Authors: Laurien Berenson

Dog Eat Dog (17 page)

BOOK: Dog Eat Dog

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“We watched you show your puppy, dear,” said Darla. “You did a very nice job.”

“Thank you.”

“Yesterday you had some questions for us,” said Paul. “But overnight I got to thinking, and I was wondering if I might ask something of you.”

“Of course.” I smoothed Faith's plastic wrap and wound it around the long hair on her ear.

“How did you know that Monica had sent a note enclosed in our newsletter? I hadn't mentioned that to anyone.”

“From what I've been able to determine, Monica sent notes to a number of the Belle Haven Club members.”

“She did?” Paul sounded shocked.

“Yes. At least three that I know about. I suspect there were probably more.”

“Then we weren't the only ones ...”

“Who had something you didn't want the rest of the club to know about? No, you weren't.”

Paul was silent for a moment, thinking about that. I walked around to Faith's other side, to get to her other ear. I thought I'd put my pin brush on the table, but now I didn't see it. I was reaching around to check in my tack box when I realized that Darla had it.

She held up the brush and looked at it like she'd never seen one before. Short haired breeds, like Pugs, don't require nearly as much preparation for the ring as Poodles do. Still, I couldn't imagine she hadn't run across a pin brush somewhere.

On the table, Faith shifted restlessly. I knew she was wondering what was holding me up. I reached over and gently took the brush out of Darla's hands. She smiled at me as I went back to work.

“You know, it's funny,” said Paul. His voice was so low that for a moment I wondered if he was talking to himself. “You spend your whole life trying to build a history of achievement, of accomplishment. You know you're going to grow old someday, but you can only think about it in abstract terms. You see the broad picture, but not the day to day indignities, the loss of rights and abilities that you once took completely for granted.”

He looked up, his gray lashed eyes finding mine. “Darla and I don't have much left anymore. But we have each other, we have our dogs, and we have our membership in the kennel club to keep us going.

“For whatever reason of her own, Monica tried to make us feel bad about that. I never thought I'd say this about another human being, but I'm glad she's gone. Does that make me a terrible person?”

“No,” I said softly. “I think Monica was the one who must have been a terrible person. Terrible enough that somebody wanted her dead.”

“Dear?” said Darla. “Isn't it time to go? Didn't you tell me we were going to watch the groups?”

“Yes, I did.” Paul gripped his wife's fragile arm. “We'll go right now.”

I watched them walk away. I hoped when I was that age, I had someone to hold my arm and take such good care of me.

Twenty-three

After the Heinses left, Bertie came hurrying back. She stowed a Finnish Spitz in a crate and got out the black and white Tibetan Terrier she'd shown earlier. A brush was tucked inside the waistband of her skirt. She pulled it out and ran it hurriedly through the TT's coat.

“You must have won,” I said.

“Best of Breed.” Bertie nodded. “The Non-Sporting group's about to go in. Crawford's Dalmatian pretty much has a lock on it, but I might get a piece.”

I'd done all I could for Faith without benefit of either tub or hair dryer. I opened her crate and put her inside with a rawhide chew.

“Shall I come and clap?” I asked.

“Sure.” Bertie smiled, as she whisked the dog off the table. “That would be great.”

In a perfect world, judges aren't supposed to be influenced by applause from ringside. In theory, the only guide they should use in placing the dogs is their own expertise. Reality, however, is sometimes quite different.

For one thing, by the time group judging rolls around most of the day's casual spectators have usually left. The hard-core dog fanciers sitting ringside are often just as knowledgeable as the judge inside the ring. They have opinions, they have favorites; and they're not shy about making their preferences known.

While it's doubtful that a mediocre dog could parlay any amount of applause into a blue ribbon, it's also true that ringside approval can be used to draw the judge's attention to an up-and-comer that he otherwise might have overlooked.

I had no idea whether the Tibetan Bertie was showing was any good or not. But so far, she'd dodged every inquiry I'd made with the agility of a Saluki coursing over open ground. I needed to find a way to get her to open up. Maybe cheering enough to demonstrate that I was standing in her corner would do the trick.

Bertie ran on ahead. By the time I got to the group ring, the Non-Sporting dogs were already lined up in size order. Crawford's Dalmatian was first, followed by a cream colored Standard Poodle. Bringing up the rear were the slower moving Boston Terrier and Bulldog. Bertie and her TT had found a place in the middle.

The ranks of spectators had thinned considerably, and I found an empty chair and sat down. As the judge gaited the entire line of dogs around the ring for the first time, there was already a smattering of applause. Looking around, I followed the sound to its source. Cy and Barbara Rubicov were beaming at their Dalmatian like a pair of proud parents.

Even to my uneducated eye, he looked like a winner: cleanly built, well muscled, and beautifully marked, with dozens of well delineated black spots covering his body, legs, and head. The Dalmatian moved with speed and grace; and Crawford was enough of an expert to showcase his exhibit, while letting himself fade into the background.

The judge began the individual examinations by bringing the Dalmatian out into the middle of the ring. Some officials judge primarily with their eyes; others rely on their hands as a final guide. I watched as this judge lifted the Dalmatian's head and cradled it briefly in her palms. She gathered a quick impression of head and expression, then moved her fingers to lift the dog's lips and look at the bite.

Standards vary from breed to breed. Some require that teeth be counted. Others, like Chow Chows, demand a visual inspection of the tongue. But with a Dalmatian, checking for correct bite is usually routine, over in only a matter of seconds.

That's why I was surprised to see the judge pause for an extra moment. She didn't frown, exactly, but neither did she look pleased. Crawford's expression was calm, but that wasn't unexpected. He was the consummate professional. If the dog's tail fell off, he'd find a way to make you believe that's what he'd intended all along.

Curious, I glanced over to where the Rubicovs were standing. Cy was talking to the person beside him and when he finished, all three laughed. But the set of his shoulders was stiff and the hand that hung at his side was balled into a fist.

Nor did the tension leave him as the judge completed the rest of her examination. The Dalmatian was clearly a ringside favorite. When the dog was gaited, the applause that accompanied his trip to the other end of the ring and back was long and sustained. Crawford brought the Dalmatian back into line with a flourish. He was grinning, but Cy's smile was tight.

By the time Bertie's turn came to show her Tibetan Terrier, the spectators had already rallied behind the Dal, the Standard Poodle, and the Bichon FrisÃ©. I clapped like mad, but only induced a handful of others to accompany me. The judge made her placements, pulling out the Dalmatian on top. Whatever it was she'd seen, she'd obviously decided it wasn't important. Looking enormously pleased, Cy and Barbara accepted congratulations from those around them.

Bertie's Tibetan Terrier had made the cut, but didn't get a ribbon. Since I knew she'd been hoping for a better result, I figured I could pretty much give up on the idea that she'd be in a good enough mood to talk. Instead of heading back to the set-up, I skirted around the ring to where Cy and Barbara were standing. I might as well congratulate the winners, and rack up a few brownie points there.

But before I could reach them, I saw Cy turn and stride quickly away, heading toward the other side of the building. Immediately I changed direction and went after him. After a moment it became obvious we were both following Crawford, who was leading the Dalmatian back to his section of the grooming area.

Cy looked distinctly irritated. And although Crawford must have had an inkling that his biggest client was behind him, he never stopped or even slowed his stride. All at once I wanted very much to hear what these two had to say to each other.

Reaching the first aisle of crates and tables, I veered off to the left before either man noticed me. Crawford's set-up was tucked away in an alcove off the main room. I circled around, looped behind a concession stand, and ended up around the corner hidden from view-hopefully close enough to hear what they were saying.

If they'd been whispering, it wouldn't have worked; but they weren't. Cy was too angry.

“What was that about?” he demanded.

“They're shifting again. I told you that might happen.” Crawford's voice was pitched a good deal lower. I had to strain to hear what he was saying.

“You also told me you could fix it.”

“I can. I have an appointment with Dr. Rimkowsky on Tuesday. By next week, everything will be fine.”

“Next week? What about this afternoon? You told me the dog had a good shot at Best in Show!”

“He does,” Crawford said soothingly. “Anna Peabody is judging and you know she's too vain to wear her glasses. She'll never notice a thing.”

“She'd better not.”

I shrank back just in time to avoid Cy as he came striding out of the alcove. I killed a minute or two by looking over the selection of dog toys at the concession, then followed him back across the room. Cy had rejoined Barbara at ringside. Obviously the fireworks were over.

I was thinking of heading home when I noticed Mark and Penny Romano, also by the group ring. With the Non-Sporting group over, the Working dogs were in. The Romanos cheered loudly as the Doberman Pinscher was moved.

“Yours?” I asked, walking over to stand beside them.

“No, unfortunately.” Mark turned and smiled. “He's an awfully nice dog.”

“I was wondering if I could ask you two a question?”

“Sure,” said Mark while Penny nodded.

“I've found out that Monica was sending extra notes along with some of the club newsletters. I was wondering if she ever sent one to you?”

“Noâ” Mark began, but Penny interrupted him.

“Yes, she did. Remember?” She crooked a finger at me and I leaned closer. “Monica,” Penny confided in a low tone, “thought I was a lush.”

I straightened and took a deep breath of fresh air. Some secret. Of course Penny was a lush. Anyone with a brain or a nose could figure that out.

“Bitch,” Penny muttered.

Mark looked as though he fervently hoped his wife was talking about one of the entries in the ring. She wasn't.

“Monica Freedman was a bitch,” she repeated, just in case there'd been any misunderstanding the first time around.

Mark slipped an arm around his wife's shoulders. It looked as though he gave her a warning squeeze. Penny refocused her attention on the ring.

“I'm afraid Monica wasn't our most popular club member,” Mark said apologetically.

“So I hear.”

I waited, hoping Penny might have something more to add, but she didn't. In the ring, the judge made his selections. The Doberman Mark and Penny had been cheering for went second. They drifted away and I went back to the set-up and packed up. I brought my car over from the parking lot, loaded up, and went home.

Bob and Davey weren't back yet, so I used the free time to sit down with a cup of coffee and call Aunt Peg.

“Any puppies yet?” I asked when she picked up.

“Not a one. The bitch's temperature has dropped and she's spent the entire day either trying to hide under the bed where she's much too big to fit, or else digging up the whelping box and tearing everything to shreds. It won't be long now. How did you do at the show?”

I told her about Faith's Reserve, and Aunt Peg was suitably pleased.

“I've seen that bitch of Crawford's,” she said. “She's very pretty. There's no shame in being beaten by one like that.”

“I stayed and watched the Non-Sporting group.”

“Did Crawford's Dalmatian win it?”

“Yup.”

“That figures. Cy thinks he has a shot at top ten this year and I don't blame him.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not. Who is Dr. Rimkowsky?”

“A veterinarian in Bridgeport. His specialty is canine orthodontia, and he's probably the best on the east coast. Why?”

“Spot has an appointment with him on Tuesday. When the judge was examining his bite, she seemed to see something she didn't like. Later I heard Crawford tell Cy that theyâpresumably his teethâwere slipping again.”

“So Crawford's had some work done on the dog's bite, has he?” Peg sounded amused, but not necessarily surprised.

“Isn't that unusual?”

“Not really. Technology's advancing in all areas. Why should dogs be any different? It used to be that when you bred a litter of puppies, what the bitch produced was what you had to work with. But not any more.

“Now, all sorts of subtle alterations are possible. Not legal, mind you; but possible. Terriers have their tails fixed. With Shelties, it's ears. And of course, any dog that comes up with a bad bite can simply get braces.”

“They actually do that?”

“They most certainly do. From what I hear, Dr. Rimkowsky's business is thriving. The dogs wear the braces for several months until the correction is made. After they come off, some dogs are fine. Others wear rubber bands at home to hold everything in place.”

“Have you ever had a dog's bite fixed?” I asked curiously.

“Only once. And I did it for health reasons, not so he could be shown. The dog was neutered and placed in a pet home. Regardless of appearances to the contrary, there are still some of us who think of showing dogs as a sport, you know.”

“I'm sure there are,” I said demurely.

In the living room, Faith began to bark. A moment later, the front door flew open and bounced off the wall.

“Hey Mom!” yelled Davey. “We're home!”

“I think I have to go,” I said.

“Are you free tomorrow? I'll probably be stuck here waiting for something to happen. Why don't you come over and we'll talk some more?”

We made a date for early afternoon and I hung up the phone just as Davey came barreling into the kitchen. He tossed a bag filled with souvenirs onto the table.

“It was awesome!” he cried.

Behind him, Bob followed more slowly.

“Awesome?” I asked, cocking a brow in Bob's direction.

“Awesomely tiring.” He sank into a chair. “I thought there were just a few ships or something. It's a whole village.”

“With a newspaper and a barrel shop and a boatyard,” Davey said excitedly. “Did you know there's an aquarium, too?”

“I seem to remember hearing something like that. Did you have fun?”

“We had a great time.” To my surprise, Davey walked over and wrapped his arms around me. “I wish you could have come, too.”

“So do I. Next time, okay?”

“Okay.” He took Faith and went running out of the kitchen.

BOOK: Dog Eat Dog

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