Chow Down (11 page)

I sat quietly through Chris's lecture. But that, coming on top of what I'd learned from Cindy—that Faith hadn't been one of the finalists Chris had backed—put me on the defensive. All at once I found myself wondering if Faith wasn't the only one who'd had a problem with her initial sample of Chow Down.

“How'd the others do?” I asked.

“Pardon me?”

He'd heard me. I knew it and he knew it.

“I'm just curious,” I said casually. “Brando, Yoda, MacDuff, Ginger—how did they do with their first taste of Chow Down?”

Chris hesitated, as if trying to decide how much to reveal. Then abruptly he seemed to realize that his silence itself was telling enough.

“Some handled it better than others.”

I waited in silence. After another minute, Chris continued.

“Brittanys aren't big eaters, at least that's what the Reddings told me. And Brando, well . . . one look at Ben and you can pretty much see that that dog's been spoiled beyond redemption. But they'll come around in time. They'll have to, otherwise what would be the point?”

I wondered if it was just coincidence that the contestants Chris outlined as having problems were the ones he hadn't chosen in the first place.

“What about MacDuff and Yoda?”

Chris smiled happily. “MacDuff was fine. He's always fine. Pretty much no matter what you ask him to do, that guy's a pro.”

“And Yoda?”

“She did great. For such a small dog, she really packed it in. Then she danced around on her hind legs and asked for more.”

“I'm happy for Lisa's sake,” I said. “Actually I was surprised to see her today. You know, so soon after what happened.”

“Me, too. None of us expected her to show up. And of course we'd have understood entirely if she hadn't. But Lisa was very determined to go on. That's what she told us. She was sure it was what Larry would have wanted her to do.”

 

I've always done my best thinking when I'm driving in the car. Maybe that's why it wasn't until twenty minutes later, when Faith and I were on our way home, that something occurred to me. When I'd seen Lisa earlier outside the dog food company, she hadn't had Yoda with her. So the Yorkie couldn't have sampled Chow Down that morning like the other finalists had.

Yet Chris was certain that Yoda had tried the product and liked it. I wondered when that had happened.

A
fter Faith and I got home, I realized something else. Despite the numerous topics I'd talked about at various meetings that morning, the one thing that hadn't come up in our conversations was any speculation about Larry Kim's death. Oh, we'd danced around the subject a bit, spoken about how bad we felt for Lisa, and discussed the fact that she'd elected to remain in the contest.

But like the proverbial elephant in the corner, everyone had avoided mentioning the obvious questions that still remained. What had Larry been doing in the stairwell? Had another person been there with him? And why might someone have wanted to push him down a flight of steps?

I wondered whether the police had been searching for answers, or if they agreed with Lisa's version of events: that her husband, suffering from vertigo, had lost his balance and fallen. It was interesting that she'd been so quick to assume that Larry's death was an accident, especially in light of the fact that she couldn't imagine why he would have entered the stairwell in the first place. That alone should have raised some red flags.

Why was I the only one who seemed to be seeing them?

I'd missed my chance earlier, I realized. While I might not have wanted to pump the grieving widow for information, I'd had interviews with several other people who'd been in the vicinity at the time of Larry's death. And yet I'd neglected to pose a single question.

The answer to that was immediately apparent. I hadn't been thinking, I'd been competing. I'd been polite and acquiescent. I'd answered questions instead of asking them. I'd showcased Faith's good points to the best of my ability, just like a good contestant was supposed to do. And all I'd gained from that was the knowledge that despite the fact that the details as we knew them didn't add up, everyone else involved in the contest preferred to sweep the episode under the rug and forget about it.

I wished I could dismiss my own curiosity so easily.

 

That night, I began the arduous task of getting Eve ready to compete in a dog show. Spectators who see the dogs only as they appear in the ring have no idea of the amount of time and effort it takes to get a Poodle ready to compete. In actuality, the preparations begin when a puppy is only a few months old.

The long mane coat that comprises the major element of a Standard Poodle in continental trim takes nearly two years to perfect. The precious hair on the ears, the top of the head, and the back of the neck is allowed to grow nearly undisturbed from birth. Frequently bathed and blown dry, it's brushed often enough to keep it from matting and usually protected by banding and wrapping.

At the age of almost twenty-four months, Eve's coat was in its prime. I'd devoted countless hours over the previous two years to its care and upkeep. Now, with an additional five or six hours of work on my part, Eve would be ready to enter the show ring over the weekend.

I'd been spending so much extra time with Faith recently that I should have realized Eve might be feeling a little neglected. Now when I went to set out the grooming supplies, the younger Poodle followed me eagerly into the grooming room. Some dogs hate to be groomed but Eve, like her dam, was a natural show-off. She loved to look her best.

The Poodle watched as I plugged in the clippers and oiled the blades.
It's about time,
she seemed to be saying.

In our old house, I'd had to do my grooming in the basement. In our new home, there was room for everything. Having been accustomed to a concrete floor, dim lighting, and heat that didn't always kick in, I now felt like I was working in deluxe accommodations.

The room Eve and I were standing in was an area off the kitchen, intended by the builders to be a laundry room. Sam had taken one look at that arrangement and exchanged it for one he liked better. Some tinkering with the plumbing had allowed him to move the washer and dryer to a walk-in closet upstairs. The empty space that remained had quickly been converted to a state-of-the-art dog grooming room.

Thursday night was dedicated to the task of clipping. Eve's face, feet, and hindquarter all needed to be shaved down to the skin, a deed performed several days in advance, giving the black hair time to grow a short, smooth cover over the silvery skin before the Poodle went in the ring that weekend.

Sam came in, pulled up a stool, and sat down to keep me company while I worked. He and Davey had been occupied with the tree house all afternoon, and the topics over dinner had ranged from Davey's upcoming session of soccer camp to why the tomatoes in our salad were classified as vegetables instead of fruit. This was our first chance to do more than gloss over the highlights of my visit to Norwalk that morning.

“Things must have gone well,” he said. “Faith was looking very pleased with herself when she got home.”

“Faith always looks pleased with herself. In case you haven't noticed, she's a smug dog.” I turned Eve's paw in my hand, clipping carefully between each of her toes. “Faith was a hit this morning. The only way she could have done any better would have been if she'd deigned to eat the Chow Down dog food they offered her.”

“She didn't?” Sam laughed. I knew he was picturing the scene in his mind. And enjoying every minute of it, the fiend.

“Thankfully she wasn't the only finalist who found it less than palatable. MacDuff was good, but I gather Yoda was the only one who actually dove right in.”

“Odd for a Yorkie.”

“You'd think. But this one apparently loves to eat. Also, I suspect she'd been slipped a sample ahead of time to practice with.”

“Yoda's the dog who belonged to the man who died?”

I nodded. “Larry Kim. His wife, Lisa, plans to continue with the competition. She says it's what Larry would have wanted her to do.”

Sam sat in silence and thought about that. I kept working. Finishing with Eve's second paw, I cooled my blades with a blast of spray, then reached around and picked up the third.

“Okay, here's the thing,” he said after a minute's consideration. “If I fall down and break my neck at a dog show, I don't want you to simply continue on as if nothing has happened. Don't keep a stiff upper lip. Don't go marching into the ring anyway. And for God's sake, don't go all out for the win.”

“No?” I was amused by his train of thought.

“No way. I want you to dissolve in tears on the spot, maybe scream and rant a little, and tear your hair—”

“My hair, not Eve's?”

“Hell no, don't touch the Poodle's hair.”

“Just checking.” Nice to know that even in times of crisis, Sam had his priorities straight. “This dissolving thing . . . Would that be like the bad witch in the
Wizard of Oz
?”

“If you can manage it.” Sam considered the options. “It would certainly be a nice touch under the circumstances.”

“Okay, I'll try.”

I finished clipping Eve's feet and turned her around on the tabletop so that her hindquarter faced the best light. Carefully, I began to work the clipper blade up her back legs against the growth of the hair. Meanwhile, my husband was apparently contemplating his own demise.

“Is there anything about this conversation that strikes you as just the tiniest bit strange?” I asked. You know, just to make sure we were on the same page with this life-and-death thing.

“What seems strange to me is that three days after Lisa Kim's husband plunges to his death—accidentally or not, apparently still to be determined—his loving wife seems to care so much about the outcome of a dog food contest.”

“I was wondering about that, too.”

“Maybe they weren't such a loving couple.”

“Hard to say. I hadn't seen enough of them to have an opinion. Could be though, that her behavior has nothing to do with how she feels. Maybe now, especially with Larry gone, Lisa needs the money.”

Sam looked up. “How much money?”

“The winner of the contest is guaranteed a hundred thousand dollar modeling contract as the spokesdog for Chow Down dog food.”

“You never mentioned there was a payoff like that involved.”

“I didn't?”

“Nope.”

I nudged Eve's tail to one side, concentrating on perfecting the circular line around her hip rosette. “The information is on the web site. I guess I just assumed maybe you'd seen it, or that Davey had mentioned it to you.”

“Davey's a little hazy on the details when it comes to high finance,” Sam said. “As far as I could tell his major motivation for entering Faith in the contest was getting the chance to see her on TV.”

“The thing about that contract is that it's enough of an incentive to give everyone a decent motive. Even without the added bonus of having your dog appear in magazines and on TV.”

“I wonder what the police are doing,” said Sam. “Coverage in the paper has been pretty sketchy. The first article simply said that they were looking into a suspicious death at Champions's headquarters. I haven't seen anything since that labeled it a homicide.”

“Lisa told me this morning that Larry suffered from vertigo. She thinks he must have tripped and fallen. It sounds as though the police might be buying her version of the events.” I turned off the clipper and stopped and thought. “Suppose Lisa's right and Larry did fall. Why didn't the other person who was there with him do something? Or say something? Why didn't they raise the alarm?”

“Good questions.”

“Instead, I heard a door slam shut. Like maybe someone was running away.”

Eve, standing between us on the table, was watching the conversation like a third participant. Now she turned and looked at Sam as if waiting for him to reply.

“Then Doug Allen showed up,” he said, replaying the events as I'd related them to him several days earlier. “He opened the fire door two floors up.”

“Right.”

“How soon after Larry fell did Doug appear?”

I thought back, remembering standing there frozen, then stooping down to catch Yoda as she came flying down the stairs. “Right away. It couldn't have been more than thirty seconds.”

“Or maybe it was no time at all,” said Sam.

I set the clipper down. “What do you mean?”

“How sure are you that someone actually left and came back through the fire doors? You couldn't see them from where you were, right? You just heard the doors opening and closing?”

“Damn,” I said softly.

Sam was looking very pleased with himself. “I guess that's why you finally married me,” he said. “So I'd be handy for pointing out things that you miss.”

“Get real, Driver. I married you for your body.”

“Oh.” He colored slightly.

“Besides, you'd recently inherited a small fortune. Maybe I married you for your money.”

“You didn't.”

I grinned wickedly. “Want to bet?”

“Sure.” Sam reached over and yanked me into his lap. “It seems to me that you started wearing my ring when I was just a poor, struggling software designer.”

Good point.

“People will do all sorts of things for money.” I was still thinking about Lisa and the rest of the contestants.

“Like bump off the competition?” Sam asked, following my train of thought.

“Maybe.”

“Why Larry?”

“Convenience? Opportunity? Or possibly because Yoda was the only one of the finalists that actually liked the dog food? That had to give her a leg up on the rest of us. Maybe whoever pushed Larry down the stairs thought that would eliminate the Yorkie . . .”

I stopped as something else occurred to me. “Chances are, Larry was holding Yoda in his arms when he fell.”

“Lucky she didn't get hurt.”

“Precisely. What if the killer wasn't after Larry? What if he was trying to hurt Yoda?”

“You think maybe Larry died trying to shield his dog from harm?”

To some people that might have sounded far-fetched. Not to me and Sam. Our Poodles were like members of the family. Each of us would have done anything to keep someone from injuring them.

“Maybe Lisa was right,” I said. “Larry's death was an accident and Yoda was the target all along.”

“If that's the case, you'd better keep an eye on Faith.”

As one, our gazes went to the other Poodles, three of whom were lying on the floor near the doorway. A quick glance told me that Sam's Poodles were all accounted for. Davey was in the living room, playing a video game; I could hear the sound effects from where we were. Faith, no doubt, was in her usual position, lying on the couch next to him.

“Greed is one of the oldest motives in the world,” said Sam. “And don't forget something else. If and when the police go looking for possible killers, every single one of the contestants will be a suspect. That includes you, babe.”