Hounded To Death. Laurien Berenson

Perhaps he’d hoped that enlarging the circle of conversation might put Peg more at ease. Or maybe he simply hadn’t wanted to feel outnumbered.

      Introductions were quickly performed. Derek Ryan was a Beagle man from northern Kentucky. He had a strong handshake, kind eyes, and a habit of standing much too close. Marshall Beckham looked like a stork. He was tall, slender, and serious; and when he heard Peg’s name, he immediately shifted his attention her way.

      “Peg Turnbull?” he repeated. “You’re Margaret Turnbull, of Cedar Crest Kennels fame?”

      Peg nodded graciously.

      “I saw you win the group at Westminster! Champion Cedar Crest Chantain, wasn’t it?”

      She nodded again. Marshall was speaking much too fast for any of us to get a word in.

      “I can’t believe it. This is fantastic! What a turnout there is here. First Charles Evans, the man is one of my heroes…and now I’m meeting Margaret Turnbull. Somebody pinch me. That win at Westminster was quite a coup for an owner-handler! And what a lovely dog.”

      “Thank you. Beau was always one of my favorites.”

      In the face of Marshall’s barrage of words, Aunt Peg was finally beginning to relax. Dog talk always did the trick. She was an old hand at that.

      “I have Bichons,” Marshall said. “And I handle them myself. Certainly not with your flair, but I pride myself on doing okay. I know you’ve recently been approved for the breed and I hope you’ll consider coming out to Ohio to judge. I’d be delighted to have your opinion of my dogs.”

      Peg smiled. “All I need is an invitation.”

      Now that they’d navigated their way to common ground, the conversation was up and running. And the fact that Peg had been revealed as a minor celebrity in the dog community didn’t hurt either. Richard regarded her with fresh appreciation and she basked in his attention.

      No need to worry about her saying anything stupid. She could have told him that the moon was blue and he would have agreed.

      After the first few minutes I began to feel superfluous. Slowly I edged back from the closely grouped circle. None of them even noticed my retreat. Toting my warm ginger ale, I headed in the direction of the bar.

      Bertie hailed me as soon as I reached the counter. “Hey!” she cried, her voice raised to be heard above the din. “Come and meet my friend Alana.”

      As Bertie introduced us, Alana looked me coolly up and down. I recognized the tactic. She was checking out the competition and doing her best to make me feel about three inches tall in the process.

      Don’t get me wrong. In most situations I can more than hold my own. But there was something about the way Alana ran her flat gaze over my body that made me feel fat and unappealing. As if I’d been mentally compared to her svelte beauty and found wanting.

      “Stop it,” Bertie ordered. She smacked her friend on the arm. “Melanie is my sister-in-law and my best friend. She’s not someone for you to chew up and spit out.”

      Bertie turned to me. “Don’t mind Alana. She doesn’t have many women friends.”

      “I can see why not,” I said.

      Bertie slid off her stool and offered it to me.

      Gratefully I hiked up and sat. It was nice to get off my feet.

      Alana cocked a brow.

      “Pregnant,” I said. “Deal with it.”

      “Well, shit,” said Alana. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” She leaned over and gave me a hug. “Congratulations! When’s the baby due?”

      “March.”

      “Boy or girl?”

      “We don’t know yet.”

      Alana waved to the bartender. “This deserves another drink!”

      News of my pregnancy had an immediate softening effect on her. Either she was genuinely happy for me or else this development had changed my status in her eyes. I’d been removed from the ranks of competitors and placed in a new category where friendship might be possible.

      “Not for me,” I said. “I find I have a limited tolerance for ginger ale. In fact I seem to have a limited tolerance for just about everything these days.”

      “I don’t blame you a bit,” said Bertie. She’d been pregnant just a year earlier. The experience was still fresh in her mind.

      “Neither do I,” Alana echoed in the spirit of our new kinship. She picked up her new drink and downed half of it in a single gulp. “If you ask me, tolerance is a highly overrated virtue.”

      Bertie leaned over and said, “How’s Peg doing? She seems to be surrounded by men. Is one of them the famous Richard?”

      “Broad shoulders, blue sweater.”

      “Not the tall one with the besotted look on his face?”

      “No, that’s Marshall Beckham. An aspiring owner-handler. Apparently he thinks he’s in the presence of some sort of minor deity.”

      “Peg’s been known to have that effect on people.” Bertie shifted around and had another look. “Richard looks all right, doesn’t he? I’d say there’s definite potential there.”

      Alana leaned toward us to join the conversation. “Who are we talking about?”

      “Richard Donner,” I said. “Do you know him?”

      “Sure,” Alana replied. “The guy who travels with his mother.”

      The din in the room made conversation difficult and for a moment I wondered whether I’d heard her wrong. Then I remembered the sweet looking, little old lady Richard had entered the room with earlier. Could that have been…?

      “There she is.” Alana raised a not-too-steady hand and pointed. “The woman with the ratty little Chihuahua sticking its head out of her purse? That’s Florence Donner. She and Richard go everywhere together.”

      4

      I almost laughed. Then I caught myself.

      Whatever mean-spirited thoughts I had harbored earlier—payback for all the times Aunt Peg had maneuvered me into in an embarrassing situation and then left me there to fend for myself—she certainly didn’t deserve something like this.

      “You’re not joking, are you?”

      “Why would I joke about something like that? It isn’t the least bit funny. If you ask me, it’s kind of pathetic. A grown man traveling around to shows with his seventy-year-old mother. You’d think he’d want to get a life.”

      My stomach sank. Apparently Richard had wanted to get a life. And he begun that quest by wooing Aunt Peg over the Internet.

      “Florence Donner and Richard Donner are mother and son?” Bertie said, surprised. “I never made the connection.”

      My gaze swung her way. “You know her?”

      “I’ve shown under her. She judges some of the Toy breeds.”

      “Is she any good?”

      The question, though not germane, was almost automatic. Dog show exhibitors’ fortunes rise and fall with the quality of the judges they show to. We’re always on the quest for good judges and we’ll travel almost any distance to find them.

      Bertie shrugged. “She’s not bad.”

      Alana looked at us. “What’s up with you two? Why are you so interested in Richard Donner?”

      “He and my aunt have been corresponding by e-mail for the last few months. Apparently they’ve become quite good friends.”

      “Is