Authors: Laurien Berenson
Dog Eat Dog (3 page)
Beside me, Aunt Peg rolled her eyes.
I was still thumbing through photographs five minutes later when the waitress came by to take our drink order. I'm not usually much of a drinker. Then again, I'd never been to a Belle Haven Kennel Club meeting before.
I pulled out my wallet and ordered a double.
Four
I had assumed that the purpose of a dinner meeting was to hold the dinner and the meeting simultaneously, but it turned out I was wrong.
“We eat first,” Aunt Peg told me, digging eagerly into a steak that looked like it weighed more than a pound. “The meeting's after. Much more practical than trying to chew and argue at the same time.”
Only for people who didn't have young children waiting at home with the neighbors.
I tried to remember that I was a guest and not be grouchy. Because of the size of our party, orders for the food had been made in advance, which meant I was in Aunt Peg's hands. My plate held a sirloin nearly the size of her own. The potato next to it oozed sour cream. I didn't see a sign of vegetables anywhere.
The club members fell to eating like a pack of carnivores who'd just chased down the weakest member of the herd. I pushed my steak around my plate and let my gaze wander. Seated on one leg of the horseshoe was a squat, broad shouldered man with a carefully cultivated tan and profuse white hair. His movements seemed awkward and after a moment I figured out why. He was eating his steak one-handed.
The other handâwide and beefy, with short, blunt fingersâwas resting on that of the woman seated beside him. Her manicured nails were rose tipped. From the look of boredom on her face, I suspected if he hadn't been holding her fingers they'd have been drumming. Her plate of chicken appeared untouched.
I nudged Aunt Peg. She was nosing around in the bread basket, having discovered to her delight that it contained garlic bread. I wondered where I'd been when God was handing out fast metabolisms. Aunt Peg had obviously passed through that line twice.
“Who's that?” I asked. “The man with the white hair. Next to the blond.”
Aunt Peg nudged the wedge of bread onto the edge of her already full plate, then had a look. “Cy Rubicov. The woman next to him is his wife, Barbara.”
“What's their breed?” The question made me feel very smug. See how fast I was catching on?
To my surprise, Aunt Peg stopped to consider. That was the type of information she could usually supply off the top of her head. “I guess you'd have to say it was Dalmatians,” she said finally.
“You don't sound too sure.”
“That's because the Rubicovs aren't actually breeders in the sense that most of the people in this room are. They don't have a breeding program, and they're not committed to a particular breed of dog.”
“What do they do?”
“They show dogs.”
“You show dogs, too,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but in their case, it's different. Every time I breed a litter, I'm hoping to come one step closer to producing the perfect Standard Poodle. Each of my puppies is the culmination of years of planning. I'm proud of my Poodles and I enjoy showing them off in the ring, but it's the breeding that's the important part. Winning at a dog show is just the icing on the cake.”
Over the last ten months, my exploration of the dog show world had taught me that few people had as pure an attitude toward the breeding of dogs as Aunt Peg. Many people would have called her old-fashioned, if not downright out of touch. Dog showing and dog breeding was big business, with the sky-high handling fees and flashy advertising campaigns to prove it.
“I take it the Rubicovs take winning a little more seriously than you do?”
“I should say so.” She piled some baked potato on her garlic bread and took a bite. “The Rubicovs aren't interested in breeding good dogs, only in owning them. They're much more apt to buy than breed, the purpose being to sponsor the dog's career in the show ring.”
“You mean they pay all the expenses?”
“Precisely.”
“That must take a lot of money.”
“It does. On that level, showing dogs is a very expensive hobby. Then again, so is owning a football team. And there seem to be plenty of people who are eager to do that. For some people, it's all about associating your name with a winner. As to the cost, I don't think the Rubicovs are particularly concerned about that.”
I snuck another look down the table without trying to be too obvious about it. The Belle Haven Kennel Club had its headquarters in Greenwich, so I guessed that a number of its members would come from money. Still, for the most part, the attitude and dress around the table was casual. Barbara Rubicov was the lone exception.
Seated, she appeared to be several inches taller than her husband. Her sleek blond hair was bobbed to chin length, and her navy blue Donna Karan suit fit as though it had been tailored specially for her. An abundance of gold jewelry glittered in the light from the chandelier, and the diamond on her left hand must have been blinding at close range. Her age could have been anywhere between forty and fifty, although I guessed she was closer to the latter, with good grooming and skillful attention to detail holding the years at bay.
Beside me, Aunt Peg was busy cleaning her plate. She chose clothing with an eye toward utility, not style. I doubted if she'd noticed Barbara Rubicov's outfit, or if it would have made an impression on her if she had. The records of the Rubicovs' dogs, however, were another matter.
“I've heard mention of an Irish Setter,” she was saying. “And they did a fair amount of winning with a Dalmatian last year. Spot, his call name is. Have you ever heard anything so ludicrous? Crawford Langley handles it for them.”
“Crawford? I thought he was a Poodle handler.”
“He is, primarily. But the coat care with Poodles is a lot of work. By comparison, Dalmatians are a breeze. And since the handlers get paid almost the same no matter what kind of dog they take in the ring, you can see why he might be just as happy to branch out.”
Aunt Peg used her fork to push the last piece of steak around her plate, sopping up the remaining drops of juice. The acquisitive glance she cast at my uneaten sirloin wasn't even subtle.
“That's going home in a doggie bag,” I said firmly.
Aunt Peg's look was filled with injured innocence. “Did I say a word?”
“No, but you thought it. If you're looking for leftovers, you might try Cy's wife. She doesn't seem to have touched her food.”
“Barbara never does. She thinks eating at a steak house is beneath her. And as for dining with the rest of us ...” Peg chuckled gleefully. “I think she'd sooner break bread with Pygmies. At least there might be some charity value in that.”
“Then why does she come to the meetings?”
“For Cy. It makes him happy. And it makes him think she's a good sport, even if everybody else knows that she's anything but.”
Two seats down, Lydia Applebaum finished eating and rose to her feet. Immediately Joanne, on my left, picked up her spoon and began tapping it against her glass. Lydia sent her an annoyed look as the room quieted.
“While they're clearing and serving coffee, I'd like to go ahead and call the meeting to order,” the club president said. “We have plenty of business on the agenda and we don't want to be here all night.”
“Here! Here!” cried Paul Heins.
“In lieu of roll call, we've passed around a sign-up sheet. Everybody, please be sure to sign in. As the minutes from the last meeting were published in this month's newsletter, perhaps someone would like to make a motion to dispense with reading them?”
I gathered this was a procedure they'd followed many times. Lydia looked around the room expectantly as several hands shot up. The motion was made, seconded, and carried.
I surreptitiously checked my watch. It was already past eight o'clock and the meeting was just beginning. I wondered if there was any way I could slip out and call Alice Brickman and tell her I was going to be a little late picking Davey up. And on a school night, no less.
The waitress plopped a slice of half melted ice cream cake roll down on the table in front of me. “Regular or decaf?” she inquired brightly.
“Regular.”
I added a dollop of half and half and took a cautious first sip. The coffee was hot and strong, just the way I like it.
“We'll move on to the president's report then,” said Lydia. “And I'm afraid I have to start off with some bad news. It appears that the dinner checks collected at last month's meeting are missing.”
There was a moment of shocked silence, then everyone was speaking at once.
“Missing?” cried Monica Freedman. “As in stolen?”
“They were probably just misplaced,” said Cy.
“Order! Order!” said Lydia. I got the distinct impression she would have loved having a gavel to pound. “The chair has the floor.”
Several hands around the room came up. Lydia ignored them and turned to the club treasurer. “Louis, since you were directly involved in what happened, perhaps you'd like to explain further.”
Reluctantly, Louis nodded. “You're all familiar with the routine. If you're going to attend the meeting, you make your reservations in advance with Monica, then pay for your dinner when you arrive. I write a check to the restaurant from the club account when we leave. The checks you've given me are put in a pouch and I deposit them in the account, usually sometime during the following week.”
“I'm sure I paid last month,” a woman at the end of the table said belligerently.
It seemed to me she was missing the point. I lifted a brow at Peg.
“Penny Romano,” she whispered, shaking her head slightly.
“We paid too!” said Darla Heins.
Others around the room nodded in agreement.
“I'm sure we
all
paid,” Aunt Peg said in a loud voice before anyone else could speak up. “Now let's let Louis tell us what happened.”
all
paid,” Aunt Peg said in a loud voice before anyone else could speak up. “Now let's let Louis tell us what happened.”
Lydia shot Peg an irritated look. Clearly she didn't like having her authority usurped. Complacently, Aunt Peg ignored her.
“Yes, well ...” Louis cleared his throat and consulted a note on the table in front of him. “I had collected a total of four hundred and sixty-eight dollars, including twenty-three checks and eighty-four dollars in cash. The collection took place before the meeting and I placed the money in the pouch as usual.”
“Then where did it go?” Monica demanded and earned another stormy look from Lydia. I was just as pleased she'd spoken up; I wanted the story to move along too.
“That's just it. I don't know. When I opened my briefcase the next morning, the pouch was gone. I don't know how to explain it. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
Beside me, Joanne sat up straight. “Maybe it was taken from your house,” she suggested.
Sharon LaPlante shook her head. “It couldn't have been. There's nobody home but the two of us. Unless you count the dogs, of course ...” Her voice trailed away in nervous laughter.
“Then you're saying it must have been taken by one of us,” Monica pointed out unnecessarily, and once again the room erupted in a babble of voices. This time Lydia let the private conversations run their course.
“That's very odd,” Aunt Peg said in a low tone. “The eighty-four dollars in cash is certainly negotiable. But the checks wouldn't be. They should have been made out to the Belle Haven Kennel Club. It seems like someone went to a lot of trouble for very little gain.”
“Clearly this is all Louis's fault.” One voice, loud and accusing, drowned out all the rest. Aside from Lydia, all the club members had spoken from their seats. Penny Romano, however, rose to her feet. She swayed slightly and the man beside her put up a steadying hand. “Louis is the club treasurer, and we trusted him to take care of our money. He should have been more careful.”
“Now Penny.” Louis's voice sounded sad. “I followed the same procedure I always have.”
“I think we've had enough discussion,” said Lydia, reasserting her control. “Especially since this is an issue we're not going to be able to resolve. I propose we wait and see what happens. Perhaps the pouch will turn up.” She looked slowly and meaningfully around the room.
“What if it doesn't?” asked Monica.
Lydia didn't give an answer.
I wondered if she had one.
Five
With that excitement behind us, the meeting moved on to more mundane matters.
By eight forty-five, I'd finished my second cup of coffee and checked my watch three times. The club members were arguing over whether or not to raise the entry fees for the following year's show. The topic had come up under the heading of “Unfinished Business” and had all the earmarks of an old fight:
It was also the fourth disagreement that had arisen in less than twenty minutes. The other three had gotten themselves talked into the ground and then tabled for future discussion. Clearly none of these people had ever heard of compromise, not to mention closure. At this rate, it was looking as though I should have packed pajamas in Davey's backpack in case his play date turned into a sleepover.
Beside me, Aunt Peg was smiling contentedly. She'd leapt into the fray twice so far, both times on behalf of motions that had gone on to pass their votes easily. No doubt she was pleased with the way things were proceeding.
“Higher entry fees
do
make a difference,” Monica was insisting. Most members seemed to join into a discussion when the topic was important to them. Not Monica. She had something to say about everything. “Not everybody who shows dogs is made of money.”
do
make a difference,” Monica was insisting. Most members seemed to join into a discussion when the topic was important to them. Not Monica. She had something to say about everything. “Not everybody who shows dogs is made of money.”
She wasn't looking at Cy and Barbara, but I got the distinct impression that the comment was aimed in their direction. Neither rose to the bait. Cy was adding sugar to a new cup of coffee; Barbara seemed to be examining the glossy shine on her nails.
“We're only talking about a dollar or two,” Lydia said reasonably. “Most other clubs in the area have already raised their entry fees and the revenue could make a big difference to us.”
“Unless the higher fees cost us exhibitors,” Penny interjected hotly. “Some of us show dogs on a budget, you know.”
Louis spoke up from the other side of the table. “I think Lydia was merely trying to point out that when handling fees and expenses are taken into account, the entry itself is the least expensive item associated with showing dogs. Perhapsâ”
“Perhaps we should make the little guy pay, as usual!”
“Here! Here!” cried Paul Heins. So far, his contributions to the meeting had been limited to those two words.
Louis LaPlante threw up his hands eloquently.
“Penny,” said Lydia, sounding tired. “I think you've made your point. Perhaps we'd better table that topic until the next meeting.”
Penny smiled triumphantly. The man seated beside her leaned over and whispered something in her ear. She shook her head impatiently and pushed him away.
Husband and wife, I decided. They had to be. In the way of some long married couples, they had even begun to look alike. Both had brown hair, worn short, and pleasant, if unremarkable, features. Penny wore no make-up; a watch, a plain wedding band, and a simple pair of stud earrings were her only jewelry. The man beside her had on a tie, one of the few in the room. It disappeared down into the neck of a wool vee-neck sweater that creased across the beginnings of a paunch.
“That's Penny's husband, Mark,” Aunt Peg leaned over and whispered. “They breed Dobermans.”
“Penny certainly seems to have a lot to say.”
“And none of it useful. If you ask me, the woman is a pain in the butt.”
I swallowed a laugh. Aunt Peg had been raised in gentler times. Coming from her, that was a world class insult.
“You haven't touched your dessert,” she pointed out.
I shook my head. The mound of ice cream cake roll was now fully melted, which meant that it looked even more revolting than it had when it arrived. By contrast, Aunt Peg's dessert plate looked as though she'd licked it.
“It's all yours.”
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms over my chest as the meeting limped along. “Unfinished Business” turned into “New Business.” With the club's show only six weeks away, we got to listen to reports from the various committee heads. Then Lydia announced that on the first Sunday in April she'd be hosting a reception for a former club member who'd moved away, but who was returning to judge in the area that weekend. Yippee.
If I remembered my Robert's Rules of Order correctly, that meant adjournment was next. And none too soon, either. By now, Alice was probably picturing me dead by the side of the Merrit Parkway. In my brain-numbed state, I wasn't sure that wasn't a preferable alternative.
Aunt Peg finished her second piece of cake roll and sighed with satisfaction. I read once that people lose their taste for sweets as they grow older, but not Aunt Peg. If she was running true to form, she had a brownie stashed in her purse for the ride home.
“Do I hear a motion to adjourn?” asked Lydia.
I was so excited, I almost raised my own hand. Luckily, several actual club members quickly filled in. Nine-fifteen, and another twenty minutes to get home. All I could offer was an abject apology and a promise to take Joey the next eight times Alice got stuck. Hopefully, she'd accept.
I pushed back my chair and stood up. Aunt Peg was chatting with Lydia. Briefly I considered kicking the leg of her chair. Unfortunately, good manners won out.
“I'll pick up your coat,” I said instead.
“Yes dear, go ahead. I'll be along in a minute.”
I'd heard that before. When Aunt Peg gets going, she's one of the world's great talkers. Maybe after I'd gotten her coat, I could bring it back up and drape it over her head.
Joanne Pinkus was standing as well. “I can't believe he's doing that in here,” she said, sounding truly disgusted as she gazed across the room.
“Who?” I turned to look. “What?”
“Louis. Smoking that awful pipe. He knows how much everybody hates it.”
Around the table, everyone was packing up. Some, closer to the door, had already left. Sharon, Louis's wife, was searching the top of the table, pushing aside the bread basket and checking under napkins. I wondered if she was looking for her glasses, which were hanging around her neck. My mother used to do that all the time.
While he waited, Louis had pulled out a meerschaum pipe. He tamped the tobacco in the bowl several times with his thumb, then flicked on a lighter and sucked the flame down through.
“At least he waited until the meeting was finished,” I said.
“He didn't have any choice about that. Since we're in a private room, we make our own rules. And pipe smoking is definitely out.”
We moved across the room and joined the crush of people at the top of the stairs. The surprisingly sweet aroma of Louis's tobacco eddied around us. There were several wrinkled noses and almost as many frowns.
Farther down the steps ahead of us, Louis seemed oblivious. He was talking to a strikingly attractive redhead. I'd noticed her earlier sitting at the table, but she hadn't had much to say during the meeting. Now, in the crowd on the stairs, she was standing so close to Louis that his lips were almost touching her hair. The pipe smoke didn't seem to bother her a bit. Several steps back, Louis's wife trailed along behind.
“Who's Louis talking to?” I asked Joanne as we began our descent.
“Alberta Kennedy. Everybody calls her Bertie. She's a handler, or at any rate, she'd like to be.”
“What's stopping her?”
“Not enough clients. Not the best clients. She hasn't been at it that long, and she's still pretty much at the bottom of the heap.”
“She and Louis look like good friends,” I said innocently.
“Bertie's good friends with anyone she thinks can help her along. If you know what I mean.”
It wasn't hard to figure out. Tall and curvy, Bertie was dressed in a clinging blue silk jumpsuit whose low vee-neck accentuated two of her best features. Her shoulder length auburn hair was layered becomingly around a face that Botticelli could have paintedâporcelain skin, full red lips and luminous green eyes. God had given this woman a plenitude of assets and when she pressed herself against Louis's arm as she leaned across him to take her wrap from the coat check, I realized she wasn't wasting any of them.
“That's really gross,” Monica said in a loud voice.
I thought she was talking about Bertie and Louis, but when I turned to look, I found her glaring at Barbara Rubicov. Cy had just handed his wife a full length mink he'd retrieved from the coat check.
“I can't believe anyone would have the nerve to wear a pile of dead skins to a dog club meeting.”
“Oh be quiet, Monica,” said Bertie. Her voice, like the rest of her, was soft and pleasing. “You're probably just jealous because you can't afford a fur.”
“I don't want a fur!” Monica snapped. “Unless it's attached to a live animal where it belongs.”
Cy linked his arm though his wife's. For a moment, I thought the two of them would simply sweep past Monica as though she didn't exist. But Barbara was made of sterner stuff.
“This coat is made of ranch mink,” she said in a loud voice. “The animals were bred and raised for that purpose, much like the cow that provided the steak you ate tonight.”
“But ...” Monica sputtered. “There's a difference!”
“There's no difference,” Barbara said complacently. “Except in the minds of ill-intentioned trouble makers like yourself.”
“Good for you!” Louis muttered under his breath. Sharon, now beside him, jabbed him in the ribs. Heads held high, Cy and Barbara left the restaurant. Never a dull moment indeed.
I got in line and by the time I had our coats, Aunt Peg had appeared. We walked outside together. The night air was crisp and cold. I could smell the water of Long Island Sound, less than a dozen yards away beyond the parking lot.
“There now,” said Aunt Peg. “That wasn't so bad, was it?”
“Compared to elective surgery, possibly not. That doesn't mean it's something I'd like to do on a regular basis.”
“Oh pish. That's just because you don't know anyone yet. Once you get involved ...”
I'd probably want to strangle myself.
“Be honest,” I said. “You can't tell me you think of those people as friends.”
“Well, maybe not all of them.”
I harrumphed softly under my breath. Aunt Peg has good ears. She probably would have caught that if a chorus of loud, keening howls hadn't suddenly filled the air.
“Good Lord!” I said, the hair standing up on the back of my neck. “What is that? Did somebody run over a dog?”
“Beagles.” Aunt Peg frowned. “They make a frightful noise when they're excited.”
“Excited? It sounds like they're being tortured.”
As I spoke, a pair of the small tricolor hounds came flying around the end of the row of parked cars. Both wore sturdy leather leashes and they were dragging club secretary Monica Freedman in their wake. All three passed through a circle of light from the overhead beams, then disappeared into the next row. The Beagles had their noses pressed to the cold macadam. In hot pursuit of leftovers no doubt.
“Don't tell me Monica brought those dogs with her again,” Lydia said, coming up behind us.
“I'm afraid so.” Peg shook her head. “Why on earth she'd think they'd want to spend all night waiting for her in the van is beyond me.”
“You'd think they'd get cold,” I said.
Aunt Peg gestured toward a minivan parked at the end of the row. “This time of year, she's got all sorts of blankets in there. That car is a dog mobile.”
As if hers wasn't.
“I just hope she's cleaning up after them,” Lydia said critically. “This club doesn't need to get any grief because her dogs left a mess behind in the parking lot.”
We reached Aunt Peg's station wagon and stopped.
“Two weeks?” Lydia said to Aunt Peg. “Same place? Same time? One final meeting of the committee heads and the show should be all set.”
“Right,” said Peg. “I'll be here.”
The howling had tapered off. Now it rose once again to a new crescendo. The sound had all the appeal of a banshee screeching in the wind. Tiny hairs kept bristling at my nape.
Imagine, they got to do this all over again in just two weeks. And I thought school teachers had all the fun.
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