Free All Shots by Susan Conant

and bring out the best in them. Also, judges knew exactly who he was, and that knowledge never hurts.
    “Politics,” Buck spat out. “It’s an insult to Rowdy. He doesn’t need that SOB. And what about Sammy?”
    “Teller is providing a handler for Sammy in case we need one.”
    This is a bit of oversimplification, but here goes: Sammy, who hadn’t finished his championship, was entered in the regular class called Open Dogs. Teller was going to handle him there. If Sammy won that class and then beat the winners of the other regular classes (Puppy, Novice, Bred by Exhibitor, and American Bred) to go Winners Dog, then he, together with the Winners Bitch, the top female competing for championship points, would end up in the Best of Breed competition. Rowdy, however, was what’s called a “special,” a champion eligible only for the Best of Breed competition, where he’d go up against the Winners Dog, the Winners Bitch, and the other specials. Consequently, if Sammy went WD, both of my dogs would be in the ring at the same time, and we’d need two handlers, Teller for Rowdy, a second handler for Sammy.
    “So, is this your first show?” Buck demanded. “You’re so new to this that you trust this guy?”
    “Phyllis!” I exclaimed a little too loudly. “Over here!”
    I was always glad to see Phyllis Hamilton, who was, as I’d told Kevin, an expert on blue malamutes, in fact, the person best qualified to comment on the photo found at the murder scene. She was also a friend of mine and just the sort of sympathetic, considerate person who’d be happy to distract my father and thus get him to let up on me. Phyllis showed her dogs all the time. Consequently, she knew Buck and thus knew exactly what he was like. The only unfortunate thing about Phyllis’s arrival was that she wore show-ring attire, a neat pantsuit with a plaid jacket, and was obviously going to handle the malamute she had with her, a lovely seal-and-white bitch who looked about Sammy’s age.
    Before Phyllis had even reached us, my father started up again. “Now, you see? There’s no reason on God’s green earth why you can’t do what Phyllis does. She handles her youngsters herself, and she uses a handler for—”
    “Phyllis, your bitch is beautiful! What’s her name?” I asked.
    “Heart. This is Benchmark Heart’s Desire,” said Phyllis in that distinctive voice of hers, well-bred and musical.
    The canine introduction having been performed, I greeted Phyllis properly and introduced her to Gabrielle. “And you know my father,” I added, without appending any obvious phrase such as unfortunately for you or to my everlasting embarrassment .
    Gabrielle responded graciously, and Buck, as I’d hoped, shifted his attention to Heart, who reciprocated by wagging her beautiful plumy white tail and bestowing on him the sort of adoring gaze that he inevitably elicits from dogs. I was itching to get Phyllis’s opinion of the blue malamute in the photo, but I had no intention of telling my father anything about the murder and, in particular, anything about the apparent intent to steal my identity and the finding of the photo among the victim’s possessions. Buck viewed Cambridge and all other cities outside the state of Maine as dangerous. Buck was right in the sense that Maine does have a low murder rate, principally because everyone knows that everyone else has a gun, or so my father always argued. With the intention of transforming Cambridge into Augusta, Portland, or Bangor, Buck had once given me a Smith & Wesson LadySmith, as I intended to remind him if he heard about the murder and threatened to move in with me to serve as my bodyguard until Steve returned. DoG forbid! If you want to know what Buck is like as a houseguest, consider that the revolver was, incredibly, a hostess gift, my father’s notion of an appropriate alternative to a good bottle of wine or a florist-delivered basket of fresh flowers.
    Checking my watch, I saw that we