Unleashed (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

by Berenson, Laurien

  Consequently, once the decision has been made to exhibit a Poodle, incredible care must be taken to protect that hair at all costs. Faith had an excellent, correctly textured, coat—thick, and harsh, and very black—but an accident in the spring had created a hole just where it would be the most obvious. She’d been sitting out of the show ring for three months already. As long as the puppies didn’t cost her too much more hair, I’d probably have her ready to show again by fall.

  Resisting the tendency to “cluster” together with the other clubs holding shows that weekend, the Durham Valley Kennel Club event was to be held at a beautiful, outdoor location. Such venues are becoming increasingly rare in Connecticut, and Davey and I planned to make a day of it. My son was in high spirits after having spent a week learning how to dribble with his feet and bounce a ball off his head.

  As I worked in the kitchen, packing a cooler with sandwiches and drinks, he demonstrated his new skills for me in the backyard. “Watch!” Davey crowed, as he kicked the ball around the trunk of a big old oak tree with Faith trotting in pursuit. Seeing he had my attention, he turned and fired a shot toward the fence.

  The soccer ball hit the post and ricocheted back. Nimbly, Faith jumped out of the way. “Score!” yelled Davey, arms upraised. “The mighty dog defender cannot stop the march to victory by our hero, Captain David!”

  Captain David? I wondered if this was his way of telling me that he felt he was outgrowing his diminutive nickname. Davey would be seven in September, when he started second grade. He’d shot up two inches in the last year and was beginning to have an opinion about the clothes I picked out for him to wear to school. Though it seemed like hardly any time at all had passed since I’d held him in my arms, I was reminded daily that my son no longer thought of himself as a little boy.

  “Come on in and bring Faith with you,” I called. “We’re just about ready to go.”

  I’d already loaded Faith’s crate in the back of the station wagon, and I carried the cooler out to join it. In theory, unentered dogs aren’t supposed to be brought onto the grounds of a show, but considering Faith’s delicate condition, I wanted to keep an eye on her. Sam would be showing his puppy, Tar, so I knew he’d have a spot staked out beneath the grooming tent where I could set up Faith’s crate. That way, she could enjoy the day with us, while remaining cool and not unduly stressed.

  The drive took just about an hour. By dog show standards, that meant the show was just around the corner. Aunt Peg thinks nothing of packing up her van and traveling all up and down the East Coast. I’ve tried to set a more sensible schedule for Faith’s show career, but already she’s picked up points in Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts.

  At the gate to the fairground, I paid our admission and bought a catalogue. Usually when we’re at a show, I’m rushing to get Faith ready for the ring. Having an entire day to devote to merely enjoying the spectacle seemed like an incredible luxury.

  Two long rows of rings, each half-covered by a huge, green-and-white-striped tent filled most of a large field. Sometimes there’s a separate tent for the handlers and exhibitors to groom under; other times, extra space for grooming has been left beside the rings. Today’s club had chosen the second option. I looked up the number of the Poodle ring in the catalogue and drove slowly across the grass to the back of the tent.

  As I’d hoped, Sam had saved me some room. Not only that, but Aunt Peg was already there, too. Though Sam owns and shows Tar, Aunt Peg is the puppy’s breeder. She had high hopes that today’s judge would award Tar the last two points he needed to finish his championship.

  “Good morning,” Aunt Peg sang out cheerfully as I pulled into the unloading spot, and Davey and Faith tumbled out of the car. She had a pastry in one hand and a catalogue in the other. “How’s my darling girl?”

  The question was directed at Faith, not me. Don’t worry, I’m used to that.

  Nearly six feet tall, Aunt Peg had to bend way down to check out the expectant bitch’s condition. She had to put down her pastry, too. For my aunt, whose sweet tooth is legendary, that constitutes a hardship.

  She ran a knowledgeable hand over Faith’s midsection and nodded approvingly. “You’ve got her in good weight. How’s she feeling?”

  “Wonderful. Exuberant.” I unloaded Faith’s crate and dragged it over beside Tar’s portable grooming table. Sam leaned around and gave me a kiss as I pushed it into position. “She played soccer with Davey this morning.”

  “Gently, I hope.” Peg’s tone was stern.

  She takes this breeding business seriously. Before I’d even been allowed to consider letting Faith have a litter, I’d had to have her genetic testing done—hips x-rayed so she could be certified clear of hip dysplasia by OFA; a punch skin biopsy to rule out sebaceous adenitis; eyes examined by a canine opthamologist for progressive retinal atrophy. In three decades of breeding, Aunt Peg had managed to steer her Cedar Crest Standard Poodles free of two other maladies that can affect Standard Poodles—seizures and bloat. Since there are no tests to predict an inherited tendency toward either one of those conditions, we were both keeping our fingers crossed.

  “Of course, gently.” I patted the top of Faith’s crate. She jumped up and placed her front paws on the rubber-matted surface. Carefully, I hoisted her heavier than usual hindquarter up into place. The Poodle turned once in a tight circle and lay down.

  “Gently,” Davey echoed solemnly. “She’s going to have babies.” His small hand reached up to pat his dog’s thigh. Then he turned to his great-aunt. “Got any more doughnuts?”

  “Plenty. I brought some chocolate-covered ones, just for you.”

  “There’s fruit in the cooler,” I offered, wasting my breath. “And Cheerios ...” Davey was already digging through the supplies beneath the table. “When the sugar high hits, he’s all yours,” I said to Peg.

  “Pish. Little boys are meant to have lots of energy.” Aunt Peg grasped Davey’s hand, pulled him to his feet, and led him in an impromptu jig around Sam’s grooming table. “We’ll dance in the aisles together, won’t we, Davey?”

  Aunt Peg’s next birthday would be her sixty-first. In defiance of the passing years, she seemed to be growing younger with each one. Davey giggled his reply, kicked up his feet, and stuffed the first bite of pastry into his mouth.

  “I’m pretending I’m not with them,” I said to Sam. Here by the ring, tables and crates were stacked in cozy proximity. Ours wasn’t the only attention the dancing duo had managed to attract. “Are you sure you really want to marry into this family?”

  “Positive.” Sam grinned, seemingly unfazed by the potential for embarrassment offered by his relatives-to-be. “Go park your car. I’ll try to keep them in line until you get back.”

  The parking lot was at the other end of the field. Predictably, most of the spaces were already full. Finally, in the last row I found some openings. As I parked and got out, another car came flying down the row and pulled in beside me. A black Boxster.

  I glanced inside the car. Brian didn’t have Boris with him. Instead the passenger seat was filled with a large box.

  “Woof!’s first issue. Hot off the presses,” Brian announced proudly as he hopped out and locked up. “Want one? Or did you already get a copy from Sheila?”

  “I haven’t seen Sheila yet. I just got here.”

  “You’re not showing then?” Brian looked at his watch. It was nearing eleven.

  I shook my head.

  “I’m running late myself. Sheila was supposed to get here around nine and start handing them out. With any luck, by now there should already be some buzz.”

  Brian’s expression was calculated. Running late, my foot, I thought. He’d shown up late on purpose in order to make an entrance.

  Brian opened the Boxster’s trunk. More magazines were stacked inside. He gathered up an armful.

  “Off to the trenches,” he said cheerfully.

  I hoped it wasn’t an apt metaphor.


  Five

  Unfortunately for Brian, his grand entrance was a bust. Sheila hadn’t arrived yet, which meant that the first issues of Woof! to reach the show ground were the ones he held in his hands.

  I had taken a copy with me when we’d parted and was still thumbing through it an hour later, reading various tidbits aloud to Sam and Peg. From our vantage point next to the rings, we could see Brian working the show—shaking hands, giving away freebies, and generally building goodwill. I didn’t see a single person who received a magazine set it aside. Even exhibitors who were busy with their dogs opened it right up and began to read.

  If today’s response was any indication, Sheila’s marketing expertise wasn’t overrated. Brian was obviously delivering his magazine to an audience that was salivating to get their hands on it.

  As he worked his way over to our setup, I filled Aunt Peg in on Brian’s background and his connection to Sam and Sheila. She’d heard of Woof!, of course, having received her flyer like everyone else. Though she claimed she hadn’t planned to subscribe, I could see she was curious. If I didn’t keep an eye on my copy, it would probably go home in her purse.

  Sam, who knew all the players better than I did and might have contributed a great deal to the conversation, was uncharacteristically silent. Aunt Peg is one of his favorite people. Usually when the two of them get together, it’s all I can do to keep up.

  Today, however, Sam concentrated on getting Tar ready for the ring and trading jokes with Davey. I might have chalked his reticence up to show day jitters, except that unlike me, Sam doesn’t get nervous when he’s showing a dog. He’s just that good, and he knows it.

  By the time Brian came strolling down our aisle, Tar was standing on his grooming table as Sam applied the finish to his trim. Though Sam’s attention was ostensibly on the puppy, he’d clearly been keeping track of Brian’s progress because he knew the moment the other man approached.

  “Looks like you’re making quite a splash,” he said, putting down his scissors.

  “Trying to.” Brian held out a copy of the magazine to Aunt Peg as I made the introductions.

  “So you’re the man who thinks he can expose the sordid underbelly of the dog show world,” she said, eyes twinkling. There’s nothing Peg enjoys more than provoking an argument. “You may be disappointed. I’m afraid we’re not nearly so scandalous as you may hope.”

  “So far, there’s been no shortage of news.” Brian held her gaze. “Read the first issue before you form an opinion. And speaking of opinions, I’d love to know what you think.”

  Aunt Peg has enough of a name in the dog community that she meets flatterers every day of the week. I wouldn’t say she’s immune to sweet talk, but she’s certainly been inoculated.

  “What I think is that you’re going to have a hard time finding advertisers. Magazines don’t live by subscription alone.”

  “True,” Brian agreed. “Sheila and I have considered that, and we’re aware that things may be slow in the beginning. But we’re confident they’ll pick up. After all, exhibitors want to showcase their dogs in the magazine that offers the widest exposure for their advertising dollar. Based on the response we’re getting already, we think that’s going to be Woof!.”

  Gazing around at the crowds of spectators and exhibitors, many of whom were clutching copies of his first issue, it was hard to refute Brian’s claim.

  “Speaking of Sheila,” he said, turning to Sam. “You haven’t heard from her, have you? She was supposed to be here first thing this morning to help me get the word out.”

  Sam shrugged. He seemed amused by Brian’s annoyance. “You know Sheila. She’s never been known for her punctuality.”

  “But this was important!”

  “So was our wedding,” Sam said mildly. “The organist went through his entire repertoire twice before she finally put in an appearance. Don’t worry, she’s probably on her way.”

  “I should hope so,” Brian growled. “There’s no answer at her house, and her cell phone directed me to voice mail. In the meantime, I had to call a couple of staffers and tell them to swing by the office for more copies, then get up here on the double.”

  Still grumbling under his breath, Brian moved on. “Is that the new magazine?” I heard a woman in the next setup squeal. “Can I have a copy? And one for my friend who’s in the ring?” Sunny smile restored, back in salesman mode, Brian handed out the copies.

  “You’d love to see him fail, wouldn’t you?” I said to Sam as Brian walked away.

  He grimaced slightly. “Do I really seem that petty?”

  “Not usually, no. But don’t forget, if Brian goes down, he’ll drag Sheila with him.”

  “Sheila can take care of herself,” Peg said firmly. “Nobody forced her to get involved in this business to begin with. That was her choice. But since you’re asking, I, for one, wouldn’t mind seeing Woof! fail.”

  That didn’t surprise me. Where dog shows are concerned, Peg tends to see the bright side. It’s not that she doesn’t know about the underhanded things that go on, just that she’s positive that the good outweighs the bad. Curious though she might be, Woof! was not the kind of endeavor to which she would lend her support.

  “Hey!” said Davey, standing up on the top of Tar’s crate. “Why is that lady waving at us?”

  We all turned to look. The lady in question was the steward for the Poodle ring. While we’d been occupied with Brian, the breeds before ours had finished being judged. Now Standard the Poodle Puppy Dog class was in the ring.

  Not only that, but the judge was handing out their ribbons, so the class was almost over. Though Tar was still a puppy, Sam had entered him in Open. With no entries in the intervening classes, his turn would come momentarily.

  “Thank goodness for Marjorie,” Aunt Peg said, as Sam swept Tar down off the grooming table and headed toward the gate, where the rest of the entrants had already gathered. The steward had Sam’s numbered armband out and ready for him to slip on.

  I put Faith in her crate, helped Davey down off his high perch, and followed Peg and Sam to ringside. When we got there, Sam and Tar were already in the ring, standing at the end of a long line of Open dogs. Peg waved her thanks to Marjorie, the steward, who smiled a reply as she checked off the exhibitors’ numbers in her catalogue.

  The essence of the ring steward’s job is to assist a judge in the efficient running of his ring. They mark off absentees, lay out the colored ribbons appropriate for the class being judged, answer numerous questions for harried exhibitors, and generally try to make the judge’s life as easy as possible.

  Apart from announcing each class, it is not their job to call individual exhibitors to the ring. As it happens, however, stewards are usually members of the show-giving club, or local volunteers. Members of the dog show community themselves, they often know many of the entrants. And since they’re also holding a catalogue which spells out who belongs where, they can often be counted on to give a nudge when needed. Luckily for us, today’s steward had been more on the ball than we were.

  Holding Davey’s hand, I stepped in close beside Aunt Peg, who was busy consulting her catalogue. Normally she’d have scoped out the competition ahead of time, but today she’d been too busy with Woof!. Now she ran a knowledgeable eye down the line, much like the judge who was taking her own first look from inside the ring.

  There were six dogs in the class: four blacks, two whites, all adults except for Tar. I could tell that at a glance because he was the only one still wearing the puppy trim, which allows for a scissored blanket of hair all over the Poodle’s body. Traditionally, the Open class is the one with the most competition, and consequently, the hardest to win. Entering Tar here was Sam’s way of letting the judge know that he felt his puppy had the maturity and the quality to take on all comers.

  “Who’s going to win?” I asked Peg in a low tone.

  “You are,” said a voice behind us. “More’s the pity.”

  “Terry!” I turned and slippe
d my arms around him for a gentle hug, careful not to muss the beautifully coifed Standard Poodle puppy he held at his side. “How have you been?”

  “Better on days when Crawford thinks he has a shot.” Terry sighed theatrically. He’s young, and gay, and impossibly handsome, and he never makes a small gesture when a large one will do.

  Crawford Langley was a busy and successful professional dog handler, and Terry’s boss. He’d already won the Puppy Dog class with the Poodle Terry was holding at ringside, and he had another entry in Open to show against Sam.

  “Shhh!” Peg snapped. “You’ll jinx us.”

  “I doubt it,” Terry said, but he looked hopeful. “That puppy’s been beating the tar out of us for the last six weeks.”

  Davey giggled at the bad pun. We adults politely ignored it.

  “If he wins today, that’s it,” said Peg, meaning that Tar would have accumulated the fifteen points required to finish his championship. “He’ll be out of your hair forever.”

  “In the classes, maybe.” Terry pulled a comb out of his jacket pocket and began to comb through the puppy’s silky ears. “What about the specials ring?”

  “We’ll worry about that when the time comes,” Peg said firmly, but her crafty look gave the game away.

  Specials dogs are those rare animals that possess the quality to be given a career in group and best in show competition. Tar was young yet to be making such predictions, but I knew Aunt Peg had high hopes for his future.

  “Oooh.” She drew in a breath.

  The judge had completed her individual examinations and was going back for a second look at the dogs she planned to use. A flick of her finger moved Tar to the head of the line. Crawford was too much of a pro to let his expression betray his feelings when he was pulled out behind Sam’s puppy, but I knew he couldn’t have been pleased. Rather than concede defeat, however, he began to work even harder.