Best in Show (24 page)

I set Tar's bowl down on the table and flipped open my catalog. Due to the huge number of entries, Mr. Lamb had sent his bitch Specials out of the ring so he'd have more room to concentrate on his dogs. As I watched, he raised his hands and set the long line in motion.

I sighed with appreciation. The sight of that many Standard Poodles, all exquisitely groomed and presented, was absolutely breathtaking. Best of all, Tar looked wonderful. Even from my peculiar vantage point, he was a standout: tall and masculine, and every bit as black as his namesake. Muscles rippled across his hindquarter as he trotted around the ring with proper reach and drive, a beautiful example of a Standard Poodle in motion.

“See?” Edith Jean said when the dogs had finished their circuit of the ring and I'd hopped back down. “You shouldn't be here. Go away.”

She didn't have to tell me again. Not when the offer was that tempting. “I'll check back later,” I promised.

“You do that.” She shooed me in the direction of the ring.

I found Aunt Peg in her usual seat. She'd piled her sweater, purse, and a shopping bag filled with new grooming supplies on the chair beside it to save it for me.

“You won't believe what I found out,” I said as I rearranged the stuff on the grass at our feet and sat down.

“At this point, I'm inclined to believe almost anything.” Aunt Peg's eyes remained trained on the ring. “But whatever it is, save it for later. I'm watching.” A hallowed experience, her tone implied. One to be savored without interruption. “You've already missed the first go-round. Tar looked very good.”

“I saw it,” I said. “I was over by the raffle table.”

The quick glance she sent my way revealed what Peg thought of that little peccadillo. “I trust you can manage to sit still long enough to watch his individual examination?”

One could only hope, I thought.

I entertained myself until Tar's turn came by looking at the dogs in the ring, then comparing them to the notes Aunt Peg made in the margins of her catalog. Nothing, not even the tiniest detail, escaped her notice. The majority of the Poodles before us were black. Aunt Peg could not only tell them apart at a glance, she could also enumerate their faults and good points. It was a rare skill, one honed by decades of careful, watchful experience.

Finally Tar reached the head of the line. Tommy Lamb approached him slowly, his eyes alight with appreciation. Sam waited until the judge had cradled the dog's muzzle in his hands, then stepped back, allowing the leash to hang loosely, letting Tar show himself. Not every dog could handle the responsibility; Tar managed it beautifully.

The gaiting pattern was a simple one. Down to the end of the ring and back, so the judge could see the Poodle's movement coming and going. Then all the way around the perimeter of the big ring and back into line. Taking his time, Sam walked Tar around in front of the judge. He checked the dog's collar, balled the skinny show leash in his hand. Then he chucked the Poodle under the chin and off they went.

For a moment, there was only silence as Tar began to move. Then someone began to clap. Others joined in until the sound swelled and built to a crescendo around us. Tar knew the applause was for him. His stride lengthened, his gait became more animated. When Tommy Lamb finished his examination and sent the Standard Poodle to the front of the ring, indicating that he'd made the cut, the spectators roared their approval.

As soon as the pair reached their assigned spot, I closed my catalog and stood up. It was time to bring Tar a drink of water. I glanced down, then around. I'd been carrying the Poodle's stainless-steel bowl earlier. Now I didn't see it anywhere. Annoyed, I realized I must have left it behind at the raffle table.

“Be right back,” I said to Peg. Still engrossed by the action in the ring, she didn't even acknowledge my departure.

It wasn't until I'd pushed my way through the crowd standing behind us that I could even see the committee tables around the perimeter of the arena. When I finally broke free, I looked in that direction, then frowned. The bowl was sitting on the edge of the table, just where I'd left it. Edith Jean, however, was nowhere in sight.

While I'd been busy watching the show, she had disappeared.

S
he'd probably just run to the restroom, I decided as I strode toward the table. Still, it was unlike her to leave the raffle prizes unsupervised. The last time she'd stepped away, she'd asked Charlotte Kay to keep an eye on things. And the last time she'd gone missing for more than a few minutes, Edith Jean had been in trouble.

I believe in gut reactions. When a sense of foreboding made my skin start to prickle, I knew I needed to listen. Belatedly, I realized I probably should have been listening better earlier.
And
asking more questions. Why had Edith Jean seemed so tense the last time I'd seen her? And why had she been so anxious to get rid of me? What sort of plans was she making now?

I snatched up Tar's water bowl and zigzagged through the ever increasing crowd to the trophy table. Charlotte was holding up an enormous silver challenge bowl that would be presented to the Standard BOV winner later in the day. She was reading the engraved names of past recipients to an interested spectator.

Since the trophy had been in competition for several decades, I knew that was going to take a while. It was rude of me to interrupt, but I broke in anyway. “Excuse me, Charlotte?”

“Yes?” She lowered the big bowl and gazed at me over the rim.

“I'm looking for Edith Jean. Do you happen to know where she is?”

“She said she had to leave for a short while. I told her since you weren't available, I'd keep an eye on the table.”

“I was available,” I said. “I was right there. She sent me away to watch the judging.”

“I don't know anything about that. All I know is that she told me she wouldn't be gone long.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Ten minutes, possibly.” Charlotte glanced at her watch. “Maybe fifteen?”

“Did she tell you where she was going?”

“Outside, I think. She said there was someone she had to meet.”

The spectator was growing impatient. “Nineteen seventy-nine,” she prompted. “Who won that year?”

“Champion MacGillivray High Interest,” Charlotte looked down and read. “Now that was a beautiful bitch. As I recall, she was handled by her owner and won the variety from the Bred-by Exhibitor class . . .”

“Thanks!” Still clutching Tar's bowl, I hurried away.

At the equestrian center, “outside” was a big place. Edith Jean could have gone in any number of directions. I wondered why she'd felt the need to leave the building. Was she looking for privacy? Or, like Christian and Rosalind, meeting with someone she didn't want to be seen with?

The exits near the grooming area seemed the logical place to start. I was moving so fast, I didn't see Bertie until I'd almost plowed right into her.

She reached out a hand to steady me. I thrust the water bowl into it. “Here. Could you take Tar some water in the ring?”

“Sure, but where are you going?”

“I'm trying to find Edith Jean. I think something's wrong.”

“What?”

“I don't know. That's the problem. She left the building for some reason.”

“That's hardly suspicious behavior,” said Bertie. “Lots of people go in and out.”

“I know but . . .” I stopped and blew out a breath. “This just doesn't feel right.”

“Okay.” Bertie took the bowl. “Do what you have to do. I'll see to Sam and Tar. By the way, Edith Jean and I arrived around the same time this morning. We both parked in the lot just behind the building if that helps.”

“It does, thanks.” At least that gave me a direction in which to start.

As I pushed open the door that led outside to the lot Bertie had indicated, I was hit with a blast of hot air. Air-conditioning within the arena kept things at such a pleasant temperature it was easy to forget that it was summer outside. Temperatures had been in the eighties all week. I pulled off my cotton sweater and wrapped it around my waist. Just like the other lot earlier, this one was filled with cars, yet looked devoid of people.

Too late, I realized I should have asked Bertie what kind of car Edith Jean was driving. Bright hot sunlight reflected off the sea of shiny vehicles, blinding me momentarily. I let the door slam shut behind me, and squinted out over the lot. Unexpectedly, something behind me moved. I saw the motion out of the corner of my eye and spun around.

Damien Bradley stepped out of a shadowy recess. He didn't look pleased to see me. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought you were someone else. I didn't mean to startle you.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Smoking.”

Except that he wasn't. Maybe he had been, but he wasn't now. Nor did the acrid scent of tobacco smoke hang in the air. As Damien came toward me, I retreated a step. Then another. Since he stood between me and the building, I was moving out into the parking lot.

My response seemed to amuse him. Damien kept on walking. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.

“Looking for someone.” I couldn't see the harm in telling him. “Edith Jean Boone. Have you seen her?”

“No. Though I wouldn't mind knowing where she was myself.”

“Why is that?”

I was still backing up. Keeping a careful distance between us, I was heading down one of the rows now. The two of us were engaged in an awkward dance of advance and retreat.

“Edith Jean and I have some business to take care of,” said Damien. “Nothing that would concern you.”

“Don't be so sure,” I said. Was this why Edith Jean had left the building? Had Damien lured her outside for some reason? I wondered what kind of business he thought they were going to transact.

Damien finally stopped advancing. He stared at me, perplexed. “You don't have to keep backing up. I know the kind of stories people spread about me. Your aunt and Sam Driver have probably given you an earful. But all I'm doing here is talking.”

By now we'd reached the midpoint in the wide aisle between the parked cars. Damien was right, he hadn't threatened me in any way, but that didn't prevent me from being more comfortable with some distance between us. There was something menacing about his presence. And something unsettling about the fact that he'd been planning to meet Edith Jean out here. What did he have to say to her that couldn't be said inside, with the reassuring presence of other people all around?

“If you want to give me a message, I'll be sure Edith Jean gets it,” I said.

“No, thanks.” Damien smiled; it wasn't a pretty sight. “What I really want is for you to butt out.”

I heard the van coming before I saw it. Even then, I was focused so completely on Damien that the sound didn't register at first. The rev of an engine was followed by the squeal of tires. Abruptly I realized that in the close confines of the parking lot, the vehicle was moving much too fast.

A dark-colored van skidded around the end of the row and headed straight at us. The van slid sideways; its tires threw up a spray of gravel. Damien had his back to the oncoming vehicle, but I was looking right at it. Sunlight glinted off the windshield; I couldn't see who was driving.

“Look out!” I cried.

Even as Damien's head snapped around it was already too late. The van picked up speed and kept coming. “What the hell—!”

I leaped toward Damien, reached for his shoulder, got his arm instead. I yanked hard to one side. Turning to look, off balance, he toppled toward me but it wasn't enough. The van was already on top of us. I felt the blow as it hit his lower body with crushing force.

The strength of the impact tossed us both through the air. I landed hard, coming down on the hood of a Mercedes-Benz. Pain shot through my shoulder, then down into my hip. A car alarm began to shriek.

Damien was on the ground below me; I couldn't see how badly he was hurt. Turning my head, I got a fleeting look at the departing van. The license plate had a picture of a peach on it. A Georgia peach.

Down on the blacktop, I heard Damien moan, then swear. At least he was alive, though he didn't sound too happy about it.

“Crazy bitch,” he muttered.

“Damien?” Painfully, fingers scrambling for purchase on the shiny finish, I pulled myself over to the edge of the hood. My head was throbbing. I couldn't remember whether I'd hit it or not. Maybe the car alarm was making it ache. “Are you all right?”

“Hell, no. Something's broken, maybe my leg.” He spoke slowly, and with obvious effort. “Plus I think I'm about to pass out. Either that or throw up.”

I rolled slowly off the side of the car. As my feet touched down on the ground, I felt a sharp spear of protest in my hip, but everything held. I'd probably be covered with bruises in the morning, but otherwise I seemed okay. Gingerly, I knelt down beside Damien.

He was lying in the shadow of the big sedan. One leg was bent at an unnatural angle beneath him. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down the sides of his face. He hauled himself painfully up on one elbow and glowered at me. “Can't you stop that infernal noise?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Not my car.” I stared down at him. “I heard what you said. You know who was driving the van, don't you?”

Damien gritted his teeth. His skin looked alarmingly pale, “She told me to meet her out here, said we had something to discuss. I thought . . .” He stopped abruptly. “Never mind what I thought.”

“She who?” I had a pretty good idea myself, but I wanted to hear him say the name.

“You saw her. It was that damn Boone woman.”

Damien expelled a harsh breath. His eyes rolled back in his head. I reached out and caught him as his upper body dropped like a stone onto the blacktop. His breathing was shallow and ragged. He'd passed out.

Quickly I stood and looked around. The van had vanished, taking Edith Jean with it. I'd hoped the car alarm might have brought a response from inside the building, but no such luck. Maybe with all the doors closed, they couldn't hear it.

I stood up and ran for help.

 

 

Inside the building, it only took a minute or two to rally the troops.

As soon as I threw open the heavy door, letting in the sound of the shrieking alarm, heads turned in my direction. Everybody who was anybody was sitting ringside, watching the judging. I found Nancy and Cliff and told them there'd been a hit-and-run accident.

Cliff pulled out his cell phone and called for an ambulance. Nancy rounded up several Poodle fanciers who were doctors. In no time at all, Damien was being attended to by much better hands than mine. That left me free to locate Edith Jean and find out what the hell was going on.

I'd been afraid that she was in danger from Damien. Now it looked as though I'd had things backward. But why? Had Edith Jean killed her own sister? Did Damien have information about the murder that he'd threatened to pass along to the police? Was that what had prompted her attack?

In the ring, Mr. Lamb was finishing with his bitch Specials. Within minutes, Sam and Tar would return to the ring for the culmination of the Best of Variety judging. Too bad I didn't have time to stop and watch.

I needed to tell Aunt Peg what was happening. Before I left the show ground, I wanted someone to know that I'd gone after Edith Jean, and why. Also, someone was going to have to step in and take charge of the raffle. Aunt Peg, with her flair for organizing people, would know what to do.

As I pushed my way through the spectators to where my aunt was sitting, the crowd shifted and I caught a glimpse of the raffle table. All at once I stopped running. Shock froze me in place.

Edith Jean was back in the building. She was manning the table, smiling and selling tickets, just as she'd done all week. As if nothing in the world was the matter.

How was that possible? I wondered. Could Damien and I both have been mistaken? I'd seen the van, but I'd never gotten a clear look at the driver. Could it have been someone else?

My head was pounding like a jackhammer. On top of that, the spectators began to applaud. The final cut for Standard Best of Variety had just entered the ring.

I closed my eyes and prayed for just one minute of peace, knowing full well that I wasn't going to get it. When I opened them again, Edith Jean was still there. She saw me staring and waved.

None of this made any sense. What the hell was going on?