Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

been searching for answers, or if they agreed with Lisa’s version of events: that her husband, suffering from vertigo, had lost his balance and fallen. It was interesting that she’d been so quick to assume that Larry’s death was an accident, especially in light of the fact that she couldn’t imagine why he would have entered the stairwell in the first place. That alone should have raised some red flags.
    Why was I the only one who seemed to be seeing them?
    I’d missed my chance earlier, I realized. While I might not have wanted to pump the grieving widow for information, I’d had interviews with several other people who’d been in the vicinity at the time of Larry’s death. And yet I’d neglected to pose a single question.
    What had I been thinking?
    The answer to that was immediately apparent. I hadn’t been thinking, I’d been competing. I’d been polite and acquiescent. I’d answered questions instead of asking them. I’d showcased Faith’s good points to the best of my ability, just like a good contestant was supposed to do. And all I’d gained from that was the knowledge that despite the fact that the details as we knew them didn’t add up, everyone else involved in the contest preferred to sweep the episode under the rug and forget about it.
    I wished I could dismiss my own curiosity so easily.

    That night, I began the arduous task of getting Eve ready to compete in a dog show. Spectators who see the dogs only as they appear in the ring have no idea of the amount of time and effort it takes to get a Poodle ready to compete. In actuality, the preparations begin when a puppy is only a few months old.
    The long mane coat that comprises the major element of a Standard Poodle in continental trim takes nearly two years to perfect. The precious hair on the ears, the top of the head, and the back of the neck is allowed to grow nearly undisturbed from birth. Frequently bathed and blown dry, it’s brushed often enough to keep it from matting and usually protected by banding and wrapping.
    At the age of almost twenty-four months, Eve’s coat was in its prime. I’d devoted countless hours over the previous two years to its care and upkeep. Now, with an additional five or six hours of work on my part, Eve would be ready to enter the show ring over the weekend.
    I’d been spending so much extra time with Faith recently that I should have realized Eve might be feeling a little neglected. Now when I went to set out the grooming supplies, the younger Poodle followed me eagerly into the grooming room. Some dogs hate to be groomed but Eve, like her dam, was a natural show-off. She loved to look her best.
    The Poodle watched as I plugged in the clippers and oiled the blades. It’s about time, she seemed to be saying.
    In our old house, I’d had to do my grooming in the basement. In our new home, there was room for everything. Having been accustomed to a concrete floor, dim lighting, and heat that didn’t always kick in, I now felt like I was working in deluxe accommodations.
    The room Eve and I were standing in was an area off the kitchen, intended by the builders to be a laundry room. Sam had taken one look at that arrangement and exchanged it for one he liked better. Some tinkering with the plumbing had allowed him to move the washer and dryer to a walk-in closet upstairs. The empty space that remained had quickly been converted to a state-of-the-art dog grooming room.
    Thursday night was dedicated to the task of clipping. Eve’s face, feet, and hindquarter all needed to be shaved down to the skin, a deed performed several days in advance, giving the black hair time to grow a short, smooth cover over the silvery skin before the Poodle went in the ring that weekend.
    Sam came in, pulled up a stool, and sat down to keep me company while I worked. He and Davey had been occupied with the tree house all afternoon, and the topics over dinner had ranged from Davey’s upcoming session of soccer camp to why the tomatoes in our salad were classified as vegetables instead of fruit. This was our first chance to do more than gloss over the highlights of my visit to Norwalk that morning.
    “Things must have gone well,” he said. “Faith was looking very pleased with herself when she got home.”
    “Faith always looks pleased with herself. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s a smug dog.” I turned Eve’s paw in my hand, clipping carefully between each of her toes. “Faith was a hit this morning. The