Stud Rites

him. Leah, the point is that Casey is such serious competition that—”
    ”Under Hunnewell?” Leah asked.
    ”That’s the point. You could go around mass-murdering judges, and it still wouldn’t guarantee anything, because as long as Casey’s here, Casey’s going to do his damnedest to win, and he’s going to stand a good chance of succeeding, because he is a hell of a dog and a hell of a showman. Furthermore, Sherri Ann Printz and Timmy Oliver and Duke all knew that, because they’ve all seen Casey before, so they knew exactly what they were up against, okay? So, Best of Breed had nothing to do with the murder: With Casey in the ring, you could murder half the judges on the AKC eligible list, and Casey could still win.”
    ”So why does Timmy Oliver keep harping on...?”
    ”Well, he’s obviously right that Z-Rocks wasn’t going to go anywhere under Mrs. Muldoon—she got cut—but whether Hunnewell... I don’t know. Best of Opposite? An Award of Merit? I suppose it’s remotely possible, but she’s just not this caliber!” I pointed to the dogs in the ring. Bitches, too, of course. ”Just look! Look at what’s in the ring! She’s—”
    Almost against my will, my upraised hand and pointing finger, however, drifted from my original target toward a remarkably accurate, yet smaller-than-lifesize and entirely floral representation that the florid-faced Harold Jenkinson, Crystal’s father, was positioning in the dead center of the trophy table by the gate as solemnly and wordlessly as though it were a spectacular bonus surprise Best of Breed trophy offered as a tribute by the admiring wedding party. And if the man’s hands trembled? If his complexion turned from red to white to scarlet? Why, what could be more natural in the father of the bride, the patriarch who had presumably just given away a gift more precious than an elaborate dog of flowers? And in another holy rite, too? The marriage of a daughter? A life event of sufficient moment in itself to act as a sort of emotional surgery on the vocal cords, thus transforming Harold Jenkinson into the grotesque and pitiful human mockery of a poor debarked dog. His mouth convulsively and silently opening and closing, Harold Jenkinson settled the elaborately florist-bred rose-red, white-trimmed malamute on the trophy table. Driven, no doubt, by the stress of a life transition and obviously frustrated in his futile effort to speak his mind to Freida Reilly, he laid hands upon the rope of flowers twined around the gate to the ring and, with a swift yank, loosed the long garland, sent the wooden trellis crashing to the floor. Then, like an angry bride fleeing a ruined altar, he dragged away the train of flowers, his own white veil.
    Ignoring the departing Harold, Freida Reilly, arms akimbo, scanned the crowd, spotted her objective, and stormed toward Sherri Ann Printz. Jolting to a halt, Freida turned so violently red that I feared for her physical and mental health. ”What have I ever done to you to deserve this persecution?” she shrieked. ”In the past year, I have spent thousands of hours slaving over every last detail of this show, and what do I get in return? A systematic campaign organized by you to ruin my show! You got those entrees switched last night! And you stage-managed this business with the flowers! And you, Sherri Ann—”
    ”Holly,” Leah whispered, ”do you think that Sherri Ann really...?”
    ”Yes,” I whispered back. ”I think she really did. And I think that Victor helped her, too.”
    ”Mother,” Karl interjected calmly. ”Mother?” At his side was a young woman I recognized as the doctor who had volunteered to examine Harriet Lunt last night. Together, Karl and the doctor somehow convinced Freida to back off. They led her, red-faced and still sputtering, quietly away.
    Sherri Ann, a caricature of generosity, exclaimed, ”Poor Freida! Groundless suspicion of your old friends is a sure sign of mental illness, you know,” she told us. ”Watch and see. Cracking up under the strain.” Shaking her head as if Freida were right in front of her injecting heroin: ”Drugs! Poor Freida’ll have to be all doped up.”
    Meanwhile, everyone nearby had pitched in to sweep up the scattered blossoms. As a couple of show-committee members raised the fallen bower, Leah commented, ”Freida and that father of the bride are both pissed enough to—”
    ”Do not say pissed! This is a dog show, not a kennel. Besides, you go to