Free All Shots by Susan Conant Page B

has a dark undercoat beneath the black outercoat—the coarse, water-repellant guard coat—whereas a seal and white has a light undercoat. At the risk of sounding exactly like Buck, I also need to say that the recessive d gene dilutes black to what is called “blue.”
    “Have you ever seen her?”
    “No. I’d remember.”
    “I know you would. Do you have any idea where she could’ve come from?” My question was about bloodlines. An established kennel with a careful breeding program develops a characteristic style of dog, and someone with a deep knowledge of a breed can sometimes spot a family resemblance. Sometimes. Not always.
    “It’s hard to say. Let me think about it. Something…there’s something I can’t put my finger on.”
    Once again, I resorted to whispering. “I’ll call you and tell you the whole story.”
    “Sorry not to be able to help more. I’ll have to think about it. I’ll be home on Monday.”
    “Keep the picture.” I’d scanned the one Kevin had given me. “And we’ll talk when you’re home.”
    Phyllis smiled warmly. “Holly, your father?” She paused. “Buck is such a…presence.” She paused again. “Get his opinion, too. Don’t discount what he has to say. He has a good eye for a dog.”
    Phyllis was right. Furthermore, as was about to be demonstrated, he had an infuriating habit of making himself obnoxious about something and then—damn it all—turning out to be right.

CHAPTER 11

    Twenty minutes later, when my handlers showed up , Phyllis and Heart had left, Rowdy was still crated, and I had Sammy back on the grooming table. The tented grooming area had aisles of sorts formed by rows of crates and other paraphernalia. Buck and Gabrielle were in the next aisle, about fifteen feet away, where they were talking to a personage in the dog fancy named Lewis Van Zandt, whom I’d known since my childhood, when he used to greet me by pinching me hard on the cheek. My mother had forbidden me to retaliate, but she’d had no influence on Buck, who had waited for the next episode to teach the personage a lesson. My moose of a father must’ve been a foot taller than the diminutive Van Zandt, and instead of quickly pinching and releasing the little man’s cheek, Buck got a good grip on a fold of flesh and shook hard in the manner of a big dog pretending to break the neck of a stuffed toy. I couldn’t have been more than seven years old, but the image of Buck’s revenge remains vivid and powerful. To this day, I am grateful. To this day, too, Buck prods and baits Van Zandt, who is terrified of Buck, or so I assume. Why else would Van Zandt still speak to him?
    But as I was saying, Rowdy’s handler, Teller, appeared, and trailing after him was the second handler he’d promised to supply. Teller was a round-faced, muscular man of medium height, heavy around the middle, but light on his feet, and he was groomed and dressed in a fashion intended to convey respect for the judges. He had short brown hair and was so closely shaved that I wondered whether he might have used a depilatory on his face. He wore gray pants with sharp creases, a tweed sport coat, a white shirt, and a red tie. Although he’d probably been showing dogs since the early morning, he looked fresh and energetic, and not a single hair, dog or human, was evident on his attire. In brief, Teller looked worth the fee I was paying him.
    “Hey, Holly,” he greeted me. “Rowdy’s looking good.”
    “This is Sammy,” I said. “Rowdy’s in his crate.”
    “Dead ringer,” Teller said. “This is Omar.”
    “Nice to meet you,” I said.
    The name was misleading. Omar had pale blond hair and fair, badly sunburned skin. His hazel eyes looked faded and weak, as if they had once belonged to a nonagenarian and had been transplanted to his sockets by mistake. The remainder of Omar’s face, including his vapid expression, suggested a maximum age of twenty.
    After fruitlessly waiting for Omar to say that it was nice to