The Girl With the Dachshund Tattoo (20 page)

“Racers are present,” Hagan announced into the microphone, his energetic voice pumping up the crowd.

The cheers grew louder. Betty jumped up and down, alternating between squeals of excitement and ear-piercing whistles. Darby and I looked at each other and smiled.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce our racers for the first heat in the heavyweight event. In lane one, we have Chloe from Long Beach. In lane two, is Pickles from Yreka. Lane three, is Dutch from Irvine. Lane four, is Maverick from Newport. And in lane five, our very own Barney from Laguna Beach.”

We whooped and hollered as Barney’s name was announced.

“Wouldn’t it be awesome if Barney won?” Darby lifted her camera and snapped pictures, prepared to watch the race through her camera lens.

“That’d be great,” Betty agreed halfheartedly. She wasn’t as genuinely supportive as Darby. I knew she was thinking about her wager and possible windfall.

“On your marks,” Hagan yelled into the mic.

“Get set.” He raised the starting gun, and pointed it in the air.

My heart raced as I waited for him to pull the trigger.

BANG!

The clear plastic door lifted. Pickles, Maverick, and Barney shot out immediately. Their long wiggly bodies ate up the grass as they raced toward the finish line. Pickles was in the lead, his mouth open as he charged forward. He was focused on the toy monkey Lenny held in front of him. With Zippy out of the way, Pickles could experience his first win.

Poor Dutch stood at the starting gate, sniffing the grass where the other dogs had been seconds earlier. I giggled when he lifted his leg and marked his spot. Chloe got a late start, but she came on fast, gaining on the three leaders.

“Chloe is making a comeback,” I shouted, bouncing on my toes, energized. “She’s gonna catch up to the others.”

“Run, Pickles. I got a hundred bucks on you,” Betty shouted at the top of her lungs.

Darby swung around with a shocked look on her sweet face. “What?”

“Pictures, Darb,” I said. “I’ll explain later.”

Suddenly, Chloe was within a nose of Pickles. Maverick and Barney started to run out of gas. It was down to Chloe and Pickles.

I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, “Go, Chloe. Come on girl, you can do it.”

All of a sudden, Chloe bit Pickles on the behind. My breath caught. The crowd gasped.

Pickles whipped around and ran in the opposite direction. Chloe chased him, nipping his rear as they ran.

“No, no, no,” Lenny screamed. The veins in his face pulsed with each “no” he uttered. “Come back, Pickles. Come!”

“Get the chicken, Barney. Get the chicken,” Darby yelled. She lowered her camera for a second, then raised it again. I could hear the quick burst of the shutter as she snapped picture after picture.

Barney and Maverick raced in unison to the finish line nose to nose. I clenched my hands into tight fists. I caught myself holding my breath. I forced myself to breathe.

Luis yelled encouraging words, waving the chicken strip so hard it broke in half, sending a chunk flying across the finish line. Barney raced to the chicken then skidded to a stop. He dropped his head and ate the snack. Maverick raced past him, crossing the finish line first. The crowd roared in celebration.

“Oh, no!” Darby and I cried in unison.

I was heartbroken for Luis. They’d almost won. He’d been so close.

“The winner of the first heat is Maverick. Second place, Laguna’s own Barney,” Hagan announced once Barney crossed the line.

We continued to wait on the other three. Lenny swore at Pickles and Chloe, who were both out of bounds chasing each other in some kind of doggie dating ritual. And remember poor Dutch? Well, he slowly made his way toward his owner.

Luis lifted Barney and held him high. “Great job,” he shouted. “Great job!”

He carried him toward us. We continued to hoot and holler our excitement like a bunch of Texans at a three-legged race during a family reunion.

“That was awesome.” I rubbed Barney’s head. “I bet you’ll get to run in the finals.”

Luis beamed. “I think so too.”

“Come by the boutique tomorrow. I’ll have something extra special for Barney.”

“Yeah, well don’t shake your chicken so hard next time. You still have the big race to run. And if you drop a piece, do it on the other side of the finish line,” Betty grumbled.

“Don’t be rude,” I chastised. It wasn’t Luis’s fault she bet on the wrong dog.

“No, she’s right. I was so happy, I forgot what we were doing.” Luis smiled broadly, unperturbed by the unsolicited advice. “I’ll pay more attention next time.”

“You were fine.” Darby gave him a quick hug. “I’m so proud of both of you. I got some great photos too. I’ll show them to you later. I’ll print copies for you.”

“Thanks, Darby. Hey, here comes that TV reporter. Do you think he wants to interview me?”

“Absolutely,” I said. If not, I’d make sure he did.

We expected to see MacAvoy and his cameraman, Ryan, ready to interview the winners. But he was alone. And running. His perfectly coiffed hair windblown, his face pasty white.

“Where’s Detective Malone?” he asked out of breath.

“I haven’t seen him since Gia and Fallon’s fight. Why? What’s wrong?” A shaken MacAvoy wasn’t normal. His blazer was off, and there was blood on his hand. My heart jolted, not from excitement—from dread.

He caught his breath, then shoved his bloody hand through his hair. “I found the filmmaker. She’s dead.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

I KNOW THIS SOUNDS awful, but I was relieved I wasn’t the one to find the dead body. Let’s get real here. How many dead bodies can a girl stumble over before she becomes a suspect? That’s a rhetorical question. No answer needed.

Darby rummaged around the bottom of her messenger bag and found a clean tissue for MacAvoy to clean the blood off his hand. I slipped my cell from my pocket and pulled up Malone’s number, then handed the phone to MacAvoy. He quickly explained why he was using my phone before he updated Malone. He returned my cell with a shaky hand.

“Thank you for your help.” His voice wavered. He cleared his throat. “He wants me to meet him at the chili truck.”

The same chili truck I’d visited earlier this afternoon. The same chili truck where Betty had placed a bet. The same chili truck Grey had insisted Betty and I stay away from.

Coincidence? I didn’t think so either.

MacAvoy split without another word. He never did explain why there was blood on his hand.

“He’s really upset,” Darby noted, her voice heavy with concern.

I agreed. I hadn’t pegged him for the emotional type. MacAvoy had barely held eye contact with us. Even after he’d talked to Malone, the reporter’s tanned faced had looked an unhealthy white.

I felt badly leaving Luis to celebrate his almost-win alone, but the dead girl had Betty’s gun. That took precedence over any party. Darby, Betty, and I hustled to the to the crime scene. I formed a suspect list in my head for the new murder as we power-walked toward the food area.

Gia was obviously the prime suspect. She’d threatened Stephanie for questioning her about the doping, and the filmmaker had recorded Gia’s tirade.

Fallon had spilled the secret about Zippy retiring. Maybe she’d asked for that portion of her interview to not air and Stephanie had refused. They argued, and Fallon killed her. Flimsy, but possible.

My newest suspect, courtesy of MacAvoy, was Hagan Stone. If Stephanie had proof of illegal gambling, he might want to stop her any way he could. That theory had legs.

I wanted to add Lenny to my list. He certainly had the type of temper to off someone. But other than me, Stephanie was the only person who’d taken his claims of cheating seriously. I put him at the bottom of my list.

Of course, this was all before we knew how she’d died. Since MacAvoy had blood on his hand, I guessed she wasn’t poisoned.

By the time we reached the crime scene, Malone and his people were already there and had taped off the area. For the second time in as many days, the dog park looked like a scene straight out of a cable police drama. Sans the foul language and naked butts.

“She’d better have your gun.” I looked over my shoulder for Betty, but she’d disappeared again. Damn.

“Good grief. Where’d Betty go now?” I asked Darby.

She shook her head equally confused. “I-I don’t know. She was behind us a minute ago.”

How was it possible someone as colorful as Betty could slip away unnoticed as often as she had recently?

A small crowd had gathered. A couple of uniformed officers ushered everyone aside to allow the technicians to work uninterrupted.

Malone stepped out of the food truck. He pinned us with his steely blue eyes. I raised my hand in acknowledgment. He’d lost his leather jacket at some point in the day. He wore an average short-sleeved black T-shirt. Somehow, it looked intimidating on him. He moved in our direction with a deliberation that made poor Darby freeze in place.

Her eyes widened. “Why is he coming here?”

I wondered for a moment if he’d developed his deliberate walk to intimidate people like us or if that was just who he was. Either way, it worked. “Whatever the reason, answer the questions honestly,” I instructed, never taking my eyes off Malone.

Darby had a history of keeping important information from the police. I hoped she’d learned her lesson. If he wanted to talk to Betty, lying about where she was or wasn’t wouldn’t help anyone.

He planted a hand on each of our shoulders and led us away from his crime scene and toward the park entrance gate. “Ladies. What brings you to this end of the dog park?”

I didn’t bother beating around the snapdragon bush. “Is it true? Is it the filmmaker?”

He nodded, his impassive look gave nothing away.

“Does she have Betty’s gun?” I pressed.

“Where is Betty?” He deflected, looking past us.

I felt Darby tense beside me. I shifted, uncomfortable. “I don’t know. She was right behind us, but she slipped away unnoticed. Did the filmmaker have Betty’s gun?”

“Yes.”

“Thank goodness,” Darby said with a sigh, her pent-up worry faded with Malone’s one word.

“Don’t thank anyone yet.” His lips thinned.

My stomach sank. Somehow, I knew what he was about to say. I shook my head. “Please do not say she was shot.”

He stuffed his hands inside his jean pockets. “I’m afraid so, Mel.”

That explained the blood on MacAvoy’s hand and why he had been as emotional as the mother of the bride on her son’s wedding day. He must have touched her.

“With Betty’s gun?” Darby asked in a small voice.

“I won’t know that for a few days. We have to run some tests. But it’s possible.”

“Any sign of Richard’s gun?” I grasped for anything that would shift the investigation away from Betty.

“No.” His voice wasn’t clipped, but it wasn’t reassuring either.

I rubbed my temples trying to gather my thoughts and push back the throbbing pain threatening to explode from behind my eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, but normally you keep this type of information to yourself. Why tell me now?”

“Since the reporter found her, he’ll likely broadcast his findings on the evening news. I’ve asked him to keep this quiet while we investigate, but . . .” He shrugged.

Just because he asked, didn’t mean the reporter would comply, especially a reporter whose top priority was to make a name for himself at a new job. “Does he know that’s Betty’s gun?”

Malone shook his head. “There was no need to tell him about the gun. We found blood under the victim’s nails. It’s possible she fought with someone.”

I closed my eyes. I felt sick to my stomach. Malone had seen Betty’s scratch marks. “Betty’s probably a hundred pounds dripping wet. She’d never win a fight.”

“Which is a motive to shoot the victim.” His calm demeanor did not pacify my anxiety.

“Self-defense?” My voice broke. If I were any sicker, I’d throw up on Malone’s black boots. Betty had told anyone who’d listen about her self-defense class. Heck, she’d been showing off her moves just yesterday, acting like a martial arts, superhero action figure. For all we knew Stephanie had filmed Betty’s exhibition.

Darby reached for my hand and squeezed reassuringly. “You need to talk to Betty, don’t you?” she addressed Malone. I was momentarily impressed with the strength in her voice. Feisty Darby had come out to play.

He ran his palm over his chin. “Officer Shughart is looking for her. Should you find her first, bring her here. To me. I still have a crime scene to process and other witnesses to talk to.”

He was giving us the opportunity to find my unpredictable assistant. “Betty really was with me this time. She didn’t do this,” I pressed.

He cocked his head to the side and offered me a stony face. “I don’t have an exact time of death yet.”

“But?” I heard it in his voice. He had a timeframe. And I wasn’t going to like it one iota.

“The victim was seen alive around nine o’clock this morning. The murder could have occurred anytime between then and two this afternoon. Was Betty with you that entire time?”

I swallowed hard and shook my head.

His jaw tightened. “Find her. Now.”

I believed in Betty, and, deep down, I knew Judd Malone did too. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t remind him there were other suspects. “We will. Don’t forget Gia Eriksen and Fallon Keller also had motive to kill her. And Gia’s husband had a gun. After talking with MacAvoy, Hagan Stone had a motive too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” His dry tone clearly indicated he was more than aware of the particulars and didn’t appreciate my two cents. “Don’t make me regret telling you about the case.” He turned and walked away.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I called out.

He stopped mid-step, faced us, and asked. “Where is Mrs. Eriksen?”

“Hagan disqualified her and Zippy for suspicion of cheating and had security physically remove her,” I explained, more than eager to share what I knew. “Oh. If Gia
did
kill her husband, and now the filmmaker, someone might want to keep an eye on Hagan Stone. Gia was none too pleased that he disqualified Zippy. She vowed to get even with him.”