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Authors: Laurien Berenson

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“Well done!” the woman cried. Then she glanced back my way. “My friend's been trying to finish that bitch for ages. Now then, where were we?”
“Arthur,” I said. “I was hoping you could tell me how I can get in touch with him?”
“Yes, of course.”
She flipped to the back of her catalog, tore out a blank page, and scribbled down some information. “I believe Arthur Ludwig is the man you're looking for. He lives in Frankfort. It's Sea Haven Kennel and I'm sure there's a Website. You'll be able to find Arthur's phone number there.”
“Thanks so much,” I said. “That's great.”
“Happy to help,” she told me. “If you're looking for a puppy, Arthur will do right by you. He and his wife started Sea Haven many years ago, and after her death he devoted himself to his dogs with a passion. Arthur has bred some very, very good Newfoundlands.”
“Thank you,” I said again. “You've been a great help. And congratulations to your friend.”
Best of Breed was just wrapping up in the ring. The man with the Winners Bitch exited the ring and came trotting in our direction. He held the Newf with one hand; in the other were the ribbons he'd just won. He raised them in the air and shook them gleefully.
I left those two to their celebration and headed back down the long room to the Poodle ring. Aunt Peg would probably be halfway through her Minis by now. But at least I'd be able to see all of the Standard judging.
I threaded my way quickly through the Sunday crowd, dodging past everything from wayward children to dog crates on wheels. Harried exhibitors rushed to and from their rings. Spectators stood two and three deep at the more popular breeds, clogging access to the aisles.
At one point, confronted by a knot of people who were simply not moving, I came to a precipitous halt. Waiting for the confusion in front of me to sort itself out, I let my gaze wander over the nearby rings. Bull Terriers were in one, Bloodhounds in another. A third was filled with Springer Spaniels.
Then, suddenly, I went still. My eyes slid back to the Bloodhound ring. A faint memory tickled the edge of my subconscious.
I seemed to recall that there was something Miss Ellie had said . . . or done....
I took a closer look at the Bloodhounds that were in the ring. One was being shown by a tall man with bushy dark eyebrows and a mustache to match. He wore a tweed jacket and corduroy pants and he looked vaguely familiar.
And then all at once I remembered.
When we'd passed the Bloodhound ring on Thursday, Miss Ellie had paused momentarily. She had blown a kiss to a man standing ringside with a dog. To
that
man who was now in the ring. He had smiled and waved in return.
The Bloodhound judging was wrapping up. Best of Breed was in the ring. There wasn't time now to go see Poodles. If I wanted to find out more about Miss Ellie, I had to grab this chance in front of me before it was gone.
I adjusted my course and veered in that direction.
Chapter 15
I
reached the Bloodhound ring just in time to see the man with the tweed jacket lose in Best of Breed. He didn't appear to be unduly upset by his dog's defeat. Instead he shrugged philosophically and shook the winner's hand on his way out of the ring.
I waited a short distance away while he accepted commiserations from several bystanders, then stopped to chat with another group of onlookers. They appeared to be engrossed in the favorite pastime of dog show exhibitors everywhere: engaging in a postmortem of their breed's judging.
By the time Mr. Tweed Jacket finally left his friends and strode away from ringside, Wirehaired Dachshunds had already taken over his ring and their judging was halfway finished. I caught up to him just as he walked through the wide doorway that connected the main pavilion to the grooming area.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you have a minute?”
“Just about.” He glanced down at his watch. “But if you're looking for a puppy, I should tell you that this dog isn't mine. I just handle him for his owner. I can give you the owner's name though.”
“No, that won't be necessary,” I said. “You're the one I want to talk to.”
“Okay then.” He kept moving, his long strides covering the ground quickly. We appeared to be heading toward a setup in the back of the room near the windows. “Who are you?”
“Melanie Travis.” Automatically I stuck out my hand. Of course he didn't take it. He didn't even look. “And your name is . . . ?”
“Liam Dailey. What's this about?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Ellie Gates Wanamaker.”
Abruptly he came to a halt. The Bloodhound skidded to a stop beside him. Now Liam was finally looking at me. He was also frowning.
“No comment,” he said.
“What?” I asked surprised.
“No comment.” He looked annoyed. “You're a reporter, right?”
“No, I'm a friend.”
“Not a friend of mine, you're not.” Liam took off again.
At least this time, we didn't have far to go. Twenty feet later, we'd nearly reached the other side of the room—and apparently Liam's setup. He slid nimbly between two grooming tables, then slipped the collar off over the Bloodhound's head and guided the big dog into an empty crate. A moment later, I heard the sound of water being lapped up noisily.
“I was a friend of Miss Ellie's,” I said as Liam latched the crate shut and straightened.
He turned around and looked at me. “Are you still here?”
“Yes.” It seemed obvious to point that out but . . .
he'd asked.
“Why?”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“I'm pretty sure I already said no.”
“That was when you thought I was a reporter,” I pointed out.
“I'm still not convinced that you're not.”
“I don't get it. Why do you think a reporter would be chasing you?”
“Because Ellie Wanamaker died two days ago. And that's news.”
“In the dog show world, sure.” I was still perplexed. That made me sarcastic. “Who do you think I write for,
Dogs in Review?
”
“Not just in the dog show world.” Liam stopped and peered at me across the top of the grooming table. “So you really knew Miss Ellie?”
I nodded. “We met for the first time early in the week.”
“Bad timing for you.”
“You could say that.” This conversation was going nowhere fast. It was time to play the
I've Got Connections
card.
“My aunt and Miss Ellie were old friends,” I told him.
Liam didn't look impressed. “Who's your aunt?”
“Margaret Turnbull.”
“Standard Poodles?”
“The very same.”
Usually the mere mention of Aunt Peg's name is all it takes to make people sit up and pay attention. Not Liam Dailey. He didn't look even slightly impressed by this new information. All at once, Kentucky began to feel like it was a very long way from Connecticut.
“I don't do Poodles,” Liam said with a shrug. Like that settled that.
I braced both hands on the top of the table between us and leaned in, stiff-armed, toward him. “I don't do Bloodhounds,” I snapped. “What's your point?”
“My God, you're an annoying woman. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“You're not the first,” I admitted. “Now are we going to talk about Miss Ellie or not?”
Liam grimaced. But he was weakening. I could tell.
“Let's get this over with,” he said. “Five minutes. That's all I'm giving you.”
“I thought you said you only had a minute.”
“Sure, I
said
that. I was trying to blow you off. For all the good it did.”
“I'll take the five,” I told him. “And you'd better be prepared to talk fast.”
Five minutes later, Liam Dailey and I were on our way to becoming the best of friends. We were also sipping Kentucky bourbon. His was coming from a flask, mine out of a paper cup.
Drinking in the middle of the day isn't my style. Especially not something like bourbon that rolled over my tongue as smooth as velvet then raced down my throat like liquid fire. Three small sips and I was already feeling a bit light-headed.
I suspected that was precisely what Liam Dailey had had in mind.
“Miss Ellie blew you a kiss,” I said.
I'd already clarified my relationship with Ellie Gates Wanamaker yet again, and then explained how I'd come to be escorting her around the show earlier in the week. I'd told Liam how shocked I'd been to hear of Miss Ellie's death and confessed that I was talking to some of her friends in an attempt to make sense of what had happened.
“Of course she blew me a kiss,” he replied. “I'm that kind of guy.”
“What kind?” I inquired.
“Friendly.”
You couldn't prove that by me. At least not until the bourbon had come out. But obviously he and Miss Ellie had shared an entirely different kind of relationship.
I lifted my cup, tipped it to him, and took a companionable sip. “Are you that friendly with all the women exhibitors?” I asked him. “Or was there something special about Miss Ellie?”
Liam matched my drink with one of his own. As he swallowed, he pursed his lips, savoring the burn. “It sounds to me like maybe you're implying something untoward.”
“I don't think so,” I said. I blinked and thought about it. Heck, maybe I was. Liam's bourbon definitely packed a punch. “But if I was . . . would it be true?”
“Miss Ellie and I were buddies,” said Liam. “Mates, that's all. We got along. We understood each other. We shared the same interests.”
“Dogs?” I said.
Liam nodded.
“Horses?”
“That, too.”
“Bourbon?”
“The lady liked a taste now and again,” Liam said. “Dog shows are my workplace. Sometimes the days drag on a bit. It never hurts to liven up the proceedings. Miss Ellie made very convivial company.”
Liam held up his hand and extended the flask in my direction. “More for you?”
No.” I shook my head for emphasis. “Thank you.”
Convivial indeed. The man was a pro at recruiting
mates
and creating a sociable atmosphere. But if I got any more convivial I might find myself lying flat out on the floor beneath the grooming table.
“Not everyone found Miss Ellie's company as congenial as you did,” I said as Liam wiped his palm across the mouth of the flask to dry it, then screwed the cap back into place. He reached over and slid the slim container into his tack box.
Liam looked back with a laugh. “Oh, Miss Ellie was no saint. I don't believe I said that, did I?”
“No,” I replied slowly. “You didn't.” I waited a beat, then added, “Would you care to elaborate?”
“It's not as though I'm telling tales out of school,” Liam said. “Miss Ellie was a fierce competitor. Everybody knows that. She liked to win. But even more than she liked to win, Ellie Gates Wanamaker absolutely
hated
to lose.”
“It sounds as though she might have made herself some enemies,” I mentioned.
“I don't doubt she did.” Liam reached around me and opened a midsize crate. He slid in a hand and withdrew a Beagle. The dog's tail was already wagging happily as the handler placed it on the next grooming table down the line. “It's the nature of the game, isn't it?”
“Are we talking about anyone in particular?” I asked.
“If you don't mind my saying,” said Liam, glancing my way. “That seems like a funny question. Especially now that the lady is gone and it wouldn't appear to be important anymore.”
“Or maybe that's exactly why it
is
important,” I said.
That was definitely the bourbon talking. I really hadn't meant to blurt that out.
“Oh? Then I'm thinking you must know things I don't.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
I burped slightly. My hand flew up to cover my mouth. Bourbon again.
Deliberately I set my cup down on the edge of a nearby crate. To my surprise, I realized that the cup was empty. Maybe I was a more convivial person than I thought.
Liam unfurled a show lead and slipped it over the Beagle's head. Then he grabbed an armband out of his tack box and slid it beneath the rubber band that encircled his upper arm.
“Then we make quite a pair.” He looked at me, his eyes hardening. “You know nothing. And I don't either. Excuse me. I have to be getting up to the ring.”
“One more thing,” I said. “Were you here on Friday, showing dogs?”
“Of course.” Liam picked up the small hound and tucked him beneath his arm. “I've been here every day this week. Like I said, this is my job. So I put in my time. Just like I'm supposed to do.”
He brushed past me and started back across the room toward the main pavilion.
“Good luck! ”I called after him.
Liam just kept walking.
* * *
I left Liam's grooming area and made my way to the other end of the large room where Bertie's and Crawford's setups were.
Bertie was my
best friend,
I thought happily. And now it occurred to me that I hadn't spent nearly enough time with her this week. She was probably down at her setup right now,
missing me
. Of course she was. What else would she be doing?
Though my legs had felt perfectly steady when I was leaning against Liam's grooming table, now they seemed to have developed a definite wobble. For some reason, I didn't find that worrisome. In fact, quite the opposite.
Striding down the long room past hordes of exhibitors all hard at work preparing their dogs for the ring, I couldn't seem to stop smiling. No, make that grinning. In fact, my goofy grin was so wide that it made my ears hurt.
But here's the funny thing. As I hurried past them, people kept smiling back at me. People I didn't even know. They all seemed delighted to see me. What a friendly place Kentucky was!
Liam was right, I realized suddenly. Convivial was the way to go!
By the time I arrived at my friends' setups, I was slightly breathless. That didn't stop me from singing out cheerfully, “Good morning, everyone!”
Bertie was brushing through a Sheltie. Terry was setting the topknot on a Shih Tzu. Crawford was probably in a ring showing something. Anyway, he was nowhere to be seen.
Which meant that only two pairs of startled eyes turned in my direction.
“Afternoon,” said Bertie. “Don't you mean afternoon?”
“Whatever.” I waved a hand airily.
“I thought you were going to watch Peg judge Standards,” said Terry. “What are you doing here? They're in the ring now.”
“Oh. Right.” My happy mood deflated slightly. “I forgot.”
“You
forgot?
” Bertie said with a frown.
I nodded guiltily.
Her eyes narrowed. “What's the matter with you? You don't look right.”
I leaned in closer so that I could lower my voice. “I might have been drinking bourbon,” I said confidentially.
The leaning in was a bad idea. Only a moment earlier, I'd been so steady on my feet. Now the wobble was suddenly back.
As I started to tip over, Terry grabbed my arm and hauled me upright. I sagged against him gratefully. Since I was already pressed up against him, I figured I might as well give him a hug, too.
“Thank you,” I said on an exhale. I straightened, attempting to retrieve my lost dignity. I was pretty sure that didn't happen.
Definitely not, if the look on Terry's face was any indication. “
Might
have?” he repeated incredulously. “Your breath smells like a distillery.”
“Oh please.” His tone of voice made me giggle. I couldn't believe I was meant to listen to censure from
Terry
of all people. He wouldn't know what good behavior was if it came up and bit him in the rear. I fluttered my eyebrows at him suggestively. “You say that as if it's a bad thing.”
Terry laughed at that. So I joined in. Why not? We were one big happy family, weren't we?
“Oh my.” Bertie left the Sheltie on the table and crossed through the setup to join us. “How much bourbon did you have?”
“I'm not entirely clear on that,” I admitted. “It was probably more than a little.”
“You have
no
head for alcohol,” said Terry. He was grinning delightedly.

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