The Girl With The Dachshund Tattoo Part 2

"Ricky-d.i.c.ky mistreats Zippy. I'm going to make sure someone's there to protect that pup." The determination in her voice rang in my ears.

Could this really be the same woman who'd walked into my shop last December and declared she didn't want a canine and only barely tolerated cats? Something had turned her into a pet activist. Or at least a dachshund activist.

"Look, I'm not sure what you think you saw, but if he had truly hurt Zippy, his nightmarish wife would have taken him down."

Betty stared at me, her gray eyes unblinking. "I know what I saw. I'm not blind. I don't even wear gla.s.ses. He dragged that poor helpless dog around by his leash."

Now that she pointed out her lack of eyegla.s.ses, I wondered when she'd had her eyes checked last. Sidetracked by Betty's eyesight, I missed what she'd said.

"What'd you say?"

"I'll be back," she announced.

I sighed. She was like a dog with a bone. "Do I need to come?"

Betty huffed, offended. "I don't need a babysitter."

I held up my hand. "I was just asking. Do us all a favor and keep a low profile."

"What does that mean?"

"You know exactly what it means. Stay out of trouble."

I don't know what I was thinking, but I should have known better. Betty Foxx and trouble were joined at the geriatric hip.

IT WAS ONE O'CLOCK, and Missy and I had been alone for over an hour. As much as I didn't want to act like the overly concerned employer, I was troubled that Betty hadn't returned. The miniature and lightweight races had wrapped up, and the emcee had recently announced over the loud speaker that the heavyweight races would start in an hour.

"Do you want to go for a walk, girl?"

Missy lifted her head and grunted. She stood up, stretched, then shook off her boredom.

Bark. Lick, lick.

Missy-speak for "Let's. .h.i.t the road."

I snapped on her leash with a loud click. We ambled around the park. Missy relieved herself, and I people-watched. It was a great turnout. The warmth of the sun was like a promise of good things to come. The energy in the air, palpable. I grabbed a gyro, eating lunch as we threaded ourselves through the crowd.

"Hey, there's Zippy," a young boy yelled out in excitement.

I looked in the direction he pointed and caught a glimpse of what looked like Betty jumping around like a toad on hot Texas pavement. The concentration on her face suggested there was more to her determination to see Zippy than fandom.

Zippy and his human, Richard Eriksen, were immediately surrounded by demanding fans. They were far enough away that I could only hear bits and pieces of the conversations over the chatter of the crowd. The longer they stayed, the more people appeared. Missy and I moved closer.

Richard, or as Betty liked to call him, Ricky-d.i.c.ky, was a tall lanky man with a forced smile and a rigid stance.

"Get back," he shouted.

"Don't be an a.s.s. They want his autograph." Gia's bossy voice sliced through the commotion.

The crowd parted enough for me to see a young boy, no more than ten years old, reach out to pet Zippy. Richard yanked on the leash, dragging Zippy backwards. The dog's feet slipped on the gra.s.s, dropping him to a sit position.

"They can stop by the winner's circle after the race. Right now, we have to get to the waiting area," Richard argued.

"It's bad luck to celebrate before a win." I heard Betty's reedy voice drift through the crowd.

Please behave. Please behave.

"Not when you know you'll come out on top." Gia shoved her way into the middle of the group. She reached for Zippy's leash, but Richard refused to relinquish it. Directly behind Gia stood a woman of average height and build with a video camera. Our missing filmmaker? Missy and I slowly inched closer. Her face was obstructed, but I could see her bad haircut clear as day. For once, Betty hadn't exaggerated.

"How would you know that unless you've stacked the deck in your favor?" someone from the crowd shouted.

"Who said that?" Gia shrieked.

"We don't need to stack the deck." Richard's chest puffed with inflated confidence. "Champions are built. Zippy loves to train. Right boy?"

Zippy, who'd been obediently sitting during this entire exchange, barked on cue.

Everyone cheered, and the circle tightened as people rushed to get closer to the dog.

"Back away," Richard growled. "He needs air. He must stretch."

"Your stupid ritual can wait. His fans want to meet him," Gia screeched.

Husband and wife squared off like two tomcats ready to defend their territory. Not exactly the picture of a healthy relationship.

The reigning champion wiggled his long body between a young admirer's legs eager for some well-deserved attention. Richard mumbled a mouthful of colorful language, then tugged on the leash, dragging the pooch beside him.

"Hey," Betty yelled. "You're hurting him."

"He's fine. Mind your own business."

Betty shot Ricky-d.i.c.ky a hateful look. "I've seen how you tug on the leash and yank him around. Just because he doesn't whimper doesn't mean he's not hurt. You're choking him."

Missy and I moved faster trying to reach Betty before she said something she'd regret, but the crowd blocked us from any forward progress. A couple of young surfers tossed me a disgusted look. What was their problem? It wasn't as if I was trying to cut to the front of the Taco Bell line.

"Did I ask for your opinion?" Ricky-d.i.c.ky's face turned a dark shade of red. His cold brown eyes bored into Betty. "That's right, I didn't."

"I've been watching you. You're mean to that sweet dog. You don't deserve him. Either of you." Her voice grew more agitated.

I'd never heard her so angry. My stomach knotted. She's wasn't a spring chick. Someone his size could easily hurt her.

I picked up Missy, worried she'd be stepped on, and elbowed my way into the crowd. "Excuse me, I need to get through."

A handful of people let us through, but the majority refused to let us get closer.

"Are you the one who's been following us today?" Gia's unkind laugh filled the stunned silence.

I hoped Gia was mistaken, and Betty hadn't followed anyone.

"He took away his food. When Zippy wanted a drink, you took away his water bowl," Betty yelled.

She was too short for me to see if she was in physical danger, but I imagined her balled fists at her side, ready to defend herself or the dog. I continued to shove my way through the crowd, praying I'd reach Betty before one of the Eriksens hurt her.

"You need to get your eyes checked, you pajama-wearing wacko. Have you looked in the mirror?" Ricky-d.i.c.ky bellowed.

Betty sucked in a breath. "You two are the crazy ones."

"Stay out of my business. You don't know what you're talking about." He pushed past the group of gawkers.

I got a quick peek of Betty as she stepped directly into his path. "You don't deserve that dog."

He muttered something as he pushed Betty aside. She stumbled backward and fumbled for her handbag.

"Hey," I yelled, propelling myself forward. "Don't touch her."

"You're insane, lady. Put away the gun." Ricky-d.i.c.ky's tone was no longer angry, but scared.

Gun?

Chaos erupted. People screamed and ran directly into my path. c.r.a.p. Protecting Missy the best I could, I took off toward the crazy lady in silk pajamas, who pointed a handgun at a perfectly normal-looking man and his dog.

I half expected to hear gunshots over the frightened screeching any second. But by the time I reached Betty, she was alone. Everyone was gone.

And Betty's gun along with them.

Chapter Three.

SO MUCH FOR keeping a low profile.

I pulled Betty behind the corn dog trailer. It smelled like fear and hot grease.

"Where in all of Texas did you get a gun?" I bellowed, sounding like a mixture of Grey and my Grandma Tillie.

Betty blinked. "My son-in-law, Duane. After that crazy broad tried to kill us at Christmas."

An older couple stared at us as they walked past. I flashed a smile, as I pulled Betty further away from the pathway.

I lowered my voice. "So he thought the answer was to give you a firearm? Do you have a permit?" Forgive me for my ageism, but what I really wanted know was if it was legal for someone her age to carry a weapon.

She tilted her head. "Of course. Weren't you listening to me? I took a cla.s.s."

"A self-defense cla.s.s. Not target practice to carry a concealed weapon."

She sighed dramatically. "Cookie, you need to pay more attention. I took that self-defense course months ago. The same one your sneaky cousin, Caro, took. By the way, she was pretty good. You better not let her get the drop on you. Anyway, after I learned all those self-defense moves, I signed up for a gun safety cla.s.s. Once I pa.s.sed that, I applied for my permit. It arrived in the mail a few days ago."

"That's it? You get a piece of paper and suddenly you're allowed to carry a gun?"

"It's America," Betty stated, as if that explained everything.

I took a deep calming breath, and pushed the bangs from my eyes. "Why did you aim it at Richard like a hoodlum?"

"He attacked me."

"No, darlin'. He wasn't attacking you. He wanted to get away from you." Not that anyone would blame him.

She pondered that for a minute. Her narrow fingers tapped the outside of her purse in what sounded like an SOS signal. Any other time, I might have found her antics amusing. Not today.

"Where's the gun?" I asked.

"She took it."

"Who's she?"

"The girl with the dachshund tattoo. The one making the dogumentary. She recorded everything."

I rubbed my eyes. Bad, bad, bad. "I don't understand. Why in Sam Hill did you give her your gun?"

She reached up to pat my shoulder. "Cookie, are you okay? You're not keeping up with the conversation. It's not mine. Remember, the gun belongs to my son-in-law? Um, you wouldn't mind telling him you lost it, would you?"

"h.e.l.l, no. You've got to find, that girl-the girl with the dachshund tattoo-and get that gun back."

I've been known to be impulsive and make some decisions that have turned out less than spectacular, but I would never let someone, especially a stranger, take my firearm.

When had I become the responsible one?

"Betty, you don't know what she'll do with it. We have to get it back."

"What do you think she'd do? Hold up a group of doxies and demand their prize money?" She rolled her eyes.

I didn't want to think about the ramifications of that whole episode being filmed by someone with an unknown agenda. And I certainly didn't want to dwell on the possibilities of what a dishonest person might do with someone else's firearm.

The look on my face must have communicated my seriousness.

Betty held up her hands in surrender. "Okay. Okay. She can't be that hard to find. She's got a camera. And a dachshund tattoo on the back of her neck."

That did narrow it down. "Describe her. In detail," I ordered.

"You aren't paying attention today. I already told you what she looked like."

Wonderful. I was looking for a sweaty rock star with a dog tattoo and smeared eyeliner, carrying a gun and an oversized camera. "You take the east side of the field and I'll take the west. If either of us sees Darby, we fill her in. We need all the help we can get."

Betty hiked her handbag onto her shoulder. "What about our booth? Who's gonna sell our stuff? Who's going to keep people from stealing it?"