Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery) (6 page)

“We used to have fun, too, Mel,” he whispered, his words meant for me alone. “Think about it.”

“W
hat was that all about?” Bertie asked.

Brush in hand, dog on table, I was standing perfectly still, watching Bob and Davey walk away. “I don’t know.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothing.” Aunt Peg removed the pin brush from my hand and began to work. Bertie put both the Shar Peis in their crates. “You’ve gone absolutely pale.”

I sucked in a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Bob reminded me that he and I used to have fun together, too. And he told me to think about that.”

“That’s not good.” Bertie shook her head. “Not good at all.”

“What do you suppose he meant by it?”

Aunt Peg and Bertie both stared at me as though I was nuts.

“I should think that’s perfectly obvious,” said Peg.

“He wants you back,” said Bertie.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Two minutes ago, he was all but drooling over you.”

“That’s just testosterone. A knee-jerk reaction. It doesn’t mean a thing. But a man who comes all the way from Texas to see his ex-wife—”

“And his son,” I interjected.

“Now
that
means something,” Bertie continued as if I hadn’t interrupted.

“He came for your wedding. That’s what he said.”

“And you believed him?”

“Well,” I conceded, “he is a little early.”

Aunt Peg flipped Faith over and went to work on her other side. “Six weeks early! You don’t suppose we’ll have to put up with him all that time?”

“He told me he was planning to stay with Frank.” Since Peg was busy brushing, I got out the comb, knitting needle, and tiny colored rubber bands we’d need to put in Faith’s topknot.

Bertie looked thoughtful. “Frank hasn’t mentioned anything about that to me.”

“Bertie? I’ve got something for you, sweetheart!”

The voice, high-pitched and dulcet, belonged to Terry Denunzio, friend, gay guy, and assistant to professional handler Crawford Langley. He strutted up the aisle, a small blue envelope held aloft in his hand. Terry doesn’t seem to know how to walk, but he does sashay beautifully.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” he sang, inclining his face toward each of ours in passing.

“What is it?” asked Bertie. “Someone’s passing me notes now? Have we gone back to high school?”

“Maybe you have a secret admirer,” I said. If the note was from Bob, I was going to kill him.

“No secret,” said Terry. “It’s from Sara Bentley. She was here earlier, showing that little dust mop Tidy Bowl in obedience.”

“Titus,” I corrected.

People who show in breed often think obedience dogs are inferior specimens. People who show in obedience tend to look down on us. Go figure.

“What
ever
,” Terry sniffed. “She had to leave, but she asked me to pass this along to you when I got a chance.”

“Thanks. It’s probably something about the arrangements for the wedding.”

“And since I’m here anyway,” Terry continued, “Crawford would like you to know that Wanda Francis is judging like a woman who wants to be first in line at the lunch buffet. Her ring is running early, and if your MinPin misses its class and breaks the major, your name will be mud.”

“Yikes!” Bertie grabbed the envelope and stuffed it into her tack box, then flicked open a crate door and beckoned out a small red dog. “I’m on my way.”

“As well you should be.” Terry grinned after her. There’s nothing he enjoys more than shaking things up.

Reaching down, he cupped a hand under Faith’s jaw. She gazed up at him adoringly. Like all the best handlers, Terry has a wonderful hand on a dog.

“Pretty girl,” he crooned. “Sondra likes pretty. Today’s going to be your day.”

“Don’t say that!” Aunt Peg wailed. Dog shows are the one thing she’s superstitious about. “You’ll jinx us.”

“Not a chance.” His gaze slid in my direction. “Besides you’ve been working on finishing this nice bitch for so long, even the rest of us are beginning to root for you. Ta!”

Terry sauntered off. I couldn’t decide whether his parting shot had been meant as insult or encouragement, which was about par for the course where Terry was concerned.

Between us, Aunt Peg and I put up Faith’s tight show ring topknot, using a knitting needle to part the long, silky hair, and fingers and comb to arrange the bubble of hair over her eyes. Then I sprayed while Aunt Peg scissored. Again. It’s a never-ending process. Meanwhile, Faith had the best job. All she had to do was stand there and pose.

Finally the Poodle was ready. I stepped back and had a look. Gorgeous, I decided. My child was going to be the prettiest debutante at the ball.

With great care, Faith was lifted down from the table, allowed to shake once—lightly—then taken to ringside. The entry had grown since the day before. All the owner-handlers who’d known enough to avoid Derek Hunnicutt were now out in force.

While Aunt Peg primped and worried, defending her charge zealously against anyone who might dare to step into their space and jostle the precious hair, I went and picked up my number. Bob and Davey had found seats on the far side of the ring. Davey waved; Bob flashed me a thumbs-up followed by a self-conscious shrug. He didn’t have any idea what was going on, he seemed to be saying, but whatever it was, he was behind me all the way.

My ex-husband might have been confused, but my Standard Poodle was not. She’d been in the show ring, off and on, for nearly two years now, and she knew exactly what was expected of her. Be pretty, have fun, catch the judge’s eye. And hold it.

And Faith was well up to the task.

Judging dogs is a highly subjective process, and there are many reasons why a particular dog might win on a certain day. Some of them simply have to do with being in the right place at the right time. It’s often hard to tell whether or not the best dog has won since nine out of ten knowledgeable ringsiders generally won’t agree on which dog in the ring is the “best.”

However one thing judges and exhibitors do agree on is that some dogs have a certain indefinable quality that sets them apart. A sparkle, a verve, a “joie de show ring” that makes them stand out from the others like single stars shining more brightly than the rest of the constellation.

“He was asking for it,” you’ll hear judges say afterward. “I couldn’t deny him the win.” Truly great show dogs do exactly that. They watch the judge, they play to the audience, they refuse not to be noticed.

That day, under Sondra Fleischman, it was Faith’s turn. She not only asked for the win, she demanded it as her due.

From the moment we walked into the crowded ring, Faith owned that class. She knew it was hers, and it only took Mrs. Fleischman a minute or two to figure out the same thing. As for me, I wish I could take credit for the Poodle’s superb performance, but I was just along for the ride.

And what a ride it was.

The first time Faith and I won a class against competition, I just about fell over. This time, I was ready to be called to the head of the long line. I accepted our blue ribbon with thanks, then hurried Faith back into position for the Winners Bitch class. This was where the points would be awarded. Until she had defeated the winners of the earlier Puppy and Bred-by-Exhibitor classes, all we’d really won was a scrap of blue ribbon.

Mrs. Fleischman gave the three of us a moment to get organized. Usually, at that point, the judge will take another good, long look. She’ll move the class winners as a group, then separately. She’ll consider her decision with care.

Not that day. That day the choice was so clear that the judge had already made up her mind. She simply walked to the head of the line and pointed. At Faith.

A tiny gesture worth four glorious points. And I was holding a new champion.

Elation poured through me, setting off tiny sparks of sensation that felt like a burst of adrenaline run amok. For a moment, I actually went weak in the knees.

Dimly I heard a shriek from ringside. Aunt Peg, I thought, though behavior of that sort is usually beneath her. Davey was laughing and clapping his hands. Bob fitted his fingers to his lips for a whistle that all but stopped the show in its tracks. My family was proud of us, bless their faithful, long-suffering hearts.

Then I realized that they weren’t the only ones making noise. Terry was there, too, applauding happily even though I’d just beaten his boss for a major that I knew he’d miss somewhere down the line. Bertie had also managed to catch the end of the judging. I saw her slap Aunt Peg on the back. As breeder, Peg was basking in the moment, too.

Even Crawford Langley, leading his Open Bitch back into the ring to try for reserve winners, paused to stick out his hand. “Well done.”

“Thanks.”

I grabbed Faith and scooted over to the marker, anxious to grab my purple ribbon before the judge changed her mind. Or I woke up and realized it had all been just a dream.

“You have quite a cheering section,” Mrs. Fleischman said, handing me my prize. “And a lovely, lovely bitch.”

“Thank you,” I stammered. “You just finished her.”

“Owner handled?”

“All the way.”

“Good for you. That makes it even better.”

There was scarcely time to pause outside the ring before I had to go back in. Winners Dog and Winners Bitch both compete with the champions for Best of Breed (or, in the case of Poodles, Best of Variety). Crawford was back, too, of course, with a white Standard specials dog that he’d done a tremendous amount of winning with.

This time, it was my turn to stand second to him, but Faith and I didn’t mind a bit. Crawford’s dog was Best of Variety. Faith won Best of Winners and Best of Opposite Sex. All in all, it was a perfectly delightful way to finish her show career.

Back at the setup, Bertie gave me a big hug, slipped Faith a yummy piece of dried liver, consulted her schedule, and began grooming a Bichon. Davey and Bob swooped in, offered copious congratulations—though Bob still didn’t look entirely clear on what had happened—and disappeared again.

Aunt Peg, meanwhile, was busy schmoozing with the other breeders, accepting good wishes from her peers, all of whom knew from personal experience just how hard it was sometimes to get even a good one finished.

As for me, I had Faith up on the table. My face was buried in her coat, her nose was nuzzling my ear. I felt her solid body beneath the silly hairdo and smelled her wonderful clean dog smell and told her, over and over, what a good and patient Poodle she’d been.

“Champion Cedar Crest Leap of Faith,” I said, rolling the title off my tongue. The words had a magical sound. Champion Faith. My first. My best. What a wondrous animal she was. Faith wagged her tail obligingly, pom-pom thumping up and down on the rubber mat.

“Now you’ll have to start thinking about Eve,” Bertie said, watching our love fest with a smile.

“She’s not even four months old!”

“That’s not too young to start her training. Just think, as soon as you get Faith’s coat off, you’ll have another to grow in.”

“Bite your tongue.” Still high from what I’d just accomplished, I had no desire to contemplate starting over again. Instead, I changed the subject. “Hey, did you ever open that note from Sara? What did it say?”

Bertie put down her comb. “You know, I forgot all about it. Let me have a look.”

The light blue envelope was just where she’d left it, wedged in behind some leashes hanging in the lid of her tack box. Bertie drew it out, slit the flap with her thumbnail, and drew out a single sheet of light blue paper.

Her eyes skimmed quickly down the page.

“How odd,” she said.

“What?”

Bertie glanced back at the envelope, flipping it over and checking both sides. Nothing was written on either. “I wonder if Terry delivered this to the right person.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“For starters, it’s not about the wedding. And on top of that, it doesn’t make much sense. Listen to this.”

She held up the sheet and read:

“T
hat is odd,” I agreed. “Read it to me again.”

Bertie did, stopping to add editorial comment as she went along. “What does she mean, ‘you’ve always been a good friend’? No, I haven’t. Sara and I have known each other a long time, but we’ve never been what I would call good friends. And then she says, ‘I know I can count on you.’ Count on me to do what?”

I had even less idea than Bertie did what the note meant. “It’s the next line that bothers me: ‘Whatever you hear about me, don’t believe most of it.’ I wonder what Sara’s been up to that she expects us to hear anything at all.”

“Maybe it’s a joke,” Bertie decided. “Sara has always had a warped sense of humor. I guess I’ll have to call her tonight and find out what’s going on.”

Looking annoyed, she tossed the envelope back in her tack box and returned to the Bichon she’d been grooming. At least we weren’t talking about Eve’s coat anymore.

“How’s my new champion?” Aunt Peg asked, walking up the aisle. She stopped beside Faith’s table and chucked the Poodle under the chin. “I’ll have you know that was a very popular win.”

“So it seemed. Apparently I’ve been working at it for so long that the other exhibitors were beginning to feel sorry for me.”

“Pish,” said Peg. “Finishing a first show dog of any breed—much less a Poodle that’s owner-handled—is a big deal. Of course it takes time. There’s a lot of learning you have to do along the way.”

“I was lucky to have a good teacher.”

“Yes, you were,” Aunt Peg agreed, not above taking her share of the credit. “And a very good Poodle.”

I paused, plastic wrap in hand, as something occurred to me. “You know, she’s finished showing now.” The reality of what that meant was just beginning to sink in. “I don’t even have to wrap this ear if I don’t want to. I could just cut the hair off.”

Aunt Peg’s hand shot out and grabbed the scissors that were lying on my tabletop. “Don’t even think such a thing. You may have won all the points you need, but Faith’s championship isn’t confirmed yet. It will take the A.K.C. several weeks to put a certificate in the mail. In the meantime, don’t you dare touch a single hair, just in case.”

“She’s right,” said Bertie. “You wouldn’t believe how many horror stories I’ve heard. A handler will send a dog home and the client goes ahead and cuts the coat off. Next thing you know it turns out the judge forgot to sign her book, or marked someone absent who was really there, so the win doesn’t get recorded as a major. It’s amazing how many things can get screwed up. I always tell my clients to wait, too.”

Outvoted, I sighed and went back to my wrapping. After all the time I’d already spent caring for Faith’s coat, another couple weeks wouldn’t kill me.

“Dinner’s on me tonight,” Aunt Peg said happily. “A celebration. Everybody at my house. I’ll call Frank and tell him. Bertie, can you make it?”

Bertie combed through the Bichon’s long, silky tail, then flipped it up over the dog’s back. “As long as it’s not too early. I’m hoping to have to stay for groups.”

“No problem. Come whenever you can.”

“Bob, too?” I asked.

Peg’s smile dimmed. “I’d forgotten about him. Wishful thinking on my part. What do you suppose he’s up to this time? I have to admit, it worries me, having him show up unexpectedly like this.”

“Me, too. But so far, he hasn’t done anything but make himself agreeable. And if he hooks up with Frank tonight, he can move in with him instead of staying with me.”

“I guess we’ll have to include him, then. Everybody likes Chinese food, right?”

It was strictly a rhetorical question. Aunt Peg cooks for her dogs. Human visitors, if they’re lucky, get takeout.

“Love it,” Bertie and I agreed.

We knew the drill.

It was after seven o’clock by the time we all got ourselves assembled at Aunt Peg’s sprawling home in backcountry Greenwich. Bertie stayed for the groups, placing with a Tibetan Spaniel, then drove home to Wilton to unload the dogs she had with her, check on the dogs she’d left at home, and do evening feed and ex. Frank came over from Stamford.

Though he lives in Cos Cob, a small shoreline town next to Greenwich, a year earlier my brother had opened a coffee bar just north of the Merritt Parkway in Stamford. By all accounts (Bertie’s being more reliable than Frank’s), the business had really taken off. Since my brother had spent nearly a decade trying to decide what he wanted to do with his life, I was delighted to find that he’d been working on a Sunday evening. Bertie’s stabilizing influence, no doubt.

As for Davey, Bob, and me, we had it easy. We simply loaded up our gear at the show and drove directly to Aunt Peg’s. She’d beaten us there by a couple of minutes. The joyous barking of her house dogs, running loose in the fenced meadow behind the house, attested to their recently attained freedom.

“There’s Eve,” cried Davey, pointing out our puppy as the cavalcade of black Standard Poodles came racing past the fence near the driveway. “And that one’s Zeke!”

Zeke was Eve’s litter brother. Both puppies had been born, along with four other brothers and sisters, in my bedroom in July. Davey had been in attendance for part of the whelping and he felt a proprietary air toward the litter.

“Who?” Bob’s head whipped from side to side as the Poodles streaked by. The man was trying, I had to give him that. “Which one? Where?”

Faith meanwhile, shot out of the car and threw herself up against the fence, annoyed that she was missing out on all the excitement. “Soon,” I told her, wrapping my arms around her neck and pulling her back. “Another couple weeks and you’ll be right out there with them, running and pulling hair to your heart’s content.”

“There!” Davey pointed again for Bob’s benefit as the bunch swung in a wide, galloping circle and came back around. Poodles love to entertain. These dogs knew they were the best show in town, and they enjoyed putting on a performance for our benefit. “That one, right there.”

“They all look alike. How do you expect me to pick one out?”

He did have a point. The Cedar Crest line of Standard Poodles was incredibly uniform, both in looks and temperament. Aunt Peg had devoted three decades of her life to achieving just such a goal. Watching the family of beautiful dogs gambol around the field filled my fledgling breeder’s heart with joy.

Not Bob’s. Once again he was lost.

“Try and pick out the two little ones,” I advised as the wild bunch zoomed by a third time.

Bob just shook his head. When we went inside a minute later, he was leading the way. You didn’t have to be a teacher to see that he probably hadn’t enjoyed pop quizzes in school either.

Aunt Peg had gone through the house to let her dogs in the back door at the same time we came in the front, and the Poodles met in the hallway. Predictably, pandemonium ensued.

Ordinarily I would have stepped in and quelled the raucous greeting for the sake of Faith’s coat. That night, I let her tear around and have some fun. I guessed Aunt Peg was pretty pleased about Faith’s finishing, because she didn’t say a thing.

“Now,” Bob said to Davey, when things had finally begun to settle down, “show me which one is Eve.”

That was easy, especially since my son was sitting on the floor with the floppy almost-four-month-old puppy in his lap. “She’s right here!” Davey giggled.

“Where’s her head?” Bob leaned down for a closer look. “I don’t think she has any eyes. All I can see is a big ball of black fur.”

Automatically Peg reached over and smoothed back the puppy’s short, silky topknot, revealing her long, tapered muzzle. As with all Poodles intended for the show ring, the hair on the top of Eve’s head had never been cut. At her young age, however, it wasn’t quite long enough to fit into the banded ponytails that kept Faith’s topknot out of her way.

“A little Dippity-Do will address that problem,” Aunt Peg said. “Let’s go find some, shall we, Davey? You can help me put it on.”

He scrambled up and followed Peg toward the room near her kitchen that she’d recently outfitted as a grooming room. Eve hopped up, too, and she and Zeke trailed along after them.

“Cute puppies,” said Bob. “Davey told me they’re Faith’s?”

“Yes, we bred her in the spring. The litter was born last summer in my bedroom. It was quite an experience.”

“The bedroom? I thought dogs had puppies in the garage.”

“Not Aunt Peg’s dogs.” Not by a long shot. “The whole thing was pretty nerve-racking. Luckily, I had expert assistance.”

“Peg, of course.”

“Actually, no.” I almost sighed, but squelched the impulse just in time. “Aunt Peg didn’t get there until the next morning. Sam was the one who helped me whelp the litter.”

“Driver,” Bob muttered. “We met the last time I was here. Davey said the two of you were engaged.”

“We were.” I stopped, then corrected myself. “Maybe we still are.”

“Don’t you know?”

“Not exactly, no.”

He lifted a brow at that. “Your brother told me that Sam’s disappeared. Up and left for parts unknown.”

I reached down and tangled my fingers in Faith’s warm hair. The Poodle pressed her body against my leg. The contact made both of us feel better. It always does.

“That pretty much sums it up.”

Bob took my hand and led me into the living room. Together we sat down on the couch. Faith, knowing she was invited, hopped up and draped her front legs across my lap.

“You guys must have been pretty serious. What happened?”

“I don’t know.” I gazed at my ex-husband and shrugged. “I honestly don’t. Sam’s ex-wife died and it threw him for a loop. He decided there were some things in his life that he needed to work out on his own. So he left.”

“Last summer?”

“Yes.”

“And you haven’t heard anything since?”

“A postcard in August with a picture of Mount Tamalpais and an address in San Fran. ‘Missing you and Davey,’ it said. ‘How are the puppies?’ I didn’t write back.”

“Why not?”

Bob’s fingers squeezed mine. Abruptly I realized he’d never given me back my hand.

And that I’d never taken it.

“At first, I couldn’t think what to say. Then I realized there was nothing
to
say. Sam will come back when he wants to. Or he won’t.”

I squared my shoulders, hoping the small gesture made me look stronger than I felt. “But if he thinks that I’m going to give him the illusion of a relationship by mail in the meantime, he’s crazy. If Sam wants to know how Davey and I are doing, then he can damn well come and see for himself.”

Bob’s index finger began to move slowly, stroking the soft skin of my palm. “Frankly, I’d say that you and Davey are managing just fine without him.”

“We are.” I slid my hand from his. “Just like we did when you left.”

He didn’t react to the rebuff. Instead, his hand reached up and cupped Faith’s muzzle, his fingers finding and scratching exactly the right spot behind her ears.

Just what I needed, I thought. Another man who knew how to get to me through my dog.

“That was a long time ago,” Bob said slowly. “You married a boy; you needed a man. I’d like to think I’ve changed since then. Grown up. You loved me once—”

The doorbell rang, loud and insistent.

I jumped up off the couch as if I’d been shot from a gun. Who’d have guessed it was actually possible to be saved by a bell?

Faith began to bark and ran from the room. Almost immediately, the rest of the Poodles appeared from various parts of the house. The canine welcoming committee was out in full force. Vastly relieved by the interruption, I went to join them in the hallway.

“Dinner,” my brother, Frank, announced when I opened the door. He held up his hands to display two heavy, fragrant bags. “Aunt Peg called. I picked up. And Bertie just checked in. She should be no more than a few minutes behind me.”

“Perfect timing,” Aunt Peg said.

Her discerning gaze swept over both me and Bob. Bob looked disgruntled—I was sure of it. As for me, I was probably pale again. Gosh darn it all.

“I see I can’t leave you two alone for a minute,” she said in an undertone as the two men greeted each other and headed for the kitchen.

“Then don’t,” I snapped.

Peg sighed. Heavily. Theatrically. I didn’t need to look at her to know that she was probably rolling her eyes.

We didn’t even have a chance to close the door before Bertie’s van came pulling into the driveway. Aunt Peg went out to greet her. Delighted to be welcoming someone normal to her house for a change, no doubt.

Bertie and I set the table while Frank and Bob unpacked the food and ladled the dishes into serving bowls. Faith, guest of honor at our celebratory gathering, was given a giant Milk-Bone to chew while we ate. Of course that meant each of the other Poodles had to have one, too. Halfway through the meal, Frank and Bob let the rest of us know we’d been talking about dogs too long by starting a loud conversation of their own.

Poor things, who could blame them really?

So we all took a deep breath and started over. Bertie brought us all up to date on her plans for the wedding. Frank regaled us with stories from the coffee house. Aunt Peg asked how things were going at school and got answers from both Davey and me.

Bob and I never got another moment alone, which suited me just fine. Better still, I got to send my ex-husband home with Frank at the end of the evening.

“I’ll drive him back to your place so he can pick up his car, and he can follow me home,” Frank said, sounding perfectly pleased by the arrangement.

It was Bertie who looked a bit chagrined. Frank’s apartment is quite a comfortable size for one person; two would probably find it cozy. The addition of a third adult, however, would just about eliminate any possibility of privacy.