A Pedigree to Die For (19 page)
“You only have bitches, right?”
“Right.” He half-smiled. “Would you like to see them? Maybe count noses or check for testicles?”
I hadn't realized my thoughts were so transparent. “If you did have Beau, Sam, I doubt that he'd be here tonight.”
“Quite right. But since I keep only bitches, unless I bought a dog legitimately I'd have an awfully hard time explaining where he came from, wouldn't I?”
“I don't know. You seem pretty clever to me. I imagine you could figure something out.”
All right, so I was being mean. I admit it. Sam had fed me, entertained me, and how was I repaying his kindness? By treating him like a suspect.
“Your aunt trusts me,” said Sam.
“Yes, I know.”
“Then why don't you?”
Because it scared the hell out of me, I thought. Because I'd trusted Bob and look at where it got me. Obviously I was a lousy judge of character when it came to men. It would be one thing if I only had myself to worry about. But I didn't; I had Davey. I simply couldn't afford to make any mistakes.
“Maybe I don't know you well enough,” I said. Though it was the truth, it came out sounding disgustingly like a come-on.
“We can do something about that.”
Were we reciting dialogue out of a bad movie or what? That was enough for me. Using the sitter as an excuse, I cut and ran. I got out of there so fast there was barely time to give Charm a pat and say thanks for dinner. Sam stood in the doorway and watched me drive away.
I knew because I looked back.
It wasn't until later that night when I was lying in bed that something occurred to me. For some reason, I was having trouble falling asleep. After I'd pummeled the pillow into a ball for the sixth or seventh time, I remembered what Sam had said about the company he'd worked for having its home office in Detroit.
Detroit was just a short hop across the lake from Ontario.
Ontario, Canada, that is.
Now that was interesting, wasn't it?
Twenty
The next time I saw Aunt Peg, Davey was at camp and she was blow-drying a Poodle. It's the sort of thing you have to see to believe. She'd entered her puppy Lulu in a show that weekend, which meant that the preparations had started on Wednesday. The face, the feet, and the base of the tail had to be clipped, the ears cleaned, the toenails shortened.
Friday was bath day. Aunt Peg had a separate room in the kennel where a tub with special hoses had been built at waist height. Even though Lulu was only seven months old, she seemed to know the drill and stood quietly for a shampoo and cream rinse.
Then they moved on to the grooming table for the blow-dry. The objective, Aunt Peg explained, was to take that huge mass of naturally curly hair and dry it so that it was perfectly straight. I understood the theory: I'd been doing it to my own hair for years. What I didn't understand was why one had to do that to a dog.
“It's the only way to get that really thick, plush look,” said Aunt Peg. “Otherwise the hair will never stand up.”
She wheeled over her dryer which stood as high as my shoulders and looked capable of blowing pictures off the walls at twenty paces. Lulu was unfazed. As Aunt Peg directed the hard stream of hot air and began to brush, she lay down on the table and went to sleep.
“I want to hear all about your meeting with Sam,” said Peg. “But first you have to guess who was here yesterday.”
I hate to guess. I never do it. I waited, but Aunt Peg held firm. “The Fuller Brush man?” I said finally.
“You're no fun. No, Frank.”
“Frank, my brother?”
“Of course, your brother. Who else would I be talking about?” She finished blow-drying the short hair in front of the tail and began to move up along the back toward the neck. “He dropped by to see how I was doing.”
I was surprised but also pleased. My brother wasn't known for his thoughtfulness. Then again, maybe he'd reconsidered his skepticism about Aunt Peg's Poodle business. Frank could smell financial gain a mile away, especially if he thought he might somehow get in on it.
“Of course I told him that the police had been here. He was very concerned.”
“So am I,” I said. “You're the only one who isn't worried.”
“I'm realistic,” Peg said firmly. “There's a difference. Anyway, Frank said that if being here now all alone made me uncomfortable, I could certainly come and stay with him.”
“In his apartment?” The thought made me laugh. “Aunt Peg, have you ever been there?”
She shook her head. “Where does he live?”
“A one bedroom in Cos Cob. He's got a yuppie couple upstairs and a garbage man next door. It's a very democratic building. Frank's place is a typical bachelor padâcable TV and nothing in the refrigerator. And there's no yard for the dogs.”
“I didn't get the impression they were invited.”
I was laughing aloud now. “Did he simply think you'd leave them behind?”
“I don't think he thought at all. When I declined the offer, he had the temerity to suggest that perhaps, at my advanced age, I might not know what was best for myself.”
“I suppose you let him have it with both barrels?”
“I was tempted.” Aunt Peg grinned. “But he meant well. And besides, if the boy's a little short on tact, I'm afraid I know which side of the family he gets it from.” She'd finished drying a wide strip up the middle of Lulu's back and neck. Shifting the puppy around, she went on to topknot and ears. “Now then, tell me what Sam had to say. ”
Because I knew how badly she wanted details, I glossed over the meeting, offering only highlights. I thought of it as self-defense. If I'd given her the satisfaction of knowing her plan had succeeded, who knew what she might try next?
I did mention what I'd learned about his having worked in Detroit. Aunt Peg dismissed the information with a wave. I wasn't that ready to count him out.
“I wonder where Sam was the evening your house got broken into,” I said.
“Don't be ridiculous. What on earth could he have been looking for here?”
“We don't know, do we? That's precisely the point. I didn't mention it to Sam the other night. Now I wish I'd thought to. It would have been interesting to see what kind of a reaction I'd get.”
“None at all,” Peg said calmly. “Sam knows all about it. I told him myself.”
“Aunt Peg, you've got to stop telling him everything!”
“How do you expect him to help us if he doesn't have all the facts?”
“That's just it,” I said. “I'm not sure I do.”
At quarter to one I left Peg to her blow-drying and drove over to Davey's camp. Emily does her best, and some days pickup goes smoothly; but on others, it's chaos. Picture fifty campers and as many parents. Fifty backpacks, fifty wet bathing suits . . . well, you begin to get the picture.
I knew as soon as I arrived that this was not going to be one of the good days. The line of cars stretched all the way down the driveway and out to the street. I pulled out of line, parked over by the curb, and walked in to see what I could do to help.
“Melanie, thank god!” Emily grabbed me as soon as I came within view. “Have you got a few minutes?”
“As long as you need.”
“What I need is twenty extra pairs of hands. Not to mention a bucket of cold cream.”
“Cold cream?”
“We were putting on a skit todayâyou know, the older kids entertaining the younger ones? It seemed like a great idea. The theme was the first ThanksgivingâI know it's August, don't even ask. Anyway, all the kids wanted to be Indians. While I was trying to drum up a few more Pilgrims, someone went a little wild with the war paint.”
“I don't think the Indians would have worn war paint to Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Don't be literal with me, Melanie. I'm warning you.”
I wanted to laugh but didn't dare. As the story unfolded, we were hurrying back to the communal locker rooms where the kids stashed their things and grouped before leaving. Inside, it looked even worse than she'd warned. Red grease paint, applied liberally, has a very dramatic effect. The counselors were scrubbing vigorously, faces and walls alike.
“We were going to just send the kids home with the makeup on,” said Emily. “But then the first two mothers saw their children and began to scream. I guess they thought it was blood. It's been all downhill from there.”
I spotted Davey almost immediately. He'd gotten into the paint along with everybody else and seemed delighted by the effect. A mother's eye told me his yellow shirt would never be the same, and there were streaks of green in his hair. He was playing happily with a blond girl whose name I seemed to remember was Jennifer Reavis. For the time being, I left him where he was and went to work on those who needed me more.
Within fifteen minutes the chaos had begun to subside. After twenty-five, we were clearly heading toward normalcy. I knew my time was up when Jennifer's mother appeared. Once his source of entertainment went home, Davey would be ready to do the same.
Jennifer was one of those pristine little girls to whom dirt doesn't seem to stick. Nor war paint either, apparently. Her mother had dressed her for camp in pink shorts, a white tee shirt, and white frilly anklets to wear with her sneakers. Amazingly, the entire outfit was still intact. On Davey, everything would have been gray, not to mention streaked with green and red.
Janet Reavis gazed at our two children with a smile. No doubt she was heaving a mental sigh of relief over which one was hers. Then she came over and introduced herself. “You're Davey's mom, right? Jennifer has told me all about you. You're the one who has the Poodles.”
“Almost,” I said, knowing Davey had to be the source of the misinformation. Sometimes his stories got a bit carried away. “My aunt is the one who has the Poodles. Standards actually, the big ones.”
“Perfect,” said Janet. “That's just what we're looking for. I hear they're great dogs. My pediatrician said that even kids with allergies can have them. I've been meaning to call you. Do you have time to talk now?”
I looked around. The room had all but cleared out. “Sure.”
“Jennifer's been dying to get a puppy, and I started looking around a couple of weeks ago. I wanted to do it right. You know all that stuffyou hear about how bad it is to buy from a pet store, that you should get your puppy from a breeder? Well, a friend of mine knew about a Poodle breeder who lives up north of here. I called, and he said he did have a litter of puppies, so I made an appointment to go have a look.
“Jennifer was all excited, and frankly so was I. But after an hour and a half drive, when we got there the man was just leaving. He'd had a fight between two stud dogs and had to rush to the vet. There was nothing for us to do but come back home. Jennifer was crushed. Of course he called back later and apologized, and he's invited us to come back again, but I'd really rather find something closer if I can.”
“You should talk to my Aunt Peg,” I said. “I know she had a litter in May. I'm not sure whether all the puppies are spoken for, but even if they are, she could probably refer you to someone else.”
I found an old shopping list in my purse and wrote Aunt Peg's name and phone number on the back. As I saw Janet and her daughter out, Emily came walking back in.
“Just Jennifer and Davey, and then that's all of them.” She flopped down onto a bench, lay on the hard seat, and closed her eyes. “My god, I thought this morning would never end.”
“Serves you right, turning kids loose with grease paint like that.”
“The counselors were supposed to be in charge.”
“The counselors are fifteen and sixteen. They're the kids I mean.”
Emily opened one eye. “Talk about poor judgment. I should be disbarred.”
“From child care? Don't bet on it. Nobody else wants the job.”
“I know.” Emily sighed. “Sad, isn't it? Even the kids who are working for me just figure they're passing time and making some money. They all want to grow up to be lawyers or rock stars. Teaching? No way.”
“We're a dying breed.”
“An underpaid, underappreciated, undervalued, dying breed.”
I sank down beside her. “God, now I'm depressed.”
“Welcome to the club,” said Emily.
“Look, Mommy!” cried Davey.
I turned around to find he'd written his name on the wall. In grease paint. In triplicate.
I searched hard, but finally found a bright side.
At least he's not illiterate.
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People who show dogs travel a lot. Every week of the year except Christmas there are dog shows somewhere, usually clustered together in groups of two or more. The northeastern states are a virtual cornucopia of opportunity; and on any given weekend, there are decisions to be made. Where are the best judges? Which shows are most likely to draw the points? What are the facilities like?
In June and July there'd been lots of shows in Connecticut. Now things were beginning to move a bit farther afield. Aunt Peg thought nothing of driving to Cape Cod or Maryland if the judges suited her. So when she told me she'd entered five days on the Saratoga circuit in northern New York state, I wasn't terribly surprised.
“Who takes care of the dogs you leave behind?” I asked.
“I'm getting to that. In fact that's why I called.”
Oh.
“You see in the past, Max and I have always taken turns. It's not like I could board them in a kennel. They are a kennel. I guess I could find somebody to come in, but you know it takes time to find just the right person.”
Why did I suddenly feel the fickle finger of fate pointing my way?
“So I was wondering if perhaps you could do me this little favor?”
When Aunt Peg lowered the boom, she didn't mess around. Nor did she take no for an answer. Which is how Davey and I came to find ourselves living in Greenwich for a week.
Davey, of course, was delighted by the adventure. Aunt Peg's house was a child's delight, filled with nooks and crannies just waiting to be explored. When he had a friend over on Thursday after camp, their game of hide-and-seek lasted most of the afternoon. The fact that the action was supervised by a herd of Standard Poodles only added to the excitement.
As to the Poodles themselves, they seemed to be faring pretty well. With regard to my contention that I'd never even had one pet much less a dozen, Aunt Peg had left behind copious lists of instructions, complete with diagrams and arrows pasted onto the cupboards. Coat care wasn't required, thankfully; only feeding, cleaning up, and general in and out.
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