Death by Dog Show

Book 1: Creature Comforts Mystery

by Arlene Kay

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

When murder prances into the ring at a Massachusetts dog show, Army vet Persephone “Perri” Morgan and her canine sidekicks must confront a cunning killer who’s a breed apart in this cozy mystery sure to thrill fans of Molly Fitz, Judi McCoy and Susan Harper. Accompanied by her bestie Babette and four oversize canines, Perri motors down to the Big E Dog Show in high style. Perri hopes to combine business with pleasure by also spending time with sexy DC journalist Wing Pruett. Until a storm traps everyone at the exposition hall . . . and a man’s body is found in a snow-covered field, a pair of pink poodle grooming shears plunged through his heart. Turns out the deceased was a double-dealing huckster who had plenty of enemies chomping at the bit. But as breeders and their prize pets preen and strut, the murderer strikes again. Aided by her trusty canine companions, Keats and Poe, Perri must collar a killer before she’s the next “Dead in Show” winner. Praise for Arlene Kay’s Boston Uncommons Mysteries “Reminiscent of the comedy-mystery movies of the thirties . . . An entertaining first entry into the Boston Uncommons Mystery series.” — New York Journal of Books on Swann Dive “Highly entertaining . . . I can't wait for the next book in the series!” —Jaye Roycraft, author of Rainscape

Release date: March 5, 2019

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 201

Sample

Chapter 1

Road trips always rattled me. They carried me back to my army days in an airless transport truck, where I sat wedged between raunchy guys with mixed motives. I had to admit that they were expert practitioners of that international game—Russian hands and Roman fingers. In those times, a woman needed sharp elbows and an even sharper tongue to survive and thrive. Out of necessity, I had acquired both. They weren’t a bad bunch. Like me, most of my fellow warriors were actually scared kids buoying their courage with a show of false bravado. As soldiers, we served our country and learned invaluable life lessons that strengthened us—if we survived.

Things were different now, of course, but those memories still hovered about the recesses of my mind every time I took a road trip. I closed my eyes and made a wish.

Please. Whisk me away on a magic carpet and make me vanish.

Naturally that didn’t happen. We barreled down the highway in Babette Croy’s superduper Class A motor home at top speed without missing a beat. Then, for the hundredth time that day, I wondered how in the world I would ever survive the coming week. Seven whole days in close quarters with my best friend and several thousand dog enthusiasts. The possibilities for mischief were endless.

“Are you okay, Perri?” The dulcet tones of seven-year-old Ella Pruett revived me and brought me to my senses. A mini-frown marred the sweet face of the moppet I had grown to love, flooding me with guilt.

“Of course. Don’t worry about me. I was just dreaming.” I winked to show her that everything was fine. Hunky-dory. Peachy keen. My trusty Malinois Keats and Poe immediately went on alert. They were canine truth detectors who could sense lies—particularly mine—at ten paces. That was their job during a three-year stint in the army, and retired or not, they hadn’t lost a step. Most people confused Belgians like my boys with either German shepherds or shepherd/collie mixes. Nothing could be further from the truth, as police forces throughout the world now realized. Belgian Malinois are a distinct breed—streamlined, tireless workers with an unending appetite for action. I reached for them, looked into soulful doggy eyes, and gave each a nose kiss. In times of stress, nothing surpassed a furry embrace.

“Don’t mind Perri, sugar. She’s just a stick in the mud.” Babette, my best pal and our designated driver, twisted around in the driver’s seat and rolled her eyes, ignoring the threat of oncoming traffic and the blaring horns of outraged drivers. “I know,” she said, “let’s sing a song. Road trips are supposed to be fun. Look at it this way. By leavin’ today, we’ll beat the snowstorm and avoid all that nasty winter traffic. Plus, that gives us plenty of girl time together.”

Babette was a guided missile—locked, loaded, and ready to fire. Fortunately, I distracted her by mentioning one of her favorite subjects: dogs. After all, canine competition was what had sparked our little caravan. Why else would two adults, one child, and four large dogs abandon Great Marsh, Virginia, and drive for six hours to the sooty embrace of the Big E Coliseum, also known as the Eastern States Expo Center, a carbuncle on the foot of western Massachusetts.

I didn’t mind roughing it. Four years in the US Army had cured me of needless luxuries, but Babette was a different story entirely. My friend considered anything short of full cable, Italian sheets, and catered meals an unendurable hardship. Great wealth does that to a person, I’m told, although in my case it was strictly a rumor. My business, Creature Comforts, provided me with a decent livelihood and a satisfying creative outlet. I left the opulence to Babette and most of my neighbors in Great Marsh. That explained the luxury motor home. There were more modest models available, but Babette wouldn’t hear of it. Second class was simply not in her vocabulary. This latest acquisition, the behemoth dubbed Steady Eddie, sported granite countertops, plush leather furniture, two steam showers, and accommodations for eight. At first, I’d been wary, but Babette surprised me. After all, not everyone could maneuver a metal monster through heavy traffic. My friend was petite but surprisingly adept at doing just that. Rule number one in the Croy friendship manual—never underestimate Babette!

“Miss your daddy, Ella?” Babette’s coy tone gave her away. “I know Ms. Perri does.”

Ella was the much-loved daughter of Wing Pruett, investigative journalist, hottie supreme, and my main squeeze. How to describe Wing Pruett? Sculpted features, thick dark hair, and a body most women (and men) could only dream about. No doubt about it. All six plus feet of my honey were as close to perfection as mere mortals could ever get. He was absent today but planned to join us later in the week after wrapping up his current assignment. He’d been uncharacteristically vague about the project, and that made me wonder. Despite Babette’s prompts and none too subtle hints, Pruett refused to spill the journalistic beans. I surmised, however, that it had something to do with dog shows. That was a real puzzler. Wing Pruett, the man who fearlessly confronted evildoers of all stripes, was terrified of dogs. Cynophobia was the clinical term for an ailment I simply could not understand. Still, he had made great strides, mostly due to Ella and his interaction with my own menagerie. Few men would admit, let alone address, such a malady, but then Pruett was not most men. I missed him like crazy but kept that feeling to myself.

I turned toward my dogs to avoid Babette’s scrutiny. Damn that woman. She sometimes knew me better than I knew myself. Truth be told, I missed Pruett every second that we spent apart. Simple logic told me that a country mouse like me was unlikely to hold his interest long-term, but raw emotion kept me firmly anchored to his side. After almost a year, things had only gotten better—for me at least.

“I see him every night on Skype,” Ella said with that unassailable logic small children often use. “He blows kisses to me and Guinnie.” Lady Guinivere, a champion pointer, was the love of Ella’s life. “Ms. Perri too. Daddy always saves a kiss for her.” I loved that child as if she were my own little girl. She wasn’t, of course. She was the offspring of Pruett and renowned photojournalist Monique Allaire and had the black curly mane and soulful blue eyes to prove it. Monique was mostly absent from her life, but Pruett was the ultimate Mr. Mom. I knew that allowing Ella to join our merry band proved his trust in me, but it also conferred an awesome responsibility. That’s what shattered my nerves and led to sleepless nights. Dog shows were busy places, and the Big E was cavernous—so many nooks and crevices where a little girl might wander off, get lost, or worse. Add a potential blizzard to the mix, and anything might happen.

“You won’t go anywhere without me or Ms. Babette. Right, Ella? Remember. We promised your dad that.”

She nodded solemnly. “I promise. Besides, Guinnie will protect me too.” Her eyes shone as she stroked the pointer’s silky coat. “And all the other dogs will help.”

I crossed my fingers and took a deep breath. Babette and her border collie, Clara, were focused on agility contests. Babette was obsessed with winning agility competitions, and border collies—those bright, stealthy herders—won top honors in most agility contests. My friend tended toward extremes, especially in times of emotional stress. Since she had recently divorced the cretinous Carleton Croy, Babette was temporarily man-less, and a lonely Babette was a fearsome thing indeed. Thank heavens for the presence of an innocent child. That shielded me from hearing a litany of praise for Carleton’s manly parts that Babette so desperately missed. She conveniently forgot that her ex had shared his largesse with any number of her friends and a few enemies as well. When it came to men, Babette had a fond but very selective memory.

Ella had her own dreams. She yearned to be a junior dog handler, a member of that select group of youngsters that dotted every dog show. After discussing the issue with Pruett, I promised to introduce her to some of the kids who participated in the sport. Fortunately, all juniors had to be at least nine years of age, so Pruett had two years to go before confronting the situation. Wing was ambivalent about animals, and I was certain that he hoped Ella’s interest would fade.

“Remember,” I told Ella, “I’m counting on you to help me with my store.” I am a leathersmith by trade, an occupation that requires both creativity and precision. After careful study at art school and an apprenticeship with a master craftsman, I focused on designing products for the creatures I most loved. The majority of my customers were dog and horse fanciers, although lately I’d branched out to custom belts with mother-daughter themes. Any event at the Big E was bound to bring in a slew of business. Snowstorms and other weather mishaps encouraged even more potential customers to attend the show. They chose to brave the elements rather than risk a bout of cabin fever. That pleased me since by necessity I kept my eyes firmly trained on the bottom line.

The little girl beamed. “Yep. See, I got my belt on.”

I nodded in appreciation of Ella, a truly wonderful child. I had never married, although I came close one time. Being childless wasn’t a problem for me since my biological clock simply did not tick. Before meeting Pruett, I lacked the maternal gene, or so I thought. An affinity for animals came naturally to me, and my menagerie included two dogs, one cantankerous feline, and an ornery goat with bad manners and a temper to match.

Once Ella stepped into the picture, that all changed. At thirty years of age, I had finally embraced the role of child nurturer and caregiver. Go figure.

Babette slowed the trailer and pulled into a rest stop parking lot. “Let’s take a break,” she said. “I need to stretch my legs, and I know the pups could use some potty time.”

Fortunately, we had the coach fully stocked with every possible type of provision, so food and drink were plentiful. Babette had made sure of that. After leashing the dogs, we stepped into the bright sunshine and walked toward the pet area.

“Heard they had some fireworks at last week’s show,” Babette said in a stage whisper.

I raised my eyebrows.

“Yep. A real dustup.” She watched as Ella disposed of Guinnie’s waste. “Yael Lindsay almost came to blows with that Bethany. You know her.”

My goal was to sell products, not become mired in scandals. “Nope. Can’t place either one.”

Babette puffed out her cheeks in a pout. “Oh. You’re no fun at all, Ms. Goody Two-shoes. Bethany is that slutty one. Slinks around the arena in super-tight duds that show everything and pretends to be a pet psychic. Don’t see how that heifer can even move, let alone mentally communicate with dogs. Thinks she’s the queen of agility too.”

Something she said piqued my interest. “That’s odd. Yael rules the pointer world with an iron fist. Strictly conformation events. Why would she bother with an agility person? Besides she’s rather elderly for a fistfight.”

“Aha!” Babette pounced immediately. “You know more than you let on. I knew it.”

What could I do? I shrugged and gave her a guilty grin. Babette, master of trickery, had trapped me fair and square. “You know I steer clear of these feuds. At least I try to. Remember, I need to sell stuff to both camps.”

Sales were a foreign language to my pal. She never even bothered to balance her checkbook, whereas I accounted for each penny with nuclear precision. Call it a legacy from my life as a foster child or just plain business acumen. Either one worked for me. Pip had always urged me to ease up and enjoy life without going overboard. Balance was his watchword.

I snapped a leash on further memories lest tears flood my eyes. Pip, my late fiancé, was gone. Had been these three years since melanoma had stolen him from me. He still resided with me in the home we’d shared, in the pets we both had loved, and in the memories I cherished. Those were the hardest things to suppress because I simply refused to. No matter where things went with Pruett, the late Philip Hahn, DVM, owned a part of me and always would. I told myself that he wasn’t really gone. Pip had just left ahead of me.

“Hey, Earth to Perri.” Babette tapped me on my forehead. “Stop mooning and get movin’. We’ve got a show to get to.” She clapped her hands for Ella. “Right, Ella? Let’s roll.”

The remainder of our journey was uneventful, and we exited the Mass Pike and approached the Big E without incident. To my surprise, Babette had researched everything pertinent to parking and maintaining her motor coach right down to electronic and cable television hookups. Many dog show veterans chose the convenience of recreational vehicles over the rigors of motel life since upscale establishments banned or severely restricted dogs. The remaining “dog hotels” simply didn’t measure up to Babette’s high standards. Thus, the luxury coach—an inspired, if pricey, solution that paid dividends to me too. I groused about needless spending when my pal had purchased Steady Eddie, citing depreciation, inconvenience, and the numerous animal charities that needed the money instead. Opulence made me uncomfortable, a throwback to my hardscrabble childhood. Still, I was secretly pleased by the comfort and ease of our accommodations. Friendship with Babette conferred many benefits, and chief among them was sharing the spoils of wealth. Money aside, her loyalty and sweet nature were the primary attractions for me.

Although the Big E reserved a sizable area for large vehicles and trailers, choice slots close to the show venue were at a premium. I worried that our late arrival might relegate us to the far reaches of the fairground—Siberia, as the regulars termed it. If that were our fate, juggling dogs, leather products, and one lively child would present quite a challenge, especially during inclement weather.

Once again, Babette read my mind. “Don’t fret, Perri. We’ve got a primo spot. I already arranged it.” Try as she might, she couldn’t hide the smirk that covered her pretty face.

“How’d you manage that?” I asked, mindful that a small child was within earshot.

Babette fluttered her eyelashes. “Charm and wit.”

I crossed my arms. “What else?”

“Suspicious little twit, aren’t you? Okay. You caught me. A well-placed bribe didn’t hurt either. Just a generous cash gift to the guy in charge of the area.” Babette stared me down. “Don’t be an old prig, Perri. It’s the American way. Once that snow starts, things will get crazy here.”

“What’s a prig, Ms. Babette?” Ella proved yet again that her hearing was exceptionally sharp.

Babette swung into a reserved slot closest to the show area. “Don’t worry, pumpkin. Ms. Perri is just a stuffed shirt. We have to loosen her up.”

Ella’s big blue eyes sparkled. “My daddy says Ms. Perri is perfect.”

Now it was my turn to blush and change the subject. I hated to acknowledge the firm grip that Wing Pruett and his darling moppet had on my heart. Orphans like me fear loss more than most folks. After being wrenched from my parents’ arms and watching my fiancé slip away, I tried mightily to steel myself against further pain. Through a concentrated stealth campaign, Pruett had managed to penetrate those defenses and unleash my fondest hopes. Love does that to a body, but it’s a deep and dangerous game.

“Come on,” I said, dusting off my jeans. “Let’s hook up this baby and walk around the grounds. I see a few familiar faces already.”

Babette clambered out of the driver’s seat and immediately made a connection. Our near neighbor, a muscular, middle-aged man with a thick crop of gray hair, held out his arm and helped Babette alight. She sized him up and went all girly on him.

“Why, thank you, kind sir. I can always use a little help.” In true Babette fashion, she simpered. I really hated when she did that, but it was straight from the Croy playbook, with a bow to Scarlett O’Hara. Most men fell for it, especially when she showed her dimples. This guy was no exception.

I did a quick appraisal of Prince Galahad. He was tall, tanned, and neatly dressed in a pressed pair of jeans and checked shirt. There was nothing wrong with his body either, but I was more concerned with his motives. Call me protective, but Babette had zero judgment when it came to men. The unlamented Carleton Croy, husband number four, was an opportunist who was more interested in her bankbook than her loving heart. Similarly, any con man worth his salt would assess Steady Eddie and quickly realize the bucks that went with it. I leapt out of my seat, clutched Ella, and unleashed my dogs.

“Forgive me, ma’am. I should have introduced myself.” Babette’s admirer ignored me and kept hold of her hand. “Rafael Ramos at your service. Most folks call me Rafa.”

Ramos’s vehicle was a poor cousin of ours, a rusted Airstream that had seen better days. Naturally, Babette seemed oblivious to that as she zeroed in on our neighbor. I knew the signs and decided to immediately nip young love in the bud.

Babette was still in dreamland. “Rafa? Ooh. Just like the tennis player. That’s fascinatin’!”

He shrugged and shook his head. “Don’t I wish. Unfortunately, I’m not much of an athlete.” His faux modesty aroused my suspicions. The muscles on this guy proved that he did some serious physical training.

“Hi, Rafa,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Perri Morgan, and this is Ella. Excuse us while we exercise our crew. We’ve got four hungry canines on board.”

Ramos unhanded my friend and switched into helpful mode. “Of course. Be glad to help you with the connections on this big boy if you need anything. Sure is a beauty.” He then proved that he was also a dog person. “Wow! Speaking of beauties, your dogs are phenomenal.” He approached Keats and Poe with the palm of his hand open and lowered. When they acknowledged him, he patted their silky heads and did the same to Clara and Guinnie.

“Do you have a dog, sir?” Ella asked.

He bent down and smiled. “Call me Rafa, honey. And the answer is yes. My breed is standard poodles. Don’t have any with me this trip because I’m judging.”

“You’re a judge,” Babette trilled as if he had said “brain surgeon.” The throb in her voice sounded authentic and probably was. “How excitin’.”

Rafael lowered his head in an “aw shucks” routine. “I just love doing the show circuit. Being around beautiful dogs and lovely ladies—doesn’t get much better than that.”

“Guinnie is a Grand Champion,” Ella said proudly. “She’s almost at bronze level.” In dog show parlance, there were five levels of Grand Champion, and Guinnie was new to that elevated crowd. She had bronze, silver, gold, and platinum levels yet to conquer, but that didn’t concern me one bit. With Guinnie’s perfection, Ella’s persistence, and Pruett’s pocketbook, no obstacle was insurmountable.

Rafa nodded. “I can see why. Didn’t I see her written up in the latest issue of Canine Chronicles?”

Ella’s smile was luminous. She nodded and reached down to give Guinnie another hug. In deference to the little girl, I hoped Rafa wouldn’t probe any further. Grand Champion Camelot Kennel’s Lady Guinevere had come to us under tragic circumstances that were best forgotten. Like most pointers, Guinnie was a gentle, loving companion with plenty of brains. The important thing was the immutable bond between Ella and her dog.

“Let me take these guys for a run,” I said, whistling to my dogs. “Ready, Ella?” We loped toward the backfields, leaving Babette to her new suitor. I know from experience when to fade from the scene, particularly when it involved a man. Their animated conversation told me that our absence hadn’t even been noticed. No surprise there. Babette was a loyal friend, but any presentable man with a pulse could easily turn her head.

Ella, on the other hand, saw only Guinnie and the other dogs. Her big blue eyes shone with happiness as she romped with our pack of pups. Loving animals came easily to most children, and I harbored grave suspicions about kids who felt otherwise. Indifference to animals was just plain unnatural—serial killer material.

A sudden cacophony of noise rudely interrupted my thoughts. I clutched Ella’s hand, steering her toward the trees and to the left of the warring parties. Neither combatant acknowledged us, but I suspect that, in the heat of battle, neither of them noticed us either. To my chagrin, these disturbers of the peace were adults, grown women, not marauding teens. Yael Lindsay, a well-preserved sexagenarian with seriously teased hair and an eye-popping diamond ring, shook her fist. “You listen here, Bethany. I run this show. That means no shenanigans by the likes of you. Hussy!”

Her antagonist, agility master Bethany Zahn, was the seductress so vividly described by Babette. Maybe it was the black leather blanketing her from stem to sultry stern that gave Bethany away or the mane of unnaturally black curls that she twirled. Either way, she radiated sex appeal, snark, and a dollop of dominatrix.

“Run?” she sneered, hands on hips. “Honey, at your age you couldn’t run if your life depended on it. Join a gym, why don’t you? Better still, muzzle that horny hubby of yours. He’s into agility in a big way, or so I hear.” Bethany smirked at her own wit and sauntered off toward the show entrance without a backward glance.

I normally eschew gossip, but that little tiff fascinated me—until I recalled the urchin who clutched my hand. Ella Pruett trained her baby blues on me and asked, “Why were those ladies fighting, Perri? Daddy says that’s not right.”

Honesty was the best policy, especially when it involved a bright, inquisitive child like Ella, who was not. . .