Live and Let Growl (16 page)

“Again . . .” I held up my hands innocently. “Not a bad thing, right?”

“Not at all,” Bertie said. “As long as you're not drinking.”

She was the only one of us who didn't look happy. When had my
best friend
turned into a party pooper? I wondered.

“Then that's just perfect,” I told her. “Because I'm not drinking.”

For some reason, my hands seemed to be up in the air. So I waved them around and opened and closed my fingers so Bertie could see how empty they were.
Look, Ma, no drinks!

“I think you need some coffee,” said Bertie.

“No drinks!”

This time I said it aloud. You know, just in case Bertie wasn't paying attention. Because hadn't she just told me that I shouldn't be drinking?

Terry slipped his hand in his pocket. It emerged a moment later holding his phone. “I've got to get this on video,” he said,

“Don't you dare,” Bertie snarled.

A real snarl! Just like an angry dog. It was great.

“Don't you dare,” I echoed happily. I had no idea what we were forbidding Terry to do, but if Bertie cared enough to snap at him like that, I figured she probably deserved some backup.

“Nobody will believe it,” said Terry.

“
I
don't believe it.” Bertie looked at me and shook her head.

“Don't worry,” I told her solemnly. “I don't believe it either.”

The three of us were all in accord. Wasn't that wonderful? We were
such
good friends.

“I love you guys,” I said.

I tried to gather them both close to me for a hug. My two best friends were oddly resistant. That was probably a good thing because unexpectedly I burped again. And then another time.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

Suddenly it felt as though all the bourbon-induced happiness was draining from my head. Now, somehow, it seemed to be rolling around in my stomach, causing turmoil. And threatening to come back up.

Bertie took one look at the expression on my face and grabbed my hand. Terry jumped back out of the way.

“Follow me!” cried Bertie. “Sad to say, I know just where to go for that.”

Chapter 16

“T
hat was pathetic,” said Aunt Peg. “I cannot believe that you missed the Standard Poodle judging on the last day of the Kentuckiana Cluster because you were drunk.”

“Tipsy,” I said, from the backseat of Aunt Peg's minivan. “I was only tipsy.”

It was late Monday morning and Aunt Peg, Bertie, and I were on our way to Lexington for Miss Ellie's funeral. Due to my transgressions the previous day, I had found myself unceremoniously demoted from front seat status. Instead, Bertie—who'd delayed her departure from Kentucky by a day in order to attend the service with us—was now sitting beside Aunt Peg.

“You were way past tipsy.” Bertie corrected me with annoying conviction. “But don't worry. Apparently you're a happy drunk. Terry and Crawford were thoroughly entertained.”

“Wonderful,” I muttered.

I didn't even remember seeing Crawford. He must have come by the setup after my precipitous run to the ladies' room. Drinking bourbon on an empty stomach at barely past noon? Seriously, what had I been thinking? I barely had a head for alcohol at the best of times. And I'd never been much of a drinker. Obviously this was one of the reasons why.

After throwing up in the restroom, I'd been slightly more sober but no less miserable. Bertie had given me a ride back to the hotel where I'd intended to spend the remainder of the day sleeping it off. Instead, the next time I opened my eyes it was Monday morning and Faith was staring at me from the other side of the bed with a worried look on her face.

“Oh no!” I moaned and flopped back on the pillow, drawing a hand over my eyes to block out the sun. “I'm so sorry. I forgot all about you.”

Faith's expression cleared and she swished her tail from side to side. She was just happy to see that I was finally awake. Unlike her faithless owner, that wonderful dog never forgets about me. Not even for a second.

Of course that only made me feel worse. I spent the next ninety minutes making it up to her, an effort that was especially necessary because my Standard Poodle was going to have to be left behind once again while we attended Miss Ellie's funeral.

When I'd finally approached Aunt Peg's minivan two hours later—showered, appropriately dressed, and ready to go—Aunt Peg had pointed wordlessly to the backseat. Bertie looked sympathetic but that hadn't stopped her from hopping up front and settling in. For the few minutes it took us to get under way, nobody said a thing.

I'd even begun to harbor the small hope that Aunt Peg wouldn't feel obliged to discuss my lapse in judgment with her usual excruciating attention to detail. I should have known better. We'd barely made it onto Interstate 64, heading east toward Lexington, before she ended the uncomfortable silence.

“I should certainly hope,” Aunt Peg said, glancing back at me in the rearview mirror, “that since you couldn't be bothered to watch your own breed be judged, at the very least you managed to gather some useful information for us?”

“I did,” I told her. If Aunt Peg was ready to move past the topic of my transgressions to something more interesting, I was right there with her. “I tracked down several of the people Miss Ellie spoke with when she was at the show on Thursday.”

“Was your mysterious Arthur among them?”

“I'm afraid not. He wasn't there. But I did find out who he is: Arthur Ludwig of Sea Haven Kennel in Frankfort. And Mandy Jo Proctor—the woman with the Bedlington—told me more about the car accident that killed Dunaway. It turns out that Miss Ellie's son, Gates, was very badly injured in the crash, too.”

“Poor woman,” Aunt Peg said sympathetically. “That must have been horrifying for her. No wonder she stepped away from the dog show world. Her son's health and recovery would certainly have taken top priority.”

“Did anybody know where Miss Ellie disappeared to on Thursday afternoon?” asked Bertie.

“No. No one I spoke to saw her after lunch. So that remains a mystery.” I paused and thought back. “Except . . .”

“What?” Aunt Peg took her eyes off the road to look back at me again. It would serve her right if she came to regret exiling me to the rear of the van.

“It occurs to me that I forgot to ask Liam Dailey about that.”

“Who's Liam Dailey? I don't think I know that name.”

“He's a local handler. I found him yesterday in the Bloodhound ring. On Thursday Miss Ellie blew him a kiss. It turns out that the two of them were pretty chummy.”

“Liam Dailey is the person who gave Melanie bourbon,” Bertie said. She must have wormed that information out of me when I wasn't paying attention.

“Indeed?” Aunt Peg was not amused. “Then one can only hope that your midday tippling was in aid of a good cause?”

“We were socializing,” I said. “It was all very civilized. Well, except for the fact that I was drinking from a Dixie cup. Liam thought that a drink from his flask would liven up his day. And I hoped that humoring him and joining in would loosen his tongue.”

“Did you get your wish?” Aunt Peg inquired archly.

“Liam got his,” Bertie said with a laugh.

I kicked the back of her seat hard enough to make her jump. Bertie was unrepentant. I could still hear her chuckling under her breath.

“Liam told me that Miss Ellie was no saint,” I said.

“Pish,” Aunt Peg scoffed. “I could have told you that.”

“And that she hated to lose.”

“Really, Melanie.” Heedless of oncoming traffic, Aunt Peg now turned entirely around in her seat. “Does anybody
like
to lose?”

“Not me,” Bertie grumbled. Though she'd picked up two majors and a bunch of minor points, she hadn't managed to finish a single dog at the four-day cluster of shows. The topic was a bit of a sore spot.

“So maybe Miss Ellie had enemies,” I said.

Aunt Peg was right, I thought. I
was
pathetic. I was grasping at straws, trying to make it sound as though I hadn't squandered my last dog show opportunity by having learned nothing useful at all.

“
Of course
she had enemies,” Aunt Peg snapped. “We're on our way to her funeral, aren't we?”

There was that. I sat back in my seat with a sigh.

* * *

The first thing I thought of when we arrived at the funeral home on the outskirts of Lexington was the movie
Gone with the Wind
. The big white building in front of us was adorned with a wide front porch and a stately row of ionic columns. It looked as though it should have been surrounded by countless acres of plantation farmland rather than a small plot of well-tended lawn, an extensive parking lot, and a nearby strip mall.

In the past when I've attended the funerals of people who'd died under questionable circumstances, the police had shown up at the service as part of their investigation. Here, they were directing traffic.

Gates had told us that the family was expecting a sizeable turnout. Even so, I hadn't been prepared for the mob scene that greeted us. There was still three quarters of an hour before the service was scheduled to begin but the parking lot was already jammed. We were lucky to find an empty sliver of space in a far corner. Aunt Peg tucked the minivan into it adroitly.

Though the building's double front door was open wide so that arriving mourners could enter without delay, the entrance was still clogged with people who were waiting to move inside. When we finally passed through the entrance, I saw the reason for the holdup. In the wide front hall, two men stood side by side greeting each arrival and accepting condolences.

Both men wore black suits adorned with somber boutonnieres. Both had graying hair, strong jaws, and blunt features. I recognized the shorter and stockier man as Miss Ellie's cousin, Billy Gates; and the resemblance between the two was strong enough for me to guess that the second man must be Miss Ellie's other cousin and the second co-owner of Green Gates Farm.

As the line moved slowly forward, I tried unsuccessfully to remember the name Miss Ellie had mentioned when she'd related her family's story to me at the dog show. Had that only been four days ago? It felt like eons longer than that.

Aunt Peg was at the front of our small party. When our turn came, she shook Billy Gates's hand and reminded him of her connection with Miss Ellie. He nodded as if he remembered who she was and he pumped Aunt Peg's hand heartily enough. But throughout the exchange his expression remained slack and when his eyes slid past her and came to rest on me, I saw that they were watery and slightly unfocused. Cousin Billy was doing his familial duty but he wasn't having an easy time of it.

I took only a few seconds of Billy's time before moving on to the man beside him. Thankfully he introduced himself as Sheldon Gates, thereby saving me the embarrassment of admitting my ignorance. While Billy appeared pale and weary, Sheldon was sharp as a tack. His handshake was firm, and even under the somber circumstances he managed to greet me with a small smile. When he asked if I had come from Connecticut with Aunt Peg whom he'd just met, Sheldon's attentive demeanor made him appear genuinely interested in hearing my reply.

“We came here last week for dog shows in Louisville,” I told him. “And because my aunt unexpectedly found herself the owner of a Thoroughbred broodmare.”

“Really? How did that come about?”

Of course he would ask. I should have seen that coming.

“It was an inheritance,” I mumbled. Cheeks warmed by my lack of tact, I quickly changed the subject. “Miss Ellie was kind enough to offer Aunt Peg some valuable pointers about Thoroughbred ownership.”

“Miss Ellie would have done a fine job of that,” Sheldon said with a nod. “As I'm sure you know, she grew up in the business. And of course her son, Gates, is currently an important member of our team on the farm. Is your aunt's mare boarded nearby?”

“She lives in Midway at Six Oaks Farm.”

“Ah, with our neighbors. Then I'm sure she's in good hands. But should you ever wish to make any changes, we at Green Gates would be happy to discuss alternative options with you.”

“Thank you,” I stammered.

I hoped I didn't sound as surprised by the overture as I felt. Miss Ellie hadn't even been buried yet and one of her closest family members was eager to discuss business at her funeral? Man, that was cold.

The crush of people was now behind us and the area ahead had freed up. Aunt Peg moved on, making her way into a large reception room. I quickly followed her. After a minute, Bertie joined us.

“Some grieving family,” she muttered under her breath. “Those guys were kind of creepy, don't you think?”

“Did Sheldon try to talk business to you, too?” I asked.

“No.” Bertie grimaced. “But he did hold on to my hand for
way
too long and try to look down my dress. I thought Southern men were supposed to have good manners.”

“Not this crew,” I said. “Miss Ellie's family has a pretty contentious history. I gather they don't even treat each other well, much less outsiders like us.”

Aunt Peg was gazing around the room. “I hardly see any familiar faces,” she said on a note of complaint. “I'd have expected there to be more dog people here.”

“Whatever else Miss Ellie might have done”—Bertie stepped forward suddenly as she was jostled from behind—“she certainly knew how to fill a room. This place is packed. If they're not from the dog community, who
are
all these people?”

“It's Kentucky,” I said in a low tone. “I think everybody here is related to everyone else. Maybe these are just the members of Miss Ellie's extended family?”

“Speaking of family,” said Aunt Peg. “There's Ellie's son, Gates.”

Gates entered the room through an arched entrance in the far wall and strode through the crowd with confidence. He hadn't joined his elder relatives in greeting guests at the door, but he was making up for that omission now. Gates stopped and had a few words with nearly everyone he passed. I watched him shakes hands and trade hugs and condolences with each new group of mourners he came to.

I'd been following Gates's progress across the room for nearly a minute before I realized that there was a slender young woman in a slim-fitting black sheath trailing along several steps behind him. Then the crowd shifted and I got a better look at her. It was Erin, the girl who'd shown Aunt Peg and me around at Six Oaks Farm.

I nudged Aunt Peg and pointed. “Look, there's Erin.”

“So it is.”

Aunt Peg lifted a hand and waved. Erin smiled in reply. She waited until Gates was ready to move on again, then leaned over and whispered something in his ear. He glanced our way and nodded. The pair angled their path in our direction.

“Who's Erin?” Bertie asked me.

“She works at the farm where Lucky Luna lives. She's the one who showed us around last week.”

“Oh,” Bertie replied with a notable lack of enthusiasm. “Someone else I don't know. Listen, I think I saw Crawford and Terry coming in when we were talking to Miss Ellie's cousins. I'm going to head back that way and see if I can find them.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Aunt Peg and I will catch up with you later.”

Bertie slipped away into the crowd as Gates and Erin approached.

“Thank you for coming,” Gates said when the pair had finally reached us. “I know it was an imposition, having to tack on extra days to your trip. I'm sure you must be eager to get home to Connecticut.”

“It wasn't an imposition at all,” Aunt Peg said smoothly. “It was important to us to be here. Melanie and I certainly weren't going to leave Kentucky without paying our last respects to your mother.”