“Tail,” Terry whispered as the judge glanced Crawford’s way. “Hair!”
I used my elbow to nudge him, none too politely, in the ribs. Terry winced, but didn’t retreat.
Each dog, no matter how beautiful, has his faults. And every handler knows that it’s his job to ferret out the competition’s weaknesses and exploit them. Though he carried his tail correctly, Tar’s tail set could have been higher; and as he was still a puppy, his coat lacked the harshness it would naturally attain in a year or two.
Standing second, it was Crawford’s duty not only to showcase his own dog’s assets, but also remind the judge of Tar’s deficiencies. He tried, but his efforts didn’t succeed. When the judge pointed to her placings, Tar was still in the number one spot.
Peg and I clapped our appreciation, but we weren’t ready to celebrate yet. Championship points are won not by taking an individual class, but by beating all the other class winners within the same sex. Today, only two dog classes—Puppy and Open—had had entries, but that still meant that Crawford’s puppy had a chance to beat Tar for the title of Winners Dog and the points that went with it.
Terry hustled the Puppy class winner over to the gate, where he and Crawford switched dogs. After that, it was all over in a moment. The judge compared the two puppies briefly, then motioned Tar to the winner’s spot.
Beside me, Davey whooped with delight. Even Aunt Peg, who likes to think she’s discreet, was cheering. “A puppy champion,” she said proudly. “That doesn’t happen every day.”
Sam floated out of the ring, wearing a goofy smile. He didn’t even seem to notice that Tar, reacting to our excitement, was dancing beside him on his hind legs.
“Well done,” I said.
Sam was beaming. “What a puppy! Wasn’t he great?”
“Perfect,” Peg agreed. Ever practical, she added, “Now don’t let him get messed up. He still has to go back in for Best of Variety.”
“Don’t remind me,” said Crawford, coming out of the ring with the Reserve ribbon. “Thank God you’re not showing any bitches. I’d like to think I’m going to get one turn today.”
None of us wasted a moment’s pity on Crawford. With his skills and his reputation, he was usually the man to beat. As if to reinforce that thought, he promptly handled his class bitch to Winners Bitch.
Two specials had been entered for Best of Variety. Crawford was handling one, a brown bitch with whom he’d done a fair amount of winning; another pro had the other. Terry was back in the ring with the Winners Bitch and Sam had Tar.
“This should be fun,” Aunt Peg murmured. “This judge is the kind who loves to discover new talent. Let’s see how much she thinks of our puppy.”
Tar had shown well in the Open class but now, sensing Sam’s delight and the excitement from ringside, he was positively electric. Head and tail high, he strutted around the ring as though he owned it. And though he was attuned to Sam, he never took his eyes off the judge.
The very best show dogs seem to have an inner sense of who the game is being played for. Tar cavorted for the judge; he flirted with her. By the end of the class, he’d all but captivated her. Clearly she was delighted with her choice when she awarded him the big purple-and-gold ribbon for Best of Variety. The ringside, realizing they’d witnessed the emergence of a new star, roared its approval.
“Who’s judging the Non-Sporting Group?” I asked, reaching for the catalogue. Since Tar had begun the day as an unfinished puppy, it hadn’t occurred to me earlier that this was information I might need to know.
As usual when it came to dogs, however, Aunt Peg was one step ahead of me. She nodded toward the ring, where Sam and Tar were waiting with the judge for the arrival of the show photographer. “Sylvia Koenig, again. I trust Sam is making good use of his time.”
He was. Edging closer, I heard him tell the judge that she’d just finished Tar’s championship, and that he’d accomplished the title with three major wins. Oh, and by the way, Tar had also recently won Best Puppy in Show at the Poodle Club of America specialty, under renowned breeder-judge, Helen Sokopp.
Sam’s usually more modest about his accomplishments, but there’s nothing judges like more than hearing that the decisions they’ve made in the ring are validated by those of their peers. You’re not the only one who saw merit in this puppy, Sam was telling her. And I hope you’ll give him some more consideration in the group.
Like Brian with his magazine, Sam was just creating a little buzz. Later, we’d find out how well his efforts would pay off.
Speaking of which, I thought, I’d meant to ask Crawford and Terry what they thought of Woof!. Getting Crawford to gossip was about as easy as teaching a Whippet to retrieve, but Terry loved to talk. Together, they were a great combination. Crawford had all the right connections, and Terry had a big mouth.
My kind of people.
Six
“Hey, doll, what’s up?” Terry had the brown Standard Poodle bitch up on a grooming table and was taking apart her topknot. Crawford was already gone again, probably off showing another dog. “Come to gloat?”
“Why Terry, I never thought of you as a sore loser.”
“Just the fact that you think of me at all warms my heart. Where’s your petit enfant? Don’t tell me you’re letting Sam practice his parenting skills?”
“No, Sam’s taking care of Tar. Davey’s with Aunt Peg.”
Terry’s raised brow spoke volumes. “Feeling brave in the face of victory, are we?”
“Not at all. Aunt Peg’s great with kids.”
There went that eyebrow again. Darn it.
“All right,” I conceded, “she’ll probably feed him sweets for lunch. And buy him a toy at the concession stands. But at least I don’t think she’ll lose him.”
He popped a rubber band with the tip of his comb. “Nothing I like more than a woman who throws caution to the wind ... unless, of course, it’s a man—”
“Enough!” I laughed. “I came to see what you and Crawford think of Brian Endicott’s magazine.”
“Ah, Woof!” Terry nodded toward a copy on top of their tackbox. “Be there, or be square.”
“For now.” I hiked myself up on an empty table, announcing my intention to stay a while. “Because it’s new and it’s provocative. But do you think it will catch on?”
“Brian certainly thinks so. He was over here earlier, telling us all about it. The grapevine says he’s put up plenty of money and now that he’s taken on a new partner ...” Terry’s voice trailed away as comprehension dawned. “So that’s why you’re interested. Gathering ammunition for a catfight?”
“You wish. I’m just curious. Sam thinks Sheila is crazy to get mixed up in something like this. Brian seems to think he’s going to save the dog show world from itself. I can’t decide whether this magazine is going to turn into a legitimate defender of breeders’ rights or just a sleazy dog show tabloid.”
“Probably some of both. Have you looked at the first issue yet?”
“Briefly. Most of the headlines seem designed to titillate, not educate.” I reached for the issue and flipped through it. “Best in Show Judge Implicated in Puppy Mill Sting. Prominent Exhibitor Flies to Sweden For Sex Change. At this rate, Brian and Sheila will be lucky not to get themselves sued.”
“But won’t we have fun in the meantime?” Terry grinned. “Besides, considering how deep Brian’s pockets are, a little thing like a lawsuit is hardly going to cramp his style.”
“Brian is rich?” Nobody had mentioned that before.
“Loaded. Made his fortune in the eighties by inventing a computer game. You’ve probably heard of it, Island of Mutant Terror?”
He glanced up from his work, and I shrugged.
“When I was a teenager, it was the biggest thing around. It sold millions.”
Terry was in his twenties. If Brian had invented a game Terry had enjoyed as a teen, he must have done so right out of business school.
“Not only that, but you should see his
car. It’s TO DIE FOR.”
I grinned at the naked longing in his tone. “Funny thing, Terry, I wouldn’t have figured you for a car envy kind of guy.”
“Hey, I may be gay, but I’m not blind.”
“You’re also not working. Why am I not surprised?” Crawford came hurrying down the aisle. He was leading a Dalmatian and carrying a red-and-white ribbon. “Hi, Melanie. Bye, Melanie. You two can chat later, okay?”
“Sure,” I said quickly, as Crawford ushered the liver-spotted dog into his crate. “I was just wondering what you and Terry thought of the new magazine.”
Crawford tossed the Best Opposite Sex ribbon into his tackbox and pulled off his sports coat. “I think I just got beat for the breed in Poodles and Dalmatians, so if my Lhasa doesn’t go up, I can pretty much pack it in for the day. That’s about the only opinion I can afford to have at the moment.”
“Got it,” I said, and made my retreat.
Back at Sam’s setup, Faith and Tar were both resting quietly in their crates. Sam had disappeared, but Davey and Aunt Peg were back. Both were slurping on Popsicles, blue for Davey, red for Aunt Peg. One look at those colors, and you didn’t have to be a mother to know that the drips would stain.
“Did you have a sandwich from the cooler?” I asked. “And a carton of milk?”
“No. Aunt Peg said it was too hot to eat real food.”
She would.
“You didn’t happen to run across Sheila in your travels, did you?” asked Peg. “We saw Brian again. He’s doing his best to hide it, but I think he’s livid that she hasn’t shown up.”
“I wonder if she chickened out,” I said. “It’s one thing to publish all the dirt that’s fit to print, it’s another to walk around and hand it to people personally.”
Aunt Peg shook her head. “If that’s the reason she’s not here, I imagine she’ll live to regret it. Brian seems quite pleased with himself, and most of the response I’ve heard so far has been pretty favorable. Even without Sheila’s help, Brian’s managed to blanket the show ground with copies.”
“Where’d Sam go?” I asked.
“He said he wanted to have a word with Brian.” Peg glanced at her watch. “Saint Bernards were due to start in ring ten at one-thirty. I think he headed that way.”
“Let’s go look,” I said to Davey. “Want to watch the Saint Bernards?”
Davey scrambled eagerly to his feet. Though he adores Faith, he’s fascinated by the giant breeds, like Great Danes, Irish Wolfhounds, Great Pyrenees, and Saint Bernards. Far from finding their size overwhelming, he responds instinctively to the big dogs’ inherent gentleness. Besides, when you’re six, the fact that they drool is an added bonus.
The entry in Saints must have been big. Ring ten was on the end of the row, and, as we approached, I could see at least twenty of the large dogs sitting with their owners at ringside.
In deference to the sunny day, most were either being held under the tent or shaded by large umbrellas. Stainless-steel water bowls, bobbing with ice cubes, were everywhere; and a number of the dogs wore bibs made of towels, tied around their necks to catch the drool before it could mar their sparkling-clean coats.
I saw Sam on the far side of the ring and turned to go that way, but Davey had other plans. Eyes round as pennies, he pulled me toward the nearest Saint Bernard, a shorthaired female lying on a towel next to her owner’s chair. Obviously unimpressed by the judging in the ring behind her, the brown-and-white bitch watched our approach with equanimity.
“Can I pet her?” Davey asked, already reaching toward the soft coat.
I hauled him back. “We have to ask permission first.”
Judging by the kind look in her soft brown eyes, the Saint’s temperament wasn’t a problem. But being largely unfamiliar with the breed, I had no idea what kind of preparations her owner might have gone through before bringing the dog to the ring. I knew from my experience with Faith that there was nothing more frustrating than spending hours getting a Poodle ready to be shown, only to have someone stick a hand into its hair at ringside.
“Don’t worry about Julie,” said the Saint’s owner, who’d heard our exchange. “She loves kids.”
As Davey sank to his knees on the ground beside her, the bitch’s large pink tongue licked the length of his arm. Clearly this was a dog who liked the taste of blueberry Popsicles.
On the other side of the ring, Sam and Brian were now engaged in a heated discussion. If Sam had noticed our approach, it hadn’t been enough to distract him from the conversation.
I wondered if they were talking about Sheila. I wondered if asking him about that later would make me sound paranoid. And I wondered how a woman, whose existence I’d been completely unaware of four months earlier, had come to be such an insidious presence in our lives.
“Davey, I’m going to go around the ring and talk to Sam. Do you want to stay here and pet the nice dog or come with me?”
“Stay here,” Davey said firmly.
I pointed to Sam and Brian. “That’s where I’ll be. Don’t go anywhere else but here or there, okay?”
“Okay.”
Acquiescence that comes that easily doesn’t always mean much, but since I’d be able to see Davey from the other side of the ring, I doubted he’d be able to give me the slip.
As I rounded the corner of the ring, Sam and Brian stopped talking. For a moment, I thought it was because of me, then I realized I wasn’t the only one heading their way. A man and woman were approaching from the other side too. Each was carrying a stack of magazines. The office staff, no doubt.
“You’re the talk of the show ground,” I told Brian as I joined the small group.
His answering grin was dazzling. “Tell me about it. We can’t give these out fast enough.” He gestured toward the two staffers. “Melanie Travis, meet Aubrey Jones and Tim Golonka. They came to help out with distribution.”
Aubrey looked to be about my age, early thirties, with delicate features and pale, lightly freckled skin. Given the strength of the late-June sun, I hoped she was wearing plenty of sunblock.
Tim was short, slight, and eager-looking. The Jimmy Olsen of Woof!. While Aubrey gave me a cool nod and an appraising glance, Tim stuck out his hand, grabbed mine, and pumped it vigorously.
“What’s your breed?” he asked, the ever-popular first question among dedicated showgoers.
“Poodles.”
“Little or big?”
“Standards.”
“Man, I love those dogs! Had one when I was a kid. Best dog in the world.” Tim’s chatter was fast and exuberant. If he expended any more energy, he’d be dancing in place.
“Melanie is Sam’s fiancée,” Brian explained. I assumed Sam had been introduced earlier. “Her aunt is Margaret Turnbull—”
“Cedar Crest,” Aubrey broke in before Brian could finish. She looked like a student sitting in the front row and hoping to impress the teacher.
“Wow!” cried Tim. “Great dogs. Cool lady. I read an article about her in Dogs in Review.”
“She is a cool lady,” I agreed. “And I’m sure she’d like you, too.” I looked at Brian. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Maybe I shouldn’t be. Are all your staffers so familiar with the dog show world?”
“All my staff?” Brian laughed. “You make it sound so grand. We’re a small outfit, you’ve pretty much met everybody. Sheila and I are copublishers. Aubrey is managing editor. Tim, here, is her assistant.”
“Assistant editor on my business cards,” Tim confided. “But you can call me gofer. And don’t forget Carrie.”
“She answers the phones,” said Aubrey. “We hired her from an ad in the paper. She lives with two cats and I think she thinks the rest of us are seriously nuts.”
“She makes good coffee,” Brian said in Carrie’s defense. “And she’s already been to her first dog show. We’ll win her over eventually.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” said Sam, “I have to go get ready for the group.”
&
nbsp; “Of course.” Brian nodded. “Don’t forget what I told you.”
“You have a dog in the group? Cool! Non-Sporting?”
“A Standard Poodle puppy,” I said, wishing Tim hadn’t chosen that moment to ask more questions. Sam was already walking away. “Come and cheer for us, okay?”
“Will do!”
I hurried to catch up to Sam. “What was that all about?” I steered him toward the other side of the ring where I had to pick up Davey.
“What?”
“What did Brian tell you?”
“It was nothing.”
“It looked like he thought it was important.”
“Brian thinks everything that relates to him is important.” Sam turned away, took two quick strides, and reached down to scoop Davey up into his arms. “Hey, champ! Looks like you’ve been taking pretty good care of that Saint Bernard. Or is she taking care of you?”
“Her name is Julie,” Davey said happily. “And she likes cookies. I got to feed her one. She has the biggest mouth in the whole world.”
“Bigger than the sharks at the Maritime Center?”
“Much bigger!”
“Thanks,” I said to Julie’s owner. “You’ve made his day.”
“No problem. He was charming.”
Davey? My son was adorable, precocious, maddeningly opinionated, and slippery as an eel when he wanted to be. But charming? That was a new concept.
I let it roll around in my head as we walked back to the setup. By the time we got there, I’d decided I was rather pleased. Maybe some of those manners I’d been trying to teach him were finally taking hold.
“Hey, Aunt Peg!” Davey yelled, sliding down out of Sam’s arms. “What have you got to eat?”
Then again, maybe not.
“There’s fruit in the cooler,” I said. “And those sandwiches you never had for lunch.”
“Spoilsport.” Peg sniffed. She was sitting in a canvas chair and had a copy of Woof! open in her lap.
“Precisely.” I reached past her to open the cooler. “I’m the mother. That’s part of the job description.” I took out an apple and a tuna sandwich and handed them to Davey. “Having fun with that magazine?”
Unleashed (A Melanie Travis Mystery) Page 5
