Winners Bitch - A Working Title

So I joked with the Mister that I was going to write a dog show mystery with murder, sex and a lot of barking bitches.  I don't much think he was serious. Last night when insomnia scratched at the insides of my eyelids, I started.  I'm monkeying around with the terms so as not to get a nasty email from the Registry That Must Not Be Named, but I don't hate it.  Mysteries are a bit of a foreign territory for me, but I sort of like what I'm building.

Enjoy a taste of the roughest of rough drafts.

Winners Bitch - A Working Title

                I was vying for best bitch in breed when a scream echoed through the facility. Idyls Something to Talk About, Rumor, was a mere single point from her championship and she was showing her heart out in her individual exam when panic ensued.  Her eyes went white, she pulled at the handmade kangaroo show lead, and stomped her feet like a wild pony.  I glanced around the ring, whispering reassuring words to the Pointer that had launched my return to the dog showing world and trying to collect her for the judge.

                “It’s okay.  Take a few minutes.”  Patricia Davies, a former Pointer breeder turned handler turned judge, said with a reassuring smile.  She had been my mentor before everything had been destroyed and I’d left the fancy for what I’d thought was forever.  Life has a funny way of mucking with your plans.  So there I was with Rumor, my second weekend back on the show circuit after nearly a three year absence, with a bitch I’d bred and a name I had to restore to its former glory when a scream spooked the dog and had the hair on my neck standing up.

                “Thanks.”  My eyes darted around the building, passing over rings full of panicking dogs.  The beagles in ring three had taken to howling.  An Afghan in ring eight had broken free of its handler and was running laps around the ring, it’s glorious brown/black hair flowing around it.  The Show Committee members were pushing through the crowds toward the crating area.

                “Exhibitors,” Mrs. Davies said, gesturing to the ten of us in the ring.  “There’s too much nervous energy in the ring.  Please trot your beautiful dogs around and collect them.  We will resume judging at that time.”

                I wrapped Rumor’s lead around my hand three times and kept the lead taut as I ran her around the ring.

                “What do you think that’s about?” Tabatha Brinkley settled into a stride beside me, her puppy bitch sticking close to Rumor.

                “I don’t know, but it sure freaked the dogs.”

                As we ran around the ring, a club official ran up to Mrs. Davies and began gesturing wildly.  An older man, he was red with excitement and I worried briefly he’d stroke out.  After he left, Mrs. Davies held her hand up.  “Are any of you in crate area B?”  Her voice shook.  Something was horribly wrong.

                A couple of handlers stepped forward.

                “Please take your dogs and follow Mr. Greene.”  Mrs. Davies pointed in the direction of the man’s retreating back.  “The show is over.”

                That’s when I heard the sirens and Rumor relieved herself.  She’d always been a nervous shitter – a genetic trait passed down from her award-winning grandmother.  I looked around for the stewards to get cleaning supplies, but Mrs. Davies shook her head.  “Leave it.”

                “What’s going on?” A voice asked.

                Mrs. Davies looked quite ill.  “There’s been a murder.”  She refused to look at me, but I didn’t expect her to.  After the home invasion that left twenty dogs in my care dead and my husband unaccounted for, people got a little shifty eyed when discussing the horrors of life.  As if making eye contact would send me spiraling back to the night when I was beat within an inch of my life and forced to watch my beloved kennel go up in flames.

                “Dog or person?”  I didn’t recognize my voice; it sounded too smoke-filled and thick with memories.  Maybe it’s good she didn’t make eye contact.

                Mrs. Davies ignored me.  “The police will need to question you,” she said to all of us. 

                “Dog or person?” I repeated.

                She finally looked at me, her eyes watery pools of the faded blue of old age.  “Both.”