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Authors: Linda O. Johnston

BOOK: Never Say Sty
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Kathy immediately froze. She had bright auburn hair and a soft, wrinkly face. “He was a real S.O.B.,” she said. “He just loved to lord it over everyone when he judged, just like on TV. Impartial judging? No way, when Sebastian was in the ring.”
Who here hated him enough to want to kill him
? I wanted to ask. Instead, I inquired, “When was the last time he did any judging for you?”
“A couple of months ago,” Kathy said. “The thing was, he really did know his stuff. And . . . well, as a trainer, he had a large following. He had his own school and lots of people from there joined our club. He kind of controlled our purse strings, so we couldn’t just dump him.”
“So why did he stop judging?” I asked.
“His school started to get some really bad publicity, thanks to some of the stuff he pulled.” That came from a guy who had a miniature dachshund at his side. “Hi, I’m Marc.”
“My husband,” Janice explained territorially, not that I had any interest in the man twice my age and girth.
“What kind of stuff?” I inquired of Marc, as I bent to show his little dog the back of my hand for an interested sniff.
“Judges are supposed to have the sport at heart,” Janice answered. “Not Sebastian. He had his own ego and pocketbook at the forefront of his mind, whatever he did.”
“I’ll say,” Kathy added. “First he’d give people a really hard time in the ring, taking points off for refusals and other faults he caused himself. Then he’d hand them his card, suggest they’d do better if they entered their dogs in his school.”
I’d watched from the corner of my eye as people went in and picked up hurdles, placing them elsewhere and sometimes adding or removing height. An apparent judge stood near them, directing what went where.
Soon, they finished, two people resumed their places at a table, and a mechanical voice said “Go.” A mixed-breed resembling an adorable mop on legs started the closest course, and Marc said, “Sorry. Hans and I need to get ready.” Hans, I assumed, was his dachshund, who followed him toward the opening in the fence surrounding the agility field. That pup with the little legs could leap hurdles? Amazing!
But I was here with an ulterior motive, not just admiring agility trials. I turned back to Janice, who was also watching the course. “Did anyone ever criticize Sebastian for his actions as a less than competent judge?”
“Sure,” Janice said. “We all did.”
“I could take what he said, since I considered the source,” Kathy added. “But some of our newer members really had their feelings hurt.”
Now we were getting somewhere . . . maybe. “Did anyone get mad?”
“You mean, did one of us wait a couple of months, then kill the guy?” Janice looked at me over her glasses with a sardonic smile. “No one I know.”
“Well, remember, Janice,” interjected Kathy, “there was that time last year that one of the guys punched Sebastian out after he got held up on the course because the so-called impartial judge stood right in his dog’s way.”
“Who was that?” I asked without trying to sound too eager. I’d heard the story before without any hint of an identity.
The women looked at one another. “I don’t remember his name,” Kathy said. “He wasn’t from this area, and I don’t think he really knew how to train dogs well anyway. His spaniel was extremely agile and bright, though, so I don’t blame him for getting upset at Sebastian’s nastiness.”
“I remember seeing him around occasionally at other agility trials after that,” Janice said. “He didn’t compete, though, and stayed in the background—avoiding Sebastian. He seemed to make it a point to try to cheer up other participants Sebastian criticized.”
“Mostly, though,” Kathy said, “Sebastian hurt feelings with impunity. Hardly anyone complained. He even criticized those he judged in the TV and magazine interviews he did—although there he at least didn’t name names. But I have to say I was really upset when one of our best members, Beth Black, apparently attempted suicide after her American Eskimo dog had a huge number of points taken off by Sebastian at an important match.”
“She loved that dog,” Janice said, nodding. “And he was so far along—his title was Excellent B, almost up to MACH—but he was getting old and had just been diagnosed with arthritis. She couldn’t keep him competing, and was so frustrated that his career would end so cavalierly.”
Aha! I’d heard rumors before that Sebastian’s nastiness had been alleged to spur someone to attempt suicide. Now, I’d get the particulars. I’d gathered the woman survived. Had she decided to slay Sebastian instead of herself?
“Go” shouted the mechanical voice, and we all looked over as large Marc put his little dachshund through his paces. The pup was amazingly good, leaping over hurdles as if his legs were twice as long, and disappearing into canvas tunnels, then reappearing at the other end.
“He’s doing great!” Janice exclaimed. “Now if he can just get to the time sensor fast at the end.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Things are mostly done electronically now,” Kathy explained. “The dogs go between one set of sensors at the beginning of the course and another at the end, to ensure that they don’t take more than sixty seconds total. Their time is automatically recorded, and the scorers at the table just note if there are any points taken off for faults.”
“That’s cool,” I said with absolute interest. I cheered right along with them as Marc and dog finished the course to cheers and excited accolades.
Only after he’d returned to us and received even further congratulations did I resume the previous discussion with Kathy. “So that poor dog with arthritis didn’t get his MACH title?”
“No. Fortunately, Beth didn’t die during her suicide attempt. She claimed she hadn’t meant it anyway—didn’t want to leave her poor dog alone. But she was still upset enough to want nothing to do with any of us, or agility, anymore. She moved away and we’ve all lost touch with her.”
“That’s awful,” I said.
“Sure is,” Marc interjected. “We all liked Beth. She was really active with the club. She had a boyfriend who always hung out at our matches, but since he didn’t have a dog, no one got to know him very well. He seemed a quiet and nerdy type till something went wrong in the match for Beth, and then he’d sometimes start to try to take charge, fix things—till she shut him up. Anyway, I heard he was really broken up when she left.”
I knelt to pet the agile dachshund. “You did great, Hans.”
“Arf,” he responded, wagging his tail. We all laughed, and for a moment I felt part of this agility-aspiring group.
Enough to ask Janice, “Would it be possible to take a look at any of the records, to see if I could figure out who punched Sebastian?” There was only a flimsy possibility of that, although I wasn’t sure what else I might find. Some familiar names, like people who’d shown up at
Animal Auditions
?
“ ’Fraid not,” she said. “Privacy laws and all that. And you wouldn’t find that answer there, anyway. But I thought you were here for ideas for your TV show.”
“I am, but it might help our ratings if we solved who killed Sebastian.” Not to mention Ned’s and Nita’s well-being. I handed out my cards—pet-sitter sort, not lawyer. “If you happen to think of anyone else who was particularly peeved with Sebastian, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.” But I didn’t hold out a whole lot of hope I’d hear from any of them—unless they aspired to a role on
Animal Auditions
.
I wandered around a while longer, watching and asking more questions—including quizzing one of the judges between rounds.
“This is all so fun,” I said. “I admire you for being a judge. Does anyone ever get mad at you, though, for your calls?”
“Sure. Lots of people do.” Her name tag said she was Gladys, but her expression did not suggest she was glad about my interruption.
“Enough to . . . well, do something about it afterward?”
“Like yell at me? Sure, but then I simply disqualify them.”
I supposed that people here could be serious enough about their dogs’ performances to do something nasty if disqualified.
Like that one woman who’d been mentioned—Beth Black? She’d attempted suicide, or so they said. What had actually happened to her? But Judge Gladys didn’t know, either.
“Did you know Sebastian Czykovski?” I inquired next.
Gladys glared as if I’d sworn a blue streak at her. “Unfortunately. You know he’s dead?”
“Yes.” I explained who I was and my affiliation with
Animal Auditions
.
“We’re all interested in a show like that,” Gladys said, “and I’ll probably watch it now that Sebastian isn’t on it. But I wouldn’t before.”
“I don’t suppose you could give me a lead on who might have hated him enough to kill him?”
“We all hated him. And even if I had a clue who offed him, I’d applaud, not tattle on him. Or her.”
I didn’t hang around a whole lot longer after that now familiar refrain. As fun as this was, I’d likely learned all I was going to. And I still didn’t have a genuine clue about who might have killed Sebastian.
He sure didn’t have any friends here. Did he make enemies who remained angry enough to do something months later? Or had this trip simply been a waste of time?
Chapter Twenty-six
AS MUCH AS I prided myself on my prowess in unraveling my multiple murder magnet situations, I also knew when to call in assistance—a sounding board, if nothing else.
So, on that drive home, I used my hands-free phone to call one of the most savvy folks I knew. Who?
Dante.
Used to be I’d rely on my own private P.I., Jeff. But I preferred not using that particular resource often, if at all, now—except when I needed Althea’s input.
Fortunately, Dante responded right away. “Kendra? Where are you—still at the agility match?”
“No, I’m on my way home, but I had a really delightful time there. Maybe you could sell these people some of the equipment they use, like hurdles and flexible tubes and that electronic timer they install at the beginning and end of each course.”
A teensy pause before he said, his tone tinged with a smile I could almost see, “I do.”
“Oh. Of course.” And he probably made a fortune from that stuff, too, as he did with all his pet paraphernalia at HotPets. Well, why not? Someone had to profit. And he did it with such flair. “Anyway,” I continued, “I got some additional insight into Sebastian, pre-
Animal Auditions
. Even before he started showing up as a pet pundit on national TV. He wasn’t exactly a beloved judge.”
“That’s news to you?”
“No way. But I learned specific circumstances where agility people really loathed him. Only problem is that even though I’ve nailed down some situations, I don’t have the names of who was involved in them.”
“We can probably find that out.”
I hesitated while I changed lanes, not wanting to be sucked off onto the freeway to downtown. “I’m not so sure. At least not in all cases, although I did get one name. I asked the president of their organization for a membership list when she couldn’t recall some of the specifics. She didn’t cooperate.”
“Tell you what. When you’re done with your pet-sitting rounds tonight, bring Lexie and come to my place. I’ll get Brody to join us, and we’ll brainstorm.”
 
 
DANTE DEFRANCISCO WAS as private about where he lived as he was about giving live interviews.
I’d already looked. Googled him and checked all the print and online directories I could find. All I knew was that he lived in Malibu, one of the primo areas around L.A.—and also one that went up in smoke a whole lot during our annual fire season.
It was as if he didn’t live anywhere. Or at least nowhere the public could find out about from any possible source.
But tonight, he told me exactly where to find him. And I delightedly drove Lexie and me in our nice, new blue Escape over the Santa Monica Mountains by way of Malibu Canyon Road. Didn’t need to get as far as Pepperdine University—with a law school in one lovely location. The turn off for Dante’s was before that.
Some narrow, twisting roads with frequent glimpses of the Pacific—and then we were there. Or at least we got to the gate at the end of a driveway from which, even peering upward, I still couldn’t see the house.
I pushed the intercom button. “Dante? It’s me.”
“Is this Ms. Ballantyne?” inquired a man’s voice with a vaguely Hispanic accent, not my host’s. Well, duh. I already knew he had a personal assistant. Maybe he had a whole house staff.
“Yes, it is,” I confirmed, and the gate swung open. My gate at home also swung open when I pushed a button, so why did this one appear so much more imposing?
Maybe because much of my property could be seen through my fence, including my rented-out house with its garden and the garage where I lived. Here, there were massive hedges, possibly ficus, flanking the sides of the climbing driveway and obscuring whatever lay beyond them. They seemed perfectly well groomed, as if a landscaping staff ensured they were watered and pruned as often as needed.

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