Best in Show (12 page)

Whether we had a chance of winning or not, I wanted Eve to make a good impression. One of the best ways to insure that was to be prepared. I already knew from checking the catalog that there would be thirty-six entries in Eve's class. Sorting them out correctly would be a huge task.

Being selected to judge at the national specialty is an enormous honor. It's also a lot of work. Judges have to hold their focus through class entries that are larger than the total number of Poodles they would see at a normal show. The caliber of the dogs they're deciding among is higher as well; often only the tiniest difference separates a blue ribbon from a white one. Tommy Lamb, the Standard judge, was managing his ring with flair and authority. He looked well up to the task.

Aunt Peg and Sam were seated at the corner of the Standard ring opposite where Mr. Lamb was standing. Their placement was no accident. When the judge sent his puppies straight out and back to check their movement coming and going away, they would have the same view that he did, the best in the house.

As the judge made his cut in the first class, I headed over to join them. Sam stood up as I approached. “Peg said not to save you a seat. She seemed to think you'd be working at the raffle table.”

“I
am
working,” I said, holding up my basket. “Can't you tell?”

Aunt Peg never even tore her gaze away from the action in the ring. “Quiet,” she said.

“Why? The judge isn't saying anything.”

“He might.”

Hard to argue with logic like that.

“Take my chair,” Sam whispered. “I'll stand behind you. Do you want me to buy some tickets while you're here?”

“That would be great.” I scooted around him and sat. Sam took the basket and rummaged around for the supplies he needed.

“Who are we rooting for?” I asked Peg under my breath.

“That one.” She flicked her finger discreetly in the direction of a big black puppy. “Yoko's dog. Check your catalog. He's Eve's half brother, sired by the same dog you bred Faith to.”

Of course Aunt Peg had been in charge of making that decision. Just as when she planned her own litters, she'd chosen a stud dog after weighing a variety of important factors including health, genetic test results, and temperament, as well as good looks. The litter of puppies I'd gotten as a result had been everything I'd hoped they would be.

In the ring, Mr. Lamb pulled Yoko's puppy out of the line and put him in third place. He looked up and down his entry again, then sent them all around one last time.

“Good,” Peg said as the judge lifted his hand and pointed, awarding the puppy the yellow ribbon. “That means you'll have a chance tomorrow.”

“You mean I might win?” I asked, shocked.

“No.” Peg sounded equally shocked by my presumption. “I mean you might get noticed in your class.” She turned and looked at me sternly. “He'll like Eve's type. As long as you don't blow it, of course.”

Of course, I thought. Wasn't that always the way?

“D
o I have to buy more raffle tickets?” Aunt Peg asked.

Now that the first class was over, there was a lull in the ring while the judge marked his book, handed out the ribbons, and took a few minutes to speak into a tiny tape recorder about his placements. PCA requested that each judge write up a critique of his or her entries. Taping their impressions as they went along helped them remember what they'd been thinking at the time. With the ring momentarily empty, Peg had deigned to notice my presence.

“If you want,” I replied. My aunt was one of those club members who believed in supporting her club to the fullest. And I wasn't about to turn down a sale, especially not one that gave me a good excuse to continue sitting and watching.

“Here, let me,” said Sam. Though he'd finished his own transaction, he still had the basket. He lifted out the roll of tickets and began to unspool a dozen.

“You handle that like a pro.”

“I should, I've had enough experience. You're not the only one who's served time on the raffle committee.”

I turned in my chair and stared up at him. “You worked for the sisters, too?”

“No, this was a while ago. Ten years at least. It was before the Boones took over.”

“You were on Rhonda Lowell's committee.” Aunt Peg smiled at the memory. “She was a taskmaster.” Her gaze shifted my way. “
She
didn't allow any sitting down on the job.”

“No lunch or coffee breaks either,” said Sam. “She had three assistants and by the second day, we were all dead on our feet.”

“I don't think I know her,” I said. The name didn't sound familiar.

“You wouldn't. She didn't last,” Aunt Peg said. “Gave up showing dogs and found herself a new hobby.”

“Something more challenging,” said Sam. “Something faster paced.”

“Lure coursing?” I guessed.

“Olympic bobsled team.”

Ahhh. Suddenly, being indentured to Edith Jean's raffle table didn't sound like such a bad thing after all.

The next Standard Poodle class, Puppy Dog, 9 to 12 Months, began to file into the ring. The big group followed catalog order, handlers finding their place in line according to the numbers on their armbands.

Aunt Peg was already making notations in the margin of her catalog. While the class got organized, she spared me a quick glance. “Speaking of helping with the raffle, are you sure you shouldn't be over at the table with Edith Jean?”

“She was the one who sent me away,” I said.

A woman sitting near us got up and left and Sam snagged the empty chair. “I heard about what happened to Betty Jean. I'll have to stop by and offer my condolences.”

“Did you know Betty Jean?” I asked.

“No. I'm sorry to say I don't even remember what she looked like.”

“You're not alone. The sisters don't appear to have known anyone in the dog show world very well. They shipped their good puppy off to a handler this past spring and have kept tabs on his career from afar. Aside from coming to PCA each year, I get the impression that they pretty much kept to themselves. Which will make it even harder on Edith Jean when she has to go home alone.”

“What about family back in Georgia?”

“Apparently there's nobody else,” I said quietly. “Just the two of them and their Poodles. I wonder if Edith Jean has a job to go back to. At least that might help a little.”

The puppy having its individual examination in the ring was a gangly apricot that bounced around like a jumping jack. Presumably having written off his chances, Aunt Peg spared me a bit of attention.

“Neither of the sisters worked,” she said. “That's why they had so much time and energy to devote to running the raffle. That committee is one of the most labor intensive. The job starts in March when they begin soliciting donations and goes on through the end of June when they send out thank-you notes. The club offered to give the sisters a break after they'd done it a couple of times but they declined. I'm not sure how they support themselves, perhaps there's a bit of family money keeping them going. But I know they didn't have jobs.”

The apricot puppy was sent around to the end of the line. According to the information I'd gleaned by watching Mr. Lamb's first class, that meant he wasn't going to make the cut.

Sam had finished filling out Aunt Peg's ticket stubs, which meant that I was fast running out of excuses for lingering. “I guess I'd better be going.”

Sam stood up and handed me back my basket. Aunt Peg, concentrating once again on the action in the ring, was oblivious to my departure.

The start of the conformation classes had drawn a whole new crop of spectators. Like the others I'd spoken to earlier in the week, most were happy to support the club by purchasing raffle tickets. Twice over the next several hours I had to return to the table to empty my basket of cash and ticket stubs. Edith Jean was delighted by my progress.

“Don't forget now,” she said when I checked in for the second time. “The Toy judging starts at one o'clock sharp. I'll need you to take over the table so I can go watch.”

“I'll be here,” I assured her. I fully intended to watch the showdown myself, even if I had to stand on the chair behind the raffle table and look over the crowds to do so.

Back at the Standard ring, the Novice class was being judged. At most shows, this class goes unentered. Here there were four in competition, one of which was handled by Damien Bradley. I checked out the Poodles, decided none was likely to figure in the day's outcome, then glanced across the ring to where Sam and Aunt Peg were sitting. They'd been joined by Rosalind Romanescue.

According to Aunt Peg, the animal communicator's seminar had turned out to be a bigger success than anyone could have anticipated. Indeed, interest in her services had been so strong that Rosalind had decided to stay on for the remainder of the show, using the extra time to schedule additional consultations. I wondered what she thought about as she watched the dogs in the ring. Was she trying to talk to the Poodles or merely enjoying the show?

The judge was handing out ribbons once again. Damien's entry took second. The popular Bred-by-Exhibitor class was next. Jostled by the moving crowds as I turned away, I bumped into someone standing behind me.

“Sorry,” I said automatically. The basket was slung somewhat negligently over my arm. I reached out to steady it so its contents wouldn't spill.

“That's quite a load you're carrying,” said Christian Gold. “What have you got there, muffins?”

“Raffle tickets.”

Nina was standing beside her husband, her hand tucked through the crook in his elbow, her rose-tipped fingers resting lightly on his arm. “We met on Monday,” she said, peering at me and offering a small smile.

Christian handed her his open catalog and reached for his wallet. “I guess we'd better have some.”

“I've already sold your wife two dozen tickets,” I felt obliged to mention.

He waved a hand. “Make it a dozen more.”

“Do you want to hear about our prizes?”

“Let me guess. Whatever they are, I bet they've got Poodles on them.”

“Pretty much, yes.” I found myself smiling with him.

“That's about what I figured. Can you tell I've been here before? I'm Christian Gold, by the way.”

“Melanie Travis. Pleased to meet you.”

“Same here.” Christian fished a pen out of the basket. I picked up another. Between us, we filled out all the stubs.

Nina, perhaps unwilling to risk her manicure, didn't offer to help. Instead, she stared past us into the Mini ring. Her face bore such a look of intense concentration that I wondered for a moment if one of the Golds' Poodles was being shown in the class. Almost immediately, I discounted the thought. If Christian had had a dog in the ring, he would never have allowed himself to be distracted by something so mundane as raffle tickets.

I took his money and handed him the rest of his stubs. “Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.” Christian was already turning back to the ring. “How're we doing, honey?”

“He's made the cut,” said Nina.

“Damn.”

Interesting reaction. “Do you have a dog in the ring?” I asked.

“No, next class,” said Christian. “Ours is an Open Dog. Our handler's in there, though. We're waiting for Dale to get done here so he can go back to the setup and work on our Mini. It looks like he's going to be held up a few more minutes”

For a professional handler, PCA was a continual juggling act. Though only two rings ran at the same time, the top handlers had entries in nearly every class. Excellent backup crews of assistants, and judges who were understanding about handlers slipping into and out of the ring as needed, were what made the system work.

“Good luck,” I said.

“Thanks.” Christian smiled. “We'll need it.”

Nina merely nodded.

I didn't take it personally. PCA has that effect on most people, Aunt Peg included. People were secondary here; it was all about the dogs.

 

 

By the time I took one last pass around the two rings, grabbed Eve and ran her outside for a walk, then headed back to the raffle table, it was nearly one o'clock. Time for me to take over from Edith Jean. I hadn't eaten since grabbing a protein bar for breakfast, but it was looking as though lunch was going to have to wait.

To my surprise, as I approached the table, I didn't see the older woman anywhere. Several people were browsing among the items; picking them up, examining them, then carefully placing them back on the table. Edith Jean should have been answering questions and keeping an eye on things. I wondered where she'd gotten to.

The trophy table was next to ours. As I walked past, Charlotte Kay, chairman of the trophy committee, waved me over. “Edith Jean told me you'd be by any minute. She just scooted down to the ladies' room before the start of the Toy judging. I'm watching your table for her.”

She glanced down, frowning slightly as she looked at her watch. “Actually, Edith Jean left a good ten minutes ago. She should have been back by now.”

“I'll go find her,” I said.

Judging by the expression on Charlotte's face, we were both thinking the same thing. One Boone sister dropping dead was bad enough. Two would be two too many.

I handed Charlotte my basket for safekeeping and headed toward the far end of the large, sod covered arena. The dog show was set up on the ground floor of the building. Tiers of permanent seating rose on all sides above us. On one end, behind the grooming area, an enormous garage door led outside to the unloading zone. At the other end, wide concrete tunnels burrowed beneath the seats and led to the exits. Restrooms appeared at intervals along the tunnels; I knew from experience that the nearest ladies' room was right around the first corner.

I hadn't gone two steps inside the tunnel before I heard voices. One I recognized immediately as Edith Jean's. It took me a moment to place the second, perhaps because I wasn't expecting it: Harry Gandolf. I hesitated before rounding the corner, not wanting to intrude.

That didn't stop me from listening, though.

“Three hundred,” Harry was saying. “And that's the easiest money you'll ever make. Just tell Roger to pull the puppy.”

“I said no once and I'll say it again. Bubba came to PCA to have his shot and that's what he's going to do.”

If Edith Jean had sounded worried or upset, I'd have barged around the corner and confronted them. Instead her tone was scornful; the older woman was more than capable of holding her own with a scoundrel like Harry Gandolf. I shrank into an alcove and pressed myself against the wall. Thanks to all that concrete, the acoustics were great.

“Five hundred,” said Harry. “And that's my final offer.”

“You could offer me ten times that much. The answer is still no.”

“Look, I'm trying to be reasonable here. There's a lot riding on what happens today. I can't afford to lose. All you need to do is be reasonable too. After what happened, everyone will understand if you decide not to show.”

“Roger won't,” Edith Jean snapped. “He's down at the other end, getting Bubba ready right now.”

“Roger works for you, he'll do whatever you say. Just take the money and tell him you changed your mind. Tell him you're distraught. Tell him anything you want.”

“How about good luck and God bless?”

I chuckled quietly. You go, girl, I thought.

“What's the matter with you?” Harry demanded. “Don't you understand what I'm offering? Even in the backwoods of Georgia, people must know that five hundred dollars is a lot of money.”

“I'll tell you what else we know, sonny. We know that sometimes it's not about the money.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Harry. “It's always about the money. You and your sister sure had me fooled. I didn't expect you to be such hard bargainers. Seven hundred.”

“Keep your money, I don't want it.”

“I'll bet you need it, though. With your sister dead and gone—”

“Shut up!” cried Edith Jean. “Just shut your mouth, do you hear me?”

I took that as my cue. Pushing away from the wall, I strode around the corner. Harry looked surprised to see me, but Edith Jean was the one who grew pale.

“There you are,” I said, keeping my voice light. Impulsively, I reached out a hand to steady her. “We've been waiting for you back at the raffle table. Is everything all right?”