Hair of the Dog (18 page)

Aunt Peg is a dedicated owner-handler. I expected a diatribe in reply, but instead she only laughed. “What for? Crawford did even worse than I did.”

“Yes,” I said. “But he'll get his eventually.”

On the way back to the setup, Davey and I stopped off at the food concession and picked up lunch. There wasn't much of a choice. I vetoed the cheese-covered nachos my son had his eye on and went for hamburgers all around.

By the time we finished eating and Peg had Tory on the table for a quick brush-through and rewrap, the groups were already beginning. Herding was first. Holding Davey's hand, I wandered over to see how it would go.

Group judging is often a relatively speedy process. Though each of the seven groups has a large number of breeds, the same person is often hired to judge both the group and the breeds within it. Since he selected the Best of Breed winners earlier in the day, going over them again is a perfunctory matter.

With the groups starting early in the afternoon, there was still a large crowd of spectators in the building. Most were clustered around the group ring, applauding vigorously for the dogs they liked. Davey and I found a spot to wedge ourselves in and had a look.

Austin's German Shepherd was an obvious crowd favorite, as were the rough Collie and Old English Sheepdog. The rarer breeds, which in this case seemed to mean those that had not been featured to a mass audience on TV, were greeted only with silence. I clapped enthusiastically for a nice Cardigan Welsh Corgi, but it was a lonely and thankless effort.

Fortunately the judge did his job, paying scant attention to popular opinion and rewarding the dogs he liked best. A Puli was first, followed by a Briard. Austin's Shepherd managed third, while the Corgi I'd picked out was fourth.

The Toy group was next. Even with a Poodle in it, the group has never been one of my favorites. As the little dogs began filing into the ring, Davey, who'd inherited his great-aunt's sweet tooth gene, began angling for ice cream. If I appeased him now, there was a good chance he'd stand still for the Non-Sporting group later. Besides, my son wasn't the only one who'd noticed the Häagen-Dazs stand over by the obedience rings.

We walked across the building and skirted around the grooming area. Most of the breed rings were now empty, but the obedience competition was still going strong. Davey paused, enchanted, as a beautifully trained Border Collie flew over an obstacle, picked up a dumbbell its handler had tossed, then spun around and leapt back over the jump.

“Cool!” he cried. “Can we teach Faith to do that?”

“Sure, when she's finished in the breed ring, and we cut off her hair.” One problem at a time. “Standard Poodles make great obedience dogs because they're so smart.”

“I bet Faith could learn to do anything.”

I bet she could too. Whether or not I could teach her was another matter entirely.

“Look,” said Davey. “There's Viv.”

I looked where he was pointing, but didn't immediately see her. Nor could I imagine what she'd be doing on this side of the building. “I don't think so. Come on, let's get that ice cream.”

“No,” said Davey with all the determination a five-year-old could muster. “It is Viv. She's yelling at that man.”

So I had another look. And what do you know, Davey was right. Viv was standing over in the shadows on the far side of the obedience ring.

Even more interesting, the man she was arguing with was Austin Beamish.

It wasn't any of my business.

That didn't stop me from staring.

“What about my ice cream?” asked Davey.

The ice cream stand was at the end of the ring. I fished two dollar bills out of my wallet and sent Davey running on ahead.

The Border Collie had finished its turn and been replaced by a Shetland Sheepdog. Watching as the dog heeled off-lead, I strolled casually in Viv and Austin's direction.

Obedience competitors, like their counterpart in breed, are very committed to what they're doing. The sign by the gate identified the class as Open B, which meant that those involved had plenty at stake. No one standing ringside seemed to be paying any attention to Austin and Viv but me.

Viv wasn't yelling anymore, but even from a distance she looked angry. Austin was speaking in a low voice. When he reached out and placed a hand on her arm, she quickly shook him off.

I'd hesitated for a moment, not wanting to interrupt. Now I started forward again, some vague, unformed thought in my mind that maybe Viv needed rescuing.

As I drew near, she looked past Austin and saw me. Immediately Viv took a step back as Austin turned to see what she was looking at. I pasted a smile on my face that probably looked as phony as it felt.

“Davey wanted ice cream,” I said, hoping that explained, more or less, what I was doing there. “Thank you again for your help earlier.”

“Help?” asked Austin, looking baffled.

“Viv's help. With Davey. He can be quite a handful.”

“No, he wasn't.” Viv shook her head. “He was fine.”

“Excuse me, I believe the Sporting group is about to begin.” Austin turned and strode away.

“Is everything okay?” I asked Viv.

“Sure.” She looked as though she wanted to leave too. Maybe I'd been wrong about the rescuing part.

“Are you and Austin having a problem?”

“It was nothing.”

“It didn't look that way.”

“You know what Austin's like. He can be pretty intense.”

Poor Viv, surrounded on all sides by competitive men.

Out of the corner of my eye, I was keeping track of Davey's progress. He'd worked his way to the front of the line and was making his selection. Any minute now, he'd be back.

Viv looked as though she were wishing desperately that I would change the subject, so I decided to oblige her. “You know, there's something I've been wondering about. Maybe you could clarify things for me.”

“What's that?”

“Your Chow, Leo. Barry Turk used to show him, didn't he?”

“That's right.”

“I heard that Ron took the dog away from Barry last spring, and I was wondering what went wrong. Did they have a disagreement over something?”

“Not at all,” Viv said firmly. “Putting Leo with Crawford was my idea. Ron had nothing to do with it. I thought Crawford could do better with the dog, and obviously he has.”

“Hey, Mom! Look what I got!” Davey skidded to a stop beside us, waving a double chocolate ice cream bar. And not a napkin in sight.

“That looks great.” Viv smiled down at him.

“Want a bite?”

“No, thanks. I'd better be getting back to the group ring. Ron's probably wondering where I've gone.”

“We'll see you back there,” I said. “We can all cheer for Leo together.”

The line at the ice cream stand had grown. While I waited my turn, I pondered what I'd just heard. Peg had once mentioned that Ron had been involved with Chows for nearly twenty years. That had to have been longer than he'd known Viv, unless their relationship had started when she was in grade school.

Watching the Pullmans at the shows, I'd gotten the distinct impression that as far as the dogs went, Ron was in charge. So why had Viv claimed to be responsible for a decision as important as who would handle their top winning dog?

Ice cream in hand (or on shirt, depending which one of us you looked at), Davey and I made our way back to the big center ring, where the groups were being judged. In our absence, Toys had come and gone and Midas had coasted to an easy victory in the Sporting group.

I found Aunt Peg standing with Bill and Alicia as the Non-Sporting group entered the ring. Peg took one look at my chocolate-bedecked son and placed him directly in front of her, where she could keep an eye on his sticky hands.

“You had ice cream?” she said, censure clear in her voice. “And you didn't bring me any?”

“We'll go back again,” I offered. Now that Alicia had told me she was moving back in with Bill, I wasn't sure how much I wanted to reveal to either one of them, but I did want to ask Peg about what Viv had said. “Come on, let's go.”

“Not now. After Non-Sporting.”

The dogs formed a line along one side of the ring, with the biggest in front and the smaller ones to the rear. The idea was to give each dog the opportunity to gait at the speed that suited it best. The Standard Poodle was in front, followed by the Dalmatian. Crawford and Leo were four or five places back. The Chow was larger than the Mini Poodle and the Finnish Spitz, but didn't move as fast.

“Wow, there's Terry,” cried Davey, leaning into the ring. Terry was near the end of the line with a Tibetan Spaniel. As my son waved enthusiastically, I grabbed the back of his T-shirt and hauled him back.

“He waved to me! Did you see him?”

Terry had indeed waved. While the rest of the handlers were busy fussing over their dogs so that they would look their best when the judge made her first pass down the line, Terry was gabbing to the exhibitor beside him. He appeared only marginally aware of the dog on the end of his lead. Luckily the little Tibetan Spaniel was stacking itself.

I've been coming to dog shows for a year, but the subtle implications of the behavior I see in the ring still sometimes eludes me. “Why isn't he paying more attention?” I whispered to Aunt Peg.

“Because he's not supposed to win,” Peg whispered back. No one at ringside talks in a normal tone of voice. It's too easy to be overheard. Even when what you're saying seems to be innocuous, it's safer to keep your guard up. The judge was passing in front of us now, pausing to have a look at the Keeshond that was set up just on the other side of the rail.

Peg waited until the judge had moved on before continuing. “Leo is Crawford's top specials dog. Obviously he's the one Crawford is hoping to win with. No handler with a top winning dog would agree to take another special in the same group. After all, he can show only one at a time. I'd guess that the Tibetan Spaniel is a class dog of Crawford's that got lucky and won his breed. Crawford doesn't want him giving Leo any competition.”

“Then why show him at all?”

All Best of Breed and Best of Variety winners are eligible to show in the group, but they aren't required to if they didn't want to. Group winners, however, are required to compete for Best in Show.

“Maybe his owners are here and wanted to see him in the group ring,” Peg said in an undertone. “Besides, don't forget that the woman who's in there judging now is the same one who did these breeds earlier. She liked that Tibetan Spaniel enough to give it the Breed.

“Crawford certainly wouldn't want to insult her good judgment by not showing the dog. On the other hand, I'm sure he's told Terry to make sure the dog isn't a threat. Crawford wants to make it perfectly clear to the judge which of his two entries he intends to win with.”

“Jeez.” I felt frown lines wrinkling my forehead. “I'm never going to get the hang of all this.”

“Sure you will. Another ten or fifteen years of showing and you'll be an old pro.”

What a pleasant prospect that was.

The Chow prevailed easily, setting himself up for a confrontation with Midas, among others, in the Best in Show ring. While the Hound group was being judged, Peg, Davey, and I went back for another round of ice cream. On the way, I told her about what I'd seen and heard earlier.

“What on earth would Viv and Austin have to argue about?” she asked.

“I wondered the same thing. Viv said it was nothing.”

“Maybe it was.” She didn't necessarily sound convinced.

“What about the business with Viv and Leo?” I prodded. “Doesn't that seem odd?”

Sometimes when dog-related things don't make sense to me, Peg is able to put another spin on the situation and everything sorts itself out. This time, however, her reaction was the same as mine.

“I'll say it does. I can't imagine Ron letting her make a decision like that.”

“Maybe he didn't, and she's covering for him. Maybe Ron and Barry had a huge fight, and now with Barry dead, he'd just as soon nobody knew about it.”

“My, you have a devious mind.” Peg grinned happily. She likes it when her relatives demonstrate unexpected ability. “I was thinking along less sinister lines myself. Ron's been breeding Chows for years, you know. His first wife, Mona, was very involved with the dogs and the dog shows.”

As we reached the Häagen-Dazs cart, I reminded Davey that we had apples back at the setup.

“Ice cream,” he said stubbornly.

“You just had ice cream.”

Aunt Peg ended the argument by placing an order for two more ice cream bars. “He's a growing boy,” she said. “Let him eat.”

“I do let him eat. He can have all the fruit he wants.”

“Oh, pish.” Peg paid the man and distributed the booty.

Once again, it was left to me to remember napkins. “Tell me about Mona,” I said as we started back.

“I don't think Mona's the issue, really. It's just that she seemed to be an equal partner in Ron's breeding program in a way that Viv isn't. Maybe there's a bit of lingering jealousy there. Or perhaps Viv is just trying to make herself seem more involved than she really is. After all, nobody can dispute the fact that the decision turned out to be a good one.”

“I like the big-fight theory better,” I decided.

“Me too,” Peg admitted. “Do you suppose Ron knows anything about guns?”

“These days, it seems as if almost everyone does.”

“I know about guns,” Davey said proudly. He pointed his ice cream bar toward us and moved his finger as though pulling a trigger. “Bang!”

“Great,” I muttered. “What else do you know?”

“Guns are very dangerous. They can kill people. Just like drugs.”

Aunt Peg lifted a brow.

“Just Say No,” I explained. “Hunting Ridge is a very progressive school.”

“I should say so,” said Peg, not sounding entirely pleased about the things her five-year-old nephew was learning.

I couldn't say as I blamed her. I'm sure I'm not the only mother who finds herself torn between wanting to protect her child's innocence, and understanding the need to prepare him to deal with the real world.

When we got back to the ring, the Terrier group was just ending. The Irish Terrier collected the blue ribbon and joined the line up for Best in Show. By now the crowds had thinned and I was able to pick out Ron and Viv, who were standing with Terry at one end of the ring. Across on the other side, Austin was with a group of people I didn't know. It seemed just as well that the two men had the length of the ring separating them.

As the Best in Show judging began, Aunt Peg watched the proceedings with great attention. Unfamiliar with most of the participants, I was less absorbed. Could Ron have murdered Barry? I wondered. What could they have been fighting over that was that important? And if he'd already voiced his unhappiness by moving Leo to another handler, why come back three months later with a gun? The whole thing made no sense at all.

A burst of applause brought me out of my reverie. Peg and Davey were both clapping like mad—Peg, no doubt, because the dog she favored was at the head of the line, and Davey because he hates to be left out. As I looked into the ring, the judge turned and pointed at Leo and Crawford.

Even from thirty feet away, I could hear Terry squeal with delight. And that gave me an idea.

If anyone knew why the Pullmans' Chow had left Turk's kennel and gone to Crawford, it was Crawford himself. Getting him to talk, however, was about as easy as teaching a Bulldog to retrieve. In the hustle and bustle of a dog show, I would never be able to pin him down.

A visit to his home might be another matter. Especially if I already had a nice, innocuous reason for being there. Terry'd offered twice to cut my hair. This seemed like an excellent time to take him up on his offer.

 

Here's a tip for anyone who wants to pay a visit to a professional handler and is hoping to generate goodwill: go in the middle of the week. Thursday and Friday are spent preparing for the weekend shows, and Monday is the day to recover and get everything put back together. Tuesday and Wednesday are about as close as handlers ever get to a day off. Their dogs still have to be fed and exercised, but the bulk of the work can be set aside for later.

I spoke with Terry Monday night and he told me to come Wednesday morning. He didn't mention whether or not Crawford would be there, and I didn't ask. I'd wing it, I decided, and hope for the best. Bedford, where Crawford's kennel was located, was only a short hop over the state line into Westchester County. Even if I didn't get to ask any questions, with luck, the haircut would make the trip worthwhile.

Thunderstorms were forecast for late afternoon, but when I dropped Davey off at camp, the day had yet to cloud over. The sky was a vivid shade of blue with only the merest wisps of airy white clouds scudding across the horizon. Faith was on the front seat of the Volvo beside me. Terry had said that Crawford wouldn't mind if I brought her along.