Hair of the Dog (19 page)

Of all the kennels I've ever visited, Crawford Langley's is the nicest. It's set way back from the road on a parcel of land that's bigger than my whole block in Flower Estates. The house is a white colonial, large and well maintained.

The kennel building is behind the house and looks as though it was designed to match. Runs spread out from either side: covered, to the left; uncovered, to the right. In addition, several acres of land have been fenced off into a series of large paddocks.

As I parked beneath the spreading branches of a beautiful old maple tree, two Standard Poodles were busy entertaining themselves by chasing each other along the chain-link fence in their adjoining paddocks. Fence running, it's called, and it's a wonderful source of exercise. Immediately Faith stood up and pricked her ears.

“You want to join them, don't you?”

Her paws did a little dance on the seat. Faith didn't need to know how to talk. Her method of communication made her feelings perfectly clear.

I slipped the looped end of the lead over her head and hopped her out of the car. Being a Standard Poodle, Faith's manners are impeccable. But as I led her to the house, she was still casting envious glances back at the two playing Poodles.

Terry answered the door wearing cutoff denim shorts and a loose tank top. His feet were encased in a battered pair of Top-Siders and he hadn't bothered to shave. Don Johnson has to try to look this good. On Terry, it just seemed to come naturally.

“Welcome,” he said. “Come on in.”

Faith whined softly under her breath. Terry glanced at her, then out into the field, then up at me. “It's your choice. She can come inside with us, or I can set her up out there in the empty paddock.”

Faith leapt up in the air and placed her front paws on Terry's chest. “Paddock it is,” he said.

At least they'd pretended to consult me.

Five minutes later, Faith was happily fence running with the other Standard Poodles. Terry had checked to make sure that the water bucket in the paddock was full. I'd looked at the angle of the sun and decided that one end of the paddock would remain shaded for at least another hour. We left Faith making new friends and went inside.

“Come on in the kitchen.” Terry led the way through the back door. “Crawford is such a neat freak. If we're going to make a mess, we may as well do it someplace he never goes.”

“I heard that,” said Crawford. He was pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter. Like Terry, he was dressed casually. Even so, his khakis were creased and his hair was neatly combed. “Are you implying I can't cook?”

“I wouldn't dream of it.” Terry pulled out a chair from a bleached wood table beside a window and invited me to sit. “You heat up Lean Cuisine better than almost anyone I know.”

Crawford ignored him, directing his next question to me. “The boy wonder tells me you're letting him cut your hair. Are you sure that's a good idea?”

“I've heard he's very good,” I said, hoping I hadn't heard wrong.

“Honey, I'm not just good. I'm faaabulous.” Terry opened a drawer, whipped out a sheet, and fastened it around my shoulders. “By the time I'm done, you'll look like Whoopi Goldberg.”

I started to rise. Terry's firm hand on my shoulder pushed me back down. “Just kidding.”

A comb, a spray bottle of water, and a pair of scissors appeared in his hands. All at once, I felt like one of Crawford's Poodles, standing on a grooming table and waiting to be done up. I wondered if there weren't easier ways to gather information.

On the other side of the table, Crawford pulled out a chair and sat down. Sections from the morning's
New York Times
were scattered over the tabletop. Crawford took a pair of glasses out of his pocket, picked up the front page, and began to read.

“Relax,” he said. “Terry's actually pretty talented.”

That made me feel better. Marginally. “Does he do your hair?”

“No.”

I started to get up again. Terry, busy spritzing, pushed me back down. “You have to sit still. Otherwise I won't be responsible for the consequences.”

Consequences? That sounded serious. I forced a smile. “Not too short, okay?”

“Did the Pope tell Michelangelo how to paint the Sistine Chapel?”

“Actually”—Crawford looked up from his paper—“I believe he did.”

Seated between the two of them, I felt like the straight man in a Three Stooges comedy. I just hoped I had enough hair left at the end of all this for someone to call me Curly.

Scissors flashed in the corner of my eye as Terry made the first cut. “Congratulations on Leo's Best in Show on Sunday,” I said to Crawford. “The Pullmans must have been thrilled.”

“I'll say—” Terry began.

“They were very pleased.” Crawford deftly cut him off. “The dog showed beautifully.”

“You've done very well with him.”

He nodded.

“Especially since you've had him only a matter of months.”

Crawford flipped the top corner of the paper down and stared at me over the top of his reading glasses. “Melanie,” he said sternly. “You are not nearly as subtle as you think you are.”

I wasn't?

“If you're here to have your hair cut, I'm Liberace. Knowing you, you probably want to talk about Barry's murder. So why don't you just get to it.”

“Okay.” That wasn't an invitation I was about to turn down. “What do you know about Barry Turk and sexual harassment?”

The question seemed to surprise him. Crawford set down the paper and took a moment to think about it. “I heard rumors,” he said finally. “Didn't know if they were true, didn't particularly want to know.”

“Apparently he's been bothering women handlers for years. One, Christine Franken, gave up handling because of what he did.”

“Really?” asked Terry.

“I wouldn't know,” said Crawford. “I do remember when Christine was starting out. One month she was showing for Austin Beamish. Next month she wasn't. It's not an unusual story. Lots of people who think they're going to make it as a pro don't.”

“She says Barry set out to put her out of business.”

“Barry wasn't out to make any friends, that's true. This is a competitive sport. Every time you walk into the ring, it's either the other guy or you.”

“Speaking of which, why did Ron and Viv take the dog away from Barry last spring and bring him here?”

“I don't know.”

I stared at him, hard. “You don't know, or you don't want to say?”

“Both.” Crawford pushed aside the newspaper and stood. “Anything I'd tell you would be pure speculation. I don't care to do that.”

He picked up his coffee cup and left the room. When I turned to watch him go, Terry gently repositioned my head. He was bending close, lifting the hair with the comb, and feathering in layers.

“Three words,” he said softly.
“Cherchez la femme.”

Look for the woman? What woman? Viv? She'd told me she'd been responsible for Leo's switch in handlers. Maybe I should have believed her.

Obviously enjoying himself, Terry was humming under his breath.

“Viv Pullman,” I said. “You're talking about Viv, right?”

“No.”

No? What other woman was there?

He finished the side he'd been working on and began to pin up the other. Without the benefit of a mirror, I had no idea what he'd done. I reached a hand up to my shoulder. The hair that had been there was gone.

“Sit still.” Terry slapped my hand away. “Or you'll end up looking like one of Bitsy Farnsworth's Shih Tzus.”

Bitsy Farnsworth was an owner-handler, and not a very talented one at that. Dogs she'd groomed tended to look like they had recently passed through a wind tunnel. I took the threat seriously and settled back in my chair.

If not Viv, then who? What other woman could have been responsible for Leo's move? What other women were there?

There was Beth certainly, Barry's assistant. Had Ron been dissatisfied with the way she'd cared for the dog? If so, a few pointed comments to Barry should have been sufficient to clear up that problem.

What about Alicia? She was there too, although not in any capacity that would have given her much contact with Leo. As Terry happily spritzed and snipped, I mulled that over. It wasn't until I stopped focusing on the dog and started focusing on the people that I remembered what Ann Leeds had said about Alicia buttering up potential clients.

And about the fact that Alicia wasn't friends with many of the wives.

Alicia, who was now pregnant with a baby she claimed belonged to neither Barry nor her ex-husband. Just how well had Alicia gotten along with Barry's biggest client?

“Alicia,” I said aloud. “Alicia and Ron.”

Terry smiled, wielding his scissors like a pro. “I didn't say it.”

“Is it true?”

He glanced toward the kitchen door, and I knew what he was thinking. Crawford wouldn't be happy if he thought Terry was blabbing his clients' secrets. Besides, he'd already said enough.

I lifted a hand. “How's it coming?”

“Almost done.”

Only a moment passed before Terry put down his scissors. He pulled back, studying me critically. I was pleased to note that for all the snipping I'd heard, there didn't seem to be that much hair on the floor around me.

He stared for so long that I began to get nervous. “How does it look?”

“Fabulous! It's like magic. Your eyes look huge. Have you ever thought about lining your lids with brown eye shadow?”

“Yeah, right.” I was busy fishing through my purse. There was a small mirror in my compact.

“No, really. Come.” Terry pulled off the sheet and set it aside, then led me to a powder room in the hallway off the kitchen. He reached out and flipped on the light. “Look.”

He seemed so pleased that for a moment I was almost afraid to. I glanced up, down, anywhere but directly at the mirror.

“Would you look?” Terry cried.

So I did.

“Wow,” I said softly.

He hadn't done a lot, just added some layers around my face and a sweep of bangs that did, somehow, seem to highlight my eyes. My hair was shorter than it had been, but it wasn't short. I turned to the left, then the right. It swung when I moved, then settled back into place.

Terry stood behind me, grinning like a kid on Christmas. “Am I good, or what?”

“You're great,” I assured him. “And totally wasted on dogs.”

“Of course.” He preened happily. “What can I say? Life threw me a curve. I found it was more important to be where Crawford was.”

“It was important for him too.” I took Terry's hand, suddenly serious. “There's been such a difference in Crawford. Last winter, people were wondering if he might retire. Now he's on top again. He seems ... just happier, I guess.”

Terry looked pleased. “Crawford thought he was getting old. Hopefully, I've shown him he was wrong.”

I stood up on my toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You did a great job.”

A throat cleared softly behind me. “I'd be surprised to think that I might be interrupting something,” said Crawford. “But on the off chance, would you two like some privacy?”

“No.” The thought made me giggle. “I was just leaving.”

“I see he didn't scalp you.”

“No, he did a terrific job.”

“That's what I just heard you say.”

Terry and I shared a smile.

“Don't praise him too much,” said Crawford. “I wouldn't want it to go to his head.”

I pulled out my wallet. “What do I owe you?”

“I'm shocked!” cried Terry. “Shocked! To think that you'd give money to an artiste!”

I dug out a couple of bills. “You have to take it. Otherwise, I'll never be able to come back and ask you to do it again.”

“Oh.” Terry snatched the money and stuffed it in his pocket. “Since you put it that way, okay.”

I turned to Crawford. “And while we're on the subject of money ...”

He frowned, guessing what was coming. “One last question. That's it.”

One was better than nothing. “Alicia says that Ron still owes Barry money. You say you wouldn't have taken him on as a client if the bill weren't paid. Who's right?”

“Could be we're both right.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“It depends on how you look at things. Leo wasn't the only dog that Barry showed for Ron. The Pullmans bred plenty of good Chows. They probably finished several dozen over the years. With those kinds of numbers, it's not like Ron made it to every show to see every single dog go in the ring.”

Terry nodded as though he'd figured out where Crawford was going. I still hadn't a clue. “So?”

“Let's just say Barry Turk wasn't above cutting a few corners. Suppose a dog goes out with a handler to get its championship. Six months later, it's finished and home. The owners paid bills for thirty or forty shows. Who's to say whether or not the dog actually went in the ring that many times?”

Crawford headed for the door. I followed along behind. “You mean Barry was billing Ron for shows he never went to?”

“Oh, I'm sure Barry went to the shows. But sometimes things happen. Maybe a handler's running late, or there's a scheduling conflict—a handler has two dogs that have to be in different rings at the same time. It's not unheard of for a dog to be entered, go to a show, and never make it out of its crate.”

“How did Ron find out what was going on?”

“I don't know all the particular,” said Crawford. “I imagine he showed up somewhere that Barry wasn't expecting him. Or maybe he checked his receipts against the show results in the
Gazette.
Anyway, he contested several bills, and I couldn't say as I blamed him. Barry, of course, denied everything.”

“Was there a lot of money involved?”

“Not enough to be worth killing over, if that's what you're thinking. Disputes like this aren't uncommon. They usually get worked out with an adjustment on the next couple of bills. Nobody would have known a thing about it if the Pullmans hadn't decided to move Leo and Barry hadn't raised a fuss. End of story. Okay?”

Considering I'd been allotted one question, I figured I'd done pretty well. I thanked Crawford for the information and Terry for the haircut, and left.

Faith and her new friends had all run themselves into a state of happy exhaustion. My Poodle was lying down in the shade when I came out, but she jumped up as soon as she saw me. I let her out of the paddock and put her in the car.

We picked up Davey at camp and I spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for him to notice my new haircut. No dice. Try putting a pear instead of an apple into his lunch box and he'll talk about it for weeks.

Finally, over a dinner of shish kebabs that we'd grilled out back, I said, “Does anything look different about me?”

Davey took so long considering his answer, Faith got up from her spot beside the table to see what he was staring at. Then she barked. I was betting she knew.

Not my son. “No,” he said, and went back to building a mountain of rice with his fork.

I gave up.

 

The next morning I called Winmore Kennels and Beth picked up. Yes, Alicia was still there, Beth told me. She was busy packing up all her stuff. Would I like to talk to her?

I said no thanks and went out and got in the car. Lately it seemed as though I was spending all my spare time on the road. But what I had to ask Alicia was important, and I'd just as soon see her face when she answered.

In the month since my last visit, fortunes at Winmore had declined visibly. Whereas once the kennel had seemed much too small for the number of dogs it housed, now more runs were empty than full. The impatiens that had brightened the yard were wilting, unwatered, in the August sun. Though Alicia was still in residence, her heart had already moved on.

When I arrived, she was just coming out the front door carrying a large, unwieldy box. Carefully she maneuvered her way down the front steps. I parked the Volvo behind a half-filled Ford Explorer and hurried over to help.

“Here, let me take that.”

Alicia gave up the box with a murmur. It fell into my arms, and was considerably heavier than it looked. No wonder her face was so red. I shoved it inside the Explorer's open back door. Alicia was already heading back into the house. She hadn't looked surprised to see me. I imagined Beth must have told her I was coming.

“Your hair looks good,” she said.

“Thanks, Terry did it.”

Alicia nodded. “He did me a couple of months ago. Back when I was first pregnant and had morning sickness like crazy. I think he was trying to cheer me up.”

I followed her up the front steps. “Are you sure you ought to be working like this?”

At four months, Alicia was now visibly pregnant. Not only had her torso thickened, but her arms and legs seemed plumper too. Even her face had taken on a smooth, rounded quality. The only thing that was missing was a beatific maternal glow. Alicia Devane was scowling mightily and sweating like a football player.

“Do I have a choice?” she asked. “The stuff's got to get moved.”

“Where's Bill?”

“He had some work to do. He lent me his car.” She nodded toward the Explorer. “He'll help me unload at the other end.”

“How about taking a break?”

She thought for a moment, then nodded. “I guess I could use one. You want some lemonade?”

“Sounds great.”

In the kitchen, she poured two tall glasses. I sat down at the table, but Alicia continued to work as she drank, taking china out of the cupboard, wrapping it in newspaper, and putting it in a box on the floor.

Though the back door was open, the air in the room was hot and still. A small fan on the counter seemed to be turning at half speed. If it was cooling things off any, I couldn't feel the difference.

“Maybe you could hire movers to do that,” I suggested.

“No money.”

“Bill?”

“I left on my own.” Her expression tightened. “I'll return the same way.”

I took a sip of lemonade. It was good: homemade, and just tart enough to be really refreshing. “We need to talk.”

Alicia turned and looked at me. “That sounds serious.” When I didn't answer, she walked over, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “What have you found out about Barry now?”

“Actually this was more about you.”

“Oh?”

“And Ron Pullman.”

“I see.” Alicia reached for her lemonade and took a long drink.

“Is Ron your baby's father, Alicia?”

“Since you're here, I imagine you already know the answer to that.”

“When did the affair start?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really. When did it end?”

Alicia lifted a brow. “Who says it has?”

I choked on a sip of lemonade. “You mean you're still sleeping with him?”

“Actually, no. Not since spring.” Alicia gave a soft laugh, though she didn't sound amused. “I just didn't want you to think you knew everything.”

“There's plenty I don't know.”

“Like who fired the shots that killed Barry.”

“For starters. And about Leo.”

“The Chow? He's a dog. What else is there to know?”

“He was Barry's specials dog. What happened?”

“Viv Pullman happened,” Alicia snorted. “That's what.”

“She found out about you and Ron?”

“No.” Alicia shook her head. “She couldn't have. We were very careful about that.”

“Viv told me that she was the one who made the decision to move Leo over to Crawford.” I was thinking aloud now, trying to make the pieces fall into place. “Why did she do that if she didn't know about what was going on?”

“Maybe she had her suspicions. More likely, she was just playing it safe. She and Ron have been married what, two, three years? I guess the honeymoon was ending. Ron's like a big old tomcat, he always has his eye out. Believe me, if he were my husband, I'd worry too. He was married to Mona when he met Viv, you know.”

“No, I didn't know.”

“Well, he was. But that didn't stop him from falling for Viv. She was smart, though. Don't ever let yourself be fooled by that sweet southern drawl. Viv's no Daisy Mae. She knew a good thing when she saw it. Ron's got looks, money, connections ...”