Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

anyone pick our new Chow Down spokesdog for us.”
    I didn’t agree. The judges had already narrowed the choice down to five, presumably deserving, finalists. It didn’t look to me as though the public could go very far wrong. But that wasn’t how the situation had been presented to us. And it now seemed quite possible that all the energy we’d expended trying to impress the committee over the last several weeks was going to count for nothing.
    “It’s our decision,” Chris said firmly. “Really. We wouldn’t have it any other way.”
    “Then maybe you’d like to make that clear before we appear before a national audience,” Bill Redding commented.
    “Good idea,” said Doug. He looked happy to grab an excuse to make an exit. “I’ll go do that.”
    No sooner had he passed through the doorway than Ben and Brando came walking in. The actor paused to survey the room. His eyes slid over each of us in turn.
    “Hey guys! Great morning, isn’t it?” he said cheerfully. “It looks like most of the gang’s already here. Did I miss anything important?”

    The screen lit back up as the morning show continued. One by one we were escorted up to the eleventh floor to have a layer of on-air makeup applied, and to have our hair combed out by the studio’s stylist. Even she was impressed with my new haircut. Terry would get a big kick out of that; I made a mental note to tell him about it later.
    While I was gone from the green room, Dorothy and the Reddings had filled Ben in on the latest developments. Unlike the other contestants, he relished the idea of leaving his fate up to a popular vote.
    “You guys just don’t have enough faith in your dogs,” he said, dropping a hand down to scratch the top of his Boxer’s tight skull. “Brando here, he’s a star and he knows it. I don’t mind letting America choose. I’m confident that they’ll pick the right dog.”
    Ben’s bravado had a certain appeal. Both Chris and Cindy looked impressed with his assessment. That was reason enough to keep the rest of us from arguing with him and we went back to watching the show.
    Doug had yet to reappear; I imagined he was probably checking with the producer about our segment. Simone had passed through briefly, greeted each of us, and then left again. There still had been no sign of Lisa and Yoda.
    I glanced at my watch. Time was passing rapidly. Our turn would come up shortly. Earlier I’d been enjoying having a behind-the-scenes look at a live TV show, but now my stomach was beginning to quiver with nerves.
    Resting beside me, Faith looked composed as always. I knew she’d do a good job. I just hoped I wouldn’t fall flat on my face.
    “Does anyone know where the ladies’ room is?” I asked.
    “Down the hall and to the left,” said Allison. She looked as though she might be feeling some butterflies, too. “Do you want me to keep an eye on Faith while you’re gone?”
    “Thanks, that would be great.”
    I left the Poodle in a down-stay and went and attended to business. Heading back a few minutes later, I decided not to take the direct route. So far, all I’d seen of the television studio was the reception area and the green room. They were interesting but not nearly as exciting as getting a sneak preview of the actual set would be.
    There were plenty of people in the hallway but everyone seemed intent on carrying out their duties. Nobody paid any attention as I pushed through the heavy door that led to the area where the show was being filmed. I slipped quietly into the cavernous room and hung back in the shadows against the wall.
    Around the cameras and technicians, I could see Darlene sitting on a plump couch, interviewing a rising young tennis player. A kitchen set, currently dark, was off to the right. On the far side of that was a set that had been built to resemble an outdoor park. There were trees, and benches, and an area of open space in the front. Unless I missed my guess, that was where our segment would be taking place.
    The interview ended; the show cut away to commercial. The tennis player stood up and stretched. A technician stepped up onto the set and unhooked his microphone.
    “Good job!” said Darlene. She made eye contact and patted the tennis player’s arm, her hand slim and white against his tanned muscles. “That should bring the fans flocking to your next tournament.”
    “Right.” He gazed past her, looking bored. “Whatever.”
    I wondered why he was there if he didn’t