Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

amount of upkeep. I cut Faith’s hair off when she finished her championship, so now she’s just a pet.”
    Just a pet. In the eyes of some people who showed dogs, those words were about the biggest insult you could offer. I’d never been able to understand why. I’d enjoyed Faith’s show career. I loved the fact that she’d been well-bred enough and well made enough to finish her championship in style. But now I adored not having to worry about her coat all the time. Truth be told, I was enjoying the “just a pet” stage of our relationship more than the ones that had preceded it.
    “You’re not giving Faith enough credit,” Cindy said. “All of the finalists are highly accomplished canines. None of them could be labeled as just an anything.”
    I nodded in agreement but my thoughts were elsewhere. If I’d had a catalogue, I would have checked to see if Brando was entered. Since I didn’t, I went with my gut and said casually, “So . . . Is Ben showing today?”
    Cindy hesitated. I got the distinct impression that I’d posed a question she’d rather not have to answer. But since we were standing beside the Boxer ring, she must have realized that I would see for myself sooner or later.
    “Yes, he is,” she said after a moment. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. He asked me to come and watch him show Brando. You know . . . so I could see the dog in his element?”
    Not to mention the dog owner, I thought. No wonder Cindy hadn’t been happy to see me. I was betting there had to be some sort of rule against contest judges fraternizing with the finalists. And yet she’d put on a pretty dress and come to the dog show anyway.
    Ben was more than a decade older than Cindy was, possibly closer to two. But he was handsome and charming and I could see how he might have been able to turn her head. I could also imagine him using that connection to his advantage.
    “Ben and Brando are in the Best of Breed class,” said Cindy. “Those are the dogs they call specials.”
    “Yes, I know,” I said.
    Standing there gazing into the ring, I remembered what Terry had said about Brando’s faults. Competition in Boxers, especially among the champions, was usually pretty fierce. Ben wasn’t stupid and he didn’t strike me as the kind of person who liked to lose, so I sincerely doubted that he made a habit of specialing the dog.
    But Boxers, unlike Poodles, don’t require a lot of upkeep to be made show-ready. As long as a dog is kept in fairly good weight and muscle, they can be exhibited on a whim. Like in the event that an owner felt a sudden need to try and impress someone.
    I looked back at Cindy. The judging was moving right along. The Open class was over. Winners Bitch had come and gone. The champions were now entering into the ring. And Cindy looked ready to be impressed.
    “Doesn’t he look handsome?” she said as the pair took their place in line.
    “Brando?” I asked. “Or Ben?”
    She colored slightly. “Brando, of course.”
    “He looks great,” I agreed. And to my untrained eye, he did. Which was probably why nobody had ever asked me to judge Boxers.
    “Ben doesn’t look bad either,” I commented.
    Cindy slid a glance my way, probably checking for ulterior motives. Which of course I had. Nevertheless, as the judge asked the exhibitors to take the dogs around for the first time, I trained my gaze on the entries in the ring and kept my expression perfectly bland.
    “There’s nothing going on between us,” she said firmly.
    “Good to know.”
    “We’re just friends.”
    The two denials didn’t have the effect Cindy must have been hoping for. In fact, they made me even more suspicious. Besides, even if that was the extent of their relationship, that hardly made everything all right. Even friends might feel pressured to help one another out when it came to winning a contest. Especially one that boasted such a lucrative prize.
    And when it came to choosing the finalists, I remembered, Cindy had been the one who happened to like big dogs.
    “Did you and Ben know one another before the contest started?” I asked.
    “No.” Her tone was sharp. “We met for the first time at the reception.”
    In the ring, the judge was performing her individual examinations. Though we were speaking to one another, Cindy and I were both facing forward; the dog person’s version of multitasking. Neither one of us wanted to miss a thing.
    “Even though you’d been the one to promote the big