Live and Let Growl (13 page)

“You must have been mistaken,” said Aunt Peg.

“I don't think so. I mean, we were together for several hours. So it's not like it only happened once.”

“Like
what
happened?” Bertie wanted to know and Aunt Peg nodded.

“Some people were delighted to see Miss Ellie, of course. But others looked really surprised—hey were pointing and whispering as we passed by. There were even a few exhibitors who deliberately snubbed her.”

Aunt Peg frowned. “That doesn't sound right. Did Miss Ellie say anything about it?”

“Not a thing. It was as if the unfavorable attention was beneath her notice. Finally I asked her about it. Miss Ellie just said that she'd enjoyed a great deal of success in the show ring and that the people who weren't happy to see her were those who'd lost to her.”

“That's nuts,” said Bertie. “Anyone who shows dogs gets used to taking their lumps. Nobody wins all the time, no matter who they are. Besides, didn't she stop showing dogs a long time ago?”

“Indeed,” Aunt Peg concurred.

“Miss Ellie told me it's a Southern thing. Apparently people around here hold grudges forever. Remember the Hatfields and McCoys?”

“Those guys were
real people?
” Bertie laughed. “I thought that crazy feud was a made-up story like
The Dukes of Hazard
.”

“No, it really took place,” I said. “And the feud lasted for more than two decades.”

“Please tell me that those guys weren't feuding over a dog.”

That made us all laugh. Not because the thought was inconceivable, but sadly because it wasn't.

I polished off the least piece of chicken in my salad and said, “We ran into a couple of people at the show who were almost hostile. One was a man named Arthur who bumped into Miss Ellie and then stood there staring at her like he was looking at a ghost. She greeted him by name but he didn't say a single word to her. He just turned around and left.”

“How very strange,” said Aunt Peg. “What breed?”

Nobody was surprised by that question. Aunt Peg characterizes people by their dog affiliation. Not only that, but her designations often have merit.

“Newfoundlands,” I said.

Bertie shook her head. “I don't think I know him.”

“Nor I,” Aunt Peg agreed. She had finished her salmon and was now casting a covetous gaze at a hot fudge sundae that had been delivered to a nearby table.

“The other incident was even more odd. A woman with a Bedlington”—I figured I might as well lead with that information and forestall the inevitable question—“came sidling over to Miss Ellie and said, ‘I just want you to know that I never believed those nasty rumors I heard about you.' ”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Aunt Peg. “And what was Miss Ellie's reply to that?”

“Bless your heart.”

“Excuse me?” Bertie lifted a brow.

“Bless your heart,” I said again. “Judging by the context when she used it on me, I'm pretty sure that it's the Southern equivalent of
go jump in a lake
.”

Bertie grinned. Aunt Peg looked seriously disgruntled.

“That is
not
helpful,” she said. “And why am I just hearing about these things now?”

I shrugged. “Because when they happened, Miss Ellie was alive and well and none of it seemed like a big deal.”

“Well, in light of subsequent events, perhaps you might want to rethink that opinion,” Aunt Peg told me. “Do you have a name for the woman with the Bedlington?”

“Miss Ellie called her Mandy Jo.”

“That's a good start,” said Aunt Peg. “I'd imagine we can get the rest from a catalog.”

“The same is true for Arthur, the Newfoundland man,” Bertie pointed out. “And if he's not in the catalog, maybe you can locate him at ringside during the judging.”

As if my need to identify these people was a foregone conclusion.

Just to make sure that there weren't any misunderstandings, I said, “That assumes I'll be looking.”

“Oh pish,” Aunt Peg replied. “Of course you'll be looking. How else are we supposed to find out what happened to Miss Ellie if you don't ask questions?”

“You asked Gates plenty of questions,” I pointed out. “And you didn't like his answers.”

Peg was unruffled by my complaint. “His answers were fine. But there also seems to be a distinct possibility that there are
better
answers to be had. It never hurts to do a little checking around. If I'm wrong, you may feel free to tell me so.”

Like that was ever going to happen in my lifetime.

“Cheer up,” said Bertie. “It will be more fun than helping me prep dogs.”

“And a better use of your talents.” Aunt Peg never misses an opportunity to point out that my grooming technique could still use some improvement.

When the two of them both ordered hot fudge sundaes to finish the meal, I didn't even try to fight the impulse to follow suit. Calories be damned. It looked as though I was going to need to keep my strength up.

Chapter 13

S
unday morning started out much the same way as the previous dog show days had. Bertie was out of bed and over at the show site before the sun rose. Faith and I slept another hour. Then the Poodle and I enjoyed a luxuriously long walk before meeting up with Aunt Peg so that we could go over to the Expo Center together.

Aunt Peg had been looking forward to Sunday's assignment all week as she would finally be given the opportunity to judge all three varieties of her favorite breed. Having studiously avoided asking Bertie and me which Poodles we'd seen on previous days and which had fared well under earlier judges, I knew she couldn't wait to get her hands on them.

Entries usually drop on the last day of a long, tiring, cluster of shows. But Aunt Peg's numbers not only held steady, they even rose slightly. That was a sure testament to her popularity as a judge because in order to avoid the appearance of favoritism, neither Bertie nor Crawford would be showing under her. I'd been watching Aunt Peg judge for several years now and I knew there were many good reasons for the approval she'd earned from exhibitors.

Aunt Peg's judging was as insightful as it was decisive. She had a thorough understanding of the Poodle breed and a very firm opinion about what kind of Poodle she wanted to see in front of her. She wasn't swayed by a dog's previous show record, nor by who was holding the end of its lead. She ignored prejudicial ringside chatter entirely. Everyone who showed under Aunt Peg—professionals and owner-handlers alike—knew that they would each be given the same fair and equal opportunity to succeed.

That morning, Aunt Peg wasn't the only one who was eager to get started. Sunday's dog show was the final event of the Kentuckiana Cluster. So that last day would be my only opportunity to seek out answers about Miss Ellie before the competition ended and all the other exhibitors packed up and went home.

I had checked the judging schedule the previous evening. Newfoundlands weren't due to be judged until noon. I had also learned from the catalog that the name
Arthur
wasn't listed among that breed's owners or handlers.

Bedlington Terriers, on the other hand, would be in the show ring midmorning. Not only that, but there was an Open Bitch entry named Bluefield's Caprice who was owned by Amanda Jo Proctor. With luck, the Bedlington would still be in attendance this late in the weekend and I could locate Mandy Jo during the judging.

Just as we'd done the other mornings when we reached the show site, Faith and I went directly to Bertie's setup in the grooming area. She, along with Crawford and Terry next door, were all hard at work getting dogs ready, but there wasn't a single Poodle in sight. It looked very odd to see all the tabletops at those two setups utterly devoid of my favorite breed. Bertie was brushing a Bearded Collie. Terry and Crawford were prepping an assortment of Toys.

I dropped Faith's leash and let the Standard trot on ahead for the last few feet. Faith went directly to Terry. Stepping in beside him, she lifted her nose to check out the pocket in his pants where bait for the ring would be stored later.

Feeling her light touch, Terry swiveled around and looked down. One hand remained beneath a Maltese's chin, the other flicked gently in Faith's direction.

“Mind your manners there, missy,” he said. “Before you go any farther, you'll need to at least buy me coffee.”

“Faith!” I snapped my fingers and the Standard Poodle scampered happily back to my side.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

“Don't be.” Terry waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “That's the closest I've come to a good time all day.”

Crawford cleared his throat. “Day's young,” he said.

Behind me, Bertie snorted out a laugh. After a moment, I joined in. Even Terry looked nonplussed. Crawford was usually the soul of decorum. A comment like that was
very
unlike him.

“What's so funny?” Crawford looked up innocently.

“You,” I told him. “You always listen to us goofing around at dog shows but you never join in.”

Crawford just shrugged. “Light day today. No Poodles to do up. Plus”—he lowered his head and went back to work—“I guess I've been thinking a bit about Miss Ellie.”

“What about her?” I asked.

“Just that you never know what life is going to throw at you. Something happening out of the blue like that makes me want to try harder to appreciate every single day.”

I knew just how he felt. I scooted Faith into her floor-level crate, then walked over to Crawford's setup and leaned against the rim of an empty table.

“You never really got a chance to talk to her, did you?”

“No, I didn't,” Crawford said. “And now I'm sorry that I brushed her off the way I did. I was sure she'd come and find us later when everything was over. I thought we'd take some time then to sit down and have a nice chat.”

“We all thought Miss Ellie would be around at the end of the show,” said Bertie. “I never even got to meet her.”

“I wonder why she disappeared,” Terry mused aloud.

“So does Aunt Peg,” I said.

“No surprise there.” Crawford shook his head. “I'm guessing you've been deputized to find out.”

“Well . . .”

“Oh, goody!” cried Terry.

Crawford shot him a dark look.

“But aren't you curious, too?” I asked.

Before he could reply, Terry stepped in. “We don't have to be curious,” he said happily. “All we have to do is stay here and get our work done while we wait for you to bring back answers. Easy peasy. So what's first on your agenda?”

“Bedlingtons.” I looked back and forth between him and Crawford. “Do either of you know a woman named Mandy Jo Proctor?”

If we had been in the Northeast, it would be a pretty sure bet that one of the two handlers could help me out. But dog shows in Kentucky drew from an entirely different pool of local exhibitors. I wasn't surprised when nobody spoke up.

“How about a guy named Arthur with Newfoundlands?”

Again no response.

“Are they suspects?” Terry's eyes lit up with interest.

“No,” I said lightly. “Just people I want to talk to.”

“Suspects for what?” asked Crawford. “I heard that Miss Ellie's death was an accident.”

“That's what Aunt Peg and I were told as well,” I admitted.

“That woman.” Crawford snorted. Coming from him, the epithet sounded almost affectionate. “She can find trouble on a clear blue day.”

“Or make it,” Bertie mentioned.

I assumed we were talking about Aunt Peg.

“Don't knock it,” said Terry. “More often than not, Peg's suspicions are right.” He lifted a hand and shooed me away. “So go take a walk. We'll keep an eye on the lovely Faith while you snoop around to your heart's content. Just be sure to come back later and tell us what you find out.”

There was a supported entry in Bedlington Terriers, and the numbers were fairly sizeable for the breed. I had gotten a good look at Mandy Jo when she'd bumped into me on Thursday so I was pretty sure that I'd recognize her when I saw her. That hunch turned out be right.

Mandy Jo appeared at ringside shortly after the Bedlington judging began. She was younger than Miss Ellie but not by much. Probably in her late fifties, I guessed. Mandy Jo's blond hair was styled into a rigid helmet around a face whose skin appeared—even at a distance—to be too tight for its age. She wasn't smiling when I caught sight of her. Judging by the amount of work she'd had done, I wondered if she could.

Mandy Jo was carrying her Open Bitch cupped beneath her arm and she had a Greyhound comb tucked inside her belt. She paused to survey the spectators watching the judging, then strode around the ring to a spot across from where I was standing. I watched as she nudged herself in beside another exhibitor. Immediately the two of them tipped their heads together and began to talk. Even from afar I could tell that they were discussing the dogs in the ring.

It took me only a minute to work my way around to where the two women were standing. Neither one paid any attention when I sidled over close to them, choosing a location that was well within earshot. Considering the scathing nature of the comments they were making about the Open Dogs, I would have expected the two women to observe basic dog show etiquette by either lowering their voices or at least making sure that no one related to those dogs was nearby.

Mandy Jo and her companion did neither of those things. During the course of the class, I listened to them complain about one dog's straight shoulder and another's weak rear. There was a muttered reference to epilepsy and another to possible deafness. When the judge did find his winner, Mandy Jo and her friend didn't agree with that choice either.

Listening to their conversation, I suddenly found myself wondering whether the comment I'd heard Mandy Jo make to Miss Ellie had been intended ironically. Because this Bedlington breeder appeared to deal in nasty innuendo like it was her stock in trade. No wonder Miss Ellie had been in such a hurry to escape Mandy Jo's company. Upon further exposure, I was feeling much the same way myself.

Mandy Jo's friend slipped past me and entered the ring with her Puppy Bitch. She won that class but Mandy Jo wasn't as lucky when her turn came. In a medium-sized group of Open Bitches, Bluefield's Caprice didn't even manage to place. That had to have been a low blow.

Watching the judging, I'd been hoping for a good outcome for Mandy Jo's bitch. In my experience, people are always excited and eager to talk after a victory—even to someone they don't know. But after a moment I realized that I could make the loss work to my advantage, too. In fact, it might even provide me with a better opening for insinuating myself into Mandy Jo's confidences.

Mandy Jo didn't wait around to watch the remainder of the Bedlington judging. Instead, as soon as she and Caprice exited the ring, she swept the bitch up into her arms and headed back to the grooming area. Casually I trailed along behind.

Reaching her setup, Mandy Jo briefly placed the Bedlington on a tabletop to remove her collar. Then she leaned down and slipped the terrier inside a wooden crate. A small cooler was nearby. Mandy Jo fished around inside and pulled out a plastic water bottle. I waited until she'd tipped back her head for a long, cold drink before making my approach.

“That was too bad,” I said. “Your bitch is very pretty. I guess the judge was looking for something else today.”

“Who knows what that man was looking for? Not the best bitch in the ring, that's for sure.” Mandy Jo slowly lowered the bottle and peered at me above its rim. “Do I know you?”

“I'm a friend of Ellie Wanamaker's. Melanie Travis? We met briefly on Thursday.”

Okay, so that was stretching things a bit. Mandy Jo didn't seem to notice. Either that or she didn't want to admit that she'd forgotten me.

“Right,” she said. “I thought you looked familiar.”

“It's terrible what happened, isn't it?”

“You mean in the ring”—Mandy Jo nodded in the direction of the arena where the Bedlington judging had just taken place—“or to Miss Ellie?”

Like the two things were even remotely comparable.

“I was talking about Miss Ellie.” I leaned back against a grooming table behind me, making myself comfortable as if I intended to stay a while. “I guess you just never know what's going to happen next.”

“I heard it was an accident,” said Mandy Jo. “Is that right? She had some kind of fall?”

“I heard the same thing.” I lowered my tone to a confidential whisper. “But that sounds crazy to me. I'm not sure if I believe it. Do you?”

“Why not?” Mandy Jo shrugged. “It wouldn't be the first time Miss Ellie screwed up her life on account of an accident.”

I thought back to my conversation with Miss Ellie. “You mean the car crash years ago where her good dog was killed.”

“That's right. Dunaway. He was a hell of a Standard Poodle.”

“I know,” I said. “I have Standards myself.”

“Are you showing today?” Mandy Jo asked. “If you are, good luck with that. Your judge is Margaret Turnbull from the East Coast. I've heard she's a bit of a drill sergeant.”

“Good description,” I said with a laugh. “And no, I'm not showing today. Peg Turnbull is my aunt.”

“Well, then.”

I watched as Mandy Jo lifted her water bottle and enjoyed another long swallow and wondered,
Well, then . . . what?

She answered my question when she finished drinking. “I guess that's how you know Miss Ellie,” Mandy Jo said. She paused to wipe her mouth on the back of her hand.

“I was just getting to know her,” I admitted. “But I saw the two of you together the other day. It looked like you were old friends.”

“Once upon a time, I guess we were. Dog show friends, you know?”

I did.

“When Miss Ellie stopped coming to shows, we lost touch.” Mandy Jo walked two steps and lobbed the empty bottle into a nearby trash can. “Even so, I didn't enjoy hearing those things that were being said at the time.”

“Oh?” My tone was deliberately light. “Like what?”

Mandy Jo turned back to face me and I could see that my casual demeanor hadn't fooled her one bit. She was deliberating how much to say.

“You're not from around here, are you?” she said finally.

“No.”

“I didn't think so.”

“Miss Ellie told me about the car accident,” I said. “And about Dunaway.”