Underdog (9 page)
It didn't stop me from feeling grumpy though.
Nine
With the exception of Christmas, dog shows are held every weekend of the year. What started as a sport among gentlemen has grown over time to embrace the masses. There's a reason for that. For anyone who loves dogs, there's no better way to spend a day.
Showing dogs can be enjoyed on any number of levels. Class competition is a comparison of potential breeding stock within each individual breed. Dogs and bitches are judged separately and entries may be made into any of six classes: Puppy, Young Adult, Novice, Bred-By-Exhibitor, American Bred, and Open. The class winners are then judged against each other for the title of Winners Dog and Winners Bitch. These two alone receive points toward their championships, the number of dogs defeated on the day determining the number of points awarded. It takes fifteen points to make a champion and somewhere within those fifteen, a dog must win two “majors,” that is, he must defeat enough dogs in a single event to be awarded at least three points.
After the class competition comes Best of Breed where the Winners Dog and Bitch compete against the champions. Each dog winning his breed is eligible to compete in the group. The seven group winners then go head to head for the title of Best in Show.
In the beginning the class competition was what dog shows were all about. But as the sport grew bigger and more intensely competitive, a number of different rating systems began keeping score of the top winning dogs. Now there are year-end awards for all sorts of achievements. While there are still plenty of exhibitors like Aunt Peg who are content with simply finishing championships, there are also others who dedicate their lives to chasing the glory of the big wins. The very top dogs often spend half their lives on an airplane, accompanying their handlers in a never-ending search for the biggest shows and the most accommodating judges.
To me, all that running around doesn't make a lot of sense, but then neither do televangelists and look at the following they have. On the other hand, what Aunt Peg did looked like fun. I'd entered Faith in the Puppy class, which is where most novices get their start. With Peg's guidanceânot to mention her determined hand at my back-I was hoping our debut would go smoothly.
Queensboro is the last show held outdoors in my area each year. By the end of October, the chances of getting good dog showing weather on Long Islandânot too cold, no rain, no strong windsâare about fifty-fifty. This year, we got lucky and southerly winds ushered in a warming trend. I zipped Davey into a warm jacket as a precaution, but at least it looked like we wouldn't spend the whole day shivering.
Showing Standard Poodles is not only a hobby, it's a dedication requiring a great deal of work, both ahead of time and on the day of the show. According to the judging schedule our class went in the ring at noon, but when Davey, Faith, and I reached the showground just before ten o'clock, Aunt Peg was already there. From the summer's experience, I knew to head to the handlers' tent, a covered expanse filled with crates and grooming tables where exhibitors gathered to put the finishing touches on their dogs before they went into the ring.
What those finishing touches might be, varied from breed to breed. For Poodles, the preparations were elaborate. First Faith needed to be thoroughly brushed, then the hair on her head would be gathered up into a topknot. Her trim would be scissored to set the lines and effect a smooth finish, then hair spray would be liberally applied to lacquer everything into place.
Amazingly enough, the Poodles didn't seem to mind any of this. Indeed, they loved the extra attention. The first time I'd seen these things going on, I'd given serious thought to the sanity of the participants. Now I accepted them as routine. What that augured for the state of my own mental health was an issue I didn't care to pursue too closely.
I pulled the Volvo up beside the grooming tent and saw that Aunt Peg had staked out enough space so that I could set up my table and crate next to hers. Since she didn't need the practice like I did, Peg had left her puppy at home. Instead she was showing an older bitch who already had half the points she needed to finish her championship. When Davey hopped out of the car and raced over to Aunt Peg's set-up, arms wide for a hug, the Poodle reclining on the grooming table opened one eye but didn't stir. Ah, training.
“Good morning,” Aunt Peg crowed, sounding impossibly cheery. Dog shows have that effect on her.
I hauled my table out of the back of the Volvo and headed her way. “Do you know how many messages I've left on your answering machine in the last two days?”
“More than a dozen, I should think.” Aunt Peg was rummaging around in her carry-all. To no one's surprise, she came up with a honey bun for Davey. “You ran the tape through almost all the way to the end.”
Not that it had made her return any of my calls.
“I'm glad you noticed,” I said huffily.
“I was busy. I told you I would be. Waldo never did catch on. In the end, we had to AI the bitch. I only hope it takes.”
AI, artificially inseminate. There was no end to the new things I was learning. But surely Waldo's reproductive problems paled beside the news that Ziggy was still alive. Or they would have if I'd had a chance to deliver it.
“Listen,” I said urgently. “We have to talkâ”
“Of course we will. There'll be plenty of time. Now finish unloading and go park your car. Davey can stay here with me.”
I did as I was told. I'm not usually so obedient, but I figured that way I would be able to tell her the whole amazing story straight through from start to finish with no interruptions. But when I got back to the grooming tent I saw that judging must have just ended in one of the sporting rings. There was a flurry of activity in the set-up next to ours as Rick Maguire dropped off one dog and picked up another. Angie, who'd come running back from the rings with him, pulled a black Cocker out of its crate and put it up on a grooming table.
“What are they doing here?” I hissed under my breath as Angie spritzed the Cocker heavily with water and began fluffing through its hair with a brush and a hand-held dryer.
Aunt Peg lifted a brow at my tone. “Making a living, I would imagine, just like all the other handlers. Lucky for us they had some extra room and I was able to squeeze in. These tents seem to grow smaller all the time.”
Small enough so that our tables and Shamrock's were virtually on top of each other. There was no way I was going to be able to tell Aunt Peg anything with any degree of privacy. And although I dearly wanted to sound Rick out on the subject of Ziggy, I hadn't yet decided what I was going to say. Until I had more information, I certainly wasn't about to blurt out the news that the Mini was alive and well and living in Stratford.
I hopped Faith up onto her table, laid her on her side, and went to work. Maybe this proximity could be made to work to my advantage. “Hi, Angie,” I said.
She looked up from the Cocker and squinted in my direction.
“Melanie Travis,” I prompted. “I'm in your handling class.”
“Of course. Nice to see you. Is this your puppy's first show?”
I nodded.
“Well don't worry about a thing. She's very pretty. I'm sure you'll do fine.”
“Thanks. How have you been doing?”
“Great.” Angie smiled broadly. “Couldn't be better.”
Handlers are natural-born salesmen. They have to be, especially at dog shows where, when they're not selling their dogs to the judges, nearly everyone they talk to is a potential client. So for a moment I wondered if Angie was simply telling me what she thought I wanted to hear.
But as she turned her attention back to the Cocker, I realized she'd meant what she'd said. Aside from that brief moment at the kennel, I hadn't seen Angie since the wake. But the woman standing here, juggling the needs of a professional's string with calm efficiency was worlds away from the pale, fragile girl I'd escorted to the ladies' room. Everyone dealt with grief in his own way. Angie had obviously thrown herself into her work.
She also looked strong enough to handle a few questions.
“I'm going for a cup of tea,” said Peg. “And I've promised Davey we'll hunt down some hot chocolate. Do you want anything?”
“No thanks.” Despite Angie's words of encouragement, butterflies were already fluttering in my stomach. I didn't dare drink anything for fear of spending the rest of the morning waiting in line for the port-o-johns.
“Keep an eye on Peaches for me?”
“Sure.” That was easy. All Aunt Peg's Poodles were table-trained. Even though they weren't tied, they wouldn't jump off unless invited.
I watched as they walked away, Aunt Peg dignified and sedate; my five-year-old son holding her hand and skipping merrily at her side. When they were gone, I turned back to Angie. She was working on the other side of the Cocker now which meant that she was facing in my direction.
“I've been thinking about something you said at Jenny's wake,” I ventured.
“Really?” She nudged a wad of gum from one cheek to the other. “What?”
“When we were in the ladies' room together, you mentioned that Jenny had been unhappy. . . .”
“Yeah? So?”
I'd hoped that gentle prompting might get her started talking, but obviously Angie required more. Maybe flattery would loosen her up. “You were Jenny's sister. I bet you knew her better than anybody.”
“I did. Jenny wasn't just my sister, she was my friend.” Angie applied the brush methodically, her hand lifting the hair and letting it fall into the stream of hot air. “I looked up to her, you know? She took care of me.”
“She probably confided in you, too.”
“Sometimes. And sometimes she didn't tell anyone what was on her mind. That was just the way she was.”
“But you thought she was unhappy. What did she have to be unhappy about?”
Angie's brushing hand slowed. “What happened to Ziggy was the biggest thing, I guess. That really busted her up. Jenny wasn't thinking straight. I mean, she couldn't have been, right? Who could get that attached to a pet that they couldn't go on living without it?”
Especially a pet that wasn't dead at all.
“What makes you think Jenny died because of Ziggy?”
“Because that's what the note said.”
I'd been running a comb through Faith's neck hair. Abruptly I stopped and looked up. “What note?”
“Jenny wrote a suicide note. I found it a couple of days after she died. She said she was unhappy and she had nothing to live for, that losing Ziggy was the last straw.”
So much for my feeling that Jenny couldn't have killed herself. The presence of a suicide note changed everything. Or did it?
“Angie, where did you find that note?”
“It was in Jenny's desk.”
“On top? Like she'd left it out for you?”
“No, it was under a whole bunch of stuff. I was going through her things when I found it. I mean, somebody had to sort things out.”
That made me think of when my parents had died. Several months had passed before Frank and I could bring ourselves to go through their things and close the house. We hadn't found anything unexpected though. I hadn't learned of my father's drinking problem until a good deal later. By then it was almost too late for me to readjust the rosy image of my parents' marriage that I'd carried for so long in my mind. I shook my head slightly and came back to the present.
“When you were going through Jenny's things, did you find anything else unusual?”
Angie snapped her gum loudly. “What was unusual was what I didn't find.”
“What was that?”
“I was looking for some jewelry. Two rings and a pin. They used to belong to our grandmother and since Jenny was the oldest, Gram left them to her when she died. Now they should have been mine. But I couldn't find them anywhere.”
“Was the jewelry valuable?”
“I guess so. One of the rings was platinum and diamonds. The other had an emerald. Jenny always kept them in a special little box. But they're gone now.”
“Maybe Rick knows where they are.”
“He doesn't. I asked him.”
“Did you show him the note?”
“Yeah. First thing, right after I found it.”
Yet later when I'd spoken to Rick, he'd ruled out the possibility of suicide.
“Do the police know about the note?”
“I gave it to Rick and he said he'd take care of it, so I guess he did. It hasn't stopped them from asking questions, though.”
“Really?” I kept my voice casual. “What kinds of questions?”
“Like if Jenny had any enemies, or if she might have had a fight with anyone recently.”
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