The Stolen Show, Page 2

  “Voyons donc, Louise!” Angie sputtered, rubbing her shoulder where Louise’s hand had landed. “Is it impossible for you to say hello to me without leaving me in tatters?”

  “Clearly not,” the blond man said, brushing an invisible speck of grit off his sleeve.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, old girl,” Louise replied. “I’m just so excited! Here’s my new handler: the young Miss Nancy Drew! I’m here to show her and her friends the ropes. Girls, this is my very best friend, Angie Wilson.” Louise glanced at the gentleman next to her. “And the fancy boy next to her is Chuck Dubois. He’s all right.” She pronounced the name “Doo-boys,” which seemed to make Mr. Dubois wince.

  “Charles, s’il vous plaît,” the man said, shaking our hands. “Miss Alain is fond of nicknames, but me, I am less so.”

  “And who is this handsome fellow with you?” Bess asked, looking at Charles’s dog. The dog was almost the same color as his owner’s blazer and sat on its haunches, watching the crowd with a sort of detached amusement.

  Charles’s face brightened. “Ah, oui, this is my Weimaraner, Coco Diamonds Are Forever.”

  George gave a long whistle. “Wow,” she said. “That’s quite a name!”

  “She’s quite a dog,” Charles replied.

  “A lot of the show dogs have very complex names,” Angie explained. “Oftentimes the names reflect the dog’s credentials or pedigrees, or sometimes they just help breeders distinguish one litter of pups from another.”

  Louise huffed. “Nope,” she said, crossing her arms. “Just ‘Marge’ is enough for me. Her quality speaks for itself.”

  “Or at least her owner certainly does,” Charles murmured.

  Louise raised her eyebrow at him. “Someone needs a muzzle over there,” she said. “And it isn’t the Weimaraner.”

  I leaned over to whisper in Angie’s ear. “Are they always this . . . hostile?”

  Angie nodded. “It’s just their way. Don’t worry—they’re all bark and no bite.”

  “Where’s your dog, Angie?” Bess asked, stepping over to us.

  “Oh—Marshmallow Fluff is just having a snooze in her crate. I’ll take you to her!”

  Angie led us to a side area, past a checkpoint, where lines of dog crates stood. As we walked, George turned back to me and mouthed, Marshmallow Fluff?! I smiled and shrugged. The dog names certainly were entertaining!

  “Here she is,” Angie said, stopping at a very large crate in the corner. “Wakey, wakey, Marshy! You’ve got some fans who want to meet you. . . .” She knelt down to open the door to the crate and look inside. A moment passed as Angie reached inside, the expression on her face changing from excitement to horror.

  “Oh!” Angie cried out.

  “What?” I said, suddenly alert. “What is it? Is your dog okay?”

  “She’s breathing,” Angie said, her face suddenly pale. “But she won’t wake up! I think she’s been drugged!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  A Sticky Situation

  ANGIE’S ANGUISHED CRY ATTRACTED THE attention of many of the other attendees, who quickly congregated around us as we pulled Marshmallow Fluff from her crate. She was an Old English sheepdog with a fluffy gray-and-white coat—exactly like the dogs in numerous stories and movies from my childhood. She was alarmingly limp, with a line of drool seeping from her open mouth—but Angie was right, her breathing was deep and steady. Angie was on her knees beside me but seemed paralyzed by the sight of her beloved pet laid low.

  “What happened?” a deep voice asked. I looked up to see a large man with copper-brown skin and wavy black hair watching us with concern.

  “Is she going to be all right?” a woman asked.

  “I think so,” I said loudly. “But please back up, everybody, and give her some air!” The crowd took two steps back, and I rubbed Marshmallow’s head. “C’mon, girl,” I murmured, glancing back at her owner’s ghostly pallor. “Wake up! Angie needs you!”

  After a few tense moments, Marshmallow let out a deep groan and began to stir. Her head and legs twitched, as if she were waking from a terrible dream—and then, finally, she opened her eyes.

  The big dog stared at me for a moment, and then turned back to Angie. Then, like a small child calling for its mother, she whined. Angie wrapped her arms around Marshmallow’s head, her eyes blurry with tears. “Oh, my sweet puppy! You’re all right! Oh, I was so scared!” Marshmallow seemed to understand her owner’s distress and helpfully licked the tears off her face.

  After a moment, Angie pulled away, a confused look on her face. Something pink was stuck to her hand, tendrils of it trailing back to Marshmallow’s flank. “Wh-what . . . ?” Angie stammered. “What is this?”

  I followed the tendrils and discovered a wad of pink goop stuck in the dog’s thick fur. I picked at it, but it was stuck fast, and only stretched as I pulled. I sniffed my fingers and immediately recognized the cloying, sweet smell. “Bubble gum,” I said. “And it looks like it’s not the only piece.” Angie and I inspected the dog further and found more and more pieces—ten in total.

  “This is terrible,” Angie said. “It’s going to be nearly impossible to remove all of this from Marshmallow’s fur. I’ll have to cut it out. . . . Her perfect coat will be ruined.” She covered her face with her hands.

  George and Bess approached, and I got up to stand next to them. “What do you think, Nancy?” Bess asked.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and sighed. “I think someone must have given Marshmallow a drugged treat or something they knew she’d eat,” I replied, “and then stuck the gum in her fur while she was asleep, so she wouldn’t start barking and raise the alarm.”

  Around us, the crowd murmured in response. I looked around, having forgotten that others could be listening. “How awful,” said a voice, and I turned to see Helen Bradley, the woman whom George had run into earlier, standing in the crowd. Her blue eyes were creased with concern. “Who would do such a dreadful thing—to a poor, innocent animal?”

  Louise hobbled over to her friend and laid a hand on her shoulder. Angie looked up at her friend, sniffing. “I thought we had a chance at Best in Show this year,” she whispered. “But now . . .” She shook her head sadly.

  In response, Marshmallow Fluff got to her feet and woofed softly at Angie, placing a huge, fluffy paw on her leg. Angie looked down at the dog and rubbed the top of her head. “It’s okay, Marshy. It’s not your fault. We’ll get through this.”

  Seeing that Marshmallow Fluff had recovered, most of the crowd began to disperse, with a couple of folks, including Helen and a young woman with blond hair in a pixie cut, hanging back to console Angie. Louise made her way over to a chair and slumped into it, her brow creased with contained rage. She saw me watching her, and when our eyes met, she inclined her head twice, calling me over. I crossed over to where she was, with George and Bess in tow. “This is bad news, Red,” she said once we’d gotten within hearing range. “I’ve heard of this kind of thing happening at dog shows, and we’re lucky Marshmallow made it out alive. She just as easily could have been poisoned, if some nutcase is looking to take out the competition. Now . . .” She gave me a serious look. “Are you still working as an amateur detective? Your father tells me you’ve managed to close a bunch of cases these past few years.”

  I chuckled. “Well,” I said, “it isn’t as if I go looking for problems to solve, but they just seem to find me.”

  George cut in. “She’s being modest, Ms. Alain. When it comes to mysteries, there’s no one better to have on your side than Nancy Drew. I can’t tell you how many times Nancy has stopped criminals—even experienced ones—in their tracks. They don’t take Nancy seriously, and it lands them in jail.”

  I blushed and nudged George with my elbow.

  “What?” she replied. “It’s true. If anyone could sniff around this dog show and figure out who drugged Marshmallow Fluff, it’s you.”

  Louise’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Will you do it, Red? If one dog is in danger, they all
are. And if Angie manages to fix up Marshmallow’s coat enough for her to compete, then the perpetrator might try again. We can’t let that happen!” She grabbed my arm with her strong, freckled hand, her voice soft. “Please, honey. Do it for the puppies.” She turned to look at Marge, who was sitting quietly beside her. Right on cue, the bull terrier cocked her head and gazed at me soulfully with her little black eyes.

  I smiled. “How can I say no?”

  “How indeed?” Louise crowed, all vestiges of tenderness gone. She rubbed her hands together, as if hungry for a fight. “Whoever tried to take down that pup is going to be sorry they ever crossed you, aren’t they, Red? Detective Nancy Drew is on the case!”

  The sound of Louise’s clarion call made Helen, Angie, and all the other people around us stop talking and glance over curiously.

  I waved at the onlookers, smiling awkwardly. “Nothing to worry about!” I called out. “Louise!” I whispered, bending to her ear. “I know you’re excited, but if we’re going to find the culprit, we’ll have to keep a low profile. Do you get my drift?”

  Louise’s eyebrows rose, and her mouth formed an O. “Right, right,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Any one of these people could have done it. We can’t let them know we’re onto them.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “I’m fairly certain the perpetrator is also a competitor in the dog show—it’s the only motive that makes any sense. Do you know most of the competitors pretty well, Louise?”

  Louise scanned the crowd. “Sure do. There are only a few newcomers that I can see—and I doubt any one of them would do something like this. A newbie wouldn’t have a chance at Best in Show, anyhow—so why bother with sabotage? No, it would have to be a real contender.”

  “That’s a good point,” I said. “And it helps narrow down our suspects.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Bess piped up. “Nancy, since you need to do the dog handler training with Louise before the show tomorrow and Sunday, she can introduce you to all the other competitors then. And George and I can go shopping for costumes for the masquerade ball tonight. How does that sound?”

  I slapped myself in the forehead. “The ball! I’d completely forgotten!” The dog show had been scheduled for the same weekend as the winter carnival’s annual masquerade ball, held in the grand ballroom of the Château Frontenac. All the dog show competitors were invited to attend. In fact, the winter carnival had named this year’s party the Dog Ball in honor of the show.

  “Well, I didn’t forget for a moment!” Bess exclaimed.

  “Shocker,” George said with a smirk.

  “Oh, please!” said Bess, elbowing her cousin in the ribs. “You know you’re just as excited as I am! Masks! Live music! An all-you-can-eat buffet! Come on—admit it!”

  George looked at Bess, biting her lip. Finally she blew out her cheeks in defeat. “Fine!” she said. “I’m excited. Thrilled, even! Are you happy now?”

  “Yes!” Bess replied, throwing her hands up. “Now let’s leave Nancy to do her thing—you trust us to pick out a costume for you, right, Nance?”

  I looked back and forth between them—super-feminine Bess with her blush-pink sweater dress and cream-colored tights, and ultra-edgy George in her gray graphic tee, ripped jeans, and sneakers. I figured that between them, they’d probably find something that fell somewhere in the middle, which suited me just fine. “Surprise me,” I said with a smile.

  “Oh, we will,” George replied, waggling her eyebrows.

  After I waved goodbye to my friends, Louise and Marge led me into the main showroom. You’d think a room full of dogs would be loud and chaotic, but the scene before me was surprisingly orderly. Some handlers were practicing running their dogs around the ring and obeying commands, while others were on the sidelines at tables, trimming their dogs’ nails, or blow-drying and brushing their coats until they shone. “It’s like a full-service salon in here,” I observed, and Louise nodded vigorously.

  “Nothing but the best for these pups,” she said. “If you want to win, every detail matters.”

  I walked by a woman in a cherry-red jumpsuit, who seemed to be posing for a selfie with her large standard poodle. The poodle’s black coat was shorn close to its body, except for the signature booties around its feet and the poofs of fur on top of its head and at the tip of its tail. After tapping the shutter on her phone several times, the woman peered at the screen to scrutinize the results, her ruby-painted lips puckered in concentration. Louise noticed me looking at the woman and stopped before we passed. “Hey, V,” Louise said. “Meet my new handler—Nancy Drew.”

  The woman called V looked up at me, her dark eyes a challenge. “Oho,” she said. “You bringing in a ringer, old girl?”

  Louise hooted. “No,” she said. “Nancy’s as green as grass—but clever like a fox. She learns fast. Don’t you count Marge out yet, V. Just because I’m out of the running doesn’t mean she is.”

  “Well then,” V said. “Allow me to introduce myself to the competition.” She turned to me and extended a manicured, bejeweled hand. “Valencia Vasquez, of Los Angeles. And this is my two-time champion, Miss Hollywood Garden.” She gestured toward the poodle, who I now noticed wore a bejeweled collar to match her owner’s rings.

  “Charmed,” I replied, shaking her hand. “Well, don’t let us keep you. I’m sure you have a lot to do!”

  V raised a sculpted eyebrow and tittered. “Not nearly as much as you do, my dear!” she said, and turned back to Hollywood Garden to pose for another selfie.

  “Boy,” I muttered to Louise as we turned away. “She’s a real peach, isn’t she?”

  “If looks could kill, every dog show V’s ever gone to would be a crime scene,” Louise said airily. “But it’s all part of the game. V has been on the show circuit for years now—she’s a consummate professional. She’s like her dog, really. That poodle looks like a gussied-up birdbrain, but in reality, she’s one of the smartest, most athletic competitors in this room. It’s something to keep in mind, Red. If you want to see the truth of a person, just look at their dog.” I gazed over at Louise as she said this, with sturdy, loyal Marge at her side. I had to admit, owner and pet seemed to make a perfect pair. Maybe there was something to Louise’s strange advice.

  We stopped as we reached the ring, and Louise solemnly handed me Marge’s lead. “Time to warm up with a few laps around,” she said. “I’ll hop along next to you as best I can and give you some tips.” Louise gave me a small clicker and some treats to help correct Marge’s gait as we went. “Now,” she said as we began to move forward. “All the movement should come from your hips—brisk, smooth strides. Keep your upper body and the hand holding the leash still. Imagine you’ve got a glass of water on your head and you don’t want it to spill. Let your other hand move naturally, as if you were out for a stroll in the park.”

  Suddenly what had seemed like nothing at all felt very, very complicated. I felt like a clumsy oaf at first, taking steps that were either too small or too large, almost getting myself tangled up in the lead. But after a little while, I felt a certain rhythm with Marge, and things got a little easier.

  “Good!” Louise nodded, trying to keep up. “Now you’re getting it, Red!”

  She stopped to watch us run a couple of laps, and then we slowed down again so she could keep up with our pace and point out a few of the other competitors. There was a bespectacled man from West Texas named Curtis who was showing a Boston terrier; the pixie blonde from earlier, whose name was Alice—her shih tzu was apparently a pretty strong contender—and a handsome young man named Byung, who had traveled all the way from Korea to showcase his chow chow, named Golden Supernova. Finally we stopped for a water break, for both Marge and me. Louise went off to chat up one of the judges, just to make sure they’d changed Marge’s handler from Louise’s name to mine. A few moments after she’d left, Alice walked up to me. She held her brown-and-white shih tzu in her arms and was petting it nervously as she approached.

  “Um, hel
lo,” she said, having a hard time looking me in the eye. “I, uh, hear you’re Marge’s new handler.”

  “Yes, I’m Nancy,” I said brightly. “You’re Alice?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, Alice Chesterfield.”

  “And who’s this?” I asked, gesturing toward her dog.

  “This is Piàoliang de GōngzhǓ,” Alice said seriously, as if she were introducing royalty. Her whole demeanor changed once we were talking about her dog.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “It’s Chinese for ‘beautiful princess,’ ” Alice explained. “I call her Pia for short. Shih tzus are an ancient breed, you see, and Pia’s bloodline goes back all the way to the seventeenth century, to a dog gifted to the emperor by the Dalai Lama.” Pia, as if she understood that her noble lineage was being discussed, raised her head and looked at me imperiously.

  “Wow,” I repeated, unsure of what else to say.

  “Um, anyway, Nancy,” Alice continued, her shyness returning. “I wanted to talk to you, because I heard that you were looking into who put the gum in Marshmallow Fluff’s fur.”

  “Yes . . . I suppose I am.” I smiled politely, but I was pretty annoyed. If Alice already knew about my investigation, it was possible everyone did. So much for keeping a low profile!

  “Well, normally I don’t like to butt my head into things like this,” Alice said. “But in New York we always say, ‘If you see something, say something,’ so . . .” She bit her lip.

  I took a step closer to the woman. “Did you see someone do this to Ms. Wilson’s dog, Alice?”

  “I didn’t see her do anything,” Alice said quickly. “I’m not making any accusations. But . . . I did see Valencia Vasquez walking toward the crates a little while before it happened. And I’ve literally never seen her without a stick of gum in her mouth.” Alice looked uncomfortable. “Again, I’m not saying she did it. Valencia is a good friend of mine. But if it was her . . . I just want to do the right thing. You know?”