RESERVE   BITCH

by:   John Law



PAGE   2:

God, he needed that cup of coffee.

"You see," she began again (Richards being grateful that she had spared his ego by not forcing him to further reveal his ignorance), "I think the poisoned vodka was intended for Gizmo. I'm surprised Rhonda even sipped it at all. She must have just been nervous about having to compete in the specialty. She wasn't a heavy drinker."

Richard's face broadened in a condescending smile as tilted his chin down and said sarcastically, "But, I suppose, her dog liked to hit the bottle from time to time? Miss, I haven't got time..."

She cut him off. "You don't understand... " Clearly he did not.

"Rhonda and I showed Chow Chows. They're usually wonderful animals, but they were bred thousands of years ago as warrior and guard dogs, and they sometimes get a little skittish around strangers and in the ring."

"You see, it's an old handlers' trick - 10 cc's of vodka sprayed down the throat with a syringe and it mellows them out. Cujo's going to be as mellow as Lassie."

Richard's demeanor shifted gradually from confusion to disbelief. "That sounds like an awfully extreme trick to get an upper hand in a dog show."

"You don't understand..."

Richards didn't like the so many of Denise Jacobs's sentences seemed to begin that way, but he was in no position to disagree.

"Over a course of time, wins in various shows may add up to be worth thousands of dollars. Puppies with champion pedigrees, stud fees, it all adds up."

"Breeders will do some strange things to get what they think is an edge, or to cover a flaw. For example, Chows' tongues are supposed to be a deep purple or black. Some people say that the Chow descended from bears, which have the same feature."

"Oh?" Richards chimed in melodically, wondering where the hell this was going, but not quite sure yet that he really wanted to interrupt.

"Yes." Denise responded, now showing mild irritation at the detective's attitude. "Pink tinges or spots are flaws that can put a dog out of the ring. I've known many a breeder who fed his dog grape Kool-Aid powder before a show to stain its mouth to the correct color."

"And then there's what I call a `Lipton's special.' Red Chows are sometimes bathed in tea to stain their coats a consistent deep red shade. Powders are used with other colors to achieve the same sort of effect."

"Doesn't anybody regulate this stuff?"

"Oh, it all violates the American Kennel Club rules, but it's so wide spread that nobody really wants to say anything. Some people even have cosmetic surgery done to their dogs to correct eyelid and other defects."

"They have doggie plastic surgeons?" asked Richards, amused and now somewhat distracted from his investigation.

"They have doggie allergists, but that's not the point. I don't think Rhonda kept that bottle for herself. I think she kept it for Gizmo. Find the person who was trying to kill Gizmo, and you'll find the person who killed Rhonda Morton."

Richards excused himself and returned to the tent where Rhonda Morton lay dead ("and she wasn't playing" he thought sickly to himself). Trooper Davis was still recording page after page of meaningless minutia on a three-by-five spiral pad. Richards quickly rifled through the dead breeder's grooming box and found a medium-sized hypodermic syringe. The absence of a needle confirmed that it wasn't kept there for an even less noble purpose.

Denise Jacobs stepped into the tent. Her eyes avoided the gray wool blanket and the legs that protruded from beneath it. "If nobody has any objection, I'd like to show Gizmo... I think Rhonda would have wanted me to. She's up in a few minutes."

Richards looked down at the large collapsible crate that held the massive animal. Attached to the front of the crate was a small brass rectangle with the engraved name "Wang Chung's Madame Gizmo." Surrounding the crate were tools of the trade, a Small gas powered generator, a large hair drier sort of apparatus and miscellaneous loose combs and brushes.

"Sure kid. Knock yourself out. But, tell me, who is Gizmo going to be up against?"

The young girl pulled a small folded booklet from the pocket of her jacket and handed it to the detective. "What's this?" he asked, looking up at her.

"It's the catalog. It's a listing of all the dogs competing in the show."

Richards noticed that the corner of one page was folded and he opened the catalog to the page captioned "Non-sporting." The list of Chow Chows began in the middle of the page. They were divided into various sub-groups and gave other data the detective didn't understand.

"Care to interpret this stuff for me?" he gestured upward with the book.

"Sure. The dogs compete first... that's male dogs, as distinguished from the bitches. You can tell someone showing a male dog by the odd number on the card they wear on their arm. The bitches have even numbers."

"Each sex is divided into different classes... by age, color and breeding. Rhonda showed Gizmo in `Bred By' - a special category for dogs that were bred by the exhibitors."

"Each category is judged, then the winner of each category competes with the other winners of that gender, then they all compete for `Best of Breed.' Then they compete in their group, like `working dogs' or whatever, then for `Best in Show.'"

"So who was Gizmo's main competition?"

"Well, in the last few shows where Rhonda won with Gizmo, `Fu Ling's Girl About Town' took reserve."

"What's `reserve' mean?" Richards asked.

"Reserve bitch. It's like runner up in a beauty pageant."

"You mean like, `if Miss Bitch is, for any reason, unable to fulfill her duties as Queen Bitch...' ?"

"Not exactly. I don't think it's ever come to that. But, I guess that's the general idea. It's basically just a title for second place."

"Well, I don't see any reason you can't show the dog if you want to. Just make sure it gets put back into the cage when you're done."

Denise lovingly coaxed Gizmo out from her crate and slipped a thin cloth lead over her head. A few quick swipes with a doggie comb made a big improvement in the somewhat haggard looking creature. Denise lead her gently out of the tent.

Richards thought about where his investigation should go from here. A homicide was one thing, he knew how to investigate that. But the attempted murder of a dog, which coincidentally led to a homicide, was a somewhat different situation.

Pulling in suspects based exclusively on the fact that their dogs had beaten the corpse's dog in a show would be little hard to explain to his boss, let alone the local paper.

He opened the tent flap and stepped out to walk around and think. Richards quickly learned that absent-mindedly traipsing around at a dog show is not a good idea. He unwittingly described the substance quite accurately as he cursed under his breath and smeared the wet steamy glob off his wing-tips and onto the green grass, still wet with the morning's dew.

He walked, and thought, and smoked a cigarette.

He slowly worked his way over to ring number seven, where Denise Jacobs was entering with Gizmo. A half dozen other handlers with their dogs were lined up before and after Denise. Some fidgeted over their dogs with brushes and combs. Others dragged their dogs' paws fore and aft, positioning them like perfect soldiers. Still others "baited" their dogs with chunks of liver and other doggy treats - trying to keep their dogs' heads up and alert.

Richards learned from a lady standing by the ring that Gizmo had already won in the "Bred By" category (they had made an exception and allowed Denise to show her, owing to the unusual circumstances), and they were now competing for "Winner's Bitch."

Richards noticed what must have been twenty or thirty people surrounding the ring, most with catalogs open and pens at the ready, some manning video cameras on tripods. Richards was somewhat shocked at the idea that there apparently was such a thing as "doggie groupies."

The judge entered the ring - a short balding man in a double-breasted suit that made him look pompous, and even shorter than he was. The little man strutted back and forth, staring at the dogs with an intensity that Richards found amusing.

Even more amusing was the reaction this elicited from the handlers, who stared back at the judge with even greater concentration, studying his every move as though trying to read his mind. The dogs seemed oblivious to this whole process.

One by one, the dogs were put through their paces - the little man moving the dogs and their handlers by gesturing curtly in various manners and directions.

Richards thought to himself that he wouldn't have stood for that very long. One haughty point and that dwarf would be picking himself up out of the doggie do and wondering what truck hit him.

When it came to Gizmo's turn, she perked up and looked alert. Up-and-back she went, the judge inspecting her movement. Then in a triangle - going out, to the side so the judge could see her general shape and conformation, then back again - stopping just before the Napoleonic judge.

He smiled, but flagged her away abruptly as he had done with the others and moved on to the next dog.

After each dog had, in its turn, faced the annoying little man, the judge had them circle him like a wagon train. With a series of silent gestures, the judge reordered the dogs to his liking.

Then, with quick downward strokes of his arm, like a boxing referee counting out an unconscious pugilist, the judge identified the winner and reserve. Denise and Gizmo had won, with Girl About Town coming in second. The remaining dogs, with their less-than-ecstatic handlers, drifted slowly from the ring.

Denise accepted her blue ribbon from the judge and thanked him. Her attention was diverted from Gizmo as Girl About Town, and her handler Marianne Blackwell, came around to leave the ring.

Suddenly, with a short but powerful lunge, Gizmo's front paws left the ground and she arched up towards Marianne Blackwell. Before anyone could move to stop her, Gizmo's powerful jaws locked on to the pocket of Mrs. Blackwell's smock. Gizmo pulled back - tearing open the pocket and throwing Mrs. Blackwell to the ground.

As the pocket tore, its contents were sent flying in all directions - rubber bands, two combs, assorted chunks of liver, and... something else. A small brown medicine bottle, with a black plastic top.

Gizmo abandoned Mrs. Blackwell and the treats, but stood instead over the bottle, nudging it with her nose and barking loudly. Mrs. Blackwell didn't try to stand, but slowly spider-walked backwards away from Gizmo, her large buttocks dragging on the ground.

Fortunately Richards was close enough that he appeared genuinely helpful when he stepped into the ring and began picking up the contents of Mrs. Blackwell's former pocket. As he carefully approached Gizmo and her well-protected treasure, the ursine creature calmed and slowly backed away.

Richards picked up the small brown bottle, and noticed that it wasn't labelled. However, a (more or less) nonchalant whiff at the lip of the bottle confirmed that it was the same stuff that had been used to spike Rhonda Morton's vodka. Had the detective's nose been as good as Gizmo's he could have smelled it through Mrs. Blackwell's pocket too.

He turned pointedly to face Mrs. Blackwell, who by now was pressed cowering against the ring fence, still on her butt with her legs splayed in a most undignified manner. She raised one hand up to Richards in a pleading gesture. It was caked with mud, and God knows what else.

"I didn't mean to hurt anybody...!!" She cried, as tears came to her eyes and a look of remorse and terror slowly came to her face.

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