Hair of the Dog Read online

  Hoping to distract her, I changed the subject. “Sam’s coming over tonight. I’m making lasagna, and after dinner the three of us are going down to listen to music in the park. Would you like to join us?”

  “I can’t,” said Peg. “I’ve got a date.”

  “A date?” I repeated stupidly. Then I remembered. “With Douglas?”

  “Of course with Douglas.” Peg looked very pleased with herself.

  It was time to go pick up Davey. I grinned as I headed to the door on my way out. After all the meddling I’d had to endure from Aunt Peg over my relationship with Sam, it was nice to have the shoe on the other foot for a change. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Aunt Peg glanced pointedly down her nose. “Presumably that leaves me a great deal of latitude.”

  “Not that much,” I warned her.

  Aunt Peg likes to have the last word, and she’s a master at it. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as I opened the door.

  “You will?”

  “The Saddle River dog show. Where else do you expect to begin asking questions?”

  The Saddle River show, of course.

  Just like old times.

  Five

  Before last summer I’d barely even heard of dog shows, much less envisioned myself going to one. But once Aunt Peg got me started, I was hooked. At our first dog show, Davey and I had walked around in awe. The American Kennel Club recognizes one hundred and fifty breeds and varieties of dogs, and at most shows a majority of them are present. The dogs are immaculately groomed and skillfully presented. We didn’t know which direction to look in first.

  By this time I’d like to think that we’re getting to be old hands, but that didn’t stop me from feeling a small tingle of excitement as we drove onto the show ground. The day was warm and sunny, with a slight breeze and just enough humidity to frizz my hair around my shoulders. Perfect weather for showing a dog would have been a bit cooler, but it was certainly perfect for watching.

  The grounds the Saddle River show had chosen were large and well laid out. As we drove to the parking area, I saw at least a dozen rings. They were positioned in two parallel rows, with a big green-and-white-striped tent covering the center expanse. At one end of the rings was another large tent, which the exhibitors used to either groom their dogs or just keep them crated in the shade until it was their turn to be shown.

  I knew from experience that eventually we’d find Aunt Peg in the handlers’ tent. Since we hadn’t brought a dog to show, however, Davey and I had plenty of time to park the car and look around.

  “Look!” cried Davey. “Those are my favorite.”

  I turned and saw that he was pointing at three Great Pyrenees, massive white dogs with broad heads and ample coat. Davey picks a new favorite at each show, and his choices have included everything from Old English Sheepdogs to Border Collies. The two things they all seem to have in common are large size and lots of hair. Luckily, Standard Poodles fill the bill on both counts.

  “I thought Faith was your favorite,” I mentioned.

  “She is. I meant my favorite here.”

  That was my son’s idea of a subtle dig, as he’d voted to bring Faith with us. Aside from the fact that it was going to be hot, however, Aunt Peg had made it perfectly clear that no Standard Poodle of hers needed to be seen in public at the gawky age of fourteen months. Deferring to her better judgment, I’d left Faith snoozing happily at home with a cool bowl of water and a new marrow bone.

  We passed the Great Pyrenees, then paused by the next ring, where sporting dogs were being judged. According to the schedule in the front of my catalogue, Golden Retrievers were about to start. Austin Beamish’s dog, Midas, was entered in the Best of Breed class, and I decided to stick around and have a look.

  The main purpose of the competition at dog shows is to acquire enough points to make a dog a champion. Points are won within each breed, and the classes are divided by sex. The classes that a nonchampion dog can be entered in are: Puppy, Novice, Bred-by-Exhibitor, American-Bred, and Open, with some shows adding a class for entrants between the ages of twelve and eighteen months. Most dogs are eligible for several classes, and owners may take their choice. Males are judged first, followed by the females.

  After the individual classes within each sex have been judged, the class winners are brought back into the ring to contend for Winners Dog and Winners Bitch. Only these two winners are awarded points. The number of points given out at a show varies from breed to breed, and is dependent upon the number of competing dogs that have been defeated.

  The fewest number of points awarded is one, the maximum, five. It takes fifteen points to make a champion, and included in those fifteen must be two “major” wins, that is, wins large enough to produce at least three points.

  Even with a good dog, the process can be long and arduous. I’d shown Faith nearly a dozen times as a puppy. Pretty as she was, we hadn’t acquired any points yet, although she had managed to win Reserve Winners Bitch twice.

  Davey liked the looks of the Goldens and watched the class competition happily. He’s not known for his patience, so I imagined I’d be paying for this goodwill sooner or later. The Open class winner was awarded Winners Dog, and the Open Bitch won her points as well. As the judge marked the results in his book, the steward stepped to the gate and called the champions into the ring.

  There were only three, and in that competition, Austin’s dog stood out immediately. The listing in the catalogue said Champion Glengarron Midas Touch, and the name suited him well. In the sunlight, Midas’s coat shimmered like golden silk. His body was beautifully conditioned and he carried himself with pride. I don’t know much about Golden Retrievers as a breed, but even I could see that this was a really good one.

  The dog was handled in the ring by a pro named Tom Rossi, who clearly had the situation well under control. In no time at all, Midas was awarded the purple and gold ribbon for Best of Breed. I heard a smattering of applause from the other side of the ring and followed it to its source just in time to catch a glimpse of Austin before he turned and walked away.

  Most winners like to hang around and bask in their dogs’ reflected glory, but apparently not Austin. Maybe he had another dog being judged at the same time; or maybe a Best of Breed win, terrific as it seemed to me, wasn’t that big a deal for him. From what Aunt Peg had said at the party, I gathered he set his sights on Best in Show and very often hit the mark.

  All the breeds recognized by the A.K.C are divided into seven groups: Sporting, Hound, Working, Terrier, Toy, Non-Sporting, and Herding. Later in the day, Midas would go on to compete in the Sporting group against all the other BOB winners. If he won there, then it was on to the ultimate pinnacle—competing against the other six group winners for Best in Show. I guess when you aimed that high, Best of Breed might seem like just another stepping-stone along the way.

  Davey and I did some more browsing around the rings, then made our way over to the handlers’ tent. Most casual spectators at a dog show never bother with the grooming area. They figure the action is in the rings. And it is, up to a point. But for every dog that spends ten minutes in the ring being judged, someone has spent an hour under the grooming tent, getting it ready.

  That’s where people have time to talk and visit with one another. They look at puppies, compare equipment, and exchange all the latest gossip. What happens in the rings is important, certainly; but the interaction that goes on under the handlers’ tent is what keeps the sport alive.

  Poodle people bring a lot of stuff to a show. Even Aunt Peg, with only one dog, had a portable grooming table, a big metal crate, and a wooden tack box filled with brushes, combs, scissors, and hair spray. Inevitably she finds someplace interesting to set up, so I wasn’t surprised to find her parked just down the aisle from Crawford Langley.

  What did surprise me was to see Douglas Brannigan backing her station wagon out of the unloading zone beside the tent. At nine-thirty in the morning, no less. I stare
d at Aunt Peg. She gave me a saintly smile. Davey, luckily, was transfixed by a litter of Norwich Terrier puppies in an exercise pen beside the tent and didn’t notice a thing.

  “Good morning, Melanie,” Aunt Peg said cheerfully. “You’re here early.”

  “So is Douglas.”

  “So he is.” Aunt Peg bent down and began unpacking her tack box, pulling out slicker and pin brushes, a wide-tooth comb, and a spray bottle of water. “This is his first dog show. I hope he doesn’t find it too long a day.”

  “I guess that depends.” I hiked myself up and sat on the edge of the grooming table. “Did he get a good night’s sleep last night?”

  “Very,” Peg said smugly. The woman had no shame.

  “I can’t believe it!”

  “What?”

  “You just met.”

  “Oh, pish,” said Peg. “You’re just sorry you wasted so much time with Sam.”

  All right, maybe she was partly right. Sam and I had taken things slowly in the beginning; my choice, not his. But with Davey’s feelings needing to be taken into consideration too, I hadn’t wanted to make any mistakes. Now, in hindsight, it seemed as though I’d worried for nothing. Which didn’t mean I still didn’t find Aunt Peg’s actions to be slightly precipitous.

  “Mom,” Davey interrupted, coming up behind me. “Can I have a puppy?”

  “No.” I didn’t even have to think to answer. Any mother of a five-year-old knows the feeling. “You already have a dog at home.”

  Davey gazed wistfully at the Norwiches. “Two would be nice.”

  “Two would be too much.”

  “Come and give me a hug,” Peg said, and Davey did, his short arms circling her hips.

  “Aunt Peg has lots of dogs,” Davey mentioned. “She doesn’t think they’re too much.”

  I glanced meaningfully toward the parking area. Douglas was making his way toward us across the field. “Apparently Aunt Peg is more liberal than I am.”

  She untangled my son’s arms, lifted him up, and set him down on top of the big metal crate. “Don’t be such a prude, Melanie.”

  “I’m not,” I said, just to set the facts straight.

  “What’s a prude?” asked Davey.

  “It’s someone who doesn’t want anyone else to have any fun,” said Peg.

  “Like someone who won’t let me have a puppy?”

  “Precisely.”

  I looked at the two of them and resisted the temptation to bang their heads together. “I’m going for a walk,” I said.

  “I’m staying with Aunt Peg,” Davey informed me. “She’s not a prude.”

  Knowing Peg, she probably also had a box of cookies stashed in the bottom of her tack box.

  I put Davey’s bag on the crate beside him. It held crayons, a coloring book, and a selection of toy cars, enough to keep him busy for at least ten minutes.

  “You’ll keep an eye on him?” I asked. Considering my son’s penchant for playing hide-and-seek, it wasn’t the easiest job in the world.

  “Of course,” said Peg. “Douglas will help.”

  The man in question arrived at the setup as I was leaving. “What a perfectly lovely morning,” he said, smiling broadly.

  “Indeed,” I muttered, feeling every bit the killjoy that I was.

  It wasn’t that I begrudged Peg her happiness, just that the idea of her in a relationship took some getting used to. Especially a relationship that had gotten that serious that quickly. Or then again, I thought, maybe it hadn’t. Aunt Peg had always considered herself to be rather a free spirit. Maybe they were having casual sex.

  Smiling at the thought, I strolled down the aisle to Crawford’s setup. The first time I’d met the handler he’d reminded me of a show dog—sleek, self-possessed, and very well groomed. I knew he was gay, but Crawford handled that part of his life the same way he handled everything else, with reserve and a great deal of discretion.

  He’d been part of the dog game for longer than I’d been alive, and had connections everywhere. Crawford always seemed to know where the next really good dog was coming from, and why the last one had gone home. Everybody’s secrets were safe with him, and I’m sure it was a continuing source of annoyance that I was always asking him questions he didn’t want to answer.

  Crawford’s setup was large and impressive. In addition to a double row of crates there were five grooming tables, three of them currently holding Standard Poodles. All had been brushed and had their topknots in. Now they awaited the finishing touches of hair spray and scissoring that would be done just before it was time to take them up to the ring.

  In the meantime, Crawford was working on top of a toy-sized crate, putting matching bows in the hair of a tiny, impossibly white Maltese. Another man, whom I hadn’t seen before, had a second Maltese on a table.

  Specialized assistance is beyond my abilities, but with coaching, I’m good at helping out. Several times in the spring, Crawford had found himself shorthanded and I’d been pressed into service. Little by little, I was learning how to make myself useful.

  I walked over to where he was working. “Need any help?”

  “No, I got it.” The Maltese stood like a statue as Crawford finished smoothing the hair into place. “I’ll be heading up to ringside in a minute. What’s new with you?”

  That was his way of warning me that if I’d come to bug him about something, I had to talk fast.

  “Alicia asked me to look into Barry’s murder,” I said.

  “I figured the police would be handling that.”

  “They are. I just told her I’d ask around a little. Care to speculate who might have done it?”

  Crawford’s expression left little doubt as to his feelings about speculation. Finally he said, “Plenty of people had a problem with Barry Turk. That was just the kind of person he was. But someone who was mad enough to pull out a gun and shoot? That’s way beyond anything I’d know about.”

  I was used to Crawford’s evasiveness. Before he’d even finished speaking, I was ready to try another tack. “I heard that maybe the two of you weren’t getting along so well.”

  He sent me a stern look. “What you heard was that Barry lost his specials dog and I ended up with him.”

  “That must have made him angry.”

  “I imagine it might have, but we never talked about it.”

  That surprised me. “You didn’t?”

  “No reason to. Barry never contacted me, and it’s not as if I was about to call him.”

  Crawford picked up a comb and placed it in the pocket of his sports coat. Next he lifted the small white Toy and tucked it carefully under his arm. If I was lucky, there was time for one more question.

  “I heard Barry was saying that Ron still owed him money on a bill. Do you know anything about that?”

  “As much as I needed to.” His gaze narrowed. “Handlers have an unwritten rule. You don’t take on someone else’s dog until all the past accounts are squared away.”

  “Then Barry was lying?”

  Crawford didn’t answer. Instead, he looked past me and said, “Terry, you ready?”

  “All set.” The man working on the other Maltese appeared at my elbow. He looked to be in his late twenties, slender, tan, with crisply styled hair and chiseled features. He offered me an infectious grin and a broad wink.

  I found myself returning the grin before we’d even been introduced.

  “My new assistant, Terry Denunzio,” said Crawford.

  There wasn’t the slightest bit of innuendo in his tone. It didn’t matter. Looking at Terry, there didn’t have to be.

  “Lucky you,” I said.

  Crawford frowned slightly, but Terry only laughed. “You got it, hon.”

  It looked to me like Crawford wasn’t going to be needing my help anymore. As the two of them headed over to the Maltese ring, I went back to check on Davey.

  “I see you met Terry,” said Peg.

  I nodded, looking past her to where Douglas and Davey were reading the
show catalogue together. Amazingly, they both looked content. A small miracle, and one I wasn’t about to question.

  “Have he and Crawford been together long?”

  “About a month.” Peg was beaming. Deep down, she has the soul of a matchmaker. “See what happens when you don’t go to shows? You miss things. My first impression of Terry was that he was a little young, but he certainly seems to mean well. He may turn out to be the best thing that could have happened to Crawford.”

  “Good,” I said. “Crawford deserves it.”

  I caught the look Aunt Peg sent me, and smiled ruefully. “And so do you.”

  “You see?” said Peg. “I knew you weren’t as backward as you look.”

  On that cheery note, I was sent off in search of doughnuts. It seemed that Douglas had fixed a nutritious breakfast that morning, which hadn’t included any of the sweets Peg considers to be the staples of her diet. Then in the rush to pack up and get to the show on time, she’d neglected to bring any along. By now she was well into sugar withdrawal.

  The concession booths and food stands were strung out in a long row that started at the far end of the handlers’ tent and looped around the field. Halfway there, I came upon a compact setup manned by a tall, stunning redhead: Alberta Kennedy, casually known as Bertie. Bertie was relatively new to professional handling. At a typical dog show she spent more time hustling for clients than she did in the ring. Hardworking and ambitious, she was determined to work her way to the top. Her handling skills were merely competent, but what she lacked in technique, she more than made up for in presence. It was a rare male judge who didn’t immediately notice when Bertie walked into his ring.

  Today she was wearing a turquoise silk dress that draped and clung in all the right places. Her long hair was cut in layers that curled around her face and her fingernails were painted pink. A quick scan of the crates in her setup revealed she’d brought eight dogs to the show. Not a bad-size string for someone who was just starting out.

  I paused beside a grooming table, where she was busy scissoring a Bichon Frise into a perfectly sculpted puff of white hair. Bertie looked up and nodded but kept on working.