Here Comes Santa Paws

Book 24: Melanie Travis Mystery

by Laurien Berenson

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

It's the most wonderful time of the year in Connecticut, but Melanie Travis finds surviving this December may take a real Christmas miracle when a yuletide murderer comes to town . . .



As Melanie attempts to deck the halls in a house overrun by pampered Poodles, her event planner friend, Claire, is busy playing Santa for the wealthiest clientele on Connecticut's Gold Coast. A personal shopper gig in the affluent town of New Canaan seems like business as usual. Except Claire's stylish stint comes at a higher price than she bargains for when she stumbles over her newest customer's dead body. Named a prime suspect for murder, she begs for Melanie's help, then vanishes like cookies and milk on Christmas Eve . . .



Determined to track down Claire, Melanie and her nosy Aunt Peg dash into a dizzying investigation. But with a grinchy New Canaan detective on their case and disturbing clues piling up like presents beneath the tree, the crime-solving duo must hurry to rein in a sinister Kris Kringle before they're the next ones on someone’s deadly wish list . . .

Release date: September 24, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 130

Sample

Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show is the pinnacle. For two days in early February, New York City is the only place for the country’s best show dogs to be. This event is the American dog world’s biggest stage. The top handlers, owners, and exhibitors are all there, eager to test each other’s mettle as their dogs compete for the ultimate prize: Westminster Best in Show.

Throughout the year, there are dog shows with larger entries. And ones held at easier venues. There are certainly shows with better weather. But none captivate the imagination the way Westminster does. None possess its enduring allure.

The Westminster Dog Show is the second oldest continuous sporting event in the country. First held in 1887, it began before the formation of the American Kennel Club. The show has always made its home at Madison Square Garden, and over the years judging has had to persevere through such disruptions as blizzards and transit strikes.

Westminster isn’t just the oldest dog show in the country, however; it’s also the most prestigious. Dogs with connections to famous athletes, rock stars, and a British monarch have all competed there. This is the event that every dog lover wants to attend, and every exhibitor wants to win.

The individual breed competition now takes place on Monday and Tuesday at two West Side piers. But at night the show returns to the Garden for judging of the seven groups and Best in Show. Dogs and their handlers are all perfectly groomed, on their toes, and ready to perform.

There’s a sudden hush, quickly followed by a burst of appreciative applause, when the day’s winners gait into the big ring for the first time. The air in the arena feels electric. Clearly something special is happening.

Westminster has never forgotten its roots as a sporting event for serious dog fanciers. But it has also evolved into spectacular entertainment for a national audience. The result is pure magic for dog lovers.

“Magic,” I murmured. I was staring out the car window at the passing scenery, which was currently the Bronx.

It was the Sunday before the start of the Westminster Dog Show and we were on our way to Manhattan. My husband, Sam, was driving. My Aunt Peg—also known as Margaret Turnbull, esteemed dog show judge and breeder of some of the best Standard Poodles the breed had ever known—was sitting beside him in the front of the SUV.

I’d been relegated to the rear seat, which was no surprise. Aunt Peg was clever and astute. She loved a good argument and preferred her own opinions to anyone else’s. But mostly she liked to be in charge. That feat was more easily accomplished from the position with the best view.

Aunt Peg’s gaze flitted to the window. We were driving past a factory that had seen better days. Probably during the previous century. “Magic?” She turned to look at me over her shoulder. “This?”

“No, I was thinking about Westminster.”

“Of course you were thinking about Westminster.” She settled back in her seat happily. “Who wouldn’t be?”

Two years earlier, Aunt Peg had received the coveted letter inviting her to judge this year’s Non-Sporting Group. She told us later that she’d shrieked out loud and danced around the room. Aunt Peg is seventy years old, nearly six feet tall, and not known for her agility. I wish I’d been there to see that.

“Your judging assignment is a huge honor,” Sam said. He kept his blue eyes trained on the road but he was following the conversation. Sam and I have been married for six years and he’s always been able to manage Aunt Peg better than I do.

“It is indeed,” Aunt Peg agreed. “I only hope I prove worthy of the faith the Westminster board has placed in me.”

“You will,” I told her. “You’re an excellent judge.”

“I know that.” Lack of confidence has never been a problem for Aunt Peg. “But Westminster is more than a dog show. It’s a grand spectacle for the dog-owning masses. Not to mention a wonderful opportunity for good canine public relations. The show’s television audience numbers in the millions.”

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous about being on TV,” I said.

“No, that part of it is just a distraction. My job is about the dogs—not the lights and the cameras.”

“Yes, but you’ll still have to get your hair and make-up done beforehand,” I teased. Over Aunt Peg’s objections, both appointments had already been made.

“That’s just a lot of pointless fuss and bother,” she grumbled. “Everybody already knows what I look like.”

“Not in TV land,” Sam said with a grin. “You know, the dog-owning masses?”

“You’re not helping.” Aunt Peg reached over and smacked his arm. “I’m already well aware that this assignment is a big deal. But what I’m feeling about it isn’t nerves. It’s anticipation. I can’t wait to get my hands on all those wonderful dogs. But at the same time, I want to be sure that I rise to their level. My judging must be every bit as good as the champions in front of me.”

Sam and I nodded. We could both understand that.

“Not only that, but when you look at the list of Poodle breeders who have judged this group before me, I am following in some very distinguished footsteps,” she continued. “Heaven forbid I let the side down.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Sam told her. “If you weren’t every bit as good as those judges who’ve preceded you, the Paugussett Poodle Club wouldn’t have asked you to conduct today’s seminar on evaluating Poodles.”

“Yes, well, that’s another thing,” Aunt Peg said with a frown. “Before I can even get to tomorrow evening’s show, first I have to make it through the rest of the weekend.”

From my perch in the middle of the backseat I could see that her hands were fidgeting in her lap. Whatever she was doing, Aunt Peg almost always had one of her beloved Standard Poodles at her side. Today we’d had to leave our dogs at home. Without a warm Poodle body to caress, her hands must have felt empty.

“Surely you’re not worried about the symposium?” I asked.

“Heavens, no. I could lead a judging seminar in my sleep. It’s Victor Durbin who’s a concern. Along with that dratted Empire Poodle Club specialty that will be running at the same time. All things considered, it’s drawn quite an entry.”

All things considered, indeed.

Victor Durbin was a Miniature Poodle breeder and a former member of Connecticut’s Paugussett Club. He’d been asked to resign from the club several years earlier after the board discovered that Victor had been allowing Cocker Spaniel and Schnauzer owners to breed their bitches to his Mini Poodle stud dogs. The resulting mixed-breed litters of Cockapoos and Schnoodles were flooding the local pet shops.

After his expulsion from the club, Victor claimed to have changed his ways. He’d petitioned to be reinstated. His request was summarily denied. Aunt Peg had led that charge—but a majority of the other members agreed with her. Most hoped that Victor would quietly move on. Perhaps find another breed with which to become involved.

But Victor had had other ideas. Instead, he’d decided to form his own Poodle club. Though the tri-state area was already home to several other affiliate clubs, Victor was undeterred. He’d taken the other groups’ membership rosters, and proceeded to search their ranks for disgruntled members who could be convinced to jump ship and join his nascent club. Once he had enough names, Victor had doggedly shepherded his Empire Poodle Club through the steps required for AKC accreditation.

EPC had received a license to hold its inaugural Poodle specialty the previous year. A date that fell on the day before Westminster had been applied for and approved. A Manhattan venue was booked. The single-breed show would take place in the ballroom of a hotel on Seventh Avenue. It happened to be the same hotel where the Paugussett Poodle Club was hosting its judging seminar at the same time.

Nobody thought that was a coincidence. Least of all Aunt Peg.

“You don’t need to worry about Victor.” Sam exited onto the Henry Hudson Parkway to head south. “His specialty show is in the second floor ballroom. The conference room for the symposium is on the fourth floor. There’s no reason that your paths should even cross.”

“Our paths have already crossed, in a manner of speaking,” Aunt Peg replied tartly. I couldn’t blame her for being annoyed. “It’s perfectly obvious that more people would have signed up for the seminar if there weren’t a competing Poodle event happening right downstairs.”

“If more people had signed up, the club would have had to book a bigger room,” I pointed out. Poodles’ three varieties—Toy, Miniature, and Standard—meant the breed offered aspiring judges entrée into both the Toy and Non-Sporting Groups. That automatically made them a popular breed for which to apply. “Even with the specialty, there are more than a hundred people coming to learn more about Poodles from you.”

“You needn’t sound so surprised,” Aunt Peg said drily.

Sam cast her a glance. “Actually I’m a little surprised that the Westminster show committee is allowing you to participate in both this symposium and their event tomorrow. We all know that they frown on even a hint of bias or favoritism. The group and Best in Show judges are barred from attending the show before they arrive to do their part, for that very reason.”

“The committee would indeed be very unhappy if I was socializing with exhibitors who might later find themselves in my ring,” Aunt Peg admitted. “But in this case, they agreed that I could hardly get up to much trouble in the company of my fellow judges.”

“They must not know you nearly as well as we do,” I said under my breath.

“I’m sorry.” Aunt Peg turned in her seat again. “Did you say something?”

Fortunately, I was saved from having to answer by the buzzing of my phone. Our home number came up on the screen. Knowing that between the symposium and the dog show we’d be busy all day, Sam and I had left our kids at home in Connecticut.

Davey was fourteen, and halfway through his first year of high school. He was babysitting his younger brother, Kevin, who would turn five next month. Both boys shared our interest in Standard Poodles. But Kevin was too young to follow us around quietly for hours at a time. And Davey had no desire to devote a weekend day listening to Aunt Peg deliver a lecture. That sounded entirely too much like schoolwork to him.

I lifted the phone to my ear. “Hey, Davey, what’s up? Is everything okay?”

“Yup.” Now that he’s a teenager, Davey doesn’t expend extra words on his parents. “But we need carrots.”

“Carrots?” My sons were asking for vegetables? That was a first.

“Kev and I are building a snowman in the backyard. The dogs are helping. Except Bud. You know.”

I did. Bud, a small spotted mutt we’d adopted two summers earlier, was more trouble than our five Standard Poodles combined. I gave Davey props for the snowman idea, though. We’d had four inches of fresh, powdery snow on Friday night. Now on Sunday morning, it would be packed just right for building.

“You want a carrot for the nose?” I asked.

Davey laughed. “You would think—but no. Kevin wants them for his ears. So they stick straight up like Bud’s.”

Technically only one of Bud’s ears stuck up. The other flopped forward over his eye. It wasn’t worth debating.

“Did you check the vegetable bin in the bottom of the refrigerator?”

“I looked there first. The only thing in there is onions.”

“Ewww!” I heard Kevin say in the background.

“Yes, I can see how that wouldn’t work.” I looked up at Sam. “Are we out of carrots?”

He shrugged. Traffic was light on a Sunday morning. Even so he was paying attention to the route as he pulled off the highway onto a side street.

“What do we have that’s long and skinny?” I mused, putting the phone on speaker.

“How about straws?” Aunt Peg offered from the front seat.

“Too small,” Davey replied. “This is a big snowman. Almost a snow monster.”

“It’s a snow monster.” Kevin giggled. “Except he needs ears.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “How about a couple of hot dogs? That c. . .