Fifty Shades of Greyhound (The Pampered Pets Mystery Series) (3 page)

THE MEDIA CALLED it “The Carving Knife Murder.”

Malone and crew had questioned every single person at the Greyhound event. It seemed there were just short of a hundred witnesses, and yet no one had actually seen the man get stabbed. I knew they’d needed to ask the questions when details were fresh in all of our minds, but I also knew eyewitness accounts were often unreliable. By the time I’d finally fallen asleep last night, I wasn’t sure myself about what I’d seen. And yet this morning, I felt like parts of the incident were burned into my memory.

According to the news report, the victim was new to the area and, while he’d been photographed at several recent Laguna Beach pet and marine life rescue events, they could find no one to interview who actually knew him.

The news anchor called him a wealthy Orange County business man. And I guess he would have to have been, to attend a big dollar function like the Fifty Shades of Greyhound charity event.

Poor Blanche. This was not good news coverage for Greys Matter. Last night, she had been a wreck. The in-charge Blanche had been replaced by a harried woman whose classy event was in ruins. The bad publicity would take some major PR damage control.

And I didn’t think
D’Orange Maison
would be returning her deposit anytime soon, given the breakage caused by the dogs and the people attempting to round up the dogs. What a mess.

I had tried to reach Verdi first thing this morning. I tried again while my coffee brewed, but her cell phone went directly to voicemail. Malone had undoubtedly called her last night. I knew he had to, but I felt a bit like a traitor not having the chance to tell her what had happened before the police called. In the light of day, I was sure there was a good reason Eugene had disappeared from the event.

I’d try to catch Verdi at the office before I began the day’s pet appointments.

I showered and threw on my well-worn Rag and Bone jeans and a Pacific Marine Mammal Center T-shirt. I had a full day ahead and, in my profession, comfort supersedes fashion. I saved the designer togs for the social occasions and, in Laguna, those occasions were plentiful.

I loved Laguna Beach. I loved my job. I loved my life. And as I pulled my silver vintage Mercedes convertible out of the driveway on such a gorgeous southern California morning, I was even more thankful for the beauty around me because it reminded me of how fragile life could be.

I knew nothing really about the man who’d been killed. Had it been planned? Or a crime of convenience where someone had taken the opportunity because of the chaos? Or had it simply been a tragic accident? As I knew from experience, life can change on a dime. There were more questions than answers, and it sounded like Laguna Beach Homicide and Detective Malone had their work cut out for them.

One thing Detective Malone had been clear about was he needed to talk with Verdi’s brother. Well, I guess he’d been clear about two things. He’d also been crystal clear about the fact he was not going to return Grandma Tillie’s brooch to me until the stabbing had been sorted out.

I didn’t like it, but I guess it guaranteed a way to keep the pin safe from my cousin, Mel. I couldn’t get it back, but Melinda also couldn’t get to it as long as it was locked up in police evidence. For the first time, the brooch’s location was absolutely Mel-proof.

I slipped on my sunglasses and lifted my face to the warmth of the early morning sun. I lived in The Village part of Laguna. There’s also an area called the Top of the World, where the mansions cling to the steep hillsides like barnacles, and where they not only feel the touch of the sun first on the morning like this, but where they also have the most amazing views of the Pacific Ocean.

Then there are the gated communities: Emerald Bay, Ruby Point, Three Arch Bay, and the new one, Diamond Cove. Each of them has their own unique personality, but all are focused on keeping their residents safe and secure. The more Bohemian central downtown area has houses that are older, but often have a more artistic flare. The advantage of The Village is that you’re close to all the great restaurants and shops. In my case, I could walk to work if I wanted. Days like this, I drove because I knew I had a full day of clients, and I usually see them in their homes. Much easier to sort out problems in the environment the pets are accustomed to.

The office parking lot was deserted when I arrived. It wasn’t unusual for me to be the only one in on any given day. It depended on what my officemates had going on. As I entered the building, I could see the receptionist desk was empty. I stepped behind the desk to see if there was a note and quickly checked the calendar Verdi kept of which days she worked.

Shoot. This was a day she was off. She must be at her other job at the Koffee Klatch. I would have to try to catch her there between appointments.

I’d gathered the client files for my morning appointments when I heard a ding as someone came through the front entrance. Diana Knight poked her head into my office.

“I was on my way to the ARL for my volunteer stint and thought I’d stop by for a minute.” She stepped through the doorway. In hot pink cropped jeans and a flattering coral and pink striped top, she looked years younger than her age. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Not at all. I’m just getting ready to head out to see my first client of the day—a licking Labrador. The poor pup licks himself, his toys, the furniture, the floor, pretty much anything his tongue can reach.”

“Aww, poor thing. I’m sure you’ll sort it out.”

“I hope so, for his sake.”

Diana lowered her voice. “I wondered if you’d heard anything more about last night’s incident.” She looked around. “Verdi’s not here?”

“No, this isn’t one of her days in the office.”

“Do you know if the police have talked to her?”

“I tried to call her. She wasn’t next door at April Mae’s.” Verdi had been catsitting for my next-door neighbor who was out of town. “Verdi’s such a nice kid, and her brother seemed to be the same. I hope it’s a simple misunderstanding and he had a good reason for disappearing. Was Dino upset?”

“No, not at all.”

“Did you know the guy who was stabbed?” I asked. “They didn’t give his name on the news.”

Diana knew everyone. At least everyone with enough cash to pay five thousand dollars a ticket for a Greyhound rescue event.

“Victor Lustig, I’m told was his name.” As usual she had Mr. Wiggles, her Puggle, tucked into her handbag. “I’d heard he had rented the beach house out at Mission Point a few months ago. The owner’s wife died last year, and the poor man went a little mad. Old coot is living most of the year in Palm Beach with some supermodel airhead about one-fifth his age. George Thomas, the old coot’s attorney, manages the property for him, and he rented it to this guy, Victor. No one seems to know what exactly he did for a living.”

As it turned out, Diana knew a lot more than most.

“Is the attorney the same George Thomas that’s on the Greys Matter board?” I asked.

“That’s him. George S. Thomas. I think the S stands for ‘sloth.’ The man hardly works. It’s a good thing Greys Matter doesn’t have much legal work.”

“How did he get to be on the board?” I thought the positions were all volunteer.

“He inherited the position from his father, George P. Thomas. Nice man, the senior Thomas. And very sharp. The son, however, is no firecracker.”

“Seems so odd.” I placed the files I’d collected in my bag.

“What’s odd?” Diana followed me into the outer office.

“That no one really knew this Victor Lustig.”

“That is strange.” Diana absently patted Mr. Wiggles’s head. “I feel badly for Blanche. She does such an incredible job for the Greyhound rescue cause, and this event was to be the big fund-raiser.”

“Hopefully this will be solved quickly.”

“I bet it will. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, Caro. You’re an excellent judge of people, so I’m sure you’re right about Verdi and her brother.” She opened the door to leave. “I’d better get going.”

“Okay, see you later.”

The door closed behind her and I stood in the silence a few minutes. Diana was wrong. I was a lousy judge of people. That’s how I’d been taken in by my ex-husband’s charm, only to find he was an unfaithful, lying, unethical snake in the grass.

I’d thought in the time since the divorce, or “The Big Mess,” as Mama likes to call it, I’d gotten better at recognizing lies and seeing through the fakes.

But what if I hadn’t?

THE DAY WENT quickly and, after the Lab with the licking problem which was as I’d suspected really more of an anxiety issue (exercise and calm time prescribed), I’d moved on to a cat fight issue.

Not the type of cat fights I’d dealt with during my Texas beauty pageant days. This involved actual felines with prima donna attitudes. The family had an older cat and had introduced a young kitten with the idea it would encourage her to get some exercise. Instead, she’d become the grumpy dowager of the household. The old girl had become creative in showing her displeasure, and the new cat on the block was in hiding most of the time. We came up with some ideas to get the two together, and I had every confidence the two would adjust.

I’d scheduled a time to check back in a week with both the Licking Lab and the Ferocious Feline and their families.

I had no luck in catching Verdi at the Koffee Klatch. My appointments had all gone long, and I’d missed her. The afternoon was just as busy, and I didn’t get a chance to try her cell again.

As I pulled into my drive, I noted there was no car next door, so Verdi must have already made her visit to Toby and Minou, her catsitting charges. I didn’t think she was avoiding me, but she was probably feeling awkward about the situation.

Setting my groceries on the counter, I dropped my purse on the floor and kicked off my shoes. Thelma and Louise, my two cats, left their perch on the windowsill to come check out the groceries, and Dogbert trotted out to greet me.

My cell phone rang, and I glanced at the number but didn’t recognize it. At least that meant it wasn’t my mother. I was not in the mood for a “what are you doing,” “who are you seeing,”, “what are you eating,” phone call from the Queen of I-Gave-Birth-to-You-So-You-Will-Listen-to-Me.

I answered the call. It was Blanche LeRue who wanted me to stop by the next day and check out her two Greyhounds who she felt had been traumatized by the craziness last night.

I could imagine they might be—I felt a little traumatized myself.

I’VE NEVER BELIEVED much in women’s intuition.

I think it comes from paying attention to what goes on around you. Sometimes you have to listen to what people are saying and sometimes you have to listen to what they’re not saying. Mostly, you just have to shut up and listen.

As promised, I’d stopped by Blanche’s house first thing. She lived in the house her grandparents had built in the 1920s. It was a Village Craftsman bungalow, sturdy and classic. Most days, Blanche was the same.

Today, she answered the door a bit out of breath, her expression startled like she wasn’t expecting me. Had she forgotten she’d called me?

“Oh, where are my manners?” Blanche stepped to the side and motioned for me to enter. “Please come in.”

Her home was comfortably furnished with Arts and Crafts-era antiques. An oak bookcase, a couple of Stickley chairs, a mission-style library table. Classy and solid.

I asked her to describe what her dogs had done to make her feel they were traumatized by their experience at the Greyhound event.

Blanche paced and circled as she talked, and the dogs followed her steps.

“I’m so worried about you two.” She stopped for a moment, reached down and chucked each dog under the chin.

I’d only seen her at animal charity events, so I didn’t know what her usual casual hang-around-home outfit was. But I guessed it wasn’t a coffee-stained blouse and wrinkled slacks. Plus, I was pretty sure her usually sleek silver hair had not seen a brush today.

It could be that her Greyhounds, Blaze and Trixie, were agitated because of the incident at the fund-raiser as Blanche thought, or it could be the dogs had picked up on her agitation. Maybe I needed to calm the owner before I could deal with the dogs.

“Would it be possible to take them into your backyard?” I asked.

“Yes. I guess so.” She indicated a path through to the back. “I don’t want to get too far from the phone, though. I’ve left several messages for Dave at the Greys Matter foundation office and I’m expecting him to call me back.”

“Perhaps you could take your cell phone.” I pointed at the device lying on the table.

“Oh, my goodness. Of course. What am I thinking?” She grabbed the phone. “This isn’t like me.”

We walked through the kitchen and dining area toward the wide French doors. She had a beautiful house, but it wasn’t difficult to tell that Greyhound dogs were her passion. There were pictures on every wall of different dogs. The hallway was lined with photos of Blanche with various celebrities who had helped with Greys Matter and the Greyhound adoption cause.

She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. “I feel terrible that the fund-raiser went so badly.” She sighed. “People brought their dogs to what we’d promised was a safe dog-friendly environment and then their beautiful babies were traumatized.”

“And a man is dead,” I pointed out.

“Oh.” She stopped. “Of course. That sounded heartless, didn’t it? I didn’t mean it that way. The poor man. I don’t want to minimize what happened, but I can’t really do anything to help find out who killed him. The police will sort all that out.”

“I’m sure they’re working on it.”

“But I do feel responsible for the dogs,” she went on. “I’d like you to check with each of the owners for me, and if they need your services, I’ll pay your fee for them. It’s the least I can do.”

“Let’s start with Blaze and Trixie and we’ll go from there.” The two sighthounds were older and quite well-behaved.

The dogs slipped out as Blanche opened the door. They circled the small yard, nosed some dog toys by the small pool, and then settled in the shade.

Many people believe Greyhounds are busy animals because they’re racers, but the truth is, they really are couch potatoes. When they chase, they run like the wind. The rest of the time they sleep, often up to eighteen hours a day. I could see why Blanche had thought there would be no problem bringing them to the charity event.

I glanced at the two dogs reclining at the side of the pool—the perfect relaxed socialites. At any moment I expected them to pull out their floppy hats and Ray-Bans.

Though Blanche had been worried about Blaze and Trixie, the truth was they seemed pretty calm. It was Blanche who remained traumatized.

Blanche lived alone. Maybe she just needed to talk.

“Have you heard anything from the police?”

Blanche tapped a fingernail on her phone. “Not a thing.”

“How about
D’Orange Maison
?” I asked. “And where on earth did that rabbit come from?”

“No one seems to know.” Blanche chewed her lip and ran a hand through her hair, making it stick up in several spots. The worry ate away at her usual polish.

“Do you have a list of the attendees?” I asked. “I’d be happy to follow up with the Greyhound owners.”

“I don’t have anything on paper. My handwriting is so awful.” She lifted her hands. “I do everything on my little tablet computer. Let me find the spreadsheet and I’ll email it to you.”

She motioned me back in the house. I glanced at Blaze and Trixie who were still stretched out like sunbathers on the concrete.

As we stepped back inside, Blanche picked up a small tablet computer from the kitchen counter and asked for my email address. Then with a couple of swipes and taps, she was done.

“There you go,” she said. “I get so frustrated with people my age who think they’re too old to embrace technology. I love it. I keep my appointments, my contacts, all of my documents right here.” She slid the tablet onto the counter. “Much better than a desk calendar, a handbag stuffed full of business cards, or a bunch of handwritten notes you can’t read.”

No doubt about it, Blanche LeRue disproved the idea you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I could see why Diana thought so highly of her. She was a woman to be reckoned with. She’d taken a hit; she might be flustered today, but she was a fighter. She’d be okay.

I said good-bye to Blanche and told her I’d make contact with each of the Greyhound owners and then would keep her apprised of who accepted her offer and of my follow-ups with them.

BACK AT THE office, I checked my email and downloaded the list of Greyhound owners Blanche had sent through cyberspace. There weren’t fifty, thank God. Some of them weren’t local, some owners had multiple dogs. Still, in any event, it was a lot of appointments. Blanche had asked that I bill her instead of the Greyhound rescue and I had agreed, full well knowing I’d do the follow-ups gratis.

Every board member except for Sam and Diana had Greyhounds. Sam had gotten conned into being a Greys Matter board member by Diana and by his grandmother. It wasn’t that Sam wasn’t a dog person, but a Greyhound wouldn’t have been a good choice for him. Couch potato and Sam didn’t belong in the same sentence. He needed a dog as active as he was.

Sam was a catch in his own right, but I’d resisted his invitations at first. What I’d found I couldn’t hold out against was that the man also owned the dog of my dreams, a handsome Border Collie named Mac. Some women picked their dates based on their portfolio. I picked my dates based on their pets.

Sam’s grandmother had two of the small Italian Greyhounds. Ari and Angel were sweet, well-behaved dogs, and she doted on them. They’d been in attendance at the Fifty Shades event.

Alana and Dave Benda also had the two Italian Greyhounds we’d talked about when Alana had been sizing up my fashion sense. I could probably try to catch Dave at the office to ask about them, but he was in and out so much, I decided to try Alana instead. I called but got voicemail so left her a message. I made a note.

Scheduling all these appointments would be a daunting task on top of my normal client load. And I still needed to talk to Verdi about Eugene.

Thinking I could mark two things off my list at once, I called Verdi’s cell. I would enlist her help in organizing the appointments, and it would give us a chance to talk. Again, voicemail. Did no one answer their phones anymore?

Next on my list was to call Detective Malone and get my brooch back. I had no hope for anything but voicemail this time.

Before I could make the call to Malone, my cell phone rang.

I glanced at the number. This time is was my mother. If I didn’t bite the bullet and take her call, she’d just keep trying. The woman was Texas tough and Montgomery stubborn. There was a good chance if I avoided her calls for too long, she’d just show up on my doorstep.

That would not be good.

I sighed the sigh of guilt-ridden daughters everywhere and hit the answer button.

Okay, deep breath. I was a grown woman. I could do this.

“Good morning, Mama.”

“Carolina Lamont, why are you determined to make me look stupid in front of my own family?”

There was to be no salutation. We were apparently going from zero to a full heaping of blame without even a hello. And I didn’t even know what I’d done.

I counted to ten and then asked, “How, pray tell, have I done that from this distance?”

Big old sigh on her end and then silence. I could tell she was smoothing her eyebrow with her index finger, like she always did when she was particularly irritated with me.

I broke first. “I haven’t even talked to any of the family.”

“Maybe not.” She had shifted the phone by now so she could admire her manicure. I didn’t need video-conferencing to get the picture. “I had lunch with my sister, Barbara, and I had to hear the news from her.” She paused, either to catch her breath or for effect. Perhaps both.

“What news?” The only thing I could think was that someone had told Mama I was once again involved in a murder investigation.

“I have to hear from my sister that my own daughter is about to marry a billionaire olive tycoon.”

“What?” I screeched.

“There is no reason to yell at me, young lady.” Mama Kat said sharply in the same tone she’d used when I was eighteen and came home late. “I am not the one keeping secrets.”

I am going to kill Mel.

She
knew
what would happen if she planted even the slightest hint that I was serious about Sam Gallanos. With the two sisters, our mothers, together, the hint would spark the idea we were serious. And that spark would become a wildfire, and now Mama had us picking out china patterns.

Deep breath.

“Mama, I am not about to marry anyone.”

“But Melinda told Barbara—”

“She was just teasin’.” I wanted to say more, but it wasn’t Mama’s fault she’d been played. “You know Mel.”

“You’re sure you’re not keeping things from me?”

I was not going to answer that question directly.

Let’s see, there was this guy who died at my feet a couple of nights ago.

And as for Sam, I couldn’t really explain what I didn’t know myself. He’d like us to be more. I still had a lot of baggage.

“Mama, hon, if there comes a time when I’m fixing to be engaged, I promise, I will let you know.”

“You really aren’t?”

“I absolutely am not.”

She wasn’t happy but dropped the topic. But we weren’t done. She went on to a series of family updates and Dallas society gossip. I did my daughterly duty and listened. Sort of.

By the time we hung up, I was sure of a couple of things.

First, I’d think twice before I took a call on the fly from my mother. Second, I didn’t know how, but I would find a way to get even with my cousin.

Game on, Melinda.