Authors: Laurien Berenson
Dog Eat Dog (24 page)
Thirty
When I finally found Bertie, she was hurrying from the Chihuahua ring with a little tan dog and a third place ribbon in her arms, and an unhappy expression on her face.
“Not you again,” she said. Without breaking stride, she headed back to the grooming area.
I fell into step beside her. “Last time we talked, you asked if I was learning anything interesting.”
“Don't tell me.” Bertie dodged between two tables and around a stack of crates. Her set-up was the end of the aisle. “You found the killer.”
“No.”
“Too bad.” She opened a small crate and popped the Chihuahua inside, then tossed the ribbon in the direction of her tack box. “Given up yet?”
“No.”
“Perseverance,” she said sarcastically. “I like that.” Bertie opened another small crate and drew out a Pug. “Sorry, gotta go.”
Last time she'd walked out on me, I'd had to stay with Faith. This time, I simply followed. Halfway to the ring, she glanced back, saw me, and gave me a disgusted look.
I caught up again at ringside. Pugs were scheduled next, but the Maltese winners were having their pictures taken. “Look,” said Bertie, sounding exasperated. “I didn't do it, okay?”
“Okay.”
“You can stop following me around now.”
“I just have a couple more questions.”
“You always have a couple more questions. Why don't you go bother somebody else?”
“I have been. Now it's your turn again.”
She looked resigned. “All right. After Pugs, I'll have a break. Come and see me then.”
I nodded and didn't follow when she went to see the ring steward about her armband. But I didn't leave the area either. Bertie had proven too adept at escaping for me to trust her completely. I found an empty chair ringside and sat down.
Bertie's Pug was in the Open Dog class, so his turn came quickly. She and the dog looked good together, and I'm sure the wide smile she gave the elderly male judge didn't hurt. Her Pug took the points, and Bertie waited with him near the gate to go back in for Best of Breed.
A chair scraped beside me and I looked up as Joanne Pinkus sat down. “I can't believe she won again,” she muttered.
“Who?”
“Bertie, who else?”
“I thought she did a nice job,” I said, feeling my way. I didn't know enough about Pugs to have any idea whether Bertie's dog had deserved to win or not.
“Let's just say she sold what she had to sell.”
I wondered if I should warn Joanne to keep her voice down. Ringside observers tend to have notoriously sharp ears. “You think her Pug shouldn't have won?”
“Who knows? I have Norwiches. All I'm saying is, that's one lady who gets more than she deserves. I'm a feminist,” Joanne said defiantly. “And I hate to see her coasting by on her looks.”
It seemed to me that a real feminist would have been pleased to see another woman striving hard, and succeeding, in a tough profession. Not Joanne. I wondered how much of what she was saying was idealism, and how much good old-fashioned jealousy.
Bertie had the kind of looks that would intimidate any woman, much less one with Joanne's plain features and frizzy brown hair. As the handler walked the Pug back into the ring, Joanne scowled and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Did Bertie ever handle any of your dogs?” I asked.
“Not me,” Joanne snapped. “I don't need that kind of edge. Not that she didn't make sure I knew her services were available. I'm sure the only reason she joined the Belle Haven Club was to try and drum up new clients.”
“Did it work?”
“I guess so. I think Paul and Darla had her finish a dog or two. And maybe the LaPlantes. Now she's set her sights on Cy. At least he seems to have the sense to stick with a real pro.”
In the ring, Bertie's Pug was awarded Best of Winners. The handler got her ribbon and left immediately for the grooming area. I jumped up and went after her.
When I arrived at Bertie's set-up only seconds behind her, she didn't seem surprised to see me. She sighed, then hopped up and sat on a grooming table. “Okay, get it over with. What do you want to know now?”
I probably wasn't going to get a lot of chances, so I decided to lead with my best. “Did Monica know about what's going on between you and Louis LaPlante?”
I'd hoped her expression might give something away; and it did. Confusion.
“I don't know,” she said carefully. “What is going on between me and Louis?”
“I think you're having an affair.”
Two bright spots of red appeared in her cheeks. “You're out of your mind!”
I let the silence stand.
“You're crazy,” she said again. “What on earth would make you think something like that?”
“I've seen the way you act around Louis. I also know that you and Sharon were overheard having a fight in Francisco's.”
“Not about Louis.”
“What then?”
“That's none of your business.”
I shrugged and leaned back against the wall of stacked crates behind me.
Bertie considered things for a moment. “Look,” she said finally. “I like Louis. He's a nice man, and someday soon he'll be a judge. But he and I are not having an affair. In the first place, he's married.”
“That would stop you?”
“Yes, it would.” She reached around behind her and plucked a large soda in a plastic cup off the top of a crate. Bertie fitted the straw to her mouth a took a long sip.
“All right,” she said. “We're going to be honest for a minute, and you're not going to repeat anything I say, right?”
“Right.”
Not unless she confessed to killing Monica. And I didn't think promises made to a murderer counted, anyway.
“Maybe I do play up to Louis a bit. Like I said, he's going to be a judge and that kind of connection can be useful. But I'm thinking in terms of my career. An affair would end. Then where would I be as far as showing to Louis or any of his friends? Nowhere. And who needs that?
“Besides, if you've made such a point of watching me you probably know that the way I treat Louis isn't any different than the way I am with most men.” Bertie looked at me, her eyes hard. “They look at me and they see an attractive package. I know what they want, and I give it to them. In return, maybe I get a few extra wins. Use what you've got, baby. That's my motto.”
Mine too, although in my case that had meant studying hard in school and getting a graduate degree that would help me support my son. Maybe Bertie and I weren't so different. We were both just trying to get the job done.
“Why does Joanne dislike you?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Joanne's a bitch,” Bertie said. “Next question.”
Ooo-kay.
“Who do you think killed Monica Freedman?”
“I don't think about it.”
“If you did?”
“Maybe Joanne. She's ...” She stopped, then frowned. “You know, there was one thing.”
“What?”
“I remember noticing Paul and Darla Heins. They were acting kind of strange that night.”
“Strange how?”
“I was one of the last people to leave. I think Lydia was the only one still in the meeting room. When I passed Paul and Darla on the stairs, they were walking down. Then they stopped and turned back. Next thing, they changed their minds and started walking down again.”
“Maybe they forgot something.”
“Maybe.” Bertie shrugged. “I went into the ladies' room for a minute and I think I still beat them out of the restaurant.”
She glanced down and checked her watch. “Time's up. I've got Finnish Spitz in ten minutes.”
I straightened and looked around her set-up. It was several crates bigger than it had been two weeks earlier. “It looks like business is booming.”
“I'm doing okay.” Bertie reached down, opened a wire crate and caught a mid-sized foxy looking dog as he shot out into the aisle. Easily, she hefted him up onto a table. “Don't forget what I said earlier, about not repeating what I told you. I'm working damn hard to build a good reputation. The last thing I need is someone like you screwing things up for me.”
“Got it.”
“I mean it,” Bertie said firmly. “Stay out of my business. I was honest before, and I'll be honest now. I don't make a good enemy.”
As I walked away, I felt her eyes boring into my back the entire length of the aisle.
Â
When I got back to where Sam and Aunt Peg were set up, they were discussing taxes. April fifteenth was a week away and neither had filed yet. I tend to do my income taxes early. They're pretty straightforward and I usually get a little money back, so I hate to let the government hang onto it for any longer than necessary. I'd filed over a month ago.
“Done?” said Sam. “What do you mean you're done? I'm still trying to line up all my receipts.”
“I did that in February.”
“There's something wrong with that girl,” Aunt Peg commented in a loud whisper. “Doesn't she know it's un-American not to have to run around in a frazzle at the last minute?”
Obviously, I did my last minute frazzling when I was showing Faith. By comparison, even with the Poodle judging fast approaching, both Sam and Aunt Peg looked calm and competent. Sam was spraying up his bitch's top-knot; while Hope, who was already sprayed, was having a final scissoring.
“I'm organized,” I said smugly. “That's the key.”
“I'm organized, too,” said Sam. “I keep receipts for everything. But when you're self-employed, the paperwork alone can kill you.”
What he said jiggled something in the back of my mind. Something about tax receipts. Not mine, necessarily. I knew my taxes were done and gone. Where would I have run across someone else's financial records recently?
Before I could come up with an answer, Aunt Peg put me to work. She sent me to the ring to pick up armbands, where I discovered that the judge was running fast. I got the two numbers, and hurried back to pass along the news.
Aunt Peg lifted Hope off the grooming table and set her gently down on the floor. The big black puppy looked beautiful, and she knew it. She shook out, then stood and posed, the pom pon on her tail high in the air and wagging back and forth.
Poodle puppies are allowed to show with a thick coat of hair all over their bodies. Once they reach one year of age, however, they must be put into one of the two adult trims required by the breed standard. After this show, with their first birthday fast approaching, both Faith and Hope would have their hindquarters and front legs clipped into the continental trim. With a different set of lines and a whole new profusion of hair required, both bitches would sit out of competition at least six months to mature.
When Sam was ready, we set out for the ring in a procession. It never ceases to amaze me how many people want to reach out and touch a Poodle, especially one whose owner has just devoted hours to getting it ready to be shown. I walked in front, carrying a can of hair-spray and an extra comb, and running interference through the crowds of spectators.
The entry in Standard Poodles wasn't large and the dog classes were over quickly. Even though Hope was eligible for the Puppy class, Aunt Peg had entered her in Open as a subtle way of signaling to the judge that she felt her puppy was ready to take on all competition and, with luck, go home with the points. Sam's bitch was older by at least a year and she, too, was entered in the Open class. Standing by the gate, awaiting their turn, the two Poodles made a beautiful pair. I was glad I wasn't the judge who would have to choose between them.
Apparently the judge agreed with me about their quality, because although there were four entries in the class, he quickly narrowed his selection down to Sam's and Aunt Peg's bitches. I'm still trying to train my eye to pick up the subtle differences between dogs that Aunt Peg sees so easily, but it seemed to me that Hope had Sam's bitch beaten on head and showmanship, while his Poodle was the better mover.
Playing no favorites, I cheered for both and was delighted when the judge awarded Hope her first two points. Sam was gracious in defeat; Aunt Peg, magnanimous in victory. After she'd had Hope's picture taken, and she and Sam had wrapped their bitches' ears and taken apart their top-knots, she invited us both back to her house for an early dinner.
Sam glanced at me before answering. I knew what he was thinking. Our last dinner together hadn't been a great success. In fact, since Bob had arrived on the scene, it seemed like nothing we'd done together had turned out right.
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