Underdog (5 page)
“Hi, Crawford,” I said, joining them.
“Melanie.” He nodded.
“We were just discussing Jenny's parents,” said Aunt Peg. “Crawford's an old friend of theirs.”
“Not that old,” Crawford corrected, his gray eyes glinting. “But we did all get started around the same time.”
“Why aren't they here?” I asked.
“They've been in Australia, judging. I haven't spoken to them, but I understand that they're flying in tonight.”
Aunt Peg's connections were legion, but Crawford Langley's were no less impressive. “Do you know what Jenny died from?” I asked.
Aunt Peg frowned. “Now that you mention it, we never did find that out, did we?”
“Rick told me yesterday when I called to find out about the arrangements,” said Crawford. “Somehow Jenny ingested a fatal dose of arsenic.”
“You mean she was poisoned?” Aunt Peg's voice rose and I jabbed an elbow into her ribs.
“Apparently so.”
I thought about what Angie had said earlier. “How did it happen?”
“I don't know,” Crawford admitted. “But it must have been an accident. Rick didn't want to talk about it and I certainly wasn't about to push him. Gossip being what it is in this sport, I'm sure we'll all get the details soon enough. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to have a few words with Sean and Doug.”
“I don't believe it,” I said as the handler walked away.
“I don't blame you,” said Aunt Peg, looking no happier than I felt.
I was standing too close to a large arrangement of orchids. Their heavy scent seemed to permeate everything. I took Aunt Peg's elbow and guided us both a few steps away. “Angie just told me that Jenny was unhappy. Were you aware of that?”
“Not in a general sense, no.” She thought for a moment. “I mean everybody has days where everything seems to go wrong. And with Rick and Jenny working
and
living together, it can't have been easy. Handling's a high-stress job. The pressure's always on to produce results. They're out there week after week, especially with the top dogs. And if they don't win, well . . . you'd better believe everyone else is keeping score.”
and
living together, it can't have been easy. Handling's a high-stress job. The pressure's always on to produce results. They're out there week after week, especially with the top dogs. And if they don't win, well . . . you'd better believe everyone else is keeping score.”
“But Rick and Jenny were winning, weren't they? She told me something about a top Cocker . . . ?”
“That would be Charlie. Champion Shadowland's Super Charged. He is good. I think he even has a shot at the Quaker Oats Award this year. Of course, now with Jenny out of the picture, that may change.”
Aunt Peg had been coaching me on how dog shows worked for nearly half a year now. Little by little I was getting so I could understand most of the shorthand. All of the different breeds recognized by the American Kennel Club are divided into seven groups, according to form or function: Sporting, Hound, Working, Terrier, Toy, Non-Sporting, and Herding. The Quaker Oats Award is an extremely prestigious prize given out just before Westminster to the dog in each group that had won the most group firsts during the preceding year. Jenny's Cocker Spaniel would have been competing in the Sporting Group.
“Rick will continue to show the dog, won't he?”
“I imagine he will. Of course that will be up to Mrs. Byrd, Charlie's owner, but this close to the end of the year, they'd be foolish not to go for it. Charlie was Jenny's dog, though. I'm sure the judges thought of them as a team. With Rick, it just won't be the same.”
Aunt Peg turned and looked across the room. “I imagine Harry Flynn will be pleased about that. I wonder if that's why he's here.”
A thin stoop-shouldered man was standing off by himself next to a spray of lilies. His wiry hair had receded back to the middle of his head and was graying slightly at the temples. His suit, a drab shade of brown, had been paired with a loud multi-colored tie whose tails hung down below his belt. Despite the two “No Smoking” signs posted at either door, he'd cupped his hand around a lit cigarette he held down at his side.
“Is that who you were staring at before?”
“Staring?” Aunt Peg mused. “Was I really? I just hadn't expected to see him here, that's all.”
“Why? Who is he?”
“Another sporting dog handler. He's got a Cocker and a Springer of his own and they've both been bumping up against Charlie all year. After he'd lost one too many times, I gather he lodged a complaint accusing one of Jenny's dogs of being dyed.”
“Dyed? Is that possible?”
“It's more than possible, it happens all the time in Poodles and in some of the other breeds as well. The Cocker in question was black, and Harry alleged that the dog had a rather large white spot on his chest that was being covered up. If that was true, the dog would have been disqualified and the AKC would have taken punitive action against Jenny as his handler.”
“And what happened?”
“As things turned out, not much. At the moment, the American Kennel Club doesn't have a testing procedure in place for proving or disproving an allegation like that. And to disqualify an entry simply on the basis of hearsay? I can't think of anything that would expose them to a lawsuit faster.
“In the end, there was nothing they could do. The black Cocker quietly finished his championship and went home, while Jenny continued to win everything in sight with Charlie. Of course, there's been bad blood between Harry and the Maguires ever since.”
“It does seem surprising he'd come here then, doesn't it?”
“After all the years I've been showing Poodles, nothing surprises me anymore. I think we've stayed long enough. How about you?”
I nodded and we headed for the door. Aunt Peg has always been pretty crafty and I wondered later whether her sudden desire to leave was prompted by the fact that Harry Flynn was also making a move in that direction. Whether by accident or design, we met at the door.
“Mrs. Turnbull,” said Flynn, nodding briefly.
It was clear he intended to keep on walking, but Aunt Peg thrust me forward. “Harry, I don't believe you've met my niece, Melanie. She's new to showing dogs.”
He stopped then and looked me up and down. “Nice to meet you. Since you're new, I'll offer you a bit of advice. Find another hobby.”
I didn't know what to say to that, so for a moment I said nothing at all. That gave Aunt Peg the opening she needed. “I didn't expect to see you here today, Harry.”
“Why not? Just because we weren't friends doesn't mean I wouldn't show up for something like this. Hey, for me this is good times. Besides, I wanted to make sure the bitch was really dead.”
Well, that turned a few heads. Including mine. Thank goodness Rick and Angie weren't close enough to hear.
Aunt Peg drew herself up to her full height which was a good several inches higher than the handler. “If you weren't leaving, I'd throw you out myself.”
“I'll save you the pleasure, Mrs. Turnbull. Maybe some other time.” He was whistling under his breath as he left.
Five
Sam Driver returned from L.A. late Friday night. I found that out when he called Saturday morning to see what I was up to. Davey was still off with Frank, Aunt Peg had driven to Camden for a show, and I wasn't up to anything. Our relationship was new enough however, that I wouldn't have dreamed of telling him that.
He probably figured it out anyway when he suggested we take the dogs and go hiking in the woods near his house, and I jumped at the chance. There's an art to being coy which, unfortunately, I have yet to master. I told him I'd meet him at his house in an hour.
Late October in Connecticut is my idea of perfect weather. brisk, but not yet cold. In accordance with the plans, I didn't dress up. Blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and a pair of sturdy running shoes completed the outfit. I have hazel eyes and brown hair that hangs straight down to my shoulders and I didn't do much with them either. Before I had Davey, I worried about things like that. Back then, I had time. Now my style is pretty much come as you are.
Sam lives in Redding. In lower Fairfield County we consider this a northern outpost. Compared to the coastal communities, it is sparsely populated and open land abounds. Sam's house is a contemporary made of glass and shingles. It's perched on a hillside and surrounded by woods. My ancient Volvo handled the country roads fine, but balked at the steep, unpaved driveway. By the time I'd coaxed it to the top, Sam had heard us coming and was outside waiting.
When I opened the door, Faith leapt out of the car first. That was partly because she's younger and faster than me and partly because I took a moment to compose myself. Sam and I have known each other a few months but I still feel a nerve-tingling rush every time I see him. If I were a dog, I'd probably be sitting up and begging. Of course that's enough to make me want to slow things down right there. Sam doesn't feel like a fling to me. In some ways, I'd be a whole lot more comfortable if he did. For Davey's sake, I'm trying to keep my mistakes with men to a minimum. And for the time being, Sam isn't pushing. So far, so good.
By the time I got myself out of the car, Faith had already jumped all over Sam and was chasing one of his Standard Poodles around the yard. Though he has half a dozen, only one Poodle was outside. Charm is the matriarch of the line and Sam's undisguised favorite. She was black in her youth, but now most of her coat has gone gray. She still had enough energy however, to give my puppy a good trouncing whenever she ventured near. I left them to their play and turned my attention to Sam.
He looked good. Sam always looks good. He stands an inch or two over six feet, has slate blue eyes and blond hair that usually looks as though he's just raked through it with his fingers. He was wearing jeans too, with a down vest over a soft brown corduroy shirt. He held out his arms and I walked straight into them.
That man can kiss. I tipped back my head, closed my eyes, and held on for the ride. When we broke apart, I was feeling a little tipsy. That gave me a good excuse to hang onto his arm as he whistled for the dogs, picked up a backpack, and pointed toward a path leading off from the side of his yard.
“The foliage is incredible this time of year and the view from the top of this hill is spectacular. It takes about half an hour to hike up. Is that okay with you?”
“Fine. What's in the backpack?”
“Lunch, cold beer, all the necessities.”
I've tasted Sam's cooking. It's several notches up from mine. I kicked back, relaxed, and went with the flow.
The sun was warm on our backs as we crossed the yard. In the woods it was slightly cooler, but still comfortable. The path was wide enough that we could walk side by side. Leaves crunched beneath our feet. The Poodles circled around us, running in and out of the trees, chasing squirrels and checking for deer.
“How was L.A.?” I asked.
“Warm, sunny, same as always.”
“I don't think I could live there. I'd miss the seasons too much.”
“Me too. There's nothing in all of southern California that looks quite like this.” We'd come to a small clearing from which we could see down over the surrounding hills. Vivid splashes of red, gold, and orange formed a mosaic of color over the countryside below us. We enjoyed the view for a few minutes, then moved on.
“What have you been up to while I was gone?” Sam asked.
He knew I'd been taking Faith to handling class, but having recently moved to the East Coast, he didn't know Rick and Jenny Maguire personally. Still, he was shocked when I told him what had happened.
“How did she die?”
“Arsenic poisoning, apparently.” I plucked a bright gold leaf off a tree beside the path and twirled it between my fingers. “Aunt Peg and I went to the wake last night and Crawford Langley told us that much. He said it must have been an accident.”
Both of us stopped as there was a sudden crashing in the underbrush. With two graceful bounds, a doe leapt across the path and disappeared into the trees on the other side. I grabbed for my puppy and missed. Immediately both Poodles took off in pursuit. Luckily Charm was too old to give much of a chase and when she circled back, Faith came with her.
Having recaptured the dogs, we decided it was time for lunch. I was just as glad the subject had been changed. The summer before Sam had done a great job of comforting me after I'd stumbled across a dead body. I didn't want him to think of me as some sort of damsel who was perennially in distress.
Sam had packed ham-and-cheese sandwiches and tucked a pair of beers into a small thermal pouch. The dogs begged shamelessly and probably ended up with more than their share as we talked about Sam's trip, Aunt Peg's new puppies, and the judges for the upcoming winter shows. The scenery was breathtaking, the company delightful, and the afternoon passed a whole lot faster than I wanted it to.
Frank usually dropped Davey off around five. When we got back down the hill to Sam's house, I knew I would have to hurry if I was going to make it. His arm was around my waist, his fingers skimming lightly just above my waistband.
“Want to come in?” he asked.
“Yes . . .” I smiled an apology. “And no. I have to get back. My brother will be bringing Davey home.”
Sam was great with kids, and he and Davey were friends. I knew he wouldn't press; Sam understood that I had responsibilities. But that didn't make it any easier to leave. I tried for a compromise. “Five minutes . . . ?”
“Doesn't begin to cover what I had in mind.” Sam chuckled softly. His arm fell away, and my skin felt cool where it had been. “Go get Davey.”
Not on that note, thank you very much. Bracing my hands on his shoulders, I reached up and kissed Sam on the lips, hard. For a moment he let me lead, then his arms came up, one high, one low, both pulling me close along the warm, hard length of his body.
By the time I came up for air, my resolve was completely gone.
Sam didn't look much better; but fortunately for my child, he seemed to have kept some wits about him. “Davey?” he said.
I nodded dumbly.
I got in the Volvo and drove down the hill and turned back into a pumpkin. Or a mother, as the case may be. Sometimes it all feels the same.
Â
On Tuesday after school, Davey had a play date. He was going to Joey Brickman's house and I didn't have to pick him up until dinner time. My last class ended at two-thirty. I drove home and let Faith out in the yard where we played ball for a few minutes. Handling class had been canceled again for that week, and I still needed to return the book Jenny had lent me. Reading it had been a mixed experience. I'd learned a lot, but I'd also been reminded of her on nearly every page.
I hopped the Poodle puppy into the car and headed north. Faith sat upright on the front seat beside me, staring out through the windows and woofing gently when she saw something she liked. Children on bicycles were a special favorite. She'd jump up, tail wagging, alternately pressing her nose against the window and nudging it against my arm to get my attention. I finally realized she thought they were all Davey, being left behind by the side of the road.
Thanks to Faith's antics, the drive went quickly. I'd never been to the Maguires' kennel before, but I knew that it was located just off Route 7, on the Ridgefield-Danbury border. As I drew near, the large green sign was hard to miss.
Shamrock Kennels,
it said.
Dogs Boarded and Professionally Shown.
Shamrock Kennels,
it said.
Dogs Boarded and Professionally Shown.
I pulled in the gravel driveway and parked in a shady spot in the small lot out front. To the left was Rick and Jenny's house. It was a raised ranch, roomy and comfortable looking, covered with light gray aluminum siding. Cream-colored shutters matched the door, and low, well-tended holly bushes lined the flagstone walk. The kennel building was on the other side of the driveway, and sported the same color scheme as the house. Its roof line extended outward in the back and although I assumed I was looking at covered runs, stockade fencing shielded the dogs from my view.
Clearly a lot of thought and effort had gone into the layout. The yard was well kept up, the gravel in the driveway neatly raked. Every effort had been made to make an excellent first impression on potential clients.
I cracked the windows all the way around for Faith and left her sitting on the front seat with a rawhide bone. The house looked quiet, so I headed over to the kennel. The first door I came to opened into a small office. Rick was sitting behind a wide metal desk, his chair tipped back at a precarious angle as he talked on the phone. Seeing me, he smiled and held up a finger to indicate he'd be off in a minute.
I closed the door behind me, walked a few steps into the room and had a look around while I waited. Like nearly all the kennels I'd been to, the walls were covered with pictures, the majority of them “win photos” from all the top dog shows. Dozens of framed shots attested to the success Jenny and Rick had been having with their clients' dogs.
There were a number of pictures of a buff colored Cocker Spaniel that I figured must have been Charlie, but there were also Setters, Springers, even a pair of Pointers. Some of the dogs were with Jenny; some, with Rick. All were majestically displayed.
“Melanie, hi.” Rick hung up the phone and stood. “I hope you didn't come all this way to find out about class. It's canceled again this week, I'm afraid.”
“No, I knew that. Aunt Peg told me. Actually, I came to return this.” I held out his book. “Jenny lent it to me when she came to my house for dinner.”
“Oh?” Rick took the book and put it down on his desk. “I didn't even notice it was gone.”
Why would he? I thought. He'd had plenty of other things to worry about. “I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am. She was really a nice person.”
“She was great,” Rick said softly. He glanced over at a photograph that was prominently displayed opposite the door: Jenny and Charlie winning Best in Show at Bucks County, dog and handler both aglow with pride at their achievement. Briefly I wondered how he could bear to be surrounded by so many reminders of happier times. As if reading my thoughts, he shifted his gaze away. “Jenny was everything to me. She was my whole life. I'll never find anyone like her again.”
I wished there was something comforting I could say; something that wouldn't sound trite or shallow. But the truth was, I agreed with him. Jenny would be a hard person to replace.
“Crawford said you found out what happened . . . ?” I let the question dangle. He didn't have to answer it if he didn't want to, but I was hoping he would.
“Arsenic poisoning.” Rick sank back down in his chair. “That's what the autopsy said.”
“Do you know how?”
“God, no. I wish I did.” He raised his face and I saw that his expression was anguished. “The police have asked me about this a dozen times and none of it makes any sense. They wanted to know if we had any arsenic here. Of course we do, we're a kennel for Pete's sakes. Where there's this much kibble, there are rats. We keep the dog food in big metal bins, but they still hang around. You've got to control them somehow and it's not like we were going to get cats. . . .”
“You think Jenny was poisoned with rat poison?”
“What else can I think? That's the only place we had arsenic. She handled it, I handled it. She must have slipped up somehow.”
A pretty big slip-up, I thought. It couldn't be easy, or pleasant for that matter, to ingest enough rat poison to kill a human being. I couldn't imagine it happening by accident.
“What do the police say?”
“They keep asking questions, but so far they haven't come up with any answers. Did Jenny have any enemies? Had she been depressed about anything lately? Things like that.”
“And had she been?”
“Hell no,” Rick snapped, with the vehemence of someone who's answered the same query one time too many. “Jenny was fine, the same as ever. Things were going good for us, real good.”
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