Best in Show

by Laurien Berenson

  “You know, I’ll bet there’s a doctor here somewhere,” I mentioned. “A couple of PCA members are doctors, aren’t they? Maybe the announcer could make a request over the PA system.”

  “Stop worrying about me,” E.J. said over her shoulder. “That’s an order. Keep going on like that, and you’ll drive me right around the bend. I may be old, but I’m not incapacitated.”

  “I never—”

  Her quelling look shut me up. Instead, I simply pitched in and went to work beside her.

  Business was slow for the remainder of the morning. Most people who came by, did so to offer their condolences. Edith Jean accepted everyone’s good wishes with grace and the firm assertion that she had no intention of abandoning her post, even under such trying circumstances.

  After a while, she got out the basket, loaded it up, and sent me and Eve on a tour of the show site. I suspected she was more interested in getting us out of her hair than she was in ticket sales. If Edith Jean wanted some time to herself, however, I was happy to oblige her.

  By noon, Eve and I had sold tickets to every person in the arena who was even remotely interested in the raffle, and probably some to those who weren’t. I’d missed the morning seminar, but now that Edith Jean was back on the job I was hoping to head back to the hotel for the afternoon. Aside from wanting to catch a glimpse of Aunt Peg’s psychic, it was time to start grooming Eve in anticipation of her class Thursday morning.

  “You go on,” Edith Jean said when I broached the subject. “Of course I can handle things here. It’s not as if we’re even busy. Things will start perking up tomorrow when the breed show opens. Everyone will be here for that.”

  “What time is Bubba’s class?” I asked.

  The dog (or male) classes in all three Poodle varieties would be judged on Wednesday. For the first two days of the breed competition, two rings were set up in the arena and they ran simultaneously. Standard Poodles, with the biggest entry and one that usually took all day to judge, had a ring to themselves. Miniature and Toy Poodles were judged in the other ring—one variety showing in the morning and the other in the afternoon. Which size went first, alternated years.

  “Minis are first this time,” said Edith Jean. “Which puts Bubba in the second class after lunch. You’ll be here then, right, so I can go to the ring and watch?”

  “Right,” I agreed.

  The raffle table had an excellent location on the arena floor. In fact, if the crowds weren’t heavy, we could see the ring from where we stood. But being able to casually peruse the judging from afar, and analyzing the competition in your own dog’s class down to the most minute detail, were two distinctly different things.

  Not only that but most dog owners went into hiding when their dogs were being shown by a professional. It’s extremely important that a dog focus on his handler while he’s in the ring. The handler knows how to present the dog to its best advantage; he watches the judge and positions the dog accordingly. A dog that’s inattentive to its handler’s cues or distracted by its owner in the audience, is unlikely to give the winning performance.

  Bearing those factors in mind, Edith Jean would need to position herself in such a way that she had an unobstructed view of the class but that Bubba could neither see, hear, nor smell her. The quest to achieve such a goal often led to comical antics at ringside, with owners bobbing up and down, and into and out of sight, depending on which direction their dogs were facing. Wherever E.J. was planning to go, she certainly didn’t need to be tied to the raffle table.

  “Keep your fingers crossed for us,” she said. “Now, after what’s happened, I want Bubba to win more than ever. What a nice tribute that would be to Sister’s memory.”

  “Yesterday you seemed to think he had a pretty good shot.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Her gaze slipped away. “Harry Gandolf’s been lobbying pretty heavily for that dog of his, Vic. And Leo Mancini, the Toy judge, comes from the Midwest, so he and Harry are pretty tight.”

  Judging dogs is supposed to be a totally objective exercise. Judges should enter the ring carrying nothing but a mental image of the breed standard in their minds. More often than not, however, the dog that has generated the ringside buzz is—deservedly or not—the one that ends up at the head of the line.

  E.J. was right to be wary of advance, word-of-mouth promotion. It had worked to dogs’ advantage many times in the past. Now she shook her head.

  “Something’s up with Harry and that puppy of his,” she said. “I wish I knew what it was. Sister and I don’t go to many shows and Harry Gandolf’s never said two words to me before in my entire life. But don’t you know, there he was bright and early this morning, standing outside my hotel room and wanting to ask me if I was going to pull Bubba from the competition on account of what happened.”

  “That’s pretty rude. What did you tell him?”

  “I said, ‘Son, they don’t call southern women steel magnolias for nothing. My sister was looking forward to watching Bubba win PCA and if I have anything to say about it, that’s exactly what our boy is going to do.’ Then I just pushed right past him and left”

  “He’s a professional handler,” I said thoughtfully. “I imagine he probably brought a whole string of Poodles to this show. I wonder why winning with that one puppy is so important to him?”

  “Beats me,” said Edith Jean. “All I can say is that Sister’s and my lives were a whole lot calmer before Bubba started winning this spring and Harry started making threats.”

  I turned and stared. “Wait a minute. I thought you just said you’d never spoken to him before this morning.”

  “That’s right. Leastways, not in person. But I sure as hell knew who he was. Just like he knew me. Roger, our handler . . .” She stopped, glanced my way. “You know Roger?”

  I nodded. I knew who he was.

  “Roger heard from Harry a month or so ago. Right after Bubba did all his winning on the Cherry Blossom circuit. Harry said he had a client who was interested in Bubba and was he for sale. Hell, no, Sister and I said. Bubba’s the best thing that’s happened to us in years. He’s not for sale.”

  “And then?”

  “Next thing Roger knew, someone had put the word out that Bubba was oversize. Now you Standard people don’t have to worry about that, but with Toys it’s a big deal.”

  I knew about that. It was important with Miniatures as well. The Poodle breed standard is exactly the same for all three varieties except in one aspect: size. Toy Poodles are those that stand ten inches or under, measured at the highest point of the shoulder. Minis are between ten and fifteen inches. Standard Poodles are those that are taller than fifteen. Any Poodle that doesn’t fall within those parameters is disqualified from competition.

  In theory, a Poodle that is oversize for its variety can be shown in the next larger division. But practically speaking, that simply doesn’t work. Fair or not, bigger is considered to be better in the dog show ring and bigger is what wins.

  For the most part, Toy Poodles that become champions usually stand within a quarter inch on either side of that ten-inch mark. Winning Minis are seldom less than fourteen and a half inches; the majority are taller. And since breeders breed for Poodles that are “right up to size,” exhibitors tend to push those limits to the breaking point.

  That was where the size disqualification became a factor. A judge who felt that a Poodle being shown to him didn’t fall within the size parameters for its variety, could call for the wicket and take a measurement in the ring. If the judge was correct, the dog was disqualified. Three disqualifications from three different judges resulted in the Poodle being barred from competition permanently.

  Many judges refused to measure at all, especially since those who were known to be sticklers for size usually drew smaller entries. Other judges preferred to eyeball the participants, making their own estimation of eligibility rather than performing an official measurement. However you looked at it, the fact that someone was spreading the rumor that
Bubba was oversize couldn’t help but be damaging.

  “Is he over?” I asked. Anyone who had shown for any length of time had been faced with the prospect of finishing one that grew bigger than anticipated. It was luck of the draw as much as anything else that made a puppy fall just under the disqualification line rather than just over.

  “No, Bubba’s just in. Fortunately. He was measured twice after that,” said Edith Jean. “Both judges got the wicket over him with no problem. Next thing we knew, somebody told Roger word’s going around that Bubba’s been dyed.”

  Another potentially disqualifying act. If it could be proven. I found myself frowning. This all sounded like a great deal of commotion to go through over the show career of one small Toy Poodle puppy.

  “How did you know Harry was the one who was behind all the rumors?”

  “Dog people talk,” said Edith Jean. “You probably know that for yourself. First time around, we figured it was probably a disgruntled competitor. But the second time rumors started flying, Roger got mad and did some digging. Again and again, Harry Gandolf’s name kept popping up. I don’t mind telling you that Sister was getting pretty steamed about the whole situation. And she had a bit of a temper, that gal.”

  As if Edith Jean didn’t.

  “Just yesterday afternoon, when Harry was hanging around the show schmoozing with everybody, Sister looked at me and said, ‘If that man doesn’t back off and leave our puppy alone, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.’ And she was serious about it, too.”

  And now she was dead, I thought.

  What were the chances that that was a coincidence?

  8

  The first person I ran into when I got back to the hotel was Aunt Peg.

  I’d parked my car and taken Eve inside through the lobby, which was unexpectedly crowded. After a moment, I realized why. The morning’s symposium, held in a meeting room that opened off the entryway, was just ending. Aunt Peg was standing in the doorway as people left, handing out questionnaires for feedback, accepting congratulations for a job well done, and basking in Mary Ludlow Scott’s reflected glory.

  I sidled over to where she stood. “I gather things went well?”

  “Superb.” Peg was beaming. “There were so many questions, the program ran long by an hour. Mary stayed at the podium until every single person got an answer. There’s barely time now for people to grab a quick lunch before the afternoon session starts. That’s why everyone’s in such a rush to get out.”

  Maybe. Or perhaps the stampede had something to do with the fact that the expert was being followed by a charlatan. Not that I said as much, of course.

  “I noticed you didn’t think it was worth your time to attend,” Aunt Peg sniffed. She hates it when her relatives fail to meet her expectations.

  “I’d have been thrilled to hear Mary Scott speak. But in case you’ve forgotten, someone needed to go over to the show and open up the raffle table.”

  “Oh.” Aunt Peg pondered that. I sensed that my lapse was being forgiven. “Speaking of which, do you happen to know where Edith Jean is? She hasn’t checked out, but she doesn’t seem to be in her room either. Everyone’s been looking for her.”

  “I just left her back at the arena. She showed up there this morning, determined to run the raffle, just as she and Betty Jean promised they’d do.”

  Aunt Peg stepped back out of the flow of pedestrians. She pulled me aside with her. “You can’t be serious. Surely Nancy or Cliff must have told her that they’d find someone else to take over.”

  “I imagine they did, but Edith Jean doesn’t want anyone else doing her job. She said she and Betty Jean had been looking forward to the show all year, and there was no way she was going home before it was over. She’s hoping to watch their puppy, Bubba, go Winners Dog tomorrow.”

  “That’s the silver Toy I told you about yesterday,” Peg remembered. “I judged him in Virginia in April. I’m pretty sure I put him up, too.”

  “Just about all the judges did. To hear the sisters tell it, he was the star of the circuit. So much so that Harry Gandolf started making trouble for them.”

  Aunt Peg waved merrily at several departing participants, then turned back to frown at me. “Harry Gandolf is based in Illinois. I don’t recall seeing him in Virginia at all. Roger Carew was handling the puppy there.”

  “Harry isn’t on the Boones’ team, he’s a competitor. Apparently he’s convinced that his Toy puppy is the one that ought to go Winners Dog tomorrow. He tried to buy Bubba earlier in the spring, and when that failed, he started all sorts of rumors about the dog.”

  “Like what?”

  “That he was oversize, that he’d been dyed. You know, disruptive stuff meant to put an end to his winning streak.”

  “Hmmm.” Aunt Peg tapped her lip thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, I suppose I did hear something about that. At the time I just passed it off as circuit gossip. Perhaps I should have paid more attention. It came up at the judges’ dinner, the night after I’d done Poodles. I was seated next to Rollie Barnes.”

  Roland Barnes had started his career in Basset Hounds and bore an unfortunate resemblance to his favorite breed. He was squat in stature, dour by nature, and almost entirely lacking in finesse when it came to judging Poodles. He seldom found the best dog in his entry; and some exhibitors claimed he judged by the pound, as his winner was invariably the fattest dog in the ring.

  “Rollie was doing Poodles the next day,” said Peg. “He asked whether I’d had a silver Toy puppy and if so, what I’d thought of him. Well you know we’re not really supposed to discuss such things but, of course, it does happen. I thought perhaps he wanted my opinion since Poodles are my breed. In the same way that I might have gone to him to ask about a Basset Hound.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” I grinned.

  After a moment, she smiled too. “You’re right, I probably wouldn’t have. Nevertheless, Rollie said someone had told him Roger’s Toy puppy was big, that the judges weren’t doing their job in letting him slip by. Since I’d already had him, he wanted to know what I thought.

  “It’s the nature of dog shows, I suppose. People are always talking about one another’s dogs, and they’re not killing them with compliments, either. I hate that aspect of the sport. Why can’t the dogs simply be allowed to speak for themselves? I told Rollie I thought the puppy was lovely and well within size.”

  “Well within?”

  “I had a point to make,” Peg said innocently.

  “And after you’d given Bubba your seal of approval, did he put the puppy up?”

  “I have no idea. My assignment was over. I left for home first thing the next morning. Until you mentioned that Harry had been causing problems, I hadn’t given the incident another thought. But while we’re on the subject of the Boones, there’s something else you ought to know. Cliff got an update from the police this morning.”

  “I heard they were questioning people. Did they talk to you?”

  “Yes, last night. They came to my room after we split up. Cliff had told them I was one of the first people on the scene. And of course, I had touched Betty Jean. Turned her over, actually. So they wanted to know what I thought I was doing.”

  “As if that wasn’t obvious.”

  “That’s what I thought. I told them I was trying to see if she needed help. Just as any responsible person would have done. At the time, they weren’t overly concerned. Apparently they were thinking she might have had a heart attack. But this morning I heard from Cliff that that theory’s been ruled out.”

  I felt a chill. “What did Betty Jean die of?”

  “It was the blow to the head that killed her. When she hit the planter, it fractured her skull.”

  “How awful. You mean she tripped in the dark and did herself in?”

  “Not exactly. There was a bruise on her chest that doesn’t look as though it was caused by the fall. The police told Cliff that they’re looking into the possibility she might have been pushed.
It seems it wasn’t an accidental death after all. Betty Jean Boone was murdered.”

  You’d think news like that would take my appetite away, but it didn’t. Not even close. Instead, I left Aunt Peg to her hostessing duties, dropped Eve off in my room, then went off in search of Bertie. My new sister-in-law, Peg had informed me, had been sitting front row center during the morning’s program. I wondered if she’d been taking notes. Maybe I could still gain some of Mary Scott’s knowledge, even if it wasn’t firsthand.

  Not unexpectedly, I found Bertie standing in the buffet line in the hotel coffee shop. These days, she was hungry all the time. And since it was probably the first time in her life that she wasn’t keeping an eye on her figure, Bertie was eating with gusto. I grabbed a plate and joined her.

  We caught up over a hurried lunch, which mostly meant that Bertie rhapsodized over Mary Scott’s vast wealth of knowledge, skill, and generosity while simultaneously stuffing her face with pasta. “I’m going to start handling Poodles,” she said. “I can’t imagine why I haven’t already.”

  “Possibly because of all the extra hours you’d have to spend grooming?” Watching her eat was fascinating. I didn’t think I’d ever seen linguine disappear so fast.

  “Like I don’t do that now with some of my other breeds.” Bertie used her fork to wave away my objection. “Besides, I can pass along the costs. I guess I’ve always been intimidated by all that hair. And the trims that aren’t like anything else I do. I figured if you weren’t practically born into the breed, you’d never be able to make a success of it.”

  “I wasn’t born into it,” I pointed out. “I never even went to a dog show until I was thirty.”

  “Yeah, but you’re different.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “No, I mean it.” She stopped and looked at me. “You came into the dog show world with Peg. That’s kind of like having the queen bring you in and introduce you around the palace.”

  “I thought Mary Ludlow Scott was the queen.”