Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

Terrier was a relentless and venerable campaigner, winner of countless Best in Shows. He’d been retired with great fanfare the previous year. “You’d think he’d have done enough already. I wonder why he was entered in the contest.”
    “Probably because he’s won everything else but,” Terry sniped.
    “That’s four,” said Bertie, looking down at her watch. “Hurry up, Terry. We’re almost due at the ring.”
    He stopped brushing the Maltese and counted silently on his fingers. Luckily there were only five finalists. “Who’d I miss?”
    “ We don’t know,” I said impatiently. Bertie was right, we needed to get the Poodles down off their tables and start heading over to the ring. I saw Crawford threading his way through the other setups, probably coming back to get his own Poodles. “You’re the guy with the gossip.”
    “Shhh, not so loud.” Terry dropped his voice. He saw Crawford coming, too. “It’s Brando.”
    Bertie’s head whipped around. Aunt Peg’s eyes widened. Either response would have gotten my attention. Both, brought me up short.
    “Who?” I asked.
    “Brando the Boxer.”
    “Oh dear,” said Aunt Peg.
    “Ditto,” said Bertie.
    That didn’t sound good, did it?

4
    “W hat are you doing standing around talking?”
    Crawford asked. “Toy bitches are already in the ring.” He leveled a look at Terry. “Were you going to bring me my specials dog or did you expect Drucilla to come over here and judge him at the setup?”
    “Oops,” Terry muttered. He slid the Maltese into an empty crate and swept Crawford’s Toy Poodle up off another grooming table. Fortunately, aside from the bright pink vet wrap holding the little dog’s ear hair in place, he was ready to go.
    Crawford reached over and plucked the silver Toy out of Terry’s arms. “This late, you’d better bring the Minis. You know Drucilla, she doesn’t waste any time. Hey Peg, nice to see you.”
    The handler spun around and was gone again before anyone had a chance to utter a word.
    “Who put a bee in his bonnet?” asked Bertie.
    “It’s nothing,” Terry said quickly. “Absolutely nothing. All my fault.”
    Interesting, I thought. Terry never voluntarily took the blame for anything; indeed he never needed to. The man was made of Teflon. He’d never seen a sticky situation he couldn’t wiggle out of with aplomb. Something was definitely up.
    I would have asked Aunt Peg what she thought but, ever practical, she was already moving to lend a hand. She slipped between the rows of crates that marked the end of Bertie’s setup and the beginning of Crawford’s. Terry had three Miniature Poodles—all brushed out, sprayed up, and ready to go to ringside—and two arms.
    “I’ve got one,” Peg told him. “Let’s go.”
    That left Bertie and me with her two, the Standard dog I’d been working on, and her Mini entry that was apparently due in the ring shortly. We loaded up gear and Poodles and joined the caravan heading across the grassy expanse between the grooming tent and the rings.
    By the time we reached Drucilla Melville’s ring, Crawford and his silver special were already inside and being judged. He’d been right, we were running late. Quickly I consulted with the steward and picked up our numbered armbands. I was sliding a rubber band up Bertie’s arm to hold the numbers in place when Crawford was awarded Best of Variety.
    Mrs. Melville made short work of her Mini dogs, then it was Bertie’s turn in the ring with the bitch. She beat Crawford to win the Open class, then picked up two points and the purple Winners ribbon. Minutes later, both handlers lost to another pro in Best of Variety.
    Waiting next to the gate, I took Bertie’s Mini when she exited the ring and handed over her Standard dog. Since Bertie had already gotten her share of the winnings in Minis, neither one of us was surprised when her Standard Poodle managed to garner only a low ribbon in his class.
    “How stupid is that,” she said, as we headed back to the setup. “He’s a better Poodle than the Mini. And he was better than the competition he was showing against.”
    “Yes, but Drucilla didn’t know that,” I pointed out. It was easy for me to be sanguine about the outcome. I wasn’t the one who had just lost when I should have won. “All she knows is that if each of the pros who gave her an entry gets something to show for his efforts, everyone will go home happy.”
    Aunt Peg clucked her tongue. Crawford and