Jingle Bell Bark (16 page)

“What about the women on the staff that he'd been involved with?”

Her look was stern. “It's not like that came up.”

“How come?”

“Let's just say there are things you'd discuss with a friend that you wouldn't mention to a stranger. And certainly not to the police.”

“They didn't ask?”

“No, not even once. Funny, isn't it? You'd think they would. But they knew he drove a bus. In fact, that was the way they kept referring to him—not Henry, not Mr. Pruitt, but as ‘the bus driver.' It put us off pretty good, let me tell you. It was like they'd never looked much beyond that, and it didn't seem to occur to them that we might have.”

I might have made that same mistake myself in the past, but I knew better now.

“If you could give me a couple of names, I'd appreciate it,” I said. “I'm not looking to make trouble for anyone, I just want to find out a little bit more about Henry's life and who he hung out with.”

“Sure,” Michelle replied. “I don't think they'll mind. Besides, as far as I know, anything he had going around here is old news now. Unless someone's awfully good at keeping secrets—which, trust me, none of us are—he's been sowing his oats elsewhere for a while now. Talk to Jenna Phillips and Carrie Baker. You know them, right?”

I did. Jenna taught fifth grade; I'd worked with her frequently. Carrie had taken over Michelle's old job as office manager.

“Thanks,” I said, standing up. “I appreciate the help.”

“Anytime. Give Davey a hug for me, okay? I hear he and Joey Brickman are going to be Wise Men. Good going. I made my son do Cotillion. He's in high school now and he still hasn't forgiven me.”

I walked out with a smile. It was nice to know I made the right choices at least once in a while.

T
he rest of the week sped by, helped along by the fact that my Eve, Aunt Peg's Zeke, and Sam's Tar were all entered in a dog show in Worcester, Massachusetts, that Saturday. Preparations for all three Standard Poodles began midweek and would continue right up until the moment we entered the ring to be judged. Of necessity, any time that wasn't devoted to my job or to Davey was spent grooming.

I began the process by clipping Eve. Black Poodles have white skin; conversely, most white Poodles have black skin. In clipping for the show ring, a surgical blade is used, and the unwanted hair is removed entirely. Black Poodles are always clipped early to allow time for a sheen of dark hair to grow back so that the dog appears to be one continuous color. White Poodles are clipped late so that the flashy contrast between light hair and dark skin is highlighted.

Eve's feet were done on Wednesday. Thursday evening, I clipped her hindquarter and face. The former was an exacting job, as this was the first time Eve would be shown in the continental trim, and although I'd set the lines in July when she turned a year old, Eve had been away from the show ring since. This was the first time my efforts were going to be judged.

And if my results weren't perfect, I would hear about it from Aunt Peg. Endlessly.

Friday night was bath night. First Eve's coat needed to be thoroughly soaped and rinsed in the tub. Then each section of her hair had to be painstakingly blown dry. From start to finish, the process took three to four hours.

Davey, no surprise, opted to spend Friday night at his father's. I knew they had an outing planned for Saturday. And considering that their recent phone conversations had come to a precipitous halt whenever I entered the room, I suspected their plans had something to do with Christmas shopping.

To tell the truth, it wouldn't have been a bad thing if mine had as well. Christmas was fast approaching. Aside from the fact that I had yet to hang a wreath on the front door or put up a tree in the living room, I also still had more presents to shop for. That's the thing about showing dogs; if you let it, it can take over your life.

Saturday morning, the Poodles and I were up and out before the sun rose. Worcester was a two-hour drive, and the downtown building where the show was being held was notoriously short on both parking and grooming space. Early arrivals got spots; later ones had to make due with whatever dark corner they could find.

In the parking lot I piled crate, grooming table, and tack box on a dolly. Pulling that with one hand, I held Faith and Eve's leashes in the other. The two Poodles surged on ahead, tails high with excitement. Neither had been to a show since summer, and it looked as though they'd missed the experience just as much as I had.

“Melanie! Over here.”

Arms waving above the throngs of exhibitors that had already gathered in the grooming area beckoned me over to Crawford Langley's setup. Crawford was one of the most-respected professional handlers in the Northeast. Due to the size of his string and the number of dogs that had to be prepped to go in the ring, he and his partner, Terry Denunzio, had probably been at the show since before I'd even gotten out of bed.

“Come set up with us,” Terry said, blowing me an air kiss. “We saved you some room.”

Terry was one of my best friends. He was also annoyingly good looking and flamboyantly gay. He had sharply styled hair, a wicked sense of humor, and always knew the best gossip. Terry was utterly irresistible, and well aware of his own appeal. Spending the next two hours grooming beside him would be a pleasure.

“Crawford's in the ring with a Yorkie,” he said as he helped me unload. “Peg is outside taking Zeke for a run around the block. I hear Sam is due any minute. There, that's everything I know. What's new with you?”

I stopped and thought for a moment. That was probably about as much time as Terry would give me before launching into another topic of his own. “Bertie hasn't had her baby yet.”

“We
know
that,” Terry sniffed. “Good Lord, the whole world knows that. I suspect when the big event finally does come to pass we'll see beacons shooting an announcement into the sky. You know, like the Bat Signal?”

I shoved Faith's crate into line with the others and piled my tack box on top. Terry unfolded my portable grooming table and helped Eve up into place.

“Bat Signal?”

“Tell me you didn't read comic books as a child.”

“Archie and Veronica,” I said. “With a little Superman on the side.”

“Your education was sorely lacking.”

“You should talk.” Crawford appeared, Yorkshire Terrier tucked handily under one arm. He was holding a purple and gold rosette indicating that the little dog had taken Best of Breed. “He thinks reality TV is the height of good drama.”

“You mean it's not?” Terry clutched at his heart. There's nothing he loved more than a good dramatic moment.

Crawford grunted in reply and returned the tiny Toy dog to its crate. The older handler was, as always, a model of composure. His silver hair glinted in the lights from above; his tie was crisply knotted at his throat. In an era where informality was the norm, Crawford was a throwback to an earlier age. His posture was impeccable, as was his reputation in the dog show world. It had taken us a long time to get comfortable with one another. But once we had, our friendship had grown quickly.

“I hear Peg's planning to solve a murder.” Crawford straightened and turned to look at me. His gray eyes twinkled.

“Did she tell you that?”

“As soon as she got here,” Terry said happily. “Babe, you've been holding out on us. Luckily, Peg filled us in on the whole sordid story. Everything from Golden Retrievers to Christmas pageants to school bus drivers gone bad. Frankly, it put reality TV to shame.”

Golden Retrievers and school bus drivers gone bad?
Terry's description sounded like a come-on for a sleazy internet porn site.

“Aunt Peg may have put a little spin on things for your benefit,” I mentioned.

“Who cares? If the story's good, I'm in.” Like that was news. Terry and a strict interpretation of the facts did not always have the closest of relationships.

“And didn't anything bother you about this?”

“No. Should it?”

“Doesn't Aunt Peg strike you as a little old to be playing Nancy Drew?”

As soon as the words had left my mouth, I knew they were a mistake. Crawford, Aunt Peg's contemporary as well as her friend, turned around and nailed me with a hard stare. “And just what would you consider to be a good age for getting mixed up in things that are better off left to the police?”

He had me there. I knew it and so did Terry. Tamping down a grin, Crawford's assistant patted my arm and backed away. “You're on your own with that one, doll.” Then he gazed past me and his expression brightened. “Look, Sam's here. I think I'll go help him unload.”

Sam, carrying tack box and table and leading Tar, stopped, looked around, and took in the situation in a glance. “I know you just got here,” he said to me. “Don't tell me you're in trouble already.”

“It was an accident,” I said. “A slip of the tongue.”

“She called Crawford old,” Terry said, just to fan the flames.

“I did not!”

“Didn't what?” Peg asked, returning from walking Zeke.

Now the gang was all here. And I was, in all likelihood, dead.

“Call Crawford old,” I mumbled.

“I should hope not,” Peg said roundly.

“Quite right,” said Terry. “It wasn't actually Crawford she was referring to. It was—”

“Terry!” Fortunately for me, Crawford's peremptory tone stopped that runaway train in its tracks.

“Yes, sir?” A man with lesser acting skills couldn't have pulled that off. Terry made it sound almost respectful.

“Shouldn't you be putting in topknots?”

“Probably.”

Among their other entrants, their string of dogs for the day included six Poodles, two in each of the three varieties. Judging by what I could see of the Poodles who were sitting out in the setup on tables and crate tops, there was still plenty of work to be done.

“That's what I thought,” said Crawford. He glanced at a schedule taped to the top of his tack box, opened a crate, pulled out a Chinese Crested, and headed back toward the rings on the other side of the room.

Aunt Peg hopped Zeke up onto his matted grooming table, which was right next to mine. The two Standard Poodles, littermates from the first—and so far only—litter I'd bred, reached across the expanse between tables and touched noses. While I kept an eye on the pair to make sure they didn't mess each other's hair, Aunt Peg leaned down and said hello to Faith, who'd been tucked inside my crate.

Sam, who was busy getting his stuff arranged, got Peg's second greeting. Like me, he was used to that.

Amenities aside, Aunt Peg turned back to me. “What was that all about?”

“You probably don't want to know.”

“On the contrary, I'm quite sure I do.”

“I was um ... questioning the wisdom of your looking into Henry's murder.”

She snorted under her breath. “I suppose you think you ought to be the only detective in the family.”

“If my vote counts for anything,” said Sam, “I don't think there ought to be
any
detectives in the family.”

Peg turned slowly. “Luckily,” she said, “no one asked you.”

That should have put Sam in his place. Instead it made him smile. With an attitude like that, it was no wonder he'd recently managed to handle Tar into the top spot among non-sporting dogs in New England. The man had absolutely no fear.

“Michelle Raddison,” Peg said, as the three of us pulled out brushes, combs, and spray bottles and went to work. “What did she have to say for herself?”

“Plenty.” I related the gist of our conversation, speaking loudly to ensure that Terry, who was eavesdropping shamelessly, wouldn't miss a thing.

“I gather Henry must have cut quite a swath among the ladies,” I said at the end. “Apparently, almost everybody at Hunting Ridge knew him and liked him, which is unusual when you stop to consider that he didn't actually work for the school, he just passed through there a couple of times a day.”

“Yes, but Henry wasn't your typical bus driver,” said Peg. “Everything we've learned about him so far certainly supports that.”

“Poison,” said Terry, “is a woman's murder weapon. Passive, nonviolent, nonconfrontational. Everybody knows that.”

Hands still flying through Zeke's coat, Aunt Peg looked over at Terry. “Where did you hear that?”

“He's been watching forensic shows on TV,” I said.

“Scoff if you like, but they get their facts straight. I think you ought to check out those women who were involved with your bus driver. Odds are, he's got a disgruntled ex-girlfriend or two running around.”

“He's also got two disgruntled daughters,” Sam contributed, just to show he was paying attention. “Not to mention a woman he's involved with currently, and a nosy neighbor with a surly son.”

“That's right,” I said. “Johnny Bowen said that Henry's retirement had cut into the profits of his lawn mowing service.” I snuck a peek at Peg. “Maybe you should look into that.”

“And maybe you shouldn't be so fresh,” she retorted. “Let's not forget, you were the one who saddled me with Remington and Pepper in the first place. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't care a whit whether this business got resolved or not. I'd simply be sitting home in Greenwich, reading about it in the newspaper like everyone else.”

“Want to bet?” asked Sam.

Aunt Peg frowned. Terry snickered. As for me, I got busy grooming. We'd all arrived at roughly the same time and we all had big black Poodles to prepare for the ring. From ample experience, I knew who was going to get the job done slowest.

Moi.

By the time I had Eve thoroughly brushed out, Sam was unwrapping Tar's ears and Aunt Peg was already putting in Zeke's topknot. The entry in Standard Poodles was large enough to provide a major in dogs. Peg and I both wanted it. If we were really, really lucky, there was a possibility that both of us could have it. Bearing that in mind, we weren't about to skimp on our preparations.

The first thing Aunt Peg had taught me about showing dogs was that the judges you exhibited under had to be chosen wisely. The American Kennel Club recognizes thousands of judges. Their names are printed in a fat little book which is updated every year. Of the several hundred of those that are approved to judge Poodles, not all are necessarily competent to render an opinion on the breed.

Aunt Peg, like most experienced exhibitors, kept a fat little book of her own. It was filled with notes on judges she'd shown to: her opinion on how much their opinion was worth.

Peg was broadminded enough to give almost anyone at least one chance. Poodle breeders or ex-handlers, plus those judges who exhibited a special interest in the breed, were preferred. Judges with rough hands or an inattentive attitude toward their job were dismissed from future consideration. Those who were merely ignorant about the breed were tried again after a decent interval had passed, in the hope that they might have learned something.

Today's judge, Val Homberg, fell into the first category. A former handler who'd bred Toys on the side, she'd made no secret of her admiration for the Poodle breed. She knew what she wanted in a dog and she fully expected her exhibitors to bring it to her. Val judged quickly; she had no time for specimens that were dirty, poorly groomed, or untrained. But give her what she was looking for and she didn't play politics. An owner-handler was just as likely to win under her as a pro. Knowing that, we'd all turned out to support her, which accounted for the major entry in dogs.