Best in Show Read online

  Oh, let’s be honest. I wasn’t sure I liked it at all.

  When I’d originally made arrangements to come to PCA, I’d planned to bring Davey with me as I had in previous years. The difference this time was that in the interim, Davey’s father, Bob, had relocated back to Connecticut. Had moved, in fact, to a house no more than a mile or two from our own.

  Both Bob and Davey were enjoying the opportunity to spend time with one another. To my delight, Bob was turning into the father I’d always hoped he would be. Not that there hadn’t been some missteps along the way—the purchase of a pony in the spring being notable among them. But Willow had since moved on to greener pastures, while Bob was trying his damnedest to live up to the responsibility he hadn’t been sure for years that he wanted.

  It had been Bob’s idea that Davey and Faith stay with him for the week while I came down to Maryland. He’d started by convincing our son of the wisdom of his plan. I’m not saying that bribery was involved, but let me just mention that Bob’s idea of a nutritious dinner runs to chocolate-chip pancakes and French fries. Still, when the two of them approached me as a united front, I’d found it hard to say no.

  Which didn’t mean I had any intention of allowing the two of them to run wild all week long without someone checking in. Up in my room, I sat down on the bed and dialed the phone. I’d thought calling at dinnertime would be a good idea. Still, the phone rang half a dozen times before Davey picked up.

  “Hi, it’s Mom,” I said. “How are you doing?”

  “Great!” Davey yelped.

  There was something in the background. A siren, perhaps? “What’s that noise?”

  “Dad’s smoke alarm. Hold on.”

  My son dropped the phone. I spent the thirty seconds he was gone plotting out how long it would take me, if I left right that minute, to get home to Connecticut.

  “Okay,” said Davey, coming back on the line. He sounded breathless. “Dad wanted me to be sure and tell you that everything’s fine.”

  Like P.T. Barnum, Bob believes there’s a sucker born every minute. Unfortunately for him, I’m not quite that gullible.

  “If everything’s fine, why did the smoke alarm go off?”

  “We were making s’mores.”

  As if that explained everything. I sighed. Prayed for patience. Toyed briefly with the idea of dialing 911.

  “Did your father singe his eyebrows again?”

  “Not yet.” Davey giggled.

  “How about you? Eyebrows intact?”

  “Moo-om!”

  When did my name become a three octave epithet? That’s what I would like to know. Under the circumstances, it was a fair question.

  “Does Dad have a fire extinguisher?”

  “Yup,” Davey confirmed proudly. “He’s using it now. Hey, wait! I want to see! Sorry, Mom, gotta go. Talk to you later. Bye!”

  Just like that, he was gone. The child of my heart, the son I adored, the infant I’d nursed through colic and ear infections. Gone fire fighting, three hundred miles away. Isn’t that what every mother hopes her little boy will do when she takes that first step and relinquishes a modicum of control?

  And I hadn’t even had a chance to ask about Faith. I wondered if I should call back.

  Before I could decide, there was a knock at the door. “Who is it?” I called.

  “Surprise!”

  Like I needed another one. But I recognized that voice and was already smiling when I threw open the door. “Bertie! What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Come to watch the dog show,” said the redhead. “Isn’t that why everyone in this whole freakin’ hotel is here? And I do mean, everyone. I’ve never seen so many Poodles in my life. But what the hell, I’ll deal. I’m on vacation.”

  “Vacation?” I reached out and pulled her inside. She was, I noted, carrying a tall, dark bottle and two wineglasses. “I didn’t think professional handlers got those.”

  “Huh,” said Bertie. I took that as agreement. She plunked the bottle down on the nearest table and gave me a hug.

  Bertie Kennedy had been a friend for several years; as of the previous Christmas, she was now my sister-in-law. So far, her six-month-old marriage to my younger brother, Frank, was progressing splendidly. Frank had matured, seemingly overnight. Falling in love and making the decision to take a wife had rearranged my brother’s priorities and firmed up his sense of responsibility. Speaking as the older sister who’d spent much of her life cleaning up after his scrapes and indiscretions, the metamorphosis was welcome and well overdue.

  As for Bertie, she’d changed too. For years, she’d focused on her career, devoting endless amounts of time and energy to the task of making a name for herself in a difficult profession. By the time she met Frank, Bertie had a sizeable string of dogs to handle and a social life that was in shreds. This for a woman who was knockdown, drop-dead gorgeous. It was enough to make you wonder whether the rest of us even stood a chance.

  When I first met Bertie, she’d flaunted her looks. She was the kind of woman that men stared at openly, the kind that other women envied even as they tried to dismiss her. Little by little, however, Bertie had lost her taste for being the center of attention.

  She still glowed, but the neon sheen was gone and her radiance had dimmed to a fine luster. The hard edges she’d built for defense over the years had softened. She’d finally relaxed, taken a deep breath, and found what she truly wanted in life. And I couldn’t have been happier with the way things had turned out.

  “Don’t tell me you brought wine,” I said.

  “Heaven forbid. In my condition? I don’t think so.”

  Bertie was three and a half months pregnant, though she hadn’t begun to show yet. There wasn’t even a hint of a ripple in her slender outline. She picked up the bottle and squinted at the label.

  “I thought we deserved a toast, so I picked this up. The guy behind the counter at the convenience store promised it was drinkable. It’s some sort of sparkling, alcohol-free . . . crap.” Bertie hooted with laughter and she pried off some foil and unscrewed the cap.

  “What are we drinking to?” I asked, staring at the fizzy pink liquid that came pouring out of the dark green bottle. It looked like something you might bolt down to calm an upset stomach.

  “To vacations, to taking a week off.” Now Bertie was staring, too. “To freedom!”

  “Freedom from indigestion looks more like it.” I picked up my glass and took a sniff. The sparkling wine smelled like liquid sugar. Bubbles teased my nose.

  “Go on,” Bertie prodded. “How bad can it be? At least you’re not in my shoes, throwing up everything you eat just for the hell of it.”

  “Still?” I took a cautious sip. The stuff wasn’t awful. If you’d never outgrown your taste for Kool-Aid.

  “Still.” She chugged down a gulp. “But mostly only in the mornings these days. Hey, for something pink, this isn’t bad.”

  “I think your hormones must be affecting your taste buds.”

  “Whatever.” Bertie poured herself another glass, carried it over and sat down on the bed. Obligingly, Eve moved aside to give her room. “So tell me all about the schedule. This show has more stuff going on than the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. What’s up for tomorrow?”

  “Two things.” I settled in a chair by the window. “There’s an obedience trial—”

  Bertie waved a hand, urging me to move on. The dogs she handled showed in the conformation classes. Though obedience attracted just as many die-hard fanatics, it was a different taste entirely.

  “Plus the PCA Foundation Seminar.”

  “That sounds interesting. Did Peg put the roster together?”

  “Of course. Dr. Arthur Law is doing the main program. He’s some sort of DNA specialist, talking about gene mapping or genetic diversity or something like that.”

  Bertie cocked her head. “You going?”

  “Are you kidding? Aunt Peg would kill me if I didn’t at least put in an appearance. Although
I’m also due to sell raffle tickets over at the arena, and at some point I have to give Eve a bath.”

  Bertie didn’t show Poodles, but she’d handled enough long-haired dogs in her career to know that bathing a Standard Poodle was an arduous and time-consuming process. Just blowing the puppy’s hair dry would take several hours.

  “If you’re looking to be helpful . . .” I said.

  “No way! I’m on vacation, didn’t I mention that?”

  “You did. You just never quite explained how it came about. Who’s taking care of your dogs?”

  A not inconsiderable question. One thing about being a professional handler: you had to love your job because you never got time off. Even on those days when everyone was home with no shows to attend, the string still had to be fed, and exercised, and cleaned up after. Those who didn’t truly enjoy the sport, and the dogs, simply burned out after a couple of years and went off to find regular means of employment. Easier means of employment—like digging ditches or painting bridges.

  “Frank’s in charge of the kennel.” Bertie grinned. “Can you believe it?”

  “Since you asked,” I said truthfully. “No. Whose idea was that?”

  “His, which makes it even more amazing. He volunteered, told me I was looking tired. Asked if I felt like I needed some time off.”

  “I think impending fatherhood has sent my brother around the bend.”

  “Could be, but I wasn’t about to argue. Of course, the problem was that we both couldn’t go away at the same time. Plus Frank’s been pretty busy at the coffeehouse. But then I remembered this was PCA week. I figured I might as well come down and pick up a few pointers. So I hopped in my car and here I am. Frank thought it was a great idea. He’s under the impression that you and Peg are going to keep an eye on me.”

  My brow lifted. Bertie was one of the most self-sufficient women I’d ever met. “Do you need keeping an eye on?”

  “No.” Her hand drifted to her stomach. “But try telling your brother that.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. Actually, I think his concern is rather sweet.”

  “For now. Check back with me in six months and see how I feel.”

  I thought back to my own pregnancy. “By December, you’ll probably want to throttle him and anyone else who looks at you cross-eyed. By the way, are you hungry?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  That was what I’d figured.

  “Let’s go find some dinner,” I said. “On the way, I just need to stop by the grooming room for a minute and check out the facilities, so I’ll know how to set things up for Eve’s bath.”

  “Grooming room? What grooming room?” Bertie waited at the door as I explained the situation to Eve, telling the puppy that she’d have to stay and be quiet, and that I’d be back soon. Several minutes later, we walked out into the hallway together.

  “Here in the hotel. PCA books a conference room for the exhibitors. The club lines the floor with plastic, makes sure the lighting’s good and that there are plenty of outlets. Especially for this show, where everyone wants their Poodle to look perfect, there’s a ton of grooming going on. This way we have a legitimate place to do it.”

  “Great idea,” said Bertie. And how.

  The grooming room was located on the basement level of the hotel, just off a hallway that led outside to the exercise area. Walking past, Bertie gazed out the door at the Poodle-filled field. She wrinkled her nose. “In a day or two, nobody will be able to set foot out there without stepping in something. How many of those people do you suppose are cleaning up after themselves?”

  “Everyone.”

  “Dreamer.”

  “I’m serious. PCA mandates it and, believe me, it happens. Club members take it upon themselves to patrol with pooper-scoopers to clean up after scofflaws. Everybody pitches in. When we leave on Saturday, that field will be spotless.”

  “Really?” Bertie still sounded dubious. That was because she’d just arrived. PCA wasn’t like all the other dog shows she’d been to. It was special, different. Bertie just hadn’t figured that out yet.

  “Really. You’ll see.”

  The wide double doors that led to the grooming room were standing open. As we approached, we could hear the low, humming sound made by dozens of big, free-standing blow-dryers. Layered over that was the animated buzz of conversation. Bertie and I paused in the doorway and took in the scene.

  The room was bright and spacious. Even so, it was mostly full. Rows of portable grooming tables held all three sizes of Poodles in various stages of preparation. Some were being brushed, others clipped or scissored. Still others, fresh from being bathed, were having their long hair blown dry.

  “Yikes,” said Bertie. “I thought I knew lots of dog show people. Hardly anyone here even looks familiar.”

  “That’s because you’re based in the Northeast and PCA draws breeders and exhibitors from all over the country. Lots of these people only come east once or twice a year. Don’t worry, everyone is really friendly. Anyone who loves dogs will fit right in.

  “Look over there,” I said. The Boone sisters were standing beside a table that held a small silver Poodle. Rather than grooming, however, they seemed to be arguing with one another. Par for the course, based on my experience with them earlier. “Those two ladies are Betty Jean and Edith Jean Boone. They’re the cochairs of the raffle committee. I’ll be working for them all week.”

  “Which one is Betty Jean and which one is Edith Jean?” Bertie asked.

  “Good question.”

  I gazed at them and frowned. Since I’d seen them last, one of the sisters had put a white grooming smock on over her clothing. The question was, which one? As I watched, she turned to say something to a person working on a Standard Poodle behind them. Light, from the bright, fluorescent bulb above, glinted off a small gold locket that peeked out from beneath her sweater. That helped.

  “Betty Jean is the one in the smock,” I said confidently. “Edith Jean is closer to us.”

  “If you say so.” Bertie was scrutinizing the Toy puppy on the table. “That’s a cute silver.”

  Dog people. They have no idea what color eyes you have; don’t remember that freckle on your nose. But they can recount in the most minute detail, every attribute of every dog they’ve ever seen. And Bertie was no different than any of the rest of us.

  “Very cute, I’m told. The sisters think he has a shot at Winners.”

  “Who’s handling?” Bertie asked. Professional interest.

  “Roger Carew.” I’d seen his picture earlier that day in the win photos the sisters had shown me. “I’m pretty sure he’s the guy working on the Standard behind them.”

  “Yup, that’s him. We cross paths in Virginia and the Carolinas occasionally. He does a good job with a dog.”

  “I hope so, for their sake. I hear the competition’s going to be pretty stiff.”

  “Are you kidding?” Bertie glanced over. “At a show this size, with everyone who’s here, just getting a ribbon is going to be a big deal.”

  Tell me about it, I thought.

  “There’s another familiar face,” Bertie said. I followed the direction of her gaze. A tall, well-built man was scissoring a brown Mini puppy on one of the grooming tables. The puppy fidgeted as he worked, but unlike some handlers, his touch remained gentle. One hand was propped beneath the Mini’s chin; his fingers stroked the puppy’s muzzle to quiet him. The man’s other hand held a pair of long, curved scissors whose blades flashed open and shut swiftly as he perfected the dog’s trim.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “Dale Atherton. From California.”

  I knew the name; it just took me a moment to remember where I’d heard it. California was the key. Nina Gold, the woman from Marin who’d purchased some raffle tickets, had told me that Dale Atherton was her handler.

  “Not bad,” Bertie said appreciatively.

  Trust me, that was an understatement. Dale Atherton looked damn good. Like a Californi
a surfer boy all grown up, he had the sort of natural good looks that those of us in snowy New England—our information supplied by the likes of Baywatch and the Beach Boys—think all Californians can boast of. His rich brown hair was shot through with golden highlights, his skin tanned to an even bronze. It wasn’t a stretch to picture that body in a bathing suit. Maybe even a Speedo.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said with a sigh. “He’s probably gay, right?” It wasn’t an uninformed guess; many of the Poodle handlers were.

  “Dale? No way. He’s as straight as they come. And from what I hear, there are hordes of happy women willing to testify to that fact.”

  “Hmmm.” I had another look.

  “Hmmm, nothing. When is Sam arriving?”

  “Tomorrow,” I said, grinning. “Late.”

  “Who’s late?” asked Aunt Peg, coming down the hallway. She stopped beside us and stared into the grooming room. Her hands were on her hips; her face wore a frown. “Don’t tell me someone else is missing.”

  “Someone else?”

  As one, Bertie and I turned to see what she was talking about.

  “My genetics expert for tomorrow’s symposium. The esteemed Doctor Arthur Law. He seems to have disappeared.”

  5

  “Disappeared? Aunt Peg, what happened?”

  “I have no idea.” My aunt sounded suitably miffed. “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  “You mean he’s vanished?” asked Bertie.

  “No, I mean he never arrived at all. Unlike you.” Aunt Peg paused in her tirade to stare at her newest relative. “Am I always the last to know everything? Were we expecting you?”

  “No.” Bertie smiled. “It was a spur-of-the-moment trip.”

  “Good for you. Everyone should come to PCA at least once in her lifetime. How’s my nephew?”

  “Working hard.”

  “Best thing for him. After you, that is.”