Best in Show (22 page)

One mystery solved, I thought. “That was you?”

Rosalind nodded sheepishly. “I'm afraid so. Sad to say, I'm not good in emergency situations. There's too much turmoil, entirely too many emotions. Thankfully, other people immediately saw what had happened and began to rally around. My presence quickly became superfluous and I left. Later when I went down to the bar to get a brandy to settle my nerves, I heard someone say that the woman I'd seen outside was Betty Jean Boone.”

“Did you ever talk to the police about what you saw?” I asked.

Rosalind seemed surprised by the question. “No, why would I? I didn't know anything that would help them in their investigation. I hadn't seen anything more than a dozen other people also saw. I heard later that the detectives were questioning people, but nobody ever contacted me.”

Because nobody'd realized she'd been there, I thought. “You didn't see the person you'd heard running?”

“Of course not. If I had, I'd have certainly reported that. But by the time I looked up, the person was gone. All I saw was a woman's body crumpled on the ground.”

“Have you spoken with Edith Jean since?”

“I saw her the next morning. Although now that you mention it, it was a rather strange encounter.”

“In what way?”

“As I said, we'd never met before. And obviously we weren't meeting under the best of circumstances. Still, I felt as though I ought to introduce myself and offer whatever solace I could. But when I told Edith Jean who I was, she went positively pale. I've never had anyone respond to me in quite that way before. At the time, all I could think was that grief affects everyone differently. Perhaps Edith Jean felt my approaching her like that was an intrusion.”

Rosalind's use of that particular phrase reminded me of something she'd said the last time we'd spoken. “Maybe she was afraid you could read her thoughts.”

Rosalind looked horrified. “Even if I could do something like that, I wouldn't dream of it. What a nasty, vile idea. Edith Jean Boone has nothing to fear from me.”

Yet that hadn't stopped her from being afraid. I wondered why.

R
osalind went off to watch the show and I headed down to the raffle table. By the time I got there, Edith Jean had everything set up. The prizes looked inviting; the money box was open. A spool of tickets stood ready to serve any eager customers that happened by. Despite Edith Jean's preparations, however, the area was deserted. With Best of Variety in the ring, no spectator wanted to miss a minute of the judging.

“Good morning,” Edith Jean sang out cheerfully as I drew near. Her fingers flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the top of the money tree. “Isn't this an excellent day?”

“So far, so good,” I said. With everything that had transpired during the week, it was hard to see what Edith Jean had to sing about. “How's the raffle going?”

“Fine and dandy. We're in the homestretch now. Just one more day of minding the store, and we're done. The drawing's all set for this afternoon. It'll take place in the ring after the Standards finish and before Best in Show. You'll be here to help out, right?”

“Right.” That would be my last official duty as a member of the raffle committee. I snuck another glance at Edith Jean. She still looked way too cheerful. Something was up; I wondered what. “What exactly does helping out involve?”

“Oh, it's easy. I know you've seen how it works in the past. The tickets are put in a big barrel, and then drawn out one by one. The first person whose number is called gets first choice of the items on the table. The second ticket gets second choice, and so on and so on until all the prizes are distributed.”

I looked around the crowded table. Even if people chose relatively quickly, the process was going to take a while.

“Forty-two,” Edith Jean said in answer to my unspoken question. “That's how many prizes there are. And therefore, how many tickets you'll have to draw from the barrel.”

“Me?”

“Who better? I can't do it. I have to stay by the table, checking the stubs and overseeing the selection process. Managing the drawing is a two-man operation. That's the way Sister and I always divided the work in the past.”

Since she'd put it that way, it would probably be churlish of me to mention that I'd rather stand at the table and take ticket stubs than be the one performing out in the middle of the vast show ring.

“So I just have to draw the numbers?” I repeated for good measure.

“That's all there is to it. Danny, the announcer, will accompany you out there with a microphone. You hand each ticket over to him and he'll read off the number. That will start the stampede in my direction.”

Stampede would be a mild description for what would come next. I'd seen that in the past, too. “As soon as I'm finished drawing tickets, I'll come straight back here and help.”

Edith Jean mumbled something. Her words were too low for me to catch.

“Pardon me?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “When you're done, Danny's going to pull out a sheet of paper and read a little something I wrote.”

“I don't understand . . .” I started to say. Then all at once, I understood all too well. Dread welled in the pit of my stomach.

I knew the board had turned down the request for a memorial service. Nancy Hanlon had been given the job of delivering the unwelcome news. This, then, was to be Edith Jean's response.

She reached beneath the table and pulled out a bright red fanny pack. Dog handlers wear them in the ring all the time. Strapped around the waist, they make a handy pouch for bait.

“While he's reading,” said Edith Jean, “you're going to open this up and scatter the ashes.”

“No.” Involuntarily, my hands came up in front of my body as if forming a shield between me and impending disaster. For good measure I took a step back. “No, I'm not.”

Edith Jean didn't look the slightest bit impressed by my objections. “Of course you are, dear.” She draped the pack's strap over my upraised hand. The bundle was surprisingly heavy. “You'll simply wear this into the ring. No one will even notice it's there. Then, when the climactic moment arrives, you'll just whip it off, unzip it, and let fly.”

The scenario was too horrible to even contemplate. In all the fantasies I'd ever harbored concerning the Best in Show ring at PCA—and I had to admit, there'd been a few—there had never been any whipping, unzipping, or letting fly. And you can trust me on that.

“Edith Jean, I can't do that.”

I'd thought Aunt Peg would kill me if she ever found out about my last transgression. At least that one had taken place in private. This one would be tantamount to treason. My death would be part and parcel of a public humiliation. And the PCA board would probably applaud my demise.

You think I was overreacting? Think again. This was PCA, the pinnacle of Poodledom. The specialty known for its dignity and decorum.

Edith Jean wasn't just asking the impossible. Worse, she was asking for the absurd.

“You have to,” she said in a small voice. “If you don't help me, who will?”

I thought fast. There had to be someone . . . anyone . . . whose name I could invoke. Briefly, Terry came to mind. He'd enjoy the theatrical aspect of this little performance. His image was quickly followed by another, however: Crawford chasing me around the arena wielding a big pair of sharp scissors.

“I'd do it myself if I weren't an invalid.” Edith Jean sounded pitiful now. She held up her right hand, still swathed in gauze and vet wrap.

Invalid my foot. The older woman had had her hand wrapped all week. It hadn't hampered her actions at all. She'd counted change and hefted big boxes with equal aplomb. Nor had it prevented her from doing anything else she'd wanted to do. If that hand still hurt, I certainly hadn't been able to tell.

“Let me think about it,” I said.

Immediately Edith Jean smiled. “You're such a sweet girl.”

No, I wasn't. I was a liar and a hypocrite. What I'd really be thinking about was a way to put a stop to this impending debacle. Or at the very least, my participation in it.

“How did you get Danny to agree?” I wanted to know.

“Agree to what?” Miss Innocent asked. As if we hadn't just been talking about hijacking the dog show to serve her nefarious purposes.

“You know—to read your statement.”

“That part was easy. Have you ever known a young man who couldn't use a little extra cash?”

“You offered to
pay him
?”

“Not at first. But eventually we were able to strike a deal. We agreed that no matter what number you drew from the barrel first, he would simply palm it and then read out a number that matched one of the stubs from his own tickets. That would give him first choice of the raffle prizes. I'd pretend to check with him, then set aside the money tree”

“You can't do that!”

“Oh, but I can,” Edith Jean said brightly. “I'm in charge of the raffle. And what I say, goes.”

“But that's fraud, or theft, or impersonating a ticket-taker . . . or something.”

“Yes, well, desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Edith Jean, listen to me.” I dumped the fanny pack on the table and crossed my arms over my chest. If I left them loose, I was half afraid I might resort to shaking her. “These aren't desperate times. And you don't have to do this. You can have a memorial service for Betty Jean when you get home.”

“No, that won't work. I want everything over and done with before I leave Maryland in the morning. I want to say good-bye to Betty Jean here. When I go home, there'll only be Edith Jean. Just me, I mean. That's the only way.”

Maybe she was losing her mind, I thought. Alternatively, maybe I was losing mine. I did know one thing, however. I had to find Aunt Peg—and fast. A problem of this magnitude—especially one that concerned her beloved dog show—was beyond my capabilities.

“I have to go,” I said. “I'll be back in a bit, is that okay?”

Edith Jean looked in the direction of the ring. From our spot on the sidelines, we were just about able to see the tops of the handlers' heads. Vic, the Winners Dog, was still in contention. Standing second to last in the long, long, line he wouldn't be called upon to perform for at least another hour. Even then, I doubted Edith Jean would much care how he did.

After the Toy BOV judging concluded, Bubba would return to the ring. As a Puppy class winner, he was eligible to compete for Best Toy Puppy. I knew she would want to see that, but I was sure I'd be back in plenty of time.

“You go on,” she said. “There isn't much happening here anyway. I'll manage just fine.”

“Thanks.” I grabbed my catalog and hurried away before she could change her mind.

Even though Standards wouldn't be judged until afternoon, I'd hoped Aunt Peg might already have her corner seats staked out. No such luck. A pair of Toy breeders from Florida were sitting in the spots Peg and Sam had occupied for most of the week. They were staring into the ring with such rabid intensity that they were oblivious to my scrutiny. And my frustrated sigh.

I knew Aunt Peg was at the show site somewhere, but in a building that size, it didn't narrow things down much. Maybe a jog through the grooming area would turn something up.

“Hey,” said Bertie, appearing out of the crowd. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“I'm looking for Peg. Have you seen her?”

“We had breakfast together at the hotel. Her idea. For some reason, that woman feels obliged to keep pumping food into me. I ditched her as soon after that as I could.” Bertie looked over, realized she was talking about one of my nearest and dearest relatives, and flushed guiltily. “Sorry.”

“Don't mention it. Sometimes I feel exactly the same way. Now, however, I have to find her. Edith Jean Boone is planning an insurrection for this afternoon. Somebody has to stop her.”

“Not the memorial service again? I thought the board put the kibosh on that.”

“They did. Or at least they think they did. The problem is, Edith Jean isn't paying any attention.”

“That should be interesting.” Bertie sounded annoyingly happy about this turn of events. “I ought to come to this show every year. Are all PCAs this much fun?”

“You're perverse, you know that?”

“Of course. It's one of the things your brother likes best about me.”

He would, I thought.

“If I see her,” said Bertie, “I'll tell her you're looking for her.”

“Thanks.” We headed off in opposite directions. When I reached the edge of the grooming area, I stopped and looked around, eyes skimming quickly over the tightly packed aisles.

By now, after five solid days together, everyone at the dog show was beginning to look at least vaguely familiar. From a multitude of diverse backgrounds we'd all come together, united by a single purpose. Several people glanced up as I gazed around. Each one smiled before going back to work.

That was the beauty of PCA. Who needs goodwill ambassadors when you can have Poodles?

Standing at the head of the wide center aisle, I stepped aside to let a wide-eyed family wander past. Tourists, probably at their first dog show. Both parents stared at the spectacle in wonder. Their elementary school–age children looked similarly awestruck. They probably had a pet Poodle at home. To them, these Poodles were Fifi or Pierre with a better haircut. Today's tourists were tomorrow's exhibitors. Judging by their expressions, this family would go home with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads.

Turning back to my quest, I bumped into a handler who'd come up beside me. “You looking for me?” asked Damien Bradley.

“No. Why would I be looking for you?”

“That's what I'm wondering.”

“Well, don't,” I said. “I'm not.”

“Yeah, right. I'm sure you think you're pretty clever. I've heard all about you.” He brushed past me and started to walk away.

I spun around and followed. “What have you heard?”

Damien stopped so abruptly that I barreled right into him. Smooth move on my part. Damien seemed to think so, too. He snorted under his breath.

“You're the lady who solves mysteries. The one who figures things out.”

“Sometimes,” I said. “Not always.”

“Want some advice?” Damien leaned in close, making sure his words were for me alone. “Stay away from Edith Jean Boone. That old broad's nuttier than a Snickers bar.”

Tell me something I don't know, I thought.