Best in Show by Laurien Berenson Read Free Book Online Page A

we approached, we could hear the low, humming sound made by dozens of big, free-standing blow-dryers. Layered over that was the animated buzz of conversation. Bertie and I paused in the doorway and took in the scene.
    The room was bright and spacious. Even so, it was mostly full. Rows of portable grooming tables held all three sizes of Poodles in various stages of preparation. Some were being brushed, others clipped or scissored. Still others, fresh from being bathed, were having their long hair blown dry.
    â€œYikes,” said Bertie. “I thought I knew lots of dog show people. Hardly anyone here even looks familiar.”
    â€œThat’s because you’re based in the Northeast and PCA draws breeders and exhibitors from all over the country. Lots of these people only come east once or twice a year. Don’t worry, everyone is really friendly. Anyone who loves dogs will fit right in.
    â€œLook over there,” I said. The Boone sisters were standing beside a table that held a small silver Poodle. Rather than grooming, however, they seemed to be arguing with one another. Par for the course, based on my experience with them earlier. “Those two ladies are Betty Jean and Edith Jean Boone. They’re the cochairs of the raffle committee. I’ll be working for them all week.”
    â€œWhich one is Betty Jean and which one is Edith Jean?” Bertie asked.
    â€œGood question.”
    I gazed at them and frowned. Since I’d seen them last, one of the sisters had put a white grooming smock on over her clothing. The question was, which one? As I watched, she turned to say something to a person working on a Standard Poodle behind them. Light, from the bright, fluorescent bulb above, glinted off a small gold locket that peeked out from beneath her sweater. That helped.
    â€œBetty Jean is the one in the smock,” I said confidently. “Edith Jean is closer to us.”
    â€œIf you say so.” Bertie was scrutinizing the Toy puppy on the table. “That’s a cute silver.”
    Dog people. They have no idea what color eyes you have; don’t remember that freckle on your nose. But they can recount in the most minute detail, every attribute of every dog they’ve ever seen. And Bertie was no different than any of the rest of us.
    â€œVery cute, I’m told. The sisters think he has a shot at Winners.”
    â€œWho’s handling?” Bertie asked. Professional interest.
    â€œRoger Carew.” I’d seen his picture earlier that day in the win photos the sisters had shown me. “I’m pretty sure he’s the guy working on the Standard behind them.”
    â€œYup, that’s him. We cross paths in Virginia and the Carolinas occasionally. He does a good job with a dog.”
    â€œI hope so, for their sake. I hear the competition’s going to be pretty stiff.”
    â€œAre you kidding?” Bertie glanced over. “At a show this size, with everyone who’s here, just getting a ribbon is going to be a big deal.”
    Tell me about it, I thought.
    â€œThere’s another familiar face,” Bertie said. I followed the direction of her gaze. A tall, well-built man was scissoring a brown Mini puppy on one of the grooming tables. The puppy fidgeted as he worked, but unlike some handlers, his touch remained gentle. One hand was propped beneath the Mini’s chin; his fingers stroked the puppy’s muzzle to quiet him. The man’s other hand held a pair of long, curved scissors whose blades flashed open and shut swiftly as he perfected the dog’s trim.
    â€œWho is that?” I asked.
    â€œDale Atherton. From California.”
    I knew the name; it just took me a moment to remember where I’d heard it. California was the key. Nina Gold, the woman from Marin who’d purchased some raffle tickets, had told me that Dale Atherton was her handler.
    â€œNot bad,” Bertie said appreciatively.
    Trust me, that was an