Best in Show (13 page)

“Just fine.” Her eyes darted back and forth between me and the handler. I knew she was wondering how much I'd heard; I wondered why it mattered. She wasn't the one who'd been doing something wrong.

“You go on back and take over from Charlotte,” she said. “I'll be along in a minute.”

“I'd rather wait.” I glared at Harry for good measure.

Edith Jean patted the hand I'd placed on her arm. “There's no need for that.”

“I think there is.”

“Don't mind me,” said Harry. “You two may have time to stand around chatting, but I have things to do.”

“What a creep,” I said as he walked away.

Edith Jean sighed. “You can sure say that again.”

E
dith Jean and I walked out to the raffle table together. “You're sure you're okay?” I asked.

She snorted contemptuously. “Don't you worry about me. I'm a tough old bird. Anyway, Harry Gandolf sent himself on a fool's errand, coming after me like that. It doesn't matter if he gets me all riled up, I'm not the one showing the dog. As long as Roger stays calm and gets the job done right, everything will be just fine.”

“Good luck,” I said. “I'll be rooting for Bubba.”

Edith Jean gave me a jaunty thumbs-up and disappeared into the crowd. I went to retrieve the ticket basket from Charlotte and thank her for watching out for us.

“Don't mention it,” she said. “I was happy to help out. Besides, with all these trophies on display, I'm stuck here anyway. I don't dare take a single step away.” She had a point. The value of the silverware spread out on Charlotte's table, some of it decades old, dwarfed what the raffle had to offer.

“Edith Jean is on her way to the ring,” I said. “Her puppy is in the next class.”

Charlotte nodded. “I know both sisters were all excited about Bubba's chances. For Edith Jean's sake, it would be nice to see him pull off the win.”

Something in her tone nagged at me. “But?”

She looked uncomfortable. There was a long pause before she spoke. “Bubba's a cute puppy, and he certainly had a lot of buzz going for him in the spring. But just between you and me, he's no world-beater. If he does go up—and he very well might—let's just say that sentiment will have played a part in the judge's decision.”

“You really think Mr. Mancini might be influenced by Betty Jean's death?”

“Under the circumstances, it would be hard for him not to be. Look at the setup: we have two older women who've been involved in the breed for years. This is the first time they've ever had a Poodle of this caliber, and one of the sisters dies unexpectedly on the eve of the puppy's PCA debut. I'm sure the spectators will be on Bubba's side, and frankly I'd be surprised if the judge didn't give him a little extra credit too.

“I know Edith Jean thinks very highly of that puppy and why shouldn't she? We all love our own dogs. But three days ago, an objective observer probably would have told you that Bubba didn't stand a chance much beyond maybe taking his own class. Now he's one of the favorites.”

I'd been curious to watch Bubba's class before; now I couldn't wait for his appearance in the ring. Walking back to the raffle table, I thought about Charlotte's assessment of the situation. Like most PCA committee heads, Charlotte's credentials were impeccable. She was both a breeder and a judge; in Poodle circles, her opinion mattered. And if she thought that Betty Jean's murder had advanced Bubba's cause, she probably knew what she was talking about.

By the time the first Toy class had ended, I'd eaten the box lunch that Edith Jean had left for me, modeled a Poodle necklace for a woman who wanted to see what it looked like on an actual neck, searched in vain for a signature on the Poodle print, and sold a respectable amount of tickets. So far, it was just another afternoon at the office. But when Bubba's class was called into the ring, I sat up and began to pay attention. I hauled my catalog out from beneath the table and opened it up to the appropriate page.

There were seventeen puppy dogs entered in Bubba's class. The high number on Roger's armband placed the two of them near the end of the line. Judges are expected to judge at a pace of roughly twenty-five dogs an hour, and Mr. Mancini was known as someone who liked to move right along. Even so, it wouldn't be Bubba's turn to be examined for at least twenty minutes.

Thumbing ahead several pages, I found Harry's dog, Ro-Mac's The Vindicator, listed in the entries for the Open Class. Though Vic was close to the same age as Bubba, Harry had chosen to enter his puppy in a more competitive class, one that was open to Poodles of all ages. Choosing to put a puppy there was a handler's way of saying to the judge:
Look at my dog. He may still be in puppy trim, but he ready to take on the older dogs. Don't make the mistake of thinking that he's just another youngster.

The strategy was a sound one. More often than not, it had been known to succeed.

Reading Vic's listing in the catalog, I noticed something I hadn't realized before. Harry Gandolf wasn't just the puppy's handler, he was also its owner. I wondered if that had anything to do with why he was so determined to see his Toy Poodle go up. Being awarded the purple ribbon at PCA conferred an enormous amount of prestige upon the recipient, but there wasn't any financial gain attached to the win. I'd just heard Harry offer Edith Jean seven hundred dollars to pull her puppy from the competition. It's always about the money, he'd said, but in this case, I'd have been hard-pressed to figure out how.

Fortunately, there was a lull in the activity at the raffle table during Bubba's class. I may have been partially responsible for that since I'd spent much of the time ignoring my duties. Instead, I stood on a chair and gazed over the heads of the spectators between me and the ring. I did draw a few stares, but most were sympathetic. At PCA, nobody wants to miss out on the action when a Poodle they care about is being shown.

Generally speaking, silver Poodles are prized for their gorgeous color, but not necessarily for their showmanship. Obviously no one had told Bubba that. The little Poodle was clearly enjoying his moment in the spotlight.

Not having had my hands on Bubba, I had no idea how well built the puppy was, but he certainly knew how to play to the crowd. In the world of Poodles, black and white are the most common colors. The remaining colors—browns, blues, apricots, and silvers—find their way to the show ring much more rarely. In the entire Toy entry, Bubba was one of only a handful of silvers. In his class, he was a standout.

I'd never seen Roger Carew handle a dog before, and now I was impressed. He presented the Toy with flair and finesse. He also possessed that rare skill that the best professional handlers hone to a fine art: the ability to blend into the background, to show off a dog with such subtlety that it looks as though the dog is presenting himself.

Nobody was surprised when Bubba made the cut after his individual examination. Good as that was, however, it was only the first baby step in the long road to success that Edith Jean hoped to see her puppy travel. Mr. Mancini quickly finished going over the rest of his class, dismissed the ones he wasn't interested in, and settled down to have another good look at the eight he'd kept in the ring.

Due to his number, once again Bubba was positioned at the end of the line. Another handler might have been content to bide his time and wait to be noticed. Not Roger. The other seven exhibitors were on their knees in the grass behind their small charges, stacking them in anticipation of the judge's next pass. Roger was on his feet.

Standing slightly in front and off to the side of Bubba, baiting the puppy with a piece of liver, he accomplished two things. One, he showed the judge that he didn't have to prop his puppy up with his hands to make it look good. And two, by angling his body away, he forced Mr. Mancini to step out of his path, walk around, and take a deliberate look at the puppy

Mr. Mancini smiled slightly as he acquiesced. Every person in the ring, and most of those standing ringside, knew how the game was played. Besides, Bubba was doing his part as well. Standing like a statue at the end of his slender show lead, he had his head and tail bang up, his tiny feet planted solidly on the ground, and a mischievous sparkle in his eye.

He was worth a special look.

Bubba cocked his head and gazed at the judge as he approached. The Toy Poodle's expression was charming, the contrast between his silver skin and deep black eyes and nose, irresistible. His tail whipped back and forth in greeting, drawing a burst of appreciative laughter from ringside.

Leo Mancini had a lot of Poodles to judge that afternoon. He wasn't about to waste anyone's time. With a flick of his finger, he pulled Bubba out of line and sent him to the other side of the ring. Four more picks followed, until his top five choices had been arranged in the correct order. The remaining three filled in at the end.

There'd been a smattering of applause when Bubba was placed at the head of the new line. When the judge raised his hands, telling the handlers to rise to their feet and gait around the ring for the last time, the applause swelled. Spectators sitting by the Standard Poodle ring next door, looked over to see what was happening.

Still standing on my chair, and for once in my life head and shoulders above everyone in the crowd, I searched the throngs for Edith Jean. I knew she was tucked away out there somewhere. As the line began to move with Bubba dancing exuberantly in first place, I found her. The older woman was flushed with excitement. She held up one hand to cover her mouth, the other wiped a tear from her eye.

Then Mr. Mancini pointed, officially awarding the blue ribbon to the little silver Toy, and brought the house down.

After that, it was hard to settle down and go back to work. It would be at least a couple of hours before Bubba would return to the ring to compete for Winners Dog. In the interim, Mr. Mancini had five more classes to judge: 12 to 18 Months Dogs, Novice, American-Bred, Bred by Exhibitor, and of course, Open, where Harry's puppy, The Vindicator, would be in competition.

In theory, any one of those intervening classes could contribute the day's eventual winner. Everyone who'd witnessed Bubba's performance, however, knew they'd seen a dog who was going to be a contender. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

An hour later, Bertie wandered by. “This show rocks,” she said. “How come you never made me come sooner?”

“You were always busy.”

“You might have insisted.”

“You weren't that interested in Poodles.”

“There was that,” Bertie admitted. She pulled out a chair and sat for a minute. “I guess it only goes to show how wrong a person can be. Maybe I'll specialize in Toys. Did you see that silver puppy? Wasn't he the cutest thing?”

“Absolutely. That was Edith Jean's puppy, Bubba. Remember, you saw him the other night in the grooming room?”

“I guess.” She gave her profession a plug. “He looks different with a handler.”

Sad to say, that was true of almost every show dog.

“I suppose I need to buy some raffle tickets.” Bertie perused the table with the practiced eye of someone who'd been to many specialties. “Any chance I might win something that doesn't have a Poodle silk-screened, appliquéd, or embroidered on it?”

“There's a money tree,” I said. “But to get that, you have to have one of the first tickets pulled. It goes pretty fast.”

“How about if I know the person drawing the tickets, does that help?”

“Not much. Ask Sam. Last year he went home with Poodle pot holders.”

Good sport that she is, Bertie got out her wallet anyway.

Next person to stop by was Aunt Peg. “Why aren't you stuck like Velcro to the Standard ring?” I asked.

“Mr. Lamb took a bathroom break. I thought I'd come over and congratulate Edith Jean.”

“She hasn't won yet,” I pointed out.

Aunt Peg looked faintly outraged. “Bubba won his class. At a show of this caliber, that is an enormous honor.”

It wasn't as if I needed to be reminded of that. But Edith Jean had made it clear that she had bigger honors in her sights.

“Do you want to hear something interesting?” I asked. “Harry Gandolf offered Edith Jean a whole lot of money to pull that puppy from the competition.” I related the conversation I'd overheard.

“How very odd,” Peg said at the end. “Why on earth do you suppose Harry would do something like that?”

“Because he was afraid Bubba would beat his Toy dog, obviously.”

“Even so. There are sixty-five Toy dogs in contention today. Any one of them might beat Harry's puppy. All it takes is one.”

“Yes, but none of the others has as good a chance as Bubba does. Anyway, if you still want to find Edith Jean, try looking in the grooming area. She left me in charge here. I'm not expecting her back all afternoon.”

“I started in the grooming area,” said Aunt Peg. “Roger's setup is being mobbed by well-wishers, but Edith Jean wasn't among them. Not surprising when you consider that Roger wouldn't want her there distracting the puppy when he has to go back in the ring later.”

The announcer called Standard Poodle Open Dogs to the ring and Aunt Peg vanished. Several more Toy classes were judged. I left Charlotte watching the raffle table briefly and ran outside to give Eve another walk. Thank goodness my Poodle had an understanding nature.

When I returned, Winners Dog was being judged in Standards. Due to the importance of the award, the Toy ring had shut down for the duration. Every spectator in the arena was giving the Standards their full attention.

Tommy Lamb was a judge who thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle of showing. Obviously he intended to give his audience a class to remember. There were seven Standard Poodles in contention, one to represent each of the earlier classes, and he made each of them feel like a winner.

Factions quickly sprang up among the audience. Applause accompanied the Poodles' every move. And through it all, Mr. Lamb kept his own counsel, giving no hint of whom he favored until the end when he pointed, finally, at a sparkling white dog from the Bred-by-Exhibitor class.

The crowd, who'd been holding their breath, all exhaled at once. Thunderous applause followed. The owner-handler wept. Mr. Lamb gallantly offered her his hand-kerchief.