It took me only a minute to work my way around to where the two women were standing. Neither one paid any attention when I sidled over close to them, choosing a location that was well within earshot. Considering the scathing nature of the comments they were making about the Open Dogs, I would have expected the two women to observe basic dog show etiquette by either lowering their voices or at least making sure that no one related to those dogs was nearby.
Mandy Jo and her companion did neither of those things. During the course of the class, I listened to them complain about one dog’s straight shoulder and another’s weak rear. There was a muttered reference to epilepsy and another to possible deafness. When the judge did find his winner, Mandy Jo and her friend didn’t agree with that choice either.
Listening to their conversation, I suddenly found myself wondering whether the comment I’d heard Mandy Jo make to Miss Ellie had been intended ironically. Because this Bedlington breeder appeared to deal in nasty innuendo like it was her stock in trade. No wonder Miss Ellie had been in such a hurry to escape Mandy Jo’s company. Upon further exposure, I was feeling much the same way myself.
Mandy Jo’s friend slipped past me and entered the ring with her Puppy Bitch. She won that class but Mandy Jo wasn’t as lucky when her turn came. In a medium-sized group of Open Bitches, Bluefield’s Caprice didn’t even manage to place. That had to have been a low blow.
Watching the judging, I’d been hoping for a good outcome for Mandy Jo’s bitch. In my experience, people are always excited and eager to talk after a victory—even to someone they don’t know. But after a moment I realized that I could make the loss work to my advantage, too. In fact, it might even provide me with a better opening for insinuating myself into Mandy Jo’s confidences.
Mandy Jo didn’t wait around to watch the remainder of the Bedlington judging. Instead, as soon as she and Caprice exited the ring, she swept the bitch up into her arms and headed back to the grooming area. Casually I trailed along behind.
Reaching her setup, Mandy Jo briefly placed the Bedlington on a tabletop to remove her collar. Then she leaned down and slipped the terrier inside a wooden crate. A small cooler was nearby. Mandy Jo fished around inside and pulled out a plastic water bottle. I waited until she’d tipped back her head for a long, cold drink before making my approach.
“That was too bad,” I said. “Your bitch is very pretty. I guess the judge was looking for something else today.”
“Who knows what that man was looking for? Not the best bitch in the ring, that’s for sure.” Mandy Jo slowly lowered the bottle and peered at me above its rim. “Do I know you?”
“I’m a friend of Ellie Wanamaker’s. Melanie Travis? We met briefly on Thursday.”
Okay, so that was stretching things a bit. Mandy Jo didn’t seem to notice. Either that or she didn’t want to admit that she’d forgotten me.
“Right,” she said. “I thought you looked familiar.”
“It’s terrible what happened, isn’t it?”
“You mean in the ring”—Mandy Jo nodded in the direction of the arena where the Bedlington judging had just taken place—“or to Miss Ellie?”
Like the two things were even remotely comparable.
“I was talking about Miss Ellie.” I leaned back against a grooming table behind me, making myself comfortable as if I intended to stay a while. “I guess you just never know what’s going to happen next.”
“I heard it was an accident,” said Mandy Jo. “Is that right? She had some kind of fall?”
“I heard the same thing.” I lowered my tone to a confidential whisper. “But that sounds crazy to me. I’m not sure if I believe it. Do you?”
“Why not?” Mandy Jo shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time Miss Ellie screwed up her life on account of an accident.”
I thought back to my conversation with Miss Ellie. “You mean the car crash years ago where her good dog was killed.”
“That’s right. Dunaway. He was a hell of a Standard Poodle.”
“I know,” I said. “I have Standards myself.”
“Are you showing today?” Mandy Jo asked. “If you are, good luck with that. Your judge is Margaret Turnbull from the East Coast. I’ve heard she’s a bit of a drill sergeant.”
“Good description,” I said with a laugh. “And no, I’m not showing today. Peg Turnbull is my aunt.”
“Well, then.”
I watched as Mandy Jo lifted her water bottle and enjoyed another long swallow and wondered, Well, then . . . what?
She answered my question when she finished drinking. “I guess that’s how you know Miss Ellie,” Mandy Jo said. She paused to wipe her mouth on the back of her hand.
“I was just getting to know her,” I admitted. “But I saw the two of you together the other day. It looked like you were old friends.”
“Once upon a time, I guess we were. Dog show friends, you know?”
I did.
“When Miss Ellie stopped coming to shows, we lost touch.” Mandy Jo walked two steps and lobbed the empty bottle into a nearby trash can. “Even so, I didn’t enjoy hearing those things that were being said at the time.”
“Oh?” My tone was deliberately light. “Like what?”
Mandy Jo turned back to face me and I could see that my casual demeanor hadn’t fooled her one bit. She was deliberating how much to say.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” she said finally.
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Miss Ellie told me about the car accident,” I said. “And about Dunaway.”
“That was a horrible thing.” Mandy Jo frowned. “And it wasn’t just about Dunaway.”
I was itching to ask her what else it had been about. More than anything, I wanted her to keep talking. But Mandy Jo seemed like the kind of person who’d be just perverse enough to do the opposite of what I wanted. So instead I remained silent and attempted to look indifferent, waiting her out with a slightly blurred gaze and a vague half smile on my face.
I’m no actress, but luckily it didn’t matter. As I’d suspected, Mandy Jo was eager to dish some dirt.
After a minute spent gathering up grooming supplies and packing them in her tack box, she turned back to me and said, “There were people hurt in that crash, too. Hurt bad. A woman in the other car was mangled pretty badly. And Miss Ellie’s son’s leg was crushed. He was only a child then. He nearly lost his foot.”
So that’s where Gates’s limp had come from, I thought. I wondered why Miss Ellie hadn’t mentioned that part when she’d told me about the accident.
“I had no idea about any of that,” I said.
“Most people don’t. The Gates name carries a lot of weight in central Kentucky. And that family keeps its private business to itself. Stuff they don’t want outsiders to know doesn’t get out. And that’s just the way they like it.”
Mandy Jo returned to packing up. She swept up the monogrammed towel that had covered her tabletop, folded it into a neat square, and shoved it into a carryall. I was running out of time.
“I was with Miss Ellie last Thursday morning,” I said. “But I lost track of her after that. Would you happen to know where she was that afternoon?”
“No idea,” Mandy Jo replied. “Bedlingtons were judged after lunch on Thursday. I wasn’t thinking about Miss Ellie at all. I was busy with my own stuff.”
“Did you win?” I asked.
“Reserve,” she said with a grimace.
I understood the sentiment. Reserve was like honorable mention. So close, but just not good enough. It came with no points and was the most frustrating award of all, especially in a decent entry.
“How about the next day?” I asked. “I hope you did one better.”
“That was the day Miss Ellie died,” said Mandy Jo.
She was no dummy. She knew I was wondering if her time had been accounted for on Friday.
“I wasn’t entered,” Mandy Jo told me. “I didn’t like the judge.
I knew Caprice would never stand a chance under him. There was no point in even coming to the show.”
“It sounds like it hasn’t been your week,” I said.
“Nor Miss Ellie’s,” Mandy Jo replied.
Chapter 14
I still had an hour to wait before the start of the Newfoundland judging.
Though I hadn’t seen Arthur’s name in the catalog, I was hopeful that I might be able to spot him at ringside just as I’d done with Mandy Jo. Possibly his dogs were bred and entered under a kennel name that I didn’t recognize. Or maybe Arthur was a handler who’d picked up a handling job too late to be listed in the book. Worst case, I figured I could talk to a couple of Newf people and see if anyone could tell me who he was.
In the meantime I took a leisurely stroll around the pavilion. Three days earlier when I’d walked the same path with Miss Ellie I’d often felt as though all eyes were upon us. Now I deliberately thought back to that day, trying to recreate images in my mind of the numerous faces I’d seen. Unfortunately, seventy-two hours later my impressions were little more than a hazy jumble of color and shape. Nor did any of the people I saw around me jog a useful memory.
I reached the Poodle ring shortly before judging was due to begin. Aunt Peg was already there, surveying her domain and adjusting it to her satisfaction. I watched her lay out her things on the steward’s table, then take a minute to decide where to place the grooming table on which Minis and Toys would be examined. Running a practiced eye over the rubber mats that had been laid around the perimeter and across the diagonal of the arena, Aunt Peg carefully smoothed a wrinkle down into place with the toe of her shoe.
Then she nodded to her steward who called the first class into the ring. As four Toy Puppy Dogs—one silver, one black, one white, one apricot—came prancing through the gate, I snagged an empty chair and settled down to watch.
Some judges use their eyes to evaluate a dog’s conformation. Others rely on touch to tell them what they need to know. Their hands check the angle of a dog’s shoulder and feel for depth of chest. They skim over the topline and down the slope of the hind legs. Dog show judges are required to touch a dog in just two places: the mouth to check for a correct bite, and the rear to determine whether or not a dog has two testicles.
It’s not unusual to see judges who seem to think that the Poodle’s big hair and intricate trim should not be mussed by questing hands. They place their fingers on a dog tentatively, or only in the areas where the hair has been clipped away. And by doing so, they miss a lot—skipping over both good points and bad—as a competent Poodle groomer can use the dog’s profuse coat to create a variety of illusions.
Necks can be made longer, and backs shorter. A low tail set can be raised. A front assembly set too far forward can magically appear to be back underneath the dog where it belongs. So a judge who relies solely on his eyes to scrutinize a dog’s structure can definitely find himself at a disadvantage in the Poodle ring.
Aunt Peg, however, suffered no such impediment to her judging technique. She had decades of experience in putting her hands on Poodles. She not only knew all the grooming tricks she might encounter, she had invented some of them. A pretty trim was no deterrent to her curious fingers. Now I watched as she sorted through her Puppy class with deft proficiency and a happy smile on her face.
As the judging progressed, I made sure to keep an eye on the ringside as well. Here at the Poodle ring, where she’d been surrounded by a lively coterie of old friends, was the place that Miss Ellie had been the happiest and most relaxed on Thursday. If anyone might know where she had disappeared to that afternoon, I was betting it would be a fellow Poodle enthusiast.
When the Bred-by-Exhibitor Bitches entered the ring, a woman with a dainty silver Toy caught my eye. Upon reflection, I was quite certain she’d been one of the exhibitors who had shared a delighted hug with Miss Ellie. The woman’s small silver Poodle won her class, so I knew that she would be required for further judging. I stayed in my seat as the Open Bitches were called to the ring.
Ten minutes later, Aunt Peg put up a pretty black bitch who’d been shown to perfection by her Midwestern handler. The handler accepted his blue ribbon and hustled his Toy bitch back into place at the head of the mat as the previous class winners filed in behind him. Attuned to Aunt Peg’s subtle body language as she assessed the four Toy Poodles in front of her, I was pretty sure she already knew who her Winners Bitch would be. Nevertheless, she didn’t hurry through the process. Instead she offered each of the remaining competitors every opportunity to change her mind.
In the end Aunt Peg went with her Open Bitch, just as I had guessed she would. The woman with the silver Bred-by bitch was Reserve. I was standing just outside the gate when the pair exited the ring with their striped ribbon. Toy Poodle nestled in the crook of her arm, the woman walked around the corner and found a spot from which to watch the Best of Variety judging.
Luckily there was room right beside her. “That’s a lovely Toy,” I said.
The woman’s eyes skimmed my way briefly, then slid right back to the action in the ring. I couldn’t blame her for that. I didn’t want to miss a thing either.
“Thank you.” She lifted her free hand to scratch beneath the Poodle’s chin. “I think so. That was tough company. I was happy to go Reserve, especially under that judge. It’s nice to have the chance to show to someone whose opinion really means something.”
“I’m Melanie Travis,” I said.
“Shirley Drake.” The woman stuck out her hand and I shook it. “Do you have Poodles?”
“Yes, Standards. But I live in Connecticut. I’ve never shown in Kentucky.”
“Just here to watch then?”
“Mostly.” I gestured toward the ring. “Margaret Turnbull is my aunt.”
Shirley choked on a laugh. “Thanks for the warning—even if it came a little late. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t say anything terrible about the judging.”
“Actually you were quite complimentary,” I said. “Aunt Peg would be delighted to hear comments like those. Do you mind if ask you a couple of questions?”
“Feel free. As long as you don’t mind if we talk and watch at the same time.”
“Ellie Gates Wanamaker,” I said.
Shirley’s gaze flicked in my direction. “What about her?”
“I saw the two of you together the other day. You seemed very pleased to see her.”
“Oh Miss Ellie.” Shirley sighed. “Of course I was pleased. She’s kept herself away from the show scene for years. I’ve missed competing against her and I’ve missed talking Poodles with her. Her reappearance on Thursday was a delightful surprise. And I certainly wasn’t the only one who felt that way.”
In the ring, Aunt Peg was making her final cut. A white Toy dog with a Japanese handler was moved to the head of the line. The bitch who had beaten Shirley’s puppy for Winners was positioned second behind the dog, making her the likely Best of Winners and Best of Opposite Sex. We would see in a moment when Aunt Peg pointed for her placings. She was about to send the line of Toys around the ring for the last time.
“I wish we’d had more time to catch up,” Shirley said unhappily. “But it was right in the middle of judging and I was busy. So now I feel doubly bad about what happened. Miss Ellie wasn’t just a friend; she was an absolute treasure in this breed. When I think of the wealth of knowledge that that woman possessed. . . .”
“I know,” I agreed quietly. “Miss Ellie’s death was a huge loss. My aunt is very upset about it, too.”
“Have you heard about the funeral?” asked Shirley. “It’s tomorrow in Lexington and I’m sure that the dog show community will turn out in force to pay their respects. I can get you directions if you need them.”
“Thank you. We already have the address,” I said. “One last thing?”
Eyes still focused on the ring, Shirley nodded.
“Last Thursday when Miss Ellie was here, did you happen to see her in the afternoon?�
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“No, I don’t think so. Why?”
“She and I were supposed to spend the whole day together but she disappeared after lunch. I was just curious if anyone knew where she’d gotten to.”
“Not I,” Shirley told me. “I only saw Miss Ellie that one time. But stay here for a minute. I’ll ask around and see if anyone else knows.”
The Toy judging was just ending. As the line of Poodles circled the ring one last time, Aunt Peg indicated the placings. The white specials dog was Best of Variety. The Winners Bitch was Best of Winners and Best Opposite. Shirley paused to observe the outcome, then hurried away.
I watched as she moved around the exterior of the ring, pausing here and there to have a word with the other Poodle exhibitors. Time and again, I saw people shrug or shake their heads. No one seemed to have the information I was seeking.
“Sorry,” Shirley said, when she returned a few minutes later. “Nobody knows any more than I do. But now that Miss Ellie is gone . . . does it really matter?”
“I don’t know,” I told her. “I hope not.”
Shirley frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Just that I would hate to think that somebody here might have had something to do with Miss Ellie’s accident.”
Shirley must have tightened her hold on the Toy Poodle in her arms because abruptly I saw the small dog stiffen. “Is that a possibility?”
“It’s a dog show,” I said. “It’s always a possibility.”
* * *
I left the Poodle ring as the first class of Minis was being called and hurried down the length of the pavilion. It was almost time for the Newfoundland judging. The entry wasn’t large and it wouldn’t take long. I didn’t want to miss my chance to see if Arthur would put in an appearance.
By the time I reached the other end of the room, the first of the Newfoundland classes was already in progress. A single Twelve-to-Eighteen Month Old dog gaited around the ring. Fewer than a dozen other Newfs were standing in the area with their handlers, waiting their turns to be shown.
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