Underdog (23 page)
“I wouldn't exactly say I've put them behind me,” Rose said complacently. I saw Peter give her fingers a squeeze. “Actually I've been doing volunteer work at a shelter in New London. As I'm sure you know, the secular world has no shortage of worthwhile projects that need attending to.”
“And of course you'd be just the one to set them straight on how things should be done.”
“I do my best.” Aunt Rose actually smiled this time.
I could see Aunt Peg's frustration level rising. What good did it do to toss barbs at someone who refused to rise to the bait? Before she could try another insult, I stood between them and offered the vegetable platter.
“Here, Aunt Peg. Have a carrot.”
“I'm not hungry, dear.”
“Have one anyway.”
“My, we have gotten pushy, haven't we?” She looked past my shoulder to the couch where Rose was sitting. “I guess we know which side of the family that comes from.”
“There's nothing wrong with knowing what you want,” Rose said firmly. “I'd say that's a sign of intelligence, wouldn't you?” She directed the question to Sam, who looked as though he'd just been lobbed a flaming howitzer.
He recovered quickly, though. “I'd say the surest sign of intelligence is knowing when not to step into the middle of an argument.”
“Good answer.” Peter applauded.
“Good answer!” Davey echoed. I don't think he had a clue what we were talking about. “Is it time to eat yet?”
Bless that boy for asking.
“Just about,” I said, escaping to the kitchen to finish the preparations.
Sam found me there, shaking my head and muttering as I took the turkey out of the oven. He came up behind me and slipped his arms around my waist. “Don't worry,” he said. “Things will settle down.”
“Settle down? Those two aren't even warmed up yet!”
He chuckled softly into the back of my neck. “You see? Now we have something to look forward to.”
Â
Maybe it was the good food that mellowed them. Or the wine I kept pouring willy-nilly into their glasses. But for some reason the rest of the day didn't go nearly as badly as I'd feared. Clearly Peter had a calming influence on his new wife. And with Frank, Sam, and me tag-teaming Aunt Peg, there simply wasn't an opportunity for her to get into much trouble.
There was an awkward moment when Rose looked askance at the sweet potato and marshmallow casserole. And then another when Peg tried to do Peter out of the last eclair by glancing at his waistline and inquiring if he was sure he thought he ought to have seconds. But overall, I thought it went well. At least nobody came to blows.
Aunt Rose and Peter had the longest drive home. They left first, followed shortly by Aunt Peg who had her Poodles at home to attend to. Sam had the same excuse, but he didn't seem in a hurry to go anywhere.
While I finished cleaning up, Frank and Sam sat Davey down on the couch between them and introduced him to the manly joys of watching football. By the time I got out of the kitchen, my son was ogling cheerleaders and trying out a victory dance. I drew the line at audience participation when he spiked his rubber football and knocked over a lamp. Then I settled down beside themâfour was a pleasantly tight fit on my couchâand watched the second half.
I've had holidays that have gone worse.
Frank left when the game ended. I'd hoped Sam might stay later, but it turned out he couldn't. To my surprise, he had a plane to catch. His sister in Atlanta had invited him to come visit for the holiday weekend. He'd accepted, then delayed his departure by a day when I'd tendered my invitation.
I tried to feel guilty that he'd missed Thanksgiving with his family, but the emotion just wouldn't take hold. Real, deep-down happiness took its place. For the first time in a long time, I felt truly cared for.
“So,” he said as I walked him outside to his car. “Did I pass the test?”
The night air was cold and I hadn't bothered with a coat. I didn't mind a bit when he wrapped his arms around me. I snuggled closer for warmth, and other things.
“What test?” I asked innocently.
He didn't answer that question. Instead he dipped his head down and we kissed. Long moments passed before he pulled his lips the tiniest bit away.
“You're running out of excuses, Melanie.”
“Thank God.”
It was too dark to see, but I thought he was smiling.
Twenty-three
The Springfield cluster of dog shows is held at the Eastern State Exposition Grounds in West Springfield, Massachusetts. It's a wonderful location for the purpose because it's easy to get to, the buildings are large and well-lit and there is plenty of room for parking. Every year, the number of dog clubs making use of the site seems to grow; and the November cluster has become one of the largest on the East Coast.
The shows over Thanksgiving weekend run Friday through Monday. Aunt Peg was planning on showing her bitch all four days; Faith was entered on Saturday and Sunday. Two shows were plenty for a puppy her age, and besides, Davey and I needed to be back at school after the weekend.
Most of the breed competition was scheduled to be held in the largest building on the site. Eighteen rings filled the middle of the huge hall. The grooming area formed a wide band around the rings, and dozens of concession stands hugged the walls. Faith wasn't showing until the next day, but when we arrived on Friday I pulled up to the unloading zone and brought in all my stuff. At a cluster this size, everybody stakes out their territory early and there is much vying for the best spots.
Aunt Peg and I would be taking our Poodles back to the hotel with us at night; but many of the other exhibitors simplified their lives by leaving their dogs in the building. The dogs ate and slept in their crates, and exercised in paper floored pens that were set up in the aisles after the show ended each day. The building was locked at eleven o'clock each night and reopened at seven in the morning. Show dogs travel a lot and are used to such restrictions. For them, it was all just part of the routine.
It was mid-morning when Davey, Faith, and I arrived and the first day's dog show was already in progress. It took me nearly twenty minutes to find Aunt Peg's set-up, mostly because she'd chosen a spot that was nowhere near the Poodle ring. In that time my tour of the building had taken me by Crystal's concession stand, where she hadn't returned my wave, and past numerous food booths where my ever-hungry child had exclaimed hopefully over everything from foot-long hot dogs to candied apples.
“What are you doing way over here?” I set my grooming table down on the ground with a thump I hoped was loud enough to convey my displeasure.
“Spying,” Aunt Peg confided in a low tone. She gestured toward the next aisle over and I saw the stacked crates and green monogrammed towels of Shamrock Kennels.
Exhibitors may set up anywhere within the grooming area they wish. Since it's most practical to be near your ring, however, the dogs tend to cluster together by breed or group. As I placed my table in the space Aunt Peg had saved, I could see that we were in the thick of sporting dog territory. Not only were Rick and Angie next door on one side, but Harry Flynn was only an aisle away in the other. Unfortunately the Poodle ring wasn't even within view.
“What have you seen so far?”
“Nothing.”
Just about what I'd expected. I looked around the set-up. With the four-day stay in mind, Aunt Peg had built herself a home away from home. The crates, tack box, and grooming tables went to every show. But for Springfield, she'd also added chairs, buckets for spot cleaning, and her big, free-standing blow dryer so that Peaches's bracelets and tail could be freshly washed and dried each morning. An orange extension cord snaked off through the crates, hooking us up for electricity.
I hopped Faith up on her table and told her to stay, then cleaned a stack of new Dog Scenes off a folding chair and got Davey settled with a juice box and a book. When I got back from parking the car, he was still happily occupied. Thank goodness for Richard Scarry and lowly worm.
Aunt Peg had left Peaches on her table and was standing at the end of the aisle, staring off toward the rings. As I came up behind her, I could see that Ascob Cocker Spaniels were being judged in ring five. Angie and Charlie were standing ringside awaiting their turn, but that wasn't the direction Peg was looking.
“What's going on?” I asked.
“Bearded Collies.”
The dogs were medium sized and covered with long, flowing hair. Ring eight was filled with them. I scanned the faces of the exhibitors and felt none the wiser. “So what?”
“Look who's judging.”
I did, but it didn't help. The man was of average height, but strongly built. His features were coarse and a thick head of silver hair was matched by bushy eyebrows and an equally full mustache. His hand on a dog was confident, but gentle. Most were wagging their tails by the time he was done.
“Who is he?”
Aunt Peg glanced over to the Shamrock set-up before answering. “Roger Peterson.”
It took a moment for the name to register. Then I joined her in staring. “Jenny and Angie's
father
?”
father
?”
Peg nodded. She was holding the catalogue in her hands. “According to the roster, Lavinia's here too. She's judging a full slate of toy breeds over in ring one.”
I glanced toward the Cocker ring. Angie and Charlie were still waiting outside the gate; specials had yet to be called. From her vantage point, I doubted if she could see her father, but she'd angled the Cocker so that they were facing the other way.
“Do you think Angie knows?”
“She must. Actually considering how many shows a year the Petersons judge, it's probably less surprising that they're here than that we haven't run into them sooner.”
“Do you think Angie will talk to them?”
“Not during the show, certainly. There are gray areas of involvement between judge and exhibitor that the AKC frowns upon. Not that Angie will be showing any dogs under her parentsâshe couldn't do that. But still, if they're going to talk, I'm sure it will be afterward.”
I turned to see what Angie was doing. The Best of Variety class was in the ring. Only two specials were in contention: Charlie and a red Cocker with Harry Flynn, presumably the one he'd beaten Charlie with the week before in Boston. This time, however, Angie and Charlie sailed right through. The judge took almost no time in making her decision and awarding the purple and gold rosette to Florence Byrd's dog.
Peg headed back to her tables to finish grooming. Since Faith wasn't showing until the next day, I waited and watched as the photographer was called and the win pictures taken. Angie, of course, was all smiles. The judge held the ribbon, looking proper and dignified and very satisfied with her choice. Charlie's plush coat gleamed. When the photographer threw a squeaky toy to get his attention, he cocked his head to one side becomingly.
Only one thing marred the happy tableau. When the picture had been taken, Angie gathered up dog and ribbon and stepped aside to let the next winner take her place. She headed for the gate, then paused. Standing on her toes, she looked across at ring eight where her father was judging.
Was she hoping he'd seen her win? If so, she had to be disappointed. Roger Peterson never turned around; never even looked up. Angie cradled Charlie against her chest, and left the ring, her expression bleak.
Â
Davey and I went off to get lunch while Aunt Peg progressed from brushing to putting in Peaches's top-knot. The food sellers were at the other end of the building and on the way there, we took a detour past ring one. Yorkshire Terriers were being judged and a schedule posted by the gate identified the judge as Lavinia Peterson. I slowed down to take a look.
Like Jenny, Mrs. Peterson was petite. From things I'd heard, I imagined she was in her mid-fifties, but she looked at least a decade younger. Her hair was blondâa shade too brassy to be naturalâand gathered back in a smooth chignon. She wore a boxy suit made of nubby fabric, support hose, and sturdy shoes that looked as though they'd been chosen with comfort in mind. Her hand on a dog, like her husband's, was steady and efficient.
“Come on,” said Davey, tugging on my arm. “I'm
starving
. You can see dogs anytime.”
starving
. You can see dogs anytime.”
I allowed myself to be pulled away and we spent the next twenty minutes waiting in line at the food concession. Luckily Davey didn't faint from hunger before our turn came. He scarfed down a hamburger in no time flat and polished off most of the french fries while I was nibbling at a chicken sandwich. Dog show food is nothing to write home about.
On the way back, pictures were being taken in ring one. Mrs. Peterson was chatting with Crawford Langley, who had a Yorkie posed on the table in front of them. A plaque, also on the table, identified the dog as having won Best of Winners. I glanced up at the schedule. The judge was on lunch break now. Her next assignment didn't begin until one fifteen.
Pictures finished. Mrs. Peterson headed for the judge's table in the corner of the ring. She gathered up her things and Davey and I were waiting at the gate when she came out.
“Excuse me,” I said.
She stopped and stiffened, as if bracing herself for an encounter with a disgruntled exhibitor. Up close, I saw she had Jenny's eyes, rich brown flecked with gold.
“Yes?”
I held out my hand. “My name is Melanie Travis. I was a friend of Jenny's. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I was about what happened.”
She looked me up and down carefully, then took my hand and shook it briefly. “Thank you,” she said before turning away.
“I also wanted to mention, in case you didn't know . . . I'm sure you know, but in case you didn't. . .”
Lavinia Peterson listened to my fumbling with a hard stare.
“Angie is here.”
“I'm aware of that.”
“I think she's hoping you'll watch her show her dogs.”
“That won't be possible. I have my own job to do. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for lunch.”
Her steward had waited while we'd spoken and the two of them walked away together. I stared after them. With family like that, it was no wonder Angie and Jenny couldn't wait to get away.
Davey and I went back to the set-up. Aunt Peg was ready to take Peaches up to the Standard Poodle ring. I slipped Faith into one of the empty crates, picked up hair spray, a big comb, and scissors to take with us, and ran interference for them on the way over.
After all those hours of preparation, Peaches only placed third in the Open class. For all her hard work, Aunt Peg got a little strip of colored ribbon and a thank-you-for-coming. Worse still, Peaches was beaten by a brown bitch with a long back and a straight hindquarter shown by a handler from Ohio. I was hopping mad, but Aunt Peg who has been around longer than just about anybody, only shrugged.
“But the bitch is ugly,” I whispered furiously. “I don't see how she could have beaten you.”
Aunt Peg gazed back into the ring where Winners Bitch was being judged. “She has a pretty head. And Dermott's known for liking browns.”
“But Peaches is a better Poodle!”
“That's your opinion. Obviously not the judge's. Don't worry, this is only the first day. We'll have three more chances to do something.”
That made me think of the next day's judging, and of Faith who was sitting back at the set-up in a crate. She hadn't been exercised for several hours. I left Davey with Aunt Peg at ringside, went back and got my puppy and took her outside for a run. She hopped and played and spun exuberantly on the end of her lead.
Ten minutes later, when I brought her back into the building, Faith still refused to settle down. The noise and crowding and confusion didn't upset her, but it did seem to make her forget every bit of training she'd ever had. I couldn't imagine how I'd ever be able to get her to behave in the ring the next day.
There was a small open space in the grooming area near our set-up and I took Faith there for a few minutes practice. It quickly became evident how badly she needed it. When I walked her into her stand, she fidgeted. When I set her front legs, she moved her rear. When I reached out to fix her back legs, she scooted out from under my arm.
I tried coaxing. I tried being stern. Nothing seemed to help. I began to lose my temper, which is about the worst thing that can happen when you're trying to train a puppy. I was about to give up and put her back in her crate when a familiar voice said, “Here. Try this.”
Rick must have returned to the Shamrock set-up while I was busy with Faith. He came over to where we were standing and held out a piece of dried liver. “There's too much going on in here. Her attention's all over the place. Let's start with getting her to look at you.”
What he said made sense. But since the last time I'd seen Rick Maguire, I'd talked to a lot of people and done a great deal of thinking. At the moment, my thoughts in his direction were far from kindly. At the very least his treatment of his wife had compelled her to concoct a desperate plan to escape. At worst, I might have been standing next to a murderer. I might not have been able to prove much of what I knew about Rick, but that didn't mean I had to be civil to him.
When I didn't take the liver, Rick shifted his hand, dangling the treat under Faith's nose. Almost immediately it had the desired effect. The puppy stopped thinking about everything that was going on around her and focused on Rick's fingers. He started to take Faith's leash but I snatched it back out of reach.
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