Hair of the Dog (2 page)

“Thank you for having us. This looks wonderful.” The merest trace of a southern drawl coated Vivian's smooth-as-honey voice. She lifted her nose to the wind and sniffed delicately. “Do I smell ribs?”

“You can take the girl out of the country ...” Ron teased. “Her mouth's been watering since we got off the Merritt Parkway.”

“In a minute, you can help yourselves,” said Peg. “But first—”

“Don't even ask,” Austin broke in good-naturedly. “Robert Janney's Peke skunked us both. I don't suppose you have a neon sign around here where we could post the news?”

“Don't worry, if you told the group at the gate, it's probably traveled around the whole yard already.” Peg motioned me forward and performed the introductions, and we shook hands all around.

Vivian's grasp was surprisingly firm, and Austin added to his by throwing an arm around my shoulder and giving me a squeeze.

“You mustn't mind him,” said Ron. “He's like that with all the girls.”

“If you've got it, flaunt it,” said Austin.

“Oh?” I lifted a brow. “What have you got?”

Austin roared with laughter. “Everything I need,” he said firmly. “And then some.”

“Don't get him started,” said Viv. “At least not while I still have an empty stomach.” Linking her arms through both men's, Viv led them toward two big grills, where an abundant supply of ribs and chicken were basting in barbecue sauce.

Now that she mentioned it, my own stomach was feeling pretty empty. I saw that Davey had settled himself in an Adirondack chair. He had a plate holding two ears of buttered corn and a generous mound of baked beans balanced on the big wooden arm. I told myself that it was better than brownies and was about to go get some food myself, when Aunt Peg muttered something under her breath.

Peg was raised in genteel times. Coming from her, “Damn!” meant business.

A new group of guests who'd just arrived from the show was strolling around the side of the house. Among them was Barry Turk, a Poodle handler with low professional standards and even less moral character. I'd visited his kennel when I was searching for Aunt Peg's missing Poodle and found it to be dark, cramped, and filled with dogs that barked incessantly. Turk's prices were right, however, and he did his share of winning in the ring, so he never seemed to lack for clients.

“Don't tell me you invited him,” I said, surprised. Turk was not one of Aunt Peg's favorite people.

“I most certainly did not. Obviously he tagged along with everybody else.”

Turk hung back for a moment as the group he was with moved on. I saw why when a slender woman, stylishly dressed, hurried around the house and caught up with him. Turk reached out and took her hand.

“Oh, Lord,” said Peg, sounding as though she were truly hoping for divine intervention.

“She looks familiar.” I frowned, trying to place the woman.

“That's Alicia Devane. You've probably seen her at the shows. She and Barry have been living together since last fall.”

I gazed at Alicia with new interest. She was attractive in a quiet sort of way, her dark hair bobbed to just below chin length, her features even and unremarkable. All in all, she looked perfectly normal. That being the case, I wondered what she was doing with a jerk like Barry Turk.

I would have asked Aunt Peg, but it was clear her attention was elsewhere. She was standing on her toes, her gaze searching avidly through the assembled crowds. Considering that Peg's height already placed her above most of the guests, I took this to mean that it was a matter of some urgency.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“Maybe nothing,” she said, sounding relieved. “I don't see Bill. Maybe he's not here.”

“Bill?”

“Bill Devane. Alicia's husband.”

I told you it wasn't going to be simple.

“Alicia's
husband?
I thought you just told me she was living with Barry.”

“She is. She left Bill to move in with Barry, which tends to make things very awkward, if you see what I mean.”

I did.

“Bill gave her a divorce, but it was clear he didn't want to. They haven't spoken since, but I've always had the impression that he would still take her back if only she would ask him to.”

I found myself looking around at the guests as well, though I hadn't a clue what Alicia's ex-husband looked like. “Did you invite Bill Devane?”

“Use your eyes, Melanie. It looks like I invited just about everybody who was at the dog show. Bill's a sporting dog judge. I believe he had rather a large assignment today. With any luck, all that judging wore him out and he went home.”

“Sporting dogs?” I thought for a moment. “Didn't you say Austin Beamish was showing a Golden Retriever? Maybe he would know.”

“Quite right.” Peg deftly caught Austin's eye and gave a discreet wave. He excused himself from the people he was talking to and headed our way. He was carrying a plate filled with fried chicken and potato salad. The aroma made my stomach rumble.

“Wonderful party, Peg. But I see I've forgotten my manners. Are you looking for someone to escort you through the buffet line?”

“Maybe later,” said Peg, understandably distracted. “I was wondering if you'd seen Bill Devane?”

“Earlier at the show, yes, of course. He was the judge that gave Midas the group. We spoke briefly afterward, and he mentioned that he had another assignment tomorrow. I believe he was heading home. Were you expecting him?”

“No, not necessarily. It's just that Barry Turk's arrived—”

“And he has Alicia with him. I see your problem.” Austin nodded. “I think you'll be all right as far as Bill is concerned. However, if Barry and Ron should get together ...”

“Dear Lord.” Aunt Peg groaned. “I'd forgotten all about that.”

“What?” I asked.

“Ron Pullman had a specials dog with Barry last winter,” said Peg. “It was rather a nice Chow, and he did quite a bit of winning with it.”

A specials dog is one that has already accumulated the points necessary to be awarded the title of champion. Most dogs are retired once they've “finished,” but specials dogs are those beautiful and talented individuals that continue to be campaigned, chasing the elusive glory of the group wins and the top prize, Best in Show.

Class dogs—those looking to win points toward their championships—were the backbone of a professional handler's business, but specials dogs were their tickets to fame and fortune.

“Yes?” I prompted. Clearly, there was more to the story than that.

“Last April, Ron snatched the dog away. There was never any explanation given, at least not one that the rest of us heard. It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd retired Leo, but he didn't. Ron gave the dog to Crawford, who's won even more with him.”

Crawford Langley was another professional handler. I'd known him for a year now, our relationship evolving slowly into friendship over time. Crawford was an old hand at the dog show game. Skillful and experienced, he'd made his mark in a time when dedication to hard work was considered a more valuable trait than the ability to cut corners without getting caught.

Over the winter, Crawford had been specialing a Dalmatian belonging to one of the members of Aunt Peg's kennel club. When that dog had gone home in the spring, there'd been talk that Crawford was thinking of retiring, but once again he'd managed to bounce back, coming up with yet another good dog.

Now that I knew where Crawford's Chow special had come from, I was beginning to understand the problem. In dog show circles, it's considered the ultimate insult to take a dog away from one handler and give it to another. It implies that the first handler's skills aren't good enough, that for the amount of money being spent, better results could be had elsewhere. It was bad enough when a handler lost a class dog, but specials had high visibility. Turk had not only been fired, he'd had to endure the insult publicly.

“That's not all,” said Austin. “Ever since Ron moved the dog, Turk has been bad-mouthing him to anyone who'll listen. He claims there's a bill still outstanding that Ron refuses to pay.”

“Is that true?” I asked.

“Probably not,” said Peg. “But Barry Turk isn't the sort of man to let the truth distract him when he thinks a lie would work to his advantage.”

“Ron's been livid over the whole business,” said Austin. “At least at the shows Turk's had the good sense to avoid him. If they meet here tonight, we'll see some fireworks.”

“Terrific,” I said, biting back a laugh. “Is there anyone else we're hoping Barry Turk doesn't run into?”

Aunt Peg snorted indelicately. “You might as well add me to the list. Everything about that man rubs me the wrong way. He's showing a Standard Poodle bitch for Rona Peters that's due in season any time now, and Rona wants the bitch bred to my dog, Joker. I'll have to deal with him when the time comes, but until then ...”

“Say no more,” Austin said gallantly. “If you like, I'd be happy to ask him to leave.”

“Thank you for the offer.” Peg was still frowning. “I'd rather not cause a scene. If we're lucky, Alicia will keep Barry in line and they won't stay long.”

Austin went back to his friends and Peg and I headed over to the picnic tables, where the caterers had set out a sumptuous spread. Earlier, the day had been warm and muggy, but now the night air was cooling rapidly. A quarter moon was on the rise and the odor of wood smoke hung in the air. Crickets trilled in the meadow, a backdrop to the pleasant hum of conversation. For the moment, the party seemed capable of running itself. Before the next potential crisis erupted, I was going to grab my chance and eat.

Behind the tables that held the food were two long barbecue grills. One was being tended by a young man with the name of the catering company stenciled across the front of his T-shirt. An older man I hadn't seen before stood beside the other. He had a full head of gray hair, sharply defined features, and wore a jacket and tie beneath his apron. Holding a drink in one hand, he wielded his tongs efficiently with the other. He didn't look like part of the catering crew, but he did look as though he were having a wonderful time.

“Douglas!” cried Peg. “There you are. I wondered where you'd gotten to.”

“Always happy to help out.” The man smiled cheerfully. “It seems there was a bit of an emergency. Ice melting out in the truck or some such. I volunteered to fill in until things got sorted out.”

“Melanie, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, Douglas Brannigan. Douglas, this is my niece, Melanie.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, extending a hand without thinking.

Douglas never lost a beat. He simply extended the tongs to meet my fingers. I took them and we shook. I like a man with a sense of humor. Besides, that gave me a chance to lick the barbecue sauce off my fingertips. The way things were going, that might be the closest I'd get to food all night.

“It's my pleasure,” said Douglas. His voice was deep and gravelly. “I've heard so much about you.”

“You have?” I glanced at Peg, who did her best to look innocent.

“And your son too. Davey, right? I believe I gave him a drumstick a few minutes ago.”

“Thank you,” I said uncertainly. I was sure we'd never met before, so why would Aunt Peg have been talking about me to him? Figuring he'd come to the party from the dog show along with everyone else, I asked, “What kind of dogs do you have?”

“I don't have any, actually. Although in this crowd, I'm finding that a dangerous thing to admit. Your aunt is trying to interest me in a Poodle.”

Nothing new there. Aunt Peg thought everyone ought to have a Poodle, preferably Standard. It was a bias she came by naturally.

“So far I'm holding out, though,” Douglas continued. “At my age, I'm too old to get started with something like that.”

“Pish,” said Peg. “You're not old. You're just stubborn.”

Douglas laughed heartily, and I looked back and forth between them. Peg's cheeks were flushed becomingly and a smile lit her features. Belatedly, I realized that it wasn't only her hair that was different. My aunt, who lived in blue jeans, was wearing a silk shirtwaist dress—and lipstick. I'd thought she'd dressed up in honor of the party, but maybe not ...

“How long have you two known each other?” I asked, directing the question to Douglas. Peg tends to shade the truth when it suits her purposes. She's very good at telling me only what she wants me to know.

“Just about a month,” he said, lifting a side of ribs and deftly basting it with sauce. “We met in Greenwich. Bumped right into each other.”

Peg nodded. “What Douglas is too much of a gentleman to tell you is that I ran into his car with mine. You know how hard it is to get a parking space on Greenwich Avenue. I saw one opening up and didn't stop to look and see if anyone else wanted it too.”

Like maybe someone who might have had the right of way? I wondered. Aunt Peg was a very impatient driver with a rather heavy foot on the gas pedal. Woe to anyone who got between her and where she thought she was going.

“I hope nobody was hurt?”

“Only a ding and a couple of scratches,” said Douglas. “It didn't seem worth bothering the insurance companies over.”

“So he suggested we work out an equitable solution over a cup of coffee,” Aunt Peg continued. “I thought that was an excellent idea.”

They looked at each other and smiled.

“Here you go. I'll take that!” Another young man wearing a shirt bearing the caterer's logo came hurrying over to the grill.

“You're certain you have everything under control?” Reluctantly Douglas handed over the tongs and pulled off his apron. “I'd be happy to stay on if you need me.”

“Thanks, we're all set now.”

“Perfect timing,” said Aunt Peg. “Let's go eat.”

As we went to get plates, I glanced around the area. Since our arrival, I'd been keeping tabs on Davey from afar. He enjoyed the freedom, and there didn't seem to be too many ways he could get himself into trouble in Peg's backyard. Now I realized, however, that at least five minutes had passed since he'd last flashed through my field of vision.

When Peg and Douglas picked up napkins and silverware, I held back. “Have either of you seen Davey recently?”

Aunt Peg shook her head.

“I think I saw him go inside the house,” said Douglas. “Maybe he's still there.”

He'd been inside earlier looking for dessert, but by now several large trays of brownies had been brought out. Davey might have been looking for a bathroom. Then again, knowing my son, he was probably exploring.

Left to his own devices, Davey's imagination was boundless. I could picture him turning on Aunt Peg's computer and deleting the files that didn't feature games, or adding to the general excitement by turning loose the half dozen Standard Poodles Peg had crated in her house for the duration of the party.

“I think I'd better go find him.”

“Off you go, then,” Aunt Peg said heartlessly. Easy for her to say, she was already filling her plate.

From the vantage point of the back steps, I took one last look around the yard. Davey was nowhere in sight. I walked through a small mud room and into the kitchen, ascertaining quickly that it was empty too. Davey liked to play hide-and-seek; finding him might take some time.

But when I simply stood still and listened, I realized I'd worried for nothing. The television in the family room was on, and unless I missed my guess, whoever was watching had tuned to Nickelodeon. A moment later I found Davey there, curled up on the couch, with a plate of brownies within easy reach.

“Hey, sport, what are you doing in here? The party's outside.”

“Some party,” Davey sniffed. “No toys, no games. It's no fun at all.”

Looking at it as a five-year-old might, I could see his point. I sat down beside him. “Are there any good shows on TV?”

“Lots.” At home, Davey's television time was restricted. I could see he sensed we were about to strike a bargain.

“Enough to entertain you for another hour or so?”

“I'll say!”

We agreed that I'd bring him a glass of milk and check back when it got dark.

All right, so I'm not the best mother in the world. I'm not the worst either. There's a lot to be said for teaching a child the art of negotiation early in life. It's a skill that will come in handy as he matures.

I was in the kitchen, head deep in Aunt Peg's refrigerator as I searched for milk, when the back door opened and shut behind me.

“Nice view,” said Barry Turk. As I'd bent forward from the waist and had my back to him, it wasn't hard to figure out what he was talking about. His tone was oily and insinuating. That was probably his version of flattery.

I straightened, and shut the refrigerator door. “Hi, Barry.”

“If I'd known the kitchen was the place to be, I'd have found my way in here sooner.”

I sighed. Barry wasn't bad-looking in an overdone, overly macho sort of way. He had dark, curly hair that he wore short on top and longer in the back, and a body that looked as though it made frequent visits to the gym. The problem was, his emotional maturity seemed to have peaked in high school.

He was known for being smooth and glib, and taking plenty of time to schmooze with the judges. A lack of self-confidence had never been Barry's problem, and he did well enough in the ring. But like his sex appeal, his talent with dogs was all just surface flash, with nothing decent and honest to back it up.