Fifty Shades of Greyhound (The Pampered Pets Mystery Series) (19 page)

He nodded.

“Let’s take the dogs home and I’ll grab the kit.” I turned to the gardener. “You sit and catch your breath. I’ll be right back. Then we can take a look at your leg.”

The guy continued to glare. With his dark, spikey hair, he kind of reminded me of one of those Texas horned lizards that puff up so they’re all spiny when they’re upset.

Kevin gave the command for the dogs to follow, and the four of us trouped back down the street toward his house. The dogs periodically glanced back as if to make sure the guy was staying put.

It took very little time for Kevin to find his first-aid kit and for me to head back to where we’d left Mister Angry Pants, but by the time I returned to the planter, the landscape worker was nowhere to be found.

What a fruitcake. I guess he must have been okay or he would’ve stuck around. Heading back to Kevin’s to gather my things, I looked for one of the landscaping company’s trucks, but didn’t see a vehicle of any kind. On second thought, in such a fancy schmancy community they don’t often leave the maintenance trucks out in plain sight. Maybe he’d needed to move on to another area of Ruby Point.

The morning had warmed up. I stopped back in at Kevin’s and reminded him to keep up the behavior modification. I felt sure it would eventually work. Sometimes dogs can get into a barking cycle, and you have to break that cycle. I left with a promise to Kevin I’d check in tomorrow to see what kind of progress he’d made.

I pulled out of the drive and drove a short ways down the street to my friend, Diana’s, house. Er, castle.

Diana’s showcase abode dwarfed Kevin’s, and her graceful flower-filled front entrance always made me think of the magic and glamour of a bygone era in Hollywood. The era that brought us stars like Elizabeth Taylor, Sophia Loren, Katherine Hepburn, and yes, Diana Knight.

You might recognize the name. Diana Knight had been a perky heroine in a series of big-screen romantic comedies a few decades ago, and, though it turned out her leading man had been gay, the public still loved her. In fact, there had been a recent nostalgic resurgence of interest in her movies. She was still perky, at least in the personality sense.

In the physical sense, not so much.

Diana was a widow, I believe for the fourth time, having out-lived a college sweetheart, a fellow actor, a banker, and finally a business tycoon. She’d recently been keeping company with a local restaurateur, though she claimed it wasn’t serious. She no longer acted but now used her considerable celebrity to advance her first love—rescue animals.

We’d met because Diana volunteered at the Laguna Beach Animal Rescue League, and I did, too. We were in the throes of planning the annual “Fur Ball” which was a “cough-up-some-cash” black-tie affair for the ARL. Diana had chaired the event for the past few years, and somehow this year I’d been roped into being her co-chair.

Being a co-chair with Diana meant there really wasn’t much heavy lifting involved because she had it down to a fine science. She and I had spent a day last week calling corporate sponsors and setting up the advertising, which in most cases Diana’d been able to get comped. It was near impossible to tell this woman no.

Since I was in the area, I decided to drop off the final ad copy I’d picked up the day before from the graphic designer. I thought it had turned out great.

The picture was a handsome Doberman in a tux waltzing with a classy Siamese in a ball gown under a title that said: “Fur Ball—Cough Up Some Cash for the Laguna Beach ARL” and then gave all the details of the event. It was a picture the graphic designer had manipulated via magic software, you understand. I can assure you no animals were embarrassed in the making of this ad.

I was sure Diana would love it, but still this was her big event, and so I wanted to run it by her.

I rang the doorbell, and her housekeeper answered the door.

“Hello, Bella. Is Diana here?” I asked.

“No, I am sorry. She is not in at the moment. Can I give her a message?” The dark-haired beauty raised her soft musical voice to be heard over the cacophony of barking in the background.

Diana often took the more difficult rescue cases and at times had up to a dozen dogs in the house. Canine chaos.

“Bella, honey, I don’t know how you do it.” I patted her arm. “Would you give her this, please?” I handed over the ad copy.

Bella took the folder and promised to see that Diana got it.

“Tell her I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”

Back in my car, I waved at the Ruby Point guard, and then left the gated community. I turned in the direction of Main Beach. Heading down Broadway, I made a quick stop at Whole Foods, and then pointed myself toward home.

My home is an eclectic blend of styles. It’s nothing like my mama’s house, which is always ready for a feature spread in
House Beautiful
. My house is hardly ever ready for its close-up. Not because I hadn’t been raised right but because I basically didn’t care about fancy things. It was clean, it was comfortable, it was mine.

I walked in and kicked off my shoes.

Dogbert, my rescue mixed-breed mutt, bounded across the room to greet me. He’s part Spaniel, part Terrier, and parts unknown. He’s the most adorable mutt alive.

Always faithful, always thrilled to see me. He is the love of my life.

I sat on the floor for some serious puppy hugs and flipped on the TV.

I have an incredible view of the Pacific out my patio doors and an open floor plan that takes full advantage of it. I’d paid a pretty price for my gorgeous view but I’d never regretted it.

Promising a long walk later, I gave Dog a final tummy rub and got to my feet. The television in my family room is visible from my kitchen, allowing me to monitor what’s happening in the world as I prepare dinner. I use the term “prepare dinner” loosely.

I unpacked the organic mayonnaise I’d just purchased and opened a can of tuna. Sad, I know. Here I am within view of the ocean. You’d think I could get some fresh fish.

I was soon swarmed by Thelma and Louise, my two cats. I dumped half the tuna into a bowl and set it on the floor. Dogbert hurried over but was too late.

“None left for you, boy.” I smiled at his resigned sigh. Upstaged by the felines again.

National news shifted to local news, and I listened for an update on the weather as I stirred some fresh cilantro and mayo into what was left of the tuna.

“Police are on the scene of what officers are calling an ‘unexplained death’ in the upscale gated community of Ruby Point.”

That got my attention.

Not just Diana and Kevin but practically all of the residents of Ruby Point are clients or acquaintances of mine.

A female reporter, in a long-sleeved business suit that was much too warm for Southern California, and a hairdo that was much too big for this decade, gave the live report.

“The body was found this afternoon and police are at this time going door to door speaking to residents. Officers have not yet identified the individual, but the investigation centers around the house you see behind me.”

I tried to see the home behind Big-Hair but couldn’t quite make out the property. The homes in Ruby Point are all so different and individual that if I could get a glimpse I might recognized it, but I just couldn’t see enough to tell.

The pounding on my door startled me. “Well, for cryin’ in a bucket! I’m coming, and by the way I have a doorbell.” I stomped to the door and yanked it open.

The doorway was filled with the poster boy for
People’s
Sexiest Man Alive. I’m not often speechless, but short of asking if Christmas had come early, I was at a loss for words.

“Carolina Lamont?” His voice had a deep serious-as-a-heart-attack timbre.

“Yes.”

“Detective Judd Malone.”

Uh-oh. I was pretty sure this was about my earlier break-in. I wouldn’t put it past Mel to call the police. But for the Laguna PD to send a detective? Really?

“Do you have identification?” I asked.

He hadn’t offered a badge or an ID, and though I didn’t truly think serial killers looked like Brad Pitt’s brother and stalked pet therapists, you just can’t be too careful.

He reached inside his jacket pocket and handed me a card.

Apparently business cards had replaced badges.

“May I come in?” He spoke awfully proper for a tough-guy detective but, hey, I’m from Texas so it always seems to me that folks are puttin’ on airs.

I opened the door a bit further, and he shouldered past me.

Judd Malone smacked of attitude. He wore black jeans, a black leather jacket, and a chip on his shoulder. He scanned the room, his baby blues taking in my overstuffed couch, easy chairs, and crowded bookshelves. Thelma and Louise, perched in the windowsill, replete with tuna, each opened an eye and then, unimpressed, went back to their beauty sleep. Dogbert climbed from his doggie bed, trotted over for a sniff, but then also dismissed Malone and went back to his nap.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Some southern hospitality is automatic. Even when you have an unannounced guest. Even a guest who might arrest you. “Coffee, coke, iced tea?”

He shook his head and continued his scan.

“Well, then. What can I help you with, Detective Judd Malone?”

“I understand you visited Kevin Blackstone today?”

Okay, maybe not about the brooch. “Yes, I did. What about Kevin?”

I had a really bad feeling about this.

“Kevin Blackstone is dead.”

Excerpt

“Colorful characters and a cheerfully compelling tone, all combined to make a mystery worth barking about.”

—Linda O. Johnson, author of THE MORE THE TERRIER, Berkley Prime Crime

Get Fluffy

Book Two, The Pampered Pets Mysteries

By Sparkle Abbey

Yes, Melinda has been feuding with Mona, the queen of Laguna Beach’s dog-loving divas. But Mel never expected Mona to end up murdered.

Mona loved Fluffy. No, Mona worshipped Fluffy. She’d never abandon her dog.

Something was wrong. Why would Mona leave her front door unlocked, the alarm off, and her cell phone behind?

Fluffy shoved me out of the way and trotted down the hallway to the next room.

I’d barely turned the knob when Fluffy barged past me, head-butting the door against the wall with a loud bang.

I stumbled through the doorway. It wasn’t a room. It was a mini-palace fit for a movie star. Fluffy’s palace. A white sheepskin rug in front of her personal fireplace, a king-sized sleigh bed, and a dressing screen (why a dog needed a dressing screen was beyond me). Fresh filtered water dripped into her Wedgewood doggie bowl.

It was also a disaster.

Fluffy’s wardrobe was strewn throughout the room, draped precariously on the bed, and hanging out of open drawers. While Mona had an obscene amount of photos, Fluffy had her own slew of trophies and ribbons. All of them haphazardly tossed about.

The room looked like it had been ransacked.

Fluffy disappeared behind the disheveled bed. Her tail stopped wagging, and she whined softly.

That’s when I saw her.

At first, I wasn’t certain what I was looking at. Then it became clear. Mona was sprawled on the floor as if posing for a men’s magazine. It was almost picture perfect, except for the blood matting her five-hundred-dollar haircut and the gold statue stuck in her head.

I hesitantly moved closer. Fluffy nuzzled Mona’s cheek. When she didn’t move, Fluffy pawed her shoulder, still whining.

“I don’t think she’s getting up, girl,” I said softly.

Mona was deader than a stuffed Poodle.