Authors: Laurien Berenson
Dog Eat Dog (8 page)
He looked over my shoulder and scanned the area. “I've got someone coming to handle the other dog. But if you could bring the bitch up to ringside for me, it would be a big help.”
As he spoke, Alberta Kennedy came hurrying across the room. “Corgis ran late,” she said breathlessly. “Am I in time?”
“Just made it. We're going up now.” Crawford picked up the female Papillon and placed her carefully in my arms.
Bertie picked up one of the males. Her dress today was dove gray, high-necked, and fell to mid-calf. I'd have looked like a nun wearing it. Bertie looked like Miss America trying to go incognito.
Crawford, who picked up the third Pap and led our procession toward the ring, didn't spare her a glance. Considering he was gay, that wasn't surprising. But since
Bertie's obvious assets were lost on him, I figured either he had to be desperate to ask her to handle one of his dogs, or else she was good at what she did.
Standing ringside during the Open Dog class, I decided on the former. Bertie was perfectly competent, but with none of the spark that set the truly talented handlers apart. Indeed, from my vantage point, her attention seemed centered less on her dog than on someone standing outside the ring.
There were five dogs in the class and Crawford's Papillon was quickly moved to the head of the line. The judge glanced at Bertie's entry and she favored him with a dazzling smile. The next thing I knew, her Papillon was standing second.
Whatever works, I thought.
Bertie cast a surreptitious glance over her shoulder and I homed in on whom she was looking at. Cy Rubicov was standing ringside, watching the judging.
One thing I've discovered about dog shows: sometimes there's a surprising amount to be learned just by keeping your eyes and ears open. Some people might call that nosiness. I think of it as practicalâkind of along the same lines as Bertie wearing a push-up bra.
We were both just making the most of the gifts God gave us.
Eleven
Crawford's Papillon went on to win the Open class. He stayed in the ring to vie with the winners of the other dog classes for the title of Winners Dog and the points that went with it. That accomplished, Crawford came out and exchanged the dog for the bitch I was holding.
“I won't win again,” he said. “Winners Dog was my piece for the day. But he needs to go back in for Best of Breed, so stay close, okay?”
I nodded, and Crawford hurried back into the ring.
With the dog classes over, Bertie's duties were finished. The Papillon she'd handled for Crawford had gone Reserve, and wouldn't be needed for further judging. If she wished, she could return the dog to Crawford's set-up and be on her way.
As I waited by the gate, however, I saw that Bertie was in no hurry to leave. Cradling the little dog in her arms, she'd sidled through the crowd at ringside and was now engaged in animated conversation with Cy Rubicov.
As her height topped his by several inches, Bertie was leaning forward ever so slightly to bring herself down to Cy's level. The fact that the move pressed her breasts together and thrust them forward was, I'm sure, lost on nobody. Her long fingers, with their brightly polished nails, stroked the toy dog's silky hair.
I was too far away to hear what they were saying, but the body language was eloquent. Cy was rocking back on his heels, chest puffed out, a broad smile on his faceâa man supremely aware that the best looking woman at ringside was with him. I remembered Aunt Peg telling me that Cy backed a lot of top winning dogs, among them a Dalmatian being handled by Crawford Langley, and wondered if it was a coincidence that Bertie had made herself available to help out.
As Crawford had predicted, he quickly lost with the bitch. We switched Paps at the gate, and he went back in the ring to show the dog for BOB. When I looked back to where Cy and Bertie had been, only the handler remained. She was staring off into the distance, a distracted frown on her face.
Tucking the bitch under my arm, I went to stand beside her. “Must be tough,” I said.
“Hmm?”
With Cy around, Bertie had sparkled; now the wattage was turned way down. She'd been the first person to reach Monica after me. I wondered if she'd simply been running in that direction, as I had. Or could she have been with Monica, wielded the rock and run, then doubled back to see what would happen next?
“Drumming up new clients,” I said. “It must be tough trying to build a business.”
“I do all right,” Bertie said carefully. “I don't have a big string yet, but then I don't take just any dog. Some handlers don't mind being seen in the ring with all kinds of garbage, as long as they get paid. That's not for me.”
“I guess that's why getting the right kind of client is so important.”
“It's everything. A good dog, with the right kind of money behind it, is a big winner. Unfortunately, there aren't nearly enough of those to go around.”
“Good dogs, or big money clients?”
“Both.”
I imagined that Cy Rubicov, with his buying power, would qualify on both counts. Clearly, Bertie would love to have one of his dogs to show. I wondered how he felt about the prospect; and what, if anything, Monica Freedman might have known about their relationship.
“The other night when Monica was killed, I was near the road when the Beagles came by. I ran to the van from that direction. Where were you?”
“The next row of cars over.” Bertie frowned. “I never saw the dogs at all. I just heard that infernal racket, and went over to tell Monica to shut them up.”
“As you approached the van, did you see anyone else?”
“I saw you.”
That was the truth, certainly. But I wondered if it was all of it.
“We came from two different directions,” I said slowly. “The murder had just taken place. How do you suppose the murderer managed to slip away so quickly without anybody seeing him?”
“We were all questioned by the police,” said Bertie. “If I'd seen anything, I'd have told them.”
“The police weren't there. But we were. All of us, members of the Belle Haven Kennel Club, were right there when it happened.”
“You're not a club member.” She lifted one manicured hand to flip her hair back over her shoulder. “Is that why you're so interested in pinning this on someone who is?”
“I'm not trying to pin anything on anybodyâ”
“Sharon told me you solved a murder before.”
“I guess I did.”
“So now you think you're going to solve this one?” There was no mistaking the sarcasm in her tone.
“Look,” I said. “What I told you a minute ago is true. We were all there. Fourteen of us, including Monica. Now she's dead. Doesn't that make you curious about what the rest of us were up to?”
“Not at all. Nobody liked Monica much. You probably won't find even one club member who's sorry she's gone. Besides, it has nothing to do with me. And I try not to worry about things that don't concern me.” Her lips lifted in a smile that was smooth and vacuous. “Wouldn't want to get wrinkles, you know.”
Right. The Barbie doll act might work with some people, but I'd already glimpsed the intelligence that lay beneath the surface. It was interesting, though, that Bertie thought she had to try. What did she know about Monica's death that she felt she needed to hide?
“All done.” Crawford came up behind us. The third Papillon was under his arm, the blue and white striped ribbon for Best of Winners in his hand. “Ladies, thank you for your help.”
“Any time,” Bertie purred.
She deposited the dog she was holding into the crook of his other arm. As Bertie headed off toward the next ring, Crawford and I started back to the grooming area.
“I met Bertie the other night at a kennel club meeting,” I said, falling into step beside him.
Crawford grunted softly under his breath.
“She seems very nice.”
This time he didn't bother to grunt.
“Is she is good handler?”
His gaze shifted in my direction. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious.” I tried to inject the enthusiasm of the eager novice into my voice.
Judging by the look on Crawford's face, he wasn't buying it. He'd been involved with dogs for more than three decades, and by now he knew where all the important skeletons were buried. He also knew enough not to gossip with eager novices.
“Bertie still has a few things to learn. But she's young yet. She'll get there.”
I'd met more than one new handler who'd sought to establish himself by taking other handlers' clients. If that was the case with Bertie, Crawford certainly didn't seem worried. Then again, I'd seen the way Bertie acted around himâall sweetness and innocence. I hoped for his sake he'd taken the time to peer beneath the glossy exterior.
“You're back!” Davey cried, as we came into view.
I slipped the Pap into the crate Crawford indicated and hurried back to Aunt Peg's set up. Not long ago, perching Davey on top of a high Standard Poodle sized crate had been enough to keep him in one place. Now he set aside his coloring book, eyed the distance to the ground, and launched himself over the edge.
I leapt to catch him and missed by about a foot. Luckily there was no crunch of broken bones when he landed in a heap on the hard floor. Davey scrambled quickly to his feet.
“Lunch time!” he announced.
I checked my watch. “It's ten-thirty.”
“It can't be ten-thirty. We've been here for
hours
.”
hours
.”
Half an hour. Maximum. But then I'd already learned that my five year old son's perception of time and mine were vastly different. I think he was living his life in dog years.
Aunt Peg had Hope lying on the grooming table with her left sideâthe side that would face the judge in the ringâfacing upward, which meant she was almost finished brushing. “You could try the food concession,” she said. “I bet they have doughnuts.”
“Yea!” cried Davey. “I want jelly!”
Just that quickly, without even being consulted, I was outvoted. I slipped my hand firmly over Davey's and we set out.
The concession booths ran along the two opposite sides of the building. Davey and I cut across the middle of the big room, past rings filled with Bulldogs, Irish Setters, and then at the far end, Beagles. I found myself slowing, then stopping all together, despite Davey's efforts to drag me on.
Beagles, like Poodles, come in more than one variety and are divided by size. In their case, the two classifications are thirteen inch and fifteen inch, with the height being measured at the withers.
The fifteen inch Beagles were in the ring, being judged by a plump woman with neat, gray streaked hair and a firm hand on a dog. None of these Beagles pulled at their leashes, and there wasn't a howl to be heard. Nonetheless, I couldn't help being reminded of Monica's dogs, probably the last thing she'd seen before the killer snuck up behind her and snuffed out her life.
“It makes you think, doesn't it?”
I looked up and found Mark Romano standing next to me. His shoulders were slumped; his hands, shoved in his pockets. The most interesting thing about his bland features was his frown. “I can't seem to stop thinking about what happened to Monica. The funeral's tomorrow, did you hear?”
“No, I hadn't. I didn't really know Monica. I'd just met her briefly at the last two club meetings.”
Mark nodded. “Speaking of the club, I hope someone's made arrangements to send flowers. Monica was our corresponding secretary. In the past, that would have been her job.”
Davey gave my arm a sudden yank. “Mommy, come on! It's time to go.”
“My son,” I said, introducing him to Mark. “His manners could be better.”
“What a fine young man,” said Mark.
“A
hungry
young man,” Davey stated rudely, giving another yank for good measure.
hungry
young man,” Davey stated rudely, giving another yank for good measure.
If I hadn't known he would disappear, I'd have been tempted to let go. As it was, I settled for pulling him back to my side a little harder than was strictly necessary. He hung on my arm like a forty pound dead weight.
“About the flowers, maybe my Aunt Peg would know. I know she and Monica split the secretary job between them. She might have sent an arrangement on behalf of the club.”
“I hope so,” Mark said. “It would look terrible if we neglected to send our condolences.”
“I'll check into itâ”
Davey's foot trod heavily on mine, and I yelped.
“Are you all right?” Mark asked solicitously.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“Goodbye,” my son said loudly. “Nice meeting you.”
Fine time to remember the social niceties.
“Davey!” With that much warning in my tone, he should have backed down. He didn't.
“But I'm hungry!” he wailed. “You said I could get a doughnut!”
“All right, we're going. In one minute.” I looked at Mark apologetically. “Do you have kids?”
“Not yet,” he said. “We're still hoping.”
Probably with less enthusiasm after today's exposure.
Mark pointed out where he and Penny were set up in the grooming area and I promised to find out about the flowers and get back to him. Dobermans weren't going to be judged until afternoon, so there was plenty of time.
I wasted my breath lecturing Davey about his behavior the rest of the way to the food concession stand. A better mother than I might have enforced her point by canceling the trip for doughnuts all together. But then I'd have to explain to Aunt Peg why she was going hungry, too.
Sometimes this business of parenting is enough to make you nuts.
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