Chow Down (14 page)

I had a brand new champion.

E
ve and I exited the ring just long enough for the judge to award Reserve Winners to the next most deserving bitch. Actually we kind of danced out.

You'd think Sam might have given me a hug. Or maybe a high five. But he and Aunt Peg barely glanced at me. Instead the two of them pulled out scissors, comb, and hair spray, and went right back to work on Eve.

Remember that crushed hair? They had only a minute or two to put it back where it belonged. Even though the part I really cared about was over, Eve was now eligible to compete for Best of Variety.

Only moments later, we were called back into the ring. In that short amount of time Sam and Peg had worked a remarkable transformation. Eve once again looked like a contender.

“Keep up the good work,” Sam said cheerfully.

“There's not much here to speak of in specials,” Aunt Peg whispered in my ear. “Eve's got a real shot at taking the whole thing. So
please
try not to blow it.”

My aunt considered that to be encouragement. It never occurred to her that her pep talks often came out sounding more like threats.

Eve and I strode back through the gate. In the Best of Variety competition, the finished champions were at the head of the line, followed by the Winners Dog. Once again, our place was at the rear.

As we moved into position, I stole a quick glance up the length of the mat, evaluating our competition. Two champions had been entered, a silver and a cream. Neither was a seasoned campaigner; most weeks Tar beat them both handily. Maybe Aunt Peg was right and we did have a chance.

Mrs. Raines judged the class like a woman who'd already seen what she wanted and was only going through the motions until it reappeared. She examined the two specials and had another cursory look at the Winners Dog. Then she quickly pulled Eve out and placed her at the front of the line.

This time she didn't even bother to send us around again. “I'll take the Winners Bitch for Best of Variety,” she announced in a loud voice. “Winners Dog is Best of Opposite Sex.”

Some days, it's just that easy. Now not only did I have a new champion, but we'd also qualified to compete in the Non-Sporting group. As we waited for the photographer to set up for our picture, I handed the ribbons back to the judge, thanked her for the points, and told her that she'd just created a new champion.

“She's a lovely Poodle,” Mrs. Raines said graciously. “I'm delighted to have finished her. I hope she does something for you in the group.”

I started to pose Eve next to the plaque, then stopped. “Come on,” I said, waving Sam and Aunt Peg into the ring to join us. “I want you both to be in the picture with us.”

“No way,” Sam replied quickly. “This is your day. Yours and Eve's.”

Aunt Peg hung back beside him.

“I couldn't have done it without your help.”

“She does have a point,” Aunt Peg mentioned.

“Come along,” Mrs. Raines said. “The more the merrier.”

Invited by the judge herself, Sam and Peg lined up beside us in a row behind Eve. This was, after all, all about the Poodle. The photographer waited until we were ready, then tossed a squeaky toy across the mat.

Eve's ears pricked. The camera flashed. I was grinning like a veritable idiot. Sam had his hand on my ass. Perfect.

 

The Poodle judging over, we now had time to kill before the groups took place later that afternoon. Aunt Peg and Sam went off in search of edible food, not always an easy thing to find at a dog show. I was on a different mission. According to the catalogue, Bill and Allison Redding had Ginger entered in obedience. Their class was currently being held on the other side of the facility.

Though they both take place at dog shows, conformation and obedience are two entirely different kinds of competitions. It takes a rare dog to excel at both; and it also demands a versatile dog owner. The fact that Ginger had achieved her championship in both events was a testament to the Reddings' skill and their determination.

Three large, fully matted obedience rings filled the area at the far end of the building. Three classes of varying difficulty were being judged. In the Novice ring, a jaunty Norwich Terrier was heeling on leash. In the Open ring, a sleek Rhodesian Ridgeback was skimming over a broad jump. And in the Utility ring, a Bulldog was shuffling across the mat in search of a glove he'd been directed to retrieve.

A Bulldog, I thought. Imagine that. I had to stop and watch. The brindle dog went straight to the glove in the corner, pushed it briefly along the floor with his nose as he attempted to get his teeth around it, then lifted his head in success and carried the glove directly back to his delighted owner. Well done.

I was smiling when I turned away from the ring and spotted Bill and Allison standing together behind the row of seated spectators. Beside them was a wire crate. Inside the crate, Ginger was curled up, asleep, on a thick sheepskin pad.

Bill saw me coming as I approached. He lifted a hand in greeting. “Melanie, right?”

“That's right. It's nice to see you both again. How's Ginger doing today?”

The Brittany opened one eye briefly at the sound of her name. She looked up, saw nothing that required her attention, then tuned us back out. Clearly accustomed to the rigors of competition, Ginger knew enough to grab some rest when she could get it.

“She's great,” Allison replied eagerly. Everything the Reddings said and did seemed to be delivered with enthusiasm. “She aced the Open B class this morning. Now we're just waiting for our turn in Utility.”

“Which one of you shows her?” I asked curiously.

“That would be me,” Bill replied. “At least in obedience. We use a professional handler for breed.”

“I get too nervous,” said Allison. The two of them spoke so quickly that they seemed to be finishing each other's sentences. “Obedience is tough, every little move you make matters.”

“I've tried to tell her it's no big deal,” Bill said. “What's the worst that could happen? Ginger already has her OTCH, and besides there's always another day and another dog show—”

“But I want her to be the best every single time,” Allison said with a small laugh. “And that means everything has to go just right. I'm always afraid I'll give the wrong signal, or start with the wrong foot, or trip over a mat.”

Bill smiled and shook his head. Clearly, he didn't take his wife's fears too seriously. “The truth of the matter is, Ginger's such an old hand that she could probably show herself.”

“That's just Bill talking. He doesn't like to take too much credit for himself. The real truth is, Ginger never would have gotten as far as she has without him.”

“I'm with you,” I said to Allison. “I found showing in obedience to be much harder than competing in the breed ring. There were so many little things I had to keep track of that I found the whole experience pretty nerve wracking.”

“Were you showing Faith?” asked Bill.

I nodded and the two of them exchanged a look.

“I didn't realize your Poodle had competed in obedience, too,” Allison said. “We thought Faith was just a breed champion.”

Just a breed champion. Well that got my hackles up. Even if Faith wasn't as well rounded as Ginger, having a breed championship was still a pretty big accomplishment.

“Sometimes Allison speaks before she thinks,” Bill said quickly. “She didn't mean that the way it sounded. We were just surprised, that's all.”

“Faith's full of surprises,” I said cryptically. Let them worry about that for a while. We stood and watched the action in the ring for a few minutes. When there was a brief break between competitors, I said, “Do you mind if I ask you two a couple of questions?”

Bill checked on Ginger. Now the Brittany had her nose tucked beneath one of her paws and was snoring softly.

“Nah,” he said. “It looks like we're going to be here a while. Shoot.”

“Last Monday, when we were all at Champions, did you leave as soon as the meeting was over, or did you hang around afterward to talk to the judges?”

Bill slid a quick glance over at Allison. For once, neither one of them was in a hurry to speak first. Or maybe they were checking with each other to see what their story was going to be.

And wasn't it interesting that they would feel the need to concoct a story at all?

“I guess you're talking about when Larry died,” said Allison. “What a shock that was. We'd just been sitting in a room talking to him only moments earlier . . . and bang, just like that, he was gone. Something like that makes you really stop and appreciate every single day, doesn't it?”

I nodded but didn't speak. Just because Allison was busy trying to change the subject didn't mean that I was going to help her do so.

“Let me see . . .” Bill stroked his chin thoughtfully. He looked less like a man who was trying to remember than like a play actor who was trying to convey that idea.

Come on folks, I thought. The question wasn't that hard. I knew exactly where I'd been when Larry Kim died. If the man's death had come as such a surprise to the Reddings, you'd think they would have had that information at their fingertips, too.

“Honey?” Bill looked at his wife. “Did we leave before or after Larry and Lisa?”

“I don't know,” she said vaguely. “I guess I wasn't paying any attention to them at that point.”

“The Kims split up when they left the meeting,” I said to help things along. “Lisa took the elevator down and Larry went by the stairs.”

If someone had said that to me, I'd have asked why. But either the Reddings lacked my curiosity, or else they already knew the answer. Neither one commented.

“So when you left the conference room to go home, you weren't with either one of them?”

“No,” Bill said slowly, “not that I recall.”

“What about Dorothy and Ben?”

“What about them?” asked Allison.

“Were they on the elevator with you?”

“Oh we didn't take the elevator.” Bill seemed happy to finally be able to supply an answer. “Ginger hates them. We took the steps.”

I tried to work that information into my timeline. “So if you didn't see Larry in the stairwell—or Faith and me, for that matter—you must have gone down ahead of us.”

“Maybe,” Allison said with a shrug. “The police asked us about that and it turned out that we hadn't taken the same set of stairs that you and Larry did. There was another stairwell at the other end of the hallway. That's how we got down.”

Damn, I thought. I hadn't realized that. Having another potential exit was going to make it that much harder to pin down where everyone had been when Larry died.

“One more thing,” I said. “Where were the two of you when you heard about what had happened to Larry?”

“Outside in the parking lot. We were just about to leave when Chris Hovick came outside and said there'd been an accident. We didn't realize he was talking about something serious. We had no idea that Larry had died until later that afternoon.”

“How did you find out?”

“The Norwalk police called us. A Detective Sheridan,” Bill said. “He said he just had a couple of routine questions, but when he found out that we left before anything happened, he didn't even ask those.”

But they hadn't left, I thought. Hadn't they just told me that? They'd still been outside the building.

“Lisa was outside then, too,” I said. “Maybe you saw her?”

Allison shook her head. “Not me.”

“Me either,” said Bill. “I guess the Kims must have been parked on the other side of the lot.”

I stifled a sigh. Under the guise of trying to be helpful, the Reddings had managed to tell me exactly nothing of any value. I wondered if it was by accident or design that their collective recollection of the previous Monday was so vague.

“Now I have a question for you,” said Bill.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“Are you asking everyone what they were up to when Larry Kim died, or just us?”

“Sooner or later I guess I'll talk to everyone.”

“Why?” asked Allison.

“Because I want to know what happened.”

The two of them stared at me blankly.

“Aren't you curious?” I asked.

“Not really,” said Bill. “It's none of our business.”

“One less contestant to beat,” said Allison. “His loss. Our gain.”

T
hat was just cold.

And though the Reddings apparently didn't know it yet, Yoda and Lisa weren't dropping out of the contest. So if either one of them had had anything to do with Larry Kim's demise, they hadn't gained much.

When I got back to the setup, Aunt Peg and Sam were leaning against either side of a bank of stacked crates and sharing a funnel cake. Judging by the evidence, they'd also eaten burgers and fries. Bertie, whose crates they were draped over, was brushing out an Otterhound, munching on a power bar, and looking as though she'd rather be eating a funnel cake.

“There you are,” said Peg. “You missed lunch. We picked up a hamburger for you at the food stand but Bertie ate it.”

I glanced at my sister-in-law and lifted a brow.

“It was getting cold,” she said without remorse. Bertie was still breast feeding Maggie. Always slender, she now ate like a stevedore just to keep her weight up. “Trust me, it was bad enough already. You really wouldn't have wanted it once the grease had congealed.”

“Don't worry about it. I'm not hungry anyway.”

“There might be another power bar in my bag,” Bertie said. Then she stopped eating and held out the snack in her hand. “Or you could finish this one.”

The small rectangular bar looked like something you might consider feeding to a horse. Actually, upon closer inspection, it looked like something a horse might reject.

“No thanks. I'm fine, really.”

“You're not fine,” said Aunt Peg. “You're missing a meal.”

Having gotten up early to get to the show, I'd missed breakfast too, but who was counting?

“I miss lots of meals,” I said. “It's never bothered you before.”

“That was then. Now—” Abruptly my aunt stopped speaking.

As well she might. I'd just figured out where this conversation was heading. And it wasn't in a direction I had any intention of discussing. Again.

“
Now
what?” I demanded.

“Now you should be taking better care of yourself.”

“Good save,” Sam said, laughing.

He could read Aunt Peg just as easily as I could, and knew exactly which topic we were dancing around. But while I thought that my pregnancy—or lack thereof—was my own business, Sam didn't seem to mind our relatives' interfering ways. Then again, he wasn't the one who felt deficient every time another month passed without good news to share.

“New subject,” said Bertie. “Where'd you go anyway?”

“Over to the obedience rings. I wanted to talk to Bill and Allison Redding.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” cried Terry. He was striding toward the setup from the direction of the rings. A Chihuahua was tucked securely beneath each of his arms. “Don't start talking yet. I don't want to miss anything.”

“I've been talking all day,” I pointed out as he stashed the Toy dogs in their little crates. “You've missed most of it.”

“You missed seeing Eve finish her championship, too,” Aunt Peg said.

“Gawd!” Terry swore. “Don't you just hate it when work gets in the way of your good time?” He scooted between the grooming tables and wrapped his arms around me. “Congratulations! It's about time. You kept us waiting for
ever
.”

“I was enjoying the journey.”

“Pish,” Aunt Peg muttered. “You just kept allowing yourself to get side-tracked—”

“By real life,” I said. “Imagine that.”

Where dog show people are concerned, there often is no such thing. And most think that's a perfectly normal state of affairs. Ask any exhibitor who won Best in Show last March in Louisville and they can probably tell you. Ask that same person who the current secretary of state is and you might well get a blank stare.

“But Eve's done now,” Sam said. “And she and Melanie are going in the group this afternoon.”

“You won the variety, too?” Terry leaned in and hugged me again. It was a little depressing to realize that he smelled better than I did. “Good job!”

“Mrs. Raines liked her,” I said modestly.

“As well she should have.” Peg was brisk. “Did anyone check and see who's doing the Non-Sporting group?”

“Harry Bumgartner,” Terry said.

“Oh my.”

“Bad news?” I asked.

“Harry's a Whippet specialist,” said Bertie. “He likes his dogs skinny and fast. And he has no idea what to do with hair. The Non-Sporting group just confuses him. He usually goes with the Dalmatian.”

I knew there had to be a reason why Sam hadn't entered Tar in the show. But when I'd entered Eve under Charlotte Raines it hadn't occurred to me that I'd need to worry about the group judge.

“Never mind,” said Aunt Peg. “Eve has finished her championship in grand style and that's what really matters.”

Terry flapped his hand in the air. “Enough about Harry Bumgartner, who has to be one of the least interesting people one would ever meet at a dog show. Back to the Reddings, whom you were about to spill the beans about. Presumably they're your second set of suspects?”

I looked at him with interest. “Who were the first?”

“Dorothy Foyle and MacDuff, of course. You
do
remember talking about them earlier, don't you?”

“MacDuff is a suspect?” Bertie said with a laugh. “That must be one very talented Scottie. Do you suppose Dorothy sent him into the stairwell to trip Larry?”

“Do shut up,” Terry said pleasantly. “We're trying to do some serious detecting over here. Melanie has the floor.”

“Melanie doesn't need the floor,” I said. “Unfortunately Melanie doesn't have anything terribly useful to say.”

“You went and talked to Bill and Allison . . .” He refused to be deterred.

“And they didn't have anything useful to say, either. That's what I'm trying to tell you.”

“Then make something up. Tell us a good story.”

Aunt Peg glared in Terry's direction. “Don't listen to him. And don't make up a thing. We're supposed to be looking for clues here, not spinning fairy tales. The Reddings must have seen something. They were there.”

Murder solving by committee. It was enough to make my head spin. Is it any wonder that Kinsey Milhone works alone?

“
I
was there,” I pointed out. “And I didn't see anything.”

“You heard Larry, fall down the steps. That's something. Where were the Reddings while that was happening?”

“They were out in the parking lot. They said they left as soon as the meeting ended. Lisa Kim said she did the same thing. She told the police she was outside when Larry fell, but neither Bill nor Allison saw her there.”

“Maybe Lisa was lying,” said Terry. I think he watches
Law & Order
too. “Maybe she was actually in the stairwell with Larry. I'll bet she's the one who screamed.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Sam. He doesn't really approve of my mystery solving predilection, but sometimes he gets interested in spite of himself.

“Because women always lie. It's the nature of the beast.”

Wrong answer. All four of us glared at him.

Terry wasn't even slightly fazed. “Oh, like you think that isn't true. Try asking any woman her weight. What about dress size? Age? Do you color your hair? Did you buy that on sale? Who ate the half pound box of chocolate I left sitting on the counter?”

“Women lie
sometimes
,” Bertie said. Pointedly she ignored Sam who'd begun to snicker. “And what makes you think men are any better? Just try asking a man what sports he played in college. Or when he's going to mow the lawn. Or whose idea it was to meet the guys for lunch at Hooters.”

“Hooters?” asked Aunt Peg.

“Use your imagination,” I told her.

“I am,” she muttered unhappily.

“Maybe Lisa was in the parking lot,” Bertie mused, “and the Reddings are the ones who weren't where they said they were.”

“Or maybe they'd split up,” Sam offered. “Bill could have been outside with Ginger while Allison was screaming in the stairwell with Larry.”

“Now there's a visual to make your hair curl,” said Terry.

“Not mine,” said Peg. “I'm still stuck on the Hooters thing.”

I lifted my hands and cradled the sides of my face. “You people are giving me a headache!”

Aunt Peg leaned over and peered at me closely. “That's not our fault, you're just hungry. Eat something, dear, you'll feel better.”

 

The Non-Sporting group was scheduled second to last, which meant that we had to hang around the show nearly all afternoon. Bertie continued to show her clients' dogs, Aunt Peg wandered off to talk to various other people she knew, and Sam and I gave Eve a breather in her crate and went to watch the judging in other breeds.

Even though I've reached the point where I know quite a bit about Poodles, I'm still a novice when it comes to dogs like German Shorthaired Pointers or Great Pyrenees or Rhodesian Ridgebacks. I could usually pick out the soundest entries but the intricacies of breed type eluded me. It seemed nothing short of astounding that there were judges who were licensed to judge every single one of the A.K.C.'s more than one hundred and fifty breeds. No matter how long I was involved in dogs, I was certain that I'd never succeed in compiling that comprehensive a body of knowledge.

An hour before our group was due to start, we headed back to the setup. The handlers' section of the large hall had emptied out considerably. Space had been tight earlier, but now, as exhibitors finished for the day and went home, areas had begun to open.

My single crate and grooming table had been tucked in beside Crawford and Terry's much larger setup, with Bertie's equipment and supplies on the other side. But as Sam and I approached we saw only empty space where the Bedford Kennels setup had been earlier. Even Bertie was packing up for the day.

“Good, you're back,” she said. “I was about to start loading up and I didn't want to leave Eve sitting here all by herself.”

“I hope we didn't hold you up,” I said. “I just assumed Crawford and Terry would still be here. I can't believe they've left already.”

Normally it wasn't unusual for Crawford to have an entry in at least two or three of the seven groups. On many occasions, he needed to stay through Best in Show. Aside from the event the previous week, I couldn't remember a time when the professional handler hadn't remained at a show ground until the bitter end.

“He and Terry finished with their class dogs an hour ago,” Bertie said. “Crawford took a Maltese in the Toy group, and then they packed up and left.”

I leaned against the edge of the grooming table and frowned. “Something's wrong. This is
so
unlike Crawford. He lives for dog shows. He and Terry are always the first to arrive and the last to leave at night.”

“Not only that,” Bertie added for Sam's benefit, “but he's been sending me clients.”

Sam looked back and forth between us. “That doesn't necessarily mean that anything's wrong. Maybe Crawford's just overbooked. I'd imagine plenty of people would love to have a handler with his reputation showing their dogs. It wouldn't surprise me to know that he has to turn people away.”

“But that's just it,” I said. “He's bringing fewer dogs than ever to the shows. And what happened to all his specials? When was the last time you went to a show where Crawford only went into one group and didn't even pick up a ribbon?”

“How old do you suppose Crawford is?” Bertie mused.

Sam and I both thought about that.

“Maybe Aunt Peg's age?” I guessed. “Early sixties?”

“No,” said Sam. “Crawford looks great for his age but he's older than that. I think he might be approaching seventy.”

“Wow,” I exhaled slowly. “I wouldn't have guessed that.”

“Funny thing is,” said Bertie, “a couple of years ago it looked like Crawford's career was beginning to wind down. He just didn't have the same oomph he'd had earlier. But then Terry came along and it was as though he'd gotten a second wind. Maybe this time he really is getting ready to retire.”

“Don't you think he'd have said something?” I asked.

“Crawford?” Sam shook his head. “He's about as private as they come. The last thing he would want would be for people to make any sort of fuss over him.”

“Precisely,” I said, “and that's what worries me. Look at what's been going on recently. Crawford's been working half days and showing only little dogs. He doesn't spend any time socializing with us and when he is around he acts like a real bear.”

“Who's a real bear?” Aunt Peg asked. Heading our way across the grooming area, she was eating a powdered doughnut, carrying two shopping bags, and frowning at Eve, who was still lying in her crate. “And why isn't that Poodle out on a table getting ready for the group?”

“We were getting to that,” said Sam. He leaned down to remedy the situation, flipping the latch on Eve's metal door, then catching her deftly as she leapt out into the aisle.

“No you weren't,” Peg replied. “You were talking again. Who's the unlucky subject this time?”

“Crawford,” I told her. “We're hoping he's all right.”

“Of course he's all right,” Peg said briskly. She polished off the last of the doughnut and dusted off her hands. “Why wouldn't he be?”