Chow Down (15 page)

I gestured toward the empty space that earlier had been filled by the Bedford Kennels setup. “Because all of a sudden, he seems to be taking things pretty easy.”

“So? He's entitled.”

“Of course he's entitled,” said Bertie. “He can do whatever he wants—”

“I'm sure he'll be delighted to know that you think so.” Aunt Peg watched as Sam hoisted Eve onto the grooming table. Her practiced eye skimmed over the Poodle's topknot, deciding what needed to be repaired.

“That's not the point,” I said. My aunt was being deliberately obtuse. “I'm worried about Crawford. He loves being a handler. Dog shows are his whole life. I just wouldn't want to think that anything is wrong—”

“Then don't think it.” Peg's tone was short. She picked up a comb and a can of hair spray and began the delicate task of smoothing Eve's topknot back into place. “Nobody asked you to. Crawford doesn't want anyone worrying about him, and why should he? There's nothing the matter. Nothing in the slightest.”

Case closed. Or at least that was what the others seemed to think.

Sam retrieved some tools from the tack box; he began to fluff Eve's tail with a comb. Bertie went back to packing up her things. They all had jobs to do and I just stood there worrying.

I should have found Aunt Peg's words reassuring but instead they had the opposite effect. My aunt loves to solve problems. She's a master at digging around for clues and ferreting out hidden motivations. She's endlessly curious about what other people are up to and she tends to think that their secrets are fair game.

So the fact that she didn't want to discuss my concerns about Crawford was worrisome. It made me think that maybe she knew a whole lot more about the subject than I did. And that maybe what she knew wasn't good.

Thanks to Sam and Peg's dedication to the cause of Poodle pulchritude, Eve looked like a star in the group. Unfortunately, the judge, Harry Bumgartner, didn't notice. Rather quickly he put up the Shiba Inu, followed by the Dalmatian, the Schipperke, and the Boston Terrier. The rest of us were thanked for our participation and politely sent on our way.

That small disappointment, however, did nothing to detract from the triumph I'd felt earlier. At long last, Eve was a champion. She was the second I had finished all by myself, and the second produced by her dam, Faith. Those accomplishments were more than enough to keep me smiling for the long drive home to Connecticut.

T
hat evening, there was another email from the contest committee waiting for me when I turned on my computer. Once again, Faith and I were being summoned to a test of the Poodle's suitability to represent Chow Down. This one would take place on Tuesday in Manhattan.

The five finalists and their owners were going to be transported to Central Park where the judges planned to observe how members of the dog food–buying public responded to each of the different contestants. The judges also wanted to see how the dogs comported themselves in a new and unfamiliar environment, as that was something they'd be subjected to regularly if chosen to fill the role of spokesdog.

I read the email through twice, then sat back in my chair and sighed. It was beginning to look as though my entire summer vacation was going to be taken over by this silly contest.

“Something the matter?” asked Sam. He walked into the bedroom and sat down on the bed.

Davey was still with Bob, he wouldn't be returning until the next afternoon; but Sam wasn't alone. As usual, he was trailed by a procession of Poodles. One thing about owning a dog: you never lacked for company.

“Not really. It's just annoying. Though perfectly predictable, I suppose.”

“Chow Down?”

I nodded. “Faith and I have been summoned again. We're going into the city on Tuesday.”

Sam leaned forward and read over my shoulder. “It's an interesting idea, I suppose. But what if you guys don't draw any response at all? This is New York we're talking about. Everyone from rock stars to Donald Trump wanders around there on a daily basis. A group of people with five nice looking dogs? Nothing unusual about that. You might not even get noticed.”

I clicked the email closed and signed off. “I hope we're not meant to do stupid things to draw attention to ourselves.”

“And, by association, the product?”

“Right. That's what this whole thing is about, after all, publicity. The more buzz the company creates around the product, the bigger the Chow Down launch is going to be.”

“All those MBAs sitting over at Champions Dog Food are no dummies,” said Sam.

“And this is only the beginning. Doug Allen mentioned something about a press conference and maybe an appearance on a morning show.”

Sam reached over, laid both hands on my shoulders, and began to knead the knotted muscles gently. “I'd imagine the contest committee must be thrilled at the extra press they're getting from the coverage of Larry Kim's death. Now that the police have finally decided to open an investigation, the papers have been all over the story. And every time some reporter writes a piece about it, they mention Champions Dog Food and the Chow Down contest.”

“Somehow I don't think that's the kind of attention they were hoping for.”

“I disagree,” said Sam. “What those marketing types really want is brand recognition. And that involves getting their name in front of the public as often as possible. The context isn't nearly as important as the fact that it's there. People tend to skip over ads and commercials but they read news stories. They want to feel like they're staying informed.

“This kind of press is like gold for the Champions Company. Larry Kim died at their headquarters, but not through any negligence or wrongdoing on their part. Chow Down wasn't to blame, it just happened to be in the vicinity. That puts them in the enviable position of receiving lots of free publicity with virtually no downside.”

Sam was probably right, I realized. And now that the press had begun to pay attention to the story they probably wouldn't let go of it any time soon. Reporters from more than one paper had already noticed that the tale had several great hooks: a grieving widow, a cute little dog, and the fact that Larry had been on the premises to compete in a contest for Chow Down dog food.

“It's a win-win situation for Champions,” said Sam. “Of course they'd deny in public that they're capitalizing on Larry's death. But in private, I bet they're reading the papers every day and congratulating each other on how lucky they got.”

“Sad to think that somebody's death could be considered a stroke of luck.” I leaned back and let my husband's hands work their magic. The kinks in my neck and shoulders were melting away. My bones were turning to liquid.

I closed my eyes and sighed again. This time there was bliss in the sound.

“You don't really want to keep talking about dog food, do you?” I asked.

“Not if you have a better idea.”

Oh yeah, I thought. I was pretty sure I did.

 

Tuesday midmorning found Faith and me standing in the parking lot of the Champions Dog Food Company, preparing to board a large bus. The vehicle had been procured and customized for the express purpose of conveying the finalists, their owners, and the contest committee into the city. A colorful banner wrapped around three sides of the bus. It featured the Chow Down logo, along with larger-than-life-size pictures of Brando, Ginger, Yoda, MacDuff, and Faith.

“Pretty exciting stuff,” said Ben. He sidled over to stand beside me.

“Something like that,” I said.

Ben didn't seem to notice my lack of enthusiasm. He chattered on about how much he and Brando were enjoying the competition and how he was looking forward to the day when his Boxer would be chosen as the Chow Down spokesdog. One thing I had to say for the actor, he wasn't short on confidence.

Unfortunately Ben was so busy listening to himself talk that he was paying only minimal attention to Brando. The dog's leash was looped around his fingers, but its six-foot expanse still gave the Boxer plenty of leeway to explore. When Brando looked at Faith, measured the space between them and curled his upper lip, I quickly took several judicious steps back.

And walked right into Lisa who'd been coming up behind me.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, even though I was the one who had landed squarely on her foot. “I thought we were ready to start boarding.”

As usual, Lisa was holding Yoda in her arms. The Yorkie leaned over and gazed down at Brando. You didn't have to be a psychic to read the disdain in her gaze.

“I don't know what's holding us up,” said Ben. He looked around at the assembled group. Everyone seemed to be accounted for, but no one had yet climbed up into the bus.

He'd barely finished speaking before a late-model sedan came flying into the parking lot and slipped into an empty spot.

“Finally,” Doug muttered.

A middle-aged man in battered khakis and a faded baseball cap opened the car door and slid out from behind the steering wheel, dragging a leather camera bag along behind him.

“People!” Doug clapped loudly to get everyone's attention. “This is Charlie Dunbar. Charlie's a photographer and he'll be traveling into New York with us to record the day's outing.”

“Hey,” Charlie mumbled. He didn't look very impressed either by us or the assignment. “How about we start with a group shot in front of the bus?”

“Good idea!” Doug was in cheerleader mode now. As if maybe he was hoping that some of his excess energy would transfer itself to the photographer. “Let's line up, everyone. Little dogs in front, bigger dogs in the back.”

We probably could have figured that out for ourselves, I thought, then realized I was wrong. Because evidently Ben was under the impression that Brando was a small dog. When Dorothy and Lisa stepped to the front of the group, he went with them.

“We'll crouch,” he said, placing himself and the Boxer front and center.

“Whatever.” Charlie pulled out a camera that looked to be loaded with bells and whistles. He didn't touch any of them before desultorily snapping off a few shots. “Got it,” he said before half the group had even had time to pose and smile.

“Great!” said Doug. “Let's load up, then.”

By the time Faith's and my turn came to climb up onto the bus, all the seats near the front were already taken. Chris, Simone, and Cindy were sitting in a tight little group just behind the driver.

Lisa came next. She and Yoda had a seat to themselves. Though the benches were wide enough to accommodate two people comfortably, no one had joined her. I glanced her way briefly but when she didn't return my look, I kept walking too.

Doug had seated himself with Charlie. Perhaps they had work to do. At any rate, I had no desire to join them.

The Reddings and Ginger were in the next row and Ben had slipped in across from them with Brando. That left Dorothy and me to share the long bench that ran along the back of the bus. We settled down next to each other, both of us directing our dogs to our outer sides. Faith and MacDuff were both experienced travelers. As soon as the bus began to move, they laid down next to our feet and closed their eyes.

Dorothy and I had met the previous week at the initial meeting, but we hadn't had occasion to speak to one another. Now, even though we were seated side by side, it didn't look as though that was going to change. Dorothy turned her head away and stared out a side window. As the bus lumbered through Norwalk's industrial zone on its way to I-95, all that could be seen was a dreary visage of worn brick buildings and hulking factories. I doubted that Dorothy was enjoying the view.

Maybe a little judicious name-dropping would break the ice, I decided. It wouldn't be the first time I'd invoked Aunt Peg's name to shore up my own credibility. The two women were of similar age and status within their respective breeds, and the dog show world was, at its core, a very small community. Just as Peg had known immediately who Dorothy and MacDuff were, I was quite certain the reverse would also be true.

“I'm wondering if you know my aunt,” I said. “Margaret Turnbull?”

As I had hoped, the question got Dorothy's attention. She swiveled her head my way. “Of course I know Peg. She's your aunt?”

“Yes. She's the one who got me started showing dogs. In fact, she's Faith's breeder.”

Dorothy's gaze drifted downward to the Poodle reclining on the floor of the bus. “No wonder she's such a good one. Your aunt has produced a wonderful family of dogs. These days, she doesn't seem to be showing as much as she used to. At one point I was accustomed to seeing her in the group ring nearly every weekend.”

“She cut back a lot after my Uncle Max died. Now you're much more likely to find her judging than competing.”

Dorothy nodded. “So many exhibitors make that leap eventually. After you've devoted your life to learning everything there is to know about your breed, it seems like the natural progression.”

“Does that mean you're thinking about applying for a judge's license, too?”

“I'm always thinking about it.” Dorothy laughed. “I just never seem to get around to doing the paperwork. And competing with MacDuff kept me so busy for so long . . .”

“I always enjoyed watching the two of you in the ring,” I said, and my enthusiasm was genuine. “MacDuff seemed to love what he was doing and you made a great team.”

“He adored it,” Dorothy said fondly. “He absolutely reveled in the applause and the attention. As soon as I walked him into the ring, MacDuff just turned on. He enjoyed every single minute. So much so that it seemed almost unfair to make him stop. Now I'm really hoping that we can find something for the second phase of his life that he'll love just as much.”

A moment of awkward silence followed. As if we'd both briefly forgotten why we were there, until Dorothy's comment reminded us. For Dorothy and MacDuff to get their wish, Faith and I would have to lose. It wasn't the worst thing that could happen by my estimation; but Dorothy didn't know I felt that way.

“Is your aunt still breeding?” she asked after a minute.

The bus had found the entrance ramp to the turnpike. It pulled on and merged into traffic. We were moving faster now but Central Park was still at least an hour away. Now that we'd established our credentials, Dorothy had evidently decided that she might as well while away the time in conversation.

“Occasionally. No more than a litter a year. Sometimes not even that.”

“I know how that goes. Puppies are more fun than anything. But if you're determined to do everything right, having a litter can be a very time-consuming project.”

I suddenly thought back to the conversation I'd had with Cindy during our individual interview. We'd spoken about how determined Chris Hovick had been in his support of Yoda and MacDuff. He'd fought hard for their inclusion in the final five.

And, as it happened, his own dog was a Scottie, just like the one lying near my feet.

Coincidences happen more often than you might think; but I tend to be a naturally suspicious person. What were the chances, I wondered, that Chris had just happened to pull MacDuff's entry out of his pile of submissions? I was willing to bet that it wasn't very likely.

“Not to mention,” I said, “how hard it can be sometimes to find enough really great homes for all of them.”

“Fortunately I've never had to worry about that,” the older woman said. “As you might expect, MacDuff's reputation enhanced the desirability of everything I produced. I usually have a waiting list for my puppies.”

Aunt Peg did too, but I feigned surprised anyway. As if Dorothy had attained a level of achievement with her breeding program that most mere mortals could only dream about.

“Really?” I said casually. “Is that how you first met Chris?”

Dorothy shook her head slightly. As if maybe she was trying to place the name. Her confusion didn't appear any more real than my surprise had. Regardless of how she answered the question, I knew that my suspicions had already been confirmed.