Chow Down

Book 13: Melanie Travis Mystery

by Laurien Berenson

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

A canine competition in New York turns criminal: “Enjoyable…plenty of twists and turns… a tight suspenseful package.”— Publishers Weekly If Melanie Travis was planning on a quiet family summer with her Standard Poodle Faith, son Davey, and new husband Sam, her plans are about to turn upside down. When she receives a letter from the Champions Dog Food Company informing her that Faith has been selected as a finalist in the “All Dogs Are Champions” contest, Melanie is mystified—until she discovers it was Davey who sent her name in. At the reception in New York where they meet the other finalists, Melanie immediately senses that this pack is a bone’s throw away from a major dogfight. And when Larry Kim, one of the finalists, dies in a suspicious fall, something smells rotten. With the final decision for a winner drawing near and the competition getting downright ferocious, Melanie and Faith will have to stay alert—because Melanie’s digging may well unearth a barking-mad killer who’ll do anything to win. “If you like dogs, you’ll love Laurien Berenson’s Melanie Travis mysteries!”—Joanne Fluke, New York Times -bestselling author of the Hannah Swensen series

Release date: April 23, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Huh? I thought.

Not the most scintillating response, but hey, it was early. I’m never at my best before my first cup of coffee.

I stared at the letter in my hands, hoping that a second reading might help my comprehension. It didn’t.

Chow Down dog food? I’d never even heard of it. And I certainly hadn’t entered Faith in any contests, much less submitted an essay and photos. The Poodle in question was one of five—all big black Standards—currently snoozing on my kitchen floor.

Faith was highly intelligent but I’d never seen her compose a letter or lick a stamp. And why would she have wanted to enter a contest? Fame? Fortune? She already had all the dog biscuits she could eat.

That brief flight of fancy was enough to send me straight to the coffee maker on the counter for what was obviously a much-needed jolt of caffeine. Summer mornings, I grab the chance to sleep late whenever I can. During the other, more productive, nine months of the year I teach at a private school in Greenwich, Connecticut. From the moment my alarm goes off at six thirty, I’m up and running. So by the time June arrives each year, I’m ready for a break and the unaccustomed luxury of a little laziness.

Sam and Davey, my husband and eight-year-old son, respectively, had risen at least an hour earlier. Over dinner the night before, there’d been talk of building a tree house in the backyard. That had led to plans for an early-morning visit to Home Depot to purchase supplies.

Sam had gotten up, let the dogs out, and started the coffee. Davey had brought in the mail and left it sitting on the counter. By the time I’d made my way downstairs at eight thirty, both had disappeared. Only the five Poodles—Sam’s and my recently blended canine families—remained.

Faith lifted her head as I navigated my way through the obstacle course of Poodle bodies. Her dark eyes watched me with avid interest. We’d been together for four years, and our bond went far beyond that of master and pet. Faith knew my strengths and exploited my weaknesses. She read my thoughts and anticipated my moods.

Right now, she knew I needed coffee. If she’d possessed opposable thumbs, she probably would have already poured me a cup.

As it was, I had to perform that task for myself. I added a splash of milk to the mug, carried it over to the back door, and walked outside onto the deck. We’d been in our new house less than a month and I was still getting used to the unfamiliar surroundings. Having a deck to enjoy was only one positive change of many.

I sat down on a chaise, drew up my legs underneath me, and breathed in deeply. Later the day would be hot, but now the dew had yet to burn off and the morning air was fresh and cool. It smelled of honeysuckle and roses; both bushes grew wild over the fence that enclosed the large expanse of our new backyard.

I had left the screen door open. One by one, the Poodles picked themselves up and followed me outside as I’d known they would.

Faith had been part of my family since she was a puppy. So had her daughter, Eve, born two years earlier in a whelping box next to my bed. Sam and I had gotten married in the spring, and his three Standard Poodles—Raven, Casey, and Tar—had been added to the mix.

All five were show dogs; the three oldest were retired champions. The youngsters, Tar and Eve, were still “in hair,” which meant that they sported the highly stylized continental clip that was required for competition. The continental is the trim of pom pons, shaved legs, and big hair; the trim that makes Poodles unique, eye-catching, and sometimes a little goofy-looking; the trim that gives rise to the notion—not without due justification—that Poodles are clowns with a great sense of humor.

Tar was Sam’s “specials” dog, a title that identified him as one of the best of the best. He’d finished his championship handily at a young age and now competed against champions in other breeds for the prestigious group and Best in Show wins. Eve, hampered by having me for an owner handler, was nearly finished herself. Only one more major win was needed to put the coveted title of champion before her name. It was a goal I was hoping to accomplish over the summer.

The thought of summer plans reminded me of the letter I’d left sitting on the counter. I wondered if it might be some sort of scam and if a request for money would follow shortly. The letter looked genuine, but how could the contest committee have gotten Faith’s name, much less her photograph?

Sam wouldn’t have entered one of my Poodles without my consent. Our marriage was new enough that we were still feeling things out and finding our way, but we’d been a couple for several years. I knew him well enough to be quite certain he wouldn’t have done something like that without checking with me first.

Without the slightest pause, my thoughts slid directly to the next most likely culprit: my Aunt Peg. Margaret Turnbull was a force of nature; one I alternately embraced or cursed, depending on the circumstances. On good days, Aunt Peg was a blessing. On bad ones, her presence was akin to an itch that I couldn’t quite reach, or a pebble lodged inside my shoe.

Peg could be imperious and demanding; living up to her expectations was a constant challenge. Never satisfied with less than anyone’s best, she held herself to the same high standard. Aunt Peg had been a mainstay on the dog show scene since before I was born and she’d taught me everything in the world I knew about Poodles. Half the time she drove me crazy, but there were few people in the world that I loved more.

Might she have entered Faith in a contest on a whim? It seemed unlikely, but where Aunt Peg was concerned, I’d learned never to discount any possibility.

I got up, walked inside, and retrieved the letter and a telephone. Aunt Peg’s number was first on my speed dial list, a testament to how often we spoke. I didn’t even hear a single ring before she picked up. A perfect, drowsy summer morning and Aunt Peg was in a hurry. Somehow I wasn’t surprised.

“What?” she barked into the phone as I carried it outside and settled back down on the chaise.

“It’s me,” I said.

“I know that. I have caller ID. How’s the tree house coming?”

Trust Aunt Peg to be up to speed on all current events, even those that had been decided upon only the evening before. I think she has some sort of subliminal radar that keeps her constantly apprised of what we’re up to. A network of spies wouldn’t surprise me, either. I know for a fact that she has ears like a bat.

Need I mention that she had accepted Sam’s proposal before I did?

“It’s still in the planning stages. Sam took Davey to Home Depot to buy lumber and nails. If I’m really lucky they’ll come home with a general contractor.”

“Pish,” Peg scoffed. “I can’t see any reason why Sam wouldn’t be perfectly capable of constructing a tree house on his own.”

“That’s because he’s never tried to repair your ice-maker or rewire your microwave.”

I love Sam dearly, but Mr. Fix-It he isn’t. I let him change my oil once. That was a learning experience. Now I’ve gone back to doing it myself.

“All things considered, lumber seems fairly safe,” Peg mused. She’d been at the dog show with me when my engine had seized.

“Yes, but he’s not building this structure on the ground. He and Davey are going to be up in the air.”

“How high?”

I looked out across the yard. Davey and Sam had chosen a lovely old oak tree with a thick trunk and spreading branches for their project. A fork midway up seemed like a likely choice. “Fifteen feet?”

“I suppose someone could break a neck falling from there.”

“Go ahead,” I said, “make me feel better.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” Aunt Peg sounded cheerful. “Would you like me to come and supervise?”

Heaven help us all. We’d end up with a Taj Mahal on stilts, or the Petite Trianon in a tree. Deftly I changed the subject.

“Actually I’d rather have you answer a question.”

“Excellent,” said Peg. “I’m good at that.”

“What do you know about Champions Dog Food?”

“They make a perfectly decent product and, I believe, a fairly popular one. Despite their company name, they’ve targeted their previous marketing mostly toward the pet owning public, though it seems they’re currently looking to change their focus.”

“How do you know that?”

“I received a couple of flyers in the mail. I might even still have one lying around here someplace.”

I heard the sound of papers being shuffled, but Aunt Peg never stopped talking.

“I got the impression that the company had bought some kennel club’s mailing list and done a mass mailing to local exhibitors. I’m surprised you didn’t get a brochure yourself. There was a promotion for a new product with a perfectly ghastly name . . .”

“Chow Down?”

“That’s it,” Aunt Peg confirmed. “So you did hear about it.”

As of ten minutes earlier, yes. Though I didn’t remember receiving any brochures. Which wasn’t to say that one might not have been overlooked. My days were generally so busy that anything that arrived looking like junk mail was promptly disposed of unread.

“Apparently they’re running a contest . . .” I let the thought dangle for a moment, just in case Aunt Peg might want to jump in and make a full confession.

“Right. That was what the new promotion was about. Although why any self-respecting breeder would want her dogs associated with a kibble with an odious name like Chow Down, I have no idea.”

“So you didn’t fill out an entry form?”

“Heaven forbid.” Peg laughed. “Hope and Zeke are not about to go prancing around on television touting the virtues of anything, much less a dog food that sounds like it fell off the back of a wagon train.”

Hope was Faith’s litter sister. And Zeke was Eve’s brother. Our canine families, like our human one, were indelibly intertwined.

“Why the sudden interest in Champions Dog Food? Are you thinking about switching to a new brand of kibble?”

“Nothing that easy,” I admitted. “I got a letter from the company this morning. To my surprise, Faith has been named as one of five finalists in their ‘All Dogs Are Champions’ contest.”

Aunt Peg gasped. Or maybe she was laughing. “Faith has?” she sputtered. “Well, why didn’t you start with that information? I would imagine you must know a great deal more about the company than I do.”

“Hardly. This is the first I’ve heard of them, or their contest.”

Aunt Peg moderated her tone. Like she was speaking to a child, or a particularly slow relative. “Then why did you send in an entry?”

“I didn’t. I have no idea where they got Faith’s name from. Or her picture.”

There was a brief pause. Then Aunt Peg said, “Oh.”

The single syllable spoke volumes.

“Yes?”

“Maybe it’s nothing.”

“I doubt it.” Years of experience backed up my reply.

“You might remember that I gave Davey a digital camera for his last birthday.”

Of course I remembered that. My son adored his present. He’d quickly become adept at capturing all of us in his photographs. We’d printed up the results on Sam’s printer and stuck the best ones up on the refrigerator with magnets.

“About a month ago, Davey called and asked how to email someone a picture. I couldn’t see the harm in telling him.”

Oh, indeed. “And you didn’t stop to wonder why he hadn’t asked me or Sam for help?”

“I just assumed you were busy.”

If Aunt Peg had been a wooden puppet, her nose would have been growing.

“Did you happen to ask where he was planning to email the pictures to?”

“No, I didn’t. It seemed to me that an almost nine-year-old boy was entitled to have some secrets.”

“Not when he’s on the internet he isn’t,” I said firmly. “Did you help him write the essay, too?”

“I did not!”

As if I would be impressed by a show of outrage now. “I thought maybe that was another secret.”

“Oh, pish,” said Aunt Peg. “Stop being annoyed long enough to think things through. Apparently Davey took photographs and wrote an essay that was polished enough to beat out thousands of other silly, ambitious people who were all trying to turn their beloved pets into the next Morris the Cat.”

She had a point. My heart swelled briefly with pride at Davey’s achievement. I was still annoyed, though.

“I like my beloved pet just the way she is,” I grumbled. “Happily anonymous.”

“Perhaps you ought to try explaining that to Davey.”

“I suppose I should.”

“After that you can simply call the Champions Company and decline the honor. Let the contest committee choose some other, equally deserving dog to serve as finalist.”

“Good idea.”

“You see?” said Aunt Peg. “Problem solved.”

As always, she made things sound so simple.

I’d been in this spot before, though, and I knew there’d be a catch. There was always a catch.

It was only a matter of time until I found out what it was.

“We’re home!” Davey sang out as he came barreling through the front door.

As if anyone who lived with a crew of large, attentive watchdogs could possibly have been oblivious to that fact. I hadn’t heard Sam’s SUV come up the driveway, but the Poodles had. Scrambling to their feet, they’d deserted me without hesitation. No doubt Sam and Davey’s return seemed more likely to provide biscuits and other forms of excitement than my talking on the phone had.

“In the kitchen,” I called back.

I’d left the deck and started to follow the dogs toward the front of the house, but Davey was moving faster than I was. Perennially hungry, he must have come inside and headed straight for food. He raced through the doorway as I was putting the phone back on the counter.

My son had shot up two inches in the last year. Suddenly when I looked at him, I saw only lingering echoes of the little boy he’d been. It was hard to believe that in another year he’d be ready for middle school.

“Hey,” said Davey.

His sandy brown hair hadn’t seen a comb that morning; his cargo shorts were at least a size too big. A T-shirt from the Norwalk Maritime Center floated, untucked, around his narrow hips. He sketched a wave in my direction, slipped past me, and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the table.

“Hey yourself. How was the shopping trip?”

“Productive,” Sam said. He walked into the kitchen, his Poodle escort trailing along behind. “We got everything we needed. Once we get it all unloaded, we’ll be ready to start building.”

Unlike Davey, Sam didn’t sidestep around me. Instead he dropped the plastic bags he was carrying onto the counter and folded me into his arms for a quick kiss.

It was a crime that anyone could look that good first thing in the morning. Then again, Sam had the kind of appeal that wore well at any time of the day: shaggy blond hair, direct blue eyes, and a face that only grew more interesting with age and experience. Amazing, I thought, as I leaned into him, that this man was now my husband.

“Sleep well?” Sam asked.

“Umm . . .”

With Davey in the room, I wasn’t about to elaborate. But one look at the expression on Sam’s face told me I didn’t have to. Married for three months, we were still honeymooners. Both of us had been blissfully worn out by the time we’d dropped off to sleep the night before.

I stepped back out of his arms and said, “You’re not going to kill yourself climbing around in that tree, are you?”

Sam grinned cheerfully. “I hope not.”

That was reassuring.

“What about Davey? He’s my only son and heir, you know.”

Something flickered briefly in Sam’s eyes, and I felt a small pang. Both of us were eager for another child. We’d been trying but so far it hadn’t happened.

When Sam spoke, however, his tone was light. “Don’t worry. Kids his age don’t go splat, they bounce.”

“Charming.” I peered into a bag. I saw two boxes of nails, a new tape measure, and a small hammer, the size that Davey could easily wrap his hands around.

“We aim to please,” said Sam.

Davey only giggled. The notion of bouncing—or going splat—apparently held more appeal for him than it did for me.

“I got something interesting in the mail this morning,” I said.

“What was it?” Sam had followed Davey to the fruit bowl. He selected a banana and began to peel it. “Coupons for free pizza? An envelope from Publisher’s Clearing House? Did we win a million bucks?”

“Not quite. Though apparently one of our Poodles may be on the fast track to fame and fortune.”

“Faith?” Davey perked up. “Did she win the contest?”

Well, I guessed that answered my next question.

“What contest?” Sam asked, banana poised in the air midway to his lips.

“ ‘ All Dogs Are Champions.’ ”

“They are?”

“That’s the name of the contest. It’s sponsored by the makers of Chow Down dog food.”

“I’ve heard of them. They’re headquartered around here somewhere, aren’t they?”

“Norwalk,” Davey said impatiently. “They’re in Norwalk. Did Faith win?”

“Not quite. But she’s been named one of five finalists—”

“Yippee!” my son shrieked. He began to twirl in circles around the room.

“Not so fast, Lord of the Dance. Did it ever occur to you that it might have been a good idea to check with me before you went ahead and entered Faith in a contest?”

“Umm . . . no.”

Davey’s exuberant steps never even faltered. I watched him and sighed. I supposed, if nothing else, I had to give him points for honesty.

“Faith is a champion,” Sam pointed out. I don’t think he had a clue what was going on.

“That’s what I told the people at the booth,” said Davey.

“What booth?”

“The Chow Down booth. They have one at all the dog shows.”

“They do?” I’d never noticed. Then again, when I’m at a show I’m usually busy either exhibiting or getting Eve ready to go in the ring. I seldom spend time browsing the concessions.

“That’s where I found out about the contest. The man told me they were trying to get show dogs interested in eating their new kibble.”

“Presumably they were trying to attract the dogs’ owners,” Sam said under his breath.

“No,” Davey corrected. “The food is for the dogs. I told the man about Faith and he gave me a brochure and an entry form. There was a web site to go to and I filled everything out online.”

“All without mentioning it to me?” I said again.

“I couldn’t tell you,” Davey said earnestly. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Trust me, it was.”

“Is this the letter?” Sam picked up the sheet of paper from the counter. His eyes skimmed down the page. Midway through, he was biting back a smile. “A personal interview with Faith . . . ? I’d like to see that myself. This sounds like quite an undertaking.”

“It sounds like fun,” said Davey. “Faith could be famous. She could make lots of money! She could be on TV, like in commercials and everything. Everyone would know who she was!”

Maybe that seemed like a good thing to an eight-year-old. To me, it sounded like a nightmare. I’ve never understood the appeal of fame. Fortune, sure. Who doesn’t like money? But thanks to a video game Sam had designed years earlier, he and I already had more than enough.

Besides, it was summer. This was supposed to be my time off. I had no desire to shepherd Faith through the final phases of a selection process for a contest I didn’t particularly want to win.

“The notification letter was addressed to me,” I said.

For the first time, Davey’s eyes slipped away.

“Did you sign my name on the entry form?”

Davey developed a sudden interest in his apple. “Not exactly,” he mumbled.

“Then what did you do?”

“The form was online, so I just typed your name in.”

A small distinction, but at least I didn’t have to add forgery to his crimes.

“The owner of the dog was supposed to sign. Faith belongs to me as much as she belongs to you . . .” Davey looked at me for confirmation and I nodded. “Except that . . .” Another pause, then he blurted out the rest. “You had to be over the age of eighteen to enter.”

A rule imposed to prevent an occurrence like this one, presumably.

“Please, Mom!” Davey pleaded. “Just give it a try and see what happens.”

I glanced at Sam, who merely shrugged. This was going to be my decision.

“I’ll tell you what,” I proposed. “I’ll call the company and find out what the contest is all about, see how much time and effort it would take to continue on with the selection process. But until I have a clearer idea of what’s involved, I’m not making any promises—”

“Yippee!” Davey shouted again. “Faith is going to be famous.”

Oh joy.

The phone call to Champions Dog Food went just about as well as the conversation with Davey had.

After Sam and Davey had gone outside to unpack the car, I dialed the number on the letterhead and asked to speak with Doug Allen, the contest chairman.

“May I ask what this is in reference to?” the receptionist inquired.

I considered for a moment, then said, “No.”

Obviously it wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting.

“Is it about the results of the contest we’re currently running?” she asked after a pause. “Because if it is, I need to inform you that the decision of the judges is final. We at Champions Dog Food are terribly sorry if your pet wasn’t selected, but with so many worthy applicants to choose from . . .”

The woman sounded as though she was reading a prepared speech. I wondered if the company had actually been fielding phone calls from disgruntled losers. And more to the point, since I’d found out only that morning, how did the people whose dogs hadn’t been chosen already know the results?

“That isn’t the problem,” I broke in. “My dog is supposed to be one of the finalists.”

“Oh well that’s different, then. Congratulations! In that case, you’ll be contacted shortly—”

“I’ve already been contacted.” It was an effort not to grind my teeth. “Otherwise how would I know she’d been chosen?”

“The preliminary results were posted on our web site last night,” she said helpfully. “And it’s been a madhouse around here ever since. Well, frankly, it’s been like that ever since the contest started, if you want to know the truth. We hoped the contest would strike a chord but we never expected a response like this. Who would have guessed there were so many people who were dying to get their dogs on television?”

Who indeed? I wondered. Davey was eight. What was everyone else’s excuse?

“I’ll get Mr. Allen for you right away.”

I was put on hold and left to listen to music that my grandmother would have found boring. “Right away” turned out to be ten minutes. I spent the time watching Sam and Davey unload what looked like enough lumber to build a second garage. Or maybe an addition to the house.

Su. . .