Chow Down (12 page)

S
aturday came and I took Eve to a dog show. Exactly as I'd done dozens of times before. This time felt different, however. Most show days, I'm feeling hopeful about our chances. On rare occasions, I'm already resigned that things aren't likely to go my way. But that morning, there was a feeling of expectation in the air.

I had begun showing Eve when she was a young, rambunctious puppy. Dogs are allowed to be entered in A.K.C. shows once they've reached six months of age and I had started taking Eve to shows shortly thereafter. In the beginning, we were going mostly for the experience. But even with my inexpert handling, Eve had begun to pile up points pretty quickly.

By the time she turned a year old, the Poodle had already amassed seven of the fifteen points needed to complete her championship. After that, things had slowed down. For one thing, Eve had had to take some time off to grow into her new adult trim. For another, there'd been a number of changes in my life in the past year, and I'd been too busy to devote as much time as I previously had to showing dogs.

Another factor was that Aunt Peg had cut back on her own show schedule. At one point, we'd gone to nearly every show together. Now Peg was more involved in agility trials and in handling her own judging assignments. Sam had been specialing Tar, but he'd been picking his group and Best in Show judges carefully. Considering how many less-than-stellar panels kennel clubs managed to put together, that inevitably meant that there were many weeks when the duo opted to remain home.

One thing I've learned over the years about going to dog shows: they're not nearly as much fun when your friends aren't there to share them with.

Showing sporadically, Eve had picked up five more points, including her first, all-important, major. Now, one more major win would make her a champion.

Davey was spending the weekend with his father, but I'd been surprised to discover Friday evening that both Sam and Aunt Peg had put their other plans on hold to accompany me to the show. I was hoping that that didn't mean the two of them were assuming I would get the job done. It was one thing to compete in a major entry, and quite another to actually bring home the points.

Sam and I arrived at the indoor facility in Springfield, Massachusetts, where the show was to be held, in midmorning. Aunt Peg had driven up on her own and beaten us there. Once again, Crawford and Bertie had managed to situate their setups in adjacent rows. Thankfully they'd also saved a little bit of space for me.

Sam backed his SUV up to the nearest door and we spent ten minutes unloading. Crawford and Bertie were busy over at the rings. Terry was grooming a Bichon Frise. Aunt Peg was hovering in the background. Hovering and looking like she was itching to get to work on something.

I'd no sooner set my grooming box down than she had it open and was pawing through it, pulling out combs and brushes and lining them up on top of Eve's crate. Meanwhile, Sam deftly maneuvered me aside and hopped Eve up onto the grooming table.

All at once, I felt distinctly superfluous. The two of them were setting up shop faster than a grifter at a flea market.

“Stop,” I said.

Sam paused fractionally. Aunt Peg pretended she didn't hear me.

“What's going on?” I asked. My eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What are you two even
doing
here?”

Sam glanced my way. “Do I need a reason? Last time I checked, I was a newlywed. Of course I would want to accompany my lovely wife wherever her endeavors take her.”

“That's so romantic,” Terry said. He thinks every conversation within earshot should involve him. And he has very big ears. His idea of earshot covers a pretty wide range.

“It's not romantic,” I said. “It's a crock.”

“Melanie! Such language.” Aunt Peg had found all the tools she needed. She laid Eve down on her left side and began to brush through the Poodle's mane coat in long, even rows.

“How come neither one of you is showing today?” I asked.

“Nothing in hair,” Peg replied crisply. Her nimble fingers never even slowed.

“Too lazy,” Sam said with a shrug.

“And yet you came all this way just to watch.”

“And help out.”

“Help me, you mean.”

Terry sidled over. “From here, it looks as though it's Eve they're helping.”

His voice carried, as I was sure he'd meant it to. I put a hand to his shoulder and pushed him away. Grinning broadly, the troublemaker retreated back to his own setup.

“We wanted Eve to look nice,” Aunt Peg said. “You know, in case she needed to have her picture taken.”

Only winners had their pictures taken. We all knew that perfectly well.

I gazed at the pair of them in exasperation. “Are you that confident about our chances?”

“If they were
that
confident,” said Terry, “would they both be here?”

“What do you mean?”

“It looks to me like they came to do up your dog for you,” said Terry. “Best of both worlds, if you ask me. You're here, but you're getting a day off. If I were you, I'd sit back and enjoy it.”

“I don't need a day off,” I said mildly. “And I'm perfectly capable of preparing my own Poodle to go in the ring.”

“Of course you are, dear.” Aunt Peg kept right on brushing.

Sam, caught in the act of sliding a comb through the rubber band holding the colored wrap on Eve's ear and snapping it loose, looked only briefly guilty. Then he resumed working, too.

The two of them didn't trust me to do a good enough job, I realized. Sam and Peg hadn't come all the way to Massachusetts to share my potential moment of triumph. They'd come to make sure that I didn't blow it.

Well that was depressing.

“Oh honey,” said Terry. “Don't go getting all crestfallen on us. You
so
do not want to take this personally.” He patted an empty grooming table next to the one he was working on. “Let those two work their magic. You come sit by me and we'll dish about everybody at the show.”

I had to admit, the idea had a certain appeal. As did the notion that Eve would look perfect when Sam and Aunt Peg were finished working on her. I wouldn't have to lift a finger to achieve that effect; all I'd have to do was accept the end of the leash when they handed it to me and walk into the ring.

Giving Eve's nose a good-bye pat, I turned sideways, slid through the bank of stacked crates that separated our setup from his and went to join Terry. “Okay, I said. “Do your worst. Who do you want to talk about first?”

“You must be joking.”

I hiked myself up on the empty table. “Why?”

“Because the answer should be obvious. Rumor has it that you got caught, once again, hanging around at the scene of a murder.”

“When you put it like that, I sound like some sort of serial killer.” I considered pouting, but decided it wasn't a good look for me. “Two things. Number one, the police haven't decided yet how Larry died. They're calling it a suspicious death—”

“Murder would make me suspicious too, hon.”

“And two,” I continued as if he hadn't interrupted. “I came to the show to get my mind off of all that. To think about something different.”

Aunt Peg snorted indelicately.

I looked across the crates at her. “
Now
what?”

“You came to the show to finish Eve, and it's about time, too. So try to stay focused.”

“I don't have to stay focused. You two are doing that for me. I'm not grooming, I'm gossiping.”

“Some days it's hard to tell the difference,” Terry said. “The mouth has to do something while the fingers are working.”

“Words to live by,” Sam commented. He was spritzing down and brushing out Eve's ears. “Didn't some great philosopher say that?”

Terry didn't miss a beat. “I'm pretty sure it was Nietzsche.”

I looked at him skeptically. “What do you know about Nietzsche?”

“More than most people. I was a philosophy major in college.”

I was momentarily shocked into silence. Terry worked so hard at being shallow, I'd had no idea he had hidden depths.

He cocked his head to one side and smiled. “Don't hate me because I'm intellectual.”

“All right, Mr. Intellectual. Since you want to talk about murder, here's a philosophical query for you. Would you kill someone for one hundred thousand dollars?”

He didn't even have to stop and think. “Honey, I'd be tempted to kill some of these dog handlers just so I wouldn't have to look at their ugly-ass fashion choices week after week.”

And he wondered why people were surprised when he said he read Nietzsche.

Then his fingers stilled. Terry looked up, expression brightening. “Is someone offering to pay me? You know, to perform this service for the greater good of society?”

“Right,” Sam muttered. “You'll be issued an uzi and sole discretionary power over its use. Fire at will.”

Geez but it was hard to get a word in edgewise.

“Nobody's offering to pay anybody anything. Or arm them, for that matter.” I poked Terry. He went back to grooming. “I'm asking a question. A simple question.”

“She's fishing for motives,” said Aunt Peg.

“What's to fish?” asked Terry. “A hundred grand is a perfectly good motive. I take it we're talking about the Chow Down contest?”

“Right.”

“You're thinking that one of the other finalists decided to eliminate Larry Kim from contention?”

“I'm trying the theory on for size.”

“Makes sense to me,” said Terry. “Especially if it isn't just the money that's at stake. There's the fifteen minutes of fame that goes along with it.”

“Fame is highly overrated,” Aunt Peg contributed. She stood Eve up and began to scissor her bracelets.

“You can't tell me you wouldn't want to see one of your Poodles on television.”

“Of course I can. I don't even watch television.” She paused, then added, “Well, except for
Law & Order
.”

Like we couldn't have seen that coming.

“Well as far as some people are concerned,” Terry said, “I'd imagine that was the primary reason they entered the contest.”

“You're talking about Ben?” I guessed.

“Among others.”

“Like who?”

The handler glanced over his shoulder in both directions before speaking. He wasn't the only one who had big ears. “I'm talking about Dorothy and MacDuff.”

I thought about that. Over in the next setup, Eve was looking better and better by the minute. Sam had her topknot in and Aunt Peg was almost finished scissoring. Now all that remained for them to do was spray her up.

Not only were they doing a better job than I could have done, but they were faster, too. I should have thought to enlist their services a long time ago. Not having to prep my own Poodle for the ring definitely made the whole dog show experience much more relaxing.

“Dorothy did say something at the first meeting about MacDuff missing the limelight. That once she retired him from showing, he got bored.”

“
He
got bored?” Terry said with a sniff. “I don't think so. How old is that Scottie anyway? Five? Six?
Seven?
She's been running his little feet off for years. There probably isn't a show on the entire East Coast he hasn't been to.”

“And won at.”

Terry nodded. “I never said he wasn't a good Scottie. Just that Dorothy kept specialing him long after most owners would have been happy to let that poor old thing enjoy a well deserved retirement.”

“It seems to me she did give him some time off on a couple of different occasions over the years,” Aunt Peg said.

“Usually when she was bringing out a puppy of his—one she thought might be good enough to take his place. But none of them panned out the way she hoped. They were good enough to finish and maybe put a couple of groups on. But none were as good as their sire. Dorothy wanted a dog that could win week after week at the highest level. And that had to be MacDuff.”

“But she finally did retire him,” I pointed out.

“She pretty much had to,” said Sam. “I showed Tar against him a couple of times last fall. MacDuff had definitely lost a step or two. It was clear even then that he was pretty much just coasting along on his reputation. If she wanted him to go out a winner, it was time to stop.”

“But then the contest came along,” said Terry. “And next thing you know, they were up and running again. If you think Dorothy was a fierce competitor in the dog show ring, honey, watch out now. Looks to me like Chow Down is offering her and MacDuff wider recognition than anything they could ever have achieved in the dog show world. Dorothy's not about to let an opportunity like that slip through her fingers.”

I filed that away for further consideration later, as the other three went back to work. A few minutes later, Bertie and Crawford appeared. Having finished in their respective rings, both were leading winners.

“Eve looks great,” said Bertie admiringly. She stowed her Clumber Spaniel in a crate and tucked his purple and gold Best of Breed ribbon in her tack box.

“Thank my capable assistants,” I said.

“I'm glad I'm only showing a couple of puppies for experience. She'll be hard to—”

“Don't say it!” Peg snapped. Where dog shows are concerned, she's very superstitious.

Bertie grinned and whispered, “Beat.”