4 Yip/Tuck

One of Laguna Beach’s best-known plastic surgeons may need a new
leash
on life. Unless he’s just taking a
very
long nap on the bench outside Melinda Langston’s Bow Wow Boutique
 . . .

Dr. O’Doggle continued to give us the silent treatment. Fluffy eyed him intently. I studied him too. Toya Randall wasn’t my BFF, to say the least, but I didn’t wish her boyfriend any bad luck.

My neighbor, Darby, must have relaxed her grip on Fluffy’s leash. Fluffy took advantage. The big Afghan lunged toward Dr. O’Doggle and knocked him over.

Tova’s handsome hunk rolled off the bench and dropped with a thud at our feet.

Darby gasped. My stomach knotted. “No, no, no.” I shook my head. “Not again.”

I knelt down and shook his shoulders. “Dr. O’Doggle?” I grabbed his suit lapels and yelled, “Jack?”

No response. No, “I’m fine.” No, “Stop yelling in my face.” No, “Get your hands off me.”

No, no, no.

I checked his throat for a pulse. Nothing. But he was still warm. My fingers brushed against something knotted around his throat, and I’m not talking about his tie. I pulled back his shirt for a better look. I sucked in a breath, my nose filled with a light female perfume I didn’t recognize. A thin dog leash was wound tightly around his neck. Identical to the kind I sold at the shop.

This was not an accident.

“Is he . . .?” Darby asked softly.

I looked up at her. “Dead. No more late night walks for him.”

You’ll be howling with laughter!”

—Kathy Bacus, author of
Calamity Jayne

“Desperate Housedogs is a wonderful, fun-filled mystery brimming with hope and humor. Lamont and Malone are unique, strong-willed characters that are (I hope) destined to drive each other crazy for many books to come. A howling good time.”

—Lois Greiman, award-willing author of
Uncorked

~~~

The Pampered Pets Mysteries

Desperate Housedogs

Get Fluffy

Kitty Kitty Bang Bang

Yip/Tuck

The Girl with the Dachshund Tattoo (2014)

Book Four, The Pampered Pets Mysteries

by

Sparkle Abbey

Bell Bridge Books

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-313-9
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-292-7

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2013 by Carter Woods, LLC
Desperate Housedogs
(excerpt) copyright © 2011 by Mary Lee Woods and Anita Carter writing as Sparkle Abbey

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.
Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo credits:
Woman & dog (manipulated) © Ewa Mazur | Dreamstime.com
Collar © Roughcollie | Dreamstime.com
Paw Print
© Booka1 | Dr
eamstime.com
Magnifying glass
©
Yudesign | Dreamstime.com

:Mtyg:01:

To Matisse, Abby, Cinder, Callie, Nemo, Kokomo, and all our other four-legged furry loved ones who have crossed the Rainbow Bridge. You’ll forever be in our hearts.

“HAVE YOU worked in retail before, Vera?”

Vera White, a fifty-something with steel-wool hair, sat ramrod straight, palms flat on her denim leggings.

“No.” Her thin lips flashed a skittish smile.

I waited for more details but none came. She reminded me of an overweight Yorkie at a six-year-old’s birthday party—a cute bundle of nerves ready to attack at the slightest provocation.

I shifted in my chair and pretended to review her application, hoping she’d elaborate. “Pretended” because there wasn’t much to read. Other than her current personal information, the form was blank—no job history, no skills, no references. Nothing to give me an idea if she was equipped to handle Bow Wow’s unique clientele—the pampered pooches of Laguna Beach. Trust me, there were a lot them.

“So, why do you think you’d like to work here?” I asked. Her hands fisted and then relaxed. “I’ve been in hypnotherapy for a year now. My therapist said I should consider a part-time job. I saw your Help Wanted sign last week.” She spoke slowly, as if she’d memorized her answers. Probably coached by her therapist.

Her gaze darted over my shoulder toward the checkout counter, then back at me. “I’ve researched you.”

Great. I could only imagine what she’d found. Melinda Langston, owner of Bow Wow Boutique, was a former Miss America contestant, disqualified in a humiliating scandal. Melinda Langston, runaway fiancée of local art gallery owner. Melinda Langston, recently “helped” Laguna Beach police find local drama queen’s killer.

“Your shop is clean.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her gaze roamed the store like a Nervous Nelly.

Obviously, her answer wasn’t the direction I thought she was going. However, I was happy to hear Bow Wow had a respectable reputation. I’d worked hard to make my pet boutique a success.

“Although,” she continued, “I don’t think you should allow animals inside. Do you know how many germs and diseases they carry?” She shuddered then looked at the counter again.

I couldn’t stop myself. I looked over my shoulder. I scanned the room quickly, trying to see it from her point of view. A variety of collars, leads, carriers, beds, toys, specialty items, and apparel, the locked glass counter was free of clutter and fingerprints.

Momentary panic gripped me. Had I left the cash register drawer out? Nope. I faced Wacky Vera. I had no idea what had grabbed her peculiar interest.

“I don’t see any antibacterial hand sanitizer, but that’s okay. I have my own until you buy some,” she said. “You’re wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Is that the dress code, or would I have to wear a uniform? I must wear my own clothing. No polyester. I have a doctor’s note.” She opened her black leather handbag. Head down, she pulled out three small bottles of hand sanitizer, a signed document, which I assumed was her release from communal polyester, and a sealed sandwich baggie containing a pair of purple exam gloves.

“You carry disposable gloves?” I suddenly understood the lack of work experience. I opened my mouth, planning to end the interview, but she continued before I could get the words out.

“Of course. I never know when I might need them. I’m allergic to latex. Horrible hives, itching, wheezing, difficulty breathing. You’d have to carry a non-latex brand just for me. I use a minimum of one box each month.”

She must have mistaken my look of frozen engrossment for confusion.

“When you clean, you wear protective gloves, don’t you? It’s not just about the bacteria carried by the animals, but the people, too.” She gasped, eyes bulging. “You clean up after them, right? Humans and animals? Do you have bleach? Hot water?” Her voice squeaked in alarm.

I didn’t use anything more than a doo-doo bag, disinfectant spray, and a mop, but I didn’t think she could handle the truth. I should have known this was going to be a bust when she’d opened the door with a disposable hand wipe and refused to shake hands.

I cleared my throat. A strand of hair fell from my ponytail. I tucked it behind my ear. “I really appreciate that you’d like to work here, but I’m not sure this is a good fit for you. Have you thought about one of the smaller boutiques downtown? There are a number of clothing stores looking for help.”

She recoiled. “No. I can’t pick up any item someone else has worn, however briefly. I can’t touch someone else’s food. Oh, and I cannot handle money. I have a doctor’s note for all of that, too.”

I’m sure she did. I wondered how many “doctor’s notes” she had in her magical bag. “This job would require you to handle money.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Your customers are rich. Don’t they pay with credit cards?”

There was something endearing about Wacky Vera’s obvious phobia, but there was no way I was hiring her.

“I’m really sorry, but I don’t think you’ll enjoy working here.”

Agitated, she wiggled in her chair. “I know what you’re thinking. You think that because I-I don’t like touching people, and I-I can’t handle germs, I won’t be an excellent worker. Well, you’re wrong. What about Monk? I’ve seen every episode. He had many more issues than I do. If Monk could work with the police, dirty suspects, and dead people, I can work here. With you.” She tugged the hem of her tunic sweater. Her round face had flushed in her passionate outrage.

“Monk’s a fictional character from a television show that went off the air years ago.”

Her dark brown eyes bulged in indignation. “And?”

Yikes. Thankfully, the phone rang, and I didn’t have to come up with a polite response. I excused myself.

“Bow Wow Boutique, this is Mel.”

“Jack O’Doggle,” the voice on the other end said.

“Hey, Dr. O. What can I do for you?”

Dr. Jack O’Doggle, plastic surgeon to the rich and richer of Orange County, was hot. I’m not talking temperature. Tall, dark-haired, and charismatic. Let’s just say he represented his profession very, very well. He was also Tova Randall’s boyfriend.

For those of you who don’t know, Tova and I don’t play well together. Mostly because she tried to sue me for giving her pup, Kiki, fleas. I hadn’t, but at the time, Tova didn’t believe me.

Ever since Jack and Tova hooked up, Tova’s been in my hair constantly. Dr. O seemed to enjoy showering Tova with extravagant gifts and trips. Heck, there’d been a steady flow of gifts for Kiki too. The way to Tova’s heart was through her dog. (I admit, I knew the feeling.) Expensive dog bowls, clothing, collars, barrettes, and just last week a new leather carrier.

“You know those pink booties under the glass counter?”

I looked down. “Sure. I’m looking at them right now.”

They were pretty adorable, if I did say so myself. Christmas was three weeks away. The soft pink booties with Swarovski crystals would make the perfect present.

“Wrap me up a pair. I . . .” A loud discussion sparked in the background. “I’m sorry, Mel. Hold on just a second.” There was some crackling noise as he covered the phone, but I could still hear pieces of his conversation. “Gwen, Annabelle’s chin implant shouldn’t take longer than an hour. Tell Mrs. Ides I’ll see her at four.”

Chin implant? As titillating as that topic was, I tuned it out and surreptitiously watched Wacky Vera pull a package of hand-wipes from the medical bag she called a purse and proceed to wipe down the chair she’d been sitting on. Once she finished, she tackled the front door with concise vertical strokes, making high-pitched squeaking noises—the glass, that is, not Vera. Disinfectant and bleach hung in the air.

I shook my head and chuckled. I was flanked by crazy people. Heck, maybe I was the crazy one. I tapped my fingers on the counter, waiting for Dr. O to resume our conversation.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized suddenly. “Mel, wrap ‘em up, and I’ll stop by after my last appointment. Remind me, what time do you close?”

“I’m open late for a private party. Ava Rose is launching her new doggie couture line. I’ll be here until at least nine.”

Vera carefully held her used wipes at arm’s length looking for a place to dispose of them. I pointed at the wastebasket next to me, behind the counter.

“Fine. Fine,” Dr. O said. “You have my credit card on file. Oh, and a card.”

“Pardon?”

“I need a card. And would you write on it? ‘I’m sorry we fought.’”

I rolled my eyes. Tova had probably picked the fight just to get make-up presents. “Sure. Did you want me to put Tova’s name on the envelope?”

He paused for a couple of seconds. I could hear his name being paged in the background again. “No. Kiki. I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight.”

I squeezed the phone. Did he just say Kiki? Seriously? He wanted me to address the card to Tova’s dog?

What kind of fight could he possibly have had with a five-pound Yorkipoo?

More importantly, who won?