Best in Show

by Laurien Berenson

  “I’m Harry Gandolf.” The Poodle handler glanced at my hands, both of which were busy, and didn’t offer his.

  “I know,” I said.

  “You do?”

  “The Boone sisters pointed you out to me.”

  “Ahh, well . . .” Harry smiled. The expression didn’t transform his pugnacious features. Now he just looked like a happy Rottie. “I hope you don’t believe everything you hear.”

  “That depends who I’m talking to.”

  “Fair enough.” The smile faded. If he licked his chops, I was going to take a step back. “I’m a big fan of your aunt’s.”

  “Really? I’ll be sure and let her know.”

  “I wish you would. Even the best breeders don’t always make good judges. Peg Turnbull’s got what it takes, though.”

  He was right, she did. Although considering what I’d heard about Harry, I wouldn’t necessarily credit him with knowing about that. Or caring.

  Even with the damp towels I’d spread over the portions of Eve’s coat that I wasn’t currently working on, the puppy’s hair was starting to curl. In the warm room, with all the other dryers blowing, her hair was air-drying too fast. Stopping to talk mid-process was not allowed. At least not with the likes of Harry Gandolf.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” I asked.

  “I was told you’re working on the raffle committee.”

  “That’s right. Would you like to buy some tickets?”

  I’d been joking. Harry didn’t look amused.

  “I was hoping you might be able to tell me where I could find Edith Jean Boone. Nobody seems to know where she is.”

  “Why?” I asked. It wasn’t any of my business, but what the heck. Her whereabouts weren’t any of his.

  “I wanted to pass along my condolences on her terrible loss.”

  Right. If that were the case, he could have done so when he’d waylaid Edith Jean that morning.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” I said.

  He stared at me for a long minute. “Thanks anyway. I guess I’ll go check with Roger.”

  As he walked away I realized that Edith Jean’s handler, Roger Carew, was also in the crowded room. There was a silver Toy puppy on his grooming table. The fact that several people were standing around admiring the dog indicated that it was probably Bubba. If I hadn’t been busy with Eve, I’d have been tempted to take a closer look myself.

  Instead, I turned the blower back on and maneuvered myself around to the other side of Eve’s table. Now I could watch the proceedings while I worked.

  Roger, his attention focused on the silver puppy, didn’t see Harry coming. He was scissoring Bubba’s front—delicate and exacting work, especially on a dog as small as a Toy. One careless slip could totally alter the look of a trim; an accidental gouge would remove a Poodle from competition until the hair grew back. The blades of Roger’s scissors flashed open and shut as he nicked off hair in incredibly tiny increments.

  A couple standing by the table glanced at Harry as he approached. Roger never even looked up. With each gliding cut from the scissors, the angle of the puppy’s front grew more exact, more perfect.

  I saw Harry lift his hand. With sudden horror, I realized he was about to slap Roger’s shoulder in greeting. That thump would travel straight down the handler’s arm and into the blade of the scissors, now positioned so precisely against the puppy’s hair. In mere seconds, Harry would succeed in destroying months of work.

  There wasn’t time to stop him. Nor to warn Roger. The room was too noisy. I was too far away . . .

  Like hell, I thought. I opened my mouth and screamed.

  10

  Immediately the room went still. Aside from the persistent whine of the blow-dryers, everything was abruptly silent. It was that kind of scream. All eyes turned in my direction.

  Including Roger’s. He straightened, lifting his arm away from the puppy as he rose and looked around. Harry’s hand, already middescent, landed harmlessly on his shoulder.

  “Sorry,” I said, fumbling hastily for an excuse. “I thought I saw a mouse.”

  “A mouse?” a woman shrieked. She danced in place, trying to lift both feet from the ground at the same time. “Where?”

  I gestured vaguely toward the food table. That seemed likely enough. What I hadn’t counted on was that several men would feel obliged to rush to the rescue: striding toward the table, lifting the cloth that covered it and peering underneath, then inspecting the doughnuts in the box as if looking for signs of tiny mouse tracks.

  Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Roger try to brush Harry off. He returned the other handler’s greeting curtly before turning back to Bubba. Purposely he angled himself so that his body was between Harry and the silver Toy. Roger didn’t resume scissoring. Instead, after a minute, he lifted the small dog up off the table and placed him under his arm. Good move, I thought.

  “I don’t see anything,” said one of my would-be rescuers. They all turned and looked at me again. “Where did you see it?”

  “I could have been mistaken.” I plastered a sheepish smile on my face. “Maybe I saw some blowing hair and got carried away.”

  “See?” The shrieking woman’s husband patted her shoulder soothingly. “False alarm.”

  She didn’t look convinced. In fact, she really looked as though she wished he would pick her up and carry her out of the room. I was sorry for upsetting her needlessly; but not half as sorry as I would have been if Harry had succeeded in ruining Bubba’s chances at tomorrow’s show.

  On the other side of the room, Harry continued to try to talk to Roger. Roger continued to ignore him. Still cradling the Toy in his arms, he began to pack up his equipment. The people he’d been talking to drifted away.

  And all that time, I realized belatedly, my dryer had been running with the nozzle pointing in Eve’s direction. Her long hair, which needed to be straightened with a pin brush as it dried, had, while my attention was elsewhere, curled and kinked all on its own. I’d have to get out a spray bottle of water, wet that section down, and start all over.

  I sighed. Then jumped. Before I could even reach for the spray bottle in my tack box, a hand was holding it out to me.

  “You saw a mouse.” The voice that came with the hand sounded amused. Also familiar.

  Crawford Langley was Terry’s boss in their working relationship, his partner in life. The two of them suited one another remarkably well. Crawford was the older, more experienced half of the pair, as distinguished in his demeanor as Terry was flamboyant. Crawford had been a top Poodle handler for decades. His skills were beyond dispute, his discretion legendary, his kindness often hidden behind a stern exterior.

  “Yes,” I repeated, perhaps a tad defensively. “I saw a mouse. Is that so impossible?”

  “The mouse, no. That scream, yes. You could have given Janet Leigh a run for her money with that one.” His gray eyes considered me thoughtfully. “Though you’re not half the actress she was.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Sure you do. But I’ll elaborate if you want. In the three years I’ve known you, you’ve gotten into more trouble than most people do in a lifetime. You’ve been shot at, half strangled, knocked out, and nearly burned to a crisp. And that only counts the stuff I know about. I’d be willing to bet that’s the first time you’ve let out a blood-curdling yelp like that.”

  The man had a point. Which apparently was that he was getting to know me all too well. “So?”

  Crawford’s tone softened. “Is everything okay?”

  “Just fine, now.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Dragging his stuff behind him on a dolly, Roger was leaving the room. Bubba’s small face peered out from behind the mesh door of a wooden crate that was perched on top.

  “Positive.”

  “Okay.” Crawford glanced in Roger’s direction, then back at me. “Just checking.”

  Impulsively I reached out, wound my arms aro
und his shoulders, and gave him a quick hug. “Thank you.”

  Now Crawford looked embarrassed. As soon as I released him, he spun on his heel and walked away. “Women,” I heard him mutter under his breath.

  Eve, the model of Poodle patience, was waiting for me on the table. I sprayed down her hair and went back to work.

  Dinnertime had come and gone by the time Eve’s coat was perfectly blown dry, her topknot and ears rebanded and wrapped, her face and tail clipped. Before heading back upstairs to our room, I took the puppy for another walk outside. After the hours she’d spent lying still on the table, I knew she’d appreciate the chance to stretch her legs.

  Just like the night before, the evening had grown chilly. Accustomed to the humid warmth of the grooming room, I found myself shivering as I slipped off Eve’s leash and watched her bound away.

  The exercise area was mostly empty. The police were gone, although their yellow tape remained. A couple of sightseers stood at the perimeter and stared at the small grassy corner. I couldn’t imagine there was anything to see.

  As I waited for Eve to circle back to me, my stomach started to rumble. Loudly. It felt as though I’d eaten lunch eons ago. No doubt Eve was hungry too.

  I was about to call her when one of the men standing near the corner turned around. Light from an overhead lamp fell across his face and I recognized Damien Bradley. For a man who’d supposedly been banned from the hotel, he seemed to spend a lot of time there.

  I wondered whether morbid curiosity had drawn him back today. Or whether he’d come for another reason, then decided to have a look at the place where Betty Jean’s body had been found. Aunt Peg was convinced that the man had a propensity for stirring up trouble, but he didn’t seem to be causing any problems at the moment. In fact, he wasn’t doing much of anything.

  Then he noticed Eve. While I’d been watching Damien, the puppy had wandered toward the end of the field that bordered the parking lot. Immediately Damien moved to intercept her.

  “Hey, sweet girl,” he called out, his voice low and inviting. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

  “Sorry,” I said, stepping quickly out of the shadows. I hurried to cover the distance between us. “She’s with me.”

  Eve, meanwhile, stopped and stood, waiting to see what we wanted her to do. Damien reached the puppy first. As a precaution, he looped his arms loosely around her neck, confining her, yet not causing any damage to the hair.

  “Thanks, but she’s okay.” The puppy wagged her tail at my approach. “She won’t run.”

  Professional handlers deal with all sorts of dogs: some trained, many untrained, others willful or disobedient. They take whatever their clients send them. Clearly Damien wasn’t irresponsible enough to let any of his charges run loose. I counted that as a point in his favor.

  “I didn’t see you over there,” he said, unwinding his arms. “And I was afraid she’d head toward the road. A black puppy on a dark night . . .”

  He didn’t have to spell it out. We both knew the worst that could happen.

  “Thank you,” I said again. There was a cotton show leash in my pocket. I slipped the lightweight collar on over Eve’s head. “I should have been watching her more closely. I guess I got distracted.”

  “Hard not to,” Damien said, glancing back at the corner. “Under the circumstances.”

  “Did you know Betty Jean?”

  He nodded. “We were old friends. I used to handle the sisters’ dogs.”

  I hadn’t known that. “Not anymore?” Purposely I kept my tone light.

  “No. Things change, don’t they?” Damien didn’t sound too upset by the loss. “Now they use Roger Carew. I don’t think the sisters knew too many people in the dog show world. What happened was a real shame . . .”

  “Yes, it was.”

  We had yet to introduce ourselves, but it didn’t seem to matter. One of the things I’d always liked best about PCA was that everyone in attendance shared a common bond in their love of Poodles. It was easily possible to share an interesting conversation with total strangers. People did it all the time.

  Damien didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. I decided I wasn’t either. “Are you a guest at the hotel?” I asked.

  “No. I’m staying down the road. I guess I don’t measure up to PCA’s standard of good behavior. They requested that I go elsewhere.”

  At least he was honest.

  “How about you?”

  “I’m here. My aunt wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Who’s your aunt?”

  “Peg Turnbull.”

  “Ah.” Damien nodded knowingly. “One of the dragons in charge.”

  “I gather you don’t get along too well with them.”

  “Let’s just say I don’t enjoy kowtowing to authority and leave it at that.” He peered at me in the half-light. “I guess you’ve heard the stories.”

  “I’m beginning to think you might have enjoyed starring in them.”

  “Maybe I did, at that.” Abruptly Damien’s gaze shifted away from mine. His expression froze.

  I looked to see what had caught his attention. Sam Driver had come out of the hotel and was walking toward us. Damien’s face hardened; mine lit up. Sam was my best friend, my lover. My one-time fiance. I’d known he was arriving this evening, I just hadn’t been sure when.

  Nor had I expected him to greet me with a scowl. Then, as he approached, I realized that he wasn’t looking at me at all. The snarl on his face was aimed at the handler.

  “Bradley,” he said curtly.

  “Driver,” the other man replied.

  So the two of them declined to be on a first name basis, that was clear enough. Nothing like a little male posturing to get things off to a good start.

  Oblivious to the undercurrents humming in the air, Eve demonstrated her lack of manners by jumping up on Sam and trying to lick his face. Absently, he smoothed a hand over her cheek and down her neck. The puppy wiggled with joy. It’s a sad thing when your dog gets a greeting before you do.

  “Hello,” I said loudly. Just in case everyone had forgotten I was there.

  Sam didn’t exactly answer. He did reach out and take my hand. His fingers, warm and strong, wrapped around mine and gave them a squeeze.

  Damien didn’t miss the possessive gesture. I assumed he wasn’t meant to. “I guess I’ll be going now,” he said.

  As the handler walked away, I tipped my face up to Sam’s. “How about a kiss?”

  Sam was still distracted. He stared after Damien. “What were you doing out here with him?”

  “Talking. What did it look like?” I took a step back. So much for the kiss.

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “Damien Bradley. The bad boy of PCA.”

  “Precisely. Whatever he wanted, you shouldn’t have anything to do with him.”

  “He didn’t want anything,” I said. My patience was beginning to fray. “We were just talking. Despite what I’ve heard, he seemed nice.”

  “Of course he seemed nice. That’s what he does.”

  “Hard way to make a living.”

  I was kidding. Sam wasn’t in a kidding mood.

  “I mean it, Mel. The man is scum. You shouldn’t let him flirt with you.”

  “What makes you think he was?”

  “I know Damien. When I lived in Michigan, we used to cross paths at shows all the time. He’s very good at conning gullible women.”

  Annoyed, I snatched my hand back. “Damien wasn’t conning me. And I’m not gullible—”

  “No, you’re not.” Sam took a step to close the distance between us. He pressed his body to mine; his voice softened as he said, “You’re beautiful. And desirable. And if Damien Bradley wasn’t flirting with you, he’d have to be a stupid man. Which I happen to know he isn’t . . .”

  Ahhh. The kiss. It was worth waiting for. It warmed my skin and curled my toes. And stole my breath away.

  “You know I don’t flirt with other
men,” I said several minutes later when I’d started to breathe again.

  “That doesn’t stop them from hoping you’re available.” Sam’s hand curled around the back of my head. His fingers tangled in my hair. His thumb skimmed back and forth over my ear. “You should be wearing my ring.”

  At moments like that, with both our bodies humming in harmony, it was hard to remember why I wasn’t.

  Sam had offered me a diamond on the occasion of his second proposal. There’d been another proposal since. That time, I’d taken the ring though I hadn’t put it on my finger. Sam had said he was willing to wait until I was ready. Now I had something to show him.

  “I am wearing your ring,” I said.

  His gaze dropped to my unadorned finger, then followed as I lifted my hand and opened the collar of my shirt. A slender platinum chain hung around my neck. The diamond ring dangled from it, only inches from my heart.

  Sam’s sudden smile was achingly, heartbreakingly intense. I felt something inside me twist, then soften.

  “Progress,” he said softly. “I’ll take it.”

  So would I, I thought. Dear God, so would I.

  11

  “Where’s Tar?” I asked Sam as we walked back into the hotel.

  Tar was Sam’s Standard Poodle. Like Faith, he had originally come from Aunt Peg. The big, black Poodle had finished his championship from the puppy class and was now competing as a specials dog, meaning that he entered the Best of Variety class in the hope of defeating the other champions and going on to represent Standard Poodles in the Non-Sporting group and Best in Show.

  Though he’d only been on the circuit a few months, Tar had already compiled an enviable record. He’d won half a dozen groups and his first BIS. Too young and too new to be considered one of the favorites in Friday’s highly competitive Best of Variety judging, Sam was nevertheless hoping that Tar might manage to win an Award of Merit.

  “Asleep in my room,” said Sam. “Believe it or not, we actually got here an hour ago. After I finished unloading, I went looking for you and got sidetracked in eight different directions. I saw Peg and Bertie, and ran into at least two dozen other people I know. I’ve seen pictures of someone’s new stud dog, helped to socialize a puppy, been asked my opinion of the new test for PRA, and offered a chance to have my dog’s thoughts read. I’m still not sure what that last thing was all about.”