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than the Mini. And he was better than the competition he was showing against.”
    â€œYes, but Drucilla didn’t know that,” I pointed out. It was easy for me to be sanguine about the outcome. I wasn’t the one who had just lost when I should have won. “All she knows is that if each of the pros who gave her an entry gets something to show for his efforts, everyone will go home happy.”
    Aunt Peg clucked her tongue. Crawford and Terry had gone back to the grooming tent after the Minis had finished, but Peg had stayed behind to watch the Standard judging. “You’re beginning to sound like a cynic.”
    â€œMake that a realist,” I said. “I didn’t see you showing under her.”
    â€œYou’re right about that,” Aunt Peg admitted. “On the other hand, I hardly show under anyone anymore.”
    Now that Peg was judging more frequently, she was concerned about the perceived conflict of interest in exhibiting under her peers. Instead, agility had become her new love. She and her Poodles had begun to compete in trials all over New England.
    â€œI shouldn’t complain,” said Bertie. “Gina got two points. Her owners will be thrilled. I’m just sorry my other dog got robbed.”
    Back at the setups, Terry was drinking a diet soda. Crawford had disappeared again. I deposited the Mini I was carrying onto a grooming table and said, “So?”
    Three pairs of eyes turned my way.
    â€œBrando?” I prompted.
    Surely I shouldn’t have had to remind them. Before Crawford had interrupted us, both Peg and Bertie had looked like impending doom at the mere mention of the Boxer’s name. Our half-hour break to show dogs—admittedly the reason we’d come in the first place—hadn’t been exciting enough that I would have forgotten that .
    â€œOh right,” said Bertie. She was running the end of a comb through the Standard Poodle’s topknot, popping out the tiny colored rubber bands that had held the elaborate structure in place. “Bad news there.”
    â€œHe belongs to Ben O’Donnell,” said Aunt Peg. As if that explained everything. Which of course it didn’t.
    Since my relatives weren’t proving to be much help, I turned to Terry. His Minis were back in their crates. The silver Toy was lying daintily on a folded towel, awaiting his turn in the group. And Terry was plucking at the Maltese again.
    â€œWho is Ben O’Donnell?” I asked. “And if you want to throw in a little information on Brando, I wouldn’t mind that, either.”
    â€œBen’s an actor,” said Terry.
    â€œHe was an actor,” Bertie corrected. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. Moments in the Sun ?”
    â€œThe soap opera?” I asked. “Definitely not my thing. I work during the day, remember? What else might I have seen him in?”
    â€œThere was a corn chip commercial,” said Terry. “And another for a new pickup truck.”
    â€œThat one was a hoot,” Bertie said. “Ben was dressed up in cowboy boots and a big hat, and cows were milling around everywhere. Bear in mind we’re talking about a guy who thinks that suburbs are the wide-open spaces. He looked pretty silly trying to walk bowlegged and pretending he was chewing tobacco.”
    â€œI saw that,” said Peg. “Ben looked like he was afraid all those cattle might stampede and take him along for the ride. And I don’t think he ever managed to drive the truck.”
    â€œOkay, so he’s an actor,” I said. “Perhaps not a very good one. And Brando’s a Boxer. There must be more to the story than that. Is Brando a good dog?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter,” said Bertie. “He doesn’t have to be. Ben only shows to women judges.”
    â€œHe’s very hetero.” Terry sighed. “More’s the pity.”
    I was beginning to get the