Game of Dog Bones Read online

  “Except that everybody’s opinion is that you were wrong,” Sam replied.

  “Not Terry’s,” I defended myself.

  “Is that so?” Aunt Peg spun around in her seat. “The plot thickens. Perhaps you should tell Terry to intercede for you.”

  “He already tried that,” I said unhappily. “It didn’t work. Do you mind if we change the subject?”

  “I don’t mind,” said Sam. “Here’s something else we can talk about. From the sound of it, Victor’s specialty turned out to be interesting, to say the least. Why don’t you fill Peg in?”

  “No names! Not even one!” Aunt Peg bellowed before I could say a word. “Until I’ve done my part tomorrow night, I refuse to hear any specific details. Don’t tell me who won or lost. Just give me your general impressions.”

  She paused for a wicked grin. “Tell me Victor fell flat on his face. That would make my day.”

  “Consider it made,” I said. “Because he came close.”

  “Oh?” Now she was intrigued. “I take back what I said a minute ago. Maybe I could hear just a few details. What went wrong?”

  “Mrs. Bixby, for one thing. I didn’t see Toys, but she judged Standards and Minis like a woman who was feeling her way through her first Poodle assignment with great difficulty.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Louise has been judging Poodles for years.”

  “You certainly couldn’t tell that from today’s results. Plus, she and Victor had a disagreement about something inside the show ring.”

  “While she was judging?” Aunt Peg was horrified by the thought.

  “In the break between Minis and Toys.”

  “Even so, that’s not right,” she muttered. “I’ve known Louise for a long time. Of course, I can’t say anything to her now. But perhaps after Westminster she and I will have a little chat.”

  “She’s the one who accepted the judging assignment from Victor,” Sam pointed out. “Remind her that if you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.”

  “I just might be tempted to do that,” Aunt Peg said darkly.

  Chapter 6

  Sam and I live in Stamford, a coastal city in lower Fairfield County, Connecticut. Traffic was light on Sunday afternoon, so the drive from Manhattan took less than an hour. We stopped along the way to drop off Aunt Peg at her home in Greenwich.

  Much of Stamford is a thriving metropolis, but our house is located well north of downtown. Our residential neighborhood sometimes feels like a throwback to earlier times. It’s quiet enough that kids can ride their bikes in the streets and play outside without supervision. Neighbors all know each other, and we look out for one another. So I hadn’t been worried about leaving Davey and Kevin on their own while we were gone.

  The boys were in the living room when we arrived home. Sam and I had been away for more than half the day, so I thought Kev and Davey would be delighted to see us. When we walked in the door, however, neither glanced away from the video game that was playing on the TV.

  Instead, the most effusive greeting we received came from our five Standard Poodles. Sam’s and my blended canine crew consisted of my mother and daughter duo, Faith and Eve; Sam’s older bitch, Raven; and his Best in Show winner and occasional stud dog, Tar. Davey’s Standard dog, Augie, had been a more recent addition to the group.

  All our Standards were black, and all were retired show champions. We kept them in the easy-to-care-for sporting trim. Their faces, their feet, and the bases of their tails were clipped. A short blanket of dense curls covered the remainder of their bodies.

  With some breeds it might be hard to live with that many dogs in one house. But these were Poodles. The breed is smart, entertaining, and charismatic. They also have a sense of humor, so they do best with an owner who knows how to take a joke. Poodles fit into any kind of lifestyle and they make the perfect canine companions. Most days our house didn’t feel crowded at all.

  Our dogs might have looked similar in their matching trims, but each had a different personality. Faith was just a puppy when she’d been a gift to me from Aunt Peg. We’d immediately formed a tight bond that had only grown closer through the years. Faith could read my thoughts and emotions, just as I’d always been able to understand hers. She was almost nine now, and I hoped she would live forever.

  Faith’s daughter, Eve, was a free spirit. She took life as it came and was always happy. Sam’s bitch, Raven, was the oldest of our group. Her mind was still sharp, but these days she was more likely to watch rather than join in when the other dogs ran and played.

  The two males, Tar and Augie, were a boisterous pair. Tar was wonderfully sweet. He was also the only dumb Standard Poodle I’d ever met. His antics were as amusing to us as they were confusing to him. Augie was the youngster of the pack. Davey had handled the big Poodle to his championship almost entirely by himself, and the two of them made a solid team.

  Bud was the honorary member of our Poodle pack. Davey and I had brought the small mutt home with us after he’d been dumped by the side of the road. Once here, he was ours forever. Bud was the Artful Dodger of dogs: clever, sneaky, and the worst sort of influence on the Poodles. We all adored him anyway.

  Sam and I maneuvered around the Poodles as we took off our coats and gloves. The dogs milled around our legs, each one vying for attention. I patted as many heads as I could reach. We greeted all of them by name.

  When the initial furor subsided, I crouched down and wrapped my arms around Faith’s neck. Her tongue slipped out and licked my ear. “I know,” I whispered, pulling her close. “I missed you too.”

  Then I blinked and took another look around the hallway. “Where’s Bud?” With all the commotion, I hadn’t noticed that the little dog was missing.

  “Upstairs,” Kevin said from the depths of the couch. He had his father’s blond hair and blue eyes. And just like Sam, he was a charmer.

  “By himself?” I asked.

  Kev nodded.

  That was unexpected. “How come?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Maybe someone would like to find out?” I suggested, looking pointedly at my two sons.

  “I’m on it.” Davey set down his joystick and hopped up from the couch.

  He was my son from my first marriage. Eight years old when Sam and I got married, Davey counted himself lucky to have two dads. He adored Kevin and took his role as older brother very seriously.

  Davey had shot up four inches in height over the past six months. Now he sounded like an elephant going up the stairs. “Nothing too bad going on up here,” he called down after a minute.

  “Define not too bad,” said Sam.

  “Bud’s asleep.”

  “Maybe we got lucky,” I said.

  Sam was more skeptical. “Where?”

  Davey came clattering back down the steps. Bud was following him. “You know that basket of clean laundry Mom didn’t get around to putting away? Bud made himself a nest in there.”

  All eyes turned to look at me.

  “I was in a hurry this morning,” I mentioned. “How come no one else helped out and put the laundry away?”

  “That’s your job,” Kevin told me. Once Davey left, he’d given up on the game.

  “Be careful there.” Sam grinned. “You’re skating on thin ice.”

  “I like skating.” Kev missed the point entirely. “Can we go skating tomorrow?”

  “Three of us have school tomorrow,” I told him. “Then we’re all going back to the dog show.”

  Kevin’s eyes opened wide. “In New York City?”

  “It’s Westminster.” Davey perched on the arm of the couch. “Aunt Peg is judging tomorrow night. We’re all going to watch. And it’s going to be on television.”

  Kev’s mouth dropped open. “I’m going to be on TV?”

  “Sorry.” I reached down and ruffled his hair. “Not us, just Aunt Peg. But it will be exciting to see the dog show in person, won’t it?”

  Kev nodded. He was easy.

  I
turned toward the kitchen. “I’m going to start cooking. Who’s ready for dinner?”

  I’d expected a chorus of assent. Instead there was only silence.

  “Kevin and I got hungry earlier,” Davey said after a moment. “So I cooked us a couple of hot dogs.”

  Sam chuckled. “Hopefully not the same hot dogs you used on the snowman?”

  That comment was greeted with more silence. I guessed that meant we had our answer.

  “There was peanut butter and jelly in the pantry,” I said. “Along with soup and tuna fish. Not to mention a bowl of hard-boiled eggs in the refrigerator. You didn’t notice any of those things?”

  “Nope.” Davey shrugged. Kevin followed suit. And that settled that.

  * * *

  Monday morning was chaotic. That was nothing new. Every morning is a whirlwind at my house.

  First person up—usually me—put the dogs out in the fenced backyard, then fed them when they were ready to come in. By the time I had the kids’ breakfast mostly made, Sam was dressed and downstairs. He took over in the kitchen while I ran up and checked on the kids. With luck, Kevin would be putting on the outfit I’d laid out for him the night before—and not something completely different and totally inappropriate.

  Then I ran to take a shower and get dressed. If all went according to plan, the four of us ended up in the kitchen at approximately the same time. There we would sit down together to share a delicious and nutritious breakfast, before heading out to start our days.

  What a pipe dream. If that actually happened even once a week, it felt like a miracle.

  Just after eight o’clock, Davey’s bus picked him up at the end of the driveway and took him to his North Stamford high school. Kevin was in preschool five mornings a week at Graceland Nursery School. My younger son and I shared virtually the same schedule. Weekdays, I worked from eight-thirty to one p.m. as a special needs tutor at a private school in Greenwich.

  Howard Academy had been founded early in the previous century by robber baron Joshua Howard, who’d sought atonement for his sins by devoting some of his ill-gotten gains to the cause of education. The school was housed in his former mansion, situated high on a hill overlooking the town of Greenwich. Despite Howard Academy’s ritzy location and history, Headmaster Russell Hanover II was determined that its current principles be in tune with the times. The school’s student body now comprised equal parts children of privilege and scholarship students, all afforded a top-notch education meant to mold them into the leaders of the future.

  I loved my job at Howard Academy. I especially loved that I could take Faith to school with me. The big black Poodle was a warm and comforting presence in my classroom. She was particularly adept at providing emotional support for students who were struggling with the curriculum. To my delight, Faith was now regarded as the unofficial school mascot.

  This particular Monday, however, I couldn’t wait for the school day to end. While I’d been sitting in my classroom, the breeds in the Westminster Hound, Toy, Non-Sporting, and Herding Groups were being judged on two West Side piers in Manhattan.

  In previous years, Aunt Peg, Sam, and I had sat ringside for each day’s judging. This year, I had to be content with sneaking peeks at the classes that were live streaming on the Westminster Web site. It was a paltry substitute for being there in person and watching it all happen live.

  By one o’clock, Faith and I were out the door. We stopped to pick up Kevin at preschool, then drove straight home.

  Aunt Peg had the remainder of my afternoon organized to the minute. Indeed, Hannibal had marched elephants across the Alps with less advance planning than Aunt Peg had devoted to mapping out her Westminster campaign. I’d already been warned that no tardiness would be tolerated.

  The four Westminster group judges performing that night had to be at Madison Square Garden no later than six-thirty. Between now and then, Aunt Peg and I would be driving into the city and checking into the hotel where she’d booked a room for the night. This afternoon she had appointments to have her hair styled and her make-up professionally applied. Then there might be time to grab a small bite to eat before she changed into her gown. After that she and I would make our way to the Garden together.

  Once at the Garden, Aunt Peg and the other judges would have a chance to freshen up, before each was scheduled to do a taped preinterview. After that, they’d be shown to their seats. The telecast would start promptly at eight p.m. Judging would begin shortly thereafter with the Hound Group. Aunt Peg’s Non-Sporting Group was third in the lineup.

  Sam, meanwhile, would be holding down the fort at home. He and the boys would be driving into the city this evening. Sam had secured the four of us near-floor-level seats from which to view the proceedings. At the end of the night, he and the boys and I would drive home together. Aunt Peg would be staying over in New York. Having concluded her part in the event, she would be free to attend the rest of the show on Tuesday.

  It was a plan with a lot of moving parts, but with any luck, it would all proceed like clockwork. One could only hope.

  I met Aunt Peg at her house. She and I loaded up her minivan in the driveway. We handled the long hanging bag containing her evening gown with extra care. She kissed each of her Standard Poodles on the nose, while I bid good-bye to the pet sitter. Minutes later, we were speeding down the Merritt Parkway toward the city.

  Aunt Peg drove like a woman whose tailpipe was on fire. I’d checked the clasp on my seat belt twice before we even crossed the state line into New York. Aunt Peg pretended not to notice. Which wasn’t to say that she kept her eyes glued to the road. Instead she kept fiddling with the radio.

  That was new. Perhaps she wasn’t as complacent about the evening’s events as she’d led us to believe.

  “Tell me about yesterday’s meeting with the network liaisons,” I said. Maybe that was the source of her anxiety. “Did they have lots of tips for you and your fellow judges?”

  “Tips?” Aunt Peg stared at me across the front of the minivan. “More like commandments. Those people put the fear of God into us. Clearly they aren’t dog people. They weren’t interested in the quality of the dogs we’ll be judging, nor in the amount of time it might take to adequately assess them. On the contrary, they made it abundantly clear that the only thing that matters to them is their broadcast. They want it to be lively, interesting, and above all on time.”

  “You can manage that,” I said.

  “That’s what I thought,” she grumbled. “Until they started talking about attaching buzzers to our clothing so they could let us know when we were moving too slowly.”

  I bubbled out a laugh. “You mean like a shock collar?”

  “I suppose. I didn’t delve into the particulars. Apparently it’s difficult to find a place to hide the device on a woman’s dress, so only the male judges will be subjected to that indignity.”

  “Lucky you.” I was still laughing.

  “I’m also meant to keep my eye on a pair of flashing lights,” she added. “Silly me. I thought my eyes were meant to be on the dogs in the ring during the limited time that’s been allotted to me. A green light means keep going. When the light turns red, the broadcast is taking a break for commercials. I must quickly stop what I’m doing and go sit down.”

  Considering that I would merely be watching from the sidelines, I was finding all this rather amusing. “Is that all?”

  “One would hope, but not quite,” Aunt Peg replied. “We were also told that there will be cameras everywhere, even where we might not expect them. We are to ignore them and go about our business as if they aren’t there.”

  “Try telling that to the dogs,” I said. “Every year some of them get spooked by the cameras and lights. Not to mention the magnitude of the setting.”

  Aunt Peg nodded. “I may share that feeling myself, depending on how the night progresses. We will be wearing microphones when we’re judging, so we must be aware of everything we say—or don’t say. And when we talk, we mus
t speak clearly. And concisely.”

  She paused, and issued an audible sigh. “Before I went to that meeting, I was mostly concerned about not tripping over the hem of my long dress. Now I have a whole new host of potential problems to consider.”

  Aunt Peg’s sartorial style was devoted mainly to casual clothes. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her in formal attire. I was lucky. Since I was only a spectator, I had on a wool turtleneck dress and leather knee-high boots, topped by a warm, camel hair coat. I could run around the city in the outfit all day and still be comfortable in it tonight.

  “You’ll be fine,” I said.

  “Of course I’ll be fine,” Aunt Peg snapped. “Once this is all over, everything will be just dandy.”

  “Don’t forget to breathe.”

  She harrumphed under her breath.

  “And to enjoy yourself. This assignment isn’t just an honor. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  She slanted me another look. “Are you implying that I’m so old I may be in my doddering retirement before the Westminster club gets around to inviting me again?”

  “You most certainly will be if you ignore a red light, or knock over a camera, or trip over your dress.”

  Aunt Peg straightened in her seat. Her shoulders stiffened with resolve. “None of that is going to happen. Not on my watch.”

  I smiled and folded my hands demurely in my lap. That was just the response I’d hoped to hear. Things were back to normal now.

  Not on her watch indeed.

  Chapter 7

  Aunt Peg left her minivan with the valet in front of the hotel. As we crossed the sidewalk to the entrance, I could see Madison Square Garden. It was only a block away. She’d chosen this hotel for its location. We wouldn’t have to travel far to get to the show this evening.

  Aunt Peg barely had time to unpack her small suitcase before it was time to head out for her first appointment. She’d gotten recommendations from friends who’d previously judged Westminster, so the professionals at the salon where she was booked knew exactly what she needed.