Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

up,” I said. “I just assumed Crawford and Terry would still be here. I can’t believe they’ve left already.”
    Normally it wasn’t unusual for Crawford to have an entry in at least two or three of the seven groups. On many occasions, he needed to stay through Best in Show. Aside from the event the previous week, I couldn’t remember a time when the professional handler hadn’t remained at a show ground until the bitter end.
    “He and Terry finished with their class dogs an hour ago,” Bertie said. “Crawford took a Maltese in the Toy group, and then they packed up and left.”
    I leaned against the edge of the grooming table and frowned. “Something’s wrong. This is so unlike Crawford. He lives for dog shows. He and Terry are always the first to arrive and the last to leave at night.”
    “Not only that,” Bertie added for Sam’s benefit, “but he’s been sending me clients.”
    Sam looked back and forth between us. “That doesn’t necessarily mean that anything’s wrong. Maybe Crawford’s just overbooked. I’d imagine plenty of people would love to have a handler with his reputation showing their dogs. It wouldn’t surprise me to know that he has to turn people away.”
    “But that’s just it,” I said. “He’s bringing fewer dogs than ever to the shows. And what happened to all his specials? When was the last time you went to a show where Crawford only went into one group and didn’t even pick up a ribbon?”
    “How old do you suppose Crawford is?” Bertie mused.
    Sam and I both thought about that.
    “Maybe Aunt Peg’s age?” I guessed. “Early sixties?”
    “No,” said Sam. “Crawford looks great for his age but he’s older than that. I think he might be approaching seventy.”
    “Wow,” I exhaled slowly. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
    “Funny thing is,” said Bertie, “a couple of years ago it looked like Crawford’s career was beginning to wind down. He just didn’t have the same oomph he’d had earlier. But then Terry came along and it was as though he’d gotten a second wind. Maybe this time he really is getting ready to retire.”
    “Don’t you think he’d have said something?” I asked.
    “Crawford?” Sam shook his head. “He’s about as private as they come. The last thing he would want would be for people to make any sort of fuss over him.”
    “Precisely,” I said, “and that’s what worries me. Look at what’s been going on recently. Crawford’s been working half days and showing only little dogs. He doesn’t spend any time socializing with us and when he is around he acts like a real bear.”
    “Who’s a real bear?” Aunt Peg asked. Heading our way across the grooming area, she was eating a powdered doughnut, carrying two shopping bags, and frowning at Eve, who was still lying in her crate. “And why isn’t that Poodle out on a table getting ready for the group?”
    “We were getting to that,” said Sam. He leaned down to remedy the situation, flipping the latch on Eve’s metal door, then catching her deftly as she leapt out into the aisle.
    “No you weren’t,” Peg replied. “You were talking again. Who’s the unlucky subject this time?”
    “Crawford,” I told her. “We’re hoping he’s all right.”
    “Of course he’s all right,” Peg said briskly. She polished off the last of the doughnut and dusted off her hands. “Why wouldn’t he be?”
    I gestured toward the empty space that earlier had been filled by the Bedford Kennels setup. “Because all of a sudden, he seems to be taking things pretty easy.”
    “So? He’s entitled.”
    “Of course he’s entitled,” said Bertie. “He can do whatever he wants—”
    “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to know that you think so.” Aunt Peg watched as Sam hoisted Eve onto the grooming table. Her practiced eye skimmed over the Poodle’s topknot, deciding what needed to be repaired.
    “That’s not the point,” I said. My aunt was being deliberately obtuse. “I’m worried about Crawford. He loves being a handler. Dog shows are his whole life. I just wouldn’t want to think that anything is wrong—”
    “Then don’t think it.” Peg’s tone was short. She picked up a comb and a can of hair spray and began the delicate task of smoothing Eve’s topknot back into place. “Nobody asked you to. Crawford doesn’t want anyone worrying about him, and why should he? There’s nothing the matter. Nothing in the slightest.”
    Case closed. Or at least that