Get Fluffy (3 page)

Chapter Four

Sometimes I find myself on the brink of trouble without trying. It was doubtful I’d “regret” ordering Mona and her lap dog, Tricia, out of Bow Wow. Although I had to admit, I hadn’t thought through what I’d meant by “take you down.” That was an unfortunate choice of words.

I’d like to report Mona and Tricia had immediately skedaddled, but that’s not how it played out. They’d split on their terms—right after Mona had received an “urgent” call from the pet psychic, Josephine “Jo” O’Malley.

My loyal customers had been all abuzz about how I’d stood up to Mona—half proud, the other half worried about the repercussions. Their concern was unexpected, touching and probably warranted.

God bless Darby, she’d had my back the whole time and stuck around until the last customers had toted their purchases out the door. Darby was top dog in my book.

It was three o’clock, and I was starving. I locked the shop to woof down a late lunch. I’d just swallowed a mouthful of turkey and avocado sandwich when Darby pounded on Bow Wow’s front door. I dropped my food on the counter and scrambled to let her in, my boots squeaking on the hardwood floor.

I swung the door open, and the salty ocean breeze rushed inside. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

Darby swept past me, looking very Annie Leibovitz in her black button-up shirt and jeans.

“I’m not alone,” she said.

Sixty pounds of sleek muscle trailed behind her. Fluffy.

“Where in Sam Hill did she come from?” I choked out, shutting the door behind them.

Fluffy paused next to the Louis Vuitton dog carriers and shook. Stray fur and a handful of leaves landed on the throw rug. She blithely scanned the empty shop, nose and tail in the air.

That dog had more attitude than an Orange County teenager.

“I was propping my ‘I’m next door’ sign in the window, when Cliff’s Land Rover sped by. That’s when I noticed Fluffy.”

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time Cliff had ditched Fluffy at my boutique. A while back, he’d petitioned the court for a neutral meeting point, arguing Mona’s mansion was a hostile environment. The judge had decided that, for the welfare of the dog, the hand-over had to happen at a place familiar to Fluffy, but not at either residence. I don’t think the judge meant Bow Wow.

“Come here, girl,” I called out.

Fluffy’s dark almond-shaped eyes regarded me skeptically. The aloof expression she carried so effortlessly was firmly in place. With a shake of her head, she strutted to my office in the back. If history was an indicator, she was headed for Missy’s dog bed.

“Good thing Missy’s home.” Unsure of how the day’s events would unfold, I’d left her at the house where she could sleep in peace.

Darby and I plopped onto the stools behind the counter. She tossed her keys next to my water bottle and snagged a salt ‘n vinegar chip. She popped it in her mouth and immediately made a sour face. I slid the bag closer to her. The sound of our crunching chips filled the silence.

“I thought Cliff only had Fluffy on Wednesdays and every other weekend?” Darby asked. “It’s Monday.”

“That’s what I thought, too. Hey, about earlier. Mona got a little crazy. Are you okay?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I’m fine. What about you?” Concern shadowed her delicate features.

“I’m relieved they finally left. Thanks for sticking around. You didn’t need to, but I really appreciate it.”

She bumped her shoulder against mine. “That’s what best friends do. So
 . . .
guess who my last-minute client is.” Darby’s blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Male or female?” I loved this game. Darby’s popularity was growing, and in a tight-knit community like Laguna, that translated into loyal customers.

Before she could answer, the door flew open and Jo O’Malley, pet psychic extraordinaire, burst inside. The smell of motorcycle exhaust and burnt dog treats trailed behind her.

Her tangled red hair whipped her face, causing her to look like she’d just gone ten rounds with a paddle brush and can of hair spray. And lost.

“Her?” I asked under my breath while giving Darby the what-were-you-thinking look. “You’re a
pet photographer.
”

“She talks to animals.” Darby wiped her salt-covered fingers on her jeans and then hopped off the stool. “Close enough for me.”

Jo didn’t exactly fit the stereotypical idea of what a pet psychic looked like. You know, they were either all-business or bohemian gypsy. She was one hundred percent a motorcycle chick.

Her wrinkled black tank top was partially tucked into the front of her torn jeans. And not the kind of jeans you’d buy torn. She’d come by
those
rips honestly.

I couldn’t badmouth her motorcycle boots since I was currently wearing the same ones. But the humongous Lassie tattoo on her upper left arm
 . . .
well, that just made me smile.

“Do you think Lassie barks when there’s trouble?” I asked, quietly.

Darby coughed back a giggle and shot me a look meant to keep me quiet. She snatched the keys to her studio, then met Jo next to the display of small dog sweaters and dresses.

“Thanks for getting me in at the last minute,” Jo’s raspy voice reverberated throughout the quiet shop. “I normally get those free ones online. I thought I’d go for a more professional look. You know, now that business has picked up.”

Oh. My. Lord. It took all my will power not to roll my eyes. She wouldn’t know professional if it was a Doberman Pinscher and it bit her in the butt.

“No problem,” Darby said. “There’s a dressing room at Paw Prints if you’d like to change.”

Jo looked herself over. “Change into what?”

Darby had her hands full with this one. I slid off the stool and joined them, curious about the emergency call earlier this afternoon.

“Congratulations. I couldn’t help but overhear that your business is doing well,” I said to Jo.

She frowned, making her look much older than her thirty-years. “You sound surprised. Doesn’t everyone want to understand their pet?”

I was hard pressed to take her seriously. In my humble opinion, she was nuttier than a fruitcake. Once, she’d told me Missy chewed a pair of strappy Marc Jacobs heels because she didn’t feel pretty. Missy (her papered name is Miss Congeniality) has won her share of ugliest bulldog contests and is well aware she’s “unattractive.” Let’s not even bring up her hideous under bite. It didn’t take a pet psychic to know Missy had chewed my heels because I’d left them on the bedroom floor, and she was
bored
.

“I’m not surprised,” I said, “but I am curious as to what constitutes an emergency pet reading?”

She blinked twice, then narrowed her eyes and assessed me. I’d spent enough time around “users” and “haters” to recognize that gleam in her eyes. She was looking for my weaknesses.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I’m sure Mel didn’t mean anything,” Darby said quickly, her eyes sending me a silent message.

I automatically produced my beauty pageant smile meant to inspire trust and reassurance. Darby shook her head. She wasn’t voting for me.

I returned my attention to Jo. “Mona was here when you called. I didn’t realize you could have a reading without the pet.”

Her face softened and became almost ethereal. “They don’t need to be present in order for me to have an accurate reading. I tune into the animals’ energy.”

I wondered if she was tuning into my energy. It screamed
phony
. Fluffy currently snoozed away in my backroom, and Jo The Magnificent hadn’t picked up on a thing.

“So you’d be able to tune into Fluffy’s ‘energy’ from here, no matter where she was?”

Jo tilted her head to the side, her eyelids flittering as she spoke. “Fluffy’s energy is very dynamic. If she wanted to tell me something, I would know.”

“Like this afternoon?” I asked.

“My appointments are confidential. I will tell you this much. Fluffy came to me in a dream. To warn me. I was obligated to tell Mona. Any decent person would have done the same.” Gone was the light airy tone. Her foghorn voice was back in control, and the Lassie tattoo growled.

Well, okay then.

Jo turned and slithered toward the door. “Let’s go, Darby. I have an appointment this evening.”

I had more questions than answers. That wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

Chapter Five

Mona was missing.

Not kidnapped missing. Missing as in, the boutique closed in ten minutes, and you-know-who was still roaming through the shop. I’d left two voicemails for Mona and hadn’t heard a word. I didn’t like where this was heading.

Fluffy had decided to grace me with her presence and was shoving her pointy nose in my merchandise and sniffing loudly.

“Come on, Fluffy. Give it a rest. Wanna Bowser Treat?” I pulled a biscuit out of the jar by the register and waved it in her direction. She scrutinized me in her regal disposition, unimpressed.

The front door opened and Don Furry, an ARL volunteer, entered.

“Hey, Don,” I greeted. “How’s it going?”

He waved hello. “Fine. Just fine. I thought I’d stop in and see if you had—” He stopped in his tracks. “Th-that’s Mona’s dog.”

“Sure is.” I dropped the treat back into the jar.

“Is
she
here?” he asked in a nervous whisper.

I shook my head, slightly amused at his odd reaction. “Nope. Fluffy’s officially a stray.”

He blinked, puzzled. “Fluffy’s not a stray.”

“Okay, she’s been abandoned.” Fluffy casually sauntered over to Don and me. She sniffed Don’s pants and then sneezed twice. She looked up at me and, I swear, if she had an eyebrow, it’d be arched.

Don’s eyes practically popped out of his head.

I really wanted to laugh, but I could see Don was not amused at Fluffy’s antics. “She’s an actor. Those were probably fake sneezes. What can I do for you?”

“I, ah, I stopped by to pick up the towels you said you’d set aside for the ARL.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off Fluffy.

I’d forgotten all about the donation. “I’ve got the box in the backroom. I’ll be right back. Would you keep an eye on the dog? She’s been sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.”

I was gone about a minute and returned with a large cardboard box filled with linens. “I threw in some sheets and blankets, too.”

“Thanks, Mel. So, what are you going to do with
 . . .
” He nodded toward Fluffy.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. You want to take her back to the ARL with you?” I teased.

He held up his hands, his clean shaven face pale. “We don’t have room.”

“Since when?”

“Today.” His bald head glistened with beads of sweat.

“Okay, spill it. What’s going on?”

“We really are full. Did you hear about the puppy mill raid? We took in twenty-six dogs a couple of days ago.”

That wasn’t the whole story. I’d never heard Don turn away a dog. “What aren’t you saying?”

He checked his watch, then looked around as if he was about to disclose a national secret. “Mona’s our biggest benefactor. Every year, following the Fur Ball, she makes her largest contribution. If I take Fluffy, it could cost the ARL millions.
MILLIONS
. I can’t take that chance.”

He was right. Mona was spiteful enough to punish the ARL because of some perceived slight. “It’s okay, Don. I was just teasing you,” I said. “I’ll take care of Her Highness. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got it all under control.”

Chapter Six

The only thing I had under control was my wardrobe.

I’d left Mona a third voicemail. Still no callback. I’d called Darby, asking her to drop by my place to let Missy out while I dealt with Fluffy. You guessed it—I got her voicemail, too. I left a message and crossed my fingers that she’d hear it sooner rather than later.

I could have picked up Missy myself, but I didn’t want to subject her to a Mona tirade for drooling on the marble foyer. There were some hygiene problems a girl just couldn’t help.

Getting Fluffy into the Jeep was easier in theory than action. She’s one stubborn dog, but we finally came to an understanding.

I pointed the Jeep south on Pacific Coast Highway (PCH to the locals). With the top off, every once in a while I could hear the crashing waves. I lowered the visor, blocking the glare of blushing pink swirls and the blaze of brilliant orange streaking the sky. I sighed in contentment. Another spectacular evening in paradise.

I made my way to the prestigious gated community, Sapphire Bay. Being rich wasn’t enough to live on the other side of the iron gate. You had to be vetted, sponsored and have more money than God.

I rolled to a stop next to the security shack. Mr. Rent-A-Cop stuck his head out the window. He was on the downhill side of middle-aged with a bushy gray mustache. Faded green eyes scrutinized us through his bifocals. He recognized Fluffy right away. I, on the other hand, got a complete once over, including a raised unibrow.

“Name,” he asked, completely unimpressed I had Mona’s dog.

“Melinda Langston.”

He reviewed the clipboard in his hand. Non-residents didn’t just waltz thought the hallowed entrance. Someone had to authorize your visit. I was ninety-nine percent sure I wasn’t on “the list.”

I slid him a beauty queen smile and fibbed like a five-year-old. “Mona had an unexpected emergency and asked me to bring Fluffy home. She assured me she’d let someone know I was coming.”

He tucked his clipboard under his arm. “Sorry.”

I eyed him, considering my next move. “I guess you’re right. I certainly wouldn’t want you to do anything that might get you into trouble.” I put the Jeep in neutral and pulled up the emergency brake. “I’ll just leave Fluffy with you. I’ll let Mona know where to pick her up.”

He grunted. Looking past his skepticism and the community rules, he let us through the gate.

I followed the smattering of wispy palm trees to Mona’s oceanfront mansion. I pulled into the circular drive and parked next to the fountain.

“Let me refresh your memory on the Mel-Rules. I’m the human. No gloating. No dragging. Got it?”

Fluffy pawed at the door and whined.

“Good grief. Let me grab my bag and cell.”

Unlike the dog, I wasn’t in a big hurry. The last person I wanted to see was Mona. If I was lucky, the housekeeper, Camilla, would open the door and take Fluffy off my hands.

I went around to the passenger side and opened the door. I attached the leash to Fluffy’s diamond-studded collar and released her from the safety belt. The second I stepped back, the crazy dog jumped out and dragged me toward the multi-story Mediterranean-style home.

So much for the rules. Fluffy could use a visit from a pet therapist I knew. Once we reached the front door, Fluffy stopped and looked at me expectantly.

“
Hello?
I’m the human. I thought we had an agreement?” I could tell from her expression she didn’t care about what I was saying. She wanted in. I wanted to go home. I rang the bell.

Cathedral-style bells filled the inside of the house. Okay, it wasn’t really church bells, but it could have been. I looked down at Fluffy, who didn’t seem at all bothered by the flamboyance.

“Really? This is what you come home to every day?”

We waited. No one came.

I rang the bell again.

Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong.

Just shoot me now. Please.

We continued to wait.

Fluffy grew more restless with each passing second, which made me equally antsy. Having the dog was a perfectly legitimate reason to walk inside, but my southern manners dictated I wait for someone to invite me in. Well, that and the security system.

I pounded on the door. Fluffy continued to whine and paw. Still, no one came. Forget manners. Forget the alarm. I tried the door.

Unbelievably, it swung open. And there was no screeching alarm.

“Wow.” I glanced behind me before I took a couple of steps. As soon as my foot hit the marble entryway, Fluffy lunged forward, taking me for another drag. She stopped in the middle of an ornate foyer bigger than my entire living room and kitchen combined.

“Hello? Anyone home?” My voice echoed in the empty silence.

I expected the housekeeper to appear any second. “Camilla? Mona?”

Fluffy strained against the leash as she edged her way toward the stairs. The moment I unhooked her, she charged up the curved oak staircase leading to what I assumed was her wing of the house. I waited for Mona to make her trademark entrance, descending the staircase like a classic Hollywood actress ready for her close-up, but she was a no-show.

Then it hit me, Mona was probably at Bow Wow. Her Jag wasn’t in the drive, although it could be in the garage. It would be just like Mona to come when it was convenient for her.

I quickly pulled my cell from my purse and punched in her number. Within seconds a cell phone rang behind me. I spun around. Mona’s phone was on the hall table.

I grabbed it. “That’s not good.”

I ended the call, absently dumping the phones in my purse, and then dropping it on the hall table.

“Mona,” I called out louder. Where the heck was she? I couldn’t leave Fluffy behind until I knew Mona was home. Good grief, she better not have taken a spontaneous trip to the Caymans.

I climbed the stairs two at a time. “Mona. I’ve delivered your dog.”

Fluffy poked her head around the corner and barked as I reached the top of the stairs.

I jumped back. It was the first time I’d heard her bark without a cue. Or a camera.

“What’s gotten into you?”

Fluffy planted her feet and barked again.

“I’m not allowed up here?”

Her dark eyes bored into mine, then she quickly turned and trotted down the hallway.

“Oh, now I speak dog,” I muttered.

I bought her Lassie act and followed. We zigged through hallways, zagged past a half dozen rooms, and I wondered if I should’ve left a trail of bread crumbs. Finally Fluffy stopped in front of a closed door, looking more exasperated than usual.

I rolled my eyes. Lord, she was demanding. “All that barking because you can’t get to your throne?”

I opened the door. She pushed past me and sniffed around. I took a quick peek and realized it was Mona’s bedroom.

Being more than a little curious, I left my southern manners in the hallway and allowed myself a quick look. I was immediately drawn to the beautiful oil canvas of an Italian river sunset hanging at the head of her king sized bed. The blush colored duvet cost more than my brand new Jeep.

Way too much white, gold and fringe for my taste, but it fit Mona perfectly. A beautiful tall armless chair was precisely positioned in the corner. I could easily imagine Mona lounging aristocratically, Fluffy at her feet. It was all very old Hollywood.

My eye was drawn to the dozens of framed photos of Fluffy. On the beach, at a dog show, on the set of
The Guiding Lighthouse
, Fluffy with Julia Roberts. (Okay, I had to do a double take on that one. I swear to the Lord Almighty, Fluffy’s hair was styled exactly like Julia’s. They were
twins.
)

I turned to leave and stopped in my tracks. Right above the fireplace hung a life-sized gilded-framed painting of the dynamic duo—side-by-side, matching hair color and aristocratic expressions, with Mona’s arm draped over Fluffy’s back. The adoration on Mona’s face was obvious. The painting was beautiful and, at the same time, a little creepy.

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 her way and trotted down the hallway to the next room. Once again, I followed. Certainly, whatever was behind door number two would be equally draped in luxurious excess and might give a clue to Mona’s whereabouts.

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 dead. Deader than a stuffed Poodle.