The Stolen Show Read online

  “Y-yeah,” the man stammered, stuffing the cash into his pocket. “Crystal.”

  The basset hound growled as the man backed away.

  “It’s okay, Shirley,” Joe said, patting her on the head. “Let him go.”

  The man ran past us without noticing, intent on getting as far away as possible. Taking a page from his book, George and I snuck away while Joe was still focused on his dog.

  Once we’d put a block of pavement between Joe and us, George and I brought Coco into a late-night café to catch our breath and warm up from the cold. “What was that about, do you think?” George asked.

  I bit my lip. “Joe’s hiding something, that much is clear. We should keep a close eye on him—if he’s involved in this, he might be able to lead us to Bess.”

  Bess.

  Saying her name gave both of us pause. Where is she right now? I wondered. Is she hurt? Is she scared?

  Back at the hotel, we returned Coco to Charles, and I invited George to stay with me in my room overnight. I didn’t want to be alone, and I could tell she didn’t want to be either. We both changed into pajamas and climbed into the big queen-size bed. We could almost pretend it was just another normal sleepover. After a while, I heard George’s breathing grow regular as exhaustion finally overtook her worried mind.

  Me, I watched the minutes pass on the bedside clock, each one feeling like an eternity.

  Bess.

  I sent a message out into the world, imagining that she could hear me, wherever she was.

  I’ll find you. Just hang on.

  Somehow, at some point, I fell asleep.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Show Must Go On

  BY THE TIME THE FIRST rays of morning light were streaming through my hotel room window, I was already awake and showered, laying out several wardrobe options for the big show. Louise had said to wear something solid colored—pleasant to look at, but not distracting. After all, the judges were there to see Marge, not me. I was standing in my bathrobe, trying to choose between two outfits, when there was a knock at the door.

  “It’s me!” George’s voice called out from the hallway. She’d left a little while ago to collect some breakfast from the buffet downstairs. I opened the door to find her standing with a tray full of goodies—pastries, fresh fruit, cheese, juice, and coffee. She was dressed in her usual uniform of jeans, high-tops, and her favorite gray hoodie.

  “Oh, fantastic,” I said, my mouth watering at the sight of it all. I moved out of the way so she could put it down on the table in the middle of my hotel room. I grabbed a slice of cheese and munched on it while I continued to stare at the clothes on my bed. “Can you help me decide what to wear?” I asked George. “I’m having an impossible time. I’m so distracted.” I didn’t have to say what I was distracted by—concentrating on what to wear to a dog show while Bess was being held hostage somewhere seemed completely crazy. But Charles said we had to keep behaving as if everything were normal, so we wouldn’t tip off the kidnappers. They were probably watching our every move.

  “Mmm, I’d go with the sage-green top and the brown slacks,” George said, before taking a bite of a cherry turnover.

  I picked up the soft green blouse and held it up against my chest. “Yeah, that’s what I was leaning toward too, I just wasn’t sure. Normally, I’d just ask—” I stopped in midsentence, and the name “Bess” hung in the air between us.

  George closed her eyes and sighed. “We’ll find her,” she finally whispered. “Today.”

  I nodded, hope and self-doubt warring in my heart. “Today.”

  After I got dressed and we finished eating, George and I headed downstairs to find Louise, who we were accompanying to the convention center. The lobby was crowded with competitors—many of them loaded down with bags and equipment for the main event—and their dogs. We found Louise near the front desk, Marge standing guard at her side. Louise was wearing a black sweatshirt with a logo of a bull terrier wearing sunglasses and the words BULLY LIFE printed on it in big block letters.

  “Well, good morning, girls!” Louise said merrily. “You ready for war?”

  I gave her a small, nervous smile and shrugged. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said. “I’ll do my best for you and Marge!”

  Louise gave me a playful punch in the shoulder. “Of course you will, Red! Nothing to worry about.” Suddenly she looked confused and scanned the room. “Hey, where’s Blondie? I haven’t seen her since the party last night.”

  I gritted my teeth and quickly thought up another lie. “She . . . I think Bess ate something that disagreed with her last night. She’s still in her room with an upset stomach. I’m sure she’ll be fine, though. Just needs some rest.”

  Louise sighed. “Ah—too bad. She’s going to miss the big show!” She looked at her watch and gave a start. “Speaking of which, we’re going to miss it too if we don’t hurry. There should be a taxi waiting for us.”

  We followed her outside, where a large black car waited with its engine running. Nearby, I saw Charles and Coco about to get into an identical car in front of us. Before he climbed in, Charles caught my eye and dragged two fingers across his mouth in a zipping motion. I nodded and repeated the motion back. The secret was safe with me.

  The next hour was a blur. We arrived at the convention center, which was full of exhibitors, dogs, and guests who’d come to watch the show from the stands. Louise and I checked in with Marge. Then we met up with George and proceeded to the large prep area where all the dogs and handlers stayed until their turn to show. The heat in the room was stifling—what with all the people and animals packed in, not to mention the dozens of hair dryers running as owners styled their dogs for the big moment. We were directed to an area with all the other entrants in the Terrier Group. Once we got Marge comfortably settled, Louise leaned over to give me an insider’s view of the competition. “So,” she began, “as you can see, the Terrier Group is dominated by a lot of cute, fuzzy types. You’ve got the Westie and the Scottie over there”—she pointed to a small white dog panting adorably next to a regal-looking black Scottish terrier—“and they’re crowd favorites. We also have to watch out for the Jack Russell—judges like spunk—and the Kerry blue.” She directed my attention to a smoke-gray dog with a distinctive snout and fur that covered its eyes.

  “What an interesting-looking dog,” I commented. “I’ve never seen one like that before.”

  Louise harrumphed. “Yes, well—Lady Grey is already a breed champion from other competitions. Great coat and color—and she shows very well in the ring. She’s going to be a tough one to beat.” At this, Marge looked up at Louise with her tiny black eyes and whined. “Oh, don’t get your tail in a knot, Marge,” Louise said, affectionately nudging the dog on the chin. “I still believe in you.” She picked a microscopic speck of grit from Marge’s coat and gave the dog a pat. “Marge is the best bully I’ve ever had—ideal head shape, nice glossy coat, and a good, strong body. And you’ve run with her in the ring. She’s a dream.”

  I nodded. Even a total newbie like me could recognize a real showgirl when I saw one. Marge barely blinked an eye at having me as her new handler. She ran around that ring like she was born for it.

  “If it’s spunk they want,” George broke in, scratching the dog behind her ears, “Marge has got it.” Marge opened her mouth in a big, almost comedic doggie smile and turned to lap George’s hand with a sloppy pink tongue.

  “I’ll give it my all, Louise, I promise,” I said.

  “I know you will, Red,” Louise replied. “I know.”

  In a few minutes, a voice came over the PA system. “Attention, guests. Please find your seats—the competition is about to begin!”

  The first to show was the Toy Group. Half a dozen tiny little dogs were trotted around the ring, one at a time, and then placed on a table to be examined by the judges. After all that was done, the three judges collected the points awarded to each breed, and a group winner was announced. Alice’s shih tzu was th
e winner, much to the delight of the audience, and she punched the air with a victorious gesture before heading back to the holding area. She walked over to the water cooler, filled two cups, and brought one of them to Angie, who was sitting nervously on the sidelines, waiting for her turn.

  A moment later Helen Bradley walked up to where we were standing, craning her neck to get a view of the competitors in the ring. “Oh, hello, Nancy!” she said with a smile. She was wearing a peach-colored blouse with a string of pearls and cream slacks.

  “Hi, Helen,” I said. “How’s it going? Everything all right?”

  Helen cocked her head. “Well, sure! Why wouldn’t it be?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Well, the person who drugged Marshmallow is still at large—they could attack one of the competitors again.”

  “Goodness me, I hadn’t thought of that,” Helen said. “I heard you were looking into the matter—any ideas on who might have done it?”

  I shook my head, again wishing that we’d been more successful in keeping that information to ourselves. If Helen knew, probably everyone did. “Nothing yet,” I replied, and then turned my attention to her dog. “So, this is the famous Daisy!” The Doberman pinscher had two distinctive tan spots above her eyes that made her look like she was always surprised. She wore a beautiful rolled leather collar in a shade of blue that matched her owner’s eyes. I reached out to pet her. The dog didn’t flinch, but I could hear a quiet growl rise from her throat. I pulled my hand back.

  “Daisy Rocket Ship Bradley!” Helen said in a stern, motherly voice. “Mind your manners!” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “I’m so sorry. You can pet her. She just gets so anxious on show days.”

  I nodded and reached my hand out again. This time Daisy bumped her head against my hand and closed her eyes. “Oh, I understand, I’m nervous too,” I said, scratching behind her ears. “What a pretty collar,” I added. “I’ve never seen one quite like it!”

  “Thank you!” Helen beamed. “I make them myself. I have an online store, if you’re interested. The Bradley Boutique. I sell handmade collars, dog tags, and other canine accessories. It works with my schedule—brings in a little extra cash, you know.” She looked behind me. “Where’s your friend, the blond girl?” she asked. “I’ve been wanting to ask her about that necklace she was wearing yesterday—I think she and I have similar taste in fashion!”

  “She’s not feeling well,” I replied, the lie coming more easily now. “She decided to stay in her hotel room for the day.”

  Helen sucked her teeth and looked crestfallen. “Oh no! The poor thing,” she said. “Awful that she has to miss the show. Well, I hope she feels better soon—oops! I think we’re on! Break a leg, Nancy—I’ll be watching you!”

  I decided to take a bathroom break while I could, and by the time I returned, the Hound Group was lining up while the announcer called them in one by one. Joe Cook was standing at the end of the line with his basset hound, his foot tapping nervously on the linoleum. The Terrier Group was second to last to show, so I had some time to kill—and questioning Joe was a top priority after witnessing his suspicious behavior on the street last night. Taking the opportunity, I made my way toward him. When I was only a few feet away, I pretended to slip on the floor. “Aah!” I said, throwing my hands up. For such a big guy, Joe moved like lightning. He whirled around, and his arm shot out to catch me before I could fall. I feigned a look of grateful relief and said, “Thank you! Ugh—I’m so clumsy. It’s my first time being a handler, and I’m a nervous wreck. How about you? Is this your first time too?”

  Joe’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Uh, no. I’ve done a couple before,” he said.

  “Really!” I said. “Anywhere fun and exotic? I hear some of the other competitors have taken their dogs to international shows.”

  “I’ve been around,” Joe replied vaguely. “Look, I’m sorry, miss, but I really need to concentrate—I’m about to go on.”

  “Of course!” I said, starting to back away. “Good luck, er . . . what’s her name?” I asked, gesturing to Joe’s dog.

  “Shirley Heartbreaker,” Joe answered. Hearing her name, the basset hound looked up at him with her soft, sad eyes.

  “Good name,” I said. “Very fitting.”

  Joe nodded absently and glanced back toward the ring’s entrance, where most of the other hounds had already been called. He wiped a bead of perspiration from his temple and muttered, “Gotta go!” before hurrying forward. I watched as he paused at the edge of the ring until the announcer called them out. As if he was shedding a skin, Joe’s shyness evaporated as soon as he went under the lights, and he greeted the crowd with a wide smile. He proceeded to jog around the ring, amazingly light on his feet for a guy who was easily six foot three and three hundred pounds. I thought back to how he had lifted that guy off the ground in the alleyway like it was nothing. What was it that he’d called Joe?

  Bull’s-Eye.

  It occurred to me that the names “Bull’s-Eye” and “Surefire” meant kind of the same thing. Could there be a connection?

  I was still musing on the possibility when Shirley Heartbreaker won the Best in Group for the hounds a few minutes later. Joe lifted up the dog and gave her a big kiss, to the delight of the crowd, before leaving the ring. It was only when the announcer belted out, “And now—the Terrier Group!” that I was jolted back to reality.

  George was at my side in an instant, positively buzzing with excitement. “You’re up! Go get ’em, tiger!”

  I gave George a small smile and balled my hands into fists as my stomach did a few uncomfortable somersaults. I had been so caught up with everything else that was happening, I’d forgotten how much I hated being in front of an audience. Give me a good crime to solve, but please don’t make me stand up in front of a bunch of people and do things. Like talk. Or dance. Or—God forbid—sing.

  Seeing the look on my face, George gave me a quick hug and said, “It’ll be okay.”

  “The dog show?” I asked. “Or . . .” My voice trailed off.

  “Both,” George said firmly.

  I took a deep breath, willing my stomach to stop its gymnastics. “You’re right,” I replied. “I’m ready.” I walked over to Louise and took Marge’s lead from her hand.

  Louise slapped me on the back. “You got this,” she said cheerily.

  I got in line behind the Kerry blue and her handler, an older woman in a conservative blue skirt suit, her gray hair cut into a neat bob. She eyed me and Marge critically, particularly when Marge sniffed her dog’s rear end. “You’re Louise’s replacement, hmm?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied.

  “How nice,” she said in a way that felt like she didn’t mean it. “You know what they call those dogs, don’t you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Clowns in dog suits,” she said with a chuckle. “People don’t really take them seriously.” A minute later the announcer called her into the ring, and she dashed away, her dog following elegantly at her side.

  I glowered after her. I hadn’t felt competitive before—but I did now. “C’mon, Marge,” I muttered down to her. “Let’s show that lady how it’s done.”

  Marge looked up at me with her big, goofy grin and licked my hand. And then the announcer was speaking again and saying, “Please welcome to the ring: our bull terrier, Marge—and her handler, Miss Nancy Drew!”

  Just like Louise had shown me, I ran out onto the floor, keeping Marge close and putting on my most charming smile. We stopped for a moment to greet the judges and the crowd before making the long circuit around the ring. Despite my heart hammering in my ears, I concentrated on keeping an even pace and making my movements smooth. For her part, Marge ran perfectly by my side. Her little eyes sparkled under the lights, and she virtually capered around the track. It was clear how much she loved this—and the judges seemed to see it too. When we were done with the circuit, I brought Marge over to the judges’ area, where one of them examined her from he
ad to tail. Marge stood proudly at attention while the judge looked her over. When that was done, Marge and I lined up with the other terriers to await the judges’ decision. I breathed a sigh of relief once we reached our spot—the hard part was over.

  While the judges tallied up the points for each dog in the group, I absentmindedly scanned the crowd, blinking as dozens of cameras flashed in our direction. Then my eyes focused on something strange high up in the stands. A dark, contorted face, standing alone. I squinted to try and make out exactly what I was looking at and gasped.

  A man in a wolf mask.

  And he was looking directly at me.

  For a moment, I was frozen to the spot, and everything went silent. And then my ears were filled by the deafening roar of the audience. Someone was shaking me.

  I broke out of my trance and turned to see the middle-aged gentleman with the Jack Russell holding me by the shoulder and smiling. “Miss! Miss!” he was saying. “You have to go!”

  “What?” I said, alarmed and confused.

  He pointed at the judge who was standing a few feet ahead, holding a ribbon. “You won, miss! Your bully won!”

  Numbly, I stumbled forward with Marge and accepted the ribbon from the smiling judge, who then spun me around to pose for a photo. Once I was released from his grip, I ran with Marge back to the holding area, where Louise and George were waiting. Marge put her paws on Louise’s stomach and stood up on two legs while Louise showered her with kisses. “What a good girl!” she crowed.

  The owner of the Kerry blue walked by me and shook her head in disgust as she saw the ribbon in Louise’s hand. “Congratulations, Lou,” she said, again not seeming to mean it.

  Louise managed a polite smile until the woman had passed her by, at which point she cackled with delight. “That withered crone has been dogging me for years about how bullies aren’t good competitors. Revenge is sweet!”

  “Nancy! Congrats!” George said, patting me on the back. “You did a great job out—hey, is everything okay? You’re white as a ghost.”