Underdog Read online

  “So?”

  I’d been prepared for her to deny it. The unexpected ease with which she confirmed his identity left me feeling almost deflated. “I thought he was dead. What’s he doing here?”

  “Boarding,” Crystal said shortly. “Just like I told you. Why on earth would you think he was dead?”

  “Because that’s what Jenny told me. That’s what she told everybody.”

  “I’m sure you must have been mistaken.”

  “I’m not.” I was shaking my head hard. Maybe I was hoping that would shake some sense into my jumbled thoughts. “Let’s back up for a minute. I probably should have started by explaining a few things. Jenny Maguire was my friend. I took a handling class from her and she came to my house for dinner just before she died. The reason I came here today was because she recommended your food to me.”

  “Jenny did?”

  “Yes. She said that Ziggy loved it and that my puppy probably would too. She was always giving me helpful hints like that—because we both had Poodles, you know? She adored Ziggy, she never went anywhere without him. And the last time I saw her at class, she told me he’d been run over by a car.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Crystal.

  “Neither do I. That’s why I want to know what the dog’s doing here.”

  She thought about that for a long minute. “You were Jenny’s friend?”

  I nodded.

  “What was her pet name for Ziggy?”

  That was easy. I’d heard her call to him often enough in class. Angie would snicker, and Rick would roll his eyes. But Jenny didn’t care.

  “She called him Ziggy Zoo,” I said with a grin. “Not only that, but he answered to it.”

  Crystal smiled too. “Some dogs have no pride. I once had a German Shepherd whose name was Duff. I hate to admit it but around the house he was known as Fluffy Duffy.”

  Faith hadn’t been around long enough to acquire any silly nicknames. I wondered if I should mention that I’d been known to call my son Daveykins? Apparently it wasn’t necessary. The dog talk had done enough.

  “There’s not much I can tell you,” Crystal said. “Jenny dropped Ziggy off about three weeks ago. She asked if she could leave him for a while and she paid two weeks’ board up front. I was happy to have him around. He’s a great little dog.”

  Stratford was a long way from Ridgefield. What reason could Jenny possibly have had for bringing Ziggy here? I tried to remember what she’d said about Crystal. There hadn’t been anything to indicate whether or not they’d been friends.

  “Were you and Jenny close?” I asked.

  Crystal’s eyes shifted. Even before she’d said a word, I knew her wariness had returned. “Close enough. She stopped by every month or so to pick up some food, but we didn’t keep in touch much beyond that. I didn’t find out that she’d died until after the funeral, and then only by accident.

  “The first week Ziggy was here, Jenny called a couple of times to see how he was doing. When she stopped calling, I figured she was just busy. But even so, I knew she’d enjoy hearing a report so I called her. I got her sister instead.”

  “Angie.”

  “Right. She told me what had happened. Of course I felt terrible. For Ziggy’s sake, too. He’s happy here, but you can tell he’s waiting for Jenny to come back for him.”

  “So why hasn’t Rick picked him up?”

  To my surprise, Crystal looked defiant. “The way I figure it, Ziggy’s my dog now. He’s happy here. He’s got a good home. Why mess with that?”

  I stared at her. “But he belongs to Rick.”

  “Legally, I guess he does. But Rick hated Ziggy. Jenny didn’t exactly spell it out, but she hinted as much. Think about it. How many other reasons could there be for boarding out a dog when you’ve got a kennel of your own?”

  Good point.

  “Besides,” said Crystal, “I haven’t heard word one from Rick. So either he doesn’t want Ziggy back, or else he doesn’t know he’s here. Either way, that tells me the Mini’s better off with me. I’m not giving him back. I figure I owe Jenny at least that much.”

  Jenny had certainly inspired loyalty in the people who had known her; but in Crystal’s case, I had to wonder if the woman wasn’t carrying things too far. It turned out we weren’t going to be discussing that, however. Crystal stood up and looked at the door pointedly. My time was up.

  Outside, I gathered up Davey and Faith, said good-bye to Ziggy, got in the car, and headed home. I had thought Crystal would give me answers, but all she’d done was leave me with more questions.

  Why had Jenny hidden Ziggy away and told everyone he was dead? Did Rick know where Ziggy was; and if so, why hadn’t he come to get him? Why had Jenny paid for two weeks in advance? What was supposed to happen at the end of that time?

  Between Davey’s singing and my own tumultuous thoughts, by the time I got home my head was spinning. The more I found out, the less everything made sense. The only good news was that Davey had torn a hole in the bag of kibble and Faith was eating it out of his hand.

  At least I seemed to have found a new dog food.

  I couldn’t wait to call Aunt Peg and tell her about Ziggy but as soon as we walked in the house, Davey made sure I knew that death by starvation loomed imminently in his future. So I fed Faith—three quarters old kibble, one quarter new—then made a delicious and nutritious dinner for Davey and me. Hamburgers and french fries. When they’re five, ketchup counts as a vegetable.

  By the time I got Peg on the phone, she had one foot out the door. A champion male Poodle she’d sold two years earlier was supposed to be breeding his first bitch up near Hartford. The trouble was, the dog had taken one look at the bitch and turned his back; and the novice owner was too inexperienced to know how to encourage him along. Aunt Peg was rushing to the rescue. I wondered what she was going to do to get the stud dog interested in the job at hand, but decided I didn’t dare ask.

  “When will you be back?” was a much safer question.

  “Late. And unless Waldo catches on pretty quickly, I may end up devoting the rest of the week to this. God save me from first-time owners.”

  There was a comment just begging to be made there. Something about first-time owners who hadn’t had a choice. As usual, Aunt Peg went on without me.

  “But I’ll see you this weekend, right?”

  “This weekend?”

  “Melanie, you haven’t forgotten! The Queensboro show. I did your entries three weeks ago with mine.”

  “Of course not,” I stammered. Faith’s first dog show. Aunt Peg and I had discussed it a month ago, but since then I’d tried to put it out of my mind. Even though it was only for experience, I was still feeling a twinge of nerves.

  The show was on Long Island, only an hour’s drive away. But Faith would need to be clipped, bathed, and blown dry between now and then. I didn’t have the expertise yet to trim her. Aunt Peg would do that for me at the show. Still, I was looking at five or six hours worth of work over the next two days.

  “Right,” I said, none too pleased at the prospect. “I’ll see you there.”

  After I hung up with Peg, I tried calling Sam. I knew from experience that he made a pretty good sounding board. Not only that, but he’s great at figuring out puzzles. His machine picked up.

  I listened to the message and even composed one of my own, but in the end I hung up without saying a word. I’m a firm supporter of women’s lib, but sometimes my conservative streak wins out. Besides, the last time I’d made the first move I’d found a blonde in a tight mini-dress cooking pesto in his kitchen.

  I’d like to think our relationship has progressed since then, but we’re still in the process of discovering what works and what doesn’t. Since that’s more my fault than his, I don’t have much right to complain.

  It didn’t stop me from feeling grumpy though.

  Nine

  With the exception of Christmas, dog shows are held every weekend of the year. What started as a
sport among gentlemen has grown over time to embrace the masses. There’s a reason for that. For anyone who loves dogs, there’s no better way to spend a day.

  Showing dogs can be enjoyed on any number of levels. Class competition is a comparison of potential breeding stock within each individual breed. Dogs and bitches are judged separately and entries may be made into any of six classes: Puppy, Young Adult, Novice, Bred-By-Exhibitor, American Bred, and Open. The class winners are then judged against each other for the title of Winners Dog and Winners Bitch. These two alone receive points toward their championships, the number of dogs defeated on the day determining the number of points awarded. It takes fifteen points to make a champion and somewhere within those fifteen, a dog must win two “majors,” that is, he must defeat enough dogs in a single event to be awarded at least three points.

  After the class competition comes Best of Breed where the Winners Dog and Bitch compete against the champions. Each dog winning his breed is eligible to compete in the group. The seven group winners then go head to head for the title of Best in Show.

  In the beginning the class competition was what dog shows were all about. But as the sport grew bigger and more intensely competitive, a number of different rating systems began keeping score of the top winning dogs. Now there are year-end awards for all sorts of achievements. While there are still plenty of exhibitors like Aunt Peg who are content with simply finishing championships, there are also others who dedicate their lives to chasing the glory of the big wins. The very top dogs often spend half their lives on an airplane, accompanying their handlers in a never-ending search for the biggest shows and the most accommodating judges.

  To me, all that running around doesn’t make a lot of sense, but then neither do televangelists and look at the following they have. On the other hand, what Aunt Peg did looked like fun. I’d entered Faith in the Puppy class, which is where most novices get their start. With Peg’s guidance—not to mention her determined hand at my back-I was hoping our debut would go smoothly.

  Queensboro is the last show held outdoors in my area each year. By the end of October, the chances of getting good dog showing weather on Long Island—not too cold, no rain, no strong winds—are about fifty-fifty. This year, we got lucky and southerly winds ushered in a warming trend. I zipped Davey into a warm jacket as a precaution, but at least it looked like we wouldn’t spend the whole day shivering.

  Showing Standard Poodles is not only a hobby, it’s a dedication requiring a great deal of work, both ahead of time and on the day of the show. According to the judging schedule our class went in the ring at noon, but when Davey, Faith, and I reached the showground just before ten o’clock, Aunt Peg was already there. From the summer’s experience, I knew to head to the handlers’ tent, a covered expanse filled with crates and grooming tables where exhibitors gathered to put the finishing touches on their dogs before they went into the ring.

  What those finishing touches might be, varied from breed to breed. For Poodles, the preparations were elaborate. First Faith needed to be thoroughly brushed, then the hair on her head would be gathered up into a topknot. Her trim would be scissored to set the lines and effect a smooth finish, then hair spray would be liberally applied to lacquer everything into place.

  Amazingly enough, the Poodles didn’t seem to mind any of this. Indeed, they loved the extra attention. The first time I’d seen these things going on, I’d given serious thought to the sanity of the participants. Now I accepted them as routine. What that augured for the state of my own mental health was an issue I didn’t care to pursue too closely.

  I pulled the Volvo up beside the grooming tent and saw that Aunt Peg had staked out enough space so that I could set up my table and crate next to hers. Since she didn’t need the practice like I did, Peg had left her puppy at home. Instead she was showing an older bitch who already had half the points she needed to finish her championship. When Davey hopped out of the car and raced over to Aunt Peg’s set-up, arms wide for a hug, the Poodle reclining on the grooming table opened one eye but didn’t stir. Ah, training.

  “Good morning,” Aunt Peg crowed, sounding impossibly cheery. Dog shows have that effect on her.

  I hauled my table out of the back of the Volvo and headed her way. “Do you know how many messages I’ve left on your answering machine in the last two days?”

  “More than a dozen, I should think.” Aunt Peg was rummaging around in her carry-all. To no one’s surprise, she came up with a honey bun for Davey. “You ran the tape through almost all the way to the end.”

  Not that it had made her return any of my calls.

  “I’m glad you noticed,” I said huffily.

  “I was busy. I told you I would be. Waldo never did catch on. In the end, we had to AI the bitch. I only hope it takes.”

  AI, artificially inseminate. There was no end to the new things I was learning. But surely Waldo’s reproductive problems paled beside the news that Ziggy was still alive. Or they would have if I’d had a chance to deliver it.

  “Listen,” I said urgently. “We have to talk—”

  “Of course we will. There’ll be plenty of time. Now finish unloading and go park your car. Davey can stay here with me.”

  I did as I was told. I’m not usually so obedient, but I figured that way I would be able to tell her the whole amazing story straight through from start to finish with no interruptions. But when I got back to the grooming tent I saw that judging must have just ended in one of the sporting rings. There was a flurry of activity in the set-up next to ours as Rick Maguire dropped off one dog and picked up another. Angie, who’d come running back from the rings with him, pulled a black Cocker out of its crate and put it up on a grooming table.

  “What are they doing here?” I hissed under my breath as Angie spritzed the Cocker heavily with water and began fluffing through its hair with a brush and a hand-held dryer.

  Aunt Peg lifted a brow at my tone. “Making a living, I would imagine, just like all the other handlers. Lucky for us they had some extra room and I was able to squeeze in. These tents seem to grow smaller all the time.”

  Small enough so that our tables and Shamrock’s were virtually on top of each other. There was no way I was going to be able to tell Aunt Peg anything with any degree of privacy. And although I dearly wanted to sound Rick out on the subject of Ziggy, I hadn’t yet decided what I was going to say. Until I had more information, I certainly wasn’t about to blurt out the news that the Mini was alive and well and living in Stratford.

  I hopped Faith up onto her table, laid her on her side, and went to work. Maybe this proximity could be made to work to my advantage. “Hi, Angie,” I said.

  She looked up from the Cocker and squinted in my direction.

  “Melanie Travis,” I prompted. “I’m in your handling class.”

  “Of course. Nice to see you. Is this your puppy’s first show?”

  I nodded.

  “Well don’t worry about a thing. She’s very pretty. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  “Thanks. How have you been doing?”

  “Great.” Angie smiled broadly. “Couldn’t be better.”

  Handlers are natural-born salesmen. They have to be, especially at dog shows where, when they’re not selling their dogs to the judges, nearly everyone they talk to is a potential client. So for a moment I wondered if Angie was simply telling me what she thought I wanted to hear.

  But as she turned her attention back to the Cocker, I realized she’d meant what she’d said. Aside from that brief moment at the kennel, I hadn’t seen Angie since the wake. But the woman standing here, juggling the needs of a professional’s string with calm efficiency was worlds away from the pale, fragile girl I’d escorted to the ladies’ room. Everyone dealt with grief in his own way. Angie had obviously thrown herself into her work.

  She also looked strong enough to handle a few questions.

  “I’m going for a cup of tea,” said Peg. “And I’ve promised Davey we’ll hunt down some
hot chocolate. Do you want anything?”

  “No thanks.” Despite Angie’s words of encouragement, butterflies were already fluttering in my stomach. I didn’t dare drink anything for fear of spending the rest of the morning waiting in line for the port-o-johns.

  “Keep an eye on Peaches for me?”

  “Sure.” That was easy. All Aunt Peg’s Poodles were table-trained. Even though they weren’t tied, they wouldn’t jump off unless invited.

  I watched as they walked away, Aunt Peg dignified and sedate; my five-year-old son holding her hand and skipping merrily at her side. When they were gone, I turned back to Angie. She was working on the other side of the Cocker now which meant that she was facing in my direction.

  “I’ve been thinking about something you said at Jenny’s wake,” I ventured.

  “Really?” She nudged a wad of gum from one cheek to the other. “What?”

  “When we were in the ladies’ room together, you mentioned that Jenny had been unhappy. . . .”

  “Yeah? So?”

  I’d hoped that gentle prompting might get her started talking, but obviously Angie required more. Maybe flattery would loosen her up. “You were Jenny’s sister. I bet you knew her better than anybody.”

  “I did. Jenny wasn’t just my sister, she was my friend.” Angie applied the brush methodically, her hand lifting the hair and letting it fall into the stream of hot air. “I looked up to her, you know? She took care of me.”

  “She probably confided in you, too.”

  “Sometimes. And sometimes she didn’t tell anyone what was on her mind. That was just the way she was.”

  “But you thought she was unhappy. What did she have to be unhappy about?”

  Angie’s brushing hand slowed. “What happened to Ziggy was the biggest thing, I guess. That really busted her up. Jenny wasn’t thinking straight. I mean, she couldn’t have been, right? Who could get that attached to a pet that they couldn’t go on living without it?”