Game of Dog Bones Page 6

  “Don’t you dare cut my hair,” Aunt Peg told the stylist. She was perched on the edge of a plush salon chair.

  “No, of course not.” His name was Ricardo and his hands fluttered in the air as he settled a pale pink cape over her clothing. “Not unless you want me to. But first you must sit back and relax. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  By the time Aunt Peg and Ricardo had shared a pot of Earl Grey, they were good buddies. Aunt Peg’s gray hair was shoulder length. She usually wore it in a low bun or a ponytail. But Ricardo swept her locks up into a sleek chignon that would be just right for tonight’s formal occasion.

  When he was finished, he handed her a small mirror and slowly spun the chair around so Aunt Peg could see the effect from the back. “It looks wonderful, yes?”

  Reflexively, Aunt Peg lifted a hand toward her head. Ricardo quickly batted it away. “No touching now! Your hair has to stay perfect until midnight. That means you must coddle it.”

  “Think of yourself as a Poodle that’s ready for the show ring,” I told her. I couldn’t count the number of times we’d had to restrain spectators from touching our perfectly coiffed entries.

  Aunt Peg smiled at that. “It looks perfect, Ricardo. Thank you.”

  He clasped his hands in front of his chest and gave her a small bow. “It is my pleasure. Now Elise will take over and see to the next step in your transformation. When she is finished, you will look like a princess who is ready to go to the ball.”

  “A dowager queen, perhaps,” Aunt Peg muttered, but she looked pleased nonetheless.

  Ricardo’s every move had possessed theatrical flair. Elise, the make-up artist, was calmly professional. The tools of her trade were lined up along a counter beneath a lighted three-way mirror. She studied Aunt Peg’s face briefly in the strong light, then showed her to a straight-backed chair

  “Don’t make me look like a clown,” Aunt Peg instructed.

  “Certainly not,” Elise agreed. “That wouldn’t do either of our reputations any good. Now don’t frown. Think happy thoughts.”

  Right away, I liked this woman. “Think Poodles,” I said. It had worked earlier, and it worked again now.

  Aunt Peg’s face relaxed. Elise winked at me over Aunt Peg’s shoulder and went to work. Her craft was fascinating to watch.

  Half an hour later, Elise laid down her brushes. She stepped back out of the way so Aunt Peg could admire herself in the mirror. Aunt Peg stared at her reflection. Then she blinked and looked again.

  “I think she likes what you’ve done,” I said in a stage whisper.

  Elise beamed with satisfaction. “It’s not too much,” she told Aunt Peg. “I’ve just enhanced your natural beauty, then taken things up a notch so you won’t look washed out on TV. And don’t forget that in an arena that size you will mostly be seen from a distance. For the purposes of making an impression, you should think of the show ring as your stage.”

  “I like that idea,” Aunt Peg replied. “I like it quite a lot. I must say you’ve done a masterful job with your cosmetics. I can hardly believe that a little make-up could make such a difference.”

  “You see?” Ricardo appeared. He clapped his hands in a quick staccato beat. “Just as I said, you look like a princess!”

  Aunt Peg thanked them both profusely and added a sizeable tip to her bill. She and I took a cab back to the hotel. It grew dark early in February. The buildings and streets of Manhattan were already lit up around us. If I gazed out the window through half-closed eyes, it looked like a magical wonderland.

  We got back to Aunt Peg’s hotel room with an hour to spare before she needed to be at the Garden. I sent downstairs for some food. I had missed lunch, so when it came, I was ready to dig in. Aunt Peg, usually a hearty eater, only nibbled at her meal.

  “Butterflies?” I lifted a brow.

  “Now it’s beginning to seem real,” she said, pushing her plate away. Then she smiled happily. “Finally. I can’t wait.”

  When we’d arrived, I’d removed the long gown from its protective wrapping and hung it up in the closet. Now Aunt Peg took it out. Before putting the gown on, she stood before the full-length mirror and held it up in front of herself.

  The dress was a shimmering shade of midnight blue. It had a beaded lace bodice with a boat neck and three-quarter-length sleeves. The skirt fell to the floor and was loose enough so Aunt Peg would be able to move freely. When she walked, it would ripple around her legs in soft pleats.

  “That will do,” I said.

  “I should hope so,” Aunt Peg retorted. “Helen Mirren wore a dress just like it recently. It looked fabulous on her.”

  “It will look fabulous on you too. The non-sporting dogs will be lucky if anyone even notices them.”

  “Oh pish,” said Aunt Peg. “Now you’re just being silly.”

  A few minutes after six o’clock, we were on our way. When we exited the hotel, the doorman started to wave a cab forward, but Aunt Peg shook her head.

  “You’re sure?” I said. “Even in that dress?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she told me firmly. “It’s barely more than a block. A nice walk will be just what I need to settle my nerves. Let’s be on our way, shall we?”

  In Stamford, the streets near my house would have been quiet at this hour. Here, in the city that never sleeps, there were still plenty of people strolling along Seventh Avenue. Aunt Peg had topped her evening gown with a three-quarter-length faux fur to keep out the cold. No one gave her a second glance as she marched along the sidewalk with such a determined stride that I virtually had to trot to keep up.

  Briefly I stopped to stare up at a giant billboard. When I looked around again, Aunt Peg was suddenly twenty feet in front of me. If not for her height, and that silver-tipped fur, I might have lost her in the crowd. I assumed she would still be moving, so I was surprised at how easy it was to close the distance between us. When I drew near, however, I realized it was because Aunt Peg had come to an abrupt halt.

  And she wasn’t alone.

  A man, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat, had grasped her upper arm in his hand. I saw her try to shrug him off. The man held firm, refusing to release his hold.

  I didn’t like the looks of that at all.

  Three quick strides later, I was close enough to hear what they were saying. Aunt Peg noticed my approach, and shook her head slightly. She seemed to be indicating that she had the situation well in hand. I stopped and hung back. I hoped that was what she’d meant.

  “Just one drink,” Victor Durbin was saying. “A quickie. A celebratory cocktail before you go inside to join the exalted ranks of Westminster group judges.”

  “Unhand me, Victor.” Aunt Peg’s voice was firm. It was the same tone she might have used to chastise a misbehaving puppy. “Even if I wanted to have a drink with you—which I do not—I don’t have time. I’m due inside the Garden shortly.”

  “The show doesn’t start for another hour and a half. They’ll wait for you,” Victor wheedled. “Everybody always dances to your tune. Come with me. Let me apologize for ruining your seminar.”

  Aunt Peg reared back. When Victor still didn’t let go, that caused him to step toward her. The two of them looked as though they were engaged in an odd dance. A steady stream of pedestrians eddied around them. Nobody paid any attention to the pair but me.

  “Your specialty didn’t ruin my seminar,” Aunt Peg corrected him. “We had a sellout crowd. Listen to me, Victor. I have neither the time nor the inclination to accompany you anywhere, much less to a bar.”

  He gave her arm a small yank. Aunt Peg held her ground. I wasn’t about to let Victor continue to manhandle her. Despite Aunt Peg’s wishes, I stepped closer anyway.

  “Get hold of yourself, Victor,” she snapped. “If you persist in this unbecoming behavior, you will force me to do something you will regret.”

  “Like what?” he sneered. “Scream? I wouldn’t have figured you for a woman who liked to make a scene.”

 
Aunt Peg was less likely to scream than she was to punch Victor in the nose, I thought. Or perhaps to raise her knee and apply it to the portion of his anatomy where it would do the most good.

  I decided to make my presence known before she could opt to exercise either option. “Hello, Victor,” I said. “What a surprise running into you here. Aunt Peg and I need to be moving along. I’m sure you understand.”

  Victor squinted at me in the half-light. Then recognition dawned. “Melanie.” He smirked. “Peg’s little sidekick. I should have known you’d be around here somewhere.”

  Little sidekick. Ouch.

  Victor’s hand was still wrapped around Aunt Peg’s faux fur–covered arm. Like he thought it had a right to be there. Like hell. I reached up and grabbed his pinkie finger. He was too startled to protest when I lifted it and bent it backward over the knuckle.

  The move immediately produced the desired effect. Victor not only released his grip, he yanked his hand away and jumped back several steps. Cradling his finger in the opposite hand, he began to swear vociferously.

  “Perhaps I should have warned you,” Aunt Peg said mildly. “I’m a woman of moderate disposition myself, but you wouldn’t want to cross my little sidekick. She’s been known to have a temper.”

  Victor whipped around. I was sure he’d have a scathing retort ready. But the sudden move caused something to fly out of the pocket of his topcoat. A small, clear packet went fluttering toward the pavement.

  I went to catch it, but Victor moved faster. He swooped down and snatched the little bag before I could see what it contained. Quickly he shoved it out of sight. Without another word, Victor spun away and took off. Within seconds he’d disappeared into the crowd.

  “Well, that was unexpected.” Aunt Peg stared after him thoughtfully. “What do you make of it? Do you suppose Victor actually wanted to make amends?”

  “I doubt it,” I replied. “More likely he wanted to cause trouble. Maybe he intended to make you late for your judging assignment. What do you suppose was in that little packet he was carrying?”

  “What packet?” she asked. My mention of the time made us both start walking again. We’d almost reached the Seventh Avenue entrance.

  “It fell out of his pocket when he was hopping around. You didn’t see it?”

  “No.” Aunt Peg frowned. “Not a thing.” She stopped on the sidewalk and looked down at me. “I could have handled him by myself, you know.”

  “Of course you could have,” I agreed.

  “But I enjoyed watching you do what you did.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “I enjoyed doing it.”

  “You don’t suppose you broke his finger, do you?”

  “I don’t think so. I didn’t feel anything snap.”

  “More’s the pity,” she said.

  * * *

  Once inside the big building, Aunt Peg and I rode the escalators to the exhibition floor together before going our separate ways. She was meeting the other judges in the coat room, where they would get ready to join up with the network liaison. I was heading to the Expo Center, where Monday’s breed and variety winners would be at their benches.

  Westminster is one of very few benched dog shows remaining in the United States. At one time they were the norm. Now they are a rarity.

  The benches—where the dogs were kept when they weren’t being shown—looked like small, raised stalls that were open in the front. Canine entrants were required to be on-site and available for viewing for as long as the show was in progress. At Westminster, both benching and grooming were in the same place. I knew that was where I would find Crawford and Terry.

  Aunt Peg had been required to isolate herself, remaining unaware of the breed results until she saw the winners in her ring this evening. I’d faced no such restrictions. Earlier, I’d watched online as Crawford’s apricot Mini, Topper, had won the Miniature Best of Variety. He’d also picked up a breed win with his Havanese, who would be competing in the Toy Group. Both dogs would be here at the Garden now, being prepped for their performances.

  Those wins gave Crawford and Terry two reasons to celebrate. I hoped that meant I would find the handler in a good mood.

  It was still early—the judging wouldn’t begin for another hour. So the backstage area was thronged with spectators who’d come to see and enjoy the canine spectacle. TV cameras and commentators were everywhere too. I knew where I wanted to go. Even so, it took me a while just to make my way through the heavy crowds.

  The first thing I noticed as I approached Crawford’s two side-by-side benches was that Terry’s hair was still purple. At least the neon shade made him easy to find among the sea of dogs and handlers. I decided that the color was growing on me.

  The Toy Group would be judged second. Crawford’s Havanese was out on a grooming table, while Topper was still resting in his crate. With time to spare, Terry was thumbing through the thick, glossy Westminster catalog. Crawford stood nearby looking very dapper in a crisp white shirt, black pants, and patent leather shoes. His jacket and a blue Hermes tie were inside a garment bag that was hanging from the side of their bench.

  “Congratulations on both your wins,” I said. “Well done! I knew Topper would make it into the group.”

  Crawford looked up. He lifted a bushy brow. Even with all his accomplishments—including triumphing in six previous Westminster groups over the years—he never took a single win for granted. “Then you must have known something I didn’t.”

  “I knew he would be a very deserving winner,” I told him honestly. “And I hoped the variety judge would think as highly of Topper as I do.”

  “How about this for a nice surprise?” Terry gestured toward the cream-colored Havanese. “He’s Crawford’s class dog. He had to beat five specials to get here.”

  “And he finished his championship in the process,” Crawford added with a small smile.

  “I hope you do well tonight with both of them.” It was nice to see the handler looking happy. “What do you think, Crawford? Maybe Terry’s hair color brought you luck?”

  I heard a loud snort from behind me. Of course it came from Terry.

  “What?” I turned and asked innocently. “He doesn’t like purple?”

  Crawford was very conservative in his views. So I could guess the answer to that. But right now, I was just grateful that he was talking to me.

  “It’s his head,” Crawford said gruffly. “He can do whatever he wants with it.”

  “We love it,” a woman called over from the next setup. She and her husband were grooming a Silky Terrier. “Way to rock the Westminster vibe, Terry. But if you want to get it perfect, you need to add some blond highlights.”

  They had a point. The Westminster Club colors were purple and gold.

  “A pair of gold earrings would do the trick,” I said.

  Crawford rolled his eyes, but he looked amused. “Stop it, all of you. Don’t encourage him.”

  “I don’t need encouragement to be fabulous,” Terry said with a sniff. He twirled in a small circle for our approval. “I was born that way.”

  “Yes, you were,” Crawford agreed fondly. “Now if only I could get you to rein it in occasionally.”

  “Who, moi?”

  We all laughed together. Competitors at the surrounding setups joined in. Westminster was important. A win here really mattered. There’d been plenty of tension in the air as exhibitors readied their dogs for the ring. But now, just for a moment, the mood lightened.

  Then everyone took a deep breath and got back to work. It was almost showtime.

  Chapter 8

  Crawford took his garment bag and went to the men’s room to finish getting dressed. I remained at the setup, watching Terry put the finishing touches on the Havanese. While he did that, Terry brought me up to date on the gossip he’d picked up at the piers.

  “Rumor has it that yesterday’s specialty will be Victor Durbin’s last hurrah,” he said.

  I stared at him in surprise. “Why? Wh
at happened? Aside from some questionable judging—which, let’s face it, isn’t entirely unusual—the show looked like a success. Certainly it drew a big entry.”

  Terry leaned closer. He dropped his voice. Numerous TV cameras were filming in the large hall. Clearly he didn’t want to be overheard. “I heard Victor is going to be stepping down as president of the Empire Poodle Club.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  “He can’t,” I protested. “It’s his club. He built it from scratch. He practically handpicked the members.”

  Terry smirked. “By which you mean he personally plundered every other Poodle club in the region until he’d dredged up enough unhappy people who could be enticed away to join his start-up.”

  “Yes, something like that. I can’t imagine who would want to belong to a club made up of a bunch of malcontents. There’s already enough politics and infighting to deal with in these clubs without adding that to the mix.”

  Terry had a hand beneath the Havanese’s chin and a comb clutched between his lips. He settled for nodding in agreement.

  “Did I ever tell you that Aunt Peg thinks Victor chose the name for his club to declare his own aspirations?”

  Terry nearly spat out the comb when he laughed. “That’s funny. And maybe slightly unfair. After all, the Empire Poodle Club is based in New York, whose nickname is the Empire State.”

  “Or it could refer to Victor’s delusions of grandeur,” I pointed out. “He’s a man who’s always wanted to be in charge. Now that he’s finally there, I can’t imagine him choosing to give that up. Empire isn’t a very big club, is it? It would probably fall apart without him at the helm.”

  “Even so,” Terry said, “I heard it’s happening.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know.” He glanced up at me and waggled his eyebrows. “Yet.”

  “There’s actually something you don’t know?” I teased. “I had no idea. You must be losing your touch.”

  Gossip was Terry’s stock in trade. He always had the juiciest tidbits of information to share. And sometimes to barter. Terry was vastly entertaining, but nobody’s secrets were safe when he was around.