The Girl With The Dachshund Tattoo Part 30

I raised an eyebrow. I couldn't recall a time I'd ever seen her nervous. "You smoked? When?"

She waved her hand dismissively, yet managed to make it look graceful. "Years ago. Before you and Mitch.e.l.l were born."

I smiled. "That's scandalous."

"I've had my moments. What did Grey do?"

I sighed. "We, Mama. We stopped trusting each other."

She didn't say a word for a full minute. We stood in silence with only the clock ticking in the background.

"What was supposed to be in the jacket?" she asked.

I pressed my lips together, warring with myself if I should tell her or not. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Grandma Tillie's brooch."

She expertly arched a dark brown eyebrow. "I see. And where is it now?"

Yeah, this was the sticky part. "I'm not sure. Probably with Caro."

"Why in Sam Hill would he give your brooch to Carolina?"

I shrugged. "Because he thinks I stole it from her unfairly."

"Did you?"

I thought about it for a second. "No, Mama, I didn't. However, my covert actions hurt Grey because I didn't trust him."

"So you tried to fix the situation by giving your brooch to Grey?"

I nodded.

"Melinda, why would you close the barn door when the horses are already out?"

"I was tryin' to do the right thing," I said exasperated. I knew it would become my fault.

Mama shook her head. "You know what your daddy would say about all of this?"

I rolled my eyes so hard it took me back to my teenage years. "Good judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment." I quoted. I'd heard that sayin' for most of my doggone life. Unfortunately, it was accurate.

"No. He'd tell you to keep your saddle oiled and your gun greased."

The grat.i.tude and love I felt for Mama at the moment was evident by the humongous smile on my face. I guess sometimes a girl did need her mama. I heard what she was telling me loud and clear.

Always be prepared so when opportunity came knocking, you were ready to invite her inside.

Look out, Caro. Here I come.

The End (Please continue reading for an excerpts of Fifty Shades of Greyhound and lots more information about the author) Fifty Shades of Greyhound (excerpt) Mel's cousin Caro, a Laguna Beach pet therapist, has the same knack for finding trouble among the town's pampered pets and their equally pampered owners.

The crime was doggone sinister. Soon, the police would be barking up the wrong tree.

"Catnip for mystery fans!"

-Maggie, the cat of Donald Bain (Murder She Wrote Series)

Chapter One.

IT WAS A KILLER party.

Blanche LeRue, CEO of Greys Matter, barked orders for more seating, more native California bubbly, and more gourmet shrimp appetizers. I'm sure Blanche hoped the overflow crowd translated to big donations for the Greyhound rescue.

Her dress was a formal length charcoal satin that complemented her tall, reed-like figure. A commanding woman, she wore her chin-length silver hair in a way that framed her narrow face yet still managed to look more regal than severe. But make no mistake, Blanche LeRue was a regal with a cause. And that cause was Greyhound rescue.

I know it must seem to y'all that I'm always at some big fancy schmancy party. You've probably also noted that it's usually an animal-related fancy schmancy deal. You'd be right. That's me, Caro Lamont, pet therapist and big-time subscriber to the there-are-no-bad-pets-just-uneducated-pet-parents philosophy.

My Laguna Beach pet therapy business is called PAWS, which stands for Professional Animal Wellness Specialist, but, in truth, I work more with problem people than problem pets.

Invitations to charity events abound in this pet-friendly southern California haven, but tonight's gala was a special one, the Fifty Shades of Greyhound Charity Ball, at D'Orange Maison, a gorgeous historic ranch estate just outside of Laguna Beach. The main house had recently been spiffed up, the huge rooms used for wedding receptions, political affairs, celebrity functions, and events such as this five-thousand-dollar-a-ticket fund-raiser.

The room was shades of gray everywhere. Pale gray skirting and deep gray brocade tablecloths, slate-colored vases filled with silver floral arrangements.

I know what you're thinking: they were playing off the mega success of a book that started with the same phrase. Well, you'd probably be right, but you have to admit it was for a great cause. And there were truly fifty, count them, fifty real live Greyhounds of varying shades staged at strategic places around the room. Most sat at attention at the feet of their owners or handlers. Though all the dogs were not gray-some white, some black, and still others fawn or brindle-all were adorned with gray leather collars. Blanche LeRue was nothing if not a detail person.

There were many wonderful Greyhound rescue groups in California, but Greys Matter was, in my opinion, one of the best. I hoped the clink and clatter of the crystal and china as waiters refilled champagne gla.s.ses and people filled their plates was echoed by the cha-ching of hefty contributions to the rescue group.

Speaking of details, Blanche and her event committee had come up with the idea of silver-framed signs around the room printed with factoids about Greyhounds. It was a superb idea. What a great way to convey important information to attendees without some talking head standing at a microphone. I'd seen it time and time again-people who'd paid a pricey admission impatiently waiting for a speaker to be done so they could resume their conversations. People were still waiting, but they were waiting in line to pile gourmet food on their china. And the Greys Matter crew had made sure the buffet tables were placed strategically close to the framed signs. Brilliant.

Part of the fun of attending events like this one was the people-watching. There's always more to people than what you first noticed. Ever a student of human behavior, I loved the opportunity to observe.

Which was why I stood watching people while Sam Gallanos, my-well heck, what was Sam?

My friend? No, we're more than friends. My lover? No, less than that one? My escort? Now that just sounds wrong, doesn't it? My man? My main squeeze? Hmmm. What we were to each other was complicated. So for now, let's just call him my date for the evening.

Sam, my "date" was off fighting the crowd for a plate of food. While I enjoyed the people-watching, I hoped he'd be back soon. Partly because I enjoyed his fabulous company, and partly because I'd begun to get hungry.

I looked around the spectacular ballroom. Several of my PAWS clients were in attendance. I spotted retired news tyc.o.o.n Davis Pinter standing near a sign that said, "The origin of the Greyhound name has nothing to do with color. In fact, gray is not a common color among Greyhounds." That was true.

Davis is a lovely man, always well-dressed, and he looked snappy tonight in his gray tux. Davis has an adorable Cavalier King Charles Spaniel named Huntley. A smart man and a smart dog, but sometimes there ensued a battle of wills between the two, which was how we'd become acquainted.

Each of the signs had an artistic outline of a Greyhound at the top. The one closest to me said, "Before the 1980s, many racing Greyhounds were put down at the end of their careers. Now, thanks to rescue groups like Greys Matter, more than 20,000 are adopted each year."

I knew the stats, but still seeing them in black and white was sobering. I could understand why Blanche and the other volunteers were so pa.s.sionate about Greyhound rescue.

I saw my friend, Diana Knight, across the way and a smile welled up inside me. Her elegant, perfectly-coiffed, blond head bobbed up and down as she talked. She'd cornered a California congressman near another sign which stated, "Most Greyhounds are at the end of their racing careers at two to five years of age, but they still have a lot of life to live. The average lifespan is twelve to fourteen years." Diana pointed at the words on the sign and pointed at the congressman.

What Diana Knight is to me isn't at all complicated. Diana is my very best friend in the world. She's eighty-something and old-school Hollywood at its best, having starred in a number of golden age romantic comedies as the perky heroine who always got the best of the guy.

Well, perky had morphed into feisty. Based on the distance of her perfectly manicured finger from said congressman's nose, Diana was definitely getting the best of the politician. I couldn't hear the conversation because of all the chatter in the room, but I was willing to bet it had something to do with animal rights. With Diana it was always about the animals. You always knew where you stood with her and she unapologetically lived her pa.s.sion. I aspired to be Diana Knight when I grew up.

Diana was dressed in gray like the rest of us, though her dress was a soft, silvery-gray chiffon, the perfect foil for her delicate coloring. I knew she'd want to do lunch soon so we could dish on who was with whom, and which designers made the best show.

The main door opened and the last few arrivals hurried inside, victims of a steady rainfall. We could use the rain, but maybe D'Orange Maison should think about a covered portico.

Tova Randall sashayed into the ballroom with the new man in her life. I'd heard she'd been out of the country. Tonight, all eyes were on her as she made an entrance in a gray-toned sheath that hugged her silicone-enhanced curves. Tova was sprinkled with raindrops which looked good on her flawless skin. She'd been a very successful lingerie model and, on her, the rain almost looked like an accessory in a photo shoot. I was thankful I'd arrived before the rain as the moisture would not have been as kind to my naturally-curly red locks.

Tova's previous significant-other relationship had met with an unfortunate end. I'd not been much of a fan of the woman, but no one deserved what she'd been through. I was glad to see Tova was getting out.

My cousin, Melinda Langston, who owned the Bow Wow Boutique, an ber-fancy pet shop in downtown Laguna Beach, had been involved in solving the murder of Tova's boyfriend and plastic surgeon, Dr. O'Doggle.

Speaking of Melinda-where was she?

I scanned the room of high-steppers. They were all tricked out in gray and black and silver fashions, but dark-haired Mel with her striking good looks would be easy to spot. I didn't see her.

It wasn't like her to miss a rescue event. I'd heard she and Grey Donovan, local art gallery owner and her on-again-off-again fiance, had been seen around town. So the current future wedding status must be "on." I think it was a sure bet I could count myself out as a bridesmaid.

Mel's mama and my mama were sisters. We'd been childhood best friends, even up through our teen years and into our twenties. We shared a background of over-achieving high-compet.i.tion mothers. We shared a love of critters. We shared a loathing of the pageant circuit.

But then things had happened, words were said, and, well, it's beyond complicated and partly involves the brooch I wore tonight.

You see, our Grandma Tillie had left the bejeweled basket of fruit pin to her "favorite granddaughter." She only had two granddaughters. Clearly, only one could be the favorite. That would be me. I'd recently retrieved the brooch from Mel's possession and I sure as shootin' did not want her to miss seeing me wear it tonight.

"h.e.l.lo, Caro." Alana Benda appeared at my side. "Isn't this awesome?" Her voice was a little too bright. A little too loud. Either too much excitement or her champagne gla.s.s had been refilled a few too many times.

"It is," I agreed. "A great turnout, and the venue is absolutely stunning."

"Speaking of stunning, is your dress a Jenny Packman?" Alana tapped the peplum skirt of my silver-gray satin gown, her heavy diamond tennis bracelet winking in the lights.

"It is." I could have worn something I had, but I didn't really own anything formal in gray. Not a great color for a redhead. Besides, why pa.s.s up an excuse to buy a new dress? Right? Especially something from the newest hot designer. I loved the simplicity of her designs, although I'd worried the delicate beading would be damaged by the brooch prominently pinned to my left shoulder.

"I thought so." Alana looked like she thought there might be a prize involved for the correct guess.

Also, I got the impression I'd suddenly been raised a few notches in her who-might-possibly-be-important list. Leave it to Alana to be into the haute couture label on what everyone was wearing. Not that Diana and I wouldn't be doing a designer debrief when we got together for lunch, but we weren't picking our friends based the status on their closet.

Alana had picked a silver and black Roberto Cavalli animal print that accented her toned-to-the-max body. I didn't know Alana all that well except for talking to her at functions like this.

She was married to Dave, the accountant who had an office in the group where PAWS was located, but come to think of it, I didn't really know Dave that well either. He wasn't around the place a lot and when he was, it seemed he was always busy. During tax season, there was a steady stream of wealthy Laguna residents coming through the office. I imagined the guy needed to work long hours if his wife had a penchant for designer dresses and diamond bracelets.

I glanced over Alana's shoulder at the silver-framed placard behind her. "Greyhounds are bred and built for speed but they are often referred to as 40 MPH couch potatoes. They are exceptionally calm dogs."

That was true. Greyhounds were great family dogs. Gentle and good-natured.

I clearly didn't know much about Dave because I hadn't realized he and his wife were interested in Greyhound rescue.

"Do you and Dave have Greyhounds?" It didn't necessarily follow, though many attendees at the event did.

"We do." She flipped bleached blond bangs out of her eyes. "We have two Italian Greyhounds, Louie and Lexie."

Italian Greyhounds are extremely slender and the smallest of the sighthounds. They looked like miniature Greyhounds, but a lot of IG owners didn't care for the term. The American Kennel Club sees them as true genetic Greyhounds, with a bloodline going back more than two thousand years.

The main thing as far as my PAWS clients go is, while they're incredibly sweet and well-behaved, an Italian Greyhound, like any Greyhound, should not be trusted off leash because they have an extremely high predator drive. That means, you may be walking with your dog and suddenly he takes off after a small animal. Not good at the dog park.

"They're great dogs." I waited, expecting her to pull out pictures of her fur kids, or point them out if they were in the room. Most of the pet owners I'd talked to did once the topic came up.

Not Alana.

Her fake eyelashes fluttered. "And David is the CFO for Greys Matter." She gestured with her champagne gla.s.s toward the corner of the room where Dave stood talking to Alice Tiburon and her husband, Robert.

I knew CFO meant Chief Financial Officer, but Alana's tone implied it meant Dave and Warren Buffett were pals.

I glanced over at the trio. Alice Tiburon was the chair of the board of Greys Matter and she definitely was no trophy wife. In fact, she was the one with the money in that pairing. She was a very successful businesswoman. The Tiburons had recently moved from their mansion in Ruby Point to a bigger mansion in the even more exclusive gated community of Diamond Cove. On the coast, and in Laguna in particular, it's all about the view, and this Diamond Cove property was purported to have the best view in Orange County. Certainly it was one of the most expensive.

Dave and Robert wore gray tuxes like the rest of the men. Alice was striking in a gray crepe ribbon-striped gown that perfectly accented her slender height and her shoulder-length dark hair. I wondered if Alana had asked her who the designer was.

I should say h.e.l.lo to Dave and the couple. I'd known the Tiburons had Greyhounds, but apparently not problem ones. Or, if so, they used a different pet therapist. Alice and Robert Tiburon were regulars at Laguna Beach events and a solid supporter of pet causes. I knew the latter because she was often on Diana's donor list.

I turned back to speak to Alana, but she had moved away, obviously spotting another potentially important person in designer dress. I looked around once again for Sam, and my glance caught Blanche LeRue's silver head as she surveyed the crowd and the lavishly decorated D'Orange Maison ballroom. I could see a slight frown form as she noted the gaps in the sumptuous platters of food surrounding the towering Greyhound dog ice sculpture.

She waved over Dino Riccio. The dapper Italian caterer hurried to her side and, in turn, motioned to Eugene, the latest addition to his catering team. Dino owned the popular Riccio's Italian restaurant and was also the current leading man in Diana Knight's life.

Eugene, the new foodie recruit, was the twin brother of Verdi, an ber mult.i.tasker who'd we'd recently hired as a part-time receptionist for our shared office group. She'd been recruited after an unfortunate series of ill-suited temps.

Scanning the room again, I finally spotted Sam making his way toward me through the crowd with two plates of food. Thank heavens! I was famished.

He caught my attention, and I felt a little answering kick in my gut from the warmth of his gaze across the distance.

Even in this crush of people, the guy stood out. It hardly seemed fair. It was a gray-tie affair so it was a level playing field. Every man in the room was pretty much dressed the same, yet still, Sam's air of relaxed a.s.surance along with his Greek heritage added up to something that turned heads. At least female ones. Call it charisma or s.e.x appeal or whatever you want, Sam had it in spades.

There was a sudden break in the chatter around me and I turned away from the sight of Sam and my food to see what had drawn everyone's attention. There was some sort of a commotion over by the room's service door.

I stood on tiptoes to see over heads. No small feat, let me tell you, in my new silver-strappy Jimmy Choos. Eugene and one of the guests were in a heated exchange. There was a collective gasp as one of the Greyhound signs fell into a stack of used silverware which hit the floor with a clatter. Both men were red-faced.

I'd vouched for Eugene to Dino, who'd needed extra help for the party, but I knew him only in pa.s.sing. I knew Verdi and I'd figured if they were related, he had some of her work ethic and mult.i.tasking skills. And Dino had been in a tight spot.

I hoped Eugene hadn't spilled something on the guy.

The man was bigger and towered over Eugene, but the young man did not back down. At least his body language said so. Finally with a shove to Eugene's shoulder, the ruddy-faced fellow stalked off and Eugene continued through the service door.

After a slight pause, we all went back to our conversations. I worried about the argument and if there'd been damage, but not overly. According to Dino, there are always mishaps and disgruntled guests at every function. Dino was a pro-he'd sort things out.

I'd turned to look for Sam and those plates of food, when Blanche suddenly appeared beside me. I'm tall, but the woman had to be at least six feet, and she practically vibrated with energy. She was in her element and having the time of her life.

"Hi, hon, how's the event going?" I asked.