Hair of the Dog (17 page)

“Sure.”

We found an empty table and sat down. The chairs were made of plastic and bolted to the floor. Alicia was once again wearing a loose summer dress. If I hadn't known she was pregnant, I wouldn't necessarily have guessed, but her movements were awkward as she swiveled the chair and settled herself heavily into the seat.

She looked at the table, then back at the food counter and sighed.

“Napkins?” I asked, already starting to rise.

She nodded. “And ketchup, if you don't mind. Lots of it?”

The ketchup came in little packets. I scooped up half a dozen and added napkins and a straw. When I returned with the supplies, Alicia was already gulping down her milk shake.

“Sorry,” she said. “I had breakfast earlier, but these days it seems as though I'm always hungry.”

“You're eating for two.”

“I feel like I'm eating for twelve. The doctor says I should aim to gain twenty to twenty-five pounds over the entire pregnancy. I've put on half that much already.”

“You don't look it.”

She smiled wanly. “Would you tell me if I did?”

I grinned in return. “Probably not.”

“That's what I thought.” She squeezed ketchup out onto her fries and dug in with gusto.

“I heard you were looking for me. Is something wrong? Have you had any more accidents?”

“No, nothing like that.” A frown line appeared briefly in her forehead, then was gone. “I wanted to tell you that I changed my mind.”

“About what?”

“About a lot of things, actually.” She paused, taking much longer than necessary to swirl a fry through the mound of ketchup at the end of the basket. “I'm going back to Bill.”

I sat and stared at her. Calmly, Alicia stared right back.

I couldn't say that her decision was entirely unexpected. Gut reaction, however, told me that it wasn't a good idea.

“Is he your baby's father?”

“That seems to be the common consensus, doesn't it?” Alicia shook her head. “I wish he were, but he's not.”

“How does he feel about taking on someone else's baby?”

“He's okay with it. I told you he and I wanted children. In fact, he's even pretty happy about it.”

So was Alicia, judging by her demeanor. Then I stopped and reconsidered. Happy wasn't the right word. It was more like smug. And here I was, about to burst her bubble.

“You know what people are going to say. Bill's made no secret of the fact that he wanted you back. Now that Barry's out of the way, he's getting exactly what he wanted.”

Alicia waved a french fry in the air, but her expression was nearly as carefree as the gesture. “Let people talk. They always do.”

“This time maybe there's some truth to what they're saying.”

“Bill didn't kill Barry.”

“You don't know that, Alicia. You've got to face facts. Somebody did murder Barry. And in all likelihood, it was someone you know.”

“Not Bill,” Alicia said stubbornly.

“He knows about guns.”

“So do a lot of people. That doesn't mean anything.”

“He hated the fact that Barry had taken you away from him.”

“He was dealing with it.”

“Really?” I arched a brow. “Well, I guess he doesn't have to anymore, does he?”

“Look,” said Alicia. She leaned closer across the small table. “Maybe this isn't the best idea in the whole world. But it isn't the worst either. I'm pregnant. Bill will take care of me. What other choice do I have?”

“You could ask the baby's father for help.”

Before I'd even finished speaking, she was already shaking her head. “No, not an option.”

How could she be so blind? “Does Bill know that the only reason you're going back to him is that you're desperate? Has it occurred to you that maybe that's what he planned on all along? He had the means and he had the motive.”

I paused, letting my words sink in. “And now he has you.”

“You're wrong.” Alicia's brown eyes flashed angrily as she braced her hands on the table and pushed herself up. “Bill wasn't the one who shot Barry. He and I are going to be fine. You'll see.”

For her sake, I hoped so.

When I got back to Aunt Peg's setup, Davey was nowhere in sight. Knowing how much he likes to play hide-and-seek, I took this to be a bad sign. Peg had Tory on her feet on the grooming table and was concentrating on her scissoring. Once she starts trimming, almost nothing distracts her including, obviously, the departure of a clever five-year-old with sneakers on his feet. I wondered how recently my son had slipped away.

“Aunt Peg?”

“Hmm?” She lifted her head, blowing a breath upward to lift the hair from her eyes. One of the consequences of the new hairdo.

“Where's Davey?”

“He's with Viv.” She straightened, then looked around the grooming area. “I guess they've gone off somewhere.”

“What's he doing with Viv?”

“She and Ron came by about ten minutes ago. Ron needed to talk to Crawford, who was on his way to the Bichon ring. Off the two of them went. Nobody paid any attention to Viv.”

Peg turned back to her trim. “I wonder how long it will be before Ron realizes she's not following along.”

“Davey?” I asked, somewhat desperately.

“Oh, right. When everyone else left, Viv came over and volunteered to read him a story.”

Davey's books were piled on his chair, and nobody was reading anything in the vicinity. I told myself to remain calm.

“Maybe they went for more brownies,” Peg said hopefully. The paper plate on top of Tory's crate was empty save for a few crumbs.

I heard a delighted squeal and was just starting to turn, when forty pounds of running child hit the backs of my legs. It was a miracle we didn't both go down.

Following behind at a more graceful pace, came Viv.

“I went to the bathroom,” Davey informed me. “Viv took me.”

“Don't you mean Mrs. Pullman?”

His face screwed up in confusion. As Viv joined us, he pointed to her with some relief. “I went with her.”

“I hope it's okay. I told him to call me Viv. Mrs. Pullman is my mother-in-law.”

“Sure it's fine, if that's what you want. Thanks for taking care of him.” I disentangled Davey's arms, opened his bag of toys, and got out his Matchbox cars. Instant distraction.

“No problem. It's not as though I was doing anything else.” Viv frowned slightly, glancing over toward Crawford's setup. Terry was back now, using a blow dryer on a Toy Poodle's bracelets, but Ron and Crawford still hadn't returned.

“Did Leo win today?”

Viv nodded. “So did our new puppy. But Chows showed first thing this morning, and the group isn't for another couple of hours yet. I hate it when that happens. Ron has too much time to get nervous in between.”

“Ron gets nervous?”

“After all this time, you'd think he'd take the competition in stride, wouldn't you? But somehow, the more the dog wins, the worse it gets. He's very competitive. He can't stand to see Leo lose.”

“Especially not to one of Austin's dogs,” I guessed.

“You're right about that. Austin's a whole different kind of player, and on some levels, that really ticks Ron off. Leo was born in our family room. Ron raised him from a puppy. In some ways I'd swear that dog is like his child, or maybe an extension of his ego.

“Austin doesn't have to worry about bloodlines, or genetic testing, or middle-of-the-night whelpings. He just sees something he likes and he buys it. There's no risk involved with his method.”

Aunt Peg had finished scissoring and was now putting up Tory's topknot. She managed to talk around the mound of rubber bands between her lips. “Except perhaps the risk that a breeder won't want to sell a really good one.”

“To Austin? With his resources?” Viv's beige-tipped fingers drummed lightly on the top of the crate. “Unfortunately, nobody ever says no to him. We'd all be better off if someone did.”

“Shhh!” said Terry in a loud stage whisper. “Stop talking about them. Here they come!”

Crawford strode through the grooming area, carrying the Bichon and a red ribbon. As the aisle was too narrow to walk abreast, Ron followed a step behind. The handler slanted Terry a look. “Gossiping again? I thought you were supposed to be working.”

“I wasn't gossiping. I was eavesdropping. It hardly takes any effort at all.”

Crawford eyed the freshly blown-out Toy Poodle. “Much like your grooming.”

“I'm not done yet.” Terry snatched up a pair of scissors. “What you see here is a masterpiece in the making.”

“What I'd like to see is a class bitch with her topknot in.”

“Slave driver.” Terry pouted briefly, then brightened. “Lucky for you, I like that.”

Shaking his head, Crawford put the Bichon away in its crate. As Ron and Viv strolled away, he went to check on his two Standard Poodles which were lying on top of their tables. He and Terry had worked on them earlier and both were just about ready.

Meanwhile behind me, Aunt Peg had begun to spray up. I knew what was coming. Without waiting to be asked, I went over and cupped Tory's muzzle in the palm of my hand.

“When you say you'll keep an eye on Davey,” I said mildly, “that means you're supposed to know where he is.”

“I did.” Peg deftly feathered her comb through the long neck hair, stretching it until it stood upright, then spraying it into place. “He was with Viv, just like I told you.”

There was no use arguing. Next time I'd try hanging a box of doughnuts around his neck. At least that would keep her attention.

Standard Poodles were scheduled to be judged at one o'clock with Minis and Toys following. On our way up to the ring, we ran into Bertie Kennedy. She was carrying a black Mini bitch and heading in the same direction.

“New client?” I asked, nodding toward the Mini.

“No, this is one of Beth's. She's stuck in the Pom ring. I told her I'd get this one up to ringside.”

I took a closer look. “I think I did up that bitch last week.”

“You probably did. With Barry gone, that operation's coming apart at the seams. Beth's taking any help she can get.”

I wondered if I'd been insulted and decided it probably wasn't intentional. When it came to other women, Bertie wasn't inclined to be catty. Of course, with her looks, she didn't have to be.

As usual, she looked stunning. Her wide green eyes were softly lined with shadow, and her dress was a fluid column of soft teal silk. It was long enough so that she could stoop and bend without embarrassment, and short enough to show off plenty of leg.

I sighed softly. I thought I was doing well when I didn't have peanut butter or jelly smeared on me.

“Your brother called me,” Bertie said.

“Are you going to go out with him?”

“Friday night. Didn't you know?”

“No, why would I?”

“He said we were doubling with you and your guy. Sam Driver, right?”

“Right. But this is the first I've heard of it.”

“Wow,” said Davey, tagging along at my side. “Can I come?”

“No.” The answer was swift and automatic. Sometimes it felt as though my son spent more time with Sam than I did. I turned back to Bertie. “You're sure about that?”

“Positive. Mark your calendar.” We passed the ring where Pomeranians were being judged, and Bertie veered away.

“Naughty, naughty,” said Terry. He was two steps behind Davey and me, leading one of Crawford's Standards.

“What?”

“I know what you're thinking.”

“That I'd like to strangle my brother?”

He shook his head. “You're thinking, why don't I look like that?”

“I am not.”

His hands waved through the air, shaping a curvy, hourglass figure. “Trust me, Bertie is too much of a good thing.”

“To you, maybe. You're gay.”

“Oh, my God!” Terry cried. “I am? Don't tell my parents!”

I smiled, amused in spite of myself.

“I told you before, I could work wonders with your hair.”

“I like my hair.”

“Sure you do. You like it so much, you've worn it the same way since college.”

No point in trying to refute that.

“Where's my comb?” said Aunt Peg. We'd almost reached the Poodle ring, where I could see that the Puppy Dog class was already being judged. “Who has my comb?”

“Right here,” I said, hurrying to catch up.

“You can run,” Terry called after me, “but you can't hide!”

“Goodness,” said Peg as I handed over the wide-toothed comb for last-minute repairs. “What was that all about?”

“Just Terry being dramatic. He wants to cut my hair.”

Aunt Peg reached for her can of hair spray. Applying any sort of additive to a dog's coat is illegal according to A.K.C. rules. The laws are rarely enforced, however, and few dogs appear in the ring in their natural state. Since she was spraying at ringside, however, she took the precaution of standing between Tory and the judge as she worked. No use in making a blatant infraction any more visible than it had to be.

Peg looked up, assessing my hair style as if she'd never noticed it before. “You have perfectly nice hair. Too bad it just lies there.”

“Isn't it time for your class?”

Her head swung around quickly. “That's Open Dog,” she sniffed. “Don't be mean to an old lady.”

“Old? You?”

“Heaven forbid,” said Crawford, coming out of the ring. He handed Terry the Open Dog who had just gone third in his class, and took the bitch. “If you're old, we'll all have to reconsider.”

Puppy Bitch came and went. As at many shows, there were no entries in the intervening classes, and Open Bitch was next. As Peg and Crawford both entered the ring, Davey and I moved up to the rail to watch.

“That looks like fun,” said Davey.

“It is,” I said. “Sort of.”

It was also nerve-racking and painfully intense. After all the effort that went into preparing a Poodle to be shown, the actual time spent in the ring amounted to only a few minutes. First impressions count a lot. Mess up once, and you've often cost yourself the chance to win.

That's one reason many exhibitors hire professionals to show their dogs for them. In theory, the pros don't make mistakes. Watching Crawford handle his bitch was like watching Nureyev dance. He was a master at work.

“So who's going to win?” I asked Terry, who had come to stand beside us.

“You're asking
moi?
Do I look like a fortune-teller?”

I leaned back and pretended to consider. “Add a pair of hoop earrings, a feather boa, and you could probably pass.”

“Pass?” He fluttered his eyelashes demurely. “Honey, I'm stunning in feathers.”

The judge had finished her individual examinations. As she ran her gaze down the line, she didn't seem very interested in either Tory or Crawford's bitch. A moment later, she pulled out a leggy black handled by a pro from Pennsylvania and motioned her to the front. Tory was pulled third, Crawford's bitch, fifth.

“Too bad,” I said.

Terry shrugged. “Crawford won't mind. He knew she wouldn't like what he was bringing her in Standards.”

“Then why did he bring them?”

“She's doing the group.”

I ran that through my thought processes twice. At the end, I wasn't any closer to understanding. If the judge didn't like his Standard Poodles enough to even give them their classes, what possible difference could it make that she was judging the Non-Sporting group? I gave up trying to figure it out, and asked.

“Leo has a real shot at going Best today,” said Terry. “This judge has liked him before, and Crawford's hoping she'll like him again. It certainly doesn't hurt when group time rolls around that she's seen Crawford in her ring all day long, bringing her entries.”

Now
that
I could understand. Judges are licensed by the American Kennel Club, but they're hired to judge by the individual kennel clubs that put on the shows. I'd thought about joining an all-breed club in the spring and I'd learned a lot about how they operate.

Kennel clubs serve a variety of functions, but holding dog shows is their chief source of revenue. Much careful planning is done to maximize each show's appeal to entry-paying exhibitors. Clubs vie for advantageous dates and sites, and they hire judges who they hope will attract the largest number of exhibitors.

A judge who doesn't “draw” is one who will eventually find himself with fewer and fewer assignments. Conversely, one who brings out the exhibitors will become very popular. No wonder, then, that judges tend to favor the handlers who bring them the largest number of entries.

“Who's doing Best?” I asked.

“Maggie Cowan. She hasn't had Leo before, but Crawford's heard she's said some nice things about him.”

The dog show grapevine. Time-Warner should have a communications system this good.

“And supposedly she dumped Midas last month in New Jersey.”

The light was not only beginning to dawn, it was shining like a beacon. No wonder Ron was nervous. A win over Austin's top dog would mean a lot. I began making plans to stay and see how it all turned out.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” said Peg. Usually she's a very good sport, but today she looked positively disgruntled. The white ribbon in her hand attested to the fact that while I'd been talking to Terry, the judge had dropped her placement from third to fourth.

“Maybe you should hire a handler to show your bitch,” Terry said.