Free Dog Eat Dog by Laurien Berenson

There was the obvious shift of her breasts beneath the cream silk blouse, the toss of her head to flip back the hair that had fallen forward as she leaned over. Biting her full lower lip, she used one manicured fingertip to skim through the notebook until she found her place.
    A quick scan of the room confirmed that all male eyes, even those belonging to Paul Heins, who was old enough to be her grandfather, were riveted. After that, the report itself was almost anticlimactic.
    â€œExcellent, Bertie,” Louis said when she was done.
    Others around the room were nodding. Advertising sales were up by more than twenty percent over the previous year. For all the physical assets on display, Bertie was obviously no ball of fluff.
    Raising her hand, Monica Freedman volunteered to report on the raffle next. She settled her large glasses firmly on her nose and bounced to her feet like an over-age cheerleader. Monica spoke with great enthusiasm about the prizes she’d solicited, the tickets she expected to sell, and the profits she was sure the raffle would make.
    But try as she might—and I got the impression Monica was trying very hard indeed—she couldn’t command the room’s attention as Bertie had done so effortlessly. While she spoke, the salads were served and another drink order taken. Water was poured from the pitchers on the table, salt was passed, silverware clinked.
    â€œWell,” Monica said brightly at the end of her report. “I guess that’s it.”
    Louis nodded vaguely in her direction. “Who’d like to go next?”
    Looking disgruntled, Monica found her seat as Cy Rubicov began to talk about hospitality. His wife, who was doing the judges’ lunch, followed. The entrees were served. I dug into my steak while Mark Romano, grounds committee, went into a long winded explanation of the difficulties of preparing an outdoor site for an April show date. Judging from the expressions on the faces around the table, they’d heard it all before.
    Penny Romano was in charge of decorations. After her husband spoke, she simply waved a hand through the air and assured the members that she had everything under control. Louis LaPlante looked unconvinced. Aunt Peg, assistant show chairman, was frowning. But she didn’t say a word when Louis turned to Lydia and asked how publicity was coming along.
    The waitress came around for a third time and offered to refresh our drinks. No mystery where this restaurant’s profit margin lay. Most club members waved her away; Penny Romano handed her an empty glass and placed another order.
    I ate about a third of my sirloin, which was still more red meat than I normally eat in a week. Beside me, Aunt Peg was ladling sour cream onto her baked potato. All this, and she still had dessert to look forward to.
    No wonder she enjoyed coming to these meetings. It certainly couldn’t have been because of the scintillating discussion. Listening to Paul Heins, who was rambling on about concession space, I was quite certain of that.
    Seated beside him, Paul’s wife, Darla, smiled sweetly at everything he said. I wondered how long they’d been married. Longer than I’d been alive, probably.
    As dessert was served—vanilla ice cream, topped with a rapidly congealing brown sauce—Joanne Pinkus gave the last report on the trophy committee. I took one look at the bowl the waitress set in front of me, and passed it directly over to Aunt Peg. She’s never turned down a sweet yet, and as usual, she didn’t disappoint.
    â€œJoanne,” Monica said loudly. “Did you look into that foundry I told you about in Woodbury? The one that was doing such nice things in pewter?”
    â€œI sent for a brochure.” Joanne’s ruddy complexion flushed even redder. She looked down and consulted her notes. “But in the end I decided that with the amount of money we had to spend, our needs would be better served by