Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

bed. Sam and I had gotten married in the spring, and his three Standard Poodles—Raven, Casey, and Tar—had been added to the mix.
    All five were show dogs; the three oldest were retired champions. The youngsters, Tar and Eve, were still “in hair,” which meant that they sported the highly stylized continental clip that was required for competition. The continental is the trim of pom pons, shaved legs, and big hair; the trim that makes Poodles unique, eye-catching, and sometimes a little goofy-looking; the trim that gives rise to the notion—not without due justification—that Poodles are clowns with a great sense of humor.
    Tar was Sam’s “specials” dog, a title that identified him as one of the best of the best. He’d finished his championship handily at a young age and now competed against champions in other breeds for the prestigious group and Best in Show wins. Eve, hampered by having me for an owner handler, was nearly finished herself. Only one more major win was needed to put the coveted title of champion before her name. It was a goal I was hoping to accomplish over the summer.
    The thought of summer plans reminded me of the letter I’d left sitting on the counter. I wondered if it might be some sort of scam and if a request for money would follow shortly. The letter looked genuine, but how could the contest committee have gotten Faith’s name, much less her photograph?
    Sam wouldn’t have entered one of my Poodles without my consent. Our marriage was new enough that we were still feeling things out and finding our way, but we’d been a couple for several years. I knew him well enough to be quite certain he wouldn’t have done something like that without checking with me first.
    Without the slightest pause, my thoughts slid directly to the next most likely culprit: my Aunt Peg. Margaret Turnbull was a force of nature; one I alternately embraced or cursed, depending on the circumstances. On good days, Aunt Peg was a blessing. On bad ones, her presence was akin to an itch that I couldn’t quite reach, or a pebble lodged inside my shoe.
    Peg could be imperious and demanding; living up to her expectations was a constant challenge. Never satisfied with less than anyone’s best, she held herself to the same high standard. Aunt Peg had been a mainstay on the dog show scene since before I was born and she’d taught me everything in the world I knew about Poodles. Half the time she drove me crazy, but there were few people in the world that I loved more.
    Might she have entered Faith in a contest on a whim? It seemed unlikely, but where Aunt Peg was concerned, I’d learned never to discount any possibility.
    I got up, walked inside, and retrieved the letter and a telephone. Aunt Peg’s number was first on my speed dial list, a testament to how often we spoke. I didn’t even hear a single ring before she picked up. A perfect, drowsy summer morning and Aunt Peg was in a hurry. Somehow I wasn’t surprised.
    “What?” she barked into the phone as I carried it outside and settled back down on the chaise.
    “It’s me,” I said.
    “I know that. I have caller ID. How’s the tree house coming?”
    Trust Aunt Peg to be up to speed on all current events, even those that had been decided upon only the evening before. I think she has some sort of subliminal radar that keeps her constantly apprised of what we’re up to. A network of spies wouldn’t surprise me, either. I know for a fact that she has ears like a bat.
    Need I mention that she had accepted Sam’s proposal before I did?
    “It’s still in the planning stages. Sam took Davey to Home Depot to buy lumber and nails. If I’m really lucky they’ll come home with a general contractor.”
    “Pish,” Peg scoffed. “I can’t see any reason why Sam wouldn’t be perfectly capable of constructing a tree house on his own.”
    “That’s because he’s never tried to repair your ice-maker or rewire your microwave.”
    I love Sam dearly, but Mr. Fix-It he isn’t. I let him change my oil once. That was a learning experience. Now I’ve gone back to doing it myself.
    “All things considered, lumber seems fairly safe,” Peg mused. She’d been at the dog show with me when my engine had seized.
    “Yes, but he’s not building this structure on the ground. He and Davey are going to be up in the air.”
    “How high?”
    I looked out across the yard. Davey and Sam had chosen a lovely old oak tree with a thick trunk and spreading branches for