Dog Eat Dog (29 page)
Authors: Laurien Berenson
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Laurien Berenson's newest Melanie Travis mystery,
HAIR OF THE DOG,
now on sale wherever mysteries are sold!
One
At my Aunt Peg's house, there's often a pot of chicken simmering on the stove. Visitors, however, shouldn't get their hopes up. At least not two-legged ones. The chicken is for the dogs. Peg breeds Standard Poodles and has about a dozen, all of whom eat like royalty. Humans have to fend for themselves.
Which was why I was so surprised when she called one morning in late June and told me she wanted to throw a party. “Maybe a backyard barbecue,” she said. “Something simple.”
Simple? I wasn't sure Aunt Peg understood the meaning of the concept. The summer before, she'd finagled me into helping find her missing stud dog by insisting that it would be simple. Then last fall, she'd initiated me into the joys of dog ownership by assuring me that that, too, would be simple. Is it any wonder I didn't rush to volunteer my services?
No matter. Aunt Peg merely assumed I'd help out and went on making plans. She's nearing sixty, and in all those years I doubt that anyone has ever said no to her and gotten away with it.
Peg lives in a big old farmhouse on several acres of land that even I had to admit would make the perfect setting for an outdoor party. Her husband, Max, had died the year before, and if you didn't count the dog shows she attended several weekends a month to exhibit her Poodles, she'd done almost no socializing since. Even though I knew it would end up costing me, it was nice to hear her talk about inviting friends over.
“I was thinking fifty people or so,” she said blithely. “There are three shows in the area that weekend, and everybody will be around. I'm sure we'll draw a crowd.”
I didn't doubt it. Dog people travel a fair amount in their pursuit of the biggest wins and the best judges, and with a trio of important shows in the neighborhood, exhibitors from all over would be converging in Connecticut for the Fourth of July weekend.
“You'll bring Davey, of course,” she told me. “And Sam.”
Davey was my son, five years old and very full of himself. He'd started morning day camp at the beginning of the week and I was due to pick him up in an hour.
Sam Driver was a friend. Actually he was a good bit more than that, but I still hadn't figured out how to refer to our relationship in polite conversation. Calling him my boyfriend seemed to imply that I was still a girl, which, at thirty-one, I most assuredly was not. Significant other was definitely too unwieldy. Lover got to the heart of the matter, but seemed a little blunt. Not that Aunt Peg would have minded. She's a great fan of Sam's, and a strong believer in speaking one's mind on any and all occasions.
“Faith isn't invited,” she told me firmly. “There will simply be too much going on.”
“Right,” I agreed.
Faith was Davey's and my Standard Poodle. A gift from Aunt Peg, she was fourteen months old and a true adolescent: rambunctious, willful, and growing what, to my mind, was entirely too much hair. Otherwise known as a Poodle show coat.
All forty-five pounds of her was lying draped across my lap as I spoke on the phone. I glanced down and Faith thumped her black tail obligingly. Intelligent as Poodles are, I imagine she knew we were talking about her.
“Chicken and ribs,” Aunt Peg was saying. “Mounds of them. Nobody eats dog show food if they can help it. People will be starving by the time they get to us. Then ice cream and brownies for dessert. That sounds easy enough, doesn't it?”
Listening to Aunt Peg chatter on, I almost believed that the party might come together without a hitch. Of course that was before either of us knew that before the weekend was over, one of the guests would be dead.
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“Will there be presents?” asked Davey. “And games and goody bags?”
I'd just finished dressing him in a perfectly presentable outfit, and with only minutes to go until we left for Aunt
Peg's, I was hoping he wouldn't find any dirt to attach himself to. With his sandy curls and chubby cheeks, Davey has the innocent look of a Botticelli cherub. He also has the energy, and potential for damage, of a small tornado.
We were in the kitchen, where I was mixing Faith's food. “Sorry, sport, not this time. This is a grown-up party, with eating and drinking, and people to talk to.”
“That doesn't sound like much fun.” At his age, my son's idea of fun was anything involving cars, loud noises, or fast actionâpreferably a combination of the three. “Will there be other kids?”
“Not many.”
Even that was probably an overstatement. Most of the people Aunt Peg had invited were exhibitors and judges, who would come straight from the Farmington dog show. Aunt Peg had never had children of her own, and while she enjoyed Davey, I knew she held the opinion that one child in the vicinity was often more than enough.
“Sam will be there,” I said, setting the dog food bowl down on the floor. “That's someone you know.”
Faith sauntered over to have a look at the offering. She was full grown now physically, if not mentally, and the top of her head was nearly level with my waist. A Standard Poodle, she was the largest of the three varieties: strong, solid, and fully capable of retrieving game, as her ancestors had been bred to do. Not that there was much call for that in the suburbs.
“Go on,” I said. “Eat.”
Faith sent me a look. If I'd been in the habit of ascribing human traits to dogs, I'd have sworn she rolled her eyes.
“She doesn't like it,” Davey chortled. “She wants pizza.”
“She does not,” I said firmly. I nudged the bowl closer to Faith's muzzle with my toe. Grudgingly she took a mouthful of the food and rolled it around her tongue.
She'd always been a finicky eater, and there wasn't an ounce of fat on her. When she'd turned a year old, Aunt Peg had clipped her into the continental trim, which is a modern descendant of a traditional German hunting clip and is required in the show ring. Since the trim mandates a large mane of hair on the front half of the body, and a hindquarter that is shaved mostly down to the skin, it was easy to see just how lean she was. Luckily for me, Faith was taking six months off from showing to grow into her new trim, so her weight had yet to become an issue.
I put the dog food in the refrigerator and patted the top of the Poodle's crate. Obligingly, Faith strolled in, circled once, and lay down. When she was a puppy, we'd used the crate as an aid in housebreaking and to keep her from chewing when we weren't home. Now that she was older and knew how to behave, I usually left the door open. Faith had come to think of the crate as her den, and was perfectly content to nap there while we were gone.
Davey and I live in North Stamford in a snug cape on a small lot. The street was developed in the fifties, and looks it. What we gained in function, we unfortunately sacrificed in charm. Aunt Peg is one town away in Greenwich. Her house is set back from the road in the midst of a meadow studded with wildflowers. A veranda wraps around three sides of the house, and the roof is gabled. A small kennel building out back holds the Poodles Peg is conditioning for the show ring. Though she has neighbors, none of their houses are visible. It's a far cry from my road, where in the summer, with the windows open, I can smell what the people next door are having for dinner.
Davey and I had been at Aunt Peg's earlier in the day to help with the preparations, but now, when we arrived for the second time, the party was already in progress. Cars and vans, most filled with crates and grooming equipment, already lined both sides of the back country road. Since the show site was an hour away, I knew that those who'd stayed through Best in Show had yet to arrive. Bearing in mind what Peg had said about everyone being hungry, I hoped she'd ordered enough food.
As soon as we got out of the car, Davey ran on ahead. Following the sound of voices and the smell of barbecued chicken, he raced around the back of the house. In pursuit of brownies, no doubt.
At six-thirty, it was still fully light. As I followed my son to Peg's backyard, where throngs of people had already begun to congregate around the tables that held food and drinks, I could see perfectly well where I was going. So when I bumped into Sam Driver from behind, and managed to insinuate my body along his, I couldn't exactly say it was an accident.
“Not now,” he whispered without turning around. “Melanie will be here any minute. I'll meet you later.”
“Hmmph,” I muttered, wrapping my arms around him and snuggling my face between his shoulder blades. “How did you know it was me?”
Sam turned, grinning. He was holding a cold bottle of beer in each hand. “It might have had something to do with that three-foot streak of energy that preceded you. Here, one of these is yours.”
I popped the top and took a long, icy swallow. It tasted so good going down that I could feel the tingle in my toes. Or maybe that was Sam's doing. It's been a year and he still has that effect on me.
Sam is tall, and built along lean lines; the kind of man who jogs but wouldn't dream of lifting weights. He has sun-streaked hair the color of wheat and eyes as blue as the Caribbean. There have been other men who have made my motor race, but none who have accomplished it with Sam's casual, graceful ease.
“Speaking of the streak,” I said. “Which way did he go?”
Sam pointed toward the back door. “I think he was heading for the kitchen. Does he know something we don't?”
“Brownies, stashed inside for later. You know Aunt Peg's sweet tooth.”
“There you are!” called a loud voice. “It's about time!”
“Speak of the devil,” I muttered.
Sam grasped a bit of skin in a place where I wished there hadn't been any excess, and pinched a gentle reprimand. Next time I'd volunteer him to come early and help set up.
“Hi, Aunt Peg,” I said, turning to greet her. “How's everything going?”
“So far, so good. We've really pulled a crowd. Scuttlebutt has it that Austin Beamish's Golden is going to win Best, but no one's arrived yet to confirm that.”
Golden was shorthand for Golden Retriever; Best was Best in Show. At its highest levels, the world of dog shows is actually a rather small place. Everybody knows everybody else, from the judges to the exhibitors to the top professional handlers. They've all long since scoped out the strengths and weaknesses of one another's dogs, and they all know which judges tend to prefer what traits. I wasn't surprised that results were being predicted before they'd had a chance to happen; I'd seen other exhibitors do the same weeks in advance of a show on the basis of a judging schedule alone.
Peg lifted the lid of the large cooler beneath the picnic table. She's a tall woman, and had to bend way down to reach. Her gray hair, worn pulled back in a bun for as long as I could remember, had recently been cut and now fell in waves to just below her ears. She tucked back a strand that tumbled forward, and she frowned at the nearly empty cooler.
“Sam, there's another case of beer in the refrigerator in the garage. Do you suppose ... ?”
“Of course. Be right back.” Before he'd even finished speaking, Sam was already heading off to do her bidding. Aunt Peg tends to have that effect on people.
“This is quite a gathering,” I said, looking around. I'd been going to the dog shows with Aunt Peg for a year now. Some of her guests I knew, and many others looked familiar. “How many people did you say you were expecting?”
“Too many.” Peg sighed, but she didn't look entirely displeased. “At least I had the foresight to call the caterer yesterday and tell him to double the order.”
There was a small commotion as a new group of people arrived, two middle-aged men with a strikingly attractive woman walking between them. Aunt Peg followed the direction of my gaze. “Good. If they've arrived, that means the show's over and we'll be able to find out who won.”
“Who are they?”
“The couple is Vivian and Ron Pullman. They live in Katonah and show some very good Chows. Their dog won the Non-Sporting group today. The man who came in with them is Austin Beamish.”
“The one whose Golden Retriever was supposed to win Best in Show?”
“Quite right. With Ron's Chow winning a group as well, they'd have been competing against each other. Still, everyone looks perfectly chummy.” Aunt Peg grinned slyly. “I wonder if that means they both lost. Come on over, and I'll introduce you.”
I followed in Aunt Peg's wake as she went to greet her new guests. From a distance, I'd wondered briefly which of the two men was Vivian's husband. Now, as we drew closer, she laughed at something somebody said and twined her arm around the waist of the good-looking man standing to her right. Ron Pullman had long legs and wide, linebacker's shoulders. He was casually dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled back, but his clothes fit his large frame impeccably.
Vivian wasn't a small woman, but beside her husband, she looked petite. Her tawny hair curled in artful disarray and her luminous skin was flawless. She was younger than Ron by at least ten years. That, and the expression in his eyes when he looked at her, were enough to make me wonder if she was a second wife.
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