Underdog

Book 2: Melanie Travis Mystery

by Laurien Berenson

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

Synopsis

A dog handler’s death unleashes a mystery: “Laurien Berenson just keeps getting better and better.”—Harlan Coben When Melanie Travis’s education in breed-handling at Connecticut’s classiest obedience school is cut short by sudden death, she smells a murder. So, with her rambunctious poodle puppy, five-year-old son, and sexy fellow breeder Sam Driver in tow, she hits the championship circuit. In this dog-eat-dog world where winning is everything, Melanie discovers that more than one suspect had a bone to pick with the victim, including a kennel owner whose secret recipe for dog biscuits isn’t the only thing she’s guarding. Between laps around the show ring, Melanie learns some tricks of her own. But will she learn fast enough to collar an unleashed killer who’s begging for the dogged detective to play dead? “With this new case, Berenson throws dog lovers a treat they will relish.”— Pubishers Weekly “Should appeal to dog lovers, but the smooth, unruffled prose and likable characters will attract others as well.”— Library Journal

Release date: August 24, 2012

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 276

Sample

Bringing a new puppy into the family is not unlike having a new baby. Both cry at night when you wish they were sleeping. Both benefit from being kept on a regular schedule; and both immediately set about demonstrating how little you really know about the job of parenting.

My son Davey just turned five, so he’s had plenty of time to acquaint me with the things he thinks I should know. Our new Standard Poodle puppy, Faith, is six months old. One theory has it that the first year of a dog’s life is equal to fourteen human years. Each year thereafter is worth seven. That makes Faith and Davey approximately the same age so I wasn’t surprised when they immediately became best friends.

At six months, puppies are both hopelessly endearing and full of mischief. In the case of Standard Poodle puppies, they’re also smart as a whip. Davey’s already got Faith carrying his backpack, sleeping on his bed, and eating the broccoli he slips her under the table.

I should protest, but my son has wanted a pet for a long time. I don’t imagine a little over-indulgence will harm either of them and I’m a single parent, so it’s my call. We had a frog briefly last summer but Davey took it outside to play and lost it in the grass. We’re trying hard to take better care of the puppy.

If we don’t, we’ll have my Aunt Peg to answer to and Margaret Turnbull is not a woman to be trifled with. She’s nearing sixty, but she could probably outwrestle a person half her age. I know she could outtalk one. She wears her gray hair scraped back off her face and has sharp, dark brown eyes that notice everything. She was married to my Uncle Max for more than thirty years until his death last spring. She is also Faith’s breeder, and in the dog show world that counts for a lot.

Aunt Peg can be blunt to the point of pain, which is why she’d be the first person to tell you that her Cedar Crest Standard Poodles are among the finest in the country. Rank has its prerogatives and Aunt Peg doesn’t sell her puppies to just anybody. Rather, a prospective buyer must deserve the privilege of owning a Cedar Crest dog.

Or, as happened in my case, you can earn it.

Of course, nothing is ever as simple as it seems and Faith came with strings, as do most of Aunt Peg’s projects. She’d had a litter of puppies in the spring—all black, the only color Cedar Crest Poodles come in—and had run on the three best bitches. That means she kept three girls until they grew up enough so that she could be certain of their potential for the show ring. When the puppies were five months old she did another evaluation and made her decisions. Hope she kept for herself. Charity went off to a show home in Colorado. And Faith came to live with Davey and me.

Aunt Peg showed up one Saturday morning in early October with the Poodle puppy sitting beside her on the front seat of her station wagon. She and I had spent a good deal of the previous summer together and I’d learned enough about showing dogs to realize what a Saturday visit meant: there weren’t any good judges at the area shows, otherwise Aunt Peg would surely have been off exhibiting. Instead she sat down at the kitchen table, drank a cup of strong tea, and introduced me to the joys of dog ownership.

I’ve seen Aunt Peg lose her car in a parking lot because she thinks all station wagons look alike, but when it comes to her puppies, she’s very thorough. She plunked a ten-page booklet down on the table—mine to keep, for easy reference—and worked her way from “b” for bathing all the way to “w” for periodic worming.

By the time she got to the part about how she fully expected Faith to finish her championship in the show ring, then spent an additional half hour outlining the extra time and effort that endeavor would involve, Davey had long since fallen in love. Aunt Peg and I sat in the kitchen and watched child and puppy scamper through the autumn leaves in my small backyard. We both knew it was already too late to say no.

Aunt Peg likes wringing unexpected commitments out of me and she seemed to take great delight in the way she’d managed this one. Even so, she doesn’t make things easy. Before she left she pressed the number of a fence builder into my hands. Clearly there was to be no roaming about the neighborhood for any Cedar Crest Poodle.

On my teacher’s salary it seemed much more likely that I’d be putting up econo-mesh myself than having someone else install post and rail, but I took the card and figured I’d think about it later. For the first few weeks I solved the problem by walking Faith on a leash. It was not a perfect solution.

Poodles are shown with a mane coat of long thick hair. In order to grow the coat required for competition, the hair must be protected at all times. Show Poodles are never supposed to wear collars except for training or when they are actually in the ring. Then again, I’ve had a lot of practice with making do in my life and I thought I was managing okay.

Peg apparently disagreed because one day in mid-October, Davey and I returned home from school to find our backyard fully enclosed.

“Wow!” cried Davey. “When did you do that?”

Like a deer entranced by oncoming headlights, I stared at four feet of post and rail and wire mesh that hadn’t been there in the morning when we’d left. “I didn’t.”

“Cool!” Davey still believes in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. No doubt the image of a fence fairy was taking shape in his mind.

As we climbed out of the car, he grabbed the key from my hand and ran ahead to let himself into the house. With his light hair and dancing brown eyes, my son is the image of my ex-husband. They also share approximately the same level of maturity. Then again I may not be the best judge of that as I haven’t seen Bob in four years.

He and I had bought this house together, back when we were newly married and filled with dreams, before he’d decided he was far too young to be tied down by the demands of something as mundane as fatherhood. Putting all the money we could scrape together into a down payment had seemed like a great leap of faith at the time. But then again, so had marrying just out of college. Frankly, the house had turned out to be a better deal.

It’s a really cute little cape in a subdivision in Stamford, Connecticut, that was built in the fifties. In step with those times, we got solid construction, an extra half bath and sidewalks on most of the streets. What we didn’t get was land, or for that matter, privacy. There isn’t much that goes on in Flower Estates that the neighbors don’t have an opinion on. I was sure I’d be hearing from mine in due time.

I took one last look, then went inside to call Aunt Peg. The machine was on, taking messages. No doubt she’d guessed I was going to be steamed over her high-handed tactics and made herself scarce. It’s hard to work up a good head of anger on a recording and I didn’t even bother to try.

She couldn’t hide forever, though, because two days later we had breed-handling class together. Among the new things I’d discovered since Faith became part of the family is that there are all sorts of classes dog owners can take their pets to: everything from puppy kindergarten, to agility, to advanced obedience training. The purpose of our class is to teach a dog and its owner how to present themselves correctly in the conformation ring.

Class is held at the Round Hill Community House in back country Greenwich. Despite its auspicious address, the white clapboard building is durable rather than pretentious. Things in New England are built to last and the community center has been around for more than a century, serving as a gathering place for several generations of Fairfield County residents. On Thursday nights, it goes to the dogs.

The class is run by a husband and wife team named Rick and Jenny Maguire. Both are professional handlers. Their specialty is sporting dogs and according to Aunt Peg, they maintain a large and successful string serving a variety of clients. Luckily for me, they also like to teach beginners.

Judging by the cars in the parking lot, I’d gotten there before Aunt Peg. Davey was home with a sitter, so that was one less distraction to worry about. I parked just beyond the door, slipped on Faith’s leash and collar, then exercised her on the grass for a few minutes before going in.

I had more practical things in mind, but the puppy sniffed, and scampered, and danced playfully at the end of her lead. All Poodles are clowns at heart and Faith was no exception. Of the three sizes of Poodles—Toy, Miniature, and Standard—Standards are the biggest. Faith wasn’t going to be large for a bitch, but already her head was level with my hip.

Her ancestors had been bred to retrieve and I could see how that capability had been preserved through the generations. Her beautiful head had a long muzzle, strong underjaw and even white teeth. Faith’s dark brown eyes were meltingly expressive, and her compact body was covered with a plush coat of dense, coal black hair.

Poodles are certainly among the most intelligent breeds; but what really sets them apart as companion dogs is their innate desire to please and an almost intuitive connection to their owners’ needs. When I glanced at my watch, Faith knew it was time to head inside. Don’t ask me how. I’m new to this dog-owning business. I gathered the leash in my hand and followed along behind.

Before class starts, Rick gets the room ready by laying down the mats the dogs need for traction, while Jenny takes attendance and collects fees in the lobby. A long line had already formed and Faith and I took our place at the end.

I hadn’t known Jenny Maguire long, but already I liked her a lot. She was bright, and funny, and had a wonderful hand on a dog. I was also intrigued by her viewpoint on the sport of dogs since I’m a real neophyte and she’s been around forever. I’m not tall, but Jenny is truly petite. She has shiny, seal-brown hair and an engaging, dimpled smile. She’s the kind of girl I’d spent my high school years envying: the one born to be a cheerleader and have all the boys think she was cute.

She and Rick make a great pair. Even after seven years of marriage, his eyes still follow her around the room. His sturdy build complements her slender frame and they often teach the class standing side by side, with one of his arms draped protectively over her shoulder. I should be so lucky.

Slowly the line inched forward. Faith was busy touching noses with the Pointer in front of us and eyeing the male Beagle to the rear. She’s a natural-born flirt and the more I thought about that, the more I realized that maybe I shouldn’t be so upset about the fence.

When we’d almost made it up to the doorway, I started looking around for Jenny’s dog, Ziggy. Despite her background in setters and spaniels, her pet is a black Miniature Poodle. That’s probably one of the reasons why we hit it off so quickly. Jenny was delighted to find two Poodles signed up for her class along with the usual assortment of Cocker Spaniels and Bichon Frises. I told myself that that was why she’d singled me out for extra attention, and not because I’d looked as though I’d needed it so badly. She’s also been generous with lots of Poodle specific advice about top-knots and coat care and feeding.

While things are getting organized, Ziggy’s usually racing around the room. His favorite game involves tossing his stuffed rat high in the air and catching it on the fly. Even though he’s seven—middle age for a dog—he hasn’t lost a step. Once the class gets down to business, Jenny settles Ziggy on the stage, where he lies down to oversee the proceedings.

But when Faith and I finally reached the front of the line and I got a look at Jenny, I knew immediately that something was wrong. Her hair was pulled back into a careless ponytail; her eyes were red-rimmed and downcast. When I held out a ten-dollar bill, she made change without even looking up.

“Jenny?” I said. “Are you all right?”

Wordless, she shook her head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Ziggy”

The word was so soft, I could hardly hear it. I looked around the room but didn’t see the little black Mini anywhere. “Where is he?”

“He’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead?” As if repeating the terrible news would help. “What happened?”

“It was all my fault.” She bit down hard on her lower lip. “He’s always so good. You’ve seen him. He would never run away.”

“Of course not.” I tangled my fingers in Faith’s topknot, looking for comfort, or maybe just the reassurance that she was all right. Sensing I was unhappy, the puppy pressed against my legs. She tipped her muzzle upward and licked the inside of my wrist with her tongue.

“I was out in the kennel and he was back at the house. I guess the front door wasn’t latched securely because it must have blown open. Ziggy got out and he was run over on the road out front.”

“Oh Jenny, I’m so sorry.” The words were hopelessly inadequate, but I couldn’t think what else to say. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No. I’m dealing with it.”

I stepped out of line and the Beagle man took my place. He paid for the class and moved on. Two other students followed, then we were alone.

“Where are you and Rick showing this weekend?” I asked.

“Northern New Jersey. Why?”

Good, that meant the shows would be day trips. “Come to my house for dinner tomorrow night. I make a great lasagna. We can drink a little wine . . .”

Jenny smiled wanly. “And forget all about our troubles?”

“Something like that.”

She thought about it for a minute. “Sure. Why not? I’d like that.”

I scribbled directions down on the back of the sign-up sheet and we decided six o’clock would work for both of us.

“Come on, people!” Rick clapped his hands loudly. “Let’s get ourselves into some kind of order or we’ll be here all night. Everybody line up along the side. Big dogs in front, please.”

I was moving to comply when the front door opened and slammed shut in the outer hallway. “I’m here! I’m here!” called Aunt Peg. She and Hope came barreling into the room and she was shedding her coat as she ran. “Don’t start without me!”

Rick grinned and shook his head. Even Jenny managed a small chuckle. Good old Aunt Peg. Never let it be said she didn’t like to make an entrance. She stopped grandly in the middle of the mats.

“Where do you want me?”

I’d taken a place about halfway down the line. Aunt Peg purposely avoided looking my way.

“How about right up front?” said Rick.

Some things never change.

We started by gaiting around the room in a circle, just as a class would begin in the dog show ring. More than a dozen dogs were present and once we all got moving, the old wooden floors shook. When we were back where we started, Rick and Jenny began the individual examinations: Rick up front with the big dogs that were to be gone over on the ground, and Jenny in the back with the smaller dogs on the table.

That gave those of us in the middle a chance to relax, play with our dogs, and talk to our neighbors. People come to breed-handling classes for one of two reasons. Either they know what they’re doing and they’re trying to train a new puppy; or they haven’t a clue what the dog show business is all about and they’re hoping to learn. Our group was pretty much evenly divided along those lines, which was good because it meant I wasn’t the only beginner.

I watched Aunt Peg go through her routine with Hope. As usual her handling was both graceful and effective. Even though the Standard Poodle puppy was obviously inexperienced, they still made an impressive team. One thing I’ve learned so far is that handling a dog correctly is much like rubbing your stomach while patting yourself on the head. There are moments when it seems as though your hands—and your attention—must be everywhere at once.

And I’ve only tried it in practice. I hated to think how I might perform in the actual show ring with the added pressure of nerves and competition thrown in.

When Rick was finished with Aunt Peg, she and Hope came back to join those of us waiting our turn on the sidelines. But now that I finally had a chance to yell at her for the sneaky way she’d outmaneuvered me, the news about Ziggy had pretty much taken the wind out of my sails.

I went over anyway. Hope and Faith immediately touched noses, wagged their tails in happy recognition, then leapt up to air-box with their front paws.

“Go ahead,” said Aunt Peg, juggling her lead from hand to hand so the puppies wouldn’t get tangled. “Spit it out and get it over with. But bear in mind that the job needed doing and I didn’t see you getting anywhere with it. You know perfectly well I don’t sell my puppies to people without fenced yards. Just because you’re family doesn’t mean I was going to make an exception.”

I was pleased to see she was on the defensive. That probably meant she was feeling guilty. “I wish you hadn’t done it, but I am grateful. I’m also going to pay you back.”

A brow lifted. No doubt she’d expected me to make more of a fuss. I would have, too, if I hadn’t just heard about what could happen to dogs whose yards weren’t fenced.

“Finish Faith to her championship. That’s all the payment I require.”

Not exactly a small order, but one I was already pretty much resigned to. “Have you heard about Ziggy?”

Automatically her gaze went to the stage. “No. Where is he?”

“He was run over.”

“Killed?”

I nodded, and she harrumphed under her breath. There’s nothing Aunt Peg hates more than people who are careless with their dogs.

“So that’s how I got off the hook.”

Was I that transparent? I guessed so.

“Jenny must be devastated. She adored that dog.”

We both looked toward the other end of the room where the handler had a Dachshund up on the table. She was running her hands down its long sides and chatting happily with the little hound’s owner.

“She’s covering it up,” I said, thinking of the near-tears I’d seen earlier.

“Poor girl. I guess she’s had a lot of practice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I gather she didn’t have the happiest of childhoods. Her parents were handlers, too. Did you know that?”

“She told me when I signed up.”

“Roger and Lavinia Peterson. They’ve retired now and gone on to judging, but that pair was one of the strongest handling teams in the country for several decades. As children, Jenny and her sister, Angie, were always at the shows with them. Everyone just assumed that someday the girls would take over the family business.

“But the moment Jenny turned eighteen, she moved out and started up on her own. That wouldn’t have been so odd, there’s no rule that says parents and children have to agree all the time. But what made people wonder was that a few months later, Angie joined her. The girl was barely sixteen at the time.”

I glanced once more toward the back of the line. Jenny was repositioning a Cocker and talking about cow hocks. She seemed to have forgotten about Ziggy, at least for the time being. That was probably just as well.

“Do you know what the problem was?”

“No. They weren’t Poodle people,” she said, as if that explained why she’d missed being privy to the best gossip. “But there definitely was some sort of estrangement there. I don’t think they talk to this day.”

A throat cleared loudly in front of me and I turned to find that while Aunt Peg and I had been chatting, the line had moved on. Faith’s turn was next and while Rick was moving the dog ahead of me, I was supposed to be getting ready and setting up. I led Faith up to the front of the mat. Taking control firmly but gently, as I’d been taught, I stacked the puppy, which means I set her up in the four square position that best showed off her conformation and balance.

When I was done, she looked terrific. Unfortunately, the effect only lasted about ten seconds. That was how much time Faith gave me before deciding she’d held the pose long enough and demonstrating her feelings by leaping straight up in the air. She landed just as Rick turned our way. Perfect timing.

“Ah, the flying puppy. I believe I saw your sister earlier.”

“Yes,” I said, mortified. “But she behaved.”

“Wouldn’t you with Margaret Turnbull on the end of your lead?” Rick slipped me a wink, and I immediately felt much better. But when I started to reset Faith’s legs, he reached out and stopped me. “Rather than fussing with her again right here, walk her in a small circle and start over. We want her to learn how to do this right from the beginning.”

I followed his advice and, of course, it helped. Faith stood for his examination and we performed our triangle—trotting down one side of the mats, around the end, then back across the middle—smoothly and steadily. Faith even stood and baited for a piece of liver at the end.

“She’s learning,” Aunt Peg said when I’d rejoined the line. “And so are you.” Coming from her, that was high praise.

Satisfied with what we’d accomplished, I watched the last of the big dogs take its turn. The sleek gray Weimaraner was being handled by Jenny’s sister, Angie. Since she worked as Rick and Jenny’s assistant, that probably meant he was a client’s dog that was being tuned up for the shows.

Angie Peterson was a taller, paler version of her sister. Her medium brown hair fell to below shoulder length, but I’d never seen it hanging free. Tonight,. . .