Best in Show

by Laurien Berenson

  Sam was laughing again. Maybe that. was why he kept coming back. Never a dull moment around here.

  “So?” he asked me. “Who is inside?”

  “I have no idea. That wasn’t what I was wondering about. Earlier I could have sworn that Betty Jean was the sister who wore the locket. Today I saw it on Edith Jean.”

  “Maybe they both had lockets,” said Bertie. Her banana split had vanished. The bowl it had come in couldn’t have been any cleaner if she’d licked it. “They seemed to do everything else alike.”

  “Or maybe you got it backwards,” said Peg. “Maybe Edith Jean was the one who’s had it all along.”

  “Since we’re speaking of the Boone family,” said Sam, “and the police investigation, does anybody know who stood to profit from Betty Jean’s death? Who’s going to inherit?”

  “I would think everything would simply go to the surviving sister,” said Aunt Peg.

  “There’s no other family back in Georgia,” I said. “That’s why Edith Jean wasn’t anxious to go home after her sister died.”

  “So if no one back there had anything to gain from Betty Jean’s death,” Bertie mused, “then the murderer must have been someone who had something to gain here.”

  “Harry Gandolf,” I said quickly.

  “Not necessarily,” Aunt Peg came right back. “Harry may have expected that Edith Jean would pull Bubba from the competition after her sister died. In fact, we probably all did. But when she didn’t, things could have gone the other way with the sympathy vote working to her advantage.”

  “Harry wouldn’t have known that ahead of time though.”

  “I agree that he doesn’t seem like a particularly pleasant man,” said Bertie. “But that’s a long way from being capable of committing murder.”

  “If not Harry, then who?” I asked.

  “The way Betty Jean was killed seems to indicate that the act wasn’t premeditated,” Sam said thoughtfully. “Whoever it was, simply saw their chance and took it.”

  “I’ll tell you who comes to my mind,” Aunt Peg said. “Damien Bradley.”

  “He always comes to your mind,” I retorted. “While you’re at it, are you sure you wouldn’t like to try to blame him for global warming and deficit spending?”

  “Melanie’s feeling a little touchy where Damien Bradley is concerned,” said Sam. “They were having a cozy chat when I arrived the other night. I gather he charmed her socks off.”

  Aunt Peg’s brow rose. “Not literally, I hope.”

  “Trust me.” I snorted. “There was nothing cozy going on. Our chat took place in full view of the entire back of the hotel. I have to admit, however, that I didn’t find him to be the demon that everyone makes him out to be.”

  “He must have wanted something from you,” said Peg. “That’s what brings out Damien’s charming side.”

  “Same thing I said,” Sam agreed.

  The two of them were united in their obstinacy. I glanced at Bertie, who shrugged. She didn’t know Damien Bradley any better than I did.

  “He told me he used to handle the sisters’ Poodles for them,” I mentioned.

  “There you go, then,” said Peg.

  “There you go, what?”

  “He makes a perfect chief suspect. Who better than a shady character with a past connection to the dead woman?”

  Who better, indeed.

  “What about Rosalind Romanescue?” I asked.

  Aunt Peg’s head whipped around. “What about Rosalind?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t think she’s a little strange.”

  “Not at all. She’s merely different. It wouldn’t hurt you to try and keep an open mind.”

  “And an open wallet,” I said. “Do you know she’s charging seventy-five dollars apiece for those private consultations she’s been doing? Your bringing her here to do the seminar has given her the implied backing of the Poodle Club of America. She’s raking in money hand over fist.”

  Aunt Peg’s shoulders stiffened. “She is not.”

  “Ask her yourself. A number of her customers have stopped by the raffle table. Everybody’s talking about her.”

  “Are they satisfied customers?” Bertie asked curiously.

  “For the most part, I think so. But who’s to say whether or not the information she’s giving out is right or wrong, since no one else claims to be able to read dogs’ minds?”

  “I can see I’ll have to have a little chat with Rosalind,” Aunt Peg muttered. “I certainly didn’t bring her here with the intention of letting her manipulate our exhibitors for profit.”

  “I know she was a last-minute substitution,” I said. “How did you manage to find her so quickly?”

  Peg looked thoughtful. “Crawford was the one who told me about her. I’m afraid I was so grateful for any suggestion that I didn’t ask as many questions as I otherwise might have. I simply called Rosalind, found out she was available, and asked her to come right down. Which of course, she did. At the time, I thought that was terribly obliging of her.”

  “Did you pay her for her program and her expenses?” asked Sam.

  “Of course. And then she seemed so interested in the Poodles and the show that the club offered to pick up her hotel room if she wanted to stay on until the end of the specialty. No wonder she was anxious to remain.”

  With regret, I finished the last of my sundae and put down my spoon. I wondered if I dared to order dessert. “Crawford Langley doesn’t seem like the type of person to have much use for the services of an animal communicator.”

  “He doesn’t, does he,” Aunt Peg mused. “I’m beginning to think that perhaps I should have looked into things a little more closely than I did.”

  “We need to get back to our original question,” said Bertie. Three pairs of eyes turned her way. “Harry wanted to win at all costs, Damien is apparently not a nice man. Rosalind believes in free enterprise. But what does any of that have to do with Betty Jean’s death?”

  “We don’t know,” I said. “That’s the fun part.”

  “Fun?” Sam sent me a look. I wondered if he was remembering the last mystery I’d gotten myself tangled up in. That adventure had gotten me shot.

  “Don’t worry. I’m just a bystander this time around.” Absently my fingers went to my throat. They rubbed back and forth over the ring that hung there, warming it between them like a talisman. “I’m just here to sell raffle tickets, show my puppy, and mind my own business.”

  “Sure,” Bertie muttered under her breath. “If you believe that, I’ve got some swampland; a bridge, and a one hundred percent can’t-miss, Best in Show prospect I’d like to sell you.”

  16

  Thursday morning, six A.M.

  Most normal people were asleep at that hour. I was blow-drying a Standard Poodle puppy’s legs. The rules of normalcy tend not to apply when you’re showing a Poodle at PCA.

  Not only that, but I wasn’t the only person in the hotel grooming room. Indeed, when Eve and I arrived—fresh from a morning run in the field, where dew-tipped grass provided the necessity for another session with the blow-dryer—someone had already started the coffeemaker and poured the first cup. Some professional handler’s long-suffering assistant, no doubt. Perhaps someone who’d been up all night grooming. I exchanged bleary-eyed nods with the others in the room and went to work.

  Maybe it was the two cups of coffee I tossed down while I straightened and dried Eve’s coat. Maybe I had a case of preshow nerves. But for whatever reason, I felt jittery and tense. Hot and cold at the same time. The puppy, who’d been groomed a hundred times before and usually lay still as a stone, squirmed on the table beneath my hands.

  Whatever was in the air, she felt it too.

  The tension didn’t go away when we reached the show site just before seven. If anything, it intensified. The grooming area at the arena was already full, a hive of frenetic activity. Dryers hummed, scissors flashed: Poodles were unwrapped, banded, shaped.

  Both the M
ini and Standard rings would open in little more than an hour. Thursday, the day the bitches were judged, traditionally drew the largest entries of the specialty. Nearly four hundred Poodles would be judged over the course of the next twelve hours. The stakes, already high on Wednesday, ratcheted up another notch.

  I set up my portable grooming table next to the two crates Sam and I had left in the building: Eve’s, which had been in place since Monday, and Tar’s, added Wednesday morning. Quarters were tight, with everyone jockeying for a little extra space. Mostly I was hemmed in by people I didn’t know, or whose faces were familiar only from the Poodle magazines I subscribed to. Dale Atherton’s setup was in the next aisle.

  Eve’s class, Puppy Bitches 9 to 12 Months, was second on the schedule. I knew that Sam and Aunt Peg would arrive in time for the start of judging at eight. Hopefully one of them would come and help me with scissoring and hair spray. In the meantime, I needed to get Eve thoroughly brushed out, unwrap her ears, and put in the tightly banded topknot that she would wear in the show ring.

  Quickly I went to work. As I unpacked supplies from my tack box and lined them up on the table, Eve stood on the rubber-matted top and peered around the arena curiously. Finally she was beginning to relax. I wished I could say the same for myself. When I asked her to lie down so I could begin brushing, she complied happily.

  “If it isn’t the lady from the other night.”

  I looked up and found Damien Bradley standing in the aisle. He was holding a steaming cup of coffee and looking very relaxed. Either the handler had excellent assistants, or he didn’t have any morning classes.

  “Melanie,” I said, remembering that I hadn’t introduced myself the last time we’d met.

  “Yes.” He gazed at me speculatively. “I know.”

  Something about the way he said the words made my spine stiffen. Like maybe he’d been checking up on me. I wondered what had piqued his interest: our brief meeting, my association with Aunt Peg, or the fact that Sam had chased him away. Or there was always the possibility that—due to Sam’s and Aunt Peg’s repeated warnings—I was simply imagining things.

  “Showing this morning?” Damien asked. As conversational gambits went, it wasn’t terribly smooth. We both knew the answer was obvious.

  “Puppy 9 to 12,” I said and went back to my brushing.

  “I won’t take much of your time, then. I only wanted to say that I didn’t realize when we met the other night that you were a friend of Betty Jean’s. I’m sorry. I should have offered my condolences.”

  “That’s quite all right. She seemed like a very nice lady, but I didn’t know her well.”

  “I understand you’re helping the sisters with the raffle. That’s a big undertaking. The three of you must have been working together all spring.”

  “Actually, no.” My hand stilled. I wondered what he was getting at. “The sisters did most of the work. My aunt only got me involved a couple of weeks ago. I met Edith Jean and Betty Jean when I arrived on Monday.”

  “I see.” Damien almost smirked. All at once he was looking very pleased about something, though I had no idea what that might be.

  Then he noticed my interest and shuttered his expression. “What happened to Betty Jean was a terrible, terrible tragedy,” he said piously. “I’m afraid poor Edith Jean may be lost without her sister’s guidance. I’ll be sure to offer my assistance.”

  “She seems to be handling things well so far. In fact, she’s dealing remarkably well.”

  “I’m sure that’s what she wants you think. I’m sure that’s what she wants everyone to think. But now that Edith Jean is on her own, she’ll need someone to look out for her. . .”

  As he was speaking, Damien had placed his hand on my shoulder. I supposed the gesture was meant to indicate the sincerity of his feelings. Instead, it had the opposite effect. When his thumb began to move, stroking back and forth, I pulled away sharply.

  As I did so, Dale Atherton leaned across the low wall of stacked crates that separated my aisle from his and tapped the handler on the arm. He gestured toward the other end of the room. “Hey, Damien, isn’t that one of your assistants waving at you?”

  Damien turned to look. “Where?”

  “Right there. See?” Dale slid me a wink as his hand pushed Damien around. “You’d better go check it out.”

  “Yeah, I guess I will.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Dale said affably as Damien walked away. “He’s an idiot.”

  Then he went back to work. Time was passing, so I did the same.

  The first notice I had of Sam’s arrival was when Eve lifted her head off the grooming table and woofed softly. Moments later, Tar came trotting down the aisle. His long ear hair was wrapped in bright blue plastic, his enormous topknot loosely contained in bands of the same color. Two long, thick pony tails drooped off either side of his head. Tar wasn’t showing until the next day; for now, he was still in his civvies.

  The two Poodles touched noses in greeting. Sam and I did the human equivalent.

  “Thank God the troops have begun to arrive,” I said as Sam tucked Tar into his big wooden crate. “I was beginning to think I was going to have to get this puppy ready all by myself.”

  “Are you kidding?” Sam chuckled. “At PCA? Peg would have a fit if she didn’t get to do the finishing touches. She’s gone to the ring to check out the first puppy class. I’m supposed to make sure you’ve got everything under control and that your topknot’s in tight enough. She’ll be along in a minute.”

  Now that the responsibility for making Eve look perfect had been lifted from my shoulders, I told myself I could begin to relax. It didn’t help much.

  Predictably my aunt took the scissors out of my hands the moment she appeared. She glanced at the line I’d been working on, tsked under her breath and said, “Go make yourself useful, dear. Check in with the ring steward and pick up your armband.”

  That was a job for unskilled labor. A five-year-old with good manners could manage it. On the other hand, with Eve’s show time drawing nearer, anything that kept me moving around and thinking of other things was preferable to simply standing still and worrying.

  Sam opted to come with me. In case I got lost? I wondered. Or in case I passed a door to the outside and decided to bolt through it, escaping before anyone noticed I was gone? I’d been a spectator at PCA many times, but this was my debut in the ring. It wasn’t an experience for the faint of heart.

  As we passed by the Mini ring, Sam paused for a look. That variety had a smaller entry and their second puppy class was already in.

  Dale was showing a brown puppy. The line had been sent around for the first time; now the judge was beginning his examination of those near the front. The puppies and handlers at the end were standing at leisure to await their turn. Dale leaned outside the ring and said something to one of the spectators.

  Christian Gold, I realized, as we came up next to them. Nina was on his other side.

  “One of yours?” Sam asked, glancing down at the brown puppy. Christian nodded. Nina smiled. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” Christian replied. “We don’t have much of a shot in this class, might make the cut if we’re lucky. We’re saving our big guns for later in the day.”

  “Open Bitch,” said Nina. “GoldenDune Dorian. Watch for her.”

  “We will,” Sam promised.

  “Dorrie’s a little young for this competition,” said Christian, “but we think she’s going to be something special.”

  “If I can wean her away from her owner long enough to make that happen,” Dale said, glancing at his client’s wife. “Nina’s turned her into a bit of a pet.”

  “So she’s a little spoiled.” Nina looked down. Her eyelashes fluttered. “You’re good with spoiled. I’m sure you’ll manage, just like you always do.”

  We’d lost Christian’s attention; he’d gone back to watching the Minis in the ring. When the line moved up, he poked Dale and pointed, sending him on his way. The
handler moved up into place. Sam and I headed on to the Standard ring.

  “Dale better watch his step,” he said under his breath.

  “Why?”

  “Did you see the way he looked at Nina?”

  “No.” I paused and glanced back. The handler was kneeling beside his puppy, flicking a long comb through its rounded tail. “I wasn’t really paying attention. How did he look at her?”

  Sam leaned down, pressing his lips close to my ear. “The same way I look at you. Like he was picturing her naked in his bed.”

  Oh.

  Well that got my mind off the dog show. The heat that pooled in the pit of my stomach drove the butterflies straight away. My soft gasp was lost in the noise of the crowd around us. And Sam, damn him, just kept walking.

  By the time I caught up he’d reached the Standard ring and picked up my armband. I ran two rubber bands up my arm, and snapped the cardboard number into place.

  “Feel ready yet?” Sam asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Don’t worry. Eve will do fine.”

  “She’s not the one I’m worried about,” I said.

  Back at the setup, Aunt Peg had worked wonders. My puppy looked like a potential star. Too bad her handler was feeling like the rank amateur she was.

  Aunt Peg consulted her catalog. “There are thirty-six puppies in your class,” she said, just in case I needed an update on how many people were going to be trying to beat us. “Don’t let Eve get lost in the crowd.”

  While I filled my pockets with bait, a squeaky toy, and a greyhound comb, Sam read over her shoulder. “You start out fifth in line, so pay attention right from the beginning. Don’t relax until after Mr. Lamb’s gone over her. I’ll meet you after that with a bowl of ice water.”

  The water was for Eve, needless to say. A class of thirty-six would take more than a hour to judge. That’s a long time for adult dogs to spend in the ring, much less puppies. All would get tired and thirsty. Once Eve had been seen for the first time, we’d have a long wait until we were needed again. Many handlers simply sat down in the grass with their puppies lying beside them. Eve and I would probably follow suit.