Best in Show (5 page)

“Here in the hotel. PCA books a conference room for the exhibitors. The club lines the floor with plastic, makes sure the lighting's good and that there are plenty of outlets. Especially for this show, where everyone wants their Poodle to look perfect, there's a ton of grooming going on. This way we have a legitimate place to do it.”

“Great idea,” said Bertie. And how.

The grooming room was located on the basement level of the hotel, just off a hallway that led outside to the exercise area. Walking past, Bertie gazed out the door at the Poodle-filled field. She wrinkled her nose. “In a day or two, nobody will be able to set foot out there without stepping in something. How many of those people do you suppose are cleaning up after themselves?”

“Everyone.”

“Dreamer.”

“I'm serious. PCA mandates it and, believe me, it happens. Club members take it upon themselves to patrol with pooper-scoopers to clean up after scofflaws. Everybody pitches in. When we leave on Saturday, that field will be spotless.”

“Really?” Bertie still sounded dubious. That was because she'd just arrived. PCA wasn't like all the other dog shows she'd been to. It was special, different. Bertie just hadn't figured that out yet.

“Really. You'll see.”

The wide double doors that led to the grooming room were standing open. As we approached, we could hear the low, humming sound made by dozens of big, free-standing blow-dryers. Layered over that was the animated buzz of conversation. Bertie and I paused in the doorway and took in the scene.

The room was bright and spacious. Even so, it was mostly full. Rows of portable grooming tables held all three sizes of Poodles in various stages of preparation. Some were being brushed, others clipped or scissored. Still others, fresh from being bathed, were having their long hair blown dry.

“Yikes,” said Bertie. “I thought I knew lots of dog show people. Hardly anyone here even looks familiar.”

“That's because you're based in the Northeast and PCA draws breeders and exhibitors from all over the country. Lots of these people only come east once or twice a year. Don't worry, everyone is really friendly. Anyone who loves dogs will fit right in.

“Look over there,” I said. The Boone sisters were standing beside a table that held a small silver Poodle. Rather than grooming, however, they seemed to be arguing with one another. Par for the course, based on my experience with them earlier. “Those two ladies are Betty Jean and Edith Jean Boone. They're the cochairs of the raffle committee. I'll be working for them all week.”

“Which one is Betty Jean and which one is Edith Jean?” Bertie asked.

“Good question.”

I gazed at them and frowned. Since I'd seen them last, one of the sisters had put a white grooming smock on over her clothing. The question was, which one? As I watched, she turned to say something to a person working on a Standard Poodle behind them. Light, from the bright, fluorescent bulb above, glinted off a small gold locket that peeked out from beneath her sweater. That helped.

“Betty Jean is the one in the smock,” I said confidently. “Edith Jean is closer to us.”

“If you say so.” Bertie was scrutinizing the Toy puppy on the table. “That's a cute silver.”

Dog people. They have no idea what color eyes you have; don't remember that freckle on your nose. But they can recount in the most minute detail, every attribute of every dog they've ever seen. And Bertie was no different than any of the rest of us.

“Very cute, I'm told. The sisters think he has a shot at Winners.”

“Who's handling?” Bertie asked. Professional interest.

“Roger Carew.” I'd seen his picture earlier that day in the win photos the sisters had shown me. “I'm pretty sure he's the guy working on the Standard behind them.”

“Yup, that's him. We cross paths in Virginia and the Carolinas occasionally. He does a good job with a dog.”

“I hope so, for their sake. I hear the competition's going to be pretty stiff.”

“Are you kidding?” Bertie glanced over. “At a show this size, with everyone who's here, just getting a ribbon is going to be a big deal.”

Tell me about it, I thought.

“There's another familiar face,” Bertie said. I followed the direction of her gaze. A tall, well-built man was scissoring a brown Mini puppy on one of the grooming tables. The puppy fidgeted as he worked, but unlike some handlers, his touch remained gentle. One hand was propped beneath the Mini's chin; his fingers stroked the puppy's muzzle to quiet him. The man's other hand held a pair of long, curved scissors whose blades flashed open and shut swiftly as he perfected the dog's trim.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Dale Atherton. From California.”

I knew the name; it just took me a moment to remember where I'd heard it. California was the key. Nina Gold, the woman from Marin who'd purchased some raffle tickets, had told me that Dale Atherton was her handler.

“Not bad,” Bertie said appreciatively.

Trust me, that was an understatement. Dale Atherton looked damn good. Like a California surfer boy all grown up, he had the sort of natural good looks that those of us in snowy New England—our information supplied by the likes of
Baywatch
and the Beach Boys—think all Californians can boast of. His rich brown hair was shot through with golden highlights, his skin tanned to an even bronze. It wasn't a stretch to picture that body in a bathing suit. Maybe even a Speedo.

“Don't tell me,” I said with a sigh. “He's probably gay, right?” It wasn't an uninformed guess; many of the Poodle handlers were.

“Dale? No way. He's as straight as they come. And from what I hear, there are hordes of happy women willing to testify to that fact.”

“Hmmm.” I had another look.

“Hmmm, nothing. When is Sam arriving?”

“Tomorrow,” I said, grinning. “Late.”

“Who's late?” asked Aunt Peg, coming down the hallway. She stopped beside us and stared into the grooming room. Her hands were on her hips; her face wore a frown. “Don't tell me someone else is missing.”

“Someone else?”

As one, Bertie and I turned to see what she was talking about.

“My genetics expert for tomorrow's symposium. The esteemed Doctor Arthur Law. He seems to have disappeared.”

“D
isappeared? Aunt Peg, what happened?”

“I have no idea.” My aunt sounded suitably miffed. “Isn't that what I just said?”

“You mean he's vanished?” asked Bertie.

“No, I mean he never arrived at all. Unlike you.” Aunt Peg paused in her tirade to stare at her newest relative. “Am I always the last to know everything? Were we expecting you?”

“No.” Bertie smiled. “It was a spur-of-the-moment trip.”

“Good for you. Everyone should come to PCA at least once in her lifetime. How's my nephew?”

“Working hard.”

“Best thing for him. After you, that is.”

“Time out,” I said. Family harmony was a rare and precious commodity among my relatives. However, that didn't stop me from trying to steer them both back on topic. “What about Doctor Law? What do you mean he disappeared?”

“Oh, good grief, Melanie. There's no call for melodrama. The man isn't dead, at least not as far as I know. He's simply not here. As he ought to be, as he
promised
to be, months ago when I first contacted him, and then again last week when I called to confirm.

“Everything was supposed to be all set. I had absolutely no notion that it wasn't until this afternoon when I got the message he'd left at the front desk canceling his appearance. As if genetics experts grow on trees and I could replace him at a moment's notice. Honestly, some people have no consideration at all. Which brings me to my next problem.” My aunt was now glaring into the grooming room.

“There's another?” asked Bertie.

She was new to the family. She hadn't been around long enough to know that there was always another problem. Let her ask the questions, I thought. I was content to wait. We'd find out soon enough what Aunt Peg was raging about.

“Damien Bradley!” my aunt snorted.

There you go.

“Damien Bradley?” Bertie repeated on cue.

You see? My participation in the conversation would have been entirely superfluous.

“He's here.”

So he was. I peered around the grooming room and saw the handler tucked away in a back corner.

“Is that a bad thing?” asked Bertie.

“It's not a good thing. We warned the hotel not to give him a room.”

“His bad behavior got us kicked out of our last place,” I told Bertie, forestalling what was sure to be her next question. “Maybe he's not staying here,” I said to Peg. “Maybe he's just visiting.”

“He shouldn't be on the premises at all.”

“Okay, but . . . is there a reason that's
your
problem?”

As if I had to ask. You'd think I'd have learned by now.

“It's the club's problem, which means that every single member should feel a responsibility. If Damien does something idiotic, which we all know he's perfectly capable of doing, then I'm the one who'll feel stupid for not preventing it.”

I wasn't about to argue with her. I'd learned early on that the best way to defuse such a situation was to offer my full and unwavering support. I stepped aside, leaving the doorway clear. “I suppose you could march inside and tell him he shouldn't be here. In fact if you really wanted to, you might even be able to pick him up and throw him out.”

“Me?” my aunt asked innocently. “Cause a scene?”

Like that had never happened before. Even Bertie looked as if she needed to bite back a smart remark.

“Or . . .” I had another look inside the room, just to check. “Since Mr. Bradley doesn't seem to be causing any trouble right at the moment, you could ignore his transgression and accompany Bertie and me to dinner. We can check back here afterward. He'll probably be gone by the time we're done.”

Aunt Peg's expression brightened. The mention of food tends to have that effect on her.

“I haven't eaten all day,” said Bertie, joining in the cause. “I'm starving.”

“Starving?” Peg's gaze swung around. “My dear girl, what are you thinking? You're supposed to be taking care of yourself. Not to mention the baby.”

It was easy to tell my aunt had never been pregnant. She meant well, but her advice tended to be a little over-zealous. I started walking away. As I'd hoped, the two women fell in step behind me. Peg slid an arm around Bertie's shoulders and ushered her, with all due haste, toward the hotel restaurant. Before we'd even been seated, she'd already ordered the mother-to-be a tall glass of milk.

“I don't like milk,” Bertie grumbled under her breath as Aunt Peg conferred with the waitress about the evening's specials, probably hoping to find something suitably nutritious for germinating a fetus.

“Drink it anyway,” I advised. “Damien Bradley will appreciate the sacrifice.”

“Will he? From what I've heard about Damien, I don't think he appreciates much.”

“What are you two whispering about over there?” Aunt Peg asked from across the table.

“Milk,” I said quickly, before Bertie could say Bradley's name and get Aunt Peg going again.

“Would you like a glass too?” She turned to place another order with the waitress. Bertie stuck out her tongue. I was tempted to kick her under the table but decided that one of us regressing to her childhood was probably enough.

“They have salmon,” Aunt Peg announced, looking meaningfully at Bertie. “And mahimahi. You know what they say about fish. Brain food.”

As we ate, we discussed the next day's symposium. These seminars were Aunt Peg's pet project; she'd been in charge since their inception. Back then, the show itself was only three days long, and Poodle fanciers had had to extend their trips by a day if they wished to attend. That they had come by the hundreds was ample reward for Aunt Peg's dedication. Now, with this year's seminar a mere twelve hours away, she was minus her star speaker.

“I've thrown something together,” Aunt Peg said. “Not a perfect solution, but the best I could do on such short notice. We're expecting a good turnout this year. People were intensely interested in hearing what Doctor Law had to say.”

“What will you be offering them instead?” I asked curiously.

“In the morning, a talk on show-ring presentation. Mary Scott has agreed to step in and help out.”

I whistled softly under my breath. Mary Ludlow Scott was a legend in the dog show world. She'd started out handling as a teenager, rising quickly to the pinnacle of that profession where she'd reigned for many years. For the last several decades, she'd been a highly esteemed judge, one of only a handful approved by the American Kennel Club to judge every recognized breed.

Though Mary Scott had bred and handled a number of different breeds over the course of her career, Poodles had long been a favorite. Notoriously blunt, infamously sharp of wit, she didn't suffer fools gladly. Nor did she squander her skills on neophytes. A seminar on Poodle presentation with her at the helm was a rare offering and sure to be a popular choice.

“It sounds like you landed on your feet,” said Bertie. “Surely no one will be disappointed by that change of schedule.”

“I should hope not,” Peg agreed. “Mary has long been a supporter of the seminar. It was gracious of her to offer to fill in.”

“That takes care of the morning,” I said. “What about the afternoon program? What are you planning to substitute for that?”

Aunt Peg stuck a piece of baked potato in her mouth and mumbled something unintelligible. My aunt has better manners than that. And I could recognize an evasion when I saw one.

“I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you said.”

She swallowed and said, “I've booked Rosalind Romanescue.”

“Who?” Bertie and I exchanged a glance. Her faint shrug said she was as much in the dark as I.

“Rosalind Romanescue,” Aunt Peg repeated tartly. “The much esteemed . . . animal communicator.”

Bertie's eyes widened. I stifled a laugh with a hasty sip of milk. Aunt Peg had to be kidding. She'd booked a clairvoyant to follow Mary Ludlow Scott? That was like hiring Abbott and Costello to follow Hank Aaron in the batting order.

“A psychic?” Bertie blurted. “What a great idea! Can she predict the future? Is she going to tell everyone who's going to win the show?”

“The woman is not a fortune-teller.” Aunt Peg's tone was testy. “She's an animal communicator. She talks with dogs telepathically and lets their owners know what they're think-ting.”

“More biscuits, please,” I said in a small voice. “And no more visits to the vet if you don't mind.”

“Make fun if you must,” said Peg, “but I've spoken to Rosalind over the phone—”

“Funny,” Bertie mused. “You wouldn't think a psychic would need a telephone.”

“I needed a telephone,” Aunt Peg snapped. It was clear we were trying her patience. “And she's very serious about what she does. I'm told she's very good.”

“So is David Copperfield,” I pointed out. “But in the end, it's still all just sleight of hand. And how can anyone know whether she's good or not? Presumably, the dogs she talks to aren't the ones passing judgment.”

“She has a number of satisfied customers,” said Peg. “And besides . . . she was available.”

Ah, yes, there was that. Under the circumstances, availability counted for a lot.

“Rosalind Romanescue.” I let the name roll of my tongue. It had a certain ring.

“She sounds like a gypsy,” Bertie mentioned.

“I'm sure she'll do fine,” I said.

“Of course she'll be fine,” said Peg. “Whoever decided that every single seminar topic had to be so all-fired serious? I'm sure people will appreciate the opportunity to view something lighter for a change.”

“Too bad she can't predict the future.” Bertie pushed her uneaten salmon around her plate. “I can think of a few questions I wouldn't mind asking.”

“Boy or girl?”

“No, not that. Frank and I want to be surprised. Actually I was wondering about peace in the Middle East.”

“Speaking of surprises,” said Peg, “I wonder what Damien Bradley is up to downstairs.”

And here I'd thought we'd managed to distract her. Stomach full, Aunt Peg was once again in full problem-solving mode.

“There were plenty of other PCA members in the grooming room,” I pointed out.

“Not to mention several strong men in case he needed to be handled.” Bertie looked at me and winked. “Maybe Dale Atherton will take him in hand.”

“If he's lucky,” I said under my breath.

Aunt Peg glared at us across the table. “I may be getting older but my sense of hearing hasn't entirely vanished. Why is it I keep getting the impression that you two would rather be holding a private conversation?”

“Sorry. We were talking about Dale Atherton. Bertie pointed him out to me earlier.”

“I gather women have been pointing at Dale his whole life,” Aunt Peg replied. “Not to mention, throwing themselves in his path. You two wouldn't be the first. Nor, most likely, the last.”

“Aunt Peg!” I protested, even as I felt my cheeks begin to grow warm. “Nobody was thinking of throwing anything at him. Bertie and I were just admiring—”

“—from afar,” Bertie clarified.

“I met one of his clients earlier while I was selling raffle tickets, so naturally I was curious . . .”

“Naturally,” Peg agreed. “Which client?”

“Nina Gold. From California?”

“Minis.” Aunt Peg was a walking encyclopedia of Poodle lore. “GoldenDune kennel. Christian Gold's wife.”

“That's the one. Blond, beautifully dressed. She looked like a woman who loves to shop. I sold her two dozen tickets.”

“On the first day?” Aunt Peg was impressed. The waitress cleared our plates, offered coffee and dessert, which we all declined, and went to get our bill.

“I think Nina was bored,” I said. “She was an easy touch.”

“Bored?” The very idea made my aunt quiver with indignation. “At
PCA
?”

“I know it may be hard for you to believe,” said Bertie, “but there are people in the world whose lives don't revolve around dogs and dog shows.”

“Fair enough,” I agreed. “But then why is she here? Especially all the way from California?”

“I imagine she came with Christian,” Aunt Peg said. “The GoldenDune kennel is his bailiwick. There are at least ten or twelve generations of champion GoldenDune Minis behind the ones he has in the ring now. It's a very solid breeding program. Christian's worked hard on it for years.”

“Nina didn't look like the type of woman who worked too hard on anything,” I said. “And unless she's had some great plastic surgery, she certainly isn't old enough to have been around the dog world for years.”

Aunt Peg stopped and thought. “No, she's a good deal newer to the scene than Christian is. I'd say they've been married five years, give or take. Christian's a bit older. Not so much that people would snicker, but there's definitely an age difference.

“He's one of those men who concentrated on his career when he was younger, never had time to find himself a wife or have a family. His dedication to his dogs seemed to take up what little spare time he had. I heard that he made himself an enormous dot-com fortune in the nineties. He and Nina were married soon after that.”

Aunt Peg seldom mentioned people's finances. Since she had a bit of a fortune herself, I knew we were talking about real money. “If that's the case, I ought to hit her up for even more tickets.”