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  “All right, a duchess then.” Bertie clung to her metaphor. Just on the basis of her arguing skills, I could tell she was going to be a great mother. “You didn’t have to start at the bottom, like most people do.”

  “I’m pretty sure I resent that,” I said, thinking about it. “I had to pay my dues. It took me more than two years to finish Faith’s championship. That’s a long time.”

  Bertie was shaking her head. “It’s all relative. Most people don’t finish their first show dog at all. Either because they lack the handling skills, or because they’re too new to the sport to be able to figure out who the good judges are. Or because some breeder saw that they were novices and sold them a puppy that wasn’t show quality in the first place. Having Margaret Turnbull on your team gave you a leg up on the whole process.”

  Put that way, she was probably right. Breeding and showing dogs wasn’t a sport for those who lack perseverance or determination. Especially Poodles.

  “So now it’s your turn to give something back,” Bertie said.

  I put down my fork and braced myself.

  Really, what else could I do? Bertie was my favorite sister-in-law. Well, my only sister-in-law actually; but I was sure that if I’d had more than one, she would still have been my favorite. Whatever she wanted, I knew I’d help if I could.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Teach me to trim a Poodle.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “Why? You don’t think I could do it?”

  “You’ll be fine. I’m the one who couldn’t do it. I don’t know enough.”

  “Sure you do. You finished Faith. And you’ve got points on Eve from the puppy class. So how bad can your trims be?”

  “As you just so eloquently pointed out, they’re not my trims, they’re Aunt Peg’s. In the beginning I was barely allowed to touch a pair of scissors to my own dogs.”

  “And now?” Bertie prompted.

  “Now she considers me almost competent,” I grumbled.

  “See? You’re halfway there.”

  “Which is why I shouldn’t be dragging you down with me. You need to learn from the best.”

  “The best don’t have time to teach me.” Bertie held up a hand to stop me from interrupting. “I know, you don’t either. But that’s the beauty of this plan. I’m a member of the family. It’s not like you can get rid of me.”

  Good point. “You really want to show Poodles,” I said.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “All right then. You’ve got a deal.” I glanced at her stomach. “I hope this means you’re going to name your firstborn after me.”

  “What if it’s a boy?”

  “Mel.”

  “Give me a break.” Bertie grabbed the check and signed it to her room.

  “It works for Gibson.”

  “Now Gibson,” she said, “I’d consider.”

  The coffee shop was emptying fast. We got up and joined everyone else, heading back to the conference room. Oh yeah, this partnership was going to be fun.

  Rosalind Romanescue’s program started out with a bang.

  Despite the brevity of the lunch break, Aunt Peg’s meeting room was full. All the chairs were taken; more people stood in the back. As Bertie and I had found our seats, I wondered what had caused the psychic to be such a draw. I wouldn’t have guessed that the inexact science of animal communicating would find such a large and enthusiastic audience at PCA.

  Then Aunt Peg introduced the woman, and after a brief, polite round of applause, a question was shouted out from the side of the room. “Since you see visions and stuff like that, can you tell us what happened to Betty Jean Boone?”

  Rosalind had just stepped up to the podium to begin her talk. She was a mild-looking, middle-aged woman with bright red hair that was half tamed into a French braid. She wore faded blue jeans, a denim shirt, and sturdy leather boots. Small silver earrings sparkled in the light. Her fingers, nails bare of polish, gripped the sides of the speaker’s stand as she glanced over at Aunt Peg.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking suddenly flustered. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Peg stepped over and the two women conferred for a minute. The audience waited silently.

  “Gee,” I leaned over and whispered to Bertie, “who knew solving mysteries could be this easy?”

  “Ten to one she doesn’t know the answer.”

  “That’s a sucker bet. She didn’t even know the question.”

  Rosalind straightened as Aunt Peg backed away. The psychic stared out over her audience. Her expression was frosty.

  “The question you have just heard,” she said, “illustrates a basic misconception about animal communication. I do not see visions. I do not predict the future. I cannot connect with your long-lost great-grandmother on the other side.”

  There were several titters from around the room. Rosalind did not look amused. Nor did Aunt Peg. Clearly she’d expected better from her seminar participants.

  “What I can do . . .” Rosalind paused to let her gaze sweep over all of us, “if you have an open mind and a desire to investigate phenomena that may not have been readily apparent to you until now, is put you in touch with your animal companions in a way you haven’t been able to achieve before. I can use my gift for telepathy to talk to your Poodles, and to let you talk to them through me.”

  The laughter had died away. Now there was only silence in the room. Rosalind may or may not have been an imposter; I was still reserving judgment on that. But she sure knew how to work an audience.

  “None of you would be here today if you didn’t love your dogs. As participants in your national specialty, you’ve reached the pinnacle of your breed. I dare say that each and every one of you has evolved a system for communicating with your Poodles. You know how to talk to them, but do you know how to listen to what they have to say?”

  A hand shot up in the front row. “I’m more than willing to listen,” said a Mini breeder from Florida. “I’d love to have a better feeling for what my dogs are trying to tell me. But it seems as though they understand me better than I understand them.”

  “That’s because humans are accustomed to communicating with words,” Rosalind replied. “Animals communicate with each other telepathically; they send pictures, they visualize. Every one of you has the ability to use telepathy. We’re all born with it, but most of us never develop our gift.”

  Her voice rang out clearly across the big room. Those who’d been fidgeting in their seats now sat still—Bertie and me included.

  “When I talk to an animal, I receive pictures back in turn. It comes to me like a movie playing in my head. I hear the animal’s thoughts, I feel their feelings. And it becomes my job to interpret what they are telling me. This is an incredible quest, a fascinating journey. I hope that each and every one of you here today will make the effort to take it with me.”

  9

  “Wow,” Bertie breathed under her breath. “She’s good. I wonder if she can talk to babies.”

  “I doubt it,” I whispered back. “At least not babies who aren’t born yet.”

  Rosalind gave examples of her work. She read glowing testimonials from pet owners. She explained that most often she was consulted for medical problems. “The animals tell me where they hurt. They’re glad to know someone is listening to them, that someone cares about their needs. My job is to bridge the gap in understanding between humans and canines. I hope you’ll agree that that’s a very worthwhile undertaking .”

  The animal communicator spoke for another half hour. After that, Aunt Peg had arranged for people to set up individual consultation sessions. I slipped out of the conference room when those began.

  It was time to start working on Eve. I still had to clip the puppy’s face and tail, give her a bath, and blow her coat dry. I’d already clipped her feet earlier in the week. For a smaller show, I might have been tempted to cut a few corners or rush through some of the preparations. Not at PCA.
/>   The national specialty was as much a breed showcase as it was a competition. Of all the exhibitors that gathered there each year, only a handful would win points. Slightly more would take home a ribbon. The rest would be content with the knowledge that they’d shown off their Poodles, and their breeding programs, at the biggest Poodle extravaganza on earth.

  I wasn’t holding out undue hope that Eve would win a ribbon in her enormous puppy class. But I was determined that she would look good for the knowledgeable spectators standing at ringside. For this show, Eve’s grooming had to be perfect. Or at least as perfect as I could make it.

  When I reached my room, the message light on my phone was blinking. I’d been hoping to hear from Sam but instead the voice mail was from a man who gave his name as Detective Mandahar. He’d been told I was one of the people present the night before when Betty Jean had died and he wished to speak with me at my earliest convenience. He was, he said, currently at the hotel and would check my room again before departing.

  I wrote down the detective’s name, then ran Eve downstairs for a quick visit to the exercise area. Blowing a Standard Poodle’s coat dry takes several hours and I wanted the puppy to be comfortable during the long process. On the way back, I intended to stop at the front desk to ask where I might find the detective. As it turned out, however, several policemen were gathered in the corner where Betty Jean had been found the night before.

  After Eve had had her run, I went over and asked for the detective. A tall black man detached himself from the group and came over. His close-cropped dark hair was graying at the temples; his eyes, slightly bloodshot, were covered by a thick pair of glasses.

  I held out my hand as he approached. “I’m Melanie Travis. You left a message in my room?”

  The detective nodded. He appeared to be thinking. My guess was that he’d left many such messages and was trying to remember exactly who I was. To fill the moment of silence, I added, “And this is Eve.”

  That made him smile. His teeth were even and very white. “Do all you people start conversations by introducing your dogs?”

  “They’re not just dogs,” I replied. “They’re Poodles.”

  “You’re not the first person to tell me that. I gather you have a big dog show going on here this week?”

  “That’s right. The show itself is at the Prince George’s Equestrian Center. But this is our headquarters hotel. There are Poodle exhibitors here from all over the world.”

  I knew I wasn’t telling him anything he hadn’t been told before. To his credit, the detective managed to look interested. “Do you have a few minutes to talk? This shouldn’t take long.”

  We sat down on one of the benches that lined the walkway behind the hotel. Eve lay down at my feet. Detective Mandahar pulled out a small pad to take notes, then asked me what I’d been doing outside behind the hotel after dark the night before.

  “The same thing as just about everyone else,” I said. “Walking my dog before going to bed. This field back here has been designated as the exercise area for the Poodles.”

  “Exercise meaning that you bring the dogs out here and run them around?”

  “Not exactly, though most of them do get to play a bit. This is where we bring our dogs so they can pee and poop. For obvious reasons, the club doesn’t want us making a mess all over the hotel. Everybody pitches in back here to keep the area clean.”

  I gestured toward the row of pooper-scoopers lined up against the building. He glanced at them briefly. “This club you’re talking about, that would be . . .”

  “PCA. The Poodle Club of America. They’re the ones who are putting on the dog show. Some of the people here are members, others aren’t. But nearly everyone staying at the hotel is involved with Poodles in one way or another.”

  Detective Mandahar made a note. “Is there any sort of rivalry between this club and any other Poodle clubs?”

  “None at all.” The question made me smile. “The other Poodle clubs are local ones. They’re called affiliate clubs. Most people here belong to an affiliate club in the area where they live. And then some belong to the national club. But we’re all just Poodle lovers. It’s not like belonging to a rival gang or anything.”

  “I see.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure that he did. His next question confirmed my suspicion.

  “Are some club members more important than others?”

  “Well . . . yes. We have elected officers. But everyone’s vote counts equally. And holding an office is hard work. Not everyone wants to do it, or has the time to get that involved.”

  He consulted an earlier note. “I understand there are committees, too. And that Miss Boone was one of the committee heads?”

  “Yes, she and her sister have cochaired the raffle committee for the last several years.” I tried not to sound impatient. As far as I could tell, this line of questioning was getting us nowhere. And I was wasting time that could be more productively spent working on Eve.

  “But it’s not like someone would have killed her in order to get that position,” I added. “Believe me, with a show this size, there’s plenty of work to go around. Most of it is handled by volunteers.”

  My puppy was getting restless. I dropped my hand from my lap and scratched behind her ears. “I was told you think Betty Jean was murdered.”

  “Let’s just say we’re uncertain that she died of natural causes. So until that determination is made, we’d like to keep our avenues of investigation open.”

  An official sounding mouthful that told me exactly . . . nothing. As was undoubtedly intended. Next, Detective Mandahar walked me through the events of the previous evening. I was willing to bet that my version sounded pretty much like everyone else’s. I’d been outside with a dog and heard a scream. By the time I got there, Betty Jean was already dead.

  “How long have you known the deceased?” he asked at the end.

  “Since yesterday morning. My aunt, Margaret Turnbull, volunteered me to serve on the raffle committee and I met the sisters when I arrived at the show.”

  “Did anything unusual happen at the show yesterday?”

  That would depend, I thought. There were those who would say that everything that had to do with showing dogs, especially Poodles whose trims rendered them somewhat of an oddity in the present-day world, was highly unusual. Not that I had any intention of debating that point. Instead I mentioned that the Boones had been concerned about a professional handler who’d been trying to get their dog disqualified from competition.

  Detective Mandahar looked interested, but only briefly. “Could he have succeeded?” he asked.

  “No. Because the dog wasn’t guilty of the infractions he’d been charged with.”

  “Then what was the problem?”

  “It was one of perception. Of influence. Of wanting the judges to think twice before using that particular dog.”

  “Yes, but . . . bottom line, it’s still just a bunch of Poodles running around a ring, right?”

  “It’s important to us,” I said quietly.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said the detective.

  I hoped he would.

  Interview finished, I bathed Eve in the bathtub in my room.

  According to the rules set forth by the club, I wasn’t supposed to be doing that. But considering that the grooming room had plenty of outlets for blowing dry and not a single tub, where did they think all the wet Poodles were coming from? It wasn’t as though we were going to take them outside and spray them with a hose. Besides, I’d brought my own towels from home. I figured that ought to count for something.

  Bath complete, we headed back downstairs. Not surprisingly, the grooming room was crowded. With the conformation classes starting early the next morning, there was plenty of work to be done. I saw a number of familiar faces as I hopped Eve up onto the rubber-matted grooming table and laid her gently on her side.

  Some exhibitors were blowing their Poodles dry, others were clipping or scissoring. A number of
people were simply standing around talking. Coffee and doughnuts had been set out on a side table, a gesture greatly appreciated by those who found themselves grooming at all hours of the day and night.

  Even though she was still a puppy, Eve had been shown enough to know what was expected of her. She lay quietly as I went to work. I started by drying the all-important hair on the top of her head and back of her neck. That was the hair that would give Eve’s trim its luxurious outline.

  At eleven months of age, Eve had an excellent coat for a puppy. Still, there wasn’t a Poodle exhibitor anywhere who didn’t constantly wish for more. The better the job I did with the dryer, the thicker and more impressive her coat would appear. Important as the task was, however, it was still basically mindless work. Even as I brushed and straightened, I had plenty of opportunity to look around the room.

  Dale Atherton had a table set up not too far from mine. He was scissoring a white Standard Poodle who stood like a rock while he rounded the bracelets on her hind legs. Nina Gold was standing off to one side, chatting with the handler as he worked. Her designer suit and Jimmy Choo shoes looked out of place in a room where Poodle hair floated through the air and gathered in piles on the floor. Nina had yet to realize that, at PCA, what the Poodles looked like counted for a great deal more than how their owners did.

  A man was standing next to Nina, his arm slung casually around her shoulders. Christian Gold, I assumed. The Mini breeder from California; the man with a bundle of money. He wasn’t the fashion plate his wife was. Indeed, if he hadn’t been touching Nina, I probably wouldn’t have noticed him at all.

  Christian was shorter than his wife. Just slightly, but enough to make the arm around her shoulders a stretch. Yet he made the effort. That said something, though I wasn’t sure I knew exactly what.

  As I watched, Nina laughed at something Dale said. Nina tipped her head to one side and glanced over at her husband. Christian didn’t even smile.

  “Excuse me, are you Melanie Travis?”

  I reached for the off switch on the dryer with one hand and placed the other on Eve’s neck so she wouldn’t get up. “Yes—” Turning, I saw who’d asked the question. My reply died in my throat.