Free Gone With the Woof by Laurien Berenson

“Last hurrah and all that. Is he actually going to name names?”
    â€œSo he says. Though I can’t imagine that the women he was involved with are going to be happy about it.”
    Terry shrugged. “There aren’t that many secrets in the dog world, hon. We probably already have a fair idea of who’ll be popping up.”
    â€œLike who?” I asked. “Anyone I know?”
    Crawford sent us both a stern look. “Facts are one thing. We don’t deal in gossip.”
    â€œSpeak for yourself.” Before Crawford could stop him, Terry gestured toward a nearby ring where half a dozen Vizslas were gaiting around the perimeter mats. “Maribeth Chandler, for one.”
    I squinted in that direction. “Which one is she?”
    â€œFrosted blonde.” Terry sniffed. “Like that’s not a giveaway she’s gone gray. Front of the line. Looks like she’s about to win Best of Breed.”
    â€œI thought the Poodles moved fast,” I said. The Vizslas were racing around the ring at the speed of light.
    â€œHigh-energy breed,” Crawford commented, trying to steer the conversation back to neutral ground.
    Blithely, Terry ignored him. “Maribeth’s a high-energy woman. Good thing the judge has her at the head of the line, otherwise she might run someone over. I wouldn’t want to be the one to get in her way.”
    As we watched, the judge lifted his hand and pointed at Maribeth’s Vizsla. She gave a happy little jump, swooped down and patted her dog, then ran to stand beside the BOB marker.
    â€œOkay, that’s one person,” I said. “Who else? Tell me someone I know.”
    Crawford and Terry exchanged a meaningful look. Then they both lowered their heads and studiously went back to work.
    That couldn’t be good.
    â€œTerry?”
    â€œHon, you don’t want to know.”
    Perhaps not, but the way things were shaping up, I could hazard a guess.
    Aunt Peg. Edward’s Margaret. It had to be.

Chapter 7
    â€œW hen?” I asked
    Fingers still moving through the hair, Crawford glanced up innocently. “What are we talking about?”
    â€œAunt Peg, apparently.”
    â€œThis is your fault,” he said to Terry.
    â€œMe? I didn’t say a thing.”
    â€œLast hurrah? Naming names?”
    â€œAll right, maybe I said that.” Caught red-handed, Terry still looked unrepentant. “But I never mentioned Peg.”
    â€œYou didn’t have to,” I said with a sigh. “Whenever anything exciting is happening, it’s a safe bet that Aunt Peg will be right in the middle of it. I wondered why March called her Margaret. Nobody ever calls her Margaret.”
    â€œEdward would have,” said Terry.
    Crawford shook his head. “You’re really going there, aren’t you?”
    Ignoring him, I asked, “Why?”
    â€œEdward always called the women he was involved with by their full names. That was his shtick, his own little secret touch. He thought it made them feel special.”
    â€œIt doesn’t sound like much of a secret to me,” I grumbled.
    â€œThere’s a reason for that,” Crawford said shortly. “Edward has never been able to resist talking about himself. That’s probably why he decided to write a book. Now, between the two of you, I think you’ve pretty much pushed my patience to its limit. It’s time to talk about something else.”
    I nodded in acquiescence. Crawford had already opened up far more than I’d expected him to. As for Aunt Peg, who was currently in the middle of her assignment, I’d deal with her later.
    â€œWho’s going to win Best in Show?” I asked.
    It was a mystery to me, but somehow Aunt Peg always knew these things ahead of time. She said it was a combination of knowing the dogs’ records, the judges’ preferences, and a little bit of a tingle in the air on show day. However she managed