4
“L
unch?” Bertie said, coming back down the aisle with Davey. “You must be kidding. I have thirteen dogs to show, and at least two are going on to the groups. The only food I’ll get today is going to be on the fly.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” I asked. “Faith’s all done and she doesn’t mind hanging out in her crate for a while. Aunt Peg and Davey can go get something to eat and you can put me to work.”
“You don’t have to do that, Melanie.”
Despite her words, I could tell Bertie was considering the offer. Fiercely independent, she had built her business over the years through sheer talent and determination. During most of that time, she’d had nobody but herself to depend on.
Being a professional handler isn’t an easy job for anyone, much less a young woman alone. The days start and finish in the dark, and the work is often arduous. Weekends demand constant travel, driving to out-of-the-way places, often in less-than-ideal weather. And even on a handler’s day off, the dogs must still be cared for.
Not only that, but the pressure to win, to produce results for your clients, is constant. I knew the sacrifices that Bertie had made, and I knew how much of her life she’d dedicated to succeeding in the sport of dogs. But until she’d mentioned it just now, I hadn’t realized that her string had grown so large. Bertie must have been running from the moment she arrived at the show hours earlier.
“Come on,” I said. “Give me a dog to do. It will be good for me to learn something besides how to brush a Poodle.”
“Well . . . I’ve got two Shar Peis, a class dog and bitch, going in about fifteen minutes. I’ve been wondering how I was going to juggle that.”
“Extra hands.” I held mine up and wiggled my fingers. “At your service.”
“We’ll bring you back something,” Peg promised as she and Davey left. Actually, considering the caliber of most dog show food, missing lunch wasn’t a hardship.
“I had no idea you had so many dogs now,” I said, leaning back against the edge of a grooming table as Bertie sorted through her tack box, looking for the Shar Peis’ leashes. “You ought to think about hiring an assistant.”
“I’ve considered it. And of course, Kate worked out great for a while.”
Kate Russo was one of my former students at Howard Academy. The teenager’s love for dogs and her boundless energy had combined to make her seem like the perfect helper. I’d introduced her to Bertie a year earlier, and Bertie had taken Kate on as an unpaid apprentice.
“How come she’s not still working for you? Did she quit?”
Bertie nodded. “This fall when she started high school. Her mother really wanted her to concentrate on her studies and I could understand that. Besides, Kate wanted to sign up for the debating team and try out for JV basketball, so her time was really limited.
“Having her around was great while it lasted. This many dogs
is
a lot for one person to handle, but you know how these things go. I’m half afraid that as soon as I hire someone, all my clients will disappear and I’ll be overextended financially. Working around the clock isn’t my idea of fun, but it seems like less of a gamble.”
Bertie handed me a show leash and pointed to two medium-sized wooden crates, each at the bottom of a stack. Chinese Shar Peis, the breed famous for their loose, wrinkled skin, are not terribly tall, but they’re heavy for their size. Bending down, I braced myself as I opened the crate and the Shar Pei came bounding out into the aisle.
“You’ve got the bitch,” said Bertie. “Her name is Ping. Mine’s the litter brother.”
“Don’t tell me. Pong?”
“How’d you guess?” She smiled. “They’re both in Open. Pong’s the only male, so with any luck I can pick up two points by beating the bitch for Best of Winners. Ping’s going to have a harder time of it, but if she does win, I’ll need you to show her for me in the breed.”
Things went pretty much just as Bertie had predicted. Though Ping had to settle for Reserve Winners Bitch, Pong did indeed get two points. Not only was he Best of Winners, but he also won the red-and-white ribbon for Best of Opposite Sex.
Making the win even more gratifying, the litter mates’ breeder-owner was standing ringside to watch her Shar Peis compete. Judging by the woman’s jubilant expression, this was one client Bertie wouldn’t be losing any time soon.
On our way back to the setup, Bertie suggested that we detour past the obedience rings. “I looked at the schedule,” she said. “Open A was supposed to start at noon, so I’m pretty sure that Sara and Titus will be hanging out. With so little time before the wedding, I just want to make sure she’s on top of everything.”
“It’s only been three days since we got together at my house,” I pointed out.
“And I’ve only got six weeks to pull this whole thing together. Let’s hope Sara’s been busy.”
Like the rest of the show, the obedience area was crowded. Inevitably, casual spectators are drawn to these arenas. It takes years of study and a skilled eye to sort out the difference between the winners and the losers in breed competition; obedience is much more straight-forward. Even a novice can usually tell whether a dog has followed his owner’s command or not. Plus, the exercises are fun to watch.
Each obedience class requires different obstacles to be set up for the competition. For Open, it was a high jump built of solid planks and a broad jump placed on one side of the matted floor. It only took a moment to locate our ring, which was at the far end, currently occupied by an exuberant Border Collie.
As we headed that way, I gazed around the area, looking for a sable Sheltie. Yes, I know, most people would have looked for Sara. But I’m a dog person; we tend to do things differently.
“There she is.” Abruptly, Bertie stopped walking.
I managed not to crash into her, but Ping, following closely behind her brother, wasn’t so lucky. She and Pong went down in a heap, then apparently decided that was a great opportunity to engage in a wrestling match. Almost immediately, they had their leashes tangled, in part because Bertie wasn’t paying any attention to their antics.
“Uh oh,” Bertie said under her breath.
“What?” I looked up, leaving the playful dogs to their own devices. At least they didn’t have any hair to muss.
Sara was standing somewhat away from ringside beside a wire mesh crate that held Titus, sleeping, inside. She wasn’t alone; an older man was standing next to her. From where we stood, it looked as though they were arguing.
“Who’s that with Sara?” I asked. Ping, pushed by her brother, rolled into my legs and nearly knocked me over.
“Grant Waring. Her stepfather.”
“They don’t look too happy.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not unusual. Sara doesn’t come from a close family. Hell, they’re not even a normal family. I guess Delilah must be showing something in Shelties. Grant hates dog shows. He never comes unless Delilah drags him along.”
Bertie was too distracted to notice, but people were beginning to stare at us. In a setting where everyone took enormous pride in their dogs’ training and deportment, our tussling Shar Peis stuck out like a pair of circus clowns at the opera.
“Let’s give her a minute,” she said. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Good idea,” I agreed. “Besides . . .”
I lifted my hand, intending to gesture toward the problem at our feet. Unfortunately, Ping chose that moment to lunge once more at her brother. With a snap, the end of the short show lead flipped out of my fingers and ricocheted down to slap the Shar Pei on the flank.
Ping’s first reaction was surprise. Delight quickly followed as she realized she was free. Before I could grab her, she’d taken off.
“Oh, criminy!”
I jumped over Pong’s prostrate body and ran after her, zigzagging between spectators toward the ring. Luckily the class was now between competitors and the stewards were adjusting the jumps. Otherwise, I’d have committed the cardinal sin of allowing my dog to disrupt another’s performance. As it was, Ping and I were merely providing something akin to halftime entertainment.
Grant Waring was a fit, good looking man in his fifties, sporting a full head of steel gray hair and a tan that had to have been acquired somewhere other than Connecticut in November. His blue jeans were snug; his loafers, polished. A bulky fisherman-knit sweater hinted at an admirable physique beneath.
“That is not an option,” I heard him say as I scrambled toward him, trying to grab Ping’s leash.
“It is if I say so,” Sara snapped. “It’s my decision, and you can just—”
Grant stumbled forward as the galloping Shar Pei barreled into him from behind. With considerably more grace than I’d have shown under the circumstances, he recovered quickly, reaching down to snag Ping’s leash and pull the dog to a halt.
“Well,” he said, “what have we here?”
“Sorry. She got away from me.” I took the lead from his hand and hauled Ping back.
The Shar Pei was now jumping up and trying to wrap herself around Grant’s leg. To his credit, he didn’t look too perturbed about the situation.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Happens at my house all the time.”
“Hi, Sara, Grant.” Bertie materialized behind me, leading the other half of our dynamic duo. For safekeeping, she took Ping’s leash from me and added it to the other she held in her hand.
Grant’s brow furrowed as he studied Bertie with a slight frown. Bertie is one of the few women I know who are truly gorgeous. She has thick auburn hair, a wonderful complexion, and the kind of tall, athletic build that looks good in anything she chooses to wear.
Most men don’t frown when they look at her. In fact, they usually fawn all over her. It’s a good thing my brother isn’t the jealous type, or he’d have to buy himself a shotgun.
After a second, Grant’s expression cleared. “Bertie, right? I’m afraid it’s been a while.”
“Too long,” Bertie agreed easily. “Sara and I have been out of touch, but she’s recently agreed to work on a project for me.”
“Really?” Grant glanced at his stepdaughter with the same sort of quizzical expression he’d just trained on Bertie. “May I ask what kind?”
“I’m getting married over Christmas. Sara’s planning my wedding for me.”
“Then congratulations are in order. Who’s the lucky groom?”
One look at Grant Waring and I knew he was the type of man who moved in a tightly contained social circle where everyone belonged to the same clubs, sent their children to the same private schools, and wintered at the same Florida coastal town. Good manners required him to ask after Bertie’s betrothed, though there wasn’t a hope in hell that the two of them had ever crossed paths.
“His name is Frank Travis. He owns a small business in Stamford. In fact,” Bertie added, suddenly remembering my presence and performing an introduction, “he’s Melanie’s brother.”
“Please pass along my best wishes,” Grant said smoothly, taking my hand in his. His eyes were a warm shade of brown. For the moment that they focused on me it was as though nothing else in the world was more important to him.
“I’ll do that.”
“Sara.” He turned back to his stepdaughter. “I’m sure you and your friends have a lot to talk about. I
will
see you at home later.”
“Yes.” Sara didn’t look happy about it.
“Everything okay?” Bertie asked as Grant strode off.
“Sure, fine.” Sara glanced at me. “Don’t mind Grant. He’s always like that.”
“I thought he was charming.”
“He can be. That’s one of his better qualities. Don’t get me started on his bad ones.” Sara looked back at Bertie. “Were you looking for me, or is this just a coincidence?”
“Looking,” said Bertie, glancing at her watch. “Though now I’m running out of time again. I just wanted to find out if you were making any headway with the plans.”
“Of course. I’ve made tons of calls. What do you think of leasing one of the dining rooms at the Greenwich Country Club? Imagine the terrace that overlooks the golf course, trimmed with fairy lights and filled with flowers.”
“It sounds wonderful. There’s only one problem. I’m not a member of the Greenwich Country Club.”
“I am and I’ve already spoken to them about it. If it meets your approval, I’ll go ahead with the arrangements. See?” Sara patted Bertie’s arm reassuringly. “Headway. There’s more, too, but you probably don’t have to discuss it all now. You were right—I
am
good at this. In fact, I think I’m really going to enjoy it.”
“Phooey,” I said as Bertie and I walked the Shar Peis back to the setup. “We forgot to ask her about that story Aunt Peg told us.”
“That’s all right. With Grant around hassling her, this probably wasn’t the best time. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be seeing plenty of Sara over the next few weeks. I’ll find out the scoop if you want.”
Aunt Peg and Davey were back at the crates, waiting for us when we returned. The hamburgers they’d brought for us were flat and cold in their soggy, grease soaked buns. Fortunately, the half-dozen brownies Peg had also piled into the cardboard carry box had survived the wait better.
Munching, Bertie, Peg, and I readied Bertie’s last three class entries: a Keeshond and two Chinese Cresteds. Then, satisfied that she had everything under control, I got Faith out of her crate and began to pack up. The Poodle’s long black topknot, done up now in wraps and bands to keep it out of her way, flipped and bobbed as she danced on the tabletop.
Damn, I wished she had finished today. I was really looking forward to the day when I could cut off her hair and let her live like a normal dog, one who knew what it felt like to have her owner scratch the top of her head, or to run full tilt through the woods.
“It’s getting to be about time,” I whispered to Faith.
Pressing my nose against hers, I cupped my palms under the sides of her jaw and rubbed back and forth over her lips and teeth with my thumbs as I stroked her cheeks with my fingers. Faith leaned forward into me, wiggling her body with delight and enjoying her favorite non-hair-invasive caress.