Kori had proven she could get Silverado to do what he needed to do in order to win. Still, there was no denying that her hot pink suit, spiky streaked hair, and sparkly jewelry had demanded attention, too. I’d overheard the Two L’s say that Kori turned the show ring into a “circus.” That was hard to deny. Even I, a complete dog show novice, could see and respect the difference between a professional handler like Matt and a rebel like Kori. She stole the show; he kept the focus on the dog. At this level of competition, it mattered.
I made a comment to Brenda about Matt’s skill, but my words drowned in a sea of applause. As the finalists trotted around the ring, each one had a strong and enthusiastic fan base.
Naturally, Brenda wanted Matt’s canine client to win. I wondered again if she had a clue about him and Susan. Of course I cheered for Silverado, and not just because I was standing next to Brenda. Silverado was the only dog I knew personally. Plus, he had it bad for my bitch, so the poor guy deserved my support.
But I couldn’t begin to guess who deserved to be Best in Show. They were all perfectly behaved and flawlessly groomed. In other words, the opposite of Abra. Besides Silverado, who was a blue, the finalists were a solid black, a black and tan, a self-masked gold, and a cream brindle domino.
When I caught myself describing them that way in my head, I gasped. I must have actually been listening to Brenda.
Coming to this show had changed me. I had accidentally learned something about Afghan hounds. I had also lost my Afghan hound, but that happened frequently.
The judge gave each finalist one more hard look. The canine contenders posed patiently. The crowd watched, transfixed.
I was sure of one thing only, that no dog was the clear crowd favorite. If we’d relied upon an applause meter for the results, we would have had a five-way tie. Not to mention a specialty show that failed to comply with AKC regulations.
Suddenly the judge made a series of rapid-fire signals I couldn’t read; dogs and handlers looped the ring on their last circuit as the crowd hooted. When Brenda shrieked with joy, I assumed that Matt and Silverado had done well. But before I could ask, and before the dogs reached their ranked positions, the entire exhibit hall was plunged into blackness.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I heard Brenda gasp and say, “Oh, my!”
A male voice shouted, “Nobody move! Stay exactly where you are. I repeat: Nobody move! The back-up generators should kick on momentarily.”
“I hope so,” Brenda said. “Matt and Silverado deserve their moment of glory!”
“They won?” I whispered into the darkness.
“Best in show!” Brenda confirmed.
The arena, which a moment earlier had echoed with applause, was now a pitch-black den of whispers. Since the building lacked windows, no light at all filtered into the space. If someone could just open that infamous side door, I thought, it might admit a little illumination. Scuffling sounds-scrapes and grunts-emanated from the ring. I assumed that the dogs were restless.
“I said, nobody move!” the male voice repeated, sounding annoyed enough to be almost menacing.
A chorus of alarmed and alarming barks filled the air, followed by a human cry. Suddenly, that side door opened just wide enough and long enough to reveal the silhouette of a large man. Then the door closed, and the arena sank back into darkness.
Something had changed. The barking intensified; the human cry became a hysterical sob.
“What on earth-“ Brenda began.
And then the generators kicked on, igniting low-level perimeter lighting. Although the show ring remained in deep shadow, a distressing tableau emerged: Handlers struggled to control their leaping, lunging dogs, and a man appeared slumped near the edge of the circle. At first I thought it was the judge and wondered if he’d had a heart attack. Then I identified his tall, lean dog-less figure among the vertical shadows. So who was down? And if it was a handler, where was the unattached hound? A man inside the circle shouted, “Somebody dial 9-1-1!”
The regular lights banged back up. Brenda screamed.
The very still body in the ring belonged to Matt Koniger. Perry crouched next to him just as, an hour earlier, he had crouched next to Ramona. This time, though, I feared that the victim had suffered more than a rump wound. Matt wasn’t an actor-unless you counted gigolo in that category. He had struck me as a virile young man not inclined to exaggerate an injury. From where I stood, he appeared unconscious.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Brenda chanted, shaking her finely manicured hands as if to restore circulation.
Suddenly she bolted toward the ring, if in fact “bolting” is possible in Manolo Blahniks. Without thinking, I followed her. Neither of us reached our destination.
Wild-eyed and livid, Sandy Slater inserted herself between us and the show ring. Fixing her mad rage on Brenda, she screamed, “You wanted my son dead! Everybody here knows that!”
Brenda froze but did not reply.
“Wrong,” I said. “Everybody here knows he’s her boy-toy.”
I glanced sideways at very pale Brenda. “Sorry to be so blunt,” I said.
Back to Sandy. ”Why would she want him dead?”
“Because he’s blackmailing her, that’s why!”
That was when the ever-pleasant Brenda Spenser revealed her inner bitch. In a single smooth move, she slipped off one of her prized Manolo Blahniks and pounded Sandy’s face with it. Fortunately for Sandy, Brenda employed the pointy heel as handle, rather than as a stabbing device. Yet I had no doubt that the finely crafted leather sole could sting, particularly when applied with manic vigor.
“Down, girls, down!” boomed an authoritative male voice.
As I stood helplessly by, the dog show judge broke up the cat fight. He seized Brenda’s right arm, effectively stopping her in mid-swing, at the same instant that Perry pulled Sandy beyond striking distance. The intervention happened so fast that I barely had time to savor the irony: Sandy was dragged to safety by the very man she’d accused of sand-bagging her late ex-husband and her son.
“How’s Matt? What happened?” I shouted over Sandy and Brenda’s spewed epithets.
“EMTs are on their way,” the judge said.
But Perry locked eyes with me, and in them I read what I knew to be the real answer: Matt was beyond human help.
As the judge restrained a squirming Brenda and Perry did the same with a kicking Sandy, Susan darted past us all, bound straight for Matt. Perry called after her to wait; she didn’t listen. Handlers and breeders closed in around her, blocking both Susan and Matt from my view.
Looking stern, Perry said something to Sandy, who shook him off. Then she stepped away to compose herself by drawing several sharp breaths. When she turned back, her face was as hard as a statue’s.
Meanwhile, the judge was holding Brenda’s arm like collateral and whispering to her. The scene reminded me of a parent trying to calm a tantrum-prone child. Brenda’s eyes seemed to lose their focus. She swayed like a dizzy drunk before folding herself against the judge.
My eyes followed Sandy as she lurched toward the ring. The snood business may have been good this weekend, but her personal life had gone hideously wrong. I expected the small crowd gathered around Susan and Matt to spring open as his mother approached. Instead, they visibly tightened ranks.
Why? To protect Sandy from the sight of her dead son? Or to protect Susan from Sandy? Maybe insiders feared that Sandy, in her moment of grief, would blame Susan for choosing Matt as handler. Or maybe they knew that Sandy had other issues with Susan, beginning with “A” for adultery.
Then again, hot-tempered Sandy could have had issues with lots of folks. If this was a woman who’d never given up loving, or at least lurking around, her first husband, she might be the kind of gal who nursed every grievance.