A Pedigree to Die For (9 page)
He released the card and I pocketed it, reasonably sure that I did.
Ten
When I got home, I found I'd beaten Frank and Davey back. I was checking around in the refrigerator to see what was there that might make dinner when the telephone rang. Before I even picked up, I knew it would be Aunt Peg. Actually, I was surprised she'd managed to control her curiosity that long.
“What did you find out?” she demanded.
“For starters, Crawford Langley's new stud dog isn't Beau.”
“Of course not. Why on earth would you think he might be? That dog's in full show coat.”
“So I discovered. You might say it was the first thing I noticed.”
“I saw you managed to talk to Sam Driver. Tell me what he had to say.”
Of course she would bring him up first. “Nothing useful at all. In fact, for the most part all he wanted to do was lecture me.”
“Lecture you?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I dragged a stool over to the counter and sat down. “He went on and on about unwanted puppies and genetic testing. He asked if my bitch had had her hips and eyes done, and something elseâsomething with initials.”
“SA?”
“That's it. I hadn't a clue what to tell him, so I bluffed my way through. What was he talking about?”
“Hereditary problems,” said Aunt Peg. “All breeds have them. Poodles perhaps more than most. There are so many things to look out for, you wouldn't believe it. Anyone who knows what they're doing tests all their stock before they allow it to be used. Hip x-rays for hip dysplasia, eye exams for cataracts and PRA, and then punch-skin biopsies for sebaceous adenitisâotherwise known as SA. Those are the three most Standard Poodle breeders start with.”
Hip dysplasia seemed pretty much self-explanatory, so I moved on to the next. “What's PRA?”
“Progressive retinal atrophy. It's a degenerative eye disease, more common in Minis and Toys, although we're beginning to see a few isolated cases in Standards. Unfortunately in Poodles, we're dealing with the late onset variety, which means that it usually can't be diagnosed by your local ophthalmologist until the dog is well into adulthood. Dogs that are affected will eventually go blind.”
“Sounds delightful,” I muttered. “What about SA?”
“Another hereditary disease that can't be diagnosed until it's in the clinical stages. That one attacks the dog's sebaceous glands. The skin becomes rough and scaly, and if the dog isn't managed right, most of his hair will eventually fall out.”
“Better than going blind,” I said, thinking aloud.
“No, it's not! It's a terrible disease, absolutely devastating.”
I wondered at her vehemence. “Do you test?”
“Of course. Anyone who calls herself a responsible breeder has to. Any Poodle that comes up positive on any score is eliminated from the breeding program. It's as simple as that. Now then,” she said impatiently. “Get back to Sam. What else did he tell you?”
“Nothing. To tell the truth, he was very abrupt.”
“Well, you did catch him at a busy time.”
“Aunt Peg, why are you making excuses for him?”
“Because I like him. He seems like a genuinely nice man. Just because he wanted to buy Beau, it doesn't follow that he'd stoop to stealing him.”
I wasn't nearly as convinced. “He did mention Beau by name. Driver said he was the best dog you'd ever produced.”
It was a moment before Aunt Peg replied. When she did, I could tell she was pleased. “You see? I told you he was a man who knew what he was talking about. I take it he referred you to me?”
“He did. Along with just about everyone else I spoke to.” While she was thinking about that, I changed the subject. “Now I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Were you under the grooming tent when Randall Tarnower's Poodle got loose?”
“I suppose I was. Why?”
“How did it happen?”
“I haven't any idea. By the time I heard the commotion and looked up, she was already out in the field.”
“Do you suppose somebody might have turned her loose on purpose?”
The question brought another pause. “I guess it's a possibility,” she said finally. “The animal rights groups have been very active in this area recently. Do you know anything about that?”
“Not a thing.” I'd wanted to see if she might implicate Langley or maybe one of his assistants. Instead, we seemed to be heading off in a different direction entirely.
“There are two groups that are big at the moment. PARâPeople for Animal Rights, and WOAFâWelfare Of Animals First. They're the ones who organized all the resistance to wearing fur and who periodically blow up the research labs that do animal testing.”
“Fanatics, in other words.”
“I'd agree with you,” said Aunt Peg. “But amazingly, a lot of people support them. Recently their goals have become even more outrageous. They're promoting the idea that animals should have the same rights as humans and that keeping them as pets amounts to slavery. They believe we should neither own dogs nor, heaven forbid, breed them. In protest, the activists have been showing up at some of the events in the area. They picket for a while, then sneak under the tent and open all the crates so that the dogs can run loose and return to the wild.”
I thought back on the dogs I'd seen that day, with their snoods and special pillows and bottled water. They hadn't looked to me like they were itching to get back to the wild. I couldn't imagine why anyone would think they might be. “They're not serious, are they?”
“Deadly serious. That's why whenever there's a threat that they might appear, all the exhibitors pass the word and stay on the look-out. I have to say, however, I saw no evidence of PAR or WOAF today.”
“Then how did the bitch get loose?”
“I haven't a clue. Probably somebody got careless, that's all. Poodles are trained to stay on their grooming tables, you know. They're never tied like the other breeds. Maybe she simply fell off her table and decided to have a romp.”
Carelessness. That's what Langley had said, too. “So I guess I'm back to square one.”
“There's another show next weekend.”
I never doubted it for a moment.
“You know what they say. Perseverance is its own reward.”
“That's virtue, Aunt Peg.”
“Whatever gets the job done, Melanie dear.”
Monday morning, Davey started summer camp. During the winter, Emily Grace presided over Graceland Nursery School where he'd been a student for the last two years. Summers, she used the same facilities to operate Graceland Camp. It was the first year Davey was old enough to qualify for the summer program, and I thought he'd be excited. I know I was.
Opening day at camp was like the first day of schoolâa a zoo. Everybody was present and accounted for, but nobody seemed to know exactly where they were supposed to be. The kids solved that problem by going everywhereârunning, screaming, finding their friendsâwhile mothers tracked down lockers to deliver lunchboxes and bathing suits, then pigeon-holed counselors to discuss things like bee stings, poison ivy, and extra coatings of sunblock.
I delivered Davey to the Sunfish group and left him, along with a dozen other four- and five-year-olds, under the watchful supervision of three teen-aged counselors. A quick trip to his locker completed my duties for the day. On the way back to my car, I ran into Emily Grace. She was sitting on the edge of a portable podiumâa little command center set up among the treesâchecking off names against a list she held on her clipboard.
“You're in for a busy summer,” I said.
Emily looked up and smiled. She was a pretty woman in her mid-thirties with long blond hair fastened back in a French braid, and warm, brown eyes. We'd met two years earlier when I'd signed Davey up for nursery school, and we had liked each other on sight. We spoke frequently, mostly mornings and afternoons when I was dropping Davey off or picking him up, and only the demands of two busy and varied schedules had kept us from becoming better friends.
“You don't know the half of it. People look around at all this . . .” She waved vaguely toward the chaos ensuing behind us in the large field. “. . . and think that it's controlling some eighty-odd kids that's the problem.”
“Isn't it?”
“Hell no. The campers are a breeze. Try coordinating the schedules of twenty-five teenage counselors, many of whom have never held a real job before and think that if something interesting comes upâlike their boyfriend asks them out that dayâit's no problem to call in sick.”
“Don't you have backups for emergencies?”
“I thought I did.” Emily sighed. “I had two girls, sisters, all lined up. Then I got a call yesterday saying that they'd taken an au pair job up on Martha's Vineyard, and that was that.”
As she spoke, the wheels were turning in my brain. “You mean you're looking for extra help?”
“I would be, if I thought I had a prayer of finding any. But this late, all the good kids are already booked.”
“How about a good adult?”
“Here? You've got to be kidding.”
“I'm not.”
She looked up with sudden interest. “You mean you have someone in mind?”
“Someone loyal, thrifty, trustworthy, and brave.”
“An adult boy scout?”
“Even better.”
“Sounds promising. Who is this paragon?”
“You're looking at her.”
Emily's face fell. Mine went with it.
“Oh,” she said. “I thought you were serious.”
“I am.”
“But Melanie, you're a teacher.”
“Think of me as qualified.”
“
Too
highly qualified.”
Too
highly qualified.”
I tried another approach. “Think of me as unemployed.”
“I thought you had something lined up.”
“So did I, but the project lost its funding, and I lost my job.”
Emily thought for a moment. “I might be calling you as often as a couple times a week.”
“I'm available.”
“And I can't afford to pay you very muchâcertainly not what you're worth.”
Obviously she had no idea how bad my finances looked. If Davey's camp fees hadn't already been paid in early spring, we wouldn't have been there at all. “How much is not much?”
Emily considered. “Thirty dollars a day? A morning, really. Of course you know the hours are nine to one. I wish it could be more, but the budget is pretty tight. . .”
“It's fine,” I said, and it was. “I'll take it.”
“Super!” Emily looked as pleased with the arrangement as I felt.
It took us a few minutes to work out the details, then Emily was off to lead the older campers on a scavenger hunt while I headed back home. As I reached the car, I paused, turning back for one last look at Davey. He was over in the playground, much too happily involved with the rest of the Sunfishes to take any notice of my departure.
At times like this, I couldn't help but wonder if he missed the siblings he seemed destined to do without. I wasn't getting any younger, after all, and men didn't seem to be lining up on the doorstep. Not that I'd done anything to encourage them. One failed marriage was enough, thank you.
I'd always felt that Bob and I should have tried harder before giving up. But as things turned out, when the end came, I wasn't even consulted. One Saturday I'd come home from the supermarket, ten-month-old Davey strapped in the snugli across my chest, and found Bob's things gone and a rather inadequate note left in their place. He took the car and the stereo and left his son behind. I thought that illustrated his priorities perfectly.
My mother was the type who would have said, “I told you so.” She'll never know how much I longed to hear her say the words. She was also the type who would have said to put the whole thing behind me and get on with the rest of my life. Easier said than done, of course, but then my mother had never cared a bit about practicality when she was handing out advice.
My eyes drifted heavenward, and I found myself smiling. I'd never doubted for a moment that she and Dad were up there somewhere, probably playing honeymoon bridge. They'd always made me proud, I thought. I was damned if I wouldn't do the same for them.
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