Hair of the Dog (11 page)

This time, we both looked into the ring. Bill nodded slightly in our direction. It was clear he was keeping tabs on his ex-wife.

“Surely he no longer feels responsible for you?”

“You wouldn't think so, would you?”

Alicia hadn't answered my question, and we both knew it. Instead, she changed the subject. “Tell me what you've found out.”

“Not very much, I'm afraid.” And the things I did know were not necessarily the sort I wanted to tell her. “Barry did seem to have the unfortunate capacity to rub people the wrong way.”

I blanched, realizing what I'd said, but Alicia didn't seem to notice. Quickly, I pressed on. “I know he lost the Pullmans' Chow in the spring. Have there been other clients who left him recently?”

She thought for a moment. “None worth mentioning. You know how it is, people are always moving their dogs around. No matter how much you're doing for them, they always think they can get a better deal somewhere else. We'd lost a few dogs in the last couple of months, but we'd gained some too. Actually, overall our numbers were up.”

“So what happened with Leo?”

Her eyes darted my way, then back. “What do you mean?”

“When a specials dog changes handlers like that, it's news. Something must have gone wrong. What was it?”

“What makes you think I'd know the answer to that?” Alicia's tone was brisk and, I thought, somewhat defensive.

“You and Barry were living together. Not only that, but you came to all the shows with him. You must have known what was going on.”

“About some things, yes. But not everything. Barry and I weren't business partners, we were in love. Believe it or not, we didn't discuss work all that much.”

I picked at a splinter on my chair and said casually, “So I guess you wouldn't know whether or not Ron Pullman left an unpaid bill behind when he moved Leo to Crawford's.”

“Everybody knew about that,” said Alicia. “Barry complained about it often enough.”

Before I could ask another question, a shadow fell across our faces. I looked up and saw Austin Beamish standing over us. An experienced show-goer, he had a canvas folding chair under his arm, which he opened out and placed beside Alicia's seat.

“What a pleasure it is to see you, my dear,” he said, taking both of her hands in his. “I'm so glad you've found your way back to the shows.”

“It's nice to be here.” Alicia smiled. “I've missed seeing all my friends.”

“If there's anything I can do, anything at all, you must call me. I'd be happy to help.”

“Thank you. I'm doing fine, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Hello, Melanie,” Austin leaned forward and gave a small wave. “I didn't know you had an interest in Golden Retrievers.”

I looked into the ring. While Alicia and I had been talking, the Irish Setters had finished being judged and Golden Retrievers had taken their place.

“I enjoy watching all the breeds. Is Midas entered today?”

“Today and every day,” Austin said lightly, a clear indication of the size of his wallet. “He won Best in Show yesterday. I've got my fingers crossed for a repeat performance this afternoon.”

“Congratulations,” I told him. “And good luck.”

I was sincere in my good wishes, but Midas certainly didn't need them. In a ring filled with pretty Golden Retrievers, he was once again a standout. Bill wasted no time in awarding him Best of Breed.

“That's the first step,” said Austin, standing up and folding his chair. “The Sporting group's at three. Stop by the ring and cheer us on, if you can.”

Call me a cynic, I thought as he walked away. But I doubted I was the only one who'd noticed that Bill was keeping an eye on his ex-wife from inside his ring. Was it mere chance that had Austin sitting by Alicia's side, offering condolences while his dog was being judged, or an opportunity seen and taken?

I watched Austin pause by the gate to have a word with Tom Rossi as the handler exited the ring. Midas stopped at the end of his lead and stood quietly. If I'd let someone else show Faith, she would have turned handsprings with joy when I reappeared. The Golden Retriever, however, barely spared Austin a glance. He might be the dog's owner, but it was clear they'd never spent any time together.

Beside me, Alicia was gathering up her things. The morning's judging was over, and once Bill had finished having his picture taken with the dogs he'd put up, he'd be free to go to lunch.

“Did Barry ever show any of Austin's dogs?” I asked.

“Not that I know of,” Alicia said, standing. “If he did, it was before my time. I don't think Austin and Barry liked each other very much.”

“Barry told you that?”

“Actually, it was Austin. Ron Pullman introduced us and Austin made some sort of tacky comment about how I needed to improve my taste in men. At the time, he seemed to find it amusing.” She frowned distastefully. “I certainly didn't.”

“Funny, I just met Austin a few weeks ago, but he's always been rather charming to me.”

“You must be every bit as young as you look,” said Alicia. “Trust me, all men are charming until they get what they want. After that you're on your own.”

When Bill was finished with his photos, he and Alicia left the ringside together. A casual observer would have taken them for a happy couple.

As I watched them leave, I thought about what Alicia had said. She seemed to know a lot of men who were used to getting what they wanted. What about Bill Devane? I wondered. Did he fit the mold as well?

Ten minutes later, I found Frank and Davey standing in line at the Good Humor truck. Lunchtime? No mother around? In their minds, I guess that called for ice cream.

Davey waved when he saw me. “We saw a motor home get stuck in a ditch,” he cried. “It was awesome!”

And to think I'd been worried that they might not find the dog show entertaining enough.

“Want something?” asked Frank. He'd worked his way to the front of the line and had his wallet out. That was a rare sight. Besides, I'd already seen what the food concession had to offer.

I got a toasted almond bar and three napkins, one for each of us since nobody else seemed to be thinking about things like that. Davey went for a chocolate eclair, while Frank opted for something covered in coconut.

“Listen,” he said as we moved off to one side. “There's someone I want to meet. I figured you could introduce me.”

“Really?” I asked curiously. “Who?”

“A woman, a redhead. She handles other people's dogs. Davey told me you knew her.”

Bertie, it had to be.

Of course, we wouldn't have been brother and sister if I hadn't still harbored the childish urge to make him squirm. “Any particular reason why you'd like to meet her?”

“She looks like a nice person.”

“You could tell that from watching her show dogs?”

“Maybe not.” Frank grinned. “But I could sure as hell tell I wanted her phone number.”

“You sure as hell could,” Davey echoed. He's just beginning to figure out that swear words have a fair amount of shock value when spoken by a five-year-old. Accordingly, he throws them into the conversation as often as he thinks he can get away with it.

I glared in his direction, but my son didn't notice. He was too busy trying to lick the ice cream off his stick before the rest of it could dribble down onto his hands. Good thing I'd picked up those extra napkins.

“About this handler . . . ?”

“Bertie,” I supplied.

“Bertie. Is she seeing anyone?”

“Not that I know of, but she and I aren't exactly confidantes. You'll have to ask her that yourself.”

“Great,” Frank said enthusiastically. He's never been low on self-confidence. “Let's go.”

We found Bertie under the grooming tent. She was munching on a handful of carrot sticks and running a damp towel over the back of a Basset Hound. Looking at her, I was reminded of the Irish Setters I'd admired earlier. She was sleek, elegant, and definitely eye-catching.

“You again,” she said, but a smile softened her words. “More questions, right?”

“Maybe a couple. But first I want you to meet my brother.” I performed the introductions. “This is Frank's first dog show.”

“This is fascinating,” he gushed. I wondered if it was as obvious to her as it was to me that he was lying through his teeth. “I'm really enjoying the whole scene.”

“Glad to hear that,” Bertie was noncommittal as she went back to work. For her, being approached by enthusiastic males was probably nothing new. “What breed do you have?”

“I don't actually have a dog of my own at the moment ...” Frank faltered, but then quickly recovered. “But of course, Melanie and my aunt have Standard Poodles. They're magnificent animals.”

Magnificent animals, my foot. “He calls them bears,” I mentioned.

“Only when I'm kidding around,” Frank said. “Listen, I was wondering—”

“I'm bored,” Davey announced. “Come on, Uncle Frank. I want to go watch the dogs in the ring.”

“Just a minute, Davey.”

“No, now!”

When my son gets in that mood, he can try the patience of a saint; and if there was one thing my brother wasn't in line for, it was sainthood.

Davey grabbed Frank's hand and began to pull. Considering his size, he's pretty strong. Frank had a pained expression on his face.

“Maybe your mother would like to take you over to the rings,” he said somewhat desperately.

“Then again, maybe she wouldn't.” I smiled sweetly.

Out of the corner of her eye, Bertie watched the family interplay with interest. Quickly Frank reevaluated his options. I knew what he was thinking. Would he score more points by staying and talking, or by playing the role of the doting uncle? When Davey's next, outraged shriek caused Bertie's dog to jump up in a startled reaction, my brother saw the wisdom in moving on.

“I guess we're going.” Frank turned a hundred-watt smile in Bertie's direction. “Will you be around later?”

“All day,” she told him.

Together, we watched them walk away.

“He seems like a nice guy,” said Bertie.

“I'm sure he was hoping you'd think so.” There was an unoccupied grooming table behind me. I curled my fingers around the rubberized edge and hopped up to have a seat. “Don't get me wrong. Frank is a nice guy. I guess it's just hard for a sister to be too complimentary.”

Bertie picked up a pair of carrot sticks from the top of her grooming box and offered me one. “What does he do?”

“At the moment, he's tending bar in Greenwich. Frank has what you might call a diversified career history.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” said Bertie. “So was he interested, or what?”

“Frank asked for the introduction. I'm sure he hoped to get your phone number.”

“That's easy enough.” Bertie reached around, fished around the top tray of her tack box, and came up with a business card, which she handed over.

“I should tell you, he doesn't really like dogs.”

“That's okay. Sometimes I'm not so sure I do either.” She caught my look and smiled. “After a while, enough is enough, you know? Besides, it's not like it's easy to meet guys. Around here, all the interesting men are either married or gay. I'm not saying I want to spend the rest of my life with your brother, but I'll meet him for a drink. It might be fun, and it would certainly be a relief not to spend the whole night talking about dog shows.”

I pocketed the business card. I figured Frank now owed me one. It wasn't the worst position to be in.

“So what else?” asked Bertie. “It seems like you never show up unless you want to know something. What is it this time?”

Was I really that much of a pest? I hoped not. But she was right, I did have questions.

“Would you be willing to give me the names of the women who were going to report Barry Turk for harassment?”

“I might.” Bertie thought for a moment. “Although I doubt they had anything to do with his murder.”

“Maybe, maybe not. It must be awfully frustrating to have something like that happen and then find out you have no recourse through official channels. Could be they decided to take matters into their own hands.”

“Let me check with them,” said Bertie. “One's a new client of mine, and I don't want to ruffle any feathers. If they say they wouldn't mind talking to you, I'll give you a call.”

“Great.” I scooted forward and slid down off the tabletop. “Speaking of clients, it looks like business is going pretty well for you.”

“So far, so good. I wouldn't mind having a group dog or two to round things out.”

Like every other pro, Bertie was constantly searching for the big dog and big client that could make a handler's career.

“I just saw Austin Beamish over at the Golden ring. Have you ever thought about going after his dogs?”

“Briefly.” Bertie smiled. “Very briefly. That man's too tough for me. He wants what he wants and nobody better get in his way. Besides,” she said ruefully, “Austin hires only the best. I'm much too small-time for him.”

“Now maybe. Not forever.”

“Hold that thought,” said Bertie. “I sure am.”

 

I strolled back over to Aunt Peg's setup, where I delivered the news that Frank and Davey were fine, and found myself pressed into service holding Poodle noses while Tory and Callie stood on their tables to be scissored. Standard Poodles are tall. By the time Sam and Peg were finished, I had a cramp in my arm and a crick in my neck.

“Do you want me to check the ring?” I asked, angling for easier duty.

“It's not necessary,” said Peg. “Crawford will be back with Leo any minute. He'll let us know what's going on.”

Most judges are licensed for a variety of breeds, but in general they tend to branch out within the same group. Practically speaking, this often means that at a single show an entire group might be judged by the same person. Chows, also in Non-Sporting, were scheduled two breeds ahead of Standard Poodles.

As Peg and Sam began to spray up, Crawford came back to the tent clutching the purple and gold Best of Breed rosette in his hands. Terry, the assistant, was leading Leo. Ron and Viv, the proud parents, followed along behind.

“We won!” Terry crowed, just in case there had been any doubt.

“Big deal,” I teased him. “You always win.”

“That's because Leo's the best.” He lowered his face and nuzzled the Chow's nose with his own. “Aren't you, little boy?”

Leo wagged his tail, and the back end of his stocky body wriggled back and forth at the same time. Maybe he was agreeing. Or maybe it was the piece of dried liver Terry slipped him from his pocket that got him so excited.

“Not now,” Crawford said sternly. He had two Standard Poodles lying on their grooming tables, awaiting the finishing touches.

“Need help?” I asked.

“We should be okay. Terry's a wiz with hair.” Crawford cast a meaningful glance at his assistant. “When I can get him moving.”

“I'm moving, I'm moving. See?” Terry wiggled his butt back and forth a few times, much like Leo had just done.

Viv and I laughed. Crawford sighed loudly, but he didn't look too upset. Everyone went to work, and ten minutes later we all trooped up to ringside. Sam and Aunt Peg were both entered in the Open bitch class. Crawford had an Open dog and a Puppy bitch. Ron stayed back at the setup, but Viv came with me to watch.

While Crawford showed the Open dog, Terry held the puppy near the gate. He took a comb out of his pocket and ran it through the pom-pom on her tail.

“You are a wiz with hair,” I told him with no small amount of envy. “Aunt Peg's been working on me for a year now, and I still can't get the scissoring just right. How did you ever pick it up so quickly?”

“Talent like this is in the genes.”

I gave him the look the comment deserved.

“Don't tell me you want the truth!” Terry said. “How dull. Hon, I've been doing hair for years. Before I met Crawford I was a hairdresser. You know, saving up to buy my own shop and never quite getting there? Being forced to work for Medusa to earn my daily bread? Then poof! True love hit me right between the eyes, and next thing I knew Crawford had taken me away from all that.”

“How nice for you.”

“Nice for Crawford too. Honey, I'm good.”

He reached up and ran the tips of his fingers through my hair. It fell, thick and straight, to my shoulders, the same as it had since I was a teenager. Since nothing I did to it seemed to make much difference, I'd pretty much given up trying.

“I'll do you sometime if you like,” Terry offered. “Maybe a few layers in the front to frame your face?”

“You should take him up on it,” said Viv. “He is good. You know how things slow down late in the day, when everyone's just sitting around waiting for Best in Show? I've seen Terry pull out a pair of scissors and go to work. He did Tom Rossi's assistant at Greenwich, and next thing you know, a line had formed.”

“Only two people,” Terry said modestly, then ruined the effect by adding, “Of course, they were two very satisfied people by the time I got done with them.”

In the ring, Crawford won the Open class and then took the points. Terry unrolled the puppy's leash, had a last critical look, then switched Poodles with Crawford, who went back in the ring. I ambled down the sideline to where Peg and Sam were waiting.

“That will help,” said Peg. “I always feel better when Crawford wins right before I have to show against him. With any luck, Winners Dog will be his piece for the day.”

Judges are only human. They like to make as many people happy as possible, especially since satisfied exhibitors tend to come back and enter under them again, and most shows try to hire judges that they know will draw the largest number of entries. In theory, Crawford had now had his win in Poodles for the day, which meant that he would be less likely to beat the winner of the Open Bitch class with his puppy.

Sam smoothed down Callie's ears with a damp comb. “I don't know why you're worried about Crawford. I'm the one you're going to have to beat.”

“Says you.” Peg harrumphed.

“Good luck to both of you,” I said diplomatically when the Open class was called. As they entered the ring, I went back to watch the proceedings with Viv.

“I swear, I don't know how you Poodle people stand that trim,” she said. “You must be brushing and clipping day and night.”

“Sometimes it feels that way,” I agreed. “Believe it or not, the continental is a direct descendant of a traditional German hunting clip.”

“You're pulling my leg.” Viv was obviously amused. “I used to go hunting with my daddy and brothers when I was little, and none of our hunting dogs looked like that.”

“It's true,” I said.

In the ring, Tory had reached the head of the line and was being examined by the judges. I smiled to myself as Aunt Peg placed her hand around Tory's muzzle and foreface. To the uninitiated, it might have looked as though she needed that grip to hold the bitch still. I knew better, however. Tory was very well trained; she wouldn't have dreamt of moving while the judge's hands were on her.