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  As soon as she said the name, I was able to place him. Harry was a prominent Midwest professional handler. I’d seen his picture in dozens of ads in Dog Scene and Dogs in Review.

  “He looks fit to be tied, doesn’t he?” Edith Jean lifted a hand and sent a jaunty wave in Harry’s direction. “Don’t you mind him at all. He’s not mad at you. Betty Jean’s the person he wants to kill.”

  2

  “Why?”

  So help me, the question just popped out. A reflex response. It’s not as if I needed to know. Over the past several years, I seem to have developed a reputation as a solver of mysteries. I’m not quite sure how this came about. I don’t go looking for problems, and, yet, somehow they have a way of inevitably finding me.

  Looking at those two little old ladies, however, it was hard to take talk of death threats seriously. I couldn’t imagine someone actually wanting to do them harm. On the other hand, even on such short acquaintance, I could easily imagine them coming up with some sort of diabolical tall tale. No doubt they’d argue over every single detail, too.

  “Can’t tell you,” B.J. whispered. “It’s a secret.”

  “A really big secret,” E.J. echoed.

  Yeah, right. If I thought somebody wanted to kill me, I’d be telling everyone about it. You know, just in case.

  Betty Jean leaned down and retrieved something from behind the raffle table. “Much as we love talking to you, dear, it’s time to get to work. Here’s your basket, all ready to go. I think you’ll find it has everything you need.”

  The wicker container she handed me looked like something Little Red Riding Hood might have carried to visit Grandma. Or the Brady Bunch might have taken on a family picnic. With the ribbon-bedecked handle slipped over my arm, the body of the basket bumped against my knees.

  I did a quick inventory and found several rolls of tickets, fifty dollars in various bills for making change, half a dozen pens, and a list of the more than forty prizes the raffle offered.

  “Don’t forget,” E.J. said. “It’s very important to make sure everyone fills out the back of their tickets with name and telephone number. That way, they don’t have to be present to win.”

  “You’ll sell more tickets if you remind people of that,” B.J. chimed in. “It helps if they know they don’t have to hang around all week until the very end.”

  Judging by the PCAs I’d been to in the past, hanging around until the very end seemed to be the whole point. Although perhaps the agility and obedience people whose trials took place early in the week wouldn’t feel that way.

  “Got it,” I said. “See you later.”

  My first stop was the grooming area where I checked on my puppy. Though I actually owned two Standard Poodles, I’d only brought one to Maryland with me. Faith, Eve’s dam, was the older of the pair and the one I’d regretfully left behind. On a trip such as this where she wasn’t entered in the show, she would have ended up spending most of her time in a crate. Not only would she be happier in Connecticut with Davey, but she could also keep an eye on him for me. I never doubted for a minute that she would be up to the task.

  Standard Poodles are the largest of the three varieties. Faith was big, and black, and beautiful, and possessed a vibrant personality. Eve, who was waiting for me in the grooming area, shared many of her dam’s characteristics, among them, intelligence, exuberance, and a sense of humor guaranteed to keep her owner on her toes.

  Eve was the more thoughtful of the two, however, and the more sensitive. Whereas Faith rushed headlong into any situation, her daughter was more likely to hang back and to consider the options. That streak of maturity had stood her in good stead in the show ring. Registered as Elysian Eve with the American Kennel Club, the puppy was eleven months old and already in possession of seven of the fifteen points required to attain her championship. I planned to show her in the 9 to 12 Month Puppy Bitch class that would be held Thursday morning.

  With competition as fierce as this would be—thirty—six puppies from all over the country were entered in Eve’s class—I wasn’t planning on winning. All I wanted was for my puppy to show well and make a good impression on the knowledgeable spectators standing ringside. With luck, we might even make the cut.

  As I’d expected, my puppy was fine. Accustomed to the bustle of a busy show, Eve was snoozing happily in her crate. I left her and headed back to the agility ring where I found that Aunt Peg had barely moved since I’d seen her last.

  She was keeping one eye on the action in the Novice class and the other on the wide grassy aisle that ran along the ring. PCA was a great gathering place. Breeders from various parts of the country who only saw each other once a year, spent the entire week catching up. Though the Poodles were, of course, paramount to the PCA experience, socializing ran a close second.

  “I see the sisters put you right to work,” Peg said as I drew near. “Made much money for the club yet?”

  My aunt has been a member of the PCA for decades. More recently, she’d also been one of the founders of the Poodle Club of America Foundation, a philanthropic organization whose purpose was to raise money for dog related research and charities. Peg was all in favor of anything that supported her favorite cause.

  “I’m just getting started. You’re my first victim.” I lifted out the heavy roll of tickets and began to unspool a long stream. “They’re a dollar apiece or twelve for ten dollars. How many would you like?”

  “One dozen ought to do for a start.”

  I handed her a pen and lowered the basket to the floor between my feet. Aunt Peg counted out and ripped off the tickets. She started at one end and I took the other, writing her name and phone number on the back of each stub.

  “What do you think of the Boone sisters?” she asked as we wrote. “Aren’t they a hoot?”

  “A hoot and a holler.” I resisted the temptation to drawl. “Please tell me they don’t always dress alike.”

  Aunt Peg scribbled away busily. “To tell the truth, I haven’t any idea. The only time I ever see them is here at PCA. I’m not sure anyone from the club knows them really well. They live in some remote, rural area of the Georgia mountains. And of course, Georgia doesn’t even have its own affiliate club.”

  Affiliate clubs were local Poodle clubs, serving states and major metropolitan areas. They were satellites to PCA’s hub, and the fact that Georgia lacked one was a major omission in Aunt Peg’s eyes.

  “The sisters have had Toy Poodles for nearly as long as I’ve been in Standards, though they haven’t done any showing to speak of in years. I didn’t even realize they were still breeding until Edith Jean e-mailed me looking for volunteers and mentioned they had a new puppy who would be making his debut this spring. I saw him on one of the southern circuits and he was cleaning up. Roger Carew handles the puppy for them.”

  “Funny, they didn’t mention him to me.” Dog people usually lead with news about their canines, a subject that they find endlessly fascinating, and are quite certain everyone else does too.

  “I’m sure they will when they get a chance.” Peg finished the last of the tickets, balled up the long strand, and shoved it in her pocket. “The sisters probably wanted to start things off right by getting straight to work. Considering how little interaction they have with the rest of the club during the rest of the year, the board is very grateful that the two of them take the time to run the raffle for us every spring. It’s not a small undertaking, you know.”

  “I’m beginning to get that impression.”

  Peg searched my face for signs of sarcasm. That she found none was testimony to the fact that my acting skills are improving. I picked up my basket and prepared to move on. “Any tips for telling them apart?”

  “Just do what I do. If you’re talking to one and you’re not sure which, just call her Sister. In case you haven’t noticed, they’ll both answer to it.”

  As soon as I stepped away from my aunt, another spectator saw my basket and motioned me over. “Whatever you’re selling
, I’ll take some,” she said.

  “Raffle tickets,” I replied brightly. “Would you like to hear about our terrific prizes?”

  “Not really.”

  Monday morning, opening hour of the greatest Poodle show on earth, most of the participants were giddy with excitement and enthusiasm. This spectator, an attractive woman who looked about my age—early thirties—but sported a much better haircut and manicure, already seemed bored. I hated to think how she’d be feeling by week’s end.

  She fished around in a Kate Spade bag and came up with a twenty-dollar bill. “What do I need to do?”

  “Just fill out your name and phone number on the back of the stubs. The raffle will be held Friday afternoon before Best in Show. Will you still be here then?”

  “I expect so.” She took the pen I offered and began to sign her name in an elegant script. Nina Gold, I read as she tore the first one off and handed it to me.

  “Are you showing a Poodle or just here to enjoy the show?”

  “My husband has some dogs entered. Christian Gold?” She said the name as though she expected me to be familiar with it. One perfectly plucked eyebrow lifted. “GoldenDune kennel?”

  “Sorry, I haven’t been showing all that long. I don’t know everybody yet.”

  “That’s all right.” She smiled briefly as she ripped off the last stub and tossed it in the basket. “I imagine I wouldn’t recognize your name either.”

  The offhand comment sounded vaguely insulting. I decided to overlook it. “Melanie Travis,” I said. “I have Standards. I’ll be showing in the breed classes.”

  Nina looked just as bored by that information as she had by the agility trial taking place in the ring. “Christian has Minis. With any luck, he’ll win the variety. Dale Atherton handles for us.”

  That name I recognized. Like Harry Gandolf, Dale Atherton was a well-known professional handler. Ads featuring his winning Poodles graced the covers and pages of all the dog magazines.

  “You must be from the West Coast.”

  “Marin. We flew in last night. Christian was anxious to get right over here and see how his dogs were doing, but it doesn’t look as though Dale’s arrived yet.”

  “Exhibitors and handlers aren’t allowed to come in and set up today,” I said. “There’s a rather strict protocol, and the grooming area doesn’t officially open until tomorrow morning.”

  “I could have sworn Dale said—” A small frown creased Nina’s brow, then she stopped and shook her head. “Never mind. It isn’t important. I’m sure we’ll see him back at the hotel.”

  I thanked her for her business and prepared to move on, but a group of breeders from Maryland flagged me down before I’d gone two steps. Six women who’d participated in the raffle in previous years, knew the quality of the prizes offered, and were all eager to lend their support to the club. I passed out tickets and pens, and made change. Selling raffle tickets in this crowd was easier than giving away beads at Mardi Gras.

  By eleven o’clock, I’d only covered half the arena, but I’d already sold all the tickets the sisters had supplied me with. My basket was jammed with stubs and cash. I headed back to the raffle table to restock.

  The sisters, standing side by side behind the table, beamed at me as I approached. “We’re doing a bang-up business,” one said. “How about you?”

  “The same.” I held out the basket for their inspection. “I need more tickets. I sold all the ones you gave me.”

  “Well done!” The sister nearest me—Betty Jean, I thought—reached beneath the table and withdrew a cash box. It was, I saw when she opened it, much fuller than it had been when I’d left. “Let me help you unpack.”

  “Thanks, B . . . er, E . . . J?” I felt myself flush.

  “B.J.,” she corrected with a smile. “Had it right the first time. Not to worry, Sister and I are used to that. Let me give you a little tip.” She leaned forward and a small gold locket, worn tucked inside her sweater, caught the light briefly before disappearing again. “Sister and I always stand behind the table the same way. She’ll be on your left as you approach, I’ll be to the right. We never switch sides.”

  “How come?”

  Betty Jean shot a quick glance up at her sister who was busy showing off the money tree to a potential customer. “I’m left-handed, you see. Sister is right-handed. If we both put our good sides in the middle, we’d just keep bumping into one another. So this way works out better.

  B.J. grinned wickedly. “Whatever you do, don’t let on that I told you. I think she likes all the confusion.”

  I’d be willing to bet they both enjoyed the confusion. Why did they dress so similarly otherwise?

  “What are you two whispering about over there?” Edith Jean came up behind us. “Not planning to take the money and run, are you?”

  “Not today.” There were new rolls of tickets in the lock box. I got out another and added it to my supplies in the basket. “Maybe tomorrow when there’s more here.”

  “Can’t leave before Wednesday,” E.J. said. “That’s when our boy is showing. Puppy Dogs, 9 to 12. You’ll be guarding the table.” Her index finger poked me between the shoulder blades. “Sister and I will be hiding somewhere over by the ring, cheering like a couple of silly old fools.”

  “Tell me about your puppy,” I invited. “I’ve heard he’s a good one.”

  “Bubba’s going to win his puppy class,” Betty Jean confided. “He’ll be the best one there.”

  “At least we think he is. Others”—Edith Jean scowled briefly—“may have another opinion.”

  “As if that matters a fig. The only opinion that counts belongs to the judge. He loved Bubba’s sire, and our puppy’s his father’s spitting image. When Roger walks into the ring, Mr. Mancini will think he’s seeing a ghost.”

  “That judge loves a good silver. You can mark your catalog right now. Look for BoonesFarm Bubba-licious and put a one right next to his name. Roger thinks Bubba might even have a shot at Winners Dog.”

  Edith Jean ducked down briefly beneath the table and came up with pictures. Eight-by-ten color glossies in a familiar white cardboard envelope, they were win photos from the puppy’s successes on the Cherry Blossom circuit. I thumbed through them, while both sisters supplied commentary on each win. The little Toy had done his owners proud. Not only had he been Winner Dog five times, he’d even racked up two Best of Variety wins and a group placement.

  “How many points does he have?” I asked.

  “Shhh!” Edith Jean held a finger up to her lips. “We don’t talk about that.”

  “Fourteen,” Betty Jean said firmly. Her voice was loud enough to override her sister’s and her tone allowed for no argument.

  “I see.” It sounded as though the sisters had run into a common problem. Judging by their demeanor, someone—probably their handler, Roger Carew—had gotten over-zealous in planning little Bubba’s career. The silver Toy had done extremely well on the spring circuit, perhaps too well.

  In order to achieve a championship, a dog must accumulate a total of fifteen points under at least three different judges. Points are earned by beating same-sex competition in the classes. At a specialty show like this one, those classes would be Puppy, 6 to 9 Months old, Puppy 9 to 12 Months old, Dog (or Bitch) 12 to 18 Months, Novice, Bred by Exhibitor, American-Bred, and Open. Once the individual classes have been judged, the class winners return to the ring to compete for the award of Winners Dog or Winners Bitch.

  These are the only two who receive points, and the number of points awarded varies from one to five, based on the amount of competition. A win of three, four, or five points is referred to as a major win, and two are required (under two different judges) before a dog can secure the title of champion. Some dogs chase the points needed to attain their championships for a year or two. Others, like Bubba, race through a serendipitous circuit of shows and seem to fulfill the requirements almost overnight.

  Under normal circumstances such success, especially wi
th a young puppy, would be considered a blessing. However, when exhibitors are calculating the chances of their dogs securing a coveted BIG WIN at the national specialty, normal is a concept that flies right out the window.

  At PCA a puppy like Bubba would be a standout in his age-restricted class. He’d have a good shot at taking the prestigious blue and perhaps even, as the sisters hoped, going on to Winners Dog or maybe Best Toy Puppy. If, however, he had already finished his championship, Bubba would have to be entered not in the classes, but in the much more rigorous Best of Variety competition.

  There he’d be up against more than forty of the top Toy Poodle champions from all over the world. There, a cute silver puppy like Bubba would, most likely, get lost in the shuffle.

  Hence the confusion regarding Bubba’s point total. My guess was that Roger Carew had forgotten to keep count and that the puppy had finished several weeks earlier. No doubt Bubba had been keeping a low profile ever since, biding his time and awaiting his chance to sparkle in the puppy class at PCA.

  Other exhibitors might grumble but there wasn’t much that could be done to prevent such subterfuge. Truth be told, many had done such a thing themselves. Those who hadn’t had probably been guilty of other, similar white lies, such as fudging a puppy’s birth date to keep it eligible for the puppy classes beyond a year of age, or dyeing a Poodle’s coat to enhance its color.

  When the stakes were high enough, anything could happen. And for Poodle lovers, PCA was the biggest game around.

  3

  After lunch I got Eve out of her crate and took her for a walk around the equestrian center. The area surrounding the outdoor riding rings was beginning to fill up with big rigs: handlers, and exhibitors from around the country who had found that the easiest way to transport large numbers of dogs in comfort was to pack them into a motor home. Eve tugged at the end of her leash, eager to go exploring. At home, I would have turned her loose to run a little, but PCA had very strict rules about dog control at the specialty. Exercising off-lead at the equestrian center was grounds for expulsion from the show.