Chow Down (4 page)

“Probably because he's won everything else but,” Terry sniped.

“That's four,” said Bertie, looking down at her watch. “Hurry up, Terry. We're almost due at the ring.”

He stopped brushing the Maltese and counted silently on his fingers. Luckily there were only five finalists. “Who'd I miss?”

“
We
don't know,” I said impatiently. Bertie was right, we needed to get the Poodles down off their tables and start heading over to the ring. I saw Crawford threading his way through the other setups, probably coming back to get his own Poodles. “You're the guy with the gossip.”

“Shhh, not so loud.” Terry dropped his voice. He saw Crawford coming, too. “It's Brando.”

Bertie's head whipped around. Aunt Peg's eyes widened. Either response would have gotten my attention. Both, brought me up short.

“Who?” I asked.

“Brando the Boxer.”

“Oh dear,” said Aunt Peg.

“Ditto,” said Bertie.

That didn't sound good, did it?

“W
hat are you doing standing around talking?”

Crawford asked. “Toy bitches are already in the ring.” He leveled a look at Terry. “Were you going to bring me my specials dog or did you expect Drucilla to come over here and judge him at the setup?”

“Oops,” Terry muttered. He slid the Maltese into an empty crate and swept Crawford's Toy Poodle up off another grooming table. Fortunately, aside from the bright pink vet wrap holding the little dog's ear hair in place, he was ready to go.

Crawford reached over and plucked the silver Toy out of Terry's arms. “This late, you'd better bring the Minis. You know Drucilla, she doesn't waste any time. Hey Peg, nice to see you.”

The handler spun around and was gone again before anyone had a chance to utter a word.

“Who put a bee in his bonnet?” asked Bertie.

“It's nothing,” Terry said quickly. “Absolutely nothing. All my fault.”

Interesting, I thought. Terry never voluntarily took the blame for anything; indeed he never needed to. The man was made of Teflon. He'd never seen a sticky situation he couldn't wiggle out of with aplomb. Something was definitely up.

I would have asked Aunt Peg what she thought but, ever practical, she was already moving to lend a hand. She slipped between the rows of crates that marked the end of Bertie's setup and the beginning of Crawford's. Terry had three Miniature Poodles—all brushed out, sprayed up, and ready to go to ringside—and two arms.

“I've got one,” Peg told him. “Let's go.”

That left Bertie and me with her two, the Standard dog I'd been working on, and her Mini entry that was apparently due in the ring shortly. We loaded up gear and Poodles and joined the caravan heading across the grassy expanse between the grooming tent and the rings.

By the time we reached Drucilla Melville's ring, Crawford and his silver special were already inside and being judged. He'd been right, we were running late. Quickly I consulted with the steward and picked up our numbered armbands. I was sliding a rubber band up Bertie's arm to hold the numbers in place when Crawford was awarded Best of Variety.

Mrs. Melville made short work of her Mini dogs, then it was Bertie's turn in the ring with the bitch. She beat Crawford to win the Open class, then picked up two points and the purple Winners ribbon. Minutes later, both handlers lost to another pro in Best of Variety.

Waiting next to the gate, I took Bertie's Mini when she exited the ring and handed over her Standard dog. Since Bertie had already gotten her share of the winnings in Minis, neither one of us was surprised when her Standard Poodle managed to garner only a low ribbon in his class.

“How stupid is that,” she said, as we headed back to the setup. “He's a better Poodle than the Mini. And he was better than the competition he was showing against.”

“Yes, but Drucilla didn't know that,” I pointed out. It was easy for me to be sanguine about the outcome. I wasn't the one who had just lost when I should have won. “All she knows is that if each of the pros who gave her an entry gets
something
to show for his efforts, everyone will go home happy.”

Aunt Peg clucked her tongue. Crawford and Terry had gone back to the grooming tent after the Minis had finished, but Peg had stayed behind to watch the Standard judging. “You're beginning to sound like a cynic.”

“Make that a realist,” I said. “I didn't see you showing under her.”

“You're right about that,” Aunt Peg admitted. “On the other hand, I hardly show under anyone anymore.”

Now that Peg was judging more frequently, she was concerned about the perceived conflict of interest in exhibiting under her peers. Instead, agility had become her new love. She and her Poodles had begun to compete in trials all over New England.

“I shouldn't complain,” said Bertie. “Gina got two points. Her owners will be thrilled. I'm just sorry my other dog got robbed.”

Back at the setups, Terry was drinking a diet soda. Crawford had disappeared again. I deposited the Mini I was carrying onto a grooming table and said,
“So?”

Three pairs of eyes turned my way.

“Brando?” I prompted.

Surely I shouldn't have had to remind them. Before Crawford had interrupted us, both Peg and Bertie had looked like impending doom at the mere mention of the Boxer's name. Our half-hour break to show dogs—admittedly the reason we'd come in the first place—hadn't been exciting enough that I would have forgotten
that
.

“Oh right,” said Bertie. She was running the end of a comb through the Standard Poodle's topknot, popping out the tiny colored rubber bands that had held the elaborate structure in place. “Bad news there.”

“He belongs to Ben O'Donnell,” said Aunt Peg. As if that explained everything. Which of course it didn't.

Since my relatives weren't proving to be much help, I turned to Terry. His Minis were back in their crates. The silver Toy was lying daintily on a folded towel, awaiting his turn in the group. And Terry was plucking at the Maltese again.

“Who is Ben O'Donnell?” I asked. “And if you want to throw in a little information on Brando, I wouldn't mind that, either.”

“Ben's an actor,” said Terry.

“He was an actor,” Bertie corrected. “I'm surprised you haven't heard of him.
Moments in the Sun
?”

“The soap opera?” I asked. “Definitely not my thing. I work during the day, remember? What else might I have seen him in?”

“There was a corn chip commercial,” said Terry. “And another for a new pickup truck.”

“That one was a hoot,” Bertie said. “Ben was dressed up in cowboy boots and a big hat, and cows were milling around everywhere. Bear in mind we're talking about a guy who thinks that suburbs are the wide-open spaces. He looked pretty silly trying to walk bowlegged and pretending he was chewing tobacco.”

“I saw that,” said Peg. “Ben looked like he was afraid all those cattle might stampede and take him along for the ride. And I don't think he ever managed to drive the truck.”

“Okay, so he's an actor,” I said. “Perhaps not a very good one. And Brando's a Boxer. There must be more to the story than that. Is Brando a good dog?”

“It doesn't matter,” said Bertie. “He doesn't have to be. Ben only shows to women judges.”

“He's very hetero.” Terry sighed. “More's the pity.”

I was beginning to get the picture. “And very good-looking, I assume?”

“Enough to put a championship on a Boxer with a bad bite.”

Ouch. “So Ben is handsome. And he apparently doesn't mind manipulating people. Anything else?”

Aunt Peg nodded. “Bertie was probably correct to talk about Ben's career in the past tense. At one point when he was younger and starting out, it seemed as though anything at all might be possible: parts on Broadway, character roles in movies, Shakespeare in the Park. But somehow years went by and none of that ever came to pass.”

She paused for breath, and Terry took up the explanation. “After the stint in the soap opera, Ben's career pretty much stagnated. In any other business, he'd be in his prime. And Lord knows, the man looks
good
. But as an actor in his early forties, he's already a has-been.”

“Don't let Ben hear you say that,” Bertie warned. “He'd probably lop your head off and hand it to you on a plate. Facing reality has never been Ben's strong suit. His career might be fading, but he's not going down without a fight.”

“Which brings us back to you,” said Peg. “And this contest offering national exposure to the winner. Everybody knows how desperate Ben O'Donnell is to make a comeback. I'm betting he sees this as the way to make it happen.”

“I read the contest rules,” I said. No point in mentioning that I'd read them after the fact. “Chow Down is offering exposure to the winner's dog, not the owner.”

“Don't kid yourself, Ben will find a way to shoehorn himself into the publicity even if he has to handcuff Brando to his wrist.” Terry paused reflectively. “Though now that I think about it, the notion of Ben with a pair of handcuffs—”

“Terry.” Aunt Peg glared.

“Yes, ma'am.” He ducked his head.

“You guys must be exaggerating.” I held up my hands as if forming a scale. “Chow Down dog food?” One hand rose. “Shakespeare in the Park?” The other plummeted. “What's wrong with this picture?”

“Plenty,” said Bertie. “And the worst part about it is that Ben and Brando are in it at all. But you don't have to take our word for it. You can see for yourself what a sweetheart Ben is because here he comes now.”

“Really?” Peg swiveled to look. I did, too. Then Terry joined in for good measure. Which meant that by the time Ben O'Donnell reached us we were all standing there staring at him like a quartet of idiots with nothing useful on our minds at all.

I supposed he could be forgiven for tipping his head sideways and staring back. We must have looked rather odd. Not to mention the fact that we'd all suddenly fallen silent at his approach.

“Ben!” Aunt Peg said heartily into the awkward silence. “Imagine that. We were just talking about you.”

“Really? Saying only good things, I hope.”

The actor's smile was smooth and practiced and, all right, pretty darn appealing. He possessed the kind of rugged good looks that, at one time, would have been perfect for cigarette commercials; I could see why he'd been cast as a cowboy. Idly I noted that he was probably the only person on the show ground with better hair than Terry.

Whom, as it happened, he was staring at right now. “Nice feathers,” he said.

“Thanks.” Terry's grin was cheeky. Like maybe he was hoping the jury was still out on the whole hetero thing.

Ben didn't rise to the bait. Instead he turned and focused his attention on me. Beneath the cool shade of the grooming tent, being the object of his regard was like having a beam of sunlight turned in my direction.

“I know everyone else here,” he said. “Which means that you must be Melanie Travis. I've been looking for you.”

“You have?”

“Of course. Haven't you been looking for me?”

“Umm . . . No.”

“That surprises me.” His voice was low and smoky. His words sounded teasingly seductive.

“Why?” So help me, it was an effort to form the thought, much less the word. Behind Ben's back, Bertie was biting her lip. Terry was laughing at me openly.

“Because I understand you and I are going to share an adventure together.”

“We are?”
Belatedly I realized he was talking about the contest. Idiot. “So you're here today checking out the other finalists?”

“Of course. I'm surprised you're not doing the same.”

“I guess I've been a little busy since I got to the show,” I said vaguely.

“I see. I guess that's where we differ, then. I
make
time for the things that are important to me.”

“Maybe the contest is more important to you than it is to me.”

“Excellent.” Ben smiled again.

This time I could see the tiny lines that creased his cheeks. They didn't diminish his appeal at all.

“It is?”

“Of course. That way you won't be too upset when Brando is chosen to represent Chow Down and Faith isn't. I hate to disappoint a lady.”

Suddenly, unexpectedly, I felt my competitive juices rising. “Don't worry. I don't plan on being disappointed.”

“That's the spirit!” Aunt Peg clapped a hand between my shoulder blades and almost sent me sprawling.

“I understand Faith is a Standard Poodle,” Ben said. “I saw her picture on the contest web site, she's a real beauty.”

“Thank you.”

“I meant to watch the Poodle judging, but I was occupied with Brando earlier. He won the breed, and we'll be competing in the group later. How did Faith do today?”

If Ben had seen one of the pictures Davey had submitted, he had to have known that Faith was cut down. She hadn't worn the labor-intensive continental trim since she'd retired from the show ring two years earlier. Now Faith wore a sporty-looking kennel trim. Her face, feet, and the base of her tail were clipped close, and a dense blanket of short black curls covered the rest of her body.

Was Ben that ignorant about the mores of showing Poodles or was the question intended to psych me out? I wondered. He'd certainly wasted no time in letting me know that his dog was still showing—and winning.

“Faith is retired,” Aunt Peg cut in smoothly. “Rather like one of the other competitors, MacDuff.”

“I see. She's an older dog, then.” His lip curled slightly.

“No,” I said, ignoring the implied insult. “Just one that finished very quickly.” It was a lie, but what the heck. I figured Aunt Peg would back me up, as well she should. The only reason Faith had taken a while to achieve her championship was because I'd been new and hadn't known what I was doing. “You know how it is. When they're that good, they seem to be in and out of the ring in a flash.”

“Well then, I guess I'll just have to meet her Monday morning.”

“Monday morning?” I echoed.

“At the reception Champions Dog Food is hosting for the five finalists. Didn't you get the e-mail?”

My bad. “I don't always check my email on weekends,” I admitted. “I'll have a look when I get home.”

“Do that,” Ben advised. “You and Faith wouldn't want to miss that all-important first opportunity to wow the judges.” He nodded to the others and left.