Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

Peg, “why not just turn him into the police? Why run away?”
    “Maybe he’s blackmailing her,” said Bertie. “Maybe he knows some deep, dark secret from her past.”
    “Maybe you’ve been watching too many soap operas,” Aunt Peg sniffed.
    Bertie only laughed. “You’re right about that. I have to do something to pass the time while I’m standing in the kennel grooming dogs.”
    “I guess we’ll find out soon enough whether or not Lisa left of her own volition,” I said.
    “Why do you say that?” asked Sam.
    “Because ever since the contest started, our presence has been required at events that take place every couple of days. When the next one occurs, we’ll see whether or not Lisa and Yoda show up. I thought she would withdraw when Larry died but she didn’t, so either the contest or the prize money must be pretty important to her. I’m betting that’s what will flush her out.”
    “When is your next event?” asked Aunt Peg.
    “I don’t know, I haven’t heard yet. Usually I get an email and a couple days’ warning. Maybe there will be a message waiting for me when we get home.”
    As it happened, I didn’t have to wait that long. We finished grooming the four Poodles—Bertie’s three plus Tar—and Maggie awoke just in time to accompany us to the ring for the judging. Aunt Peg fed her great-niece a bottle while Bertie won Reserve Winners with her Toy, put two points on the Mini, then placed second in a large Open class with the Standard. In a strong group of specials, Tar was awarded Best of Variety.
    As Sam was waiting to have his picture taken with the judge, my cell phone chimed. Bertie was heading back to the setup; she had Maggie in her arms and the Standard Poodle on a leash. I handed the two Poodles I’d been holding to Aunt Peg, then stepped away from the ring so I could hear better. I found myself talking to Doug Allen.
    “I’m glad I reached you,” he said.
    “What’s up?”
    “Something really exciting. Everything just came together and since it’s short notice I wanted to speak to each of you personally and make sure that you were onboard. How would you and Faith like to be on television?”
    Several answers sprang immediately to mind. Probably none were what Doug wanted to hear. I’d never sought fame out, but now it looked as though it might be coming to find me anyway. Or at least coming to find my dog.
    I gave myself a mental kick. I had to keep reminding myself that this was all about Faith.
    “That sounds interesting,” I said cautiously.
    “Interesting? It’s going to be terrific!” Doug was back in cheerleader mode. “The five of you have been booked as a group on This Is Your Morning Show . You’re going to appear in a segment with their resident pet expert, Darren Abernathy. He’ll talk about canine health, proper diet, and the importance of good nutrition. Then he’ll plug the contest and introduce each of you to a national audi-ence.”
    On those rare mornings when I had time to check out a news-and-entertainment show, I’d seen Darren Abernathy at work. Whatever credentials he might possess for calling himself a “pet expert” they weren’t evidenced by the advice he dispensed. Much of it was simply common sense, leavened with a dose of good-old-boy humor. Abernathy didn’t believe in using crates, his training methods looked dubious, and he’d been known to refer to Poodles as “froufrou dogs.” It wouldn’t surprise me if we hated each other on sight.
    “Great,” I said flatly.
    “I knew you’d be excited,” said Doug. “This is a huge opportunity for everyone involved. Not only that, but it will be our last group event. The committee and I will be making our final selection after the appearance on Monday morning, and we’ll be announcing the big winner at a press conference on Tuesday.”
    Much as I had wanted to be finished with the contest, suddenly it seemed as though everything was moving at warp speed. “Monday morning?” I said. That was only thirty-six hours away.
    “That’s right,” Doug confirmed. “We have a five-minute segment during the last half hour of the show, so we’ll be on the air sometime between eight thirty and nine. The producer wants us all to be at the studio by six thirty.”
    I gulped. “ AM ?”
    “Of course AM ,” Doug said with a hearty laugh. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be a morning show.”
    I did the calculations. To be at a television studio in midtown Manhattan at six thirty,