Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery) (3 page)

“No, I don’t believe she’s had a chance to mention that yet.” Peg’s gaze swung from me to Bertie, who smiled weakly. “Who did you get?”

“Sara Bentley. She’s going to do the whole thing.”

The scissors flew up and over Faith’s mane coat, opening and closing like the wings of a hummingbird as Aunt Peg considered the news. “Sara Bentley. That name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it.”

“She used to show dogs,” I said. Aunt Peg’s knowledge of the dog show world and the people who inhabit it could fill an encyclopedia.

“Of course. Shelties. Delilah Waring’s daughter. Little Sara. Used to show in Junior Showmanship. Delilah would dress her up for the ring like she was a porcelain doll. Little Chanel suits, can you imagine? She must have had them made.”

“She’s not little Sara anymore.”

“Certainly not. That was years ago. Before . . .”

Peg’s lips pursed, but that wasn’t what tipped me off that she was thinking about something important. Her hand stilled; the scissors stopped moving. This had to be serious.

“Before what?” I asked.

Even Bertie was paying attention now.

“Before Sara got herself in a load of trouble by poisoning a competitor’s dog.”

O
ne thing you have to say for my aunt, she sure knows how to liven up a conversation.

“She what?” Bertie gasped.

I just stood and stared.

Aunt Peg considered our stunned expressions for a moment, enjoying our undivided attention. Casually, she resumed her scissoring. “It’s really a very old story. It goes back to Sara’s junior days. I imagine she’s put it all behind her now.”

“Just my luck,” Bertie muttered. She opened one of her stacked crates and took out a MinPin. “I’ve hired a murderer to plan my wedding.” Her glance slid my way. “I’m not sure how, but this is probably your fault.”

“My fault? I never even met the woman until a couple of days ago, and you were the one who introduced us. She’s
your
old friend.”

“Now, now,” Peg broke in. “In the first place, Sara was quite young when this took place. I’m sure she’s changed since then. And in the second, who said anything about murder?”

“You did,” I said, and Bertie nodded her head in agreement. “You said she poisoned someone’s dog.”

“As I recall, the dog didn’t actually die. I hate to admit it, but I’m somewhat sketchy on the details. Of course in deference to Delilah’s feelings, none of us talked about it much.”

“At least not when she was within earshot,” I said, well acquainted with the ways of dog show gossip. “But I’ll bet you all had a field day with it when she wasn’t around.”

“Some of us,” Aunt Peg sniffed, “are above such things.”

“While others of us get a real kick out of them,” said Bertie.

What a great addition to the family she was going to be, I thought. If nothing else, she’d give Aunt Peg another direction to sling her barbs. Once Peg got over this whole unexpected niceness thing.

“There must be more to the story,” I said. “If Sara was known to have poisoned someone’s dog, how did she ever manage to become a professional handler?”

“That must have come later,” said Bertie. “Sara’s here at the show today. If you want, you can ask her.”

Sure, I thought, make me look like the one who’s rude and nosy.

“What’s she doing here?” asked Aunt Peg.

“She has Titus entered in obedience. I believe she said he needs one more leg for his CDX.”

Many, if not most, dog clubs run obedience trials concurrently with their dog shows. Unlike their conformation counterparts, obedience dogs are required to perform a series of precise exercises that demonstrate their ability to learn and obey. Also unlike breed competition, they do not have to beat everyone in their class in order to do well.

Instead, each of the exercises is assigned a numerical value, with all of them together equaling a perfect score of two hundred. If a dog accumulates at least 170 points and does not flunk any one of the exercises outright, he is awarded a green qualifying ribbon. Three qualifying scores, under three different judges, earns a degree.

CDX, short for Companion Dog Excellent, is the second title a dog would compete for after earning its CD. In order to gain a green ribbon, Titus would be required to do such things as heel off-leash, retrieve a dumbbell, navigate a high jump and broad jump, and remain in the position he’d been left (either sitting or lying down) for up to five minutes with his handler out of sight.

Known for their high degree of intelligence and willingness to work, Shelties make excellent obedience dogs. Poodles do, too, for that matter. Now that Faith had nearly finished her championship, I harbored the secret ambition of taking her to a few obedience classes and seeing how we both liked it. As soon as I found some spare time, that is.

“Down,” Aunt Peg said firmly.

Obediently I dropped my arm.

“Not you, Faith.” Brushing my hand out of the way, Peg gently tugged the Poodle’s front legs forward. Familiar with the cue, Faith lay down on her haunches. “Melanie, are you paying any attention at all? If we don’t get this bitch sprayed up soon, you’re going to miss your class.”

“Gotta run,” said Bertie. “Good luck to you two.” With a scant five minutes of preparation, the low-maintenance MinPin was ready to go. She tucked the little dog under her arm and strode away toward the rings.

I checked my watch. We were running a little late. “While you spray, I’ll check the ring and get my number.”

Applying hair spray to a Poodle’s coat is, like scissoring, an art. Illegal under A.K.C. rules, which prohibit showing a dog with any foreign substance in its coat, the rule is flouted with impunity by competitors. The problem is that hair—even dense, correctly textured Poodle hair—does not stand straight up by itself. It’s simply impossible to achieve the dramatic outline that Poodles flaunt in the show ring without the copious use of hair spray.

This practice is abetted by those who judge the breed, most of whom enjoy a flashy presentation and reward for it accordingly. In deference to the A.K.C. dictates, Poodle exhibitors have learned how to apply the majority of the forbidden substance to the base of the hair, achieving stiffness and height without telltale stickiness.

Since I was still working on perfecting my technique, I figured this made a pretty good division of labor, and Aunt Peg agreed. I fished Davey out of Faith’s crate and tucked his hand in mine. Together we headed off in search of ring eight.

Our judge, Derek Hunnicutt, turned out to be a florid man with thinning hair and a squinty gaze that peered out at the dogs in his ring from behind a pair of thick glasses. His hands, like the rest of him, were large. As he stepped over the table to examine a Maltese, I saw the toy dog flinch at his touch.

Like all the other bits and pieces of information about judges that came my way, I filed that one away for the future.
Don’t bring the man a puppy.
No matter how good a job a judge does in other areas, if he doesn’t have a kind hand on a dog, certain precautions must be taken. Seasoned campaigners can handle a heavy touch; sensitive puppies who are learning what the show ring is all about must be treated with more care.

Davey and I walked over to the gate and waited our turn to talk to the steward. In the ring, Hunnicutt was judging Best of Breed. He took the entry shown by well-known professional handler Crawford Langley and placed it at the head of the line.

Mindful of what Aunt Peg had said, I wondered if the win was deserved. Unfortunately I didn’t know enough about the Maltese breed to have a useful opinion on the subject.

Standard Poodles were next to be judged and most were already gathering at ringside. By the time I’d gotten my armband, the Open Dogs class was being judged. Watching as I waited, my first impression was that Hunnicutt was fast, and perhaps not as thorough as I’d have liked, in evaluating the dogs before him.

Some judges think that rolling along at a speedy clip shows decisiveness and command of the entry. Some exhibitors wonder if what it actually shows is a need to move judging mistakes out of the ring quickly.

“There’s Aunt Peg,” said Davey as I rolled my armband over my sweater and secured it with a pair of rubber bands. “She brought Faith to us.”

Good thing, too, because by that time the puppy bitches were in the ring. Peg waved us over, quickly tucking a long comb into one of my pockets, then patting the other to make sure that it already contained a handful of dried liver and a squeaky toy.

“Sorry.” I took Faith’s leash from her, balling most of it up in my hand. “I didn’t realize he’d go so fast.”

“He always does. About the best thing you’ll be able to say for today’s judging is that it was mercifully brief.”

As usual, when she was standing ringside, Aunt Peg kept her voice low. Especially now that she had applied for her own judge’s license and had received provisional approval, Peg had no intention of stating such rude, if truthful, opinions for an audience.

Her first judging assignment was scheduled to take place in two weeks. I knew Aunt Peg was well aware that there would be critics standing ringside as she performed her duties, too.

Before I could reply, the steward called the Open Bitches into the ring. With a major entry, the class was large. Ten Standard Poodle bitches—seven black, two white, and one apricot—formed a line that filled two sides of the matted arena.

Hunnicutt had requested “catalogue order,” which eliminated the need to jockey for the prime position at the head of the line. Instead, the handlers found their places according to the numbers on their armbands. Faith and I were right in the middle.

The judge began his examination of the class by standing in the center of the ring and letting his gaze slide down the line, pausing briefly on each dog in turn. Having stacked Faith with her front legs square underneath her and her hind legs slightly extended, I used one hand to support her chin and the other to hold up her tail.

Surreptitiously I glanced up and down the line as well, checking out the competition. To my admittedly biased eye, Faith was the best bitch there. Not only that, but she’d already beaten most of the other entrants at earlier shows. I felt my stomach drop, however, as my casual assessment revealed something else.

I was the only owner-handler in the ring.

That didn’t bode well.

Though Poodles are predominantly a professionally handled breed, there does exist a small core of talented amateurs who compete regularly against the pros and win. The fact that none of them had chosen to show under Derek Hunnicutt indicated that Peg was probably right: I didn’t stand a chance.

Hunnicutt lifted his hands and sent the line once around. Keeping Faith positioned squarely on the mats meant that I ran beside her on the more slippery floor. Not only was the footing bad, but the ring was too small to hold ten trotting Standard Poodles. We started, clumped, bumped, stopped, then started again before finally completing a listless circuit of the ring. I was beginning to feel annoyed that I was even there.

Aunt Peg was leaning over the thigh-high barrier, gesturing in my direction. “What’s the matter with you?” she demanded in a stern undertone as I approached. “Quit moping around in there or you’re going to defeat yourself.”

“It doesn’t look as though I have much of a chance anyway.”

“You’re here, aren’t you? And thanks to me, you’re holding the prettiest bitch in the ring. Of course you’re not going to win—I already told you that, didn’t I? But the least you can do is put some effort into it and make me proud.”

A pep talk, Aunt Peg style. But it had the desired effect. Maybe we were going down, I decided, but it wouldn’t hurt to do so in style.

Like most Poodles, Faith is a natural clown. She loves performing for an audience. Some dogs grudgingly allow themselves to be shown; Faith adores it.

Which was a good thing because, by the time the class was over, about the only thing we had to show for our efforts was the fact that Faith had enjoyed herself enormously. Ribbonless, she trotted out of the ring just as happy as she’d gone in. It was her owner who was looking distinctly grumpy about the whole experience.

“If you say I told you so, I’m not going to be happy,” I grumbled as we headed back to the setup.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Now that you’ve got that out of the way, you can look forward to tomorrow’s show. And since Faith is already bathed, clipped, and scissored, it’ll be a breeze.”

First she was calling Bertie “dear.” Now she was ignoring the fact that I hadn’t even placed in my class and telling me to look on the bright side. Briefly I wondered if aliens had stolen my aunt and replaced her with a cheery six-foot impostor.

“What’s up with you?” I asked as I hopped Faith back onto her table and began gently to pull apart her topknot.

“Up?” Peg said innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Davey giggled. “You know what up means, Aunt Peg. It’s the opposite of down.”

“Down?” She pulled her nephew into her arms and pretended to consider. “Isn’t that the fluffy stuff they take off geese and put inside pillows and comforters? How can that be the opposite of up?”

Davey howled with laughter. He’s reached an age where puns and word-play are among his favorite things. “There’s a girl in my class whose name is Fluffy. Do you think she’s made of down?”

“It’s entirely possible,” Peg agreed. Releasing her nephew, she pointed him toward Bertie who was working at the other end of the aisle. “Go see if Bertie has time to join us for lunch, okay?”

“Okay!” Davey skipped off.

“I’ll tell you what’s up,” I told Aunt Peg. “You’re entirely too cheerful. You’re beginning to get on my nerves.”

“And you’re entirely too morose. So Sam left. Guess what? Bad things happen. It’s about time you got over it and moved on. Get a life.”

“I have a life.”

“Not one that’s good enough, apparently. For God’s sake, Melanie, it’s been nearly four months and you’re still wandering around like a lost lamb. Sam will come back when he’s ready. In the meantime, I’d like to think that my niece has something better to do than put her whole life on hold and wait for his return.”

That stung, as it was obviously meant to. Even worse, there might have been the tiniest bit of truth to her words.

“I haven’t been that bad, have I?”

“You’ve been worse,” Peg informed me. “I’m trying to soften the blow.”

Not very hard, apparently.

“I have to admit, I’ve been worried about you. And so has Frank.”

“Frank?” My carefree younger brother had never worried about anyone but himself in his whole life.

“He even asked Bertie to keep an eye on you, maybe get you involved in the plans for their wedding.”

Wasn’t that just like a man? I thought. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to my brother that the best cure for being dumped by my own fiancé might not be helping out with someone else’s wedding.