towels. My way of grooming my hound was sending her to the doggie salon… when I managed to catch her… and when I could no longer deny that she was a hideous mess.
I watched as the handler lovingly, thoroughly combed the fur on, under, and around his dog’s ears. Then he moved on to the armpits-if that’s what you call them on a dog.
“No point doing that in real life,” I sighed. “Their fur just gets tangled up again.”
That was when he introduced me to the amazing invention known as the snood. It’s a kind of doggie scarf, and apparently every self-respecting Afghan hound needs one. More than one. Way more.
Most of the backstage dogs who already had their hair done were wearing snoods-in every imaginable color and fabric. Vendors were selling them as fast as they could make change. Apparently the snood biz was recession- proof.
The handsome handler man pointed me toward the vendor with the most snoods to sell. I perused the contents of her many plastic bins, trying to decide between a silk leopard-print snood and an iridescent blue-green satin snood. After the vendor finished with a couple clients, she turned to me.
“You won’t have nearly the problems you’ve got with Abra once she starts wearing these.”
I was stunned. Not because she recognized me; Susan and Ramona had made sure everyone could do that. No. I was shocked by the implication that putting a snood on Abra might solve some of her issues.
“Is the snood like… a training device?” I queried hopefully.
Maybe the handsome handler man had been too busy to tell me how truly wondrous these things were. All the snood-wearing dogs around me were behaving beautifully. Could snoods be the secret?
The vendor said, “It keeps their ears from getting wet, soiled, or matted.”
“I know that,” I said impatiently. “I was hoping it would help with other things, like the way she never comes when I call her.“
And then I saw the pitying look in the vendor’s eyes. I’d seen that exact expression at least twenty times today. It implied that I was tragically unfit to share my life with the glorious creature known as the Afghan hound.
The vendor whispered, “After your Walk of Shame, stop by my booth. I’ve counseled many a novice about grooming issues. As for training issues… I have a son in the business, so I may be able to help you there, too.”
So… “Walk of Shame” was more than my private label for this hellish experience. This very public hellish experience.
She accepted my cash for two snoods and slipped me her business card. Then she turned away to sell a hundred dollars’ worth of snoods to the next eager client.
The vendor also sold something called a Pee-Proofing Coat. I almost bought one for Chester’s dog, Prince Harry the Pee Master, thinking it was a house-breaking device. No such luck. It’s a wardrobe item that permits show hounds to do their business without soiling their nether regions.
I read the vendor’s card:
Live to Love Afghan Hounds!
Snoods, Coats, Boots, Beds, Grooming Aids
Gifts for Humans, Too
Slater? As in the late Mitchell? Kori had said that his ex-wife was in London. Could this be a sister or a cousin? Or was Kori just plain wrong?
I studied Sandy Slater and saw no signs of distress. She was in her element selling snoods. Probably a coincidence that her last name was the same as the murder victim’s. Still, as Jenx’s volunteer deputy, I was obliged to snoop around 'til I found out. Digging for personal information among folks who saw me as a dog-owning disgrace might prove almost as difficult as training Abra. My volunteer deputy status was unlikely to motivate anyone; I was a hundred miles outside the jurisdiction where I had no legal clout, anyhow.
My peripheral vision picked up Kori exiting through the side door of the arena, probably to sneak a smoke before her performance. She was accompanied by a big silver-blue Afghan hound, presumably the dog Susan was willing to “sacrifice” in the ring so that others could learn from Kori’s mistakes. If there was time before they made their entrance, Kori might be willing to answer a question or two about Mitchell Slater. Especially if the answers made Susan look bad. Kori might also know Sandy the vendor and others who had been friendly with the dead man.
I followed her, planning my next move. After quizzing Kori, I would interview everyone I’d met here so far: Brenda Spenser, the Two L’s, and the handsome handler man, whose name I didn’t know. There was no point talking to Susan again until I had enough information to formulate some new questions. And there was no point talking to Ramona, period, because she flat-out ignored me.
A canvas curtain hung next to the side exit, partially concealing a stash of folded chairs, tables, and stacked cardboard boxes. As well as a man and a woman in what appeared to my somewhat experienced eyes as a passionate clinch. They kissed and groped each other with a gusto commonly reserved for either honeymooners or adulterers. Since I immediately recognized the couple, I was able to rule out honeymooners.
Susan Davies was swapping spit with the handsome handler dude, who was young enough to be Kori’s boyfriend.
Chapter Seventeen
I would have loved to stand and stare at Susan and boy-toy 'til one of them came up for air. What could be sweeter than letting her know that I knew she was a Bad Example, too?
That revelation wasn’t completely comforting, however. I had already suspected Susan of philandering, possibly with my own formerly philandering ex-husband, who was once again my lover. Proof that she had no romantic boundaries only gave me more reason to worry about her and Jeb.
Now I wondered if Susan’s invitation to this event was intended simply to humiliate me. Embarrassment, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. If she hoped to shame me in Jeb’s eyes, she’d have to do better-or worse-than Worst in Show. He’d already seen me at the bottom of my game.
If shaming me in front of the Afghan hound crowd was her goal, what was the point? I didn’t expect to do business with Brenda, Ramona, the Two L’s, or anyone else in this hall. In fact, I planned to never see any of them again.
If Susan’s goal was to make sure that I and, by extension, my company appeared to her husband as losers, then Odette was in a position to prevent that. Or at least reverse the impression. No doubt my star agent was selling Big Houses on the Prairie even as Susan sucked face.
Maybe Susan disliked me and her husband enough to want to punish us both. I shook myself like a wet dog. Why worry? Jeb wouldn’t care how pathetic I looked; he (mostly) loved me for the mess I was. Liam didn’t fancy Afghans, so he wouldn’t be here to witness my Walk of Shame.
I hurried from the exhibit hall, determined to quickly quiz Kori about Sandy Slater. Several handlers loitered near the door, most of them savoring the smokes they weren’t allowed to have inside. Kori was not among them. Figuring that even if every handler didn’t know every other handler, everybody knew Kori, I was about to ask if anyone had seen her. Then I saw her. Or rather, I saw a flash of bubble-gum pink and the tail end of her big blue dog disappear around the corner of the building. So I followed.
I expected to find Kori lighting up either a cigarette or a joint. I did not expect to find Kori imitating her aunt. Yet that was the scene I stumbled into: Kori kissing a tall gorgeous man. Once again, I knew both the players. But I’d had no inkling these two were acquainted, let alone familiar enough to taste each other’s tongues.
Finally I had proof that MacArthur was on site. He was also on Kori-pressing her to him with as much zeal as she was using to grab onto him. These two appeared to be even hotter for each other than Susan and the handler. Less inhibited, at any rate. I didn’t know why I was so stunned to find them in a clinch. Kori reminded me of my stepdaughter, and I already knew MacArthur liked her; she was tattooed on his arm for the whole world to see. He may have been the cleaner at work, but on his own time he liked the messy life.
While I stared at the lovers, the big Afghan hound looked discreetly away. He had better manners than I did, but then he was the one with the pedigree. He issued a low growl, no doubt as a reprimand for my gaping; Kori and MacArthur sprang apart like fighters called to their corners.
