Hounded to Death (23 page)

That was the way things had been run previous to my tenure in the dog show world. I remembered hearing about the “old-fashioned” Bedminster from Aunt Peg. But I was also pretty sure that their mores and procedures had begun to change in the last decade.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Charles was a member.”

“You're half right. Charles and Caroline were both members. Charles was accorded the honor in the mid-eighties, when it was still a men's club.”

“And Caroline?”

“Four or five years ago. About that time, it became clear to the Bedminster board that they needed to step into the twenty-first century. Maybe someone threatened them with a discrimination lawsuit. Or maybe it occurred to them that if they added a few women to their roster, they'd have someone to do all the boring jobs they were too lazy to do themselves.

“Anyway, for the first time in nearly a century, the membership was opened to outsiders. Several dozen people applied for consideration. Caroline was one of the first women accepted.”

While Rosalyn was speaking, I'd finished my soup. Since that seemed to be staying down okay, I picked up my sandwich and began to nibble around the edges.

“Is this another diversion,” I asked, “or is there a point to this story?”

“I was one of the applicants. Bedminster has members from all over the country, but I grew up in New Jersey. Bedminster felt like my local kennel club. The first show I ever attended as a child was their event. Imagine.” She stopped and smiled. “I thought all dog shows were like that.”

I smiled with her, thinking of some of the truly terrible venues I'd been to over the years. “That must have been a rude awakening.”

“It wasn't nearly as rude as the reply I received when my application was rejected by the Bedminster board. My credentials were good, so was my reputation. I never would have applied if I hadn't thought I stood a good chance of being accepted.”

“Did they tell you why they turned you down?”

“Not officially, no. They didn't feel they had to. All I got was a curt, one-paragraph letter on Bedminster parchment stationery, informing me that my request for membership had been denied.”

“And unofficially?”

Rosalyn sighed. Even now, it seemed, the memory still rankled.

“I found out later that Charles was the one who had blackballed me. He didn't give the membership committee a reason beyond saying that in his opinion I wasn't up to Bedminster standards. I barely knew Caroline, but I understand that she backed him up.”

Rosalyn put down her fork and pushed her plate away. It looked like her appetite was as capricious as mine.

“You barely knew Caroline,” I said slowly, “but you must have known Charles. Do you know why he did that to you?”

“Hell yes, I know exactly why he did it. He blackballed me because a couple of years earlier, when we were both away from home judging at a series of cluster shows, he made a pass at me and I turned him down so fast it made his head spin. I guess his ego couldn't handle the rejection. And isn't it just like a man to take his revenge?”

A
nd so the plot thickens, I thought.

“You must have been furious,” I said aloud.

“Hell yes. And in my place, anyone would have felt the same. It's one thing to be turned down on my own merits. But to have some pompous jackass step in and turn my life upside down just for kicks…” Rosalyn snorted in disgust. “I could have killed him for that.”

And now somebody had. Funny how that came together.

“Be careful,” I said. “You'll sound like you're giving yourself a motive.”

“Too late for that. I've never made any secret about how I felt about Charles. Probably half the people in this room know that I couldn't stand him.”

“Do they know why?” I asked curiously.

“No.”

She reached for her salad plate and pulled it back in front of her. Apparently confession was good for not only the soul, but also the appetite. Rosalyn dug into her meal with renewed gusto.

“That story isn't anybody's business. Why would I want to advertise that I'd applied for membership in Bedminster and been rejected? Besides, when it comes to motives, I'm certainly not the only person who's got one. Charles and Caroline may have touted themselves as the dog show world's golden couple, but there are just as many people around here who resented them as revered them.”

“Really?” I said. “Who else?”

Rosalyn's gaze suddenly sharpened. “The answer depends. What are you going to do with the information? If you're going to go running to the police, then I'm keeping my mouth shut. Why should I get anybody else in trouble?”

“Don't you think the police ought to be told?”

“The police have a job to do and they're the ones who ought to be doing it. That detective is supposed to be tracking down a killer. He doesn't need me to tell him where to look.”

“So then I guess you'd be just as happy if Charles's killer wasn't brought to justice?”

Rosalyn scowled. “I didn't say that, did I?”

“You came close enough. And now someone, probably the same person, has attacked Florence. Would that be a better reason for you to get involved?”

Rosalyn was shaking her head again. My arguments weren't making any impression upon her. If anything, they were hardening her resolve.

“That ‘getting involved' part? That's not my thing. Sticking your nose where it doesn't belong just makes more problems, and believe me, I've got plenty of my own already.”

Our waiter came gliding back. He wanted desperately to find out how we were doing, refill our glasses, and offer us all sorts of things we didn't want. This time, I was the one who waved him impatiently away.

My hold on Rosalyn's attention was tenuous already. The last thing we needed was a distraction.

“Last night when we had dinner together…” I said.

“The meal you didn't eat.”

That could have applied to any number of meals I'd sat down in front of lately, but it was true enough, so I nodded. “You weren't the only one at the table who wasn't upset about what happened to Charles.”

“Yeah, Tubby was there too. He's not my favorite guy by any stretch of the imagination, but I have to say one thing for him. He calls things as he sees them.”

“Do you know what his gripe was with Charles?”

“Like what? Like you think everyone who didn't like the guy got together and compared notes?”

Put that way, the question did sound rather absurd.

“I have no idea why Tubby didn't like Charles,” Rosalyn said. “Here's my wild-assed guess and you can take it for what it's worth. Knowing what kind of guys they both are, I bet the two of them got tangled up over a woman somewhere, and Charles won. Am I right about that? Who knows? But it makes as good a story as any.”

I took a deep breath and looked at her across the table, considering what she'd said. Our plates were empty and the waiter was heading our way yet again. We were just about done.

“Is that what we've been doing here?” I asked. “Spinning tales?”

“You tell me,” Rosalyn replied. “Truth isn't absolute, you know. It changes, depending on your perception. Whoever said there are two sides to every story was a fool. There are as many sides as there are storytellers. And that, my friend, is the truth.”

 

She stuck me with the check. While I was taking care of it, Aunt Peg came sweeping into the dining room.

Her height, her demeanor, and her confident stride would have drawn attention anywhere. But while Rosalyn and I had been eating, the room had filled; and in this crowd Aunt Peg was a woman of some renown.

Half the diners knew her personally, the other half knew her by reputation. And I bet that nearly all of them were privy to the story that had been circulating since the previous evening: the one that placed the blame for Florence's condition squarely on Aunt Peg's strong shoulders.

Voices lowered as she passed between the tables, gazes slipped away. Anyone who hadn't heard the gossip previously was certainly being treated to its more juicy aspects now.

Aunt Peg might have heard the whispers that followed her across the room if she'd been listening. Instead she appeared oblivious, moving fast, and intent on her own concerns as she zeroed in on my table.

“I see I've missed lunch,” she said, slipping into the chair Rosalyn had recently vacated. “I hope you ate something.”

“Soup and a sandwich.”

Aunt Peg's stern gaze scanned every inch of the table as if she was looking for evidence. “Did you actually eat the food or just push it around your plate before sending it back?”

“I finished most of it.”

The talk in the room hadn't stopped when Aunt Peg sat down. If anything, the buzz was building. Now people were turning to stare covertly in our direction.

Florence had been due to return from the hospital that morning. I wondered if she was indeed back at the inn—and what she was saying now about the previous evening's events.

Even if she recanted her story, the version she'd fabricated was already out there. Judging by the reaction I was seeing, the news had taken on a life of its own. Why was it always so much easier for people to believe the bad rather than the good?

“You've got to do something,” I said.

“About what?”

“How can you even ask that? Surely you can't be that oblivious. Everyone in the dining room is talking about you.”

“Surely not
everyone
.”

Aunt Peg turned and had a look. Catching several friends in the act of staring, she gave them a cheerful wave.

“You see?” she said, turning back to me. “Not everybody at all. At least half of them are eating, as well they should be.”

“They're eating
and
talking about you.”

I tried to sound stern, but it was difficult in the face of her relentless disregard for the situation. While I was upset, Aunt Peg was looking remarkably upbeat. And if she refused to be worried about the damage that was being done to her reputation, who was I to insist that she should be?

“Let them talk,” she said. “Sticks and stones and all that rubbish. Listen, I was hoping you might have a leftover or two. Canine supplies in Mountain View left a lot to be desired. I finally succeeded in finding some kibble, but I doubt that it's very palatable. A little turkey or hamburger mixed in might go a long way toward making it a more decent meal.”

“You're talking about a dog who's been living out of garbage cans. I'm sure whatever you've found will look like prime rib to him.”

“Oh, I know he'll eat it. He'll probably even be grateful. But after all he's been through, I feel as though he deserves a bit of a treat. For all his issues, he really is a rather lovely dog.”

“Issues?” I sat up straight. “What issues?”

But Aunt Peg wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to me. Instead she'd turned away to survey the tables around us. I realized with some dismay that she wasn't looking at the occupants, but rather at their plates.

“You wouldn't dare,” I said.

She had her eye on a juicy piece of uneaten steak sandwich.

“Why not? We're all dog lovers here. Anyone would understand.”

No, they wouldn't, I thought. They'd think she'd lost her marbles. And crazy behavior now, coming on top of Florence's accusation, would only lend credence to the earlier report.

“Nobody's supposed to know you have a dog in your room,” I hissed under my breath. “They can't understand what they don't know about. You'll look like you're begging for food off people's plates—”

“With good reason,” said Aunt Peg. “As that's exactly what I intend to do. Excuse me…” She leaned across to a neighboring table and gestured toward the bit of steak. “Are you going to eat that?”

The startled diner broke off her conversation and shook her head.

“Would you mind if I took it and wrapped it up in my napkin?”

With a little more notice, I might have made my escape before she started this lunacy. As it was, I was stuck there at the table, pasting a sickly smile on my face, and trying to look as though Aunt Peg's behavior was perfectly normal.

She reached over with a fork and snagged the tidbit, plopped it into her napkin, and slipped it into her purse. Maybe she'd been fast enough that no one else had noticed, I thought hopefully.

Fat chance.

Once again, heads were turning. This time, people didn't bother to hide the fact that they were staring.

“Did you have to do that?” I asked.

“Well, I didn't
have
to. But it certainly made sense to.”

Aunt Peg reached over and patted my hand comfortingly. Like that was going to help.

“Walter will thank us later, you'll see.”

Somehow I doubted that a dog's gratitude, no matter how sincere, would make me feel better about this incident, which had to rank as a new lifetime low for public displays of eccentric behavior.

“Besides,” said Aunt Peg, “you can't blame this entirely on me. If you'd had the decency to leave a little something on your own plate, I wouldn't have been forced to resort to such drastic measures, now, would I?”

Of course. This humiliating episode was all my fault. I should have known.

 

After that, I couldn't get out of the dining room fast enough. Booty in hand, Miss Lack-of-Manners and I went out to the parking lot to retrieve the bag of kibble and other assorted supplies from the van. We then snuck up the back stairs to the second floor.

As we turned onto our hallway, I was relieved not to hear any barking coming from the direction of our rooms. Aunt Peg, I saw, had taken the liberty of posting
DO NOT DISTURB
signs on both her door and ours. I supposed that meant Bertie and I would be making our own beds.

“Where did you leave him?” I asked as she juggled the twenty-pound sack of kibble into her other hand and slipped her card through the lock.

“It was damn inconvenient not to have a crate on hand. Who knew what he might get it into his head to chew on? I had to lock him in the bathroom, poor dog.”

The door opened and we walked inside. Both of us immediately looked toward the bathroom door. All was quiet.

“Walter?” Aunt Peg called. “I'm home.”

A happy whine answered her greeting. It was quickly followed by a series of small yips. Whether the Shepherd was responding to his name or simply the sound of Aunt Peg's voice, it was clear that he was happy to hear from her.

I shoved the outer door shut as Peg pushed the bathroom door open. Walter came flying out and bowled right into us.

I caught only a glancing blow but Aunt Peg was knocked over backward. The bag of kibble went flying. She landed in a heap on the floor, with the German Shepherd straddling her body.

Walter's tail whipped back and forth. He was wuffling softly under his breath. As Peg sat up, he sniffed her face, then her hair, then her hands, as if anxious to reassure himself that she was truly there.

“I see you've made some progress since this morning,” I said.

Aunt Peg smiled at her star pupil. Gently she braced her hands on his chest and eased him away so she could get up.

“He's coming along wonderfully. And of course the fact that I was holding a piece of bacon in my hand when we began our lessons didn't hurt one bit.”

Speaking of food, as soon as the Shepherd had stepped away from Aunt Peg, his nose had led him unerringly to her purse, which had fallen on the bed. Good thing the clasp had remained fastened; otherwise the steak she meant to add to his dinner would already be gone.

I reached around the big dog and rescued the handbag. Walter gave me a remorseful look, but didn't object to my intervention.