Kori was guilty of having a whopping bad attitude, plus lousy taste in wardrobe. But those were minor offenses compared to, say, shooting a breeder. And yet Kori was attracting a whole lot more negative attention than whoever had murdered Mitchell Slater. I hadn’t heard anybody even mention that.
Which raised another question: Whoever shot at Susan and Ramona hadn’t come close to hitting either of them, but presumably the same person managed to kill Slater. With a single bullet.
Were Susan and Ramona a warning, a distraction, or target practice?
Kori was not so discreetly checking the contents of her crinkled pack of cigarettes. I wondered if any of them contained tobacco.
“I sure would like a smoke, but there’s no way Susan’s letting me out of her sight now.” She studied me. “You snitched, didn’t you?”
“Pardon?”
“You told Susan I was outside smoking.”
My face got hot. “Well, I-“
“I don’t care. It’s more fun when she comes after me. She’s always afraid that I’ll embarrass her. Again.”
I changed the subject. “How come nobody’s talking about what happened to Mitchell Slater? I thought it would be the main topic of conversation this morning.”
“You don’t know dog-show people,” Kori said. “The main topic of conversation is always their dogs. And if it isn’t their dogs, it’s themselves. Plus, Perry Stiles slid a memo under everybody’s door asking them to have a moment of silence for Mitchell-on their own time. He doesn’t want anything dragging down the spirit of the show.”
“But a man was murdered,” I said. “A breeder, no less. Also the chair of several committees.”
Kori shrugged. “The show must go on.”
I scanned the room. “Where is Perry Stiles? I thought he was in charge of everything.”
“He is. That’s why he’s the one talking to the cops.”
“Right now?”
She nodded. “I bet the cops think one of the breeders did it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Cops always suspect the person closest to the victim.”
“True enough,” I said. “But that’s usually a spouse or lover or ex-lover.”
“Well, it can’t be Mitchell’s ex-wife cuz she lives in London,” Kori said.
I waited to see if she’d suggest that Susan and Mitchell had history, but she didn’t. So I prompted her a little.
“Why would you think a breeder did it?”
“I don’t know if a breeder did it or not,” Kori said. “But I think the cops would think a breeder did it when they start checking things out.”
Now that was interesting. Before I could check things out, however, Susan called the room to order. After going over some very boring doggy details, she introduced Ramona as co-chair of the Breeder Education Committee and gave her the floor.
Ramona’s silvery ensemble seemed over-the-top for a breakfast meeting. Or any meeting before cocktail hour.
I asked Kori, “How does she get away with dressing like that?”
“She hires handlers who don’t.”
When the applause faded, Ramona addressed the room.
“As you all know, Susan and I have been at this for quite a few years, and we’ve learned a lot along the way. We’re convinced that the best method for teaching new breeders and handlers how to do things right is to show them how to do things wrong. For the breeders, Susan has invited Whiskey Mattimoe with her bitch Abra. For the handlers, we have Kori Davies. Please watch them closely and observe their many mistakes. This morning Kori will be in the show ring with one of Susan’s dogs. How typically generous of Susan to make a personal sacrifice for the sake of breeder education!”
Ramona cued the audience to applaud. As they did, I reflected on her bathroom reprimand of the Two L’s. Why would Susan care if Lauren and Lindsey bashed Kori? Susan had admitted to me that she couldn’t stand her niece; she was publicly bashing her by presenting her as a Bad Example. Either Ramona simply liked to advocate for Susan, or she wanted to create the impression that she did. Or maybe Ramona was just a two-legged bitch.
She told her audience, “Whiskey and Abra will not, of course, be permitted in the show ring! But this afternoon Whiskey will walk Abra through the exhibit hall so that you can observe the dog’s condition as well as her owner’s complete lack of control. I promise, it will be an education!”
An appreciative murmur rippled across the room.
“It’s customary for the event chairperson to speak at this time,” Ramona said. “As you know, however, Perry Stiles is dealing with an unfortunate incident involving local law enforcement. So I will do the honors. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this year’s Midwest Afghan Hound Specialty. Let the show begin!”
As breeders and guests applauded, I couldn’t help but marvel at the phrase “unfortunate incident.” I’d never heard a murder described that way.
Chapter Sixteen
I learned that I would be reunited with Abra just moments before our Walk of Shame at two o’clock. According to Susan, Abra would enjoy her time 'til then playing with fellow Affies.
I had assumed most owners would keep their hounds away from Abra for fear that she’d contaminate them… with either her messy coat or her messy morals.
The pettiest part of my nature wondered if Susan was somehow contriving to ensure that Abra misbehaved the moment she saw me. Who was I kidding? Abra always misbehaved. No coaching required. I shouldn’t have been so suspicious. Surely most breeders and handlers were good people, even if one of them had shot Mitchell Slater.
Since I had the whole morning to kill, I considered taking the tour through Amish country advertised in the brochure that Slater had shredded. But I decided to postpone that pleasure 'til the next day. Kori was due in the ring, and I wanted to catch her performance. She had promised to watch mine. Misery loves company, or at least an audience.
I wasn’t truly free to do as I pleased since I had certain vague obligations as Jenx’s volunteer deputy. During the Breeder Breakfast, the chief had sent two text messages. The first instructed me to “people watch.” At least that was how I translated “ppl wtch.” I didn’t think Jenx wanted me to bring her home a souvenir purple watch. Ironically, her second message, written in plain English, confused me more: “Watch Susan and Ramona.” For their protection-or mine?
The chief’s instructions reminded me that I hadn’t seen MacArthur since leaving Magnet Springs. I knew the volunteer bodyguard was around here somewhere because he had told both Jenx and Jeb about Mitchell’s murder. Still, seeing him with my own eyes would be a relief. I couldn’t imagine how one could be an effective protector while staying completely out of sight. Then again, maybe I should have been impressed by MacArthur’s ability to work undercover. Assuming, of course, that he was actually working.
As Brenda Spenser had predicted, the dry toast and hot tea settled my stomach. So I roamed the hall watching breeders and handlers primp their pooches. Being backstage at the dog show was like slipping behind the scenes at a fashion show. Not that I’d ever been to a fashion show.
Doggy divas posed passively while determined humans styled their hair-I mean fur-using essentially the same tools employed by my own stylist: detangling spray, steel combs, pin brushes, and blow-dryers. The only notable difference between my salon and this one, other than the presence of hounds, was the size of the blow-dryers. These were as big as floor lamps with the approximate force of a jet engine. An attractive young handler of the male persuasion helpfully explained why such machinery was necessary.
“With a regular blow-dryer, you can spend two or three hours just drying their coat. It’s like blow-drying a sponge.”
I had once tried to blow-dry Abra but gave up when my arms cramped; I’d left her to finish drying on a bed of
