Unleashed (A Melanie Travis Mystery) (5 page)

“Woof!’s
first issue. Hot off the presses,” Brian announced proudly as he hopped out and locked up. “Want one? Or did you already get a copy from Sheila?”

“I haven’t seen Sheila yet. I just got here.”

“You’re not showing then?” Brian looked at his watch. It was nearing eleven.

I shook my head.

“I’m running late myself. Sheila was supposed to get here around nine and start handing them out. With any luck, by now there should already be some buzz.”

Brian’s expression was calculated. Running late, my foot, I thought. He’d shown up late on purpose in order to make an entrance.

Brian opened the Boxster’s trunk. More magazines were stacked inside. He gathered up an armful.

“Off to the trenches,” he said cheerfully.

I hoped it wasn’t an apt metaphor.

Unfortunately for Brian, his grand entrance was a bust. Sheila hadn’t arrived yet, which meant that the first issues of
Woof!
to reach the show ground were the ones he held in his hands.

I had taken a copy with me when we’d parted and was still thumbing through it an hour later, reading various tidbits aloud to Sam and Peg. From our vantage point next to the rings, we could see Brian working the show—shaking hands, giving away freebies, and generally building goodwill. I didn’t see a single person who received a magazine set it aside. Even exhibitors who were busy with their dogs opened it right up and began to read.

If today’s response was any indication, Sheila’s marketing expertise wasn’t overrated. Brian was obviously delivering his magazine to an audience that was salivating to get their hands on it.

As he worked his way over to our setup, I filled Aunt Peg in on Brian’s background and his connection to Sam and Sheila. She’d heard of
Woof!,
of course, having received her flyer like everyone else. Though she claimed she hadn’t planned to subscribe, I could see she was curious. If I didn’t keep an eye on my copy, it would probably go home in her purse.

Sam, who knew all the players better than I did and might have contributed a great deal to the conversation, was uncharacteristically silent. Aunt Peg is one of his favorite people. Usually when the two of them get together, it’s all I can do to keep up.

Today, however, Sam concentrated on getting Tar ready for the ring and trading jokes with Davey. I might have chalked his reticence up to show day jitters, except that unlike me, Sam doesn’t get nervous when he’s showing a dog. He’s just that good, and he knows it.

By the time Brian came strolling down our aisle, Tar was standing on his grooming table as Sam applied the finish to his trim. Though Sam’s attention was ostensibly on the puppy, he’d clearly been keeping track of Brian’s progress because he knew the moment the other man approached.

“Looks like you’re making quite a splash,” he said, putting down his scissors.

“Trying to.” Brian held out a copy of the magazine to Aunt Peg as I made the introductions.

“So you’re the man who thinks he can expose the sordid underbelly of the dog show world,” she said, eyes twinkling. There’s nothing Peg enjoys more than provoking an argument. “You may be disappointed. I’m afraid we’re not nearly so scandalous as you may hope.”

“So far, there’s been no shortage of news.” Brian held her gaze. “Read the first issue before you form an opinion. And speaking of opinions, I’d love to know what you think.”

Aunt Peg has enough of a name in the dog community that she meets flatterers every day of the week. I wouldn’t say she’s immune to sweet talk, but she’s certainly been inoculated.

“What I think is that you’re going to have a hard time finding advertisers. Magazines don’t live by subscription alone.”

“True,” Brian agreed. “Sheila and I have considered that, and we’re aware that things may be slow in the beginning. But we’re confident they’ll pick up. After all, exhibitors want to showcase their dogs in the magazine that offers the widest exposure for their advertising dollar. Based on the response we’re getting already, we think that’s going to be
Woof!.”

Gazing around at the crowds of spectators and exhibitors, many of whom were clutching copies of his first issue, it was hard to refute Brian’s claim.

“Speaking of Sheila,” he said, turning to Sam. “You haven’t heard from her, have you? She was supposed to be here first thing this morning to help me get the word out.”

Sam shrugged. He seemed amused by Brian’s annoyance. “You know Sheila. She’s never been known for her punctuality.”

“But this was important!”

“So was our wedding,” Sam said mildly. “The organist went through his entire repertoire twice before she finally put in an appearance. Don’t worry, she’s probably on her way.”

“I should hope so,” Brian growled. “There’s no answer at her house, and her cell phone directed me to voice mail. In the meantime, I had to call a couple of staffers and tell them to swing by the office for more copies, then get up here on the double.”

Still grumbling under his breath, Brian moved on. “Is that the new magazine?” I heard a woman in the next setup squeal. “Can I have a copy? And one for my friend who’s in the ring?” Sunny smile restored, back in salesman mode, Brian handed out the copies.

“You’d love to see him fail, wouldn’t you?” I said to Sam as Brian walked away.

He grimaced slightly. “Do I really seem that petty?”

“Not usually, no. But don’t forget, if Brian goes down, he’ll drag Sheila with him.”

“Sheila can take care of herself,” Peg said firmly. “Nobody forced her to get involved in this business to begin with. That was her choice. But since you’re asking, I, for one, wouldn’t mind seeing
Woof!
fail.”

That didn’t surprise me. Where dog shows are concerned, Peg tends to see the bright side. It’s not that she doesn’t know about the underhanded things that go on, just that she’s positive that the good outweighs the bad. Curious though she might be,
Woof!
was not the kind of endeavor to which she would lend her support.

“Hey!” said Davey, standing up on the top of Tar’s crate. “Why is that lady waving at us?”

We all turned to look. The lady in question was the steward for the Poodle ring. While we’d been occupied with Brian, the breeds before ours had finished being judged. Now Standard the Poodle Puppy Dog class was in the ring.

Not only that, but the judge was handing out their ribbons, so the class was almost over. Though Tar was still a puppy, Sam had entered him in Open. With no entries in the intervening classes, his turn would come momentarily.

“Thank goodness for Marjorie,” Aunt Peg said, as Sam swept Tar down off the grooming table and headed toward the gate, where the rest of the entrants had already gathered. The steward had Sam’s numbered armband out and ready for him to slip on.

I put Faith in her crate, helped Davey down off his high perch, and followed Peg and Sam to ringside. When we got there, Sam and Tar were already in the ring, standing at the end of a long line of Open dogs. Peg waved her thanks to Marjorie, the steward, who smiled a reply as she checked off the exhibitors’ numbers in her catalogue.

The essence of the ring steward’s job is to assist a judge in the efficient running of his ring. They mark off absentees, lay out the colored ribbons appropriate for the class being judged, answer numerous questions for harried exhibitors, and generally try to make the judge’s life as easy as possible.

Apart from announcing each class, it is not their job to call individual exhibitors to the ring. As it happens, however, stewards are usually members of the show-giving club, or local volunteers. Members of the dog show community themselves, they often know many of the entrants. And since they’re also holding a catalogue which spells out who belongs where, they can often be counted on to give a nudge when needed. Luckily for us, today’s steward had been more on the ball than we were.

Holding Davey’s hand, I stepped in close beside Aunt Peg, who was busy consulting her catalogue. Normally she’d have scoped out the competition ahead of time, but today she’d been too busy with
Woof!
. Now she ran a knowledgeable eye down the line, much like the judge who was taking her own first look from inside the ring.

There were six dogs in the class: four blacks, two whites, all adults except for Tar. I could tell that at a glance because he was the only one still wearing the puppy trim, which allows for a scissored blanket of hair all over the Poodle’s body. Traditionally, the Open class is the one with the most competition, and consequently, the hardest to win. Entering Tar here was Sam’s way of letting the judge know that he felt his puppy had the maturity and the quality to take on all comers.

“Who’s going to win?” I asked Peg in a low tone.

“You are,” said a voice behind us. “More’s the pity.”

“Terry!” I turned and slipped my arms around him for a gentle hug, careful not to muss the beautifully coifed Standard Poodle puppy he held at his side. “How have you been?”

“Better on days when Crawford thinks he has a shot.” Terry sighed theatrically. He’s young, and gay, and impossibly handsome, and he never makes a small gesture when a large one will do.

Crawford Langley was a busy and successful professional dog handler, and Terry’s boss. He’d already won the Puppy Dog class with the Poodle Terry was holding at ringside, and he had another entry in Open to show against Sam.

“Shhh!” Peg snapped. “You’ll jinx us.”

“I doubt it,” Terry said, but he looked hopeful. “That puppy’s been beating the tar out of us for the last six weeks.”

Davey giggled at the bad pun. We adults politely ignored it.

“If he wins today, that’s it,” said Peg, meaning that Tar would have accumulated the fifteen points required to finish his championship. “He’ll be out of your hair forever.”

“In the classes, maybe.” Terry pulled a comb out of his jacket pocket and began to comb through the puppy’s silky ears. “What about the specials ring?”

“We’ll worry about that when the time comes,” Peg said firmly, but her crafty look gave the game away.

Specials dogs are those rare animals that possess the quality to be given a career in group and best in show competition. Tar was young yet to be making such predictions, but I knew Aunt Peg had high hopes for his future.

“Oooh.” She drew in a breath.

The judge had completed her individual examinations and was going back for a second look at the dogs she planned to use. A flick of her finger moved Tar to the head of the line. Crawford was too much of a pro to let his expression betray his feelings when he was pulled out behind Sam’s puppy, but I knew he couldn’t have been pleased. Rather than concede defeat, however, he began to work even harder.

“Tail,” Terry whispered as the judge glanced Crawford’s way. “Hair!”

I used my elbow to nudge him, none too politely, in the ribs. Terry winced, but didn’t retreat.

Each dog, no matter how beautiful, has his faults. And every handler knows that it’s his job to ferret out the competition’s weaknesses and exploit them. Though he carried his tail correctly, Tar’s tail set could have been higher; and as he was still a puppy, his coat lacked the harshness it would naturally attain in a year or two.

Standing second, it was Crawford’s duty not only to showcase his own dog’s assets, but also remind the judge of Tar’s deficiencies. He tried, but his efforts didn’t succeed. When the judge pointed to her placings, Tar was still in the number one spot.

Peg and I clapped our appreciation, but we weren’t ready to celebrate yet. Championship points are won not by taking an individual class, but by beating all the other class winners within the same sex. Today, only two dog classes—Puppy and Open—had had entries, but that still meant that Crawford’s puppy had a chance to beat Tar for the title of Winners Dog and the points that went with it.

Terry hustled the Puppy class winner over to the gate, where he and Crawford switched dogs. After that, it was all over in a moment. The judge compared the two puppies briefly, then motioned Tar to the winner’s spot.

Beside me, Davey whooped with delight. Even Aunt Peg, who likes to think she’s discreet, was cheering. “A puppy champion,” she said proudly. “That doesn’t happen every day.”

Sam floated out of the ring, wearing a goofy smile. He didn’t even seem to notice that Tar, reacting to our excitement, was dancing beside him on his hind legs.

“Well done,” I said.

Sam was beaming. “What a puppy! Wasn’t he great?”

“Perfect,” Peg agreed. Ever practical, she added, “Now don’t let him get messed up. He still has to go back in for Best of Variety.”

“Don’t remind me,” said Crawford, coming out of the ring with the Reserve ribbon. “Thank God you’re not showing any bitches. I’d like to think I’m going to get one turn today.”

None of us wasted a moment’s pity on Crawford. With his skills and his reputation, he was usually the man to beat. As if to reinforce that thought, he promptly handled his class bitch to Winners Bitch.

Two specials had been entered for Best of Variety. Crawford was handling one, a brown bitch with whom he’d done a fair amount of winning; another pro had the other. Terry was back in the ring with the Winners Bitch and Sam had Tar.

“This should be fun,” Aunt Peg murmured. “This judge is the kind who loves to discover new talent. Let’s see how much she thinks of our puppy.”

Tar had shown well in the Open class but now, sensing Sam’s delight and the excitement from ringside, he was positively electric. Head and tail high, he strutted around the ring as though he owned it. And though he was attuned to Sam, he never took his eyes off the judge.

The very best show dogs seem to have an inner sense of who the game is being played for. Tar cavorted for the judge; he flirted with her. By the end of the class, he’d all but captivated her. Clearly she was delighted with her choice when she awarded him the big purple-and-gold ribbon for Best of Variety. The ringside, realizing they’d witnessed the emergence of a new star, roared its approval.

“Who’s judging the Non-Sporting Group?” I asked, reaching for the catalogue. Since Tar had begun the day as an unfinished puppy, it hadn’t occurred to me earlier that this was information I might need to know.

As usual when it came to dogs, however, Aunt Peg was one step ahead of me. She nodded toward the ring, where Sam and Tar were waiting with the judge for the arrival of the show photographer. “Sylvia Koenig, again. I trust Sam is making good use of his time.”

He was. Edging closer, I heard him tell the judge that she’d just finished Tar’s championship, and that he’d accomplished the title with three major wins. Oh, and by the way, Tar had also recently won Best Puppy in Show at the Poodle Club of America specialty, under renowned breeder-judge, Helen Sokopp.