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their inspection. “I need more tickets. I sold all the ones you gave me.”
    â€œWell done!” The sister nearest me—Betty Jean, I thought—reached beneath the table and withdrew a cash box. It was, I saw when she opened it, much fuller than it had been when I’d left. “Let me help you unpack.”
    â€œThanks, B . . . er, E . . . J?” I felt myself flush.
    â€œB.J.,” she corrected with a smile. “Had it right the first time. Not to worry, Sister and I are used to that. Let me give you a little tip.” She leaned forward and a small gold locket, worn tucked inside her sweater, caught the light briefly before disappearing again. “Sister and I always stand behind the table the same way. She’ll be on your left as you approach, I’ll be to the right. We never switch sides.”
    â€œHow come?”
    Betty Jean shot a quick glance up at her sister who was busy showing off the money tree to a potential customer. “I’m left-handed, you see. Sister is right-handed. If we both put our good sides in the middle, we’d just keep bumping into one another. So this way works out better.
    B.J. grinned wickedly. “Whatever you do, don’t let on that I told you. I think she likes all the confusion.”
    I’d be willing to bet they both enjoyed the confusion. Why did they dress so similarly otherwise?
    â€œWhat are you two whispering about over there?” Edith Jean came up behind us. “Not planning to take the money and run, are you?”
    â€œNot today.” There were new rolls of tickets in the lock box. I got out another and added it to my supplies in the basket. “Maybe tomorrow when there’s more here.”
    â€œCan’t leave before Wednesday,” E.J. said. “That’s when our boy is showing. Puppy Dogs, 9 to 12. You’ll be guarding the table.” Her index finger poked me between the shoulder blades. “Sister and I will be hiding somewhere over by the ring, cheering like a couple of silly old fools.”
    â€œTell me about your puppy,” I invited. “I’ve heard he’s a good one.”
    â€œBubba’s going to win his puppy class,” Betty Jean confided. “He’ll be the best one there.”
    â€œAt least we think he is. Others”—Edith Jean scowled briefly—“may have another opinion.”
    â€œAs if that matters a fig. The only opinion that counts belongs to the judge. He loved Bubba’s sire, and our puppy’s his father’s spitting image. When Roger walks into the ring, Mr. Mancini will think he’s seeing a ghost.”
    â€œThat judge loves a good silver. You can mark your catalog right now. Look for BoonesFarm Bubba-licious and put a one right next to his name. Roger thinks Bubba might even have a shot at Winners Dog.”
    Edith Jean ducked down briefly beneath the table and came up with pictures. Eight-by-ten color glossies in a familiar white cardboard envelope, they were win photos from the puppy’s successes on the Cherry Blossom circuit. I thumbed through them, while both sisters supplied commentary on each win. The little Toy had done his owners proud. Not only had he been Winner Dog five times, he’d even racked up two Best of Variety wins and a group placement.
    â€œHow many points does he have?” I asked.
    â€œShhh!” Edith Jean held a finger up to her lips. “We don’t talk about that.”
    â€œFourteen,” Betty Jean said firmly. Her voice was loud enough to override her sister’s and her tone allowed for no argument.
    â€œI see.” It sounded as though the sisters had run into a common problem. Judging by their demeanor, someone—probably their handler, Roger Carew—had gotten over-zealous in planning little Bubba’s career. The silver Toy had done extremely well on the spring circuit, perhaps too well.
    In order to achieve a championship, a dog must