that one of the two handlers could help me out. But dog shows in Kentucky drew from an entirely different pool of local exhibitors. I wasn’t surprised when nobody spoke up.

  “How about a guy named Arthur with Newfoundlands?”

  Again no response.

  “Are they suspects?” Terry’s eyes lit up with interest.

  “No,” I said lightly. “Just people I want to talk to.”

  “Suspects for what?” asked Crawford. “I heard that Miss Ellie’s death was an accident.”

  “That’s what Aunt Peg and I were told as well,” I admitted.

  “That woman.” Crawford snorted. Coming from him, the epithet sounded almost affectionate. “She can find trouble on a clear blue day.”

  “Or make it,” Bertie mentioned.

  I assumed we were talking about Aunt Peg.

  “Don’t knock it,” said Terry. “More often than not, Peg’s suspicions are right.” He lifted a hand and shooed me away. “So go take a walk. We’ll keep an eye on the lovely Faith while you snoop around to your heart’s content. Just be sure to come back later and tell us what you find out.”

  There was a supported entry in Bedlington Terriers, and the numbers were fairly sizeable for the breed. I had gotten a good look at Mandy Jo when she’d bumped into me on Thursday so I was pretty sure that I’d recognize her when I saw her. That hunch turned out be right.

  Mandy Jo appeared at ringside shortly after the Bedlington judging began. She was younger than Miss Ellie but not by much. Probably in her late fifties, I guessed. Mandy Jo’s blond hair was styled into a rigid helmet around a face whose skin appeared—even at a distance—to be too tight for its age. She wasn’t smiling when I caught sight of her. Judging by the amount of work she’d had done, I wondered if she could.

  Mandy Jo was carrying her Open Bitch cupped beneath her arm and she had a Greyhound comb tucked inside her belt. She paused to survey the spectators watching the judging, then strode around the ring to a spot across from where I was standing. I watched as she nudged herself in beside another exhibitor. Immediately the two of them tipped their heads together and began to talk. Even from afar I could tell that they were discussing the dogs in the ring.