A Pedigree to Die For (18 page)
“He's very nice,” I said politely.
“I knew you'd like him. You're one of the first people who's seen him, and I'm delighted to be getting his stud career off to a good start.”
Good start?
What
start? Not with my bitch.
What
start? Not with my bitch.
But I seemed to be the only one who realized that. Jack chucked Ranger under the chin and the dog leapt up into the air. Together, they spun around in the lush grass, playing with the squeaky and dancing a dance of anticipation. The two of them looked so happy that my first impulse was to find a bitch, any bitch, and go through with the mating. My second was a bit more rational. I'd have to find a way to let him down gently.
I waited outside and enjoyed the view while Jack took Ranger back into the kennel. “How about if we go in and have something to drink now?” he said when he emerged.
“Sure. That sounds nice.”
“I'm sure you'll want a copy of Ranger's pedigree to take with you. I have some in my files.”
Inside the house, Berglund poured each of us a glass of chilled Chablis, then ushered me into the beautifully understated room he called his office. A Bokhara rug covered the center of the hardwood floor, and a dark cherry roll top desk dominated one wall. There were shelves of leatherbound books, a heavy Travertine marble coffee table, and two overstuffed leather chairs. Berglund motioned for me to have a seat.
He opened a file cabinet behind the desk and pulled out a folder, then came around and emptied the contents onto the table. Pictures, pedigrees, and AKC registration slips spilled out.
“Some day I'm going to have to find a better system,” he said, sorting through the papers. “Ah, here it is.” He came up with a sheaf of pedigrees bound together by a large clip, peeled one off the top, and handed it over.
The leather chair was plush. The wine was a fine dry California white. I wasn't in any hurry to move on. Idly I skimmed through the document. Nearly all of Ranger's ancestors were printed in red, an honor accorded to those dogs which have finished their championships. Sprinkled among the listings were several Canadian champions, one from Mexico, and one from Sweden. No doubt it was an excellent pedigree.
Looking incongruous among all the red was the black entry for Ranger's untitled dam, Shalimar Solitaire. There were all sorts of reasons why a dog might not finish its championship. I sipped at my wine and made conversation by asking what hers was.
“Solitaire was a pretty bitch,” said Jack. “But unfortunately she was only shown once. I could see she was going to be a late bloomer, so I let her have an early litter. That's where Ranger came from.
“Six months after the puppies were born, she was ready. Crawford Langley was showing my dogs at the time, and he had another bitch ahead of her. While she was waiting her turn, I took her to a small show nearby for experience. I'd never taken a dog in the ring before, but she went Best Of Winners, and believe me, I was thrilled.”
He paused for a drink that drained a third of his glass. “Two weeks later she got out of her run and was killed by a car on the road out front. It's too bad. She was a nice bitch who deserved better. I'm glad I'm finally getting the chance to do right by her son.”
I folded the pedigree and slipped it into my purse. No way was I going to tell him that the Poodle he obviously adored just wasn't the right one for me. At least not now. I had another sip of wine instead. Its smooth dry taste didn't assuage my guilt in the slightest.
Nineteen
As silly as it seems, when I started this project I'd thought of it as a few weeks' diversion during what promised to be a dull summer. Now it was August, and if there'd been one dull moment so far, I'd have liked to have known when it was.
On the plus side, Davey was doing great at camp and I was making enough money, if barely, to keep our heads above water. I was learning about Poodles and dog shows and enjoying my education. The Volvo was still holding its own and last, but certainly not least, Bradley Watermain had left a message on my answering machine saying he'd made a big mistake.
With all that going on you'd think I wouldn't have much to complain about, but I did. In the first place, Aunt Rose wasn't speaking to me and I was none too pleased with her. In the second, there was Sam Driver, who was making his presence felt among the coterie of northeast Poodle breeders. That didn't bother me at all. But at the oddest moments I found him floating around the periphery of my imagination. That did.
And then there was Beau. If we were any closer now to finding the dog than we had been in June, I wasn't aware of it. In fact if it weren't for the recent break-in at Aunt Peg's, I would have been tempted to decide that we were going about things all wrong.
It's a sad state of affairs when it takes something like a burglary to cheer you up and let you know you're moving in the right direction.
So that's the frame of mind I was in when Sam called. He'd been to some shows and thought that the three of us should get together and discuss what, if anything, we'd learned. Obviously the man had never heard of a conference call. But Aunt Peg was all for the idea, so who was I to complain?
We picked a time in the early evening when Sam was finished working for the day and Joanie's services were available. The more I thought about the idea, the better I liked it. It wasn't that I didn't trust Sam; just that I didn't want to follow Aunt Peg's example and leap into an unquestioning endorsement based on good looks and an agreeable personality. After all, I'd seen pictures of Ted Bundy. He'd fooled a lot of women in his day, too.
Aunt Peg had said that a man who had something to hide would hardly be likely to invite us to his house. But that made me wonder, too. Because if I wanted to appear innocent, that's exactly what I'd do. By issuing the invitation, he would control the visit since anything he didn't want us to see would be tucked neatly out of sight.
Or maybe I was overanalyzing.
Maybe I didn't want to spend several hours with a man who put all my senses on red alert.
Or maybe I did, and that was precisely the problem.
I was thirty and a mother with the stretch marks and sweat pants to prove it. I was under employed and my car had last been new when I was in college. Which is not to say that I had nothing to offer a man. Just that someone a little easier than Sam Driver would have been nice. After all, I'd never particularly considered Bradley Watermain a challenge and look what happened there.
Or maybe I was overanalyzing.
Sam's house was in Redding, a community just far enough beyond easy commuting distance to New York to have escaped the hustle and bustle that characterizes much of Fairfield County. The open land was beautiful; the town itself, unapologetically tiny. Sam's mailbox was made of battered red metal. It sat at the end of his driveway on the stump of a small tree.
The driveway itself was unpaved and climbed sharply upward through the trees. It was going to be the devil to plow when winter came. I've lived in Connecticut all my life; I think of things like that.
But oh, when I reached the house, the view was worth it. Built of weathered shingles and big windows, it perched on the side of the hill and looked out over a panorama of gorgeous New England countryside. The car parked next to the garage was a four-wheel drive. So at least he was prepared.
I'd aimed to be a few minutes late, but still I seemed to have beaten Aunt Peg. When Sam let me in, he told me why.
“She called half an hour ago. Something came up and she isn't going to be able to make it. She asked me to give you her apologies.”
Apologies, my foot. “What came up?”
“I don't know, she didn't say.” Sam saw the look on my face. “Is something wrong?”
“She set us up.”
“Excuse me?”
“You and me,” I told him. “She set us up.”
“To do what?”
I threw up my hands. The gesture was as eloquent as any comment I might have made.
Sam peered around behind me. “Where's your son? I thought you'd bring him with you.”
“Aunt Peg asked me to get a baby-sitter. So we could concentrate better, she said.”
Finally he began to realize what was happening. Sam looked somewhat bemused. “We've been had, haven't we?”
I nodded.
“Well, that doesn't have to stop us from putting the evening to good use. Come on in and let's compare notes. I've spoken to a few people, and I'd like to get your input.”
The living room had a high ceiling where a fan turned lazily, stirring up just enough of a breeze. A Palladian window in the south wall made the most of the view. The room was furnished in muted shades of peach and hunter green. A faded Persian carpet covered the middle of the floor. Two chintz-covered love seats flanked a brass-screened fireplace.
A Standard Poodle, more gray than black, was draped languidly across one of the love seats. As we entered, she opened her eyes and wagged her tail in greeting, but didn't get up.
“This is Charm,” Sam introduced me as I took a seat opposite. He settled himself carefully on the cushion, and she lifted her head just enough for him to slide his lap underneath. “She's fifteen, which is ancient for a dog this size. She runs the place and always has.”
Charm's tail thumped up and down in acknowledgment.
“Is she related to Casey?”
“Great-grandmother. Actually they have a good many traits in common. That's one of the reasons I'm so fond of Casey.” His fingers massaged behind the Poodle's ears, and she leaned into the caress. “One day she's going to have to replace Charm around here. It won't be an easy job to fill.”
First Jack Berglund, now Sam Driver. Obviously there was something about seeing men with their dogs that placed them in the best light. If Aunt Peg had been here, she'd have been drooling. It was time to get down to business.
Sam was happy to lead off in sharing the information he had gathered. Maybe that was because he didn't have much. Like me when I was starting out, he'd already been referred right back to Aunt Peg more times than he liked to think about. But beyond that he'd also managed to meet Will Perkins and make an appointment to see his dogs the following week. When my turn came, I was torn. For all of Aunt Peg's trust, I simply couldn't see the point in revealing everything I'd done. In the end, I settled for giving him heavily edited versions of my visits to Barry Turk and Jack Berglund's kennels and let him draw his own conclusions.
As we spoke, the light outside faded. By the time I'd finished telling him about Ranger, the living room was almost completely dark. While I'd been speaking, Sam had sat forward in his seat, fingers tangled absentmindedly in Charm's topknot, but his gaze and his focus centered solely on me. Now as I wrapped up the story, he put Charm gently aside, got up, and turned on some lights.
“Gut feeling,” he said. “You've met most of the people now. You've been to some of their kennels. Where's the dog? Who else wanted himâor needed himâthat badly?”
“I don't know. In the beginning, it all seemed so straightforward. But now . . .”
“You're beginning to doubt that you'll ever find him.”
“Yes.” If Aunt Peg had been sitting there, I'm not sure I'd have admitted that. With Sam, it came easier. “I keep wondering if there are things I should be noticing, clues I've overlooked. So much about these dogs shows seems foreign to me. Aunt Peg's taught me a lot, and I know I'm picking up stuff on my own, but at times it still seems like I could be fooled pretty easily.”
Sam strolled into the kitchen, nudging aside the louvered partition so he could continue to hear. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a couple of beers.
“At one of the first shows I went to, I saw a Poodle in the ring that I thought was magnificent. He had a huge, profuse coat that was really eye-catching, and I couldn't understand why he didn't win. Then later after the judging, I was back in the grooming tent and I saw his handler removing pieces of hair from the dog. It wasn't his own, it was all a fake.”
“Switches,” said Sam. He brought in the cans and handed one over. “That's what those hairpieces are called. People make them from the coats of other dogs they've cut down.”
If Sam had offered me a drink, I probably would have refused. But my throat was dry after all the talking I'd been doing and the thought of an ice-cold beer seemed just about perfect. I popped the top and took a long swallow. “Is that allowed?”
“Not at all. According to A.K.C. rules, it's totally illegal. But so are half the other tricks that people use, from coloring the dogs to changing their pigment. Bathing, trimming, plucking, clipping, things like that are acceptable. Any artificial additives are not. But when was the last time you saw a Poodle walk into the ring without hair spray?”
“But if it's all illegal, why do people do it?”
“Because they want to win.” While he spoke, Sam never stopped moving. Now he was out on the deck that opened off the living room, fiddling with a gas grill. “In the beginning, everyone's a purist. Usually they get started in the sport because they truly love their dogs and want to show them off. But then other people whose dogs aren't any better keep beating them, and they decide that the way to win is to play the game.”
He passed through the living room on the way to the kitchen. I stood up and went after him. “What are you doing?”
“Cooking.” Sam opened the refrigerator and pulled out a shrink-wrapped package. “Chicken okay?”
“Fine,” I said. “But I'm not staying.”
He tossed the package onto the counter and went after the makings for a salad. “You're hungry, aren't you?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“See?” He came up with two tomatoes and a head of lettuce, then nudged the refrigerator door shut with his hip. “You're hungry, I'm hungry, it's dinnertime. You have to admit there's a certain logic there.”
“Aunt Peg set us up,” I mentioned again.
“You told me.” Now he was shredding lettuce into a colander. I'd never seen a man that was so at home in the kitchen. Bob could barely make his own coffee. “Don't worry, once the grill gets going, it's a quick meal. Do you need to call your sitter?”
“No.” Joanie would cope. Probably better than I was, I reflected. “The least I can do is help.”
“Cutting board,” he said, pointing. “Knife. The tomatoes are all yours.”
The tomatoes were plump, dark red, and beautifully ripe. Produce like this never passed through my supermarket. “If these are from your garden, I'm leaving.”
“Nope.” Sam arranged the chicken breasts on a plate and poured a marinade over them. “A farmer near town sets up a stand by the side of the road.”
Thank God for that. I watched as he carried the chicken out to the grill. It was heartening to know he wasn't perfect.
Since it seemed to have come about that I was staying for dinner, I finished putting the salad together while Sam was grilling the chicken. We ate at a small glass-topped table outside on the deck. The moon was huge above us and there was a bowl filled with peonies in the center of the table.
Charm stirred enough to get herself outside, and Sam made the trip well worth it, surreptitiously slipping her pieces of chicken under the table when he thought I wasn't looking. At first we talked mostly about dogs, but then the conversation shifted. I found out that Sam had recently gone into business for himself, designing interactive software. He told me he'd grown up in the East, but school and jobs had taken him to Michigan. Now he was happy to be back.
In return, I regaled him with thrilling tidbits from the life of a Connecticut schoolteacher and single parent. That took about thirty seconds. Then he asked about Davey and managed not to look bored when I went on a bit. Maybe he was a good actor.
Sam didn't inquire about Bob at all. The omission pleased me.
When we finally brought our plates back into the kitchen, Sam took over the scraping and rinsing, carefully setting the leftovers aside. “Where are the rest of your Poodles?” I asked as he opened a cupboard and got out a stack of five stainless steel bowls.
“My office is downstairs, and I've got some crates down there, too. I figured they'd be just as well off sleeping through our meeting. They're show dogs, don't forget. When they're up here, they want to be the center of attention.”
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