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Sam isn’t exactly Miss Congeniality herself this morning, because undercover isn’t her style to begin with. Deep undercover that requires a developed character with a wardrobe to match is her idea of punishment. But she knew from that start that Hart would jump at this assignment. And where Hart jumps, Sam is obliged to follow. It doesn’t mean she has to smile about it.
“Run the scenario by me again,” Joel says, steepling his fingers and looking from Sam’s frown back to Hart.
Hart, of course, is wearing what Sam has taken to calling her “pageant face” - a shit-eating grin that tells Sam that all her annoyance is just a performance, and she's already enjoying herself.
“I’m the best dog handler this side of the Mississippi, and Fuller’s the crazy dog lady who hired me,” she says.
“And forgive me for asking, but aren't we playing a little against type?” Joel persists. “Now, Hart as the society type who owns show dogs, and Fuller as the… athletic, hands-on trainer…”
“No. This face needs to be completely unrecognizable,” Hart insists, passing her hands down her face for effect. “The cameras are going to be all over it if we’re a frontrunner. And trust me, we're a frontrunner.”
“And I’m allergic to dogs,” Sam reminds Hart. “You're doing all the hands-on part this time.”
“That’s what she said. But yeah, allergies.” Hart makes a show of remembering that information, then turns back to Joel. “So for me, the dedicated dog lover. And for Fuller here, the disaffected owner who blows air kisses to the pooch to avoid getting her lipstick messed up.”
“Isn’t that a little… far-fetched?” Joel asks. Sam and Hart both stare at him blankly. “Far-fetched? Because it’s a dog show?”
Sam isn’t going to dignify a pun like that with a response, but Hart gets it and starts snorting, and somehow Sam has to crack a grin when she does that. Just because Hart sounds ridiculous, that’s all.
Joel seems gratified. “In all seriousness, I can work with that,” he promises. He points a finger at Sam, then holds it up and twirls it slowly. “Turn, please. And what kind of dog are we matching?”
Sam spins, scowling automatically as she remembers the last time Joel dressed her for an undercover gig. “We don't have the dog yet,” she tells him.
“Something hypoallergenic,” Hart says. “We're working on it. Maybe one of the weird little hairless ones, you know that kind?”
Sam doesn't see Joel’s face, because she's still spinning on command, but she can imagine it.
***
“Irish Water Spaniel,” Sam repeats, looking down at the dog. “Because that looks like a poodle with a fancy-ass title.”
“They all have fancy titles in dog shows,” Hart puts in, from where she’s already on the floor, getting up close and personal with their new canine partner. “She’s called Molly but I bet she has a longer name too, right?” she asks.
Molly’s real handler is there to introduce them to their new prize Irish Water Spaniel, and teach Hart to fake being a dog expert. Her name is Danielle Edwards, and she looks like the exact dog trainer Joel was going for when he dressed Hart; no-frills blue suit and shoes, authentic smile, firm handshake.
“Georgianna’s Pride of the Briarthorn River,” Danielle says, meeting Sam’s eyes since Hart is still fawning over the oversized poodle. “Georgianna Walters is one of only about twenty breeders of the Irish Water Spaniel in America. They’re fantastic dogs, but they tend to be overshadowed by the more popular breeds.”
“Which is how we got in at the last minute as contestants,” Sam supplies.
“Molly has qualified before, but her owner has been sitting out this season due to some family concerns,” Danielle tells them. “This is fairly well known on the circuit, so no one will be too surprised to see a new handler and owner with Molly. You might get a few questions about Jackie Walsh and why she “sold” Molly. Just smile and say you’re not well acquainted with her, but you’re already in love with the dog.”
“In love with it,” Sam repeats, looking down to where Hart is asking Molly ‘who’s a good girl.’
Hart straightens suddenly. “So I figure, if I can learn to walk in heels, I can learn to walk a dog,” she says. “But I know we don’t have much time. Fuller, can you meet with the Kennel Club by yourself and explain the situation?”
“Uh, no,” Sam replies. She hears a little bit of Hart’s diva sass creeping into her voice, and immediately hates herself. “You’re the one who sneaks into pageants. I’m the one who beats people up. Remember?”
“I gotta get this dog walk down with Danielle,” Hart says. “I know they’ll feel better if you meet with them one-on-one before it starts.”
“How do I sell the fact that the dog has to go through to finals when all of the judges could be suspects?” Sam asks. “Again, you do the talking. I do the persuading.”
“McDonald said that the president was on board with everything,” Hart assures her. “Just… you know, give them some information, but not anything classified. Be professional and inspire confidence. Wear your Angela Fulton clothes, that’ll be great.”
“Because people care about people who care about themselves?” Sam asks, dripping sarcasm.
“Attagirl. I knew I taught you something.” Hart slaps Sam’s backside. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
Sam considers putting Hart in a headlock, but it’s probably not worth it. She’ll get even later, when Hart isn’t expecting it.
On her way out the door, Sam turns back to watch the training for a minute. Danielle is standing back, gesturing with her hands, and Hart is jogging lightly, Molly keeping pace at her feet. Hart isn’t wearing her costume yet - she’ll have time to practice in character after she gets the basics down - and she’s wearing a tank top and shorts that show off her pageant-worthy legs. Her steps are sure and she’s falling into a rhythm, moving like she’s remembering something she’s known all along, and Sam can’t take her eyes away for a minute.
Then Hart looks up and Sam catches herself. She’s already turning to leave when she hears Hart go down like a ton of bricks.
***
The meeting Hart is skipping out on is scheduled with Lisa and Jackson Dodd, the president and secretary of the Kennebunkport Kennel Club, and the broadcast producer of the 14th Annual Kennebunkport Dog Fancies, a tv executive named Rick Patterson who looks slightly stunned by the entire proceeding. Sam, dressed as Angela Fulton in a pastel suede suit that looks like it was swiped from Queen Elizabeth, understands where he’s coming from.
“I’m sorry my colleague Agent Hart couldn’t make it,” she says, and that’s the truth. “She’s trying to immerse herself in dog handling before the show.”
“I can’t wait to meet her at the show,” Lisa Dodd says. “I am a huge fan.”
Of course you are, Sam thinks, but she keeps a smile plastered to her face. Her cheeks hurt. It’s unnatural. “I am sure she’ll be thrilled to meet you too, but you know that at the show she’ll be undercover as Jill Saunders.”
“Of course! We wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the investigation, would we, Jackson?” Lisa asks, elbowing her husband sharply.
“Not at all, honey,” he agrees, before turning his attention to Sam. “But I’m a little concerned - the Assistant Director said he needed us to put pressure on the judges to push you through, without telling them why. That’s not the sort of behavior that has ever gone on at the Kennebunkport Kennel Club.”
This is the most surreal situation Sam thinks she has ever been in, with the possible exception of her stint as a Tina Turner female impersonator. But that was in the heat of the investigation, and now, sitting here dressed like somebody’s pretentious grandmother and talking about dog show corruption, she has a little more space to think about what she’s doing.
“Our reputation is at stake,” Jackson Dodd continues. “I’m going to need to know more about what’s going on.”
Sam has gotten a brief rundown from McDonald of what she’s allowed to disclose, and that’s just going to have to be good enough. “So, the Kennebunkport Dog Fancies are a pretty big deal in the show dog world, right?” she says.
“One of the top three shows in the nation,” Jackson Dodd says shortly, clearly displeased by her lack of familiarity. “And the main tourist event for the entire town.”
“Right,” Sam agrees. “So winning the show is pretty good bragging rights. That’s the major prize, right?”
“There’s also a thousand-dollar cash prize, but it’s mostly about the title,” Lisa agrees.
“And that title is apparently important enough for somebody to kill over.” Sam doesn’t pause for dramatic effect. She just wants to get this finished so she can get back to actually working the case. “Three of your usual judges have died since April, all unexpectedly, under circumstances that couldn’t be easily explained. After John Watkins’s toxicology report came back positive, Alfred Miller was exhumed and his remains contained the same cocktail of drugs.” She does pause then. “This cocktail included several commonly-licensed veterinary supplies, most notably a concentrated dose of pentobarbital. Unfortunately, Marilyn Jennings was cremated, so we have no concrete evidence linking her to the same killer, but we do believe that all three deaths are connected. Since they occurred in two different states, the FBI is taking charge of the investigation. And since Kennebunkport is the first major dog show since the murders, and all three victims have participated in the past, we’ll need to be present during the show to keep an eye on things.”
Sam pauses again, makes eye contact with Jackson Dodd. “We understand that you wish to preserve the integrity of your dog show, but our working theory is that one or more of your judges are already being bribed to get someone a desired result. All we need is to win the… the sporting group and advance to Best in Show.”
“All you need - ” Jackson begins, with an incredulous look, but Lisa cuts him off.
“Of course,” she says. “I’ll judge the sporting group myself. I bred Gordon Setters for years.”
“That puts your personal reputation on the line as much as it does Kennebunkport’s,” Jackson warns her, but Lisa has made up her mind.
“Alfred Miller was a dear friend,” she says. “And I followed every minute of the Miss United States pageant. I even had a friend get me a signed copy of Gracie Hart’s book! I have full faith in your ability to solve the crimes and save our dog show.” She turns to her husband. “Georgianna’s Pride of the Briarthorn River came in as Best in Breed last year. She will be a perfectly respectable choice for the First in Group.”
“If Agent Hart doesn’t trip over her feet in the arena,” Sam says with a smirk. The Dodds don’t seem to find the idea as humorous as she does, so she turns her attention to Rick Patterson to change the subject. “You’ve been awfully quiet about the whole thing,” she says.
Patterson still looks like he can’t really believe what’s happening. “It’s fine by me,” he says. “We’ll get lots of film. Interviews with you and Agent Hart, in character of course. The reruns will be the most-watched program of the year.”
“Glad to see we’re on the same page,” Sam says. She stands up, indicating that the meeting is over. “We’ll see you all on Thursday night.”
She barely remembers to grab Queen Elizabeth’s handbag on her way out the door.
***
The interviewer is from the local news channel, a smiling twenty-three-year-old named Brandi who has no idea that this footage will be replayed across America after the case breaks, potentially launching her career into orbit. Sam’s Angela Fulton outfit doesn’t feel any more comfortable today, and she’s pretty sure she looks as ridiculous as she feels, but Hart assures her she’ll give off a perfect pretentious, slightly off-putting nouveau-riche attitude.
“You know, just like your regular attitude, only dressed like Little Bo Peep,” she says. Sam socks her in the arm.
Hart herself is looking nearly unrecognizable, and Sam is once again grudgingly impressed by Joel’s camouflage skills. He had complained as he sacrificed Hart’s hair for the role, but she assured him both that it was necessary “to really complete that aggressive bitch-with-a-bitch look,” and that it would grow back soon. Her eyebrows have been shaved off and drawn in with bluish undertones that accent her walking suit, one of three nearly identical outfits she will wear while showing Molly. Around her neck, Joel has provided a light yellow scarf that matches Sam’s own pastel skirt suit, and Molly’s collar. They’re clearly a team.
Molly sits at Hart’s feet, docile and willing to obey her every command. “She’s your perfect partner, one who lets you call all the shots,” Sam said that morning, and Hart had begun keeping a tally sheet of who was harder to work with throughout the case. So far, Sam was pretty sure that the dog was winning.
“We’re back in three, two, one,” the cameraman intones, and Brandi turns to them brightly.
“We’re here this morning with Angela Fulton, her show dog Molly, and Molly’s handler Jill Saunders. Now, Molly appeared at the Kennebunkport Dog fancies last year, taking Best in Breed and just missing the Best in Show competition. She is favored to make a strong appearance in this year’s Sporting Group, since last year’s winner, Rowlf the Springer Spaniel, will not be competing. Last year, Molly was shown by Danielle Edwards, a familiar face around these parts, but she recently changed hands. Angela, I understand this is your first major show with Molly?”
Sam leans forward, conscious of the pearl earrings that feel like they’re weighing her whole head down. “Yes, Brandi. I’ve always wanted to show dogs, but never really had the time until now.”
“And what made you decide on an Irish Water Spaniel for your foray into the show dog world?” Brandi asks. “They’re not exactly a household name.”
Sam smiles. “You know, I’m glad you asked that, Brandi. I was drawn to the Irish Water Spaniels because they have just the most agreeable personalities. They’re smart, they’re sociable, and they’re also just a little goofy.”
“So really, she picked a dog that reminded her of herself,” Hart cuts in. She gives her pageant laugh, without the snorting.
Brandi smiles encouragingly. “Aww, that’s so cute. How long have you two been together?”
Sam shoots a look at Hart, because that wasn’t in the script as far as she knew. However, a glance at Hart’s haircut and their matching scarves makes it suddenly, painfully clear that this has been the script all along, as far as Joel is concerned. Hart is once again hamming it up for the cameras and not missing a beat.
“We met when Angela was looking into the dog circuit and we just hit it off,” she says glibly. “It’s that agreeable personality. A winner’s personality, just like Molly.”
“Molly certainly looks like a winner from here,” Brandi agrees. She turns back to face the camera as their tiny human interest segment wraps.
“Angela Fulton and Jill Saunders with their Irish Water Terrier, Georgianna’s Pride of Briarthorn River, called Molly,” she says. “Keep an eye out for Jill and Molly in the Sporting Group, this afternoon at two o’clock.”
“Thanks, honey, you’re the best.” Hart plants a quick peck on Sam’s cheek as they make their way off the fake living room stage.
“I’m going to mangle you,” Sam hisses.
“Mangling is for the dogs, honey. I’ll see you back at the arena, I’m going to stop for coffee. Can I get you anything?”
Sam looks Hart in the eyes. “An iced venti caramel macchiato, with coconut milk,” she says. “And that ice had better not melt. Honey.”
“Yes ma’am,” Hart says smartly, as she and Molly make for the nearest coffee shop.
As Sam is checking in at the registration table, Hart reappears. She’s holding some sort of whipped cream concoction in the hand with Molly’s leash, and then what looks like a basic small brewed coffee. “One coconut milk caramel macchiato,” she says, handing it over with a flourish.
Sam takes a sip. One cream, no sugars. “Perfect.”
***
“I can’t let you go in there alone,” Sam hisses, in a voice that would make Angela Fulton wince. She has Hart cornered in the single-stall bathroom just outside the handler’s area backstage. Molly, accustomed by now to Hart’s handling, is lying on the floor between them with her head between her front paws.
“You have to,” Hart says. “Your eyes are flooding every time you go near backstage. There aren’t enough allergy shots in the world to make you look casual there. Besides, I’ll have cameras on me, and I’ve been doing solo undercover for years. Longer than you have.”
“You mean you’ve been screwing up solo undercover for longer than I have,” Sam snips back. She’s so frustrated by the thought that she’s missing out on some of their prime suspects that she could punch a wall. She won’t, but she could.
“It’s sweet that you care,” Hart says, trying with all her might to push Sam’s buttons.
It works. “And that’s another thing,” Sam continues. “Why did no one tell me we’re supposed to be a couple?”
“Have you seen this outfit?” Hart gestures down her suit. “I thought it was obvious. There’s a lot of that on the showdog circuit, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know, because no one told me,” Sam points out.
“Well, then you should take a look around the handlers and the audience,” Hart says. “Not to stereotype, but sometimes it is that obvious. At least it gives us a good cover if someone sees us coming out of the bathroom together.”
Sam hadn’t even thought of it until Hart said it, but now it’s all she can think about. She feels the blood rushing to her face and pounding in her ears.
“So I think we’ve spent enough time canoodling, honey,” Hart continues, oblivious. “I promise to keep you updated on any suspicious characters or plain weirdos backstage, and you can keep an eye on the audience and the arena for me. Deal?”
“I’m going to be too busy getting video of you in that flight attendant suit,” Sam promises, but it falls a little flat, and Hart does notice that.
“Hey,” she says. “It’s okay that you’re in the stands. You’re not going to miss anything. And if you do, do you trust me to get it?”
“I trust you if it’s Dolly Parton,” Sam says, bu she does feel a little better. Because she trusts Hart with more than Dolly Parton, and they both know it.
“If it’s a Dolly impersonator, we won’t miss her,” Hart promises. “Now let’s get out of here so I can touch Molly up before her big moment.”
“Right.” Sam lets Hart and Molly leave first, then waits a minute, just because.
On her way out from the bathroom, it’s impossible to tell if anyone in the hallway saw Hart leave before her, but Sam keeps her eyes ahead just in time to catch a glimpse of a familiar navy suit.
“Danielle?” she asks, and the woman turns, smiling when she recognizes Sam.
“So good to see you….” she pauses, delicately, and Sam fills in the blank.
“Angela Fulton,” she says. “Are you showing for someone else today?”
Danielle shakes her head. “Actually, I’m here judging the Herding Group. It’ll be my first time, but I own an Australian Shepherd and I’ve shown German Shepherds and Icelandic Sheepdogs for years.” She pauses. “There’s a reception tonight at the hotel ballroom, for the judges. Would you and….” another pause “your handler like to attend as my guests? Molly is invited too, of course.”
Lisa Dodd has already invited them, but Sam has picked up on some of Hart’s pageant tricks. “Sure,” she says, before remembering that Angela Fulton would say of course. “Miss Saunders and I would be glad to come.”
“I’ll see you there,” Danielle says. “It starts at six.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Sam promises.
“The Sporting Group is up next, isn’t it?” Danielle asks, and Sam takes the hint, mumbles something else Angela Fulton would never say, and heads to her reserved seat, right in the front row. She can already feel a sneeze coming on.
Sam really hates undercover work. But then the murmur of the crowd quiets down, Lisa Dodd emerges from behind the curtains, and she waits with the rest of them as the dogs and their handlers come out.
She would have known Hart anywhere, no matter how good Joel’s disguises were, and it looks like the practice has paid off as Hart and Molly round the arena without incident. They’re graceful, poised, and professional, although the only time Sam has previously associated the word “professional” with dogs was in reference to the K9 unit. When Lisa passes them along with a smile, Sa’s applause is echoed by the audience.
Hart has gotten herself into the finals of another pageant, and no one suspects a thing.
***
The party is, perhaps unsurprisingly, full of dogs. Sam’s nose and eyes itch unbearably, and it’s all she can do to keep a forced smile on her face as she and Hart are introduced around to a crowd of people who think that comparing overbred dogs is culturally significant. Everyone is gracious, though, and Hart’s hand at the small of her back keeps her from saying something she would regret or going to hide in the bathroom again.
When they finally manage to excuse themselves, Sam heads back to Hart’s room automatically. It’s a habit acquired back when Hart was given the fanciest suites on all their tours - somehow it’s a lot easier to go over videos and background checks when you have two full-length sofas and a coffee table than two wooden chairs and a table that would be about the right size in a preschool.
Tonight, undercover, they have adjoining rooms with matchstick table and chairs, so they both stretch out on the king bed in Hart’s room. Hart has her laptop propped up in front of her while Sam lies on her back and stares at the ceiling; she’s convinced that the blank view helps her to think.
Or would help her to think, if Hart didn’t keep poking her cold feet into Sam’s legs.
“Stop that,” Sam threatens.
“Or what?” Hart asks.
“I’ll tell the pageant girls on you,” Sam warns, because she won’t threaten violence near an FBI-issue laptop, and Hart’s feet go back to her side of the bed.
Sam basks for a second in the feeling returning to her calves before she returns to the topic at hand.
“So, my eyes and ears backstage, which doggie mama wants the blue ribbon badly enough to kill for it?” she asks.
“It’s a cup,” Hart corrects abstractedly. “And it has to be someone who thought those judges were standing in their way, right? So someone who maybe almost qualified through one of them last year.”
“And last year they judged the Sporting, Herding, and Terrier groups,” Sam finishes. They’ve been over this, but with Hart’s video from backstage and up-close-and-personal impressions of their prime suspects, they have a better idea of who they might be looking for. “So who came close enough to feel cheated? And who’s back this year?”
“The Herding group had a pretty big upset,” Hart recalls, tapping on the laptop to pull up their records. “Beau the Bearded Collie advanced to Best in Show, ahead of North the Spanish Water Dog, who had won Best in Show the year before.”
“Spanish Water Dog?” Sam repeats. “There’s an Irish Water Spaniel and a Spanish Water Dog?”
“I didn’t name them,” Hart says.
“We should ask them to name one of Molly’s puppies after you,” Sam suggests. “Call it Gracie Lou Freebush.”
The cold feet are back, and this time they kick.
“Ow! Hey,” Sam protests. She retaliates by snapping a flat hotel pillow across Hart’s back, but without any real force behind it.
“North’s owner isn’t participating in the show this year though,” Hart muses. “Oh, the Dandie Dinmont is back. Now that’s a weird dog. Weird owner, too, but I guess you would have to be to own a dog like that.”
Sam isn’t even going to ask about the name. “Is that the hairless one?” she asks instead.
“No, it’s a terrier,” Hart tells her. “Long body, weird pouf on the top of its head. Vanilla the Dandie Dinmont advanced to Best in Show last year, but then didn’t rank. A lot of people were upset about it because the terriers usually make a strong showing.”
“So are any of the other terrier people suspects?” Sam asks. She stares at the ceiling, tries to visualize caring enough about a dog’s haircut to commit murder. She can’t get her head around it.
“I think the Dandie Dinmont is a better suspect,” Hart says. “The owner gave me serious vibes. No sense of personal space. Maybe the type to give other dogs treats laced with laxatives, though. That’s definitely his style.”
“So the judges were supposedly poisoned at other dog shows,” Sam says. There’s something on the edges of her brain, but she can’t quite put her finger on it. “The big one in Connecticut, and then the little qualifier in upstate New York.”
“Right,” Hart confirms. “And probably the qualifier in Connecticut for Marilyn Jennings.”
“And we’ve narrowed the lists to people who we know attended them?”
“Except no one tracks the audiences,” Hart points out. “Literally anyone could walk through those doors, and if they’re known in the dog circles, they could get an invitation backstage or to a part without even asking. We saw how easy that was today.”
“The qualifiers are smaller events,” Sam continues. “Put on by the local clubs. So who would have reason to be at one in New York and one in Connecticut?”
“A murderer,” Hart answers her, and, well, that’s technically true in this case.
“Or a judge, or a handler with more than one client, or maybe even a breeder,” Sam supplies. “What have we got on the new judges?”
“Lisa Dodd, Danielle Edwards, and Joshua Mara,” Hart reels off. “All been in the dog show world for years, et cetera, et cetera.”
“And what motive could any of them have?” Sam continues. She's still not sure she has a grasp of motive for the “dog show world” in general, much less for murder.
“Not the money,” Hart answers. “It's all about the prestige. Joshua Mara is unlikely for that reason, unless it was some kind of a personal vendetta - he’s actually judged Kennebunkport before, and he writes pretty popular dog training books. He has his own line of organic treats, too.”
Yeah, Sam really doesn't understand these people.
“But Danielle Edwards and Lisa Dodd,” she prompts.
“A lot more likely,” Hart agrees. “For Edwards, you have an opening into judging from showing, which could widen her audience and set her up to be the next Joshua Mara.”
“And for Dodd?”
“The same sort of thing. She's well established in Kennebunkport, but that's the definition of a big fish in a very small puddle. Viewership of the dog show is down, attendance is down. The town is hurting and added publicity from “The Dog Show Murders” could be what it needs to get back on the map.”
“Which could also implicate her husband,” Sam theorizes. “He’s even more involved in local politics.”
“I guess the real question is whether we can place any of them at all three previous dog shows,” Hart says. Sam hears the clacking of the laptop keys begin again.
She closes her eyes and feels some of the tension leave her shoulders as she breathes out.
“Remember the first time we did this?” she asks.
“Working a case on Foreman’s couch when we were supposed to be on a flight out of Vegas? Yeah, I remember,” Hart says.
“This is better,” Sam tells her.
“You’re right, it is,” Hart agrees. She pauses then. “And it looks like we’ve got our number-one suspect.”
***
They could have turned it over to McDonald, let a bunch of uniformed agents make the arrest quietly, but that’s not really their style. They’re checking out alibis all night anyway, and so by the time they’ve confirmed means and opportunity, it’s almost showtime down at the arena. They call for backup, of course, but it’s still Hart who makes the flying tackle into the VIP table, and Sam who sits on Jackson Dodd’s legs while Hart recites his rights. All the while, the local station is taking video.
They hadn’t bothered dressing for the occasion, so they’re both in sweats, Hart with “FBI” emblazoned across her chest and Sam in a more discreet gray. Without the stylized makeup and pants suit, Hart is eminently recognizable, and no one questions them, even Lisa Dodd. Her mouth crumples up a little, and for a minute she looks like she might pass out, but Danielle is there to help her to the back and offer her a glass of water. Sam doesn’t miss the look that passes between them, but she’s a little more focused on waving off the crowds.
“Do I have to get my gun out? Because I can get my gun out,” she threatens, and they get some breathing room. The locals surge to the front and take over. Jackson Dodd goes quietly.
“Almost as good as the time you tackled Dolly,” Sam says out of the corner of her mouth. “People magazine will probably do a poll. Which Gracie Hart takedown was better? Gonna lose points for the outfit though.”
Hart gives her the kind of look that means she has to keep needling to get a response.
“Miss United States is going to be ashamed of you. Might even revoke your runner-up status over that haircut,” Sam continues. She knows just the right moment to skip back so Hart’s hand connects with empty air.
“Don’t shoot the messenger, you know I’m right,” she says.
“At least Molly still has a shot to win,” Hart says ruefully.
***
The Best in Show segment is, unsurprisingly, delayed. It would be a financial disaster for the show and subsequently the town, if not for the massive publicity boost. Even Lisa Dodd is able to dry her tears and put on enough makeup to consent to televised interviews. The final event is held the next weekend, with press from 13 different countries and Guam in attendance. Cheryl Frasier comes to sit as an honorary guest commentator, along with Hart - Sam is happy to sit this gig out - while Danielle Edwards, having finished judging the Herding group, returns to her former role as Molly’s handler.
But nothing can save Sam from the post-show interview.
“And so how long did you have to train as a dog handler?” Brandi asks Hart. They’ve been given a full eight minutes this time, but the interview is still more a human interest piece than a hard-hitting look inside an FBI investigation.
“Actually, a lot of the same tricks from the Miss United States pageant applied here.” Hart is back to looking the part of Gracie Hart, and Sam has ditched her pastels for the basic FBI agent look that feels like part of her skin. “There’s a sense of weightlessness that applies both to walking in heels and matching your pace to that of a dog. It’s very intuitive when you master the basics.”
“Fascinating. Are you just the FBI’s go-to competition contestant now?” Brandi continues. “Should we expect to see you at the Summer Olympics?”
“If that’s where there’s a need, then absolutely, that’s where I will go,” Hart answers her.
Sam is more than content to let Hart field the questions this time. She is, after all, America’s sweetheart, while Sam is universally acknowledged to have a bad attitude. Now that she isn’t giving herself lockjaw with a fake smile, there’s no reason to treat her as anything other than Hart’s bodyguard. But the next question, again addressed to Hart, catches her off guard.
“Of course, the other most surprising reveal of the Kennebunkport Dog Fancies was your relationship status, Agent Hart,” Brandi says. “Most of your fans had no idea that you were a lesbian.”
Hart leans forward a little. “Bisexual,” she corrects, and Sam’s jaw is ready to hit the floor. “Bisexual erasure is a huge problem in the media, Brandi, but my identity doesn’t change because I may be involved with a man or a woman.”
“I apologize for the mischaracterization, Agent Hart, and thank you for your willingness to address the topic,” Brandi says, recovering smoothly. “So obviously, the story about meeting on the dog show circuit was a fabrication. Agent Fuller, how did you and Agent Hart meet?”
Sam blinks, knowing the camera is recording every second she’s caught off-guard. “Well, the circumstances were different,” she says. “It was on the crime circuit, let’s say. But the personality part was all true.”
“And there you have it, folks.” The camera will cut to Brandi again, with her wide smile summing up for the folks just tuning in at home. “Agents Gracie Hart and Sam Fuller on going undercover at the Kennebunkport Dog Show, where their handling contributed to a Best in Show win for Irish Water Spaniel Molly.”
When they’re safely off the sound stage and down the hallway, Sam body checks Hart into the cinderblock wall.
“What the hell was that?” she demands.
“You weren’t taking any of the other hints,” Hart says, only a little winded by the force of the collision and Sam’s elbow against her shoulder. “So I put it on the list of questions for Brandi to ask us.”
“What other hints?” Sam asks. She’s really not sure what just happened, or what Hart is trying to say to her, but she’s pretty sure there’s a better way to say it than an ambush on national television.
“You know. The touching, the pet names, letting you fall asleep in my bed while I checked alibis all night…”
“I did not fall asleep!” Sam releases Hart, but only so she can cross her arms in protest.
“You snored,” Hart says flatly. “And I’ve seen the way you look at me. Okay? And I want you to know it’s okay. But you’ll die before you ever say anything about it, and I’ll get gray hair waiting for you, and I really like the highlights I have now. So something had to be done.”
“So what are you saying?” Sam asks. “Spell it out for me like you think I’m dumb.”
“I don’t think you’re dumb. Just emotionally constipated,” Hart insists.
“You’re as bad as I am!” Sam accuses.
“You’re right! You’re right, I am.” Hart holds her hands up. “Which is why we’re having the conversation this way, instead of like rational adults who can just say things to each other without making it part of an interview about a dog show.”
“So say it to me now,” Sam tells her.
“Okay.” Hart takes a breath, smoothes her hair, and looks Sam in the eyes. “What I’m saying is that you’re my partner, we do everything together, we’re basically already dating, and there’s no one else I would rather spend that time with.”
Sam doesn’t say anything.
“Also,” Hart takes another breath, then singsongs. “I think you’re gooorgeous, I want to kissss you…”
She’s just going to keep singing if Sam doesn’t shut her up, so she does the only thing she can think of. She stands on her toes and kisses Hart full on the lips.
It’s not a bolt of lightning. The earth doesn’t move under their feet. But Hart’s lips are soft and her hands are around Sam’s waist, and Sam realizes she feels… safe. She feels like home.
When they break apart, Hart is grinning at her. “Was that so hard?” she asks.
“Shut up,” Sam orders, and she kisses Hart again.