The Girl With The Dachshund Tattoo Part 12

"Actually, Gia agreed to let me run a few tests. Everything came back negative."

Why keep that a secret? She was proving to be an accomplished liar. "She's not doping him?"

The boyish grin transformed into his serious doctor scowl. "It's not that simple. I have to test for specific drugs. I tested for five drugs; he tested negative for those five."

"Did you suggest which drugs to test for?"

He nodded. "I did. After I'd talked to the filmmaker-"

"I wanted to talk to you about her," I said.

Daniel looked confused by my sudden interjection. I was about to ask him about Stephanie, when Mr. TV strolled inside, hijacking my tte--tte.

"Well, h.e.l.lo there. We meet again." He flashed a roguish smile at me.

"I thought I left you at the coffee shop. I'd think a serious journalist wouldn't choose to hang out at a wiener race."

"Ah, but as you pointed out yesterday, not everything is what it seems."

There was no way to tell if he was talking about himself, me, or the race. Either way, I didn't want to know. I'm sure there were those who found his twinkling eyes and witty conversation adorable, but I wasn't one of them.

"I find that we're both here to question the good doctor intriguing." He held out his hand in Daniel's direction. "Callum MacAvoy, Channel 5 News."

"Noon reporter," I clarified, with a cheeky smile.

They clasped hands. "Daniel Darling." Daniel's curious gaze darted between the reporter and me.

"Daniel and I are friends. I wasn't questioning him," I said, clearing up Mr. TV's a.s.sumption.

"My apologies. It only sounded like an interrogation."

Daniel's brown eyes narrowed. "How can I help you, Mr. MacAvoy?"

"I was hoping you could shed light on the doping allegation. I've heard from a couple of sources who are concerned about Zippy taking a supplement. Can you confirm if that's true?"

I was surprised to hear he was investigating the doping angle. Had he overheard my conversation with Daniel?

"To my knowledge, the dog is clean."

Mr. TV pulled out a pen and notebook from inside his blazer pocket. "Then you have tested the dog?"

"I thought murder was your story?" I asked.

"A good reporter follows every thread."

A good reporter follows every thread, I mimicked silently. I didn't want to listen to him pontificate on how to be a great reporter. Could he possibly be anymore condescending?

"Doctor, did you test Zippy at the urging of the racing organization?"

Daniel shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm not at liberty to answer your questions. Perhaps you should talk to Hagan Stone. Mel, is there anything else you needed?"

I wanted to ask him about Stephanie. I bit my lip as I quickly searched for a way to get rid of Mr. TV.

MacAvoy tapped his notebook with his pen. "I can tell you're itching to ask him something, Melinda. Don't let my presence stop you."

"Don't flatter yourself." I faced Daniel wide-eyed, hoping he'd get the message I was sending. "About your early morning visitor," I prompted.

Daniel looked like a confused charade player who had no idea how to interpret his partner's clues.

"She's talking about the girl with the dachshund tattoo," MacAvoy b.u.t.ted in.

I jerked my head around and slung an irritated glare at him. "You are annoying."

"Who?" Daniel asked.

"The filmmaker," I explained. "Did she say where she'd be today?"

"Not specifically."

I smiled insincerely at MacAvoy. "Excuse us." There was no need to play coy any longer.

I grabbed Daniel's arm and dragged him away from MacAvoy. As quietly as I could, I recounted Betty's story about how Stephanie, aka the girl with the dachshund tattoo, had taken Betty's gun.

"I wish I'd known about this sooner. I could have helped," he said softly. "I wonder why Betty didn't mentioned this when I saw her yesterday," he mused.

"You saw Betty yesterday too?" My voice squeaked. I looked over my shoulder at MacAvoy. He waved. Ugh.

"Yes," Daniel said.

I knew him well enough to know when he was keeping something confidential. "When exactly? Give me a time."

He walked toward the door. "I'm not sure. I wasn't watching the clock."

I grabbed his arm, forgetting all about MacAvoy. "If you can give her alibi, please do."

He shook his head. "I can't. I saw her after Richard's shooting."

"Did she come here or did you see her around the park?"

With a heavy sigh, he crossed his arms and asked, "What's with all the questions, Mel?"

"Besides the fact that she's a murder suspect, and Mr. TV over there stopped short of reporting her as a person of interest on the news last night?"

He whistled softly. "There's more?"

"Yes. Betty's disappearing without a word to anyone, dodging her daughter, and missing work. I'm concerned."

Daniel turned more tightlipped than usual. "If she is hiding something, I'm sure she has a very good reason."

I wanted to shake the information out of him. "She confided in you?" I had no idea they were so close.

Daniel shrugged. "I'm sorry. That's all I can say."

"I might be able to help." MacAvoy's rich voice shot through the tent like an arrow.

For a price. He didn't say the words, but they hung in the air nonetheless.

Accepting a.s.sistance from Callum MacAvoy would be like dancing with the devil.

"I'll take my chances elsewhere. Daniel, thanks for the help. I have to set up the booth." I spun around and marched out of the tent.

Chapter Fifteen.

I BARGED OUT OF Dr. Daniel's tent and smacked into a frazzled pet.i.te brunette, knocking her off her feet. The contents of my backpack spilled onto the gra.s.s like candy from a busted piata.

"I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" I offered her a hand.

The woman looked up. Dark eyes peeked through limp locks of hair. It was Fallon Keller, the protester who'd been arguing with Richard before he died. The day was turning around.

"I'm fine," she replied through gritted teeth, refusing my offer.

I dropped to my hands and knees and gathered my personal items. I scooped up my keys, the dog antidepressant brochure, lip balm, and wallet. Fallon handed me my cell phone.

"Thanks. I think I've seen you before. Weren't you protesting yesterday?" I kept my head down and aimed for a nonchalant tone of voice.

She scrambled to her feet. "Maybe."

I gathered the last few items out of the thick gra.s.s, cramming everything inside my bag as quickly as possible before jumping to my feet. We each took a moment to brush ourselves off. I wasn't very meticulous since I was wearing yesterday's jeans and T-shirt. Fallon, on the other hand, had worn a trendy, long maxi-dress with a white jean jacket. A little dirt and gra.s.s stains would be noticeable.

As she continued to inspect herself, I pressed for a little chat. "I have to admit, I was surprised to see picketers. I had no idea there was any type of controversy around wiener racing."

Her small face tightened with pa.s.sionate disapproval. "These races promote animal exploitation, cheating, and gambling. Our organization would rather encourage compet.i.tions which demonstrate doxies' natural agility and field-tracking skills. Did you know there are Dachshund Dashes held on ice rinks? That's extremely dangerous. The lack of traction has led to horrible spinal injuries."

I didn't know. As fanatical as she sounded, she made valid points. About ice races anyway. "But we're racing in the gra.s.s. At a dog park."

"You have no idea what these owners are willing to do behind the scenes. It's appalling." She pointed at a sheet of paper lying in the gra.s.s behind me. "You missed something."

It was the photo of Fallon and Richard. My breath caught. This could be bad.

"Thanks," I said, as we reached for it at the same time.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed it from my grip. "Where'd you get this?" Her voice rose in what sounded like panic.

I grabbed it back. "The event photographer took it yesterday." No use beating around the bush now. "How do you know Richard?"

She hesitated. "Everyone knows Zippy and the Eriksens."

"But not everyone wants to beat Mr. Eriksen with a picket sign. What were you two fighting about?"

"We weren't fighting. We hardly knew each other."

I looked at the photo. I wasn't buying it. People who didn't know each other, didn't glare at one another with that much emotion. I held up the paper. "Really? Looks like you were about to whack him with your sign."

"That's not what happened," she denied, stepping back.

"What was it then?"

"I was surprised. I lost my grip on the wooden handle. That's all."

My eyes narrowed in skepticism. "Surprised about what?"

She pressed her lips together. "That's not really any of your business."

"You're absolutely right. But the police have a copy of this photo." I shook the paper. "It's only a matter of time before they talk to you. Whatever you're hiding will come out. Think of this as an opportunity to hone your answer."

"Was he upset that you'd tipped off the filmmaker about Zippy's retirement?" MacAvoy asked from behind me.

I spun around to face Mr. TV. d.a.m.n him. Why didn't I hear him creep up on us? How much had he overheard?

"How did you know about that?" Fallon's eyes darted around like a runaway bride looking for an escape route.

It was true? Well that could be a real game-changer.

"Yeah, how did you know about that?" I didn't want to be impressed, but I felt a temporary crack in my disdain for Mr.TV. Maybe he was better at research than I had given him credit for. Or more likely, he had real sources.

"Isn't that what you told the filmmaker yesterday? That Richard Eriksen had confided in you about retiring Zippy after this weekend's race?" he asked Fallon.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about."

He pulled out the same small notebook he'd held just minutes earlier and flipped through it. "I saw her interviewing the protesters for her dogumentary. You were there."

"That doesn't prove anything," she snapped.

She was right. But I was finally starting to push past my distrust of Callum MacAvoy and decode his insistence that he had something I wanted-the girl with the dachshund tattoo. "It does if the filmmaker told MacAvoy."

He smiled. "You're starting to pay attention."

"Well, you did try and tell me you had something I wanted. I just didn't realize 'something' meant 'someone'," I conceded reluctantly. "This doesn't mean we're friends. I'm angry that you talked about Betty on the air."

He grinned. "You saw that?"

"Don't sound so impressed. I'm not signing up for your fan club." I switched my focus back to Fallon who trembled like a frightened Chihuahua. In the words of Grandma Tillie, she was "as antsy as a Baptist at a poker table."