Bloodlines by Susan Conant Page B

Nashville, Tennessee. Icekist, her kennel name, wasn’t twangy or southern, and her dogs were New England Kotzebues, but their names reflected Lois’s origins in the country music capital of the world: Icekist Cheating Heart, Honkytonk Angel, that kind of thing. Lois was a Hank Williams fan, of course. Cheating Heart, one of the dogs she’d brought to the Shawsheen Valley show, had gone Winners Bitch that morning.
    Ordinarily, then, Lois Metzler would’ve been in a moderately good mood, and she probably had been until Betty Burley broke the news about Missy. I’d given Betty ten or fifteen minutes alone with Lois. Rowdy and I had wandered around collecting free samples of lamb and rice dog food at the lams and Natural Life booths. Rowdy had attempted to augment our stock of free samples: He’d tried to snatch a mouthful of trail mix from one of the open bins at a concession stand that sold cashews, jelly beans, dried apricots, and other nuts, fruits, and candies for people, but I’d managed to haul him away in time. Then we’d plowed through the crowds to the area by the wall where Lois and Betty were set up.
    Lois Metzler must’ve been acquainted with the theory that the handler should disappear in the ring to allow the dog to put himself forward, but I guess if you’re five feet ten inches tall and weigh as much as three or four Alaskan malamutes, disappearance isn’t a realistic goal. Today she was dolled up for the breed ring in atentlike red dress with abstract splotches of gray and black. Her head was bullet-shaped, her shoulders were massive, she had thick arms and legs, and around the middle she was just plain fat. Despite her own bulk, she kept her dogs lean and fit, and I’d always thought she was a good handler. She moved lightly and had a knack of getting her dogs to show well even in hot weather and in overheated halls when everyone else’s dogs looked bored and lethargic.
    When Rowdy and I approached, Lois lunged toward us, reached out, grabbed my arm, and said in a deep, scratchy, and rather loud voice, “You know, you’re new in malamutes. This is some kind of mistake.”
    I wasn’t eager to handle the rolls of fat that made natural circle bracelets at her wrist, but I wanted her hands off me. Rowdy sat at my side and took an intelligent interest as I calmly and silently removed Lois’s damp palm from my thin wrist. Rowdy does not like people to grab me.
    “Shit, I’m sorry,” she said. She lowered her voice and scratched the back of her neck. “How many people’ve you told about this?”
    “Just Betty,” I said. “I’m not a blabbermouth. I don’t like gossip. I only told Betty because I didn’t know whether to tell you. I didn’t know if you’d want to know. She said you would.”
    Lois Metzler had short, bristly gray-brown hair. Her pallid February skin was draped across small, blunt features. The pink powder blush on her cheeks, the blue powder shadow on her eyelids, and the traces of red around her lips had the paradoxical effect of draining her face of all color. For a second, I thought she was going to faint.
    I gestured toward the folding chair by the big crates that held her dogs. “Lois, do you need to sit down?”
    “No!” she said fiercely. She straightened her shoulders and added with a hint of anger, “You know, Iscreen my buyers. This could happen to anyone, absolutely anyone.”
    “I know it could,” I agreed. “That’s the point. It
could
happen to anyone. I’m not blaming you, and neither is Betty.”
    Like a dog responding to his own name, Betty Burley appeared at Lois’s side. They made a funny-looking pair, Brobdingnagian Lois, Lilliputian Betty, but dogs care nothing for outward appearance. Rowdy barged into the center of our circle and nuzzled at Lois’s hands. She absentmindedly dug a treat out of her pocket and watched Rowdy wolf it down and lick her hand clean. For a few seconds, no one said anything.
    Lois broke the silence. Her voice was