A Pedigree to Die For (27 page)
Twenty-eight
I took Aunt Peg at her word and gave her overnight to think. But she didn't call on Friday morning or the rest of the day either. It was Davey's last day of camp and all the parents were invited to the closing festivities which included several skits, an arts-and-crafts display, and a parent-child kickball game.
Emily Grace pulled me aside at the end and handed me an envelope containing a fifty-dollar bonus. “Thanks for everything,” she said.
“Thank you.” I tucked the envelope away. “I can't believe the summer's just about over. School starts in two weeks.”
“Real school.” Emily reached down and tweaked the brim of Davey's baseball cap. “You're going to be in kindergarten. Wow!”
“I'm going to ride the bus,” Davey told her proudly. “It's going to stop right on our block.”
“We'll miss you at Graceland.” Emily looked up suddenly. “Just because he's graduated, let's not lose touch, okay?”
“Okay.” I grinned. “We'll do lunch.”
“You're on,” she said, and we hugged to seal the deal.
I probably forgot to mention that Sam had left a message on my answering machine at the beginning of the week. That's because I was trying not to think about it. I hadn't returned his call, though I'd started to several times. The problem was, I couldn't quite think of what I was going to say. So like a coward, I said nothing.
Aunt Peg did call Saturday morning, but it wasn't to offer any solutions. Instead she said she was on her way to a dog show in Danbury. “I'm still hoping for a brainstorm. But in the meantime I've got a puppy entered and ready to go. Why don't you and Davey meet me there?”
The idea had merit. Not the least of which was the possibility that I might run into Sam at the show. The meeting would be casual and uncontrived. And Sam would start right off by telling me that the blonde was really his sister . . .
Right. And maybe Jack Berglund would bring Beau along and deliver him into Aunt Peg's outstretched hands. Nevertheless the schedule wasn't exactly full and the forecast promised a beautiful, sunny day. The Volvo performed like a champ, and we arrived at the show ground an hour before the start of the Poodle judging.
The first thing I saw, upon checking the catalogue, was that Sam wasn't even entered. So much for Plan A. Plan B consisted of simply enjoying the day with my son. And that was nice, too. Without a mission to accomplish, we approached the show as spectators, wandering wherever Davey's whims took us.
Back in the grooming tent, voices were subdued. Predictably, the conversation centered around Randall Tarnower's murder, and the talk was rife with speculation. Kim was there to show several of Randy's dogs, and it was clear she relished the attention she was receiving.
The Poodle judging came and went with little fanfare. The entry wasn't large. Aunt Peg won the puppy bitch class with Lulu, and I could sense her displeasure when Jack Berglund won the Open class and they went head to head for Winners Bitch. Lulu was probably the better Poodle, but the Shalimar bitch had her beaten on coat, maturity, and training. The judge took no time at all in making his decision. Jack won the points, and Peg's puppy was reserve. No champions had been entered; the Winners Bitch was awarded Best of Variety, too.
After the Poodles were finished, the Chow Chow judging began. Davey was delighted by the bushy orange dogs, and we lingered for a bit to watch. Unfortunately the routine wasn't nearly so interesting without the added spice of caring about the outcome, and we soon strolled on to see what the other rings held.
First Scotties, then Basset Hounds caught Davey's eye. When we came to the Chinese Crested ring, however, I was the one who stopped and stared. The toy dogs were small and entirely bald, except for a profuse tuft of fluffy hair that sprouted from the top of their heads.
“Look, Mommy,” said Davey, giggling. “Cartoon dogs.”
The judge was making his selection for Best of Breed from a large group of champions, which he sorted through with deft authority. He looked familiar, and after a moment, I figured out why. He was Aunt Peg's friend, Carl Holden.
Davey was enthralled, so we watched until the end. Carl handled his ring like a master, and the funny, playful Chinese Cresteds drew a large gallery of spectators. Among them, I saw to my surprise, was the blond woman I'd met at Sam Driver's house. I stared for a moment, but she was intent on the drama being played out in the ring and didn't look back.
At least now I knew why she'd seemed familiar. Though she didn't have Poodles, she must have exhibited another breed, for I was sure I'd seen her at the shows.
Carl made his selection for Best Of Breed. Pictures were taken, and then the ring was opened up so the group judging could begin. All of the breeds recognized by the American Kennel Club are divided by seven groups, according to common heritage or function. Standard and Miniature Poodles are in the Non-Sporting group. Toy Poodles are judged with the Toy Group. Each Best of Breed winner is eligible to compete in its group. The seven group winners then go on to vie for the title of Best In Show.
The Toy Group was scheduled first, and once again Carl was judging. More than a dozen Toy breeds filed in and took their places. Even to my admittedly untrained eye, there were several outstanding specimens in the ring, and I was pleased when my favorites, the Shih Tzu, the Chihuahua, and the Toy Poodle all made the cut.
In the end, however, the group was won by a rather lackluster Maltese. I wasn't the only one who was disappointed. The knowledgeable spectators ringside showed their displeasure by giving the winner no applause at all. Carl handed out the ribbons and quickly left the ring. Wondering, I watched him go. Then Davey reached over and tugged on my hand, and the thought that had been forming was lost.
“Hey, Sport,” I said, “you've been very patient. I think you deserve a treat.”
I had ice cream in mind, but Davey's eyes immediately lit up. “Wow,” he said. “Anything I want?”
I may be a pushover, but I'm not that dumb. “Anything within reason,” I qualified.
“Come on.” Davey grabbed my hand. “Let's go.”
“Where are we going?” I asked as we skirted around the group ring and cut across the field.
“To the parking lot. You said I could do anything I want. I want to see the big rigs.”
Big rigs. I had to smile. He had a book by that name at home. It was filled with construction vehicles and heavy machinery. I doubted that the trailers and motor homes he'd find at the dog show were big enough to qualify, but if he was happy, I supposed I could humor him. We could always go for ice cream later.
Most four-year-olds have short attention spans, and Davey is no exceptionâunless cars and trucks are involved. Then he's happy to look for hours. We strolled up the first row of vans, trailers, and motor homes, then back across the second. They were long rows; my own attention was wandering when Davey ran on ahead.
The object of his fascination was a shiny silver behemoth of a motor home. Before I could catch up, he bounded up the steps and tried the door. To my surprise, it opened easily.
“I like this one. Let's go inside.”
“Davey, wait!” As I snatched him off the step and swung him to the ground, I heard dogs barking within, but no irate human appeared to ask what we were doing.
“Honey, we can't go in there. It belongs to someone. It's like their house.”
“Oh.” Only momentarily deterred, Davey tried the next door. It, too, was unlocked. Obviously Aunt Peg wasn't the only one who relied on her dogs for security.
“Come on,” I said, taking a firm grip of Davey's hand. “I think we've seen enough big rigs for one day.”
We were almost back to the show when a familiar blue and white motor home with a striped awning caught my eye. Neatly lettered on the cab were the words, “Shalimar Kennels.”
I stopped. I had to. Davey was eager to move on, and I probably should have let him lead me away. But if God wanted to drop a golden opportunity like that into my lap, who was I to pass it by?
I strolled over and tapped casually on the door. Nobody answered. My hand was shaking as I reached for the handle, but I grasped it firmly and flipped the latch. Like the others we'd seen, the door was unlocked.
“Jack?” I called, poking my head inside. “Are you home?”
Apparently not. My heart was beating so fast I was surprised I could still think clearly. Group judging was going on. The Shalimar bitch had won the variety and qualified for the Non-Sporting group. That had to be where Jack had gone.
The choice was now or never. I opted for now.
“Come on, Davey,” I said, sprinting toward the grooming tent. “Quick. I'll race you.”
That did the trick, and we reached Aunt Peg in no time. I hopped Davey up onto the top of her crate. “What group is in?”
Aunt Peg looked up from wrapping Lulu's ears. “Non-Sporting.”
“How long have they been judging?”
“I think it just started. The judge is going over the Dalmatian.”
Davey attended to, I turned to have a look. Jack Berglund was standing second in line. He couldn't leave the ring until the judging was over. That gave me at least fifteen minutes.
“Will you watch Davey?”
“Where are you going?”
“I'll tell you later. Just don't let him out of your sight, okay?”
I didn't wait to hear her reply because I was already running back in the other direction. I've never been one for gratuitous bravery, but what choice did I have? I'd found Beau only to discover that I needed proof to get him back. If Jack Berglund's motor home might offer up anything in the way of evidence, I was going to find it.
I looked both ways, then opened the door and slipped inside. I was ready for anything; except, as it turned out, the actual reality.
Inside, the motor home was perfectly ordinary in every way. A row of empty crates lined one wall and a narrow bed and a built-in set of drawers filled the other. The whole space was uncommonly neat; there wasn't a leash or brush out of place. Obviously Jack wasn't the sort of man who left anything, much less incriminating evidence, lying around.
I opened the drawers in turn and found only a selection of grooming supplies and several changes of clothing. The countertops were mostly empty; the cupboards above them held some canned food and a bag of dry kibble. Suddenly my wonderful opportunity wasn't looking nearly so opportune.
On one end of the counter, several books were stacked in a tidy pile. I'd passed them by the first time, but now I went back for a closer look. That's when I discovered that the one on the bottom wasn't a book at all, but rather a photo album. I held it up to the small bit of light that filtered in through the windows and flipped through the pages.
Not surprisingly it held show pictures, no different than any of the dozens I'd seen before. Jack had written the name of each Poodle across the top of his picture. I was skimming through them quickly when I saw the name Shalimar Solitaire.
Ranger's dam. That alone was enough to make me pause; but a closer look revealed nothing of consequence. Solitaire was a small, nondescript brown bitch, presumably shown winning her first and only points shortly before her death. It was just a show picture, the same as any other.
I heard the quiet click behind me, but in the time the sound took to register it was already too late. I dropped the album onto the counter, but there wasn't time to close it. Then Jack was there in the doorway, his voice loud and angry. “What the hell do you think you're doing in here?” he demanded.
Good question.
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