Live and Let Growl (7 page)

“Thank God you're here!” Bertie said as Faith and I approached.

Alarmed by the unexpected greeting, I quickly scooted Faith into an empty, floor-level, crate. Snapping the latch shut behind her, I straightened and held out my empty hands, ready to go to work.

“What's the matter?” I asked. “Am I late? What do you need?”

Bertie had an apricot Mini Poodle lying on the table in front of her. She was line brushing through its wispy coat, the first stage of preparation for the ring. Now she leaned across the tabletop so that her lips were only inches from my ear.

“It's Crawford,” she whispered.

“Crawford?” I was so surprised that I repeated his name out loud without thinking.

The handler was standing at the other end of the next setup. Though he was currently facing away from us, I'd suspected for years that Crawford had eyes in the back of his head.

“Shhh!” Bertie snapped. “Not so loud! He'll hear us.”

“What's the matter with Crawford?” I whispered back, casting him a quick glance. He and I had been mates for years. I hoped it was nothing serious.

“He is driving me insane.” Bertie grabbed my arm and squeezed it, hard. “You have got to do something. Because if this keeps up, I swear I'm going to have to kill him.”

Chapter 7

P
regnancy hormones
. Surely that was the problem. There was no other way to explain Bertie's outburst.

Crawford Langley was one of the first people I had met when I became involved in the dog show world. He enjoyed Elder Statesman status in the Poodle community, having reigned for years as one of its premier professional handlers. Crawford presented his Poodles in the show ring with an enviable mix of talent and flair. He knew how to make a good dog look better than it was, and he could make a great dog unbeatable.

Crawford was two decades older than I was, and it had taken us some time to become comfortable with one another. The handler was dignified and charming, and he always knew the right thing to say. In short, we had little in common beyond our mutual love of dogs. But beneath Crawford's reserved exterior was a man who cared deeply about his friends, and I was honored to count myself as one of them.

Terry Denunzio, on the other hand, was a whole different kettle of fish. Terry was not only Crawford's assistant, he was also his life partner. He was young, gorgeous, and flamboyantly out-there.

Terry cuts my hair and he criticizes my wardrobe. He always knows the latest gossip, sometimes because he's created it himself. I was well aware of Terry's propensity for stirring up mischief. So if Bertie had a complaint I wouldn't have been surprised to hear that it concerned Terry.
But Crawford?

“Bertie, what on earth are you talking about?” I asked.

She looked over my shoulder and her eyes widened at what she saw. “Here he comes,” she whispered unhappily. “You'll see.”

I turned around. Crawford was threading his way toward us down the narrow aisle between his numerous grooming tables. The Miniature variety was first to be judged and Crawford had four Mini Poodles, all in various stages of preparation, out of their crates and waiting patiently on their tabletops.

He didn't look like a man with time to spare.

Nevertheless, as Crawford approached I gave him a big smile. Like many of my dog friends, we usually only saw each other when our show schedules meshed. And since Augie was our only Standard Poodle “in hair,” and Davey, who handled him, was in the middle of basketball season, I hadn't been to many shows lately. At least a month had passed since Crawford and I had last seen one another.

He answered my smile with a glower and barked, “You're late!”

“No, I'm not,” I replied uncertainly. It was unlike Crawford to be wrong about anything. “The show hasn't even started yet.”

“Bertie told me she was counting on you.”

“Umm . . . okay?” I sent my sister-in-law a quick, surprised glance. That wasn't what I'd heard.

Bertie's gaze slid away. She averted her eyes, staring upward as if something utterly fascinating was happening on the ceiling. (It wasn't.)

So . . . no help there. It would have been nice if she'd bothered to tell me what the heck Crawford and I were arguing about before opting out of the conversation.

“Bertie is in a delicate condition,” he said.

Only Crawford would have phrased the news that way. And overlooked the fact that Bertie was about as delicate as a longshoreman. But at least now I had an inkling what the problem was.

“She's pregnant,” I said, just to see if Crawford would wince.

He didn't, but he did close his eyes briefly as if uttering a silent prayer.
Lord save me from women with explicit vocabularies.

“I'm aware of that,” I added. Just so we were all on the same page.

A moment earlier I had glanced at Bertie. Now I glared.

Instead of looking upward, she was now gazing down. Bertie's hands were clasped in front of her . . . and she was twiddling her thumbs.

Twiddling.
Seriously?

Being familiar with the condition myself, I'm inclined to give pregnant women a lot of leeway. But Bertie was starting to test the boundaries of even my goodwill. I reached over and poked her in the side. I needed her to refocus on the discussion at hand.

“I had to tell him,” Bertie said plaintively. Then she added in a low voice, “Morning sickness.”

“I was afraid she had the flu,” said Crawford.

“No such luck,” Bertie muttered. Now that I was looking, she did appear to be a little green around the gills. “It was supposed to be over by now.”

Crawford just shook his head. “Instead I find out that congratulations are in order. And that rather than staying home with her feet up, Bertie decided to gas up her truck and bring a dozen dogs to Kentucky. What kind of husband lets his wife do something like that? The guy must be an idiot.”

“Bertie is married to my brother,” I mentioned.

“It figures.”

Ouch.

“Crawford, I'm
fine,
” Bertie said. “Really. So I threw up. It's no big deal. And I feel much better now.”

Crawford arched a sleek, gray eyebrow. “Are you still pregnant?”

“I should hope so.”

“Then you're
not
fine. And you shouldn't be working.”

I loved Crawford dearly but this was ridiculous. I thought of all the complimentary adjectives I'd applied to him and silently added another:
old-fashioned.

“How would you know?” I asked him.

“What do you mean?”

“Last time I looked you were gay.”

“Oh my God,” a familiar voice squealed behind me. “Crawford is gay? When did that happen?”

I spun around and smiled in spite of myself. Terry always has that effect on me.

He was carrying a cardboard tray filled with several cups of coffee but he shifted it to one side so that we could lean in and air kiss each other's cheeks. It wasn't my makeup we were trying not to muss, it was Terry's. The man had on more eyeliner than I did.

“You're not helping,” I told him.

“I should hope not,” Terry sassed right back. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” I said.

At the same time, Crawford uttered an emphatic “
Yes.
”

Bertie just sighed. “I'm pregnant.”

“Good news, then? Congratulations.” Terry set down the tray on a nearby tabletop. Then he wrapped his arms around Bertie and hugged her close. “Are you sure you should be drinking coffee?”

There were three insulated cups in the cardboard holder. Terry must have taken her order before heading over to the concession stand.

“Not you, too,” Bertie grumbled.

“What?” Terry managed to look innocent. “I just got here.”

“Everybody has an opinion about something that should be my business.”

“Can't help that,” Terry said with a shrug. “It's what we do.”

It was indeed.

Terry stepped back and shifted his attention my way. “If I'm reading the signs correctly, you're in trouble again. What did you do now?”

“Nothing!” I insisted.

“And that's precisely the problem.” Crawford inserted himself back into the conversation. “Bertie told me I shouldn't worry because you were going to be here to help out and make sure that she didn't overexert herself.”

“You threw me under the bus,” I said to Bertie.

“Hey,” she replied, reaching for her coffee. “Better you than me.”

Sad to say, I couldn't argue with that logic.

“So here I am,” I said instead. “At your disposal.” Then a sudden thought struck me. “Except for one thing.”

“Now what?” asked Terry, sounding delighted that our dilemma—seemingly solved only seconds earlier—was once more up for debate.

“Coffee break is over.” Crawford cast a meaningful glance in the direction of his grooming tables. Then he looked back at his assistant. “Shouldn't you be working?”

All four of Crawford's Minis had their coats brushed out and scissored. But three needed to be sprayed up, and one still had its topknot and ears encased in the brightly colored wraps it would have worn since its bath the day before. I didn't need to check the show schedule taped to the raised lid of Crawford's tack box to know that even with both handlers applying themselves, they still had a lot of work to accomplish in a small amount of time.

Terry just grinned. Nothing rattles that guy. Plus, he's a whiz with hair. Terry can accomplish more with a Mini coat in ten minutes than I can achieve in an hour. Which is probably why he's Crawford Langley's assistant and I'm still a lowly owner-handler.

He stepped over to the closest table, picked up a pair of small, sharp scissors, and quickly popped the row of tiny rubber bands holding the Mini's topknot hair in place. Deftly he pulled the colored wraps free and set them aside. With a quick spritz of water he tamed the inevitable fly-aways, then used a pin brush to smooth out the long, black hair.

“I'll work, you talk,” Terry said to me. “Spill.”

“Yes,” Bertie agreed, back at her own grooming. “And speak up so we can all hear. What are you up to now?”

“It was Aunt Peg's idea—” I began.

“Of course it was,” Terry agreed. He picked up a long knitting needle and used it to section off a small bit of hair above the Poodle's eyes, which he gathered it into a supertight ponytail. A second section quickly followed.

Terry was flying through the topknot. It was easy to see why. He didn't have to stop and redo mistakes, like I usually did.

“Aunt Peg,” Bertie echoed. She didn't sound surprised. “I probably shouldn't admit this but road trips with that women scare the crap out of me. Peg stirs up plenty of excitement at home. Take her to a strange place and you never know what might happen. Remember when we went to that judges' conference and she hooked up with a new boyfriend that she'd met on the Internet?”

“Really?” Terry looked up. “I don't remember that.”

“That's because Richard didn't last long,” I told him.

“Not even until the end of the conference,” Bertie said with a laugh. “And now there's this thing with the horse.”

“What horse?” asked Terry.

Even Crawford, busy spraying up a Mini farther down the line of tables, glanced over at us in surprise.

“Aunt Peg inherited a Thoroughbred broodmare named Lucky Luna,” I said. “She lives at a breeding farm near Lexington.”

“I love it!” Terry chortled.

That nugget of information would probably make his day—and keep him busy all afternoon. By the end of the dog show, pretty much everyone within shouting distance would know all about it.

“Peg with a racehorse,” Terry said happily. “That's priceless. Is she going to ride it?”

“Definitely not,” I told him. “Lucky Luna is ten months pregnant.”

“
Ten
months?” Bertie raised a brow. Unconsciously she lifted a hand to her own stomach.

“Gestation in horses is eleven months and sometimes longer.” Thanks to my book, I was a font of newfound knowledge. “Lucky Luna is due in April.”

Bertie sighed. “I wish I only had a month to go.”

“Don't we all,” Crawford said under his breath.

“Yesterday Aunt Peg and I went to Six Oaks Farm to see her new acquisition,” I continued. “And along the way we stopped to visit an old friend whom she hadn't seen in a long while, Ellie Gates Wanamaker.”

“Miss Ellie?” Crawford's head snapped up. “She lives near here?”

“She does,” I confirmed. “In Midway.”

“Imagine that,” he said. “I had no idea. It's been years since I've seen Miss Ellie.”

Bertie looked over at Terry, who just shrugged. Neither of them had a clue. I knew why: Miss Ellie's tenure in Poodles had taken place long before either Terry or Bertie had become involved in the breed. Still, it was nice not to be the only ignoramus for a change.

“Who is Ellie Gates Wanamaker?” Terry mouthed silently to me.

“She was Gatewood Standard Poodles,” I said. “Miss Ellie bred Poodles with great success for decades. She was a big deal twenty years ago.”

“She was more than that.” Crawford spoke up. “In those days, Miss Ellie was a veritable pillar of the breed. Everyone looked up to her. Her Standard Poodles were among the very best around.

“Miss Ellie didn't compete in our part of the country often. We might see her a few times a year at PCA and Westminster, and maybe Westchester. But when she did show up, we all knew we'd better shine our shoes and straighten our ties because it was going to take every ounce of talent and luck we had to beat her.”

The three of us listened to Crawford's homage with varying degrees of bemused astonishment.

For one thing, Crawford is usually a man of few words. And for another, like Aunt Peg, he has been involved with the Poodle breed at the highest levels for decades himself. He's seen it all, done it all, and succeeded at most of it. So it takes a lot to impress him. I found it interesting that even years later, Crawford remembered Miss Ellie with such regard and appreciation.

“Miss Ellie sounds like an interesting woman,” Bertie said. She appeared to be surprised by Crawford's response as I was. “I'd love to meet her.”

“In that case, I have good news,” I told her. “Because the reason I can't stay here and help you is because Aunt Peg convinced Miss Ellie to come to today's show. I'm going to spend the day showing her around.”

“Good luck with that,” Crawford said with a laugh.

“What do you mean?”

“The Miss Ellie I recall didn't follow anybody around.
Ever
. I'd say that it's a great deal more likely that she'll lead you on a merry chase around the showground instead.”