As I’d brought Eve into the building, I’d caught a glimpse of Rosalind Romanescue and Christian Gold slipping out a mostly unused side door that led to one of the parking lots. I’d never managed to connect with Rosalind the day before. If I hadn’t still been looking for her, I probably wouldn’t even have noticed them.
Once I did, however, I realized there was something furtive, almost sneaky, about the way they’d hurried out of the arena together; something that made me wonder what they were up to. Wrapping my sweater around my shoulders, I pushed open the door and went after them.
At a glance, the exhibitors’ parking lot was filled with cars and entirely deserted. No wonder, when all the action was going on inside the building. As I scanned the rows of parked vehicles, I wondered whether Christian and Rosalind had gotten into a car and driven away. Or perhaps walked through the lot and continued to the motor homes that were parked beyond. With nearly ten minutes head start on me, they could be almost anywhere.
And then I got lucky. As I stood looking out over the lot and debating what to do next, I heard the murmur of muted voices. Following the sound led me to a black Mercedes-Benz SUV parked one row over. Its tailgate was sitting open; Christian was inside the car.
Rosalind was perched on the edge of the tailgate, legs stretched out in front of her, hands folded demurely in her lap. Though she was staring in my direction, she didn’t seem to see me. Her eyes gazed past me as if I wasn’t even there.
As I drew near I realized that the two of them weren’t alone. A black Miniature Poodle in full show coat was standing in the cargo area between them. There was a peculiar stillness about all three of them, as if their attention was so fully engaged by what they were doing that nothing else mattered.
All at once I felt like an intruder, though I couldn’t, in that first moment, imagine what I was intruding on. Christian was the one who noticed me first. He looked out through the car window and scowled. His expression made it clear he was hoping I wouldn’t interrupt them.
Then abruptly Rosalind’s gaze focused and came to rest on me. Unlike Christian, she smiled. “Are you looking for me?”
Of course I had been, though I had no idea how she’d have known that. I nodded.
Rosalind ducked her head down inside the SUV “We’re done here,” I heard her say.
“No, we’re not.” Christian’s voice, loud and strident, carried easily.
“I told you, what you’re asking is impossible.”
“And I told you it isn’t.”
Rosalind shrugged at that, as if Christian’s opinion was of little consequence. She stood up, linked her arm through mine, and began to walk away.
“Come back here!” Christian yelled after us. His hand flew to the door handle. He scrambled from the SUV
“Odious man,” Rosalind muttered. “You don’t suppose he’ll come after us, do you?”
I hazarded a glance back. “He hasn’t yet. Though he is glaring daggers in your direction.”
“Let him. Idiot.”
We’d passed into the next row of parked cars and almost reached the building before Rosalind began to relax. “What was that all about?” I asked as we went inside.
She didn’t answer right away. Though it was warm inside the arena, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest. Her hands rubbed up and down her upper arms. I was about to offer her my sweater when she finally spoke. “Christian Gold wants to win Best of Variety in Miniatures.”
“Imagine that.” It wasn’t an uncommon goal. Forty other exhibitors entered that day were all hoping to do the same thing.
“He contacted me last night and asked if I could communicate with his specials bitch,” said Rosalind. “He wanted me to tell her how important this show was, to make her understand that she had to win. I tried to tell him that’s not the way animal communication works. The Poodles and I talk to each other in images, not words. Also, the concept of an important competition is pretty much lost on a dog.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He seemed okay with my response. He said he could see why I had reservations about the idea, but he’d appreciate it if I tried anyway. Since I thought we understood each other, I agreed. I told him we needed someplace quiet to work, a place where there wouldn’t be a lot of distractions. Christian suggested that we go outside.
“When we got there, I realized he’d wanted to go somewhere where nobody would see what we were doing. As if he were embarrassed to be seen with me. Fool,” Rosalind growled under her breath. “His Poodle is a delight. He doesn’t deserve such a nice dog.”
“The session didn’t go well, I take it?”
“The session didn’t go at all. Rita, the Mini bitch, didn’t want to talk about PCA. She wasn’t even slightly interested in what happened in the dog show ring. Not that I can blame her.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I can’t force these things to happen, you know. All I can do is listen and interpret what the animals have to say. Rita told me she’d had a litter of puppies before and she’d like to have another.”
I grinned. The Mini bitch wasn’t exactly on topic. “What did Christian say to that?”
“He told me to just get on with it. As if Rita was some sort of wind-up toy and I was pushing the wrong buttons. So I tried again. With pretty much the same result. Rita’s not the most focused show dog, apparently. When I tried to tell him that, Christian began to get ugly. He told me to tell Rita that if she didn’t win today, he’d never let her have puppies again. That she wouldn’t have earned the privilege of reproducing. How vile is that? He actually seemed to think I could pass the message along as if I was some sort of FedEx courier.”
Rosalind’s cheeks grew pink with indignation. “As if I would, even if I could! I’ve handled some strange requests in my time, but I’ve never heard anything like that. What kind of monster is that man anyway? I could tell that Rita was getting agitated. She could feel my distress. I was trying to calm both of us down when you arrived.”
“How did you know I was looking for you?” I asked.
“I didn’t. But I saw you and thought maybe you’d give me a way to escape. I needed an excuse and I was hoping you’d play along.”
So much for psychic undertones.
“I owe you one,” said Rosalind.
“Perfect,” I said. “I’d like to collect.”
If Rosalind was taken aback by the speed with which I’d accepted her offer, she recovered quickly. “Do you want me to do a session with one of your Poodles? I have to tell you I’m a little drained right now, but we could certainly do something later.”
“Thanks, but I have something else in mind.” While we’d been talking, I’d steered her up the steps to a food concession on the upper level. “Do you have time to sit down with me over a cup of coffee and answer a few questions?”
“What kind of questions?” Rosalind asked warily. Her experience with Christian had put her on guard.
“Easy ones, I hope. I’m just trying to clarify a few things.”
Rosalind agreed, and we both ordered coffee. I added a bagel with cream cheese to my request. A few minutes later, we carried our food out to the tiered seating. Up in the stands, it was strangely quiet; rows of empty seats spread in all directions around us.
Down on the arena floor, the Toy judge and stewards were preparing to open the ring. The grooming area was a hive of frenetic activity. Spectators were streaming in the doors and finding their seats. I sipped at my steaming coffee and pondered how to begin.
“You’re not waiting for me to read your mind, are you?” Rosalind asked after a bit.
I looked up, sputtered, then saw she was smiling.
“Sorry.” Rosalind sounded entirely unrepentant. “Psychic humor. Which is odd when you stop to consider that, no matter what people believe, I’m not actually a psychic.”
“You’re telepathic,” I said. As if I was finally beginning to get it.
“I prefer to think we’re all telepathic. Some of us k
now how to use our gifts and others don’t. Is that what you brought me up here to discuss?”
“No. I wanted to talk about Betty Jean Boone.”
Rosalind looked interested in my choice of subject. “What about her?”
“I found out recently that you knew the Boone sisters before you came to PCA.”
“That’s right. I did several sessions for them in the spring.”
“In Georgia?”
“Heavens, no. I live in New Jersey. We conducted the sessions over the phone.”
“So then you’d never actually met them?”
“Not in person. It works that way with many of my clients. People contact me from all over the country. It’s not at all unusual for me to do business with people I’ve never met.”
“Even though you form a close bond with their animals?” I asked.
“It’s not so much that I form a bond,” Rosalind clarified, “as that I help my clients explore their own relationship with their pets. Dogs don’t tell me things because they want me to know. They give me information to pass them along to their owners. I’m really more of a conduit than a participant in the discussion.”
The more I understood about what Rosalind did, the more fascinated I became. I wondered how much ribbing I’d have to endure from Aunt Peg if I scheduled a session for Eve. That was for later, however. Now, I needed to steer the conversation back to the topic I’d wanted to discuss.
“My aunt wanted you to know she was sorry you had to hear the news of Betty Jean’s death so bluntly. If she’d had any idea that you knew the Boones, she would never have allowed that to happen. I know the whole thing came as a shock to you.”
Rosalind shook her head. “I wasn’t so much shocked as I was surprised. I already knew what had happened. What I didn’t expect was that someone would make a joking reference to a rather gruesome death as if it was some sort of parlor game. That was the part that startled me.”
She stared intently down onto the arena floor. The Toy Poodle specials were filing into the ring. From where we sat, they looked tiny. I could tell the handlers apart, but the Poodles themselves were an indistinguishable blur. I waited, curbing my impatience, until Rosalind was ready to continue.
“I arrived at the hotel early Monday evening,” she said finally. “After your aunt called me, I got in my car and drove right down. This dog show sounded like a wonderful opportunity for me. I wanted to make sure I got here in plenty of time.
“After I’d settled into my room, I went out and got some dinner. Upon my return, I walked around the back of the hotel. I’d seen earlier that that was where the dogs were allowed to play and run free. It was dark, but there were lights on. All sorts of Poodles were racing around in that big field, people wandering here and there and talking to one another.”
I nodded, remembering the scene. Aunt Peg and I had probably been two of the people Rosalind had seen.
“The fresh air cleared my head beautifully and I was on my way back inside when I heard what sounded like someone running, or at least in a big hurry. Up until that point, I hadn’t been paying much attention to my surroundings, but of course I looked up then. That was when I saw a body lying in the shadows. I’m afraid I let out a rather deafening shriek.”
One mystery solved, I thought. “That was you?”
Rosalind nodded sheepishly. “I’m afraid so. Sad to say, I’m not good in emergency situations. There’s too much turmoil, entirely too many emotions. Thankfully, other people immediately saw what had happened and began to rally around. My presence quickly became superfluous and I left. Later when I went down to the bar to get a brandy to settle my nerves, I heard someone say that the woman I’d seen outside was Betty Jean Boone.”
“Did you ever talk to the police about what you saw?” I asked.
Rosalind seemed surprised by the question. “No, why would I? I didn’t know anything that would help them in their investigation. I hadn’t seen anything more than a dozen other people also saw. I heard later that the detectives were questioning people, but nobody ever contacted me.”
Because nobody’d realized she’d been there, I thought. “You didn’t see the person you’d heard running?”
“Of course not. If I had, I’d have certainly reported that. But by the time I looked up, the person was gone. All I saw was a woman’s body crumpled on the ground.”
“Have you spoken with Edith Jean since?”
“I saw her the next morning. Although now that you mention it, it was a rather strange encounter.”
“In what way?”
“As I said, we’d never met before. And obviously we weren’t meeting under the best of circumstances. Still, I felt as though I ought to introduce myself and offer whatever solace I could. But when I told Edith Jean who I was, she went positively pale. I’ve never had anyone respond to me in quite that way before. At the time, all I could think was that grief affects everyone differently. Perhaps Edith Jean felt my approaching her like that was an intrusion.”
Rosalind’s use of that particular phrase reminded me of something she’d said the last time we’d spoken. “Maybe she was afraid you could read her thoughts.”
Rosalind looked horrified. “Even if I could do something like that, I wouldn’t dream of it. What a nasty, vile idea. Edith Jean Boone has nothing to fear from me.”
Yet that hadn’t stopped her from being afraid. I wondered why.
23
Rosalind went off to watch the show and I headed down to the raffle table. By the time I got there, Edith Jean had everything set up. The prizes looked inviting; the money box was open. A spool of tickets stood ready to serve any eager customers that happened by. Despite Edith Jean’s preparations, however, the area was deserted. With Best of Variety in the ring, no spectator wanted to miss a minute of the judging.
“Good morning,” Edith Jean sang out cheerfully as I drew near. Her fingers flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the top of the money tree. “Isn’t this an excellent day?”
“So far, so good,” I said. With everything that had transpired during the week, it was hard to see what Edith Jean had to sing about. “How’s the raffle going?”
“Fine and dandy. We’re in the homestretch now. Just one more day of minding the store, and we’re done. The drawing’s all set for this afternoon. It’ll take place in the ring after the Standards finish and before Best in Show. You’ll be here to help out, right?”
“Right.” That would be my last official duty as a member of the raffle committee. I snuck another glance at Edith Jean. She still looked way too cheerful. Something was up; I wondered what. “What exactly does helping out involve?”
“Oh, it’s easy. I know you’ve seen how it works in the past. The tickets are put in a big barrel, and then drawn out one by one. The first person whose number is called gets first choice of the items on the table. The second ticket gets second choice, and so on and so on until all the prizes are distributed.”
I looked around the crowded table. Even if people chose relatively quickly, the process was going to take a while.
“Forty-two,” Edith Jean said in answer to my unspoken question. “That’s how many prizes there are. And therefore, how many tickets you’ll have to draw from the barrel.”
“Me?”
“Who better? I can’t do it. I have to stay by the table, checking the stubs and overseeing the selection process. Managing the drawing is a two-man operation. That’s the way Sister and I always divided the work in the past.”
Since she’d put it that way, it would probably be churlish of me to mention that I’d rather stand at the table and take ticket stubs than be the one performing out in the middle of the vast show ring.
“So I just have to draw the numbers?” I repeated for good measure.
“That’s all there is to it. Danny, the announcer, will accompany you out there with a microphone. You hand each ticket over to him and he’ll read off the number. That will start the stampede in my direction.”
> Stampede would be a mild description for what would come next. I’d seen that in the past, too. “As soon as I’m finished drawing tickets, I’ll come straight back here and help.”
Edith Jean mumbled something. Her words were too low for me to catch.
“Pardon me?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “When you’re done, Danny’s going to pull out a sheet of paper and read a little something I wrote.”
“I don’t understand . . .” I started to say. Then all at once, I understood all too well. Dread welled in the pit of my stomach.
I knew the board had turned down the request for a memorial service. Nancy Hanlon had been given the job of delivering the unwelcome news. This, then, was to be Edith Jean’s response.
She reached beneath the table and pulled out a bright red fanny pack. Dog handlers wear them in the ring all the time. Strapped around the waist, they make a handy pouch for bait.
“While he’s reading,” said Edith Jean, “you’re going to open this up and scatter the ashes.”
“No.” Involuntarily, my hands came up in front of my body as if forming a shield between me and impending disaster. For good measure I took a step back. “No, I’m not.”
Edith Jean didn’t look the slightest bit impressed by my objections. “Of course you are, dear.” She draped the pack’s strap over my upraised hand. The bundle was surprisingly heavy. “You’ll simply wear this into the ring. No one will even notice it’s there. Then, when the climactic moment arrives, you’ll just whip it off, unzip it, and let fly.”
The scenario was too horrible to even contemplate. In all the fantasies I’d ever harbored concerning the Best in Show ring at PCA—and I had to admit, there’d been a few—there had never been any whipping, unzipping, or letting fly. And you can trust me on that.
“Edith Jean, I can’t do that.”
I’d thought Aunt Peg would kill me if she ever found out about my last transgression. At least that one had taken place in private. This one would be tantamount to treason. My death would be part and parcel of a public humiliation. And the PCA board would probably applaud my demise.
Best in Show Page 19
