Best in Show (20 page)

D
ale Atherton won the Bred-by class to the tune of enthusiastic applause from ringside. His black bitch would be one of the favorites in the Winners ring later that afternoon. As the judge handed out the ribbons and took a minute to record his impressions of the class, I pulled out my basket. It was time to try and sell some more tickets.

I had to admit that by day four, the routine was getting old. In the beginning, it had been sort of fun—better, anyway, than the myriad other jobs Aunt Peg might have found for me. Now, however, I was growing tired of hitting people up for money, even if the proceeds did go to a good cause.

That probably explained why my tally for the next hour's work consisted of two small sales and an equal number of lost pens. On the plus side, I was able to make change for a spectator vvho'd lost a bet and direct a harried mother to the restrooms. I also kept an eye out for Rosalind. Unfortunately, the communicator was nowhere in sight.

As the Standard Open Bitch class was called into the ring, I went and got Eve. A half hour run around the outside of the building cleared both our heads.

The puppy was still tired from the morning's excitement. At least that was what I tried to tell myself when she didn't protest as I returned her, yet again, to her crate. Instead Eve simply walked inside, turned a small circle, and lay down. Her easy compliance made me feel guiltier than an argument would have. It was sad to think that she was coming to accept as normal the restrictions that being at the show placed on her behavior.

As I was bidding Eve good-bye and promising I'd be back soon, I heard a familiar voice coming from the neighboring setup. Dale Atherton was there, keeping a watchful eye on his bitch as they awaited their next turn in the ring. Bertie had stopped by and the two of them were chatting. I threaded my way through the columns of stacked crates that separated the aisles and went to join them.

“Thanks for saving me earlier,” I said to Dale.

“Saving you?” Bertie asked. She looked lovely, as always.

Dale, no slouch in that department himself, was also charmingly modest. “It was nothing.”

“Damien Bradley,” I said for Bertie's sake.

“I thought you said he seemed like a nice man.”

“That was yesterday. Now I've changed my mind.”

Dale smiled. “That happens around Damien.”

“Your bitch looked beautiful in her class,” I said. “Good luck later.”

“Thanks, we'll need it. The competition is pretty steep this year, especially in Standards.”

“How many did you bring with you?” asked Bertie.

“Unfortunately, Olivia's my one and only. Usually I'd have a bigger string, but this year I picked up a new client who's kept me pretty busy with his Minis. I had to cut down on the number of outside Poodles I was taking.”

“Christian and Nina Gold,” I said.

Dale nodded. “GoldenDune is a big operation. I've had as many as ten to fifteen Poodles of theirs at a time. Of course I don't take that many to all the shows. Christian was insistent about PCA, however. He wanted his Minis to make a statement here, with entries in as many classes as possible.

“Especially with the two rings running simultaneously, that didn't leave many openings for anyone else. Livvy's different, though. I bred her myself. I figured I could make the entry and if the timing worked, I'd go ahead and show her. If not, I'd just pull her. Try explaining that to a client who expects to see their Poodle in the ring.”

Bertie nodded sympathetically. She'd been there.

“Not that I'm complaining. Christian and Nina have been great to work with.” Olivia, lying on her grooming table, reached out and nudged his hand with her nose. Dale rubbed the Poodle's muzzle fondly before continuing. “Just being affiliated with an operation of the size and scope of GoldenDune has been good for me. A year ago, not that many people knew who I was. Now I guess I'm moving up in the world.”

Dale paused, looking somewhat flustered. On him, the look was adorable. “I'm babbling, aren't I? I do that when I get nervous. I didn't think Livvy would win the Bred-by class. Oh, I knew she'd look good, but I didn't think she'd win. And now that she has, I can't help but think that Tommy must have really liked her. Maybe we have a shot at Winners.”

“I'd be surprised if you didn't,” said Bertie. She wasn't a Poodle expert but like many accomplished dog fanciers, she had an eye for a good one.

“That's precisely the problem. I went in the ring thinking we were just here to have some fun. Then suddenly my no-pressure afternoon went to high pressure, just like that.” Dale stopped speaking and looked at the two of us. “All right, you're still letting me babble on. Enough about me. One of you talk for a while. Change the subject.”

“How about Monday night?” I asked. “We could talk about that.”

“Monday night?” He looked puzzled.

“When Betty Jean Boone was killed?” Bertie guessed.

I nodded. “Dale was there. At least, right afterward, anyway.”

The handler thought back. “I'm happy to talk about it, though I don't have much to say. I thought I heard someone scream and I opened my door to see what was going on.”

“You got to Betty Jean before I did,” I said. “And I was already outside. You must have been standing right next to your door.”

“I was.” Dale lifted a hand and rubbed his jaw, much the same as he'd stroked the Poodle a minute before. “A friend had been with me in my room. We'd just said good-bye—at least that's what it felt like to me—when I heard the scream. Of course, I wanted to make sure she was all right.”

She?
Bertie and I exchanged a quick glance. Remembering Dale's disheveled appearance when he'd come to the door, I supposed it wasn't surprising that he'd been entertaining a woman.

“Your friend might have seen something,” I said thoughtfully. “Has she spoken with the police? I'm sure they'd be interested in hearing from her.”

Dale was already shaking his head. He looked as though he regretted saying as much as he had. “Trust me, that's not about to happen. I heard from the police too because I was outside just as you were. But the woman in question is a very private person. She told me she didn't want to get involved and I respected her wishes.”

“But—”

“Besides,” Dale overrode my objection, “I'm sure she didn't have any information for the police or she'd have said something. When I came out of my room, she was already gone. The incident must have happened after she passed by.”

Firm as Dale's conviction sounded, I wasn't convinced that he was doing the right thing. Maybe I'd mention something to Detective Mandahar if I saw him again.

“I guess I'd better be getting back to the raffle table,” I said.

Bertie watched as I hefted the basket up and slipped it over my arm. “How's business?”

“Slow to nonexistent. I've pretty much worn out my welcome. People see me coming and run the other way.”

“As if that's anything new,” Bertie said with a grin. “Want me to try taking a spin around the arena with that thing?”

About to leave, I stopped abruptly. The idea had definite appeal. “It's probably against the rules.”

“What rules?”

“I don't know. There must be some rule that covers it. There are rules about everything else. You aren't even a member of the club.”

“Are you?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I got conscripted.”

“And I volunteered. So what?” Bertie took the basket off my arm and checked out its contents. “This looks pretty much self-explanatory. Okay, Dale, you're up first. How many tickets do you want?”

“Who said I wanted any?”

Bertie batted her long dark eyelashes. “Who said I was giving you a choice?”

You've got to admire a woman with moxie. As I walked away, Dale was already reaching for his wallet. Somehow I suspected
slow
wasn't a word in Bertie's vocabulary.

 

 

Since Bertie was busy doing my job for me, I decided to wander around for a while and simply enjoy the show. What a novel concept. Between working on the raffle, taking care of Eve, and then prepping and showing the puppy, I'd hardly gotten to take a deep breath much less watch more than a small sample of the competition. Many Poodle exhibitors planned their yearly vacation around the specialty show. I wondered if all of them went home as tired at the end of the week as I seemed destined to be.

Judging in the Toy ring had already finished for the afternoon. In Standards, Tommy Lamb was about to place his Open Bitch class. I saw an open spot near the gate, wriggled through the crowd, and found myself standing by the rail just as he pointed toward the striking black bitch at the head of the line. Cheers erupted around me. I hadn't been there long enough to see whether or not I liked the winner, but I joined in anyway. Any win at PCA was worth celebrating.

The bitches who'd made the final cut but hadn't received ribbons filed out. I moved over slightly to give them room to get by. With the Winners class up next, I wasn't about to cede my ringside position.

Harry Gandolf came through the gate. He handed off his Standard bitch to a waiting assistant, then paused and looked around.

I knew he'd be interested in watching what came next. Impulsively I scooted over, bumping the couple on my other side who sighed and gave way. “Hey,” I said. “There's room here. Come stand by me.”

Harry might have been surprised by the invitation, but he knew better than to question his good fortune. Already an announcement had been made over the loudspeaker; the earlier class winners were entering the ring. People stood seven or eight deep at ringside and those in the back were pressing forward, hoping to get a better view. Excitement and anticipation hummed in the air.

“Melanie, right?” Harry's shoulder dug into mine as we were jostled rudely from behind. He lifted his hand and cradled my elbow to steady me. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem.” Another shove like that and I was going to find myself in the ring with the class winners. “Yes, I'm Melanie. We met briefly the other night.”

After four intense days with all of us packed together at the show site, the arena had become like the mother ship. Everyone had begun to feel as though they knew everyone else. Even though I'd never given Harry my name, it didn't surprise me that he knew who I was.

“Congratulations on yesterday,” I said. “Your puppy deserved the win.”

He cast me a quick glance. Trying to determine, I decided, whether or not I was being sincere. “Thanks,” he said after a moment. “I thought so.”

“I hear he'll go to Japan now.”

“I guess news gets around at PCA.”

“Gossip, too.”

In the ring, the seven class winners had been sent on their first go-round. Thunderous applause drowned out Harry's reply. I took a minute to enjoy the spectacle: seven glorious Standard Poodle bitches, all at the peak of bloom and condition, flying in unison around the big ring. It was truly a sight to behold.

“I'm sorry,” I said, when the line had finished making its circuit. “I didn't hear what you said.”

“That's not gossip. It's the real deal. Vic leaves next week, as soon as the new owner's check clears the bank.”

“Under the circumstances, I guess it's lucky for you that he won.”

Harry didn't look pleased. His heavy features settled into a frown. “You want me to rebut that, right? Well I'm not going to. I'm guessing you probably heard part of my conversation with Edith Jean. Hell, maybe you heard all of it. I had a lot riding on that win; I'm not ashamed to admit it. So I tried to stack the odds in my favor. There's nothing wrong with that. When you've been showing dogs as long as I have, you'll know one thing.”

“What's that?”

“It's a game. That's all it is, just a big effing game. And the people who win in the end are the people who know how to play.”

Having judged all these Poodles earlier in the day, Mr. Lamb was making short work of his decision. I kept one eye on his progress in the ring, the other on Harry. “Are you trying to tell me that the Boone sisters didn't?”

“I'm not trying to tell you anything,” said Harry. “I'm trying to watch Winners Bitch.”

Fair enough.

Mr. Lamb continued his judging. Due to circumstances beyond our control, Harry and I continued to stand pressed up hard against one another. Maybe that was why he felt compelled to keep talking.

“Since you brought it up, I'll tell you something else,” he said presently. “Those two old birds weren't anywhere near as savvy as they thought they were. This is the big time, and I gave Edith Jean her shot at it. She should have taken the money and run.”

“Funny you should think so.”

“Why's that?”

“Well, because you won anyway. You didn't have to pay Edith Jean and Vic still beat Bubba. So you came out ahead.”

“Yeah, well. . .” He stopped and scowled at my logic. “That's a nice thought, but at the end of the day, it ain't going to cut it. Here's the word from Harry and it's the God's honest truth. Everybody's got their hand out, and everybody pays. One way or another, everybody pays somebody in the end.”

T
ommy Lamb made his Winners Bitch award into a duel between Dale's Bred-by bitch and the Open class winner, much as the Toy judge had done between Vic and Bubba. The format encouraged the audience to choose up sides and join in the festivities, and we responded with predictable enthusiasm.

Poodles as performance art; for lovers of the breed, it didn't get much better than this.

In the end, the top award went to the Open Bitch, and Dale had to be content with the striped rosette for Reserve. He didn't look disappointed by the outcome. His face was wreathed in smiles as he accepted the lesser prize.

Just for the heck of it, I kept my gaze trained on the handler as he walked over to the marker. I wondered if there was a particular lady in the crowd with whom he'd make eye contact. But although more than a few of the women had their eyes on Dale, I didn't see him single anyone out for a special glance. He accepted congratulations from all sides and exited the ring a minute later.

As the pictures were being taken, the crowd melted away. One minute Harry was standing beside me, the next he was gone. I couldn't say that I'd miss his company.

Once photos were finished, the Veteran's Sweepstakes would follow. Veterans were older dogs, and in Poodles, any dog or bitch over the age of seven qualified. In addition, all the entrants had to be A.K.C. champions. These Poodles were truly the elder statesmen of the breed; many had been the top winners of their time.

One of the things that made the sweepstakes special in the eyes of exhibitors was that this was the only breed sanctioned competition where Poodles could be shown in any trim their owners felt would present them to advantage. Not being restricted to the Continental and English Saddle clips that were required in the breed classes, most Poodles were exhibited in the comfortable and popular kennel trim. Their hair was short and sporty; the dogs looked elegant, their owners looked happy. Someday, when Faith was old enough to qualify, I planned to show her in the sweepstakes myself.

As the first class of Toy veterans was called into the ring, spectators began to return to ringside. I dropped back from my noisy position near the gate, took out my phone and called my ex-husband's house. As I'd expected, Davey picked up. My son loved to talk on the phone.

“Hi, sport,” I said.

“Hey,” Davey replied. At least this time he recognized my voice. “How's the dog show?”

“Great. Eve made the cut in her class. How's home? Did you go to Playland?”

“It was awesome,” Davey reported. “Dad and I went on the roller coaster six times.”

“That sounds awesome all right.” Thank God I hadn't been there. Roller coasters make my stomach turn over. “Did you remember to wear sun block?”

For some reason, the question made him giggle. “Davey?”

“Yeah, I put some on.”

Reading between the lines, I hazarded a guess. “What about your Dad?”

“He said lotions are for sissies. Real men get tan.”

That was my ex, just the sort of role model every mother wants for her only child. I sighed. Playland was right near Rye beach. There was very little shade. “How red is he?”

“Like a pizza without the cheese. He says it doesn't hurt though.”

He would say that, I thought. Since real men don't feel pain.

“Maybe you can convince him to put some aloe on it.”

“Maybe Frank can,” said Davey. “He's coming tonight for dinner. Not Bertie though. She's away on a trip.”

“She's down here with me.”

“Cool.” Davey adored his new aunt. “Let me talk to her.”

“Sorry, I meant she was here at the show, not here beside me. She's off selling raffle tickets.”

“Aunt Peg said that was going to be your job.” His tone was slightly accusatory.

“It is my job. Bertie's helping me.”

“Are you going to buy me a ticket?”

“Two, if you want. How's Faith doing?”

Davey went on to give me a detailed report of how the Poodle was spending her time. When that was done he called Faith over, lifted up the flap of her ear, and held the receiver to the opening in the hope that she would understand that he was talking to me. I don't think it worked, though Davey said Faith's tail did begin to wag. Mostly I attributed that to the fact that the phone was probably tickling her. Where was Rosalind when we needed her?

By the time I got off the phone, the Minis were in the sweeps ring. Things were moving right along. I'd expected to run into Bertie sooner or later. Since I hadn't, I realized I probably ought to let Edith Jean know what had become of her raffle basket.

When I got to the table, the older woman was packing up. “Good, you're back,” she said. “Your basket showed up about ten minutes ago with a very nice young lady and a mountain of cash.”

I pulled out a box and began to help. “That was my sister-in-law, Bertie. She offered to help out. I hope you don't mind.”

“Mind? Are you kidding? She must have some sales technique. If we put that gal on the payroll, we could double our profits.”

That
made me feel appreciated. “I don't think Bertie's looking for a job.”

“Too bad,” Edith Jean mused. “You must have lucked out, getting her for a sister-in-law. Sister and I had one of those once. Ours was a real bitch. We didn't mind one bit losing touch with her after Earl died.”

“Earl?” I looked up. I hadn't heard that name before. Then again, everyone at PCA freely admitted that they knew next to nothing about the sisters' lives, except for the one week a year that was spent at the show. “Was he your husband?”

“Goodness, what a thought”—Edith Jean began to laugh, then suddenly caught herself—“what a thoughtful man he was, that's what I meant to say. Of course Earl was my husband, who else would he have been?”

Good question. I was almost sorry I hadn't asked it myself. “Were you married long?”

“Just three short years. I was already in my thirties when we met. You've got to understand that southern girls, especially out in the rural areas, they marry young. By the time Earl came along, I'd pretty much given up on finding myself a man. Then just like that, there he was. Earl was older, and very dashing. I fell head over heels.”

That explained the locket, I thought. “You must have been very happy.”

“We were.” Edith Jean nodded. “Leastways for a little while. Earl had himself a bit of money stashed away. He said he'd always wanted to get back to the land, saw himself as a gentleman farmer or some such thing. That was fine with Sister and me. We had our Poodles and we had ourselves a fair piece of acreage. Earl moved in, bought himself a tractor, and went to work planting crops.”

She smiled at the memory. “Good old Earl never did manage to grow much of anything edible but Sister and I didn't care. Plenty of food to be had in the supermarket. 'Course, as it turned out, he wasn't too handy with the tractor either. One day he managed to flip the damn thing over on himself. Sister and I were away at a dog show. Nobody found him until it was too late.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said.

“Thank you, dear.” Edith Jean reached out and patted my arm as though I was the one in need of comforting. “It was all over and done with a long time ago. Sister and I went on, that's what people do, isn't it? We never went to many dog shows after that though. It just wasn't fun like it had been before.”

I swallowed heavily as the irony of what she'd said hit home. One death had kept the sisters away from the dog show scene for decades. Recently they'd ventured back, only to be met with death again.

“By the way,” said Edith Jean, changing the subject. “I forgot to mention a man came around here earlier looking for you. Tall guy, real good-looking. . .”

I grinned. “That's Sam.”

“Said he'd barely seen you all day. Looked anxious to rectify that, if you know what I mean. If I was you and had that waiting for me, I wouldn't be hanging around here.”

“Maybe I like hanging around with you,” I said.

“Bull crap.” Edith Jean's hands grasped my shoulders, turned me around, pointed me away. “You've put in enough work. Go find your man and have yourself some fun.”

Actually, I wasn't sure I'd put in much work at all. On the other hand, who was I to argue with an order like that?

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

 

 

I found Sam over by the ring. He was watching the first of the Standard Poodle classes with Christian Gold. The two of them stood, heads tipped together, conferring in whispered tones about the entry in the ring. Sam straightened and smiled when he saw me.

“I've been looking for you,” he said.

“So Edith Jean told me. What's up?” I'd intended to join them, but Sam took my hand and pulled me away.

“Come on.” He headed for the exit at the far end of the arena floor where wide, empty tunnels snaked out beneath the stands.

His strides were long and fast. I had to hurry to keep up. “Where are we going?”

“Away,” he muttered.

I thought perhaps I'd misheard him. “Away from what?”

“Everything.”

That side of the building was deserted. Everyone who remained at the show site at the end of the long day had stayed to watch the veterans. Reaching the end of the arena, we stepped off the sod and onto a concrete walkway, away from the brightly lit show rings and into the shadowy tunnel.

Fingers laced firmly through mine, Sam dragged me around the first corner and into a small alcove. Then he stopped abruptly, his body turning and angling into mine. My back arched up against the wall; my shoulder blades braced against the cold unyielding barrier.

“God I've missed you,” he said.

The air escaped from my lungs in a rush. “You saw me this morning.”

“You were working then.” Sam leaned closer. His breath mingled with mine. I inhaled sharply.

“Last night—”

“You were working then too.” That was the nature of PCA, and we both knew it. “You had to get Eve ready.”

“Tonight—”

“I'll be working on Tar.” His lips nibbled around the edges of my mouth. “Hell of a vacation. Do you realize this is the first time since we've known each other that we've gone away alone together?”

“Mmmm.” Usually we'd been accompanied by our seven-year-old chaperone. Sam's tongue was touching mine. I couldn't quite speak. Thought was fleeing too.

“I thought we'd have more time to ourselves. Instead, all I ever seem to do is see you on the other side of the arena. We've got to do something about that.”

His long legs splayed, positioning mine between them. His fingers were still threaded through mine. Our hands were pressed together, palm to palm. When he braced his hands on the wall on either side of me, I was totally surrounded by him. My breathing quickened. I could feel my heart beginning to pound. My breasts rose and fell with each shuddering, indrawn breath.

Sam smiled silkily. “Now we're getting somewhere.”

The kiss was everything I'd been waiting for, and more. Enough to make me forget for a moment where we were. Maybe even enough to make me not care.

Sam's hands released mine. His fingertips skimmed over my cheek, holding and caressing at the same time. I wrapped my arms around his body, then slid them lower. Grasping the back of his shirt, I tugged until the hem slid free. Then I slipped my hands underneath. Warm skin against warm skin.

He trembled slightly, groaning deep within his throat. The tremor acted like wildfire to the pinpricks of sensation that were already sliding along my nerve endings. I eased back slightly. Sam's eyes had darkened, his expression was intent as he gazed down upon me.

“We'll never make it back to the hotel,” I said.

He buried his face in the hollow of my throat. I felt the warmth of his chuckle against my ear. “Sweetheart,” he said, “we're not going to make it out of this alcove.”

My pulse began to throb. My stomach muscles curled. Somewhere, far away, I heard the muted sound of ringside applause. Enough to remind me that we weren't alone.

“But—” I began.

Sam hushed the objection with another kiss. It seemed to last forever. Aunt Peg would kill us if she knew, I thought dimly. Then thought evaporated, taking sanity with it, and I forgot all about why I'd been arguing.