Hair of the Dog (5 page)

“What about clients?” I asked. “You said Barry'd been having a good year. Any exceptions to that? Anyone he'd been having trouble with lately?”

Beth shrugged. “Every operation has a few dissatisfied customers. Some people are impossible to please. But nobody in particular comes to mind.”

She wrapped the long hair on the Poodle's ears in colorful plastic wrap, then flipped the ends up and under, and banded them out of the way. The blow-dry was over. The dog stood up and shook. Beth cupped her hand around the Poodle's muzzle and hopped him down from the table.

“Be back in a minute,” she said, disappearing through a door that led back to the pens where the dogs were kept. It seemed like less time than that before she returned. This time her hand was cupped around the muzzle of a rangy black bitch.

“This is Vanna,” she said, releasing the Poodle. The bitch came over and sniffed my outstretched hand. “Tell Peg today's day four.”

“Got it.” That meant that this was Vanna's fourth day in season, which meant that she would probably be ready to breed in about a week. “Anything else?”

“No. She's a real sweetheart, I'm sorry to see her go. Barry'd already put six points on her and he hadn't shown her that much. If you talk to her owner, you could give me a plug. I'd love to get her back.”

I slid my hand around the Poodle's muzzle as Beth had done. That way, I didn't have to use a collar that might make mats in her all-important neck hair. “You really think you can make a go of it on your own?”

“Who knows?” said Beth. “But I'm sure as hell going to try.”

 

By the time I got back to Greenwich, it was almost twelve-thirty. My stomach was rumbling, but I didn't hold out any hope that Aunt Peg might feed me lunch. When she's doing out a dog, she never allows herself to be sidetracked by anything as mundane as mealtime. I found her back in the kennel, just as I knew I would.

Aunt Peg's kennel building consists of two large rooms. The one in back contains the pens that house the Poodles she's currently keeping in hair. The room in front is where she works.

Windows in two walls and a skylight above provide plenty of light, and a wall of shelves holds her grooming equipment, everything from pin brushes and shampoo to extra ear wraps and clipper blades. A bathtub mounted waist-high fills one corner of the room, and a glass-fronted trophy cabinet takes up another.

The rest of the wall space is covered with pictures, “win photos” from the shows the Cedar Crest Standard Poodles have attended over the last three decades. Aunt Peg tends to ignore the silverware, most of which needs polishing, but given the slightest encouragement, she's delighted to walk a visitor through the rows of pictures. They're a visual history of all that she and her husband had accomplished over the years, and she's justifiably proud of the results.

When I arrived, Aunt Peg had Tory on a grooming table in the middle of the room. The Poodle was dripping wet and Peg was blotting her coat with a succession of thick towels. I opened the kennel door a crack and peered inside.

Aunt Peg's favorite Poodle is a retired campaigner named Beau, who's almost always by her side. He's also a retired stud dog, and with Vanna in season, I could think of all sorts of reasons why the two of them shouldn't meet. At least not on my watch.

“Where's Beau?” I asked.

“Up at the house,” said Peg, leaving Tory on the table to come and open the door. “And not the slightest bit happy about it. I knew you'd be along any minute. Come on in, let's have a look at you.”

The second half of her comment was directed at Vanna. Being around Aunt Peg, I'd gotten used to that. She tends to include Poodles in the conversation as if they're extra family members.

“You're a big girl, aren't you?” Aunt Peg crooned as she ran her hands over the Poodle's sides. Vanna wagged her tail and did a little dance in place. In dog-speak, that meant they were already halfway to being friends. “Pretty face. Could use a better front. Maybe Joker can help with that.”

Peg fished a dog biscuit out of a bin by the door, then led the way into the other room. Vanna followed happily in her wake. “Now then,” she said when she returned. “How were things in Poughkeepsie?”

“Unsettled,” I said, and told her about my visit.

Aunt Peg likes solving puzzles, and she's nosy too. It's a dangerous combination. She listened carefully to everything I said. If she hadn't had a wet Poodle on her hands, I got the impression she'd have been taking notes.

“Interesting,” she said at the end. “I'd say that all worked out rather well.”

No surprises there. “I told Alicia I'd ask a few questions,” I said firmly. “That's all.”

“A few questions here, a few questions there . . . Who knows what may turn up?”

Hoping to distract her, I changed the subject. “Sam's coming over tonight. I'm making lasagna, and after dinner the three of us are going down to listen to music in the park. Would you like to join us?”

“I can't,” said Peg. “I've got a date.”

“A date?” I repeated stupidly. Then I remembered. “With Douglas?”

“Of course with Douglas.” Peg looked very pleased with herself.

It was time to go pick up Davey. I grinned as I headed to the door on my way out. After all the meddling I'd had to endure from Aunt Peg over my relationship with Sam, it was nice to have the shoe on the other foot for a change. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

Aunt Peg glanced pointedly down her nose. “Presumably that leaves me a great deal of latitude.”

“Not
that
much,” I warned her.

Aunt Peg likes to have the last word, and she's a master at it. “I'll see you tomorrow,” she said as I opened the door.

“You will?”

“The Saddle River dog show. Where else do you expect to begin asking questions?”

The Saddle River show, of course.

Just like old times.

Before last summer I'd barely even heard of dog shows, much less envisioned myself going to one. But once Aunt Peg got me started, I was hooked. At our first dog show, Davey and I had walked around in awe. The American Kennel Club recognizes one hundred and fifty breeds and varieties of dogs, and at most shows a majority of them are present. The dogs are immaculately groomed and skillfully presented. We didn't know which direction to look in first.

By this time I'd like to think that we're getting to be old hands, but that didn't stop me from feeling a small tingle of excitement as we drove onto the show ground. The day was warm and sunny, with a slight breeze and just enough humidity to frizz my hair around my shoulders. Perfect weather for showing a dog would have been a bit cooler, but it was certainly perfect for watching.

The grounds the Saddle River show had chosen were large and well laid out. As we drove to the parking area, I saw at least a dozen rings. They were positioned in two parallel rows, with a big green-and-white-striped tent covering the center expanse. At one end of the rings was another large tent, which the exhibitors used to either groom their dogs or just keep them crated in the shade until it was their turn to be shown.

I knew from experience that eventually we'd find Aunt Peg in the handlers' tent. Since we hadn't brought a dog to show, however, Davey and I had plenty of time to park the car and look around.

“Look!” cried Davey. “Those are my favorite.”

I turned and saw that he was pointing at three Great Pyrenees, massive white dogs with broad heads and ample coat. Davey picks a new favorite at each show, and his choices have included everything from Old English Sheepdogs to Border Collies. The two things they all seem to have in common are large size and lots of hair. Luckily, Standard Poodles fill the bill on both counts.

“I thought Faith was your favorite,” I mentioned.

“She is. I meant my favorite
here.”

That was my son's idea of a subtle dig, as he'd voted to bring Faith with us. Aside from the fact that it was going to be hot, however, Aunt Peg had made it perfectly clear that no Standard Poodle of hers needed to be seen in public at the gawky age of fourteen months. Deferring to her better judgment, I'd left Faith snoozing happily at home with a cool bowl of water and a new marrow bone.

We passed the Great Pyrenees, then paused by the next ring, where sporting dogs were being judged. According to the schedule in the front of my catalogue, Golden Retrievers were about to start. Austin Beamish's dog, Midas, was entered in the Best of Breed class, and I decided to stick around and have a look.

The main purpose of the competition at dog shows is to acquire enough points to make a dog a champion. Points are won within each breed, and the classes are divided by sex. The classes that a nonchampion dog can be entered in are: Puppy, Novice, Bred-by-Exhibitor, American-Bred, and Open, with some shows adding a class for entrants between the ages of twelve and eighteen months. Most dogs are eligible for several classes, and owners may take their choice. Males are judged first, followed by the females.

After the individual classes within each sex have been judged, the class winners are brought back into the ring to contend for Winners Dog and Winners Bitch. Only these two winners are awarded points. The number of points given out at a show varies from breed to breed, and is dependent upon the number of competing dogs that have been defeated.

The fewest number of points awarded is one, the maximum, five. It takes fifteen points to make a champion, and included in those fifteen must be two “major” wins, that is, wins large enough to produce at least three points.

Even with a good dog, the process can be long and arduous. I'd shown Faith nearly a dozen times as a puppy. Pretty as she was, we hadn't acquired any points yet, although she had managed to win Reserve Winners Bitch twice.

Davey liked the looks of the Goldens and watched the class competition happily. He's not known for his patience, so I imagined I'd be paying for this goodwill sooner or later. The Open class winner was awarded Winners Dog, and the Open Bitch won her points as well. As the judge marked the results in his book, the steward stepped to the gate and called the champions into the ring.

There were only three, and in that competition, Austin's dog stood out immediately. The listing in the catalogue said Champion Glengarron Midas Touch, and the name suited him well. In the sunlight, Midas's coat shimmered like golden silk. His body was beautifully conditioned and he carried himself with pride. I don't know much about Golden Retrievers as a breed, but even I could see that this was a really good one.

The dog was handled in the ring by a pro named Tom Rossi, who clearly had the situation well under control. In no time at all, Midas was awarded the purple and gold ribbon for Best of Breed. I heard a smattering of applause from the other side of the ring and followed it to its source just in time to catch a glimpse of Austin before he turned and walked away.

Most winners like to hang around and bask in their dogs' reflected glory, but apparently not Austin. Maybe he had another dog being judged at the same time; or maybe a Best of Breed win, terrific as it seemed to me, wasn't that big a deal for him. From what Aunt Peg had said at the party, I gathered he set his sights on Best in Show and very often hit the mark.

All the breeds recognized by the A.K.C are divided into seven groups: Sporting, Hound, Working, Terrier, Toy, Non-Sporting, and Herding. Later in the day, Midas would go on to compete in the Sporting group against all the other BOB winners. If he won there, then it was on to the ultimate pinnacle—competing against the other six group winners for Best in Show. I guess when you aimed that high, Best of Breed might seem like just another stepping-stone along the way.

Davey and I did some more browsing around the rings, then made our way over to the handlers' tent. Most casual spectators at a dog show never bother with the grooming area. They figure the action is in the rings. And it is, up to a point. But for every dog that spends ten minutes in the ring being judged, someone has spent an hour under the grooming tent, getting it ready.

That's where people have time to talk and visit with one another. They look at puppies, compare equipment, and exchange all the latest gossip. What happens in the rings is important, certainly; but the interaction that goes on under the handlers' tent is what keeps the sport alive.

Poodle people bring a lot of stuff to a show. Even Aunt Peg, with only one dog, had a portable grooming table, a big metal crate, and a wooden tack box filled with brushes, combs, scissors, and hair spray. Inevitably she finds someplace interesting to set up, so I wasn't surprised to find her parked just down the aisle from Crawford Langley.

What did surprise me was to see Douglas Brannigan backing her station wagon out of the unloading zone beside the tent. At nine-thirty in the morning, no less. I stared at Aunt Peg. She gave me a saintly smile. Davey, luckily, was transfixed by a litter of Norwich Terrier puppies in an exercise pen beside the tent and didn't notice a thing.

“Good morning, Melanie,” Aunt Peg said cheerfully. “You're here early.”

“So is Douglas.”

“So he is.” Aunt Peg bent down and began unpacking her tack box, pulling out slicker and pin brushes, a wide-tooth comb, and a spray bottle of water. “This is his first dog show. I hope he doesn't find it too long a day.”

“I guess that depends.” I hiked myself up and sat on the edge of the grooming table. “Did he get a good night's sleep last night?”

“Very,” Peg said smugly. The woman had no shame.

“I can't believe it!”

“What?”

“You just met.”

“Oh, pish,” said Peg. “You're just sorry you wasted so much time with Sam.”

All right, maybe she was partly right. Sam and I had taken things slowly in the beginning; my choice, not his. But with Davey's feelings needing to be taken into consideration too, I hadn't wanted to make any mistakes. Now, in hindsight, it seemed as though I'd worried for nothing. Which didn't mean I still didn't find Aunt Peg's actions to be slightly precipitous.

“Mom,” Davey interrupted, coming up behind me. “Can I have a puppy?”

“No.” I didn't even have to think to answer. Any mother of a five-year-old knows the feeling. “You already have a dog at home.”

Davey gazed wistfully at the Norwiches. “Two would be nice.”

“Two would be too much.”

“Come and give me a hug,” Peg said, and Davey did, his short arms circling her hips.

“Aunt Peg has lots of dogs,” Davey mentioned. “She doesn't think they're too much.”

I glanced meaningfully toward the parking area. Douglas was making his way toward us across the field. “Apparently Aunt Peg is more liberal than I am.”

She untangled my son's arms, lifted him up, and set him down on top of the big metal crate. “Don't be such a prude, Melanie.”

“I'm not,” I said, just to set the facts straight.

“What's a prude?” asked Davey.

“It's someone who doesn't want anyone else to have any fun,” said Peg.

“Like someone who won't let me have a puppy?”

“Precisely.”

I looked at the two of them and resisted the temptation to bang their heads together. “I'm going for a walk,” I said.

“I'm staying with Aunt Peg,” Davey informed me. “She's not a prude.”

Knowing Peg, she probably also had a box of cookies stashed in the bottom of her tack box.

I put Davey's bag on the crate beside him. It held crayons, a coloring book, and a selection of toy cars, enough to keep him busy for at least ten minutes.

“You'll keep an eye on him?” I asked. Considering my son's penchant for playing hide-and-seek, it wasn't the easiest job in the world.

“Of course,” said Peg. “Douglas will help.”

The man in question arrived at the setup as I was leaving. “What a perfectly lovely morning,” he said, smiling broadly.

“Indeed,” I muttered, feeling every bit the killjoy that I was.

It wasn't that I begrudged Peg her happiness, just that the idea of her in a relationship took some getting used to. Especially a relationship that had gotten that serious that quickly. Or then again, I thought, maybe it hadn't. Aunt Peg had always considered herself to be rather a free spirit. Maybe they were having casual sex.

Smiling at the thought, I strolled down the aisle to Crawford's setup. The first time I'd met the handler he'd reminded me of a show dog—sleek, self-possessed, and very well groomed. I knew he was gay, but Crawford handled that part of his life the same way he handled everything else, with reserve and a great deal of discretion.

He'd been part of the dog game for longer than I'd been alive, and had connections everywhere. Crawford always seemed to know where the next really good dog was coming from, and why the last one had gone home. Everybody's secrets were safe with him, and I'm sure it was a continuing source of annoyance that I was always asking him questions he didn't want to answer.

Crawford's setup was large and impressive. In addition to a double row of crates there were five grooming tables, three of them currently holding Standard Poodles. All had been brushed and had their topknots in. Now they awaited the finishing touches of hair spray and scissoring that would be done just before it was time to take them up to the ring.

In the meantime, Crawford was working on top of a toy-sized crate, putting matching bows in the hair of a tiny, impossibly white Maltese. Another man, whom I hadn't seen before, had a second Maltese on a table.

Specialized assistance is beyond my abilities, but with coaching, I'm good at helping out. Several times in the spring, Crawford had found himself shorthanded and I'd been pressed into service. Little by little, I was learning how to make myself useful.

I walked over to where he was working. “Need any help?”

“No, I got it.” The Maltese stood like a statue as Crawford finished smoothing the hair into place. “I'll be heading up to ringside in a minute. What's new with you?”

That was his way of warning me that if I'd come to bug him about something, I had to talk fast.

“Alicia asked me to look into Barry's murder,” I said.

“I figured the police would be handling that.”

“They are. I just told her I'd ask around a little. Care to speculate who might have done it?”

Crawford's expression left little doubt as to his feelings about speculation. Finally he said, “Plenty of people had a problem with Barry Turk. That was just the kind of person he was. But someone who was mad enough to pull out a gun and shoot? That's way beyond anything I'd know about.”

I was used to Crawford's evasiveness. Before he'd even finished speaking, I was ready to try another tack. “I heard that maybe the two of you weren't getting along so well.”

He sent me a stern look. “What you heard was that Barry lost his specials dog and I ended up with him.”

“That must have made him angry.”

“I imagine it might have, but we never talked about it.”

That surprised me. “You didn't?”

“No reason to. Barry never contacted me, and it's not as if I was about to call him.”

Crawford picked up a comb and placed it in the pocket of his sports coat. Next he lifted the small white Toy and tucked it carefully under his arm. If I was lucky, there was time for one more question.

“I heard Barry was saying that Ron still owed him money on a bill. Do you know anything about that?”