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think we ought to start?”
    So much for family, and on to the business at hand. “How about checking out the scene of the crime?”
    Aunt Peg looked dubious. “I’ve been in the kennel dozens of times since that night and I didn’t notice anything unusual.”
    â€œYou keep the kennel locked at night, don’t you?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œThen how do you suppose the thief got in?”
    â€œThrough the door, I’d imagine. It was standing wide open the next morning.”
    â€œThat doesn’t mean he went in that way, only that it’s probably how he came out. Picture this,” I said, thinking aloud. “Somehow the thief gets into the kennel. He nabs the dog and is on his way out when he sees Uncle Max coming out of the house. He scoots back inside and hides in the dark. They scuffle, the thief runs. Of course he doesn’t stop to check and see if he’s left anything incriminating behind.”
    â€œYou’ve got a point,” Aunt Peg said thoughtfully. “You know, you’re very good at this.” Coming from her, that was all sorts of praise.
    â€œI read a lot.”
    â€œNonfiction?”
    â€œDick Francis.”
    â€œHe does horses,” she said as she rose. She put the dishes in the sink and left them.
    I followed her to the back door. “I’ll try to scale down.”
    She stopped at the door and turned. For the first time that I could remember, we shared a smile. “Maybe I did overlook something. Let’s go down and see what we can ” see.

Four
    The small kennel building where Beau had been housed stood not more than ten yards from the main residence. It was painted to match—white, with a creamy, yellow trim; and on this bright, sunny morning, it looked like the last place where something terrible might have happened. Somewhat like the witch’s gingerbread cottage, I supposed.
    A row of long narrow dog runs stretched out from the side wall into the large field beyond. When we left the house they were empty, but as we approached, the swinging doors that connected them to the kennel burst open. Each held a big, black, hairy Poodle, one to a customer, and all barking a frenzied welcome.
    I glanced their way, then quickly looked again. Most of the Poodles looked like normal dogs. The two on the end, however, were clipped elaborately. The front halves of their bodies were encased in a huge mane of hair, while the hindquarters and legs were shaved down to the skin, leaving only a profusion of pompons to cover their nakedness.
    â€œAunt Peg, why exactly are the dogs cut that way?”
    â€œThey’re in show trim. This is the Continental clip,” she said, pausing by the fence of the nearest run. “It’s a traditional trim which, according to legend, was developed for practicality’s sake by the German hunters who originated the breed.”
    â€œGerman? I thought Poodles came from France.”
    â€œMost people do. And the little ones might well have. But the Standard Poodles were first bred in Germany where they were used as retrievers. Because the waters there were so cold, they needed the long thick coats for warmth, but then they got bogged down trying to swim in them. To help out, the hunters clipped away all the hair that wasn’t essential.
    â€œThe mane,” Aunt Peg said, pointing to the big ruff of hair on the front, “serves as protection for the heart and lungs. The bracelets on the legs warm the joints. The hip rosettes cover the kidneys. And the pompon on the tail stood up to mark the dog’s spot when he dove underwater after a bird.”
    â€œI never knew any of that,” I said, joining her beside the run. I threaded my fingers through the fence to pat a closely clipped, inquisitive muzzle. It felt surprisingly like my ex-husband with a case of five o’clock shadow. Dark intelligent eyes regarded me calmly as, with utmost dignity, the Poodle