Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

their project. A fork midway up seemed like a likely choice. “Fifteen feet?”
    “I suppose someone could break a neck falling from there.”
    “Go ahead,” I said, “make me feel better.”
    “That’s what I’m here for.” Aunt Peg sounded cheerful. “Would you like me to come and supervise?”
    Heaven help us all. We’d end up with a Taj Mahal on stilts, or the Petite Trianon in a tree. Deftly I changed the subject.
    “Actually I’d rather have you answer a question.”
    “Excellent,” said Peg. “I’m good at that.”
    “What do you know about Champions Dog Food?”
    “They make a perfectly decent product and, I believe, a fairly popular one. Despite their company name, they’ve targeted their previous marketing mostly toward the pet owning public, though it seems they’re currently looking to change their focus.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “I received a couple of flyers in the mail. I might even still have one lying around here someplace.”
    I heard the sound of papers being shuffled, but Aunt Peg never stopped talking.
    “I got the impression that the company had bought some kennel club’s mailing list and done a mass mailing to local exhibitors. I’m surprised you didn’t get a brochure yourself. There was a promotion for a new product with a perfectly ghastly name . . .”
    “Chow Down?”
    “That’s it,” Aunt Peg confirmed. “So you did hear about it.”
    As of ten minutes earlier, yes. Though I didn’t remember receiving any brochures. Which wasn’t to say that one might not have been overlooked. My days were generally so busy that anything that arrived looking like junk mail was promptly disposed of unread.
    “Apparently they’re running a contest . . .” I let the thought dangle for a moment, just in case Aunt Peg might want to jump in and make a full confession.
    “Right. That was what the new promotion was about. Although why any self-respecting breeder would want her dogs associated with a kibble with an odious name like Chow Down, I have no idea.”
    “So you didn’t fill out an entry form?”
    “Heaven forbid.” Peg laughed. “Hope and Zeke are not about to go prancing around on television touting the virtues of anything, much less a dog food that sounds like it fell off the back of a wagon train.”
    Hope was Faith’s litter sister. And Zeke was Eve’s brother. Our canine families, like our human one, were indelibly intertwined.
    “Why the sudden interest in Champions Dog Food? Are you thinking about switching to a new brand of kibble?”
    “Nothing that easy,” I admitted. “I got a letter from the company this morning. To my surprise, Faith has been named as one of five finalists in their ‘All Dogs Are Champions’ contest.”
    Aunt Peg gasped. Or maybe she was laughing. “ Faith has?” she sputtered. “Well, why didn’t you start with that information? I would imagine you must know a great deal more about the company than I do.”
    “Hardly. This is the first I’ve heard of them, or their contest.”
    Aunt Peg moderated her tone. Like she was speaking to a child, or a particularly slow relative. “Then why did you send in an entry?”
    “I didn’t. I have no idea where they got Faith’s name from. Or her picture.”
    There was a brief pause. Then Aunt Peg said, “Oh.”
    The single syllable spoke volumes.
    “Yes?”
    “Maybe it’s nothing.”
    “I doubt it.” Years of experience backed up my reply.
    “You might remember that I gave Davey a digital camera for his last birthday.”
    Of course I remembered that. My son adored his present. He’d quickly become adept at capturing all of us in his photographs. We’d printed up the results on Sam’s printer and stuck the best ones up on the refrigerator with magnets.
    “About a month ago, Davey called and asked how to email someone a picture. I couldn’t see the harm in telling him.”
    Oh, indeed. “And you didn’t stop to wonder why he hadn’t asked me or Sam for help?”
    “I just assumed you were busy.”
    If Aunt Peg had been a wooden puppet, her nose would have been growing.
    “Did you happen to ask where he was planning to email the pictures to?”
    “No, I didn’t. It seemed to me that an almost nine-year-old boy was entitled to have some secrets.”
    “Not when he’s on the internet he isn’t,” I said firmly. “Did you help him write the essay, too?”
    “I did not!”
    As if I would be impressed by a show of outrage now . “I thought maybe that was