Stud Rites (30 page)

”And who owned the
sperm?”
Leah demanded in that ringing voice of hers.

”James Hunnewell,” Duke told her. ”No one else.”

An unusual arrangement. As unusual as the co-ownership agreement itself.

On the videotape, you can’t hear Duke. He just turns his head for a few seconds. You can see Timmy Oliver’s pasty face. Timmy’s closer to the gate than I am. He takes a step toward it. In the background, Steve flourishes the wooden spoon that he’s managed to wrest from Kevin’s enraged grip. Then the camera zooms in on Casey, who, with consummate self-possession, goes to the far end of the ring and comes back one last time. You can see on tape that the beautiful sable dog expects to win. As the camera zooms back and pans the dogs, you can see that Ironman does, too.

So does Daphne, who is used to beating the boys and considers her sex no disadvantage at all. Mikki Muldoon makes a show of considering Daphne. Perhaps this is one judge who notices, as I do and often have, that Daphne’s ear set is slightly incorrect. No one, however, has informed Daphne of her minor faults. Here in the ring at the national, Daphne is at her showiest, and she’s very showy, indeed. Duke draws joy from the solemn Ironman. Way in the background, if you look closely, you can follow Leah as she snags first Kevin Dennehy, then Detective Kariotis, and succeeds, she tells me, only in embarrassing both of them by talking about bitches and sperm. The flower-print dress probably didn’t help. As the videotape does not reveal, Leah gave up on the police to seek out Betty Burley, who Would grasp an abbreviated explanation and, having understood, would act.

I apologize for my inability to give a firsthand account of Betty’s subsequent movements. My excuse is that at the very moment Betty must have pointed her finger in public accusation, Judge Mikki Muldoon took a flamboyant giant step backward toward the center of the ring and swept her arm up to send the entire group of malamutes around the ring. As those beautiful dogs melded together in a circle of gray and silver, black, white, and gold, Betty Burley’s voice rang out above the cheers. ”Timmy Oliver, you slimy little hypocrite!” Betty cried. ”You smarmy, greedy,
evil
little lump of blubber,
you
did it!”

In front of me, Pam said loudly, ”High time, too! Selling puppies on show grounds! The nerve! I don’t know what made him think he could get away with it! Good for Betty! At least someone here’s got the guts to let that jerk have it!”

As Timmy edged toward the gate, passed under the denuded trellis, and actually entered the ring, Freida Reilly joined Betty in pursuit of him. Freida’s accusation, I am told, was rather different from Betty’s. Despite what I assumed was a tranquilizer from the doctor’s emergency bag, Freida’s rage was similarly intense. ”Timmy Oliver, you stinking little rat!” she bawled. ”So it was
you!
Of all the damned unmitigated gall! Trying to ruin
my
national specialty! And leaving
me
stuck with the job of moving the body of
my
judge off the grounds of
my
show!”

Timmy Oliver’s actions in the ring are shown on tape. You can see that he bends over the judge’s chair and sends his hand darting after Mikki Muldoon’s handbag. And when Timmy stands upright, you can see the gleam of what Kevin Dennehy informs me was a Colt Mustang Pocket Lite, a .380 caliber autoloader that Mikki Muldoon had no business carrying in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and no business leaving around anywhere at all. The presence of a handgun in the ring, though, certainly made Kevin feel right at home, and Detective Kariotis must’ve shared Kevin’s sense of
finally
belonging in the show world, because the two cops pressed forward confidently to the gate and were just entering the ring when Mikki Muldoon, determined not to cede her kingdom to an upstart, shot out her arm, pointed her finger straight at Casey, and picked her Best of Breed.

As Timmy Oliver marched toward Casey, the nasty little Colt in his hand abruptly silenced the screams and ”bravos.” Reaching Casey and taking the dog’s lead, Timmy told Casey’s owner-handier, ”Sorry about this, Al, but I got no choice.” You can hear Timmy on the videotape. I’ve listened again and again. And you can see him press that gun right up against Casey’s gorgeous head and dig it into that gold-mahogany coat until the trusting dog must have felt the cold of metal on his warm skin. You can’t hear what Al says to Casey, but you can tell that he says something, and you can see the color drain from Al’s face as Timmy leads Casey away.

With no word or signal, the people outside the ring moved back to clear a broad path to the open door. Casey parted crowds all the time; he was used to it. And Mikki Muldoon was equally accustomed to exerting authority. Furious at having her judging interrupted and her Best of Breed stolen from her ring, she was on Timmy’s tail when through the wide door to the parking lot burst the four big heads of Poker Flat’s Risky Business, Poker Flat’s Hell’s Belle, Ch. Poker Flat’s Snow Flurrie, C.D., and Ch. Poker Flat’s Paper Chase, C.D. The four big bodies of this team entry of Battering Rams followed. Confronted with Casey, they came to a halt and spread themselves across Timmy’s escape route. The five big, beautiful dogs—the team and Casey —knew nothing of Colt Mustangs. Poke-Poke-Pokers though they were, the Battering Rams, show dogs all, knew that the one place they were never to stick their noses was straight into the face of another dog.

As Timmy Oliver and Casey paused before the canine blockade, Judge Mikki Muldoon stepped swiftly to our breed club’s preview display of auction items, seized that historic sign that had hung over one of Eva

B. Seeley’s own kennels, raised it swiftly in the air, and smashed it down on top of Timmy’s head.

”Not loaded!” she announced authoritatively. And after getting a grip on Casey’s lead, she took her Best of Breed back into what was unquestionably her ring.

HOW TIMMY OLIVER’S mug shots turned out, I don’t know. They couldn’t have been flattering. By the time they were taken, I guess he’d had the splinters removed from his scalp, but his hair was probably messy. Although he’d no doubt had a Teflon-coated comb or a finishing brush in one of his pockets when he was arrested, the police must have confiscated all his possessions.

I suspect, though, that Timmy didn’t look too much Worse than the rest of us. Even the official show photographer who took the picture of Casey’s win failed to make the occasion appear normal. On the far right, Mary Jane Holabach, Casey’s co-owner and human Mom, is as pretty and well groomed as ever, and she’s managing to smile, but the malamutes in the framed Print she displays seem to be standing on their heads: She is holding the picture upside down. Freida Reilly’s show chair badge, purple flowers, and gold dog team are askew; her closed eyes suggest that instead of presenting the malamute quilt she’s holding to Casey and the Holabachs, she’ll wrap it around herself, drop to the floor, and take a long, drugged nap. Although Mikki Muldoon hides her feet behind several pots of flowers and a collection of trophies, you can see that her slip is showing. Furthermore, her once-carrot hair is a little disheveled. Her bearing, however, is flawless, and as usual, she is fastening the ornate purple-and-gold Best of Breed rosette to her own midriff. Al’s color has not returned. He looms over Casey, as if fearful that the dog might again be taken hostage. Casey’s ears are, as always, alert. His broad winner’s smile reveals a red tongue. Every single hair is exactly where it should be. Indeed, everything in Casey’s world is just as it should be: He is used to creating a stir. This time, he thinks, he has simply outdone himself.

Or so it seems in the photo. I wasn’t there when it was taken. I left even before Judge Muldoon picked Daphne for Best of Opposite—Best of Opposite Sex to Best of Breed. (Since Best of Breed was a male—Casey —Best of Opposite was a female—Daphne.) The female of Sherri Ann’s who’d gone Winners Bitch defeated the Winners Dog for Best of Winners. (Still not fluent?
Winners Bitch:
the winner of the championship points in the competition among the bitches who weren’t yet champions.
Winners Dog:
same thing, but for males.
Best of Winners:
She’s defeated the other girls who were vying for points. He’s defeated the other boys. Both have won championship points. Now we have the battle of the sexes: Winners Bitch versus Winners Dog’ The victor? Best of Winners. Okay, so what about Casey and Daphne? Best of Breed and Best of Opposite? Why didn’t
they
win the points? Because they weren’t competing for points, that’s why; they were
already
champions and thus entered only in the Best of Breed competition. Ah, but could the Winners Dog or Winners Bitch also have gone Best of Breed? Yes, thereby automatically becoming Best of Winners. Confusing? Consider tennis. Fifteen, thirty, forty, game? And ”love”? What on earth does ”love” have to do with tennis? Love is no racket! On the contrary, love is a warm you-know-what.) Anyway, I wish I’d been there. I hated to miss the judging of the Stud Dog, Brood Bitch, Brace, and Team classes, too, but Betty needed help with Timmy Oliver’s dogs. Seconds after Timmy was arrested for the murder of James Hunnewell, Betty, of course, started to worry about his dogs. Timmy, she declared, belonged in a jail cell. But what had the innocent Z-Rocks and the silver male and, especially, the two puppies done to deserve incarceration? Her concern was well founded. Detective Kariotis did, in fact, try to claim the dogs as evidence. But Betty held out, and before long, she and Kariotis worked out a trade. Betty would have had to surrender the lamp, anyway; in bartering the murder weapon for the dogs, she got a good deal.

As we started across the parking lot toward Timmy’s camper, I said, ”You know, Betty, I feel so stupid. Duke told me so much that I can’t help thinking that he knew all along. I mean, he’s the one who told me about Timmy Oliver and James Hunnewell’s co-ownership agreement: that Timmy co-owned Comet in name only and that Hunnewell controlled absolutely everything. Harriet Lunt drew up the agreement. Duke knew that. He’s the one who told me. He also said that when Comet was alive, when Timmy and Hunnewell co-owned him, Timmy had a bitch he wanted to breed, and he wanted to use Comet, but Hunnewell absolutely refused. Timmy didn’t even have stud rights on his own dog. And out in the grooming tent, Duke
said
that Comet’s semen had been frozen. And never used. I just didn’t finish putting it all together: that if Hunnewell controlled everything else about Comet, including using him at stud when he was alive, he’d hardly have let Timmy own half those straws of sperm.”

”Usually,” Betty said, ”if you co-own a dog and you have his semen frozen, then half the straws are in one person’s name, and the other half are in the other Person’s. Isn’t that how it works?”

”Unless
you make some other arrangement. Hunnewell didn’t trust Timmy. Who does? If Hunnewell hired Harriet Lunt to cut Timmy out when he bought Comet, he probably got her to make sure that the contract about the frozen semen was the way he wanted it, too.”

Betty sighed. ”So that’s why Timmy’s been making a fuss about Z-Rocks. He knew as well as I did that that bitch didn’t have a chance against this kind of competition. He was just setting the stage for what would happen after she produced a litter out of Comet. I can just hear him: ’See? Didn’t I tell you James loved her? Didn’t I tell you she was just his type?’ ”

”So everyone would believe that Hunnewell had let him use Comet,” I said. ”Comet’s sperm. I wonder if Timmy ever even asked Hunnewell. Or if he just assumed that Hunnewell would refuse.”

”And went ahead and killed him. And forged his signature. And left that damned lamp under
my
van!” As we later found out, Timmy did forge Hunnewell’s signature. In his camper, the police found transfer-of-ownership forms for Comet’s sperm, papers signed with James Hunnewell’s name, but not in James Hunnewell’s own hand.

When we reached Timmy’s camper, Detective Kari-otis wasn’t there. Crime-scene tape was strung all over, and two police officers guarding the camper didn’t want to let us in, so we hung around waiting. The camper, of course, was crammed with real evidence. For example, the open carton of cigarettes I’d noticed that morning, the carton that Timmy must have lifted from Hunnewell’s hotel room. Timmy didn’t smoke, but Hunnewell sure did, and a heavy smoker like that doesn’t arrive at an unfamiliar destination without the means to satisfy his addiction. As I now piece things together, Timmy must have gone to Hunnewell’s room at about ten o’clock on Thursday night. At nine-fifteen or nine-thirty, when I was helping Hunnewell with the ice machine, he offered me a cigarette, and he didn’t ask anything about the location of a cigarette machine. Furthermore, Freida Reilly says that after Hunnewell’s spat with Pam, at quarter of ten or so, when Freida took him back to his room, he didn’t ask her, either. So Timmy must have shown up there at around ten o’clock and left, probably soon thereafter, with Hunnewell’s entire cigarette stash. Exactly how he filched it, I don’t know, but I understand why he didn’t want to commit the murder inside the hotel. There, a guest passing by in the hall could have heard a shout, or he might easily have been observed leaving the rooms with traces of the deed visible in the expression of his face, if not actually on his hands and his clothes.