Get Fluffy (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

It had taken a good twenty-four hours, but our lives had settled down. Somewhat. All the way back to Laguna, Grey had lectured me on leading with my emotions and not my head. I knew he was talking more out of fear then anger, but that didn’t lessen the sting.

Then we walked into my house, and there sat Detective Malone chatting it up with Nikki. I won’t repeat exactly what he’d shouted, but it wasn’t much different from Grey’s lecture. I did worry briefly that Malone might just off me himself, he was so hot.

I didn’t make any sweeping declarations, promising to stay out of his police work, but I did promise to keep my nose in my own business. I had to admit, if only to myself right now, once my life hadn’t been in danger any longer, I seriously enjoyed the adrenaline rush of living on the edge.

Tricia was in lockdown at the Orange County slammer. Apparently I wasn’t the only one she’d gone after with her wrench. Not only was she charged with two murders, but for assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest.

Rumor has it Cliff and his brother, Ted, left Dana Point. No one is certain if the brothers left on their own free will or if they got a one way ticket via the Pacific.

Fluffy was still camped out at Darby’s. They actually like each other. Darby didn’t know it yet, but I had an appointment with Owen Quinn on Friday. He agreed to file the paperwork to officially make Darby Fluffy’s legal guardian.

Oh, and Alex had finally called and left me a voicemail. That stop in San Clemente was at a hotel. I’m guessing that’s where Cliff and Jo had hooked-up. Mona must have taken Jo there to make her squirm just before she fired Jo O’Malley’s phony animal communicator hiney.

Mitch and Nikki were leaving tomorrow. I guess Mitch wasn’t much for crazy women welding a wrench. He’d tried to convince me Vegas was a quieter and safer place to live. I begged to differ. I loved my beachside community.

Grey was on his way over. The four of us were heading to Catalina Island for the day.

Nikki was in the spare bedroom packing. For some reason she’d asked my brother to keep me occupied.

I slipped on my jeans and a thick sweater for our trip, then cajoled Mitch to help me pack a picnic lunch.

“I hear Mama’s throwing you small shindig.” I slapped a healthy amount of peanut butter on a piece of whole wheat bread.

Mitch groaned and made a face I knew all too well, dread and doom.

“You know how she is,” he complained.

“Oh, I’m well aware, ‘Honey.’ That’s why I live in California. Mama’s going to love Nikki. You picked a keeper.” What I’d said was true, but it wouldn’t stop Mama from asking Nikki to change her name to something more southern. I finished making the last PB&J sandwich and tossed the dirty knife in the sink.

Mitch pulled four plastic bottles of iced tea from the fridge and set them in the picnic basket. “You’ll come to the party, right?”

“Absolutely.” Once he was looking at me, I tossed him the sandwiches, and he dropped them in the basket, too. “I’m dragging Grey along as my deflector. Mama gets busy trying to impress my fiancé and forgets I’m there to nag. It makes for a more enjoyable visit.”

Mitch pitched himself against the wall and studied me. “Speaking of visits. Nikki and I already agreed to go home for Christmas.”

I didn’t bother to look up from the mess on the counter. I knew where this was heading. “I’m sure you’ll have an enjoyable time.”

“Promise me you and Grey will come, too.”

“I can’t. Sometimes Grey has to leave unexpectedly.” For an excuse it was pretty weak.

“You need to go home and see Mama and Daddy.”

I sighed. “I will. For your party.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I don’t want to argue with you.”

He crossed over to where I was standing and grabbed my hand. “Then agree to come for Christmas.”

“Fine.” Technically, I didn’t commit to a specific Christmas.

Mitch’s smile was so excited I had a twinge of guilt that I was already planning on a way to back out.

He snagged a cheese stick out of the basket and unwrapped it. “I had a nice chat with Caro yesterday. She looks good.”

I swatted at him. “Stop eatin’ the food. Caro’s a Montgomery. It’s genetically predisposed that she always looks good.”

Mitch chuckled.

“What?” I asked, glaring at him.

“The two of you. You’re exactly the same.”

“Oh, no. I’m nothing like Caro. Where’d you see her?”

“She stopped by yesterday.”

I dropped the peanut butter container on the floor and shrieked, “What?” I raced toward Fluffy’s old room.

“What are you doing?” Mitch called out behind me.

I opened Fluffy’s mini safe, which I had never locked. (I couldn’t remember the combination. That’s probably why Caro had made up one.)

A bounty of tiaras sparkled in front of me, but the brooch was gone.

Oh, she was bad. Bad, bad, bad. And I was stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Mitch,” I whacked him on the shoulder, “I can’t believe you just let her walk out of here with my brooch.”

He looked at the safe and then at me. “Well, hell, Mel. How was I supposed to know that when she went to use the bathroom she was really sneaking around looking for that dumb pin?”

I just stared at him.

“Now it makes sense. But at the time
 . . .
” He trailed off. “I’m sorry. Wow. She’s kinda devious.” He sounded impressed.

“You haven’t seen devious. I’ll get my brooch back. And I’ll be wearing it at Christmas.”

You’d better watch your back, Cousin. Here I come.

(Continue reading for an excerpt of
Desperate Housedogs
)

It all started...

With
Desperate Housedogs

Excerpt

Chapter One

I don’t normally break into people’s homes, but today I was making an exception.

Not wanting to make the burglary too obvious, I’d parked my car down the street and fought through the bougainvillea hedge to the back of the house. In southern California the bougainvillea blooms everywhere, luxurious but tough, like old starlets wearing too much pink lipstick. Determination thumped in my chest but I was still as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs. Glancing left and then right to make sure none of the neighbors were around, I flipped up the sand-crusted mat and grabbed the key that lay under it.

My cousin, Melinda, always kept her spare key in the same spot. This particular mat said, “Wipe Your Paws.”

Mel’s place was nice. Not posh, but very nice even by Laguna Beach standards. Not at all like the open spaces we’d grown up with in Texas but nothing to sneeze at. Palm trees and Jacaranda trees surrounded her patio, and morning was already warming the ocean breeze. I unlocked the door and slipped inside. If I were lucky I’d find my target right away and get out quick. If I were really lucky, it would be a few days before Mel realized the brooch was gone.

I stepped into her sunshine-bright kitchen and noted the stack of dirty dishes. I truly wished the girl wouldn’t leave dishes in the sink. Here in the semi-desert you run the risk of bugs. Bugs the size of cocker spaniels.

Eww. I shivered, shaking off the thought like a wet dog shaking off summer rain.

First, I checked the freezer. Not a very original hiding place and not a very effective one either, as I myself had discovered. I’d tried freezer paper and a label that said “Pig Hearts” but Mel had figured it out.

Okay, nothing in there.

Missy, Mel’s bulldog, lumbered into the kitchen, her only greeting an eye roll that said, “Oh, it’s just you.”

I reached down and scratched behind her ears. She leaned into the ear rub. “If only you could talk, sugar. You’d tell me where Mel put it, wouldn’t you?”

Missy gave a low, snuffly bark and butted my hand, effectively sliming it. Bulldogs are pretty darn loyal. Could be she wouldn’t give up the hiding spot even if she knew. She waddled back to the living room and her spot by the picture window, as if to say, “You’re on your own, girl.”

“Fine, Missy. You’re as stubborn as your mama.” I wiped dog drool on my jeans and got back to the task at hand.

Hmmm . . . where would my beautiful (but devious) cousin put the thing? Like a bad Texas summer heat rash, irritation prickled.

Geez Louise, Mel, how long would it have taken to clean up after yourself?

I ran water in the sink and started stacking plates in the dishwasher.

See, that was the problem. Mel’s not a bad kid, and only a couple of years younger than me, but she’s so dang impulsive it seems I’m always cleaning up her messes. Take Mel’s fight with the zoning board over not getting a permit for her new patio or her on-and-off again relationship with Grey Donovan.

Grey is a prince (in the metaphorical sense) and is caught in the unfortunate position of having befriended two headstrong southern women with a competitive streak. We’d inherited it—the competitive streak, I mean. Our mamas had both been Texas beauty queens, and we’d both lived the pageant life—for a while.

That’s to say, until we rebelled. We’d each defied our mothers in our own unique way. Mine a little pushier, but straight-forward. Mel’s a little wilder and out there. But then that kinda sums up everything y’all need to know about the two of us.

More about that later. Right now I had some searching to do before my cousin came home or her
lovely
neighbors called the cops.

I tried her bedroom, the study (junk room in Mel’s case), the bathroom (I was happy to see she was still on her allergy meds), the closet (smaller junk room) and still came up empty-handed. Now, I was back to the kitchen.

Stumped, I stood and looked around, hands on my hips, arms akimbo, mind on hyper drive. It was a funky kitchen but decorated more for fun than utility. Mel’s cookie jar was in the shape of a golden retriever. It was just flat adorable, the dog in a playful ready-to-pounce position. I wondered where she’d gotten it. If we were speaking, I’d ask her. But we’re not.

I couldn’t help it. I shook my finger at the cookie jar.
Melinda Langston, you should not be living on junk food and sweets.

Her freezer’d been full of microwave dinners and her refrigerator completely devoid of any healthy fruits and vegetables. Probably living on processed food and sugar.

Still, Mel had always been a fabulous cook. She just didn’t necessarily follow a recipe. The girl was a bang-up baker though, and cookies were her specialty. My mouth watered. One cookie would never be missed.

Don’t mind if I do, cousin
. I lifted the dog’s butt to help myself and plunged my hand in the cookie jar.

Well, for cryin’ in a bucket! Was the dang thing empty?

I couldn’t believe I’d made the decision to indulge in empty calories only to be thwarted. I rooted around the inside of the cookie jar, my fingers only touching smooth pottery.

Wait. What was that?

Instead of cookies, my hand connected with metal. Grandma Tillie’s brooch. She’d put Grandma Tillie’s brooch—
my
brooch—in a cookie jar.

I pulled it out, brushed off the cookie crumbs, and turned it over carefully to check for damage.

Grandma “Tillie” Matilda Montgomery’s brooch is the ugliest piece of jewelry you’ve ever laid eyes on. A twenty-two karat gold basket filled to the brim with fruit made from precious stones. Diamonds, topaz, emeralds, rubies. It is beyond garish.

Garish and gaudy, but significant. In her will, Grandma Tillie had left it to her “favorite granddaughter.” I knew she meant to leave it to me. Mel was just as convinced she’d left it to her.

I prodded it with my finger.
One of the emeralds might be a teeny bit loose. Promising myself I’d check more thoroughly for damage when I got home, I tucked the brooch in the outside pocket of my handbag and gave it a little pat.

Back with me, where it belonged.

I finished stacking the dishwasher, turned it on, called good-bye to Missy (who ignored me), and let myself out the back. I was just replacing the key when my cell phone rang.

“Hello.” I answered in a low tone. No need to alert the neighbors. I’d made it so far without drawing any attention. Making my way to the front of the house, I walked quickly toward my car.

“Hey, Caro, this is Kevin. Kevin Blackstone.” He sounded frantic. But then I’m used to frantic clients. “I need your help.”

Oh, I don’t think I mentioned it, but I’m Caro Lamont, and when I’m not breaking and entering, I’m the proprietor of Laguna Beach’s Professional Animal Wellness Specialist Clinic. (The PAWS Clinic for short).

I’m not a dog trainer. Tons of other folks are more qualified in that arena. I basically deal with problem pets, which as a rule involves dealing more with the behavior of the humans than the pet. If I suspect a medical problem I refer pet parents to my veterinarian friend, Dr. Daniel Darling.

I could hear the deep barks of his two German Shepherd dogs in the background. It sounded like Kevin had a problem.

Kevin lived in the exclusive Ruby Point gated community just off of Pacific Coast Highway, (fondly referred to as PCH by the locals).

With all the noise, I couldn’t hear what it was Kevin needed.

“I’ll come by in a few minutes.”

I think he said, “okay” but it was difficult to tell over the chaos on his end.

Extremely pleased with myself over the successful retrieval of my inheritance, I climbed in my silver vintage Mercedes convertible. Humming, I thought about the brooch,
my
brooch, safe in my handbag.

It was turning out to be a beautiful day in lovely Laguna Beach.

Life was good.