Best in Show (7 page)

Not only had she come to the show, but she was dragging a dolly along behind her. It bumped up and down in the grass, slowing her progress to a crawl. When she stopped to adjust her hold on the rope handle, I saw that one of her hands was swathed in what appeared to be a bright pink bandage. Quickly instructing Eve to stay, I hurried out to help.

“Edith Jean! What are you doing here?”

“Running the PCA raffle, just like I promised I would.” She stared at me hard, as if daring me to refute that fact. “I'm afraid time got away from me this morning. You were a dear to come and open up.”

Up close, I could see her eyes were rimmed in red, and her complexion was blotchy. It looked as though she'd been crying, and no wonder. Yet she'd still come to fulfill her duties. Edith Jean must have known the club would find a way to cover for her. At least I hoped she did.

“I'm so sorry.” The words sounded, and felt, wholely inadequate. I reached out my arms and gathered the small woman in a hug. “I know we'd just met, but your sister seemed like a wonderful person.”

“She was.” Edith Jean sniffled loudly. “Sister was everything to me, just as I was to her.”

“Why don't you go home?” I said gently. “You don't have to be here. I can cope with the raffle. I'm sure the club will find someone to help me.”

“You don't know what it's like.” Edith Jean's voice quivered slightly, but her shoulders were straight and strong. “Where else would I go? What else would I do? This is where I belong right now.”

I wasn't sure I understood, but I certainly wasn't about to argue. “Then this is where you should be,” I said.

I
reached around her and took the rope handle. Edith Jean winced slightly as I brushed past her bandaged right hand. She held it up out of the way as we began to walk. The dolly wasn't heavy, but it was cumbersome on the grass.

“What happened?” I asked, nodding toward the bandage.

“It's nothing. Just a silly accident I had this morning in the hotel room. I was making myself a cup of coffee and I guess I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been. I burned my hand on the hot water.”

Of course she'd been distracted, I thought. The woman's sister had died less than twelve hours earlier. “Did you see a doctor?”

Edith Jean snorted. “Now where would I find a doctor around here? You young people think every little bump and scrape has to be seen by a specialist. No wonder the medical profession is such a mess. I ran it under cold water, then I bandaged it up and got on with my life.”

I peered at the wrapping on her hand. If I wasn't mistaken, it consisted of a layer of gauze held in place by vet wrap, a stretchy product that Poodle people used to contain their dogs' ear hair. “Yes, but—”

“But nothing. I'm fine. End of discussion.”

When we reached the table, Eve stood up and came out to greet us. Edith Jean spared me a withering glance. “Second day on the job, and already you're making the rules?”

“Sorry. I wasn't expecting you. I didn't think anyone would even notice she was here.”

Despite her objection, Edith Jean didn't seem overly concerned. She gave Eve a long, assessing look. “Very pretty. Is she one of Peg's?”

“Peg's breeding, yes. But I bred her myself.” As I said the words, I realized it sounded as though I were bragging. “My first litter,” I added, so she wouldn't get the wrong idea.

She reached out and scratched the puppy lightly under the chin. Any Poodle person knows better than to put their hands in a dog's long hair. Caresses, by necessity, are confined to the clipped areas. Eve responded by leaning toward her and arching her back.

“You did a nice job for a beginner. I remember when Sister and I were starting out. Years ago, that was. We would have been delighted to have something this nice right off the bat”

Abruptly Edith Jean fell silent. I wondered if she was thinking about the good times she'd shared with her sister. Good times that had suddenly come to an end the night before.

“You don't have to stay here,” I said again. “I'll take care of everything until the club finds someone else to take over. Do you have family in Georgia? Wouldn't you feel better going home to them?”

“Sister was my family,” E.J. said softly. “We only had each other. There was a time when things were different . . .” She paused, gazed off into the distance, then continued after a minute. “Sister and I had been looking forward to this show all year. She would be very disappointed in me if I left now. We came here to do a job, didn't we? Well by damn, I intend to see it through to the end and nobody's going to stop me.”

“Of course not. Not if that's what you want.”

“Thank you, dear.” Edith Jean patted my hand. “I know you're only trying to help. But Sister and I thought of our Poodles and the Poodle community as our family. I'd much rather stay here and fulfill our obligations than go home and wallow in self-pity. There will be plenty of time for that when the show is over.”

Her words made me feel worse than ever. According to Aunt Peg, most of the PCA members barely knew the Boone sisters. None saw them more than once or twice a year. It was sad to think that these were the people whom Edith Jean regarded as those closest to her.

The older woman marched over to the box she'd brought in on the dolly and began to unpack the raffle prizes. I hastened to lend a hand. Literally, since we only had three between us.

“You know, I'll bet there's a doctor here somewhere,” I mentioned. “A couple of PCA members are doctors, aren't they? Maybe the announcer could make a request over the PA system.”

“Stop worrying about me,” E.J. said over her shoulder. “That's an order. Keep going on like that, and you'll drive me right around the bend. I may be old, but I'm not incapacitated.”

“I never—”

Her quelling look shut me up. Instead, I simply pitched in and went to work beside her.

Business was slow for the remainder of the morning. Most people who came by, did so to offer their condolences. Edith Jean accepted everyone's good wishes with grace and the firm assertion that she had no intention of abandoning her post, even under such trying circumstances.

After a while, she got out the basket, loaded it up, and sent me and Eve on a tour of the show site. I suspected she was more interested in getting us out of her hair than she was in ticket sales. If Edith Jean wanted some time to herself, however, I was happy to oblige her.

By noon, Eve and I had sold tickets to every person in the arena who was even remotely interested in the raffle, and probably some to those who weren't. I'd missed the morning seminar, but now that Edith Jean was back on the job I was hoping to head back to the hotel for the afternoon. Aside from wanting to catch a glimpse of Aunt Peg's psychic, it was time to start grooming Eve in anticipation of her class Thursday morning.

“You go on,” Edith Jean said when I broached the subject. “Of course I can handle things here. It's not as if we're even busy. Things will start perking up tomorrow when the breed show opens. Everyone will be here for that.”

“What time is Bubba's class?” I asked.

The dog (or male) classes in all three Poodle varieties would be judged on Wednesday. For the first two days of the breed competition, two rings were set up in the arena and they ran simultaneously. Standard Poodles, with the biggest entry and one that usually took all day to judge, had a ring to themselves. Miniature and Toy Poodles were judged in the other ring—one variety showing in the morning and the other in the afternoon. Which size went first, alternated years.

“Minis are first this time,” said Edith Jean. “Which puts Bubba in the second class after lunch. You'll be here then, right, so I can go to the ring and watch?”

“Right,” I agreed.

The raffle table had an excellent location on the arena floor. In fact, if the crowds weren't heavy, we could see the ring from where we stood. But being able to casually peruse the judging from afar, and analyzing the competition in your own dog's class down to the most minute detail, were two distinctly different things.

Not only that but most dog owners went into hiding when their dogs were being shown by a professional. It's extremely important that a dog focus on his handler while he's in the ring. The handler knows how to present the dog to its best advantage; he watches the judge and positions the dog accordingly. A dog that's inattentive to its handler's cues or distracted by its owner in the audience, is unlikely to give the winning performance.

Bearing those factors in mind, Edith Jean would need to position herself in such a way that she had an unobstructed view of the class but that Bubba could neither see, hear, nor smell her. The quest to achieve such a goal often led to comical antics at ringside, with owners bobbing up and down, and into and out of sight, depending on which direction their dogs were facing. Wherever E.J. was planning to go, she certainly didn't need to be tied to the raffle table.

“Keep your fingers crossed for us,” she said. “Now, after what's happened, I want Bubba to win more than ever. What a nice tribute that would be to Sister's memory.”

“Yesterday you seemed to think he had a pretty good shot.”

“Yes, well . . .” Her gaze slipped away. “Harry Gandolf's been lobbying pretty heavily for that dog of his, Vic. And Leo Mancini, the Toy judge, comes from the Midwest, so he and Harry are pretty tight.”

Judging dogs is supposed to be a totally objective exercise. Judges should enter the ring carrying nothing but a mental image of the breed standard in their minds. More often than not, however, the dog that has generated the ringside buzz is—deservedly or not—the one that ends up at the head of the line.

E.J. was right to be wary of advance, word-of-mouth promotion. It had worked to dogs' advantage many times in the past. Now she shook her head.

“Something's up with Harry and that puppy of his,” she said. “I wish I knew what it was. Sister and I don't go to many shows and Harry Gandolf's never said two words to me before in my entire life. But don't you know, there he was bright and early this morning, standing outside my hotel room and wanting to ask me if I was going to pull Bubba from the competition on account of what happened.”

“That's pretty rude. What did you tell him?”

“I said, ‘Son, they don't call southern women steel magnolias for nothing. My sister was looking forward to watching Bubba win PCA and if I have anything to say about it, that's exactly what our boy is going to do.' Then I just pushed right past him and left”

“He's a professional handler,” I said thoughtfully. “I imagine he probably brought a whole string of Poodles to this show. I wonder why winning with that one puppy is so important to him?”

“Beats me,” said Edith Jean. “All I can say is that Sister's and my lives were a whole lot calmer before Bubba started winning this spring and Harry started making threats.”

I turned and stared. “Wait a minute. I thought you just said you'd never spoken to him before this morning.”

“That's right. Leastways, not in person. But I sure as hell knew who he was. Just like he knew me. Roger, our handler . . .” She stopped, glanced my way. “You know Roger?”

I nodded. I knew who he was.

“Roger heard from Harry a month or so ago. Right after Bubba did all his winning on the Cherry Blossom circuit. Harry said he had a client who was interested in Bubba and was he for sale. Hell, no, Sister and I said. Bubba's the best thing that's happened to us in years. He's not for sale.”

“And then?”

“Next thing Roger knew, someone had put the word out that Bubba was oversize. Now you Standard people don't have to worry about that, but with Toys it's a big deal.”

I knew about that. It was important with Miniatures as well. The Poodle breed standard is exactly the same for all three varieties except in one aspect: size. Toy Poodles are those that stand ten inches or under, measured at the highest point of the shoulder. Minis are between ten and fifteen inches. Standard Poodles are those that are taller than fifteen. Any Poodle that doesn't fall within those parameters is disqualified from competition.

In theory, a Poodle that is oversize for its variety can be shown in the next larger division. But practically speaking, that simply doesn't work. Fair or not, bigger is considered to be better in the dog show ring and bigger is what wins.

For the most part, Toy Poodles that become champions usually stand within a quarter inch on either side of that ten-inch mark. Winning Minis are seldom less than fourteen and a half inches; the majority are taller. And since breeders breed for Poodles that are “right up to size,” exhibitors tend to push those limits to the breaking point.

That was where the size disqualification became a factor. A judge who felt that a Poodle being shown to him didn't fall within the size parameters for its variety, could call for the wicket and take a measurement in the ring. If the judge was correct, the dog was disqualified. Three disqualifications from three different judges resulted in the Poodle being barred from competition permanently.

Many judges refused to measure at all, especially since those who were known to be sticklers for size usually drew smaller entries. Other judges preferred to eyeball the participants, making their own estimation of eligibility rather than performing an official measurement. However you looked at it, the fact that someone was spreading the rumor that Bubba was oversize couldn't help but be damaging.

“Is he over?” I asked. Anyone who had shown for any length of time had been faced with the prospect of finishing one that grew bigger than anticipated. It was luck of the draw as much as anything else that made a puppy fall just under the disqualification line rather than just over.

“No, Bubba's just in. Fortunately. He was measured twice after that,” said Edith Jean. “Both judges got the wicket over him with no problem. Next thing we knew, somebody told Roger word's going around that Bubba's been dyed.”

Another potentially disqualifying act.
If
it could be proven. I found myself frowning. This all sounded like a great deal of commotion to go through over the show career of one small Toy Poodle puppy.

“How did you know Harry was the one who was behind all the rumors?”

“Dog people talk,” said Edith Jean. “You probably know that for yourself. First time around, we figured it was probably a disgruntled competitor. But the second time rumors started flying, Roger got mad and did some digging. Again and again, Harry Gandolf's name kept popping up. I don't mind telling you that Sister was getting pretty steamed about the whole situation. And she had a bit of a temper, that gal.”

As if Edith Jean didn't.

“Just yesterday afternoon, when Harry was hanging around the show schmoozing with everybody, Sister looked at me and said, ‘If that man doesn't back off and leave our puppy alone, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind.' And she was serious about it, too.”

And now she was dead, I thought.

What were the chances that that was a coincidence?