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Authors: Laurien Berenson

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BOOK: A Pedigree to Die For
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“And in that time,” I said to Jack, “Holden spoke with you and learned of the deal you were about to transact. He followed you when you went to Max's kennel that night.”
I was guessing now, but it all made sense. “He waited outside, probably taping what transpired. When you left, he went in and confronted Max with evidence of his own wrongdoing in an attempt to blackmail him into stonewalling the A.K.C. They must have had an argument—probably a violent argument—because whatever happened next was enough to precipitate Max's fatal heart attack.”
“Geez,” Officer Mosconi muttered under his breath. “You dog people are crazy.” Even Officer Denny had stopped taking notes and was simply sitting there listening. Disputes with the American Kennel Club were beyond their jurisdiction.
“The A.K.C. never received the information they'd hoped for,” said Sam. “The next thing they heard, Max Turnbull was dead.”
I thought about all the people I'd met at the shows over the last few months, and of one in particular, who was relatively new to the game but who had met with immediate success. “If Carl Holden was taking bribes, then I bet I know one of the people who was offering. Randall Tarnower.”
Sam nodded. “With all that talent it would have been his turn soon enough anyway. But apparently Randy didn't want to pay his dues. The A.K.C. was investigating him as well. They'd promised him leniency if he'd deliver Holden, and that's exactly what he was about to do.”
“Except that he never got the chance.”
“Carl Holden had a very busy summer,” said Sam. “And for a Texan, he spent an awful lot of time on the East Coast. I went back through the premium lists from May through August. Every time something happened, he was in the area.
“The week Max died, Holden was judging near Hartford. He finished an assignment in southern Massachusetts the day before Peg's house was broken into. And according to the expense report he submitted to the Shoreline Kennel Club, he flew into Newark Airport the Friday morning that Randy was killed, although he wasn't due at their hotel until dinnertime.”
“Randy's kennel was only forty miles from Newark.”
“Carl Holden had been there before,” said Sam. “Apparently he knew that, too.”
As we'd moved from dog business to murder, the policemen began to get interested again. “That's it,” said Officer Denny. “You're all coming back to the station. We're going to need to get statements from everybody.”
Aunt Peg was the last to stand. In order to get up, she had to nudge Beau from her lap. It was obvious she did so with great reluctance.
The bill of sale was lying on the edge of Jack's desk. I'd been to enough Disney movies to know that this wasn't how things were supposed to end. We'd found the dog; now it was time for the joyous homecoming.
Except that what we'd also found was that Aunt Peg didn't own Beau anymore.
Then she turned and faced Jack Berglund squarely. With Aunt Peg's flare for rising to the occasion, I don't know how I ever could have doubted her.
“How much?” she demanded.
“Pardon me?”
“He's no good to you anymore, we've already settled that. If I give you back what you paid, I assume that will be sufficient?”
Berglund sighed unhappily. “The dog's no good to anyone now.”
“I think Beau and I would disagree,” said Peg. She was already pulling out her checkbook.
 
 
All in all, I was glad that summer was over. Davey started kindergarten in the fall, and it seemed like things might finally begin to get back to normal.
The police arrested Carl Holden about the same time the A.K.C. concluded its investigation and suspended him for life. Jack Berglund, who was cited for falsifying a litter registration, was barred from participating in all A.K.C. activities for a period of seven years. Fortunately there was no way to prove what Max did or didn't know when he sold Beau to Jack, and they let the matter drop.
Beau sleeps on Aunt Peg's bed at night now. She's training him to compete in obedience and says there are plenty of useful things a Poodle can do besides siring puppies.
At the end of the month, Aunt Rose was married in a quiet ceremony in the chapel at the Convent of Divine Mercy. Aunt Peg attended. She didn't bring a gift, but I did see her slip Rose an envelope when she thought no one was looking. Frank brought some sort of a huge ceramic soup tureen that nobody in his right mind would ever use; but he'd just gotten a job and was feeling pretty high on himself, so we all made a big fuss over it.
Sam called a few days after that and invited Davey to a picnic on the beach. He mentioned that Davey could bring a friend. My son thought that meant he should ask Joey Brickman, but I nixed that idea myself. I've always been a sucker for a good picnic.
If you enjoyed
A PEDIGREE TO DIE FOR
then turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Laurien Berenson's second Melanie Travis mystery
UNDERDOG
now on sale wherever
paperback mysteries are sold!
One
Bringing a new puppy into the family is not unlike having a new baby. Both cry at night when you wish they were sleeping. Both benefit from being kept on a regular schedule; and both immediately set about demonstrating how little you really know about the job of parenting.
My son Davey just turned five, so he's had plenty of time to acquaint me with the things he thinks I should know. Our new Standard Poodle puppy, Faith, is six months old. One theory has it that the first year of a dog's life is equal to fourteen human years. Each year thereafter is worth seven. That makes Faith and Davey approximately the same age so I wasn't surprised when they immediately became best friends.
At six months, puppies are both hopelessly endearing and full of mischief. In the case of Standard Poodle puppies, they're also smart as a whip. Davey's already got Faith carrying his backpack, sleeping on his bed, and eating the broccoli he slips her under the table.
I should protest, but my son has wanted a pet for a long time. I don't imagine a little over indulgence will harm either of them and I'm a single parent, so it's my call. We had a frog briefly last summer but Davey took it outside to play and lost it in the grass. We're trying hard to take better care of the puppy.
If we don't, we'll have my Aunt Peg to answer to and Margaret Turnbull is not a woman to be trifled with. She's nearing sixty, but she could probably out wrestle a person half her age. I know she could out talk one. She wears her gray hair scraped back off her face and has sharp, dark brown eyes that notice everything. She was married to my Uncle Max for more than thirty years until his death last spring. She is also Faith's breeder, and in the dog show world that counts for a lot.
Aunt Peg can be blunt to the point of pain, which is why she'd be the first person to tell you that her Cedar Crest Standard Poodles are among the finest in the country. Rank has its perogatives and Aunt Peg doesn't sell her puppies to just anybody. Rather, a prospective buyer must deserve the privilege of owning a Cedar Crest dog.
Or, as happened in my case, you can earn it.
Of course nothing is ever as simple as it seems and Faith came with strings, as do most of Aunt Peg's projects. She'd had a litter of puppies in the spring—all black, the only color Cedar Crest Poodles come in—and had run on the three best bitches. That means she kept three girls until they grew up enough so that she could be certain of their potential for the show ring. When the puppies were five months old she did another evaluation and made her decisions. Hope she kept for herself. Charity went off to a show home in Colorado. And Faith came to live with Davey and me.
Aunt Peg showed up one Saturday morning in early October with the Poodle puppy sitting beside her on the front seat of her station wagon. She and I had spent a good deal of the previous summer together and I'd learned enough about showing dogs to realize what a Saturday visit meant: there weren't any good judges at the area shows, otherwise Aunt Peg would surely have been off exhibiting. Instead she sat down at the kitchen table, drank a cup of strong tea and introduced me to the joys of dog ownership.
I've seen Aunt Peg lose her car in a parking lot because she thinks all station wagons look alike, but when it comes to her puppies, she's very thorough. She plunked a ten page booklet down on the table—mine to keep, for easy reference—and worked her way from “b” for bathing all the way to “w” for periodic worming.
By the time she got to the part about how she fully expected Faith to finish her championship in the show ring, then spent an additional half hour outlining the extra time and effort that endeavor would involve, Davey had long since fallen in love. Aunt Peg and I sat in the kitchen and watched child and puppy scamper through the autumn leaves in my small backyard. We both knew it was already too late to say no.
Aunt Peg likes wringing unexpected commitments out of me and she seemed to take great delight in the way she'd managed this one. Even so, she doesn't make things easy. Before she left she pressed the number of a fence builder into my hands. Clearly there was to be no roaming about the neighborhood for any Cedar Crest Poodle.
On my teacher's salary it seemed much more likely that I'd be putting up econo-mesh myself than having someone else install post and rail, but I took the card and figured I'd think about it later. For the first few weeks I solved the problem by walking Faith on a leash. It was not a perfect solution.
Poodles are shown with a mane coat of long thick hair. In order to grow the coat required for competition, the hair must be protected at all times. Show Poodles are never supposed to wear collars except for training or when they are actually in the ring. Then again, I've had a lot of practice with making do in my life and I thought I was managing okay.
Peg apparently disagreed because one day in mid-October, Davey and I returned home from school to find our backyard fully enclosed.
“Wow!” cried Davey. “When did you do that?”
Like a deer entranced by oncoming headlights, I stared at four feet of post and rail
and
wire mesh that hadn't been there in the morning when we'd left. “I didn't.”
“Cool!” Davey still believes in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. No doubt the image of a fence fairy was taking shape in his mind.
As we climbed out of the car, he grabbed the key from my hand and ran ahead to let himself into the house. With his light hair and laughing blue eyes, my son is the image of my ex-husband. They also share approximately the same level of maturity. Then again I may not be the best judge of that as I haven't seen Bob in four years.
He and I had bought this house together, back when we were newly married and filled with dreams, before he'd decided he was far too young to be tied down by the demands of something as mundane as fatherhood. Putting all the money we could scrape together into a down payment had seemed like a great leap of faith at the time. But then again, so had marrying just out of college. Frankly, the house had turned out to be a better deal.
It's a really cute little cape in a sub-division in Stamford, Connecticut, that was built in the fifties. In step with those times, we got solid construction, an extra half bath and sidewalks on most of the streets. What we didn't get was land, or for that matter, privacy. There isn't much that goes on in Flower Estates that the neighbors don't have an opinion on. I was sure I'd be hearing from mine in due time.
I took one last look, then went inside to call Aunt Peg. The machine was on, taking messages. No doubt she'd guessed I was going to be steamed over her high-handed tactics and made herself scarce. It's hard to work up a good head of anger on a recording and I didn't even bother to try.
She couldn't hide forever, though, because two days later we had breed handling class together. Among the new things I'd discovered since Faith became part of the family is that there are all sorts of classes dog owners can take their pets to: everything from puppy kindergarten, to agility, to advanced obedience training. The purpose of our class is to teach a dog and its owner how to present themselves correctly in the conformation ring.
Class is held at the Round Hill Community House in back country Greenwich. Despite its auspicious address, the white clapboard building is durable rather than pretentious. Things in New England are built to last and the community center has been around for more than a century, serving as a gathering place for several generations of Fairfield County residents. On Thursday nights, it goes to the dogs.
The class is run by a husband and wife team named Rick and Jenny Maguire. Both are professional handlers. Their specialty is sporting dogs and according to Aunt Peg, they maintain a large and successful string serving a variety of clients. Luckily for me, they also like to teach beginners.
Judging by the cars in the parking lot, I'd gotten there before Aunt Peg. Davey was home with a sitter, so that was one less distraction to worry about. I parked just beyond the door, slipped on Faith's leash and collar, then exercised her on the grass for a few minutes before going in.
I had more practical things in mind, but the puppy sniffed, and scampered, and danced playfully at the end of her lead. All Poodles are clowns at heart and Faith was no exception. Of the three sizes of Poodles—Toy, Miniature, and Standard—Standards are the biggest. Faith wasn't going to be large for a bitch, but already her head was level with my hip.
Her ancestors had been bred to retrieve and I could see how that capability had been preserved through the generations. Her beautiful head had a long muzzle, strong underjaw and even white teeth. Faith's dark brown eyes were meltingly expressive, and her compact body was covered with a plush coat of dense, coal black hair.
Poodles are certainly among the most intelligent breeds; but what really sets them apart as companion dogs is their inate desire to please and an almost intuitive connection to their owners' needs. When I glanced at my watch, Faith knew it was time to head inside. Don't ask me how. I'm new to this dog owning business. I gathered the leash in my hand and followed along behind.
Before class starts, Rick gets the room ready by laying down the mats the dogs need for traction, while Jenny takes attendance and collects fees in the lobby. A long line had already formed and Faith and I took our place at the end.
I hadn't known Jenny Maguire long, but already I liked her a lot. She was bright, and funny, and had a wonderful hand on a dog. I was also intrigued by her viewpoint on the sport of dogs since I'm a real neophyte and she's been around forever. I'm not tall, but Jenny is truly petite. She has shiny, seal brown hair and an engaging, dimpled smile. She's the kind of girl I'd spent my high school years envying: the one born to be a cheerleader and have all the boys think she was cute.
She and Rick make a great pair. Even after seven years of marriage, his eyes still follow her around the room. His sturdy build compliments her slender frame and they often teach the class standing side by side, with one of his arms draped protectively over her shoulder. I should be so lucky.
Slowly the line inched forward. Faith was busy touching noses with the Pointer in front of us and eyeing the male Beagle to the rear. She's a natural born flirt and the more I thought about that, the more I realized that maybe I shouldn't be so upset about the fence.
When we'd almost made it up to the doorway, I started looking around for Jenny's dog, Ziggy. Despite her background in setters and spaniels, her pet is a black Miniature Poodle. That's probably one of the reasons why we hit it off so quickly. Jenny was delighted to find two Poodles signed up for her class along with the usual assortment of Cocker Spaniels and Bichon Frises. I told myself that that was why she'd singled me out for extra attention, and not because I'd looked as though I'd needed it so badly. She's also been generous with lots of Poodle specific advice about top-knots and coat care and feeding.
While things are getting organized, Ziggy's usually racing around the room. His favorite game involves tossing his stuffed rat high in the air and catching it on the fly. Even though he's seven—middle age for a dog—he hasn't lost a step. Once the class gets down to business, Jenny settles Ziggy on the stage, where he lies down to oversee the proceedings.
But when Faith and I finally reached the front of the line and I got a look at Jenny, I knew immediately that something was wrong. Her hair was pulled back into a careless ponytail; her eyes were red rimmed and downcast. When I held out a ten dollar bill, she made change without even looking up.
“Jenny?” I said. “Are you all right?”
Wordless, she shook her head.
“What's wrong?”
“Ziggy.”
The word was so soft, I could hardly hear it. I looked around the room but didn't see the little black Mini anywhere. “Where is he?”
“He's gone.”
“Gone where?”
“He's dead.”
“Dead?
” As if repeating the terrible news would help. “What happened?”
“It was all my fault.” She bit down hard on her lower lip. “He's always so good. You've seen him. He would never run away.”
“Of course not.” I tangled my fingers in Faith's topknot, looking for comfort, or maybe just the reassurance that she was all right. Sensing I was unhappy, the puppy pressed against my legs. She tipped her muzzle upward and licked the inside of my wrist with her tongue.
“I was out in the kennel and he was back at the house. I guess the front door wasn't latched securely because it must have blown open. Ziggy got out and he was run over on the road out front.”
“Oh Jenny, I'm so sorry.” The words were hopelessly inadequate, but I couldn't think what else to say. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No. I'm dealing with it.”
I stepped out of line and the Beagle man took my place. He paid for the class and moved on. Two other students followed, then we were alone.
“Where are you and Rick showing this weekend?” I asked.

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