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my gaze wander. Seated on one leg of the horseshoe was a squat, broad shouldered man with a carefully cultivated tan and profuse white hair. His movements seemed awkward and after a moment I figured out why. He was eating his steak one-handed.
    The other hand—wide and beefy, with short, blunt fingers—was resting on that of the woman seated beside him. Her manicured nails were rose tipped. From the look of boredom on her face, I suspected if he hadn’t been holding her fingers they’d have been drumming. Her plate of chicken appeared untouched.
    I nudged Aunt Peg. She was nosing around in the bread basket, having discovered to her delight that it contained garlic bread. I wondered where I’d been when God was handing out fast metabolisms. Aunt Peg had obviously passed through that line twice.
    â€œWho’s that?” I asked. “The man with the white hair. Next to the blond.”
    Aunt Peg nudged the wedge of bread onto the edge of her already full plate, then had a look. “Cy Rubicov. The woman next to him is his wife, Barbara.”
    â€œWhat’s their breed?” The question made me feel very smug. See how fast I was catching on?
    To my surprise, Aunt Peg stopped to consider. That was the type of information she could usually supply off the top of her head. “I guess you’d have to say it was Dalmatians,” she said finally.
    â€œYou don’t sound too sure.”
    â€œThat’s because the Rubicovs aren’t actually breeders in the sense that most of the people in this room are. They don’t have a breeding program, and they’re not committed to a particular breed of dog.”
    â€œWhat do they do?”
    â€œThey show dogs.”
    â€œYou show dogs, too,” I pointed out.
    â€œYes, but in their case, it’s different. Every time I breed a litter, I’m hoping to come one step closer to producing the perfect Standard Poodle. Each of my puppies is the culmination of years of planning. I’m proud of my Poodles and I enjoy showing them off in the ring, but it’s the breeding that’s the important part. Winning at a dog show is just the icing on the cake.”
    Over the last ten months, my exploration of the dog show world had taught me that few people had as pure an attitude toward the breeding of dogs as Aunt Peg. Many people would have called her old-fashioned, if not downright out of touch. Dog showing and dog breeding was big business, with the sky-high handling fees and flashy advertising campaigns to prove it.
    â€œI take it the Rubicovs take winning a little more seriously than you do?”
    â€œI should say so.” She piled some baked potato on her garlic bread and took a bite. “The Rubicovs aren’t interested in breeding good dogs, only in owning them. They’re much more apt to buy than breed, the purpose being to sponsor the dog’s career in the show ring.”
    â€œYou mean they pay all the expenses?”
    â€œPrecisely.”
    â€œThat must take a lot of money.”
    â€œIt does. On that level, showing dogs is a very expensive hobby. Then again, so is owning a football team. And there seem to be plenty of people who are eager to do that. For some people, it’s all about associating your name with a winner. As to the cost, I don’t think the Rubicovs are particularly concerned about that.”
    I snuck another look down the table without trying to be too obvious about it. The Belle Haven Kennel Club had its headquarters in Greenwich, so I guessed that a number of its members would come from money. Still, for the most part, the attitude and dress around the table was casual. Barbara Rubicov was the lone exception.
    Seated, she appeared to be several inches taller than her husband. Her sleek blond hair was bobbed to chin length, and her navy blue Donna Karan suit fit as though it had been tailored specially for her. An abundance of gold jewelry glittered in the light from