Hounded to Death (4 page)

Peg smiled. “All I need is an invitation.”

Now that they'd navigated their way to common ground, the conversation was up and running. And the fact that Peg had been revealed as a minor celebrity in the dog community didn't hurt either. Richard regarded her with fresh appreciation and she basked in his attention.

No need to worry about her saying anything stupid. She could have told him that the moon was blue and he would have agreed.

After the first few minutes I began to feel superfluous. Slowly I edged back from the closely grouped circle. None of them even noticed my retreat. Toting my warm ginger ale, I headed in the direction of the bar.

Bertie hailed me as soon as I reached the counter. “Hey!” she cried, her voice raised to be heard above the din. “Come and meet my friend Alana.”

As Bertie introduced us, Alana looked me coolly up and down. I recognized the tactic. She was checking out the competition and doing her best to make me feel about three inches tall in the process.

Don't get me wrong. In most situations I can more than hold my own. But there was something about the way Alana ran her flat gaze over my body that made me feel fat and unappealing. As if I'd been mentally compared to her svelte beauty and found wanting.

“Stop it,” Bertie ordered. She smacked her friend on the arm. “Melanie is my sister-in-law and my best friend. She's not someone for you to chew up and spit out.”

Bertie turned to me. “Don't mind Alana. She doesn't have many women friends.”

“I can see why not,” I said.

Bertie slid off her stool and offered it to me.

Gratefully I hiked up and sat. It was nice to get off my feet.

Alana cocked a brow.

“Pregnant,” I said. “Deal with it.”

“Well, shit,” said Alana. “Why didn't you say so in the first place?” She leaned over and gave me a hug. “Congratulations! When's the baby due?”

“March.”

“Boy or girl?”

“We don't know yet.”

Alana waved to the bartender. “This deserves another drink!”

News of my pregnancy had an immediate softening effect on her. Either she was genuinely happy for me or else this development had changed my status in her eyes. I'd been removed from the ranks of competitors and placed in a new category where friendship might be possible.

“Not for me,” I said. “I find I have a limited tolerance for ginger ale. In fact I seem to have a limited tolerance for just about everything these days.”

“I don't blame you a bit,” said Bertie. She'd been pregnant just a year earlier. The experience was still fresh in her mind.

“Neither do I,” Alana echoed in the spirit of our new kinship. She picked up her new drink and downed half of it in a single gulp. “If you ask me, tolerance is a highly overrated virtue.”

Bertie leaned over and said, “How's Peg doing? She seems to be surrounded by men. Is one of them the famous Richard?”

“Broad shoulders, blue sweater.”

“Not the tall one with the besotted look on his face?”

“No, that's Marshall Beckham. An aspiring owner-handler. Apparently he thinks he's in the presence of some sort of minor deity.”

“Peg's been known to have that effect on people.” Bertie shifted around and had another look. “Richard looks all right, doesn't he? I'd say there's definite potential there.”

Alana leaned toward us to join the conversation. “Who are we talking about?”

“Richard Donner,” I said. “Do you know him?”

“Sure,” Alana replied. “The guy who travels with his mother.”

The din in the room made conversation difficult and for a moment I wondered whether I'd heard her wrong. Then I remembered the sweet looking, little old lady Richard had entered the room with earlier. Could that have been…?

“There she is.” Alana raised a not-too-steady hand and pointed. “The woman with the ratty little Chihuahua sticking its head out of her purse? That's Florence Donner. She and Richard go everywhere together.”

I
almost laughed. Then I caught myself.

Whatever mean-spirited thoughts I had harbored earlier—payback for all the times Aunt Peg had maneuvered me into in an embarrassing situation and then left me there to fend for myself—she certainly didn't deserve something like this.

“You're not joking, are you?”

“Why would I joke about something like that? It isn't the least bit funny. If you ask me, it's kind of pathetic. A grown man traveling around to shows with his seventy-year-old mother. You'd think he'd want to get a life.”

My stomach sank. Apparently Richard
had
wanted to get a life. And he begun that quest by wooing Aunt Peg over the Internet.

“Florence Donner and Richard Donner are mother and son?” Bertie said, surprised. “I never made the connection.”

My gaze swung her way. “You know her?”

“I've shown under her. She judges some of the Toy breeds.”

“Is she any good?”

The question, though not germane, was almost automatic. Dog show exhibitors' fortunes rise and fall with the quality of the judges they show to. We're always on the quest for good judges and we'll travel almost any distance to find them.

Bertie shrugged. “She's not bad.”

Alana looked at us. “What's up with you two? Why are you so interested in Richard Donner?”

“He and my aunt have been corresponding by e-mail for the last few months. Apparently they've become quite good friends.”

“Is that her over there talking to him now?”

I nodded.

“Your aunt is Peg Turnbull?”

“That's right.”

“Well then,” said Alana, sliding down off her stool. “There's only one thing to do.”

“What's that?”

I figured she was going to advise us to warn Aunt Peg about this unexpected development. But Alana surprised me. She grabbed my arm and headed determinedly into the crowd.

“Let's go introduce you to Florence.”

“Bertie!” Swept along like a tug in the wake of a much larger barge, I cast a beseeching glance back over my shoulder.

“Coming.” She slapped her glass down on the bar and followed. “I wouldn't miss this for anything.”

Florence Donner was speaking with several people, but the impetus of our approach, which had already caused the crowd to part before us, now made her companions draw back as well. Alana smoothly inserted herself into the space they'd vacated, so accustomed to that sort of deference she didn't even notice it.

“Florence,” she said.

“Alana.” The older woman tipped her head slightly to one side. “Imagine seeing you here.”

Had the temperature in the room cooled suddenly, or was it just us?

Then I noticed that the little fawn-colored Chihuahua, whose domed head had been sticking up through the opening at the top of Florence's commodious purse, had abruptly tucked himself back inside. Apparently I wasn't the only one present who was skilled in reading the nuances of human behavior.

Ignoring Florence's less than welcoming demeanor, Alana reached back and hauled Bertie and me forward. “I'd like you to meet Melanie Travis and Bertie Kennedy. They're friends of mine.”

“Really? How very fortunate for them.”

I held out my hand and after a brief hesitation, Florence Donner followed suit. Her slender fingers felt dry and fragile in my grasp. I didn't dare actually shake her hand for fear I might break something.

“You.” Florence's sharp gray eyes focusing on Bertie. “I've seen you before.”

“You have a good memory,” Bertie said. “I showed to you last year at Harrisburg.”

“Of course I have a good memory. I remember every dog I've ever judged. And most of the people too. Did you win under me?”

“Yes, with the Pomeranian. No, with the Pug.”

Florence clapped her hands in delight. “So the jury's still out on how you feel about me, isn't it?”

Bertie grinned. She was enjoying herself too.

“The Pug could have done better on the day. The Pom?” She shrugged. “Not so much.”

“So you say. But did you have your hands on the other dogs in the ring?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing! That's the beauty of being the judge. You're the only one who has
all
the information. And the only one whose opinion counts.”

Florence nodded briskly. The debate had been settled to her satisfaction and she would brook no further argument. Aunt Peg was going to have her hands full with this one.

The two women were either going to end up the best of friends, or else they were going to kill one another. And I suspected I was going to have a ringside seat for much of the action.

“Nice to meet you both,” said Florence. “Now it's time for me to collect my son from whatever mischief he's gotten himself up to. He and I will be dining together this evening.”

In an unconscious gesture, her hand lifted to pat the side of the copious purse. The bag undulated in reply.

I couldn't imagine having a dog small enough to fit in a pouch under my arm. Nor would my Poodles enjoy tucking themselves away in a dark cubbyhole.

“That's Richard over there, isn't it?” Alana said innocently. She waved a hand in Aunt Peg's direction.

“So it is. That woman he's talking to looks familiar. Do I know her?”

“That's Peg Turnbull from Connecticut,” said one of Florence's earlier companions. He stepped back in to rejoin the group. “You know, Cedar Crest Standard Poodles?”

“Is she indeed?” Florence's lips drew together in a thin line. “I believe that's the woman Richard has been corresponding with. On the way here, he announced that he was looking forward to making her acquaintance. He admitted that they'd met on the Internet, of all things. Can you believe that?”

Her friends responded with general muttering and shaking of heads.

“It's a nasty business if you ask me. In my day, people knew how to conduct themselves. If you wanted to meet new people, you found someone to make a proper introduction. But now computers bring all sorts of unwanted business right into people's homes. It's not the way things ought to be done.”

Opinion delivered, Florence left us. Shoulders back, head held high, she sailed across the crowded room.

There was no time to get to Peg first and warn her. Indeed there was no time to do anything but follow along in the hope that I might somehow be able to mitigate the approaching disaster.

As we crossed the room, I waved frantically in Peg's direction. I knew she saw me out of the corner of her eye. I watched her glance quickly at Richard, then make the decision to ignore my rude behavior.

Sometimes Peg has only herself to blame.

“Richard? Darling?” Florence's voice was smooth as honey. “I find myself growing hungry. Perhaps you'd be good enough to escort me to dinner?”

“Mother! There you are. There's someone I'd like you to meet.”

As Richard turned to greet the older woman, I saw Peg process what he'd said. Her eyes widened; her face blanched. Then she had the nerve to glare at me like this calamity was all
my
fault.

But when Richard turned back to her, Aunt Peg quickly wiped her features clean. She gazed at Florence and forced a smile. Never had I seen my aunt put her acting skills to better use.

“Your mother's here at the symposium with you?” Aunt Peg sounded as though a large lump of clay had lodged in her throat. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“I knew you'd be pleased.” When neither woman made the first move, Richard reached out, took their hands, and joined them in the middle. “I have no doubt that the two of you are going to get along beautifully.”

“Beautifully,” Florence echoed. She moved a proprietary step closer to her son, like a mother lion staking out her territory and daring the foolhardy interloper to challenge her supremacy. “But that's for later. Now I'd like to be taken in to dinner.”

“So you shall,” Richard said smoothly. “I'm afraid I've made other plans but Marshall and Derek would be delighted to have you join their party.”

“
Other
plans?”

“Yes, Mother. Peg and I are going to enjoy a quiet dinner alone.”

“But—”

Richard circled an arm around his mother's shoulders and deftly swung her away. He beckoned to Derek and Marshall and they fell into line.

“Would you excuse us for a minute?”

“Of course,” Peg murmured.

Our eyes were riveted on the foursome as Richard and his friends surrounded his mother and maneuvered her away. Unfortunately for the sake of our curiosity he chose to take their argument out of the room.

Peg frowned into the vacuum created by their absence.

“Am I mistaken,” she asked, “or did that woman have a dog inside her purse?”

Under the circumstances, I'd have thought that was the least of her worries. But trust Aunt Peg to gloss over the big problem and focus on the dog.

“It's a Chihuahua,” I said.

As if that mattered.

There could have been a rabid Bullmastiff tucked beneath Florence's arm and that still wouldn't have been the most bothersome thing about the woman's presence at the symposium.

“What's a Chihuahua?” A woman I hadn't yet met came over and stood beside Peg.

My aunt is tall but this woman nearly matched her in stature. She had sharp features, which were arranged, at the moment, in a ferocious scowl. With her chestnut hair scraped back off her face in a tight ponytail, and her dark eyes scanning the room even as she paused beside us, she looked like a Doberman on the prowl.

“Margo! I've been wondering where you were.” Aunt Peg greeted her friend with a quick hug. “Quite a turnout you've come up with. Well done. This is my niece, Melanie.”

So this was Margo Deline, the woman whose organizational skills Aunt Peg admired, the one who'd lured a diverse group of people to the Pennsylvania mountains to focus on learning more about dogs.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” I said.

“We'll just see about that.”

She grasped my hand and pumped it firmly.

“Now, Margo,” Aunt Peg reproved. “We just got here. Don't try to scare Melanie off already.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “I'm accustomed to my aunt's company. It takes more than a determined woman to scare me.”

“I see she has your number,” Margo said to Peg. Then she turned to me and stared hard. “Now, what's this I hear about a Chihuahua?”

I felt like a second grader being called before the principal. And being asked to tattle on someone else.

I'm a teacher; I'm used to being on the other side of the equation. So I didn't even hesitate before spilling my guts.

“One of the judges has a dog in her purse,” I said.

Margo sighed. “Let me guess. Florence Donner?”

“How'd you know?”

“She takes that silly little animal with her everywhere. Once she even carried him into the ring when she was judging. Left him sitting on the judge's table while she went about her job. Her steward just about had a fit.

“Don't get me wrong, I love dogs as much as the next person, perhaps more. But Button has been so thoroughly spoiled by that woman that he hardly even qualifies as canine.”

“Margo has sporting dogs,” Peg interjected.

It sounded like a non sequitur but she knew I'd follow her train of thought. Margo liked dogs that were big and sturdy and useful. Dogs that would leap into icy waters to retrieve game by day and drape their heavy bodies over their owners' feet to warm them at night.

“I have nothing against little dogs,” Margo said firmly. “Just little dogs who are where they're not supposed to be. Every single piece of literature we sent out about the symposium stated in bold letters ‘No Pets Allowed.' But of course Florence would be the one to assume that she's above the rules.”

“I just met Florence earlier,” I said. “She seemed like an interesting woman.”

“That's one way to put it.” Margo reached over and patted my arm. “And aren't you a dear to be so tactful? I guess I'd have to say that Florence is like that dog of hers, more than a little spoiled. In her whole life, very few people have bothered to tell her no, and she certainly doesn't see why anyone should start now.”

That didn't bode well for Peg's and Richard's budding relationship, did it?

I glanced at my aunt. Her brow was furrowed; she was deep in thought. She looked like the
Before
picture in a Botox commercial.