Authors: Laurien Berenson
Dog Eat Dog (9 page)
Twelve
We bought half a dozen assorted doughnuts and a king-sized coffee for me. I justified the whole thing by deciding that life was just too short to spend arguing.
Back at the set-up, Aunt Peg had Hope on her feet. The puppy was standing on the table while Peg scissored her coat, resetting the lines of the trim and smoothing out the finish. This was one of those things that looked deceptively easy, but took years of practice to truly master.
Aunt Peg has put in the time. When she was finished with Hope, the puppy looked as though she'd been created from blown glass. So far, my novice attempts at scissoring Faith have ended up looking more like papier-mache.
When Aunt Peg took a break from her preparations and sat down with a doughnut, I asked her whether she'd arranged to send flowers to Monica's funeral.
Mouth full, she settled for a nod.
“Mark Romano was wondering. He said the funeral's tomorrow.”
“That's right. Lydia called me. The club will have to elect another corresponding secretary, but in the meantime I've agreed to fill in.”
I glanced around to see what Davey was up to. Placated by sugar, he'd clambered back up on top of Hope's metal crate and was coloring happily in his book.
“Did you ever have a chance to talk to the police?” I asked in a low tone.
“For all the good it did me,” Aunt Peg sniffed. “They told me they were pursuing various avenues of investigation. As if any fool couldn't figure that out.”
“What about the rock Cy and Bertie saw? Did you at least find out if that's what killed Monica?”
“It was,” Aunt Peg confirmed. “Which narrows down the field not a whit. Presumably it was lying near the parking lot. Any one of us could have picked it up.”
“It is interesting, though. It means the murder had to have been a spontaneous act. Someone saw his chance and took it.”
Aunt Peg nodded. “Think back to the meeting that night. I wonder if something happened that we've overlooked, maybe something that could have set the murderer off.”
“Monica argued with Joanne.”
“Monica argued with everybody. That was nothing new. And we've already established that all of us had the means. What we need to do is narrow down motive and opportunity.”
No small task. But Aunt Peg didn't seem too perturbed. She's always enjoyed a challenge. Not that she was about to let this one get in the way of showing her puppy.
She stood up, brushed a few crumbs off the front of her apron, and dug around in her tack box for the equipment she'd need to put in Hope's top-knot: comb, spray bottle, knitting needle for parting the hair, and a baggie filled with tiny round black rubber bands. “Time to get back to work. Come hold her head, would you?”
Hope knew what was coming next. Lying on the table, she rested her muzzle in the palm of my hand while Aunt Peg unfastened the big, loose top-knots she wore for comfort at home, then banded the hair on her head into smaller, tighter ones that would look better in the ring. When they were in, Peg used her fingers to pull the front top-knot forward, creating a small bubble of hair over the puppy's eyes.
She leaned back to study her handiwork. “That will do. How would you like to go up to the ring and get my armband ?”
Going to a dog show with Aunt Peg was somewhat akin to signing up to herd cattle on your vacation. It usually turned out to be more work than play.
“Sure. Is there time for me to stop by and see Mark?”
“Just about.” Aunt Peg checked her watch. “I'll be spraying up. Don't dawdle.”
Spraying up referred to putting hair spray in the hair on the Poodle's head and back of the neck in order to make it stand up and look as plush and full as possible. Another Poodle technique that sounded a great deal easier in theory than it turned out to be in practice.
At the Poodle ring, I gave Hope's name and picked up Aunt Peg's numbered armband. Then I skirted back through the grooming area. Mark's set-up was just where he'd said it would be. There were two big wire crates; one with a black Doberman Pinscher asleep inside. The other had a platform on top with a second Doberman lying on it.
Penny was holding a bowl of water up to the dog on the crate. She was dressed in a loose jumper that did nothing to flatter her slender frame, and her short hair looked as though it had been pushed into place with her fingers. Mark saw me coming and waved.
“I checked with Peg,” I said as I drew near.
“Peg who?” Penny asked, looking at me suspiciously.
“Honey, you remember Melanie, don't ycu? She's about to become a new member of Belle Haven.”
Mark was stretching my credentials, but it didn't seem to matter. Penny was still staring as though she couldn't quite place me. I turned to her husband.
“Peg says Lydia asked her to act as corresponding secretary until the club can elect a replacement. She's already taken care of sending flowers.”
“Good. I'm glad to hear it.”
“Who are we sending flowers to?” Penny set down the water bowl, and came to join us. She ended up standing a good foot closer to me than I thought was necessary. I could smell the liquor on her breath.
“Monica Freedman,” I said, angling myself back. “The flowers are for her funeral.”
“Oh, yes.” Penny frowned. “Of course.”
One thing I'd learned about dog people, the way to their hearts was through their pets. I stepped around Penny and approached the Doberman on the crate. “May I?”
“Certainly,” said Mark. “Ben loves the attention.”
I held out my hand and was politely sniffed. I ran my fingers down the Doberman's long, smooth neck, feeling solid muscle beneath. Talk about low body fat.
“He's beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Penny moved to stand beside me, cradling the dog's head in her arms. “You're just a big baby, aren't you?” She cooed the words an inch from his nose, but Ben didn't seem to mind. His stumpy tail was wagging like mad.
“You should have brought Davey with you,” Mark said, gazing at his wife. “Penny loves children.”
“Davey?” asked Penny.
“My son. He's five.”
“And very sure of his opinions,” said Mark. “They're wonderful at that age.”
“They're wonderful at any age,” said Penny.
It didn't take a genius to figure out that she wasn't a mother.
“I was wondering if I could ask you both something. The other night after the meeting, where were you when Monica's Beagles got loose?”
“I was just coming out of the restaurant,” said Mark. “One of them came flying by. I heard everybody yelling and grabbed him.”
“The two of you were together?”
“No, not then.” Penny left the dog, picked up a catalogue that was lying on a chair and consulted the judging schedule.
“I'd left my scarf,” Mark explained. “And I had to go back to get it. Penny went on ahead. She was going to get the car and drive around to meet me at the entrance.”
“Except I didn't,” said Penny. “I heard all the commotion and I was trying to figure out what was going on.”
If she'd had as much to drink that night as she had today, it was no wonder she was baffled, I thought snidely.
“Then the waitress found my scarf and came running out after me,” said Mark. “So I didn't have to go back upstairs after all. When I came out, there was the Beagle running like the devil and baying his little heart out.”
“So neither of you was near Monica's van?”
Mark and Penny both shook their heads.
“Don't worry,” said Mark. “The police were there. They'll figure out who did it.”
Except that the police had arrived after the fact. Fourteen of us had been there at the moment the murder occurred. Just like Aunt Peg said, it all came down to means, motive, and opportunity. Only one of us had had all three.
By the time I got back to Aunt Peg, she had Hope ready to go. I rolled the rubber band up her arm and slipped the armband underneath. Davey helped us clear a path through the spectators, so that the puppy's carefully coifed hairdo arrived at the ring intact.
Hope won the Puppy class. As she was ten months old and in full bloom I thought she might have a shot at the points. Evidently Aunt Peg did, too. She did everything she could think of to draw the judge's attention her puppy's way, but Winners Bitch went to the white who had won the Open class, handled by a pro named Barry Turk.
When it comes to the competition at dog shows, Aunt Peg is usually pretty fair. But she doesn't like being beaten by a Poodle that she doesn't think is as good as the one she brought. She came out of the ring looking decidedly huffy and walked in silence back to the set-up.
She hopped Hope back up on the grooming table and began fishing around in her tack box. She'd spent more than an hour scissoring, putting in a topknot, and spraying up. Now a further chunk of time would be needed to undo everything she'd put together.
Davey looked at Aunt Peg, getting out brushes and combs. Then he looked at me. He seemed to be weighing the chances that one of us might come up with something exciting for him to do. Clearly, it didn't look good.
“Now it's lunch time,” he said.
“You just had doughnuts.”
“That was
hours
ago.”
hours
ago.”
One, maybe.
“I'm hungry again,” said Davey.
I thought teenagers were supposed to be the ones who ate everything in sight. Davey was only five. I hated to think what life was going to be like when he worked his way up to full capacity consumption.
“Good idea,” said Aunt Peg, putting down her brush. She gave Hope a pat on the head and left her lying on the table. “I could use a break. Let's go eat.”
Unless I was mistaken, she'd been munching on doughnuts, too. As for me, I'd had low-fat cereal and skim milk for breakfast. Just in case you were wondering.
“Will Hope be all right on the table?” I asked.
“Fine. She's table trained. Nearly all Poodles are.”
The jibe struck home as Aunt Peg had known it would. Poodles spend a lot of time at the shows being groomed on their tables, and they are never tied in place as many of the other breeds are. Hope seemed to understand the need to stay put without even being told. I was still working on instilling the same level of obedience in Faith.
“Lunch it is,” I said, happy to change the subject.
As at many dog shows, our culinary choices were limited: hot dog, hamburger, meatball sub. Davey angled for a meatball sub and ended up with a hamburger. Aunt Peg and I opted for the same. The first bite tasted like hot and greasy cardboard. Little ketchup packets provided the flavor we'd been missing, and we headed back to the set-up as we ate. No wonder so few of the truly great chefs are American.
On the way, we passed the ring where Yorkshire Terriers were being judged. Aunt Peg paused, and Davey and I stopped with her. The little blue and tan dogs were adorable, with tiny bows on top of their heads and hair so long it trailed on the ground. Even so, if Aunt Peg had an interest in Yorkies, this was the first I'd heard of it.
“What are we looking at?” I asked, when a minute went by and she still hadn't moved on.
“Louis.”
I scanned the faces of the handlers quickly. “Where?”
She lowered her voice, proper ringside etiquette. “He's judging.”
So he was. I moved in closer so that I could whisper too. “How can he be judging already? I thought you said he just applied for his license.”
“It must be a sweeps.” She checked the schedule posted by the gate and nodded. “Licensed judges are required for the breed competition where points are awarded. But Yorkies are having a specialty today, so there's also a sweepstakes, which is a fun competition for young dogs. The specialty club has some leeway on who judges and it's not unusual for a prominent breeder to be asked.”
I glanced back in the ring. Louis LaPlante looked much the same as he had at the Belle Haven meetings: tweed jacket, creased pants, beard neatly trimmed. A small Yorkie was trotting away from him on the diagonal mat, and he studied the puppy's movement with great gravity of expression.
“Is Louis a very prominent breeder?”
“I should say so. He and Sharon have been in Yorkies for at least twenty years. Together, they've bred more than forty champions.”
That was a big achievement. I looked around, scanning the ringside. Sharon was sitting near the gate in a canvas folding chair with the words “LouShar Yorkies” stenciled across the back. Like many exhibitors, the LaPlantes had apparently created a kennel name by combining syllables from their own names. As Louis arranged the puppies in the order he wanted them and awarded the ribbons, his wife nodded in approval.
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