The Girl With The Dachshund Tattoo Part 8

"You look like you're about to pa.s.s out. Stop holding your breath." Betty said.

"Will you tell me where you've been?" I pushed one last time.

She shook her head.

I tried a different approach. "What did Shughart say?"

Betty sat on top of the storage container. I noticed her sneakers were no longer white, but gra.s.sy green. "You'd like her. She's a smart one. She's got two pugs, Charlie and Daisy. Cupcake promised to stop by the shop next week to check out our travel carriers. She's leaving on vacation next month."

"I meant what did she say about your involvement with Richard's death?"

She shrugged a delicate shoulder. "Don't leave town. Don't talk to the press. And if I see Stephanie to call her or that handsome Detective Malone."

"Holy cow, Betty. You're officially a murder suspect."

Betty clapped her hands and pressed them to her chest. Her gray eyes brightened with amus.e.m.e.nt. "I know. Exciting, isn't it?"

Chapter Nine.

I DIDN'T CARE WHAT Betty thought; it was not exciting. More like terrifying.

By the time I got her loaded into her Mini Cooper and headed home, darkness had started to settle around us. I made her promise to call me once she'd arrived safely. Betty claimed I was overreacting. Maybe I was. But I couldn't shake the feeling that she was still keeping a secret. Something important.

I'd had a front-row seat the last time someone I cared about had kept a big secret-it had blown up in her face.

Malone had asked me to keep Betty out of his way. It looked like that wouldn't be as difficult as I'd originally believed. She was too busy disappearing.

I headed down the sidewalk for the last time and made a mental note to park closer to the entrance gate tomorrow. There were a handful of cars still parked along the canyon road. I'd luckily found a spot under a streetlamp. Once I reached the Jeep, I shoved the last plastic tote inside. I started to load Missy when I heard what sounded like a m.u.f.fled howl.

"Stay."

Missy obediently waited for me to give the "load-up" command.

I concentrated on the evening sounds, picking out what belonged and dismissing it, instead waiting for what didn't fit in. Within a minute I heard the sound again. I glanced around but I didn't see an animal or a human. I closed the Jeep door.

"Let's take one last walk, girl."

Missy sighed, but dutifully followed.

We strolled along the sidewalk, perfectly lit by the overhead streetlamps that lined the walkway. I kept my eyes peeled for someone in distress. As I drew closer to a beat-up black Nissan, I heard the m.u.f.fled howl of despair again. It came from inside the car. Had someone left a dog inside with the windows up? Granted, heat wasn't an issue this time of night, but why did people insist on taking their pets to run errands, only to leave the animals locked up in a vehicle?

I stomped up to the car intending to free the imprisoned dog, or at least check on his wellbeing and crack the window if possible. The second I got next to the Nissan, I knew I had it all wrong. Not about the dog in the car. I could see him clear as day, with his face pressed against the gla.s.s, leaving doggie kisses on the window. But the dog wasn't alone. And it wasn't just any dog.

It was Pickles. And Lenny.

Lenny didn't look happy that I'd found him hiding in his car. If he hadn't caught me peeking in the back window, I'd have walked away. I'm sure the nasty look engraved on his face was meant to frighten me off. Silly me, I took his stare as a challenge. I knocked on the pa.s.senger window.

He rolled it down a smidge. "Go away," he shouted through the crack.

"Are you okay?"

"We're fine."

The man obviously didn't know the definition of "fine." The smell of leftover fast food wafted from his car. His droopy eyes could barely focus on me. I'd either woken him up or he was drunk. At the moment, I believed he was drunk.

"You're not driving anywhere are you?"

"What's it to you?" he growled.

I pointed to the white bag on the seat. "If that's what I think it is, you shouldn't be driving."

He cursed, shoving the bag under the pa.s.senger seat. He fumbled with the handle before he finally managed to open the door. I jumped back, almost falling over Missy. The dome light blinked on. There were piles of dirty clothes; bags of food, gum, and candy wrappers; liquid cold medicine; and bottles of what looked like vitamins.

Lenny crawled out, yelling at me. "You're a nosy b.i.t.c.h. If I want to drown my misery, that's my business." He slammed the door shut. Pickles immediately started to howl.

I pointed at the dog. "Is he okay?"

Lenny crossed his beefy arms across his chest, effectively blocking me from getting closer. "Does he sound okay? He's depressed. If he's not racing, a little piece of him dies."

He wasn't the only one. From Lenny's rumpled state, he could have been referring to himself. He looked down at Missy and squinted. "My first dog was a bully. A faithful breed. Good choice."

"Ah, thanks." Instinctively, I gripped Missy's leash tighter. "What about you? Are you upset about the race or Richard's death?"

He stepped forward, eyes flashing. "Aren't you upset about it?"

He was too close. I could smell his breath, which surprisingly didn't smell like alcohol at all. His breath was actually quite refreshing. Like mouthwash. I stepped back. "Well sure, but I'm not going to get wasted because of it."

"I'm not wasted. This is all her fault," he ground out.

I was afraid to ask. "Whose?"

"Gia Eriksen."

I thought for sure he was going to say Betty. "Do you think she shot Richard?"

He looked up with red-rimmed eyes. "What?"

I tried a different tactic. "What's Gia's fault?"

"She convinced Hagan to postpone the race. We were ready today. We would have won." He smacked his humongous fist into the palm of his hand, flexing his bulging biceps in the process.

"Let's be reasonable. Her husband had been murdered. I don't think postponing the race was too much to ask."

"But we were going to win." His voice broke. "Finally."

Good heavens. Was he going to cry? He was way too sauced to make any sense. And if he wasn't making sense, he shouldn't be behind the wheel of a car.

"Lenny, what hotel are you staying at? I'd be happy to drop you off."

He puffed his chest, and for a second I thought his cotton shirt would rip in half and fall off his body. "I don't need your help. Scram."

"You shouldn't be driving."

"I told you. I'm not drunk." He motioned toward the backseat of the car. "Besides, do I look like I'm going someplace? Get out of here." I looked at the pillow and blankets shoved on the floorboards of the backseat. He was sleeping in his car?

As long as he wasn't driving in his current condition, I was good with leaving. With a quick wave, Missy and I skedaddled to the Jeep.

On the drive home I wondered if there was more to Lenny's outburst than he'd let on. I don't care what he said-the man was toasted. Maybe he was embarra.s.sed that I'd found him sleeping in his car. Poor Lenny really was down on his luck. No wonder he wanted to win so desperately.

Yet I couldn't help but wonder if he wanted to win badly enough to kill Richard to ensure Pickles stood a fighting chance.

Love made people do crazy things.

Chapter Ten.

ONCE HOME, I left the totes in the Jeep and set the alarm. The alarm was new. Not too long ago, my vehicle had been beaten within an inch of its precious Jeep life. I won't bore you with all the details. After two months of bodywork and a new paint job, she was as good as new. I'd decided a state-of-the-art car alarm system was appropriate.

I took Missy for one last walk so she could do her business, which she managed in record time. As soon as we walked inside the house, I yanked off my motorcycle boots and ditched them by the front door. Missy headed straight for her dog bed.

Circle. Circle. Knead. Knead. Circle. Circle.

Once she worked the pillow exactly the way she wanted, she dropped with a sigh. After tossing my handbag on the couch, I padded toward the kitchen and grabbed a winegla.s.s from the cupboard. I popped the cork from a bottle of Pinot, filled the gla.s.s, and sipped my wine. The warmth of the alcohol spread through my body. I sighed in contentment. For the first time today, I felt like I could breathe. Relax.

My thoughts immediately turned toward Grey. Nope. I wasn't going there. Unwilling to wallow in self-pity about the possible demise of our engagement, and thus our relationship, I set my gla.s.s on the breakfast counter and attacked the dirty breakfast dishes I'd left in the sink.

I'd placed the last bowl in the dishwasher when it dawned on me that I hadn't heard from Betty yet. Had she made it home okay? Would she tell her daughter that the police considered her a murder suspect? What would Betty tell Duane about the missing gun? Would the girl with the dachshund tattoo come back? And if she did, would she have Betty's gun?

I heard my cell phone ring. It had to be Betty. I rushed to the couch where I'd left my bag. I managed to pull out my cell as the ringing stopped. Dang. Within seconds, a notification popped up that I'd missed a call from my mama.

I gripped the phone tighter. She never called to chat. I loved the woman, but she was a drama queen with an agenda. And usually the agenda was about what she wanted. The woman had a knack for finding a way to make any situation or circ.u.mstance, whether good or bad, about her. It was a true talent.

My cell chirped again. She wasn't giving up easily. I took a fortifying breath before I answered. "Hey, Mama. I was just thinking about you."

Her soft Texas sigh settled in my ear. "If that's true, Melinda Sue, tell me-why did I have to hear from your brother that you and Grey were talking about a wedding date? Why do you hate me?"

I rolled my eyes. "I don't hate you, Mama. By the way, I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

She paused, then inquired in a polite, but overly sweet voice, "How are you, darling? How's Grey?"

"I'm fine. Grey's fine. How are you and Daddy?" I continued the charade. If my tone were any sweeter, I'd give myself a cavity.

"I'm busy as ever. Your daddy keeps to himself. Locked away in his office, planning who knows what without me. If you're considering a fall wedding I need to know. The country club books years in advance. Although, if that's what you really want, I can call in a few favors. Lord knows I've bailed out that Lydia Marshall more than a handful of times. Her society contacts are rather lackl.u.s.ter. She owes me."

I returned to the kitchen for my wine. I'd need more than one gla.s.s for this chat. Membership at the Dallas Country Club was a long-standing tradition in the Montgomery family. One joined by invitation only, and to my knowledge, there hadn't been a Montgomery yet that hadn't been invited. It was the last place I'd choose to get married. I'd left that life behind and could honestly say I didn't miss it. Not one iota.

I drank deeply before replying. "I don't know what Mitch told you, but Grey and I have not set a date." Heck, at this point, we couldn't even be in the same room without arguing. Not that I'd admit that to her.

"Melinda, you listen to me, sugar. You must get a ring on his finger before you do something stupid. You know how you are. You're a lucky girl, Grey seems enamored by your impulsiveness."

I guzzled the last of the wine in my gla.s.s, then refilled-to the rim. "Thanks for the support, Mama."

"Support is what you get from your friends. Truth is what you get from me. Now, when are you two picking a date? And do not even think of robbing me of a wedding. My heart couldn't take another elopement. I can't believe your brother was so selfish."

I dropped to a bar stool and pretended to listen as she continued to prattle on about Mitch and his bride's, Nikki, disregard for tradition. I liked to call this, "Confessions of a Drama Queen."

I smiled wryly. Thank the good Lord, Mama didn't know how to Skype.

I FINALLY GOT THE hot shower I'd been daydreaming about. It was exactly what I needed to wash away depressing thoughts of Grey, my crazy mother, and worrying about Betty, who, for the record, I still hadn't heard from. I'd left her three messages to call me. Nothing. I had to believe that no news was good news.

I pulled on my favorite pair of yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt that read, "Don't judge the dogs." I grabbed a large gla.s.s of water, then sank onto the couch. Missy was still in her bed where I'd left her hours ago.

It was time for the news, and I was curious if MacAvoy had filed a report. I flipped on the TV in time to see his face pop up on the screen. d.a.m.n him. He looked refreshed and polished. He certainly hadn't downed a half bottle of wine and survived a round of Mama Take-Down. The noon reporter had managed to make it to prime time.

"A day of fun turned into a day of terror. Richard Eriksen was found shot to death during the Laguna Dachshund Dash." He paused. His beseeching eyes looked through the camera and landed into every viewer's home. "In the dog-eat-dog world of wiener racing, has Zippy's rivalry with his fellow compet.i.tors finally been pushed to a new level?"

"Oh, please," I muttered, disgusted.

"The police have yet to make an official statement, but witnesses claimed to have seen an elderly woman threaten Mr. Eriksen with a gun earlier in the day. No word on the woman's ident.i.ty at this time. The final races are set to start Sunday at two o'clock," he finished.

I knew he couldn't be trusted. He'd just thrown Betty under the bus. Sure he didn't call her by name, but it was only a matter of time before her ident.i.ty became public knowledge.

Callum "Mac" MacAvoy had better hope I didn't lay eyes on him tomorrow. I had a few choice words to give him. On the record.

Chapter Eleven.

I'VE LEARNED THE best way to start the day is with an early morning jog on the beach. Today was no exception. The crisp air cleared the cobwebs from my head and gave me a jolt of energy. Energy I'd need for the day ahead.

After a quick shower, and a bowl of cereal, I pulled on a pair of skinny jeans, an event T-shirt, and my motorcycle boots. I'd remembered to slip on my engagement ring too. Considering all the action yesterday, I decided to leave Missy at home.

I backed out of the driveway and pointed the Jeep toward PCH, then headed to the boutique. Stray dark clouds had moved in. Morning fog wasn't unusual in Laguna, but these clouds were different-heavy and low-plus the air didn't smell salty, but like rain. Not a good sign for a race day.