The Girl With The Dachshund Tattoo Part 6

"Where's the crazy bat who killed Richard?" Gia Eriksen demanded. Her voice squeaked like an ill-tempered Chihuahua.

I looked up and cringed. Egad. She looked like she'd crawled out from the wreckage of nasty breakup. Death did not become her.

Gia wasn't exactly who I'd expected to see next to me. "I'm sorry for your loss. But we don't know who killed your husband."

"Where is she? That old woman in the ugly pajamas." She peered around me. Did she think I was hiding Betty in my back pocket?

I didn't appreciate her att.i.tude or comment about Betty. My mama had taught me to be polite, even when the other person was off her rocker, but this woman could make me forget all about my upbringing.

I narrowed my eyes. "Is there something I can do for you, Gia? Would you like to make a purchase?"

She shoved her hands on her curvy hips. "I want my dog. Where's Zippy? He competes tomorrow."

It struck me a little suspicious that she suddenly seemed more concerned about her dog than her recently deceased husband.

"Why in the world would I have your dog?"

"Because that senile woman was spying on us. She tried to lure Zippy away with a corn dog."

I bit my bottom lip, fighting back an amused smile. That sounded like Betty. I quickly composed myself. After all, missing dogs and murder were serious business.

"I believe the police found him and took him to the vet to be looked over."

Gia's amber eyes glazed over with anger. Or was that fear? Hard to tell with mascara smeared around her eyes. Were her possible tears for her deceased husband or her missing pooch?

"They had no right," she ground out. "Zippy's a champion. He's not to be treated by just any doctor."

Now she was making me mad. "Dr. Darling is an amazing veterinarian. Zippy couldn't be in more capable or loving hands."

Dr. Daniel Darling was a friend and Missy's doctor. He not only ran a successful practice, but he donated more time to the local shelter than any other veterinarian in our ocean-side town. In my humble opinion, he was not just any doctor.

"He doesn't have my permission to treat Zippy. Where can I find this Dr. Darling?"

There was something about her reaction that didn't ring true. Why wouldn't she want her beloved pet examined? I remembered what Lenny had said about Ricky-d.i.c.ky doping his dog. At the time, I'd pegged Lenny as a sore loser. Could he have been telling the truth?

I moved to the other side of the table, directly in front of Gia. "What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing."

"Not even the accusations about drugging Zippy?"

She blanched. "You can't possibly believe what that lunatic Lenny Santucci said. He's a troublemaker. He was our biggest fan, until Zippy beat his loser dog, race after race. Since then, he's made it his life's mission to take us down. Including spreading those horrible, horrible lies."

"The rumor is simple enough to refute. Allow Zippy to take a blood test," I suggested.

Gia tossed her dark hair over her shoulder in a huff. "If the judges decide to require tests, I'm happy to oblige." She shoved a razor finger in my direction. "She won't get away with it."

I stepped back. I a.s.sumed she was referring to Betty. I sighed. "She didn't kill him."

"Everyone saw her threaten him with a gun."

"And everyone saw them both walk away . . . alive." The word "alive" hung in the air between as she thought about the possibility.

"Well, if it wasn't her, then who?"

I shook my head. "You'll need to talk to the police."

I'm not going to lie. That's the same question I'd been mulling over the last couple of hours. I've heard that if the deceased was married, the spouse was always a person of interest until proven otherwise. For all I knew, I was looking at Richard Eriksen's killer.

His wife.

Chapter Seven.

GRANDMA TILLIE USED to say, "I'd rather die from exhaustion than expire from boredom." Today had been many things, boring was not one of them.

First Betty had pulled a gun on abrasive Richard Eriksen. Then I'd stumbled over Richard's dead body. Grey had unexpectedly hightailed it home from DC after being rea.s.signed. On the positive side, Malone had begrudgingly asked me for a favor.

As sunset approached, a chill clung to the salty air. I grabbed a hoodie from my day bag and slipped it on. Since I'd spent the majority of the afternoon away from the booth, I decided to take a quick inventory as I packed the merchandise in a plastic totes.

I sorted through the leftover stock. I was only short one water bowl and one box of Bowser dog treats. Not bad. I quickly recounted and came up with the same total. For as long as we'd left our merchandise unattended, I was pleasantly surprised more items weren't missing.

I lined up the four large storage bins on the table. I felt comfortable leaving the cooler of water bottles behind. That meant only four separate trips to the Jeep. Or I could call Grey and ask for help.

I ran my hands through my hair as I contemplated my options. My head hurt antic.i.p.ating another argument with Grey where neither of us ended up a winner. I doubted my handsome fiance was ready to rehash our relationship status either. But I missed him more than my desire to avoid a heated discussion.

There was still a number of people milling around the park; certainly Grey had to be around somewhere. I pulled out my cell and called him before I changed my mind. Straight to voicemail. I sighed. He either was on a call or had shut off his phone. I decided to wait a few minutes before trying again.

I grabbed a couple of water bottles from the cooler, then sat on the gra.s.s next to Missy. I patted my lap for her to join me. She snorted excitedly as she waddled over.

"Hey there, sweet girl. How are you holding up?" I scratched behind her ear. "Do you need a drink?"

I cracked open a bottle and poured water into her collapsible bowl. She eagerly slurped the cold liquid, splashing both of us in the process. I laughed as I brushed water droplets off my jeans.

"I guess you were thirsty."

Determined not to dwell on Grey, I thought about Richard Eriksen. Who hated him enough that they'd shoot him? Gia was an obvious suspect. There was also Lenny. He had a grudge against both Eriksens.

Like it or not, Betty was also a likely suspect.

Speaking of my errant a.s.sistant, where the heck was she? The longer she was gone, the more worried I grew.

"I pegged you more of a Jack Russell Terrier-type," a male voice spoke from behind me.

I looked up to see that hack TV reporter standing over me. Ok, "hack" was a strong word to describe someone whose work I'd never seen. I'd reserve further judgment until I watched one of his reports on the Internet.

Jack Russells were known for their intellect, spirited personalities, and strong will. If not trained with a firm hand, the dog would walk all over a pa.s.sive owner. Since I didn't know anything about Laguna's new reporter, I didn't know if he was implying I was intelligent or a.s.sertive. Both were accurate, but he didn't know that.

After one last love pat for Missy, I grabbed my water bottle and stood. Mr. TV wasn't as tall as Grey or Malone, but he still had at least a couple inches on me. Dressed in blue jeans and hunter green T-shirt, he should have blended in with the rest of us, but his gray blazer gave him a business edge that managed to set him apart from the average Joe.

I could see why he had a reputation as the heartthrob reporter. His eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, which immediately put me on alert. Malone's earlier advice echoed in my ears.

I brushed gra.s.s clippings off my jeans. "What can I do for you?"

"I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Callum MacAvoy; my friends call me Mac." He extended a hand, along with a smug smile that I guessed he thought was charming and meant to disarm me.

I ignored the smile, but accepted his hand. Smooth, no calluses, firm grip. "Is that an invitation to call you Mac?"

He lifted his eyebrows. "Can I call you Mel?"

I pulled my hand back. "Melinda. You've been busy since I saw you last."

I didn't trust him. And not only because he was a reporter. Maybe it was the way his eyes continued to a.s.sess the area. Or maybe it was that he wanted to call me by a nickname without knowing me.

"I'm good at research."

That remained to be seen. He could have read my bio in the vendor pamphlet. Easy to find with little effort.

"Is that your dog?" He pointed at Missy who'd returned to her worn spot under the table where she'd spent the majority of the day.

"I call her Missy, but her papered name is Miss Congeniality. Although, being good at research, you probably already knew that."

He held my gaze for a second, then bent down and extended his hand. Missy stretched her thick neck inviting him to pet her. "I don't know much about bulldogs," he confessed.

He was good. He'd picked up on my weakness. I was always willing to educate people on how wonderful bulldogs were. "Don't let her looks deceive you. Bullies are extremely gentle and affectionate. Definitely stubborn, especially when they're bored or really want something. She snores, drools continually, and is p.r.o.ne to skin infections if I don't keep her skin folds dry." I left out her flatulence problem. "All in all, bulldogs make great companions."

Once he finished greeting Missy, he stood and motioned toward the table. "Leaving?"

"Eventually. Where's your shadow?"

"Who?"

"Your camera guy."

"Oh. That's Ryan. He's gathering B-roll."

"B-roll?" I asked.

"Sorry. Supplemental footage we can use later." He rubbed the back of his head. "Look, I've been kicking around an idea about a piece to spotlight local businesses. Are you interested?"

I set my bottle of water on the table. "Depends."

"On?"

"What you really want."

My directness managed to surprise a genuine smile out of him.

"You're not what I expected," he said.

"That's not a good trait in a reporter, forming a conclusion before you have the facts."

"Fair enough."

I shoved my hair behind my ear. "Are you going to tell me what you really want or make me guess?"

He sat on the table. He propped his elbow on the lid of a plastic tote. "I want an exclusive on the Richard Eriksen case. On the record, off the record, whatever you're comfortable with. I'll make it work."

"Why me? Why do you think I know anything? And if I did, why would I tell you?"

The smug smile returned. "Because I have what you want."

"I doubt that." I shoved my hands in my hoodie pockets. Mostly to warm them up, but also to keep from smacking Mr. TV upside the head. Let's be honest here. Half the time I didn't even know what I wanted. How could someone who'd known me all of two minutes know what I wanted?

"I can help you find the person you're looking for," he claimed.

"Who said I'm looking for anyone?"

"Betty Foxx, your fascinating a.s.sistant."

Good grief. Why couldn't she keep her mouth shut? She wasn't helping her situation by talking to everyone who asked her a question. Where was Betty? With the police? Or wandering the park looking for more trouble?

"When did you talk to her?" The last person I wanted help from was Mr. TV. Unfortunately for me, the reporter had more answers than I did at the moment.

He shrugged. "I ran into her earlier."

I waited for him to elaborate. The distant chatter of reckless speculation about Richard's death and Missy's heavy snores were the only sounds.

I narrowed my eyes. "Okay, Mr. Evasive, spill it. What did she say to you?"

"I should find the girl with the dachshund tattoo."

Of course she did. "Did Betty tell you why?"

He slipped a hand into the pocket of his blazer. "I'd like to hear from you. Do you think she can clear your friend?"

I didn't like that he used "clear." That didn't bode well. I also found it dodgy that he'd chosen now to shove his hand into his jacket pocket. Call me suspicious, but I'd wager a year's salary he had a recorder hidden in there.

"I thought you were more daytime talk show fluff pieces than hard news."

His broad shoulders tensed. "It seems you also draw conclusions without all the facts. I'm a serious journalist. I follow the news."

Well, give the man an Emmy for his journalism excellence.