“I have to go,” I said.
“Melanie, wait!”
I turned back for one last look at the two of them. Neither looked happy. Each had goaded the other, and in the end, neither had gotten what she wanted. Did Rose actually blame Max and Peg for my parents’ death? I wondered. Or had she only said that to drive a wedge between Peg and me? Rose might have spent the last thirty years in a convent, but clearly she hadn’t lost her touch for playing hard ball.
What a pair. They were half the relatives I had in the world, and at the moment I didn’t care much for either of them. But if I walked out now, with the way things were, Rose would think she’d won. I was enough of a Turnbull myself not to want to give her that satisfaction.
“Farmington,” I said to Peg. “Next weekend. I’ll see you there.”
She didn’t move except to wink. I didn’t return the gesture.
Fourteen
Aunt Peg and I didn’t talk at all during the next week, which probably suited both of us.
I had plenty of thinking to do, at least that’s how it seemed at first. But with four days subbing at Davey’s camp, and excursions to the beach, the park, and the Discovery Museum in the afternoons, I somehow ended up with no time to think at all. And in its own way, that was fine, too.
I had a new set of facts about the past to absorb and deal with. But I also had a life to live in the present. In reality nothing had changed. I still had to shop and cook and clean. I still had Davey to hold and hug.
And when I watched my son take Harry for a swim in the bathtub, I thought about a frog with a divorce and realized Aunt Peg wasn’t the only one capable of glossing over a few facts when she thought the situation warranted it. Maybe we all did what we felt we needed to do.
I thought I might tell her that at the dog show, but as it turned out, I didn’t see her there either. Aunt Peg hadn’t liked the judge and hadn’t entered her bitch. Since I was on my own, I decided to take Davey with me. We’d spent the last several Saturdays apart; it was time for a little togetherness.
“We’re going to a dog show,” I told him cheerfully early Saturday morning as I laced up his favorite red sneakers.
As usual, Davey was full of energy. He sat on the edge of the bed, pumping his legs up and down in a way that made my job next to impossible. “Yeah! Are you going to buy me a dog?”
“Dog shows aren’t for buying dogs, honey. They’re for looking at them. We’re going to have a great time.”
Davey slowed his feet while he considered, and I quickly double knotted the last bow. “I had a great time last Saturday,” he said, sliding down off the bed. “Frank and I went to the tennis courts. I got to drink beer with the guys.”
I stopped, dead still. “Frank gave you beer?”
“Yup,” Davey said proudly. “Just like the grownups.”
I marched out of Davey’s bedroom and into my own, where I picked up the phone. Frank’s croak, when he answered on the fourth ring, confirmed that he’d still been asleep.
“Is the house on fire?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then call back later.”
“Frank!” My voice rose to combat the inevitable click.
A long moment passed. “Yes?”
“I want to talk to you now. Davey tells me he’s acquired a taste for beer.”
“Oh yeah?”
I could see the smirk on his face just as plainly as if he were sitting in the room with me. “Is that all you can say? What was my son doing drinking beer in the first place?”
Frank’s voice slipped down an octave into its most persuasive tone. “Come on, Mel, what’s the big deal? He only had a tiny glassful when some of the guys came back to my place after we played tennis. I didn’t want him to feel left out.”
It sounded reasonable, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to forgive him that easily. “How big a tiny glassful?”
“One of those jelly glasses. And it was less than a quarter full to begin with. Besides, he didn’t even like the stuff. He took one sip and then left the rest in the bottom.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling rather foolish. After speaking with the aunts the week before, I’d thought about calling Frank. Then I’d told myself that if he was as innocent as I had been, I should leave him with his illusions. But now that we were speaking, I knew I had to ask.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Mel, I’m in bed.”
A sudden thought hit me. “Alone?”
He laughed, which I took as a good sign. “Yes, alone.”
“I saw Aunt Rose last week.”
“Yeah? How’s she doing?”
“Fine. You knew she was planning to leave the convent?”
“I heard. Pretty wild, eh? After all these years . . .”
“We were talking about when Dad and Mom died.”
“Oh?”
Was it my imagination, or had his voice turned wary? “I was away at school all those years, but you were home. What was going on?”
“What do you mean what was going on? It was normal, just like always.”
“Was Dad drinking?”
The silence on the other end of the line said it all.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Hell, what could you have done? Mom and I were right there, and we couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”
“The night they died . . .”
“The car went off the road, Mel. It was an accident, that’s it. Like Father O’Malley said at the service—it was just their time.”
I’d never thought of Frank as being particularly religious. Interesting that something the pastor had said should stick in his mind after all these years. Still, I had the answers I’d sought; there was no use in pressing him any further.
I let my brother go back to sleep, collected Davey, and headed off to the dog show. The weather was clear and warm. It agreed with the Volvo, and the car purred all the way to the polo grounds in Farmington. The show, laid out over the spacious green expanse, looked like a picture postcard.
By now, I had the routine down. We parked, then headed straight for the grooming tent. Together, Davey and I made our way through the crates and tables to the Poodle section of the tent. Sam Driver was there, working on a bitch I presumed to be Casey. He glanced up as we approached. I smiled and kept on going.
My first conversation of the day took place with a smug, cigar-smoking Poodle owner who said that he couldn’t possibly make a decision concerning the use of his dogs without first consulting his handler, Barry Turk. I followed the line of his pointing finger to a jumbled assortment of battered equipment that had been arranged into a setup on the other side of the aisle. The handler himself was nowhere in sight, but two harried assistants were holding down the fort. I was able to find out from them that Barry Turk did indeed have access to many stud dogs, several of which might be right for my bitch.
“Give us a call at home,” said a petite blond girl who seemed to be in charge of the chaos. She plucked a card from the tall hardwood tack box and shoved it into my hand, then hurried away with a white Toy Poodle tucked neatly beneath each arm.
I’d slipped the card into my pocket and was looking around for another prospect when Davey grabbed my hand and pulled me across the tent. An Old English Sheepdog was standing on top of a large metal crate while a woman in a red plaid smock made last minute adjustments to its coat.
“Look at that.” His awe of the enormous, shaggy gray and white animal was clear in his voice. Davey reached up a tentative hand to pat the dog’s paw. “I want one like this. Can I, Mommy?”
Not in my lifetime. The Sheepdog was the size of a small bear. “I don’t think so, honey. A dog like that would be too big for our house.” A dog like that would be too big for the whole neighborhood.
“Do you mind if he touches?” I asked.
“Not at all.” The woman smiled and stepped back, wiping her hands on her smock. “Sergeant loves children.”
The dog turned severa
l times on the crate—no mean feat on a surface that was barely larger than he was—then heaved his bulk into a prostrate position. Davey patted the dog’s nose, which was now within reach, and had his fingers cleaned in return.
Over his head, I glanced back at the Poodles. There were more familiar faces than not. From the look of things, I’d already spoken to almost everyone in attendance.
The woman followed my gaze. “Is that your breed? The Poodles?”
I nodded. “I’m trying to find a stud dog for my bitch, but I don’t seem to be having much luck, and I’ve already spoken to just about everyone here.”
“Have you tried out back in the exhibitors’ lot?”
“The parking lot?”
“You know, where the motor homes are. A lot of the regulars don’t bother to unload and groom under the tent. They just set up an awning next to their van and do it there. Why don’t you go take a look around? I’m sure you’ll find some more Poodles.”
I hadn’t thought of that. But it was true, when I’d been back in the lot with Crawford Langley, I’d seen quite a few grooming tables sitting out among the exercise pens. It was certainly worth a try.
Davey’s protest at leaving the Sheepdog behind was quickly cut short when I explained where we were going. Then he began to run. I wouldn’t have thought that legs the length of a four-year-old’s could move that fast, but thanks to my son, I’m constantly learning new things.
The exhibitors’ lot was on the far side of the rings, but it was worth the walk for both of us. Davey got to see the big rigs and gleaming motor homes up close, and I discovered that there were almost as many people grooming beside their vans as there were under the tent. When we came to a sleek blue and white motor home whose matching awning shaded a grooming table holding a black Standard Poodle, we were both pleased to stop for a closer look. There was no one in sight, so I ventured a knock on the trailer door.
“Just a minute!” A moment later, a head emerged from within. “Can I help you?”
“I’ve been admiring your Poodle, and I was wondering if you had any others at home.”
“Sure. Be right out.” I saw through the door that he was just finishing getting dressed. He knotted his foulard tie, pulled it up into place beneath the collar, then shouldered the door aside and hopped the three steps down to the ground.
He was tall, at least six foot two, but he moved with grace and confidence. His dark hair was short, neat, and graying at the temples; his clothing, well cut and obviously expensive. Hardly the sort of man who looked as though he needed to make an easy buck.
“I’m Melanie Travis.”
“Jack Berglund.” He held out his hand and we shook on it. “What can I do for you?”
I told him, and he nodded thoughtfully throughout.
“I might have just the thing,” he said at the end. “I have a gorgeous new dog at home. I bred him myself three years ago, but sold him as a puppy to a family in Texas. Unfortunately they switched hobbies—went from Poodles to parasailing overnight—and the dog never made it into the ring. I’m just happy to have him back.”
“My bitch could use a better head,” I said. “And she could stand some improvement in front.”
“They could all stand some improvement in front. That’s one of the problems with this trim. But I think when you get your hands on Ranger, you’ll be pleased.”
His mention of the trim reminded me of my last mistake with a dog in hair. “You said he’d never been shown. Does that mean you’re going to be bringing him out yourself?”
Jack shook his head. “I’d love to, but the dog came back to me zipped down with a seven blade. It’d be eighteen months at least before he could even begin to be ready, and I don’t have that kind of time. It’s a real shame. He’s a beauty, and I’d have loved to finish him.”
“Why would such a good dog be sold in the first place?”
“It was my mistake. You can’t always tell at eight weeks how they’re going to turn out, but you can’t afford to keep every one either. You make your picks and hope for the best. When I did this litter, I was wrong, that’s all. Kept the chaff, and sold the wheat. Nobody’s right all the time. I was just lucky to get the chance to buy him back.”
“Kept the chaff and sold the wheat,” Davey chanted at my side, a sure sign that he was growing restless.
“Don’t let the fact that he’s not a champion bother you. That was just bad luck. The dog’s bred to produce. I’m sure he’s going to do fine.” Jack scribbled his phone number on the back of my catalogue. “Come on by and have a look. You’ll see what I mean.”
It was now only minutes until the start of judging, and I hurried Davey over to the Poodle ring. There, quite by accident, I got my third tip of the day. We settled down to watch beside a tiny older woman. Her gray hair was pulled back into a chignon, and she was wearing an elegant, if slightly wrinkled, linen suit.
Clearly she was knowledgeable about the breed. Not only did she mark down the numbers of the winners and losers, but the margins of her catalogue were filled with cryptic notes about their quality. I discovered all this by reading over her shoulder shamelessly and was delighted to learn that the brown Poodle I didn’t like had a straight shoulder while the white I favored was a sound mover.
Unfortunately it didn’t take long for her to catch on to what I was doing. When she did, she snapped her catalogue shut. “Do you have a Poodle entered?” she inquired archly.
“No.” I pulled back quickly, but of course it was too late. “Actually I’m here looking for one. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to read your notes. It’s just that I have a lot to learn, and they were fascinating.”
“That’s all right.” Her tone softened. “I was concerned I’d just written something scathing about your dog.” The woman reopened the catalogue and went back to scrutinizing the Poodles in the ring.
“Do you have a dog here today?” I asked.
“Yes, this one.” She pointed down the page to her entry. I peered over and read that her name was Mrs. Anna Barnes, her Poodle was a champion entered for Best Of Variety, and the agent listed was Crawford Langley. “Sammy will be along in a minute, as soon as Randy goes Winners Bitch with that blue. I just hope she doesn’t beat him in the specials class.”
I looked up. The Open Bitch class was in progress and Randall Tarnower was indeed showing the blue bitch I’d seen a few weeks earlier. But she hadn’t even won her class yet. I wondered how Anna Barnes could be so sure she was going to take the points.
When I asked, she seemed to think the answer was perfectly obvious. “This judge should adore that bitch. He’s a silver nut and always has been. You don’t see many silver Standard Poodles, and even fewer blues. Not only that, but she’s a good one besides. Randy told me earlier she’s been undefeated since he got her.”
As we watched, the blue did indeed take the points. Anna Barnes nodded with satisfaction. “Now just don’t beat Sammy,” she muttered under her breath as the champions filed in.
“Sammy’s your dog?”
Anna nodded again. She pointed toward the front of the line, where Crawford Langley was easy to pick out. As always, he looked to be in total command of the ring. She watched with great care as her own dog was examined by the judge, then continued our conversation.
“You said that you were here to look for a dog. Did you mean a puppy?”
“No, a stud dog. I have a bitch I’d like to breed and I’m looking for a suitable mate.”
Her eyes never leaving the ring, Anna said, “Tell me something about the bitch.”
Dutifully I recited all the facts Aunt Peg had drilled into me. With each retelling, the bitch was beginning to seem more real. I could almost believe there was a black Standard Poodle at home, waiting for me to get back and let her out.
“Actually, I have a dog at home you might be interested in.” The judge was now taking another look at the blue bitch. Anna fidgeted in her chair. “His name is Champion Troughbridge Beauty. He’s a homeb
red of mine, but don’t think I’m just spouting off when I say there’s a lot to like about him, because there is. He’s got size, substance, brains, and he can move.”
“I’d love to see him.” I flipped to the Poodle page of my catalogue and circled her name and address. “Is this where you can be reached?”
Anna nodded. “Try me in the early morning. That’s the best time to find me at home.”
The judge sent the Poodles around the ring one last time. Anna’s champion was still in front and when the judge pointed, he won the variety. Randall’s blue bitch was Best Of Opposite Sex.
“Thank you Lord,” Anna muttered.
Because of Anna, I’d been caught up in the drama in the ring. Belatedly I realized I hadn’t heard anything from Davey in a long time. A quick turn to the left revealed the reason why. The chair beside me was empty. Davey was nowhere in sight.
Fifteen
A lesser woman might have panicked, but I knew my son too well for that. All right, so my stomach did tumble a notch. Then I told myself how much Davey loved to play hide-and-seek. It was probably a game. Please God, I prayed. Let it be a game.
“Davey?” I called as loudly as I dared. “Davey, honey, where are you?”
He didn’t answer, but I knew that was part of the game, too. I stood up to get a better view of the surroundings.
“Have you lost something?” asked Anna.
“I’ve lost someone. My son.” I continued to scan the area. “He was sitting right there just a minute ago, but he seems to have left while we were talking.”
Anna Barnes was smiling. It seemed like an unusual response to me. Maybe she wasn’t a mother.
“Is he wearing red sneakers and blue shorts?”
“Yes. Do you see him?”
She pointed across the ring. “I can see him right now. He’s in there.”
When I looked where she was pointing, I saw him immediately. Somehow he had managed to crawl through the slats and into the ring. Now he was ensconced in what I’m sure he thought was the perfect hiding place—under—neath the steward’s table.
A Pedigree to Die For Page 11
