The Girl With the Dachshund Tattoo (2 page)

By the end of the day’s events, there will have been five heats, in three different weight classes, with one winner in each category: miniature, lightweight, and heavyweight.

Betty shoved an empty box under the table. “It’s almost nine. The contestants will arrive any minute.”

“Great. We’re ready for them.” I pushed a stack of extra-large jerseys to the front of the table.

“Oh, make sure you’re here at ten o’clock.”

I stared at the faux innocent expression on Betty’s face. “Why?”

“We have an interview.”

Unpleasant memories of my last year in the beauty pageant world sprang to mind. I shook my head. “No. Not going to happen.”

Her grape eyebrows shot upward. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

“I don’t like reporters.”

In my experience, reporters were neither balanced nor impartial. Their goal was to tell a titillating story. Facts and truth were not necessary. To be fair, Betty didn’t know that my mama had “persuaded” a male judge to vote for me during my Miss America run. Nor did she know about the wacky publicity that had resulted from my melodramatic disqualification. If she had, she’d understand my distrust of reporters.

“She’s a filmmaker, Cookie. She’s shooting a movie. Besides, it’s free publicity.”

Bless Betty’s naïve soul. “Nothing’s free. We don’t even know what the film’s about.”

“What’s there to know? It’s a dogumentary. A wiener racing biopic.
The Long and the Short of It
.” Betty barked out a laugh and slapped her thin thigh in amusement. “That’s the best title.”

I groaned. “That’s an awful title.”

“When she comes around, I’ll do the talking,” Betty announced. “And don’t stare at her.”

“Why in the world would I stare?”

Betty tossed a sassy smile over her shoulder. “She’s not sexy like us.”

“Is that so?”

“She’s a behind-the-camera kinda person. Smeared eyeliner, ratty short hair, ripped jeans. You know, I should offer the poor girl pointers on her eyeliner.”

I ignored the comment about eyeliner. “Sounds like any eighties glam band after a long concert.”

Betty nodded excitedly as she moved the treat jars from the top shelf to a shelf at eye level. “So you’ve seen her?”

“How often have you talked to this
filmmaker
?” I resisted using air quotes, my skepticism obvious.

Betty patted my arm reassuringly. “Don’t you worry, Cookie. I’ve got it all under control.”

I’d experienced Betty’s version of control. Lord help us all. We were in trouble.

“HEY, MEL. THE booth looks great.” Darby’s blond curls brushed her shoulders. Her normally pale skin already sported a SoCal tan. We were dressed alike—jeans and the event T-shirt Betty and I had designed. The shirts had turned out great—a sunshine yellow material with the words “Wiener Takes All” in brown above a smooth-haired dachshund. All the vendors had agreed to sell the shirts, the profits to be donated to the rescue group, Doxie Lovers of OC.

As my best friend, Darby knew my drink of choice and handed me a chai tea latte from the Koffee Klatch.

“You are a lifesaver.” I inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma of cardamom, cinnamon, and vanilla. “Where’s Fluffy?” Fluffy was Darby’s Afghan hound who has a superiority complex. I imagine she thought a doxie race was beneath her.

Darby slipped the strap of her soft leather messenger bag over her head, then laid the bag on the table. “I left her at home. This isn’t exactly her idea of a good time. Where’d Betty run off to?”

“She took Missy to check out the other vendors. Ensuring we can beat the competition. You know how she gets. The boutique never sells enough of anything.”

Darby sipped her favorite drink, a white chocolate mocha latte. “When are you going to tell her you don’t need the money?”

She referred to my “Texas money.” Montgomery family money I rarely touched, much to my mama’s displeasure. Mama would prefer I attended charity balls and wasted my days “stimulating” the economy by buying junk I didn’t need nor want. I preferred to work for a living.

I shrugged. “Not today. What have you been up to?”

She pulled her camera from her messenger bag. “Snapping candid photos. I got some great shots of the protesters. I found Zippy and Richard out front signing autographs. I thought I’d grab Betty and see if she’d like to join me.”

“Wait. Did you say ‘protesters’?”

She nodded, brows furrowed. “A dozen people with picket signs. One woman had a poster-sized photo of a dachshund racing in a wheelchair. To be honest, at first I found the idea inspirational, but the longer I looked at the picture, it became a little . . . disturbing.”

“This is the first I’ve heard about any opposition to the race.”

“They’re part of a local animal activist group concerned about the possibility of back injuries. As the popularity of racing grows, they think the dachshunds may have the same overbreeding issues as greyhounds.”

We sipped our drinks in silence. Darby took a couple of random photos. I felt a little uncomfortable. I’d never given any of those concerns a second thought. Could that controversy be the impetus behind the dogumentary? I was about to ask Darby if she’d seen the filmmaker when I caught a glimpse of my trusted assistant.

“Here comes Betty,” I said.

We watched her stroll up the vendor aisle as she cast sly glances toward the other merchants. Missy waddled behind. With her short nose and bulky frame, she looked completely out of place around all the wiener dogs. The second Betty caught sight of Darby, she transformed into The Prancing Grandma.

“Darby, you’re slacking,” she announced. “As the official photographer, you should be taking pictures of the booths. Start with ours.” She shoved Missy’s leash in my hand, then scooted around the table. She struck a pose in front of a rack of merchandise. “Make sure you get the sweaters. They’re on sale.”

Darby snapped pictures as Betty acted out her interpretation of a supermodel photo shoot. I watched, amused, as I drank my breakfast.

“I saw Zippy,” Betty said. “I don’t like his owner. He tugged on Zippy’s leash and made the poor dog walk in circles, backwards. I think Zippy hurt his leg. I saw him limping. Instead of Ricky-Dicky being concerned, he yelled at him to stop whining. He made me so mad. I’ve switched teams.”

Ricky-Dicky? Since when had she started calling Richard Eriksen Ricky-Dicky? Betty suddenly struck an awkward wide-legged stance and threw a punch.

“He’s lucky I didn’t show him my new moves. You girls should have seen me in that self-defense class I took a few months ago. I was a rock star.” Betty acted out what could have been a scene from a Jackie Chan movie. Birdlike arms flailed in front of her face; her right knee jabbed the air.

“Boom.” Step. “Boom,” she shouted.

“Settle down, girlfriend, before you attack the rack of dog collars.” I guided her away from the merchandise.

“You don’t get it. If anyone pulls a gun on us again, I’m ready for them.” Betty struck a Charlie’s Angel stance, complete with clasped hands imitating a gun.

Last Christmas, Betty and I had been held at gunpoint, a life-changing moment for both of us. Apparently, she’d gone on the defensive, whereas I had decided to cross a line without thought about the repercussions. More on my poor decision later.

“That was a fluke,” I said.

“You don’t know that,” she insisted.

For everyone’s benefit, I’d better be right. “Let’s finish the pictures.”

“Stand next to the sign,” Darby ordered. “I want the boutique’s name in a couple of shots.”

“Good idea. Cookie, get over here.”

Betty’s previous kung-fu impersonation over, Missy and I reluctantly obeyed. I set my half-empty cup on the table.

Darby slowly lowered her camera. “Mel, where’s your engagement ring?”

Was the undertone of concern in her voice real, or had my own insecurities surrounding my personal life made me oversensitive? That line I’d just mentioned? Well it involved my fiancé, Grey Donovan, and he couldn’t seem to get past my impulsive decision. He had every reason to be angry. I’d messed up. But that wasn’t the real problem. The real issue was that, presented with the exact set of circumstances, I’m pretty sure I’d make the same decision. Yeah, not good.

By the look on their faces, you’d think a hairy wart had bloomed on my finger. I resisted the urge to cover my bare left hand so they’d stop staring at it. If I were an accomplished liar, I’d claim wearing a six-carat sapphire heirloom to a wiener race wasn’t practical. But Darby knew I didn’t possess one ounce of practicality.

I settled for a half truth and prayed she would drop the subject. “I accidently left it on the bathroom counter this morning.”

Darby placed her camera next to my chai. “There’s only been one other time you’ve been without your ring. Last year when you two ‘took a break.’ Is everything okay?”

I swallowed hard. “There is nothing for you to worry about.”

“Where is that sexy man of yours?” Betty yanked on the elastic waistband of her pants, hiking them higher up. “I wore my new outfit for him. I got it off of that all-night shopping TV channel.”

I rubbed my ringless finger. “Grey flew to New York.”

Grey’s secret life as an undercover FBI agent had, by default, become my secret life too. What my friends and family believed to be gallery business trips were a cover for his real job.

He was actually in DC, preparing for a new white-collar case involving counterfeit wine. By definition, white-collar crime (lying, cheating, and stealing) was considered nonviolent. In Grey’s case it was the undercover aspect that created the danger—raids, arrests, and, frankly, desperate criminals who didn’t want to go to prison, and who had a tendency to act out in violent ways.

He’d promised me the most dangerous situation he’d come across while in New York was a hangover. I was holding him to it.

“He’ll miss the race. He sounded like he was looking forward to it,” Darby said.

He had been, until my little stunt. After that he looked forward to time apart to clear his head.

Thank the good Lord, Luis and his long-haired doxie, Barney, walked up to our table, saving me from further discussion about Grey and my missing engagement ring. Barney’s tail wagged double time when he noticed Betty.

“You’re the first to arrive.” I blinded them with my brightest smile.

Betty grabbed her orange clipboard from under the table and checked them off our list. Darby snapped a photo, and I handed Luis a jersey for Barney—an extra-large.

“Mel, the uniforms are great.” Luis was your average guy. He wore an event T-shirt with a pair of cargo shorts and sneakers. Nice, unassuming, and he loved his dog. Bless his heart. He didn’t hold Betty’s nagging about Barney’s need to drop a few pounds against either of us.

Betty bent over and patted Barney’s head. “You’re looking good.” She straightened and eyed Luis. “You still use too much of that dog cologne. He smells like a fifteen-year-old boy going out on his first date.”

Luis face reddened. “He likes it.”

“He stinks.”

She was right. Barney’s cologne overpowered any smell within twenty yards. My eyes watered a bit. “He looks like he’s lost a little weight. Has he been training?”

Luis rubbed his chin as he studied his dog. “A little. He has a lot of energy. He really likes to socialize with the other dogs. Running at the park seemed like a good idea.”

“Which heavyweight heat is Barney in?” I asked.

“The first one. We’re on our way there now. To check it out. Are you going to watch us race?”

“Absolutely,” Betty and Darby said in unison.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “Did you bring the fried chicken? He’s definitely motivated by food.” A character trait I could relate to.

Luis nodded, a huge smile split his thick lips. He patted the fanny pack hidden under his belly. “Right here. So, I guess we’ll see you there.” After a quick wave, Luis ducked his head, and the two made their way toward the west end of the field.

Betty shook her head in pity. “The minute Barney takes his eyes off that chicken he’ll forget all about the race and meander out of bounds.”

I wanted to disagree, but she was right on the money. Barney possessed only one speed—distracted. The big guy wasn’t a natural competitor. He liked to roam, explore, and hang out with his pals. Fried chicken was his only chance at victory.

Within minutes, a line of contestants stood in front of our table. Happy chatter blended with excited barking as we processed the racers. Darby disappeared into the noisy crowd of humans and dogs to photograph the day. An hour quickly passed, and we’d handed out over half the jerseys. Presently, the line was only a half-dozen people deep.

Betty held her clipboard in front of her tiny body like a drill sergeant. “Name?” she barked out.

“Pickles.” The man’s voice was as thick as his bulging biceps. I looked at the black-and-tan wire-haired dachshund he cradled gently.

I won’t lie; inappropriate jokes sprang to mind, one right after another. I pinched off the natural impulse to verbalize them.

“I got two dogs named Pickles,” Betty said. “One’s racing with the miniatures. The other must be you. You Lenny Santucci?”

Lenny looked like an angry frat boy who was minutes away from discovering his “brothers” were about to expel him due to anger mismanagement. I changed my opinion about Lenny and Pickles being the underdog.

“That’s right.” He adjusted Pickles so the dog rested on one gigantic forearm.

Betty scoffed as she checked his name off her list. She mumbled something inappropriate under her breath about a man naming his dog “Pickles.”

“Size?” I asked.

“Medium.” It was a dare, not a statement.

“There’s no way he’s a medium.” Betty pointed a boney finger at Pickles. “A large.”

“You tellin’ me my dog is fat?” Lenny leaned closer. His hips bumped the table, and his upper lip curled with intimidation.

Betty inched up on her toes, meeting him halfway, undeterred by his surliness. “I’ve seen fat dogs. Pickles is knocking on the door of tubby. Doesn’t matter, these things run small.” She grabbed the large uniform I handed her and held it toward him. “Here. If he can’t fit into a large, tell Cookie here. She’ll hook you up with a bigger size.”