Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

cutting my hair—and, if the truth be known, consulting on my wardrobe—since shortly after we’d first met. I wasn’t the only exhibitor currently exploiting his extracurricular talents, though I probably was the only one prone to showing up at Bedford Kennel at odd hours, plopping myself down on a kitchen stool, and telling him to snip away.
    Under normal circumstances, I would have called ahead and asked if it was a convenient time for a visit. But since I was half-afraid I’d be told that it wasn’t, I decided instead to simply show up.
    Sam and Davey were once again occupied with the ongoing construction of the tree house. The Poodles, lying in the shade in the backyard, were happy to keep them company. That left me in the Volvo by myself, heading north into Westchester County.
    Crawford’s tenure in the dog show world rivaled Aunt Peg’s. But while she had dedicated her efforts to producing and maintaining a family of Standard Poodles whose quality was unparalleled, Crawford’s life had been devoted to winning in the show ring. In a career that had by now spanned several decades, he had quickly found his way to the top, and a number of the most celebrated Non-Sporting dogs in history had come from Bedford Kennel.
    Approaching the residence, which was on a quiet, rural road lined with stone walls and mature trees, I felt a small pang. I counted Terry and Crawford among my good friends, but I’d never before had the temerity to simply drop in without notice. Even now, I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea. At least it was Wednesday; that had to count for something.
    Professional handlers do the majority of their work on the weekends. Saturdays, Sundays, and sometimes Fridays are devoted to the shows themselves. Thursdays are for grooming dogs and getting ready. Monday is a recovery day. So the two days midweek are about as close as handlers ever come to having a day off.
    The good news: Crawford and Terry probably wouldn’t be working when I arrived. The bad news: I had no reason to suspect that either one of them was hoping to spend their limited leisure time with me.
    In the end I chickened out and called Terry on my cell phone from the road at the end of their driveway.
    “Hey doll,” he said. “What’s up?”
    “I need a haircut. Badly.”
    “Like that’s news. If you’d let me maintain that trim every six weeks like I want to, you wouldn’t have to go through the oh-so-attractive shaggy dog stage.”
    Can you tell we’d had this conversation before?
    “What’s your schedule look like today?” I asked.
    “Could be doable. When today?”
    “How about now?”
    I turned on my blinker, eased past a mailbox marked Bedford Kennels and pulled through a break in the stone walls. Gravel crunched beneath the Volvo’s wheels as I headed down the long driveway toward the house. The big white Colonial looked more like a stately country home than a business, in part because the matching kennel building, with its covered runs and spacious paddocks, was hidden out back.
    “You’re in the neighborhood?”
    “I’m virtually at your back door.”
    I pulled around the house. Dogs—several Poodles, two Dalmatians, and a Chow—that had been snoozing in their runs jumped up and began to bark. Terry’s face appeared in the kitchen window.
    “You weren’t kidding,” he said, snapping his phone shut with a flourish.
    By the time I got out of the Volvo, Terry had the door open and was standing on the sill waiting for me. Dressed in shorts, a linen shirt, and scuffed topsiders, he still managed to look like every woman’s dream. Except for the whole gay thing. And the highly suspicious look on his face.
    “Hey there!” I said jauntily.
    “Hey yourself.” He folded his arms over his chest. “To what do we owe the honor?”
    “I told you, I need a haircut.”
    I swooped in and kissed him firmly on the cheek. Gestures like that make Crawford uncomfortable, but not Terry. He smirked, grabbed my shoulders, and steered me back so he could buss the other cheek, too, European-style.
    “Yes, well, you also need to win the lottery and I don’t see you standing in line at the gas station.”
    Terry had snapped out the sarcastic reply without thinking. I looked at him and arched a brow. He stopped and reconsidered. “Oh right, you have Sam, the video game mogul. Strike that last part.”
    “Consider it stricken.” Without waiting for an invitation, I walked past him into the kitchen.
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