Stud Rites

Deep voices. Harriet Lunt’s voice was as deep as a man’s. She had a resonant voice: a voice that carried. And trash was Harriet Lunt’s word.
     

 
     
    ”I COULD HAVE strangled the pair of them,” I raged at Betty Burley. ”Simultaneously. One with each hand.”
    Betty and I were lingering just outside the ring, where the judges’ education seminar was continuing. Betty was studying the demonstration dogs. Maybe she was interested. Maybe she was avoiding eye contact with me. I’d reported only what I’d just heard; I hadn’t told her about Jeanine. ”Victor Printz is an ignoramus,” Betty decreed. ”But Harriet Lunt is a lawyer. She’s an educated woman. She should know better.” She sounded troubled.
    ”Speaking of knowing,” I said abruptly, ”I want to know what you know about James Hunnewell’s sister.” The whole sentence came out as a single word: IwannaknowwhatyouknowaboutJamesHunnewell’ssister.
    ”Not a dog in that ring I care for,” remarked Betty, who had once spoken admiringly of Rowdy, but only after she’d had two glasses of wine.
    ”That silver male is very nice,” I said.
    ”Nice? Really? Is that your idea of nice?”
    ”Yes,” I said. ”It’s one of them. Betty, James Hunnewell’s sister?”
    ”Will you look at those feet! Poor thing couldn’t make it one turn around the block!”
    ”Gladys Thacker. Gladys H. Thacker. The H must be for Hunnewell.” My reason for pressing Betty was the piece of surprising information I’d picked up from Detective Kariotis at the end of our interview. ”Gladys Thacker’s going to be here tomorrow,” I reported to Betty. ”I heard it from the state police. Well, she’s not necessarily coming here to the national, but to Massachusetts. The story is that she’s very concerned to see that her brother gets a Christian burial.”
    ”What does she expect? Hindu rites?”
    ”I have no idea. And who’s going to bury him here, anyway? They’ll release the body... Well, I can’t imagine that she’d have to come here and get it.”
    ”Well,” said Betty, ”we can only hope that this Thacker person has the nerve to turn up. I, for one, will be most interested to have a very lengthy discussion with her.”
    Betty, I believe, placed no special emphasis on the words ”I, for one.” My own ears added the emphasis. ”Betty,” I demanded suspiciously, ”did you show Cubby’s pedigree to Sherri Ann Printz?”
    Without answering the question, Betty huffily said that what Sherri Ann or anyone else may or may not have known, and may or may not have done, was a complete mystery to her. ”If you did not go through my tote bag and take that pedigree, and I do believe you, Holly, then I do not know who did.” Rocking her head backward in what I took to be the direction of the breed club’s booth, she changed the subject, more or less. ”A fine show of support I got back there!”
    ”I’m sorry,” I said, ”but I was dealing with something else. Remember? Besides, you were taking care of yourself fine without my help.”
    ”I wasn’t thinking of you,” she said, as if I’d have been useless, anyway. ”I meant everyone else, including Timmy Oliver. You’d think he’d—”
    ”You might,” I said. ”I wouldn’t.”
    ”I suppose Timmy is very peeved with me,” Betty reflected, ”but if he didn’t want my honest opinion of that poor bitch of his, he shouldn’t have asked. But, no, he just had to go and drag me out and show her to me.”
    ”Z-Rocks,” I said, ”is perfectly decent, and you know it. She’s just not in any condition to be here.”
    ”She is not outstanding,” Betty ruthlessly proclaimed. ”She is ordinary. And ordinary does not go Best of Breed at a national specialty.” Betty paused. ”Even under James Hunnewell. I don’t know what Timmy was thinking.”
    ”Daphne is a much better bitch,” I said, naming a frequent competitor at New England shows. ”She moves a lot better, and she’s always beautifully presented.”
    ”She usually beats your male,” Betty observed. ”She usually beats most of the other males, too,” I replied sharply.
    ”If it’s any comfort to you, Daphne’ll get her comeuppance tomorrow, because Casey’s here, and she won’t beat him.” Casey: Williwaw’s Kodiak Cub. I’d seen dozens of photos of the beautiful, top-winning sable dog, but I’d never seen him in the ring. Casey was supposed to be a great competitor, a master showman.
    A masculine hoot