Hounded To Death. Laurien Berenson

him to sign up for a dog judges’ symposium?”

      “It required no convincing on my part at all. Richard had received a brochure and was already planning to attend.”

      “Wait a minute,” I said. “But that means—”

      “That Richard is a judge too?” Aunt Peg’s tone was smug. Once again she’d managed to pull one over on her younger relations. “Quite so.”

      “For real?” asked Bertie. “You actually met a dog show judge on an Internet dating site?”

      “No, dear. I met him on a message board on a web site dedicated to the betterment of purebred dogs.”

      My stomach rolled. Maybe it was the baby. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t eaten yet that morning. Or maybe it was simply proximity to my ever-exasperating Aunt Peg.

      “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” I asked.

      “What, and deny the two of you the opportunity to make perfect fools of yourselves? Trust me, driving in a mostly straight line for three hours isn’t that entertaining. Listening to you two flap and flounder in outrage is the most fun I’ve had all day.”

      “Even so,” I said.

      “She has a point,” Bertie added.

      “How can she have a point?” Aunt Peg demanded. “She hasn’t said anything yet. In most places where people speak English even so isn’t a point.”

      “Just because Richard Donner is a dog show judge doesn’t mean he’s a good person.”

      “Of course not,” Peg agreed. “You and I have both met our share of idiots who think that a small amount of knowledge coupled with the ability to look good in a plastic rain hat and a pair of rubber boots qualifies them to define breed type. But how am I ever going to find out what kind of person he is if we don’t get together?

      “For all I know, Richard might be the man I’m meant to spend the rest of my life with. And wouldn’t it be a shame if I passed up a chance like that simply because our first contact happened to have taken place over the Internet?”

      “Well…” I said grudgingly.

      “Well, what?”

      “You may be right.”

      “Of course I’m right.”

      Like that was anything new.

      We drove in silence for several minutes.

      I stared out the window at the passing landscape, thought about home, and wondered what everyone was doing in my absence. Davey was likewise out of school this week. He and Sam had a number of outings planned, but right now I was willing to bet that they were simply out in the backyard, enjoying the crisp fall weather.

      I imagined Davey was probably playing in his tree house. Sam would be raking leaves. Sooner or later, one of them would pick up a tennis ball and start a game of fetch with the Poodles.

      Gone less than two hours, I felt a pang of homesickness. Probably latent nesting instincts coming to the fore.

      Having expected to sail through this pregnancy the same way I’d done nine years earlier, I’d been in for a rude awakening. This time I felt as though I was on an emotional roller coaster. No wonder Sam had been so happy to send me away for a week.

      “Funny thing,” Aunt Peg mused in the front seat. “I had thought it would be Richard’s age the two of you would object to.”

      I gulped. His age?

      What about his age?

      Life with Aunt Peg; it was a constant round of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

      “How old is he?” I asked.

      “Forty-nine.”

      Bertie laughed out loud. “No wonder you thought he was hot,” she said.

      The Rockwall Mountain Inn turned out to be a rustic retreat, located at the end of a long, winding driveway that carried us up the side of a small mountain.

      “Smell the fresh air,” Aunt Peg said happily as the road began to climb. “Look at the views!”

      A nice thought, but since the driveway was surrounded on either side by a dense wall of very tall fir trees, the view consisted mostly of pine needles and bark.

      Then we reached the top and the trees fell away. The dark road opened out into a wide parking lot with sweeping mountain vistas and miles of blue sky.

      “Wow.” Bertie exhaled. “Whoever chose this place really knew what they were doing.”

      “That would be Margo Deline, the symposium director,” Peg said crisply. “The woman is one of life’s great organizers. She always does a bang-up job.”

      The hotel consisted of a cluster of four low buildings, each one fashioned to look like a large log cabin. Wraparound porches lined with rows of Adirondack chairs invited guests to sit and enjoy the dramatic views. The inn was billed as a resort and spa, and signs outside the main building pointed us toward the swimming pool, tennis courts, hot tub, and health club.

      “Damn,” said Bertie as she pulled her suitcase out of the back of the van. “I didn’t bring my tennis racquet.”

      “You don’t play tennis.”

      “I would if I had time.”

      “No, you wouldn’t, you’d just sleep.”

      “Well,” she admitted, “there is that.”

      “Stop squabbling, you two.” Aunt Peg paused in front of a set of wide double doors that led into reception.

      The handle was fashioned from what looked like a large tusk. Boar? Elephant? Water buffalo? Aunt Peg tapped the appendage with her fingernail.

      “Plastic,” she said with satisfaction and threw it open.

      The lobby was a two-story great room with an enormous stone fireplace on one end and a wide, bending staircase on the other. Between the two, a gallery opened out into the upper hallway, giving strolling guests a vantage from which to watch the action below. The reception desk was located beneath the overhang, the wall behind it decorated with various pieces of artwork, most of them attributed to local artisans.

      Within minutes, Aunt Peg, Bertie, and I had been registered and delivered to our rooms. Bertie and I were sharing; Aunt Peg had her own, adjoining room next door. Upon entering, we found information packets waiting for us on the desk, describing the week’s activities.

      I set down my suitcase, opened the packet, and pulled out the top sheet.

      “Tonight the only thing on the schedule is an informal opening reception.” I read the invitations aloud. “Come and join us in the Elk Room. Rally round the blazing fire to greet old friends and make new ones. Cash bar.”

      Bertie hooted. She lifted her hands, let her body fall backward onto one of the double beds, and landed with a gentle plop.

      “You know what that translates to. Let’s get everybody roaring drunk on the first night and set the tone for the rest of this shindig. If nothing else, it’ll be interesting to watch. I always wondered what kind of wild and crazy people dog show judges turn into when no one else is around.”

      “Very funny. Next you’ll be imagining them howling at the moon.”

      “Who’s howling?” Aunt Peg asked. She stuck her head through the door between the two rooms. “I don’t hear a thing. And if somebody has a dog here, I am not going to be amused.”

      “Nobody’s howling yet,” said Bertie. “Give them time. Maybe after dark.”

      “Oh, I see. You were talking about people. More’s the pity.”

      Aunt Peg, I noted, didn’t deny the possibility.