V
Velma and Fred made their way down the narrow hallway to the Garden's executive offices, stopping in front of the door marked "Scheduling." The blond man stood for a moment, debating whether to knock or not, when the weight of his own body pushed the door open. He stumbled forward unexpectedly, managing to regain his upright posture just before entering the office. Startled by the disturbance, a thin, red haired receptionist glanced up to see who or what had just made an unannounced entrance. "Can I help you?" she asked, in a heavy Brooklyn accent, apparently somewhat miffed at the disturbance.
"Yes, Madame," replied Velma, "we would like to speak with Mister James Preston."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No, I'm afraid we don't," said Fred, "but we were hoping we might be able to speak with him for a few moments about the strange happenings at the dog show."
The secretary carefully pondered the blond man's comment, as if evaluating his story for truthfulness. "Um, have a seat over there," she said, gesturing to a couch in the corner, "I'll see if Mister Preston is available."
Fred didn't immediately sit down, preferring instead to examine the multitude of photographs hanging on the office walls. Over the years, the Garden had played host to a variety of events—political conventions, rock concerts, sporting events and "personal appearances" by cartoon characters—each of which was represented by a photograph. The blond man seemed particularly intrigued by the elaborate set-ups required for rock concerts. He leaned closer to scrutinize a photograph of a recent "Rolling Stones" concert when he was interrupted by the secretary's nasal voice. "Mister Preston said he's willing to talk to you; you can go on in, but don't take too much of his time."
"Thank you, Madame," replied Fred, as he gestured for Velma to follow him into the man's office.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"What can I tell you," began James Preston, "we just can't afford to have the dog show postponed. Our scheduling constraints are such that postponing any one event would produce a domino effect that would, in turn, affect the scheduling of all the other events."
The blond man furrowed his brow, questioningly. "That doesn't seem very practical, to have such a tight schedule," he commented.
"Practical or not," James replied, "it's profitable. Besides, the Garden is designed to facilitate quick changes--we can host a hockey game on Friday, then quickly change the facility in time to host a computer exposition on Monday. In general, though, we try to schedule movable events, such as rock concerts and conventions, around non-movable events, such as basketball and hockey games, thereby giving us enough time to transform the arena for the next event."
"And where do you keep all the equipment and supplies for these venue changes?"
"There is a storage area underneath the arena floor, the same place where the hockey and basketball teams' locker rooms are located."
"What was the event immediately preceding the dog show?" asked Velma.
"A concert by the Dead Strawberries," answered James. "Technically though, whoever booked the concert should not have booked it so close to a non-movable event like the dog show. The concert ended just two days before the dog show began; we barely had time to dismantle the sets and to convert the arena."
"Did any of the previous events report unexplained disturbances?" asked Fred.
"No, this is the first such reported incident, and it had better be the last. If word gets out that the Garden is haunted, people might not want to book their events here anymore."
"I have a feeling that whatever is going on is confined only to the dog show," said Fred, "don't worry mister Preston; we will get to the bottom of this."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Daphne sat on top of a carrying kennel, staring at her watch and tapping her feet impatiently. She hadn't had any luck finding clues in the grooming area, in fact, she hardly had any time to do so—much of her time had been spent babysitting Shaggy and Scooby, neither of whom had been particularly helpful in the search for clues. Shaggy was constantly worrying about whether or not the witch would show up, and Scooby was more interested in checking out Kala and her Harlequin rival. The redhead could understand the Dane's plight, though, after all, Scooby was a dog, and they were at a dog show; it was only natural for him to behave in that manner.
Daphne heaved an audible sigh of boredom; she was just about ready to search for clues without Shaggy and Scooby when the pair in question entered the room, carrying armloads of cardboard take-out trays. The redhead's jaw dropped at the sight of the pair; Marc Wyndham's expression was equally exasperated. "I send you guys to get me a soda and you bring back the whole, freaking snack bar," admonished Daphne, adding under her breath, "as if I didn't expect that."
"Like, we got hungry," countered Shaggy, handing Scooby a hamburger with all the trimmings, including sauerkraut, cheese sauce and chocolate. "Being constantly scared takes up a lot of energy."
"Reah," echoed Scooby. "Rots of renergy."
Preston Durraley frowned at the lanky man. "Chocolate is bad for dogs," he scolded, "so are table scraps and any kind of human food." The blond man scratched his champion Great Dane behind the ears, then shot Marc a no less vituperative barb. "I can't believe you allowed your dog to mate with a non-regulation color Great Dane—and one whose owner condones feeding a dog table scraps and human food."
Marc rolled his eyes. "Lay off them, Preston; they're not in the dog show business--they're in the detective business—and how they treat their dog is none of your business."
Preston held both of his hands up in a 'stop' position, leaning back on his heels and backing away.
Noting the redhead's obvious discomfort and boredom, Marc offered, "You don't have to stay around here; if you want to go watch the competition, you can."
"Thank you, Mister Wyndham," replied Daphne, grateful for the respite. "Come on, guys, let's go watch the show."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Harry Dale stood in the middle of the ring, carefully scrutinizing a group of West Highland White Terriers and their handlers as they trotted in a circle, each pair stopping in front of him for examination. In a neighboring ring, a line of tall, shaggy Irish Wolfhounds were undergoing the same scrutiny from their judge; each dog stood the same height as Scooby, but their lanky frames carried much less weight than the Great Dane's. Daphne alternated her gaze between the two rings, occasionally glancing toward the ceiling to see if the witch was ready to make an appearance.
As though detecting the redhead's thoughts, the specter appeared, its green robes fluttering in the in the breeze created by its movements. Harry and Daphne both gasped as they heard the witch's trademark cackle. Daphne stood her ground, but Harry immediately dove for cover as the specter swooped down from the ceiling, making a beeline for the tiny white dogs standing in the ring. With blinding flash of light and a cloud of sulphurous smoke, the witch vanished, taking one of the little white terriers with it.
Regaining his composure, Harry Dale walked back to the ring to assess the latest damage. "Great," he groaned, "that's the third terrier that's been taken. If this keeps up, there won't be any terriers left to compete."
Daphne glanced briefly at the neighboring ring, where the large, shaggy dogs and their handlers continued to compete, seemingly oblivious to dog napping that had just occurred. The redhead voiced her observations to no one in particular. "What I want to know is, why didn't she go after those Wolfhounds?"