The Girl With the Dachshund Tattoo (29 page)

Davis is a lovely man, always well-dressed, and he looked snappy tonight in his gray tux. Davis has an adorable Cavalier King Charles Spaniel named Huntley. A smart man and a smart dog, but sometimes there ensued a battle of wills between the two, which was how we’d become acquainted.

Each of the signs had an artistic outline of a Greyhound at the top. The one closest to me said, “Before the 1980s, many racing Greyhounds were put down at the end of their careers. Now, thanks to rescue groups like Greys Matter, more than 20,000 are adopted each year.”

I knew the stats, but still seeing them in black and white was sobering. I could understand why Blanche and the other volunteers were so passionate about Greyhound rescue.

I saw my friend, Diana Knight, across the way and a smile welled up inside me. Her elegant, perfectly-coiffed, blond head bobbed up and down as she talked. She’d cornered a California congressman near another sign which stated, “Most Greyhounds are at the end of their racing careers at two to five years of age, but they still have a lot of life to live. The average lifespan is twelve to fourteen years.” Diana pointed at the words on the sign and pointed at the congressman.

What Diana Knight is to me isn’t at all complicated. Diana is my very best friend in the world. She’s eighty-something and old-school Hollywood at its best, having starred in a number of golden age romantic comedies as the perky heroine who always got the best of the guy.

Well, perky had morphed into feisty. Based on the distance of her perfectly manicured finger from said congressman’s nose, Diana was definitely getting the best of the politician. I couldn’t hear the conversation because of all the chatter in the room, but I was willing to bet it had something to do with animal rights. With Diana it was always about the animals. You always knew where you stood with her and she unapologetically lived her passion. I aspired to be Diana Knight when I grew up.

Diana was dressed in gray like the rest of us, though her dress was a soft, silvery-gray chiffon, the perfect foil for her delicate coloring. I knew she’d want to do lunch soon so we could dish on who was with whom, and which designers made the best show.

The main door opened and the last few arrivals hurried inside, victims of a steady rainfall. We could use the rain, but maybe
D’Orange Maison
should think about a covered portico.

Tova Randall sashayed into the ballroom with the new man in her life. I’d heard she’d been out of the country. Tonight, all eyes were on her as she made an entrance in a gray-toned sheath that hugged her silicone-enhanced curves. Tova was sprinkled with raindrops which looked good on her flawless skin. She’d been a very successful lingerie model and, on her, the rain almost looked like an accessory in a photo shoot. I was thankful I’d arrived before the rain as the moisture would not have been as kind to my naturally-curly red locks.

Tova’s previous significant-other relationship had met with an unfortunate end. I’d not been much of a fan of the woman, but no one deserved what she’d been through. I was glad to see Tova was getting out.

My cousin, Melinda Langston, who owned the Bow Wow Boutique, an über-fancy pet shop in downtown Laguna Beach, had been involved in solving the murder of Tova’s boyfriend and plastic surgeon, Dr. O’Doggle.

Speaking of Melinda—where was she?

I scanned the room of high-steppers. They were all tricked out in gray and black and silver fashions, but dark-haired Mel with her striking good looks would be easy to spot. I didn’t see her.

It wasn’t like her to miss a rescue event. I’d heard she and Grey Donovan, local art gallery owner and her on-again-off-again fiancé, had been seen around town. So the current future wedding status must be “on.” I think it was a sure bet I could count myself out as a bridesmaid.

Mel’s mama and my mama were sisters. We’d been childhood best friends, even up through our teen years and into our twenties. We shared a background of over-achieving high-competition mothers. We shared a love of critters. We shared a loathing of the pageant circuit.

But then things had happened, words were said, and, well, it’s beyond complicated and partly involves the brooch I wore tonight.

You see, our Grandma Tillie had left the bejeweled basket of fruit pin to her “favorite granddaughter.” She only had two granddaughters. Clearly, only one could be the favorite. That would be me. I’d recently retrieved the brooch from Mel’s possession and I sure as shootin’ did not want her to miss seeing me wear it tonight.

“Hello, Caro.” Alana Benda appeared at my side. “Isn’t this awesome?” Her voice was a little too bright. A little too loud. Either too much excitement or her champagne glass had been refilled a few too many times.

“It is,” I agreed. “A great turnout, and the venue is absolutely stunning.”

“Speaking of stunning, is your dress a Jenny Packman?” Alana tapped the peplum skirt of my silver-gray satin gown, her heavy diamond tennis bracelet winking in the lights.

“It is.” I could have worn something I had, but I didn’t really own anything formal in gray. Not a great color for a redhead. Besides, why pass up an excuse to buy a new dress? Right? Especially something from the newest hot designer. I loved the simplicity of her designs, although I’d worried the delicate beading would be damaged by the brooch prominently pinned to my left shoulder.

“I thought so.” Alana looked like she thought there might be a prize involved for the correct guess.

Also, I got the impression I’d suddenly been raised a few notches in her who-might-possibly-be-important list. Leave it to Alana to be into the haute couture label on what everyone was wearing. Not that Diana and I wouldn’t be doing a designer debrief when we got together for lunch, but we weren’t picking our friends based the status on their closet.

Alana had picked a silver and black Roberto Cavalli animal print that accented her toned-to-the-max body. I didn’t know Alana all that well except for talking to her at functions like this.

She was married to Dave, the accountant who had an office in the group where PAWS was located, but come to think of it, I didn’t really know Dave that well either. He wasn’t around the place a lot and when he was, it seemed he was always busy. During tax season, there was a steady stream of wealthy Laguna residents coming through the office. I imagined the guy needed to work long hours if his wife had a penchant for designer dresses and diamond bracelets.

I glanced over Alana’s shoulder at the silver-framed placard behind her. “Greyhounds are bred and built for speed but they are often referred to as 40 MPH couch potatoes. They are exceptionally calm dogs.”

That was true. Greyhounds were great family dogs. Gentle and good-natured.

I clearly didn’t know much about Dave because I hadn’t realized he and his wife were interested in Greyhound rescue.

“Do you and Dave have Greyhounds?” It didn’t necessarily follow, though many attendees at the event did.

“We do.” She flipped bleached blond bangs out of her eyes. “We have two Italian Greyhounds, Louie and Lexie.”

Italian Greyhounds are extremely slender and the smallest of the sighthounds. They looked like miniature Greyhounds, but a lot of IG owners didn’t care for the term. The American Kennel Club sees them as true genetic Greyhounds, with a bloodline going back more than two thousand years.

The main thing as far as my PAWS clients go is, while they’re incredibly sweet and well-behaved, an Italian Greyhound, like any Greyhound, should not be trusted off leash because they have an extremely high predator drive. That means, you may be walking with your dog and suddenly he takes off after a small animal. Not good at the dog park.

“They’re great dogs.” I waited, expecting her to pull out pictures of her fur kids, or point them out if they were in the room. Most of the pet owners I’d talked to did once the topic came up.

Not Alana.

Her fake eyelashes fluttered. “And David is the CFO for Greys Matter.” She gestured with her champagne glass toward the corner of the room where Dave stood talking to Alice Tiburon and her husband, Robert.

I knew CFO meant Chief Financial Officer, but Alana’s tone implied it meant Dave and Warren Buffett were pals.

I glanced over at the trio. Alice Tiburon was the chair of the board of Greys Matter and she definitely was no trophy wife. In fact, she was the one with the money in that pairing. She was a very successful businesswoman. The Tiburons had recently moved from their mansion in Ruby Point to a bigger mansion in the even more exclusive gated community of Diamond Cove. On the coast, and in Laguna in particular, it’s all about the view, and this Diamond Cove property was purported to have the best view in Orange County. Certainly it was one of the most expensive.

Dave and Robert wore gray tuxes like the rest of the men. Alice was striking in a gray crepe ribbon-striped gown that perfectly accented her slender height and her shoulder-length dark hair. I wondered if Alana had asked her who the designer was.

I should say hello to Dave and the couple. I’d known the Tiburons had Greyhounds, but apparently not problem ones. Or, if so, they used a different pet therapist. Alice and Robert Tiburon were regulars at Laguna Beach events and a solid supporter of pet causes. I knew the latter because she was often on Diana’s donor list.

I turned back to speak to Alana, but she had moved away, obviously spotting another potentially important person in designer dress. I looked around once again for Sam, and my glance caught Blanche LeRue’s silver head as she surveyed the crowd and the lavishly decorated
D’Orange Maison
ballroom. I could see a slight frown form as she noted the gaps in the sumptuous platters of food surrounding the towering Greyhound dog ice sculpture.

She waved over Dino Riccio. The dapper Italian caterer hurried to her side and, in turn, motioned to Eugene, the latest addition to his catering team. Dino owned the popular Riccio’s Italian restaurant and was also the current leading man in Diana Knight’s life.

Eugene, the new foodie recruit, was the twin brother of Verdi, an über multitasker who’d we’d recently hired as a part-time receptionist for our shared office group. She’d been recruited after an unfortunate series of ill-suited temps.

Scanning the room again, I finally spotted Sam making his way toward me through the crowd with two plates of food. Thank heavens! I was famished.

He caught my attention, and I felt a little answering kick in my gut from the warmth of his gaze across the distance.

Even in this crush of people, the guy stood out. It hardly seemed fair. It was a gray-tie affair so it was a level playing field. Every man in the room was pretty much dressed the same, yet still, Sam’s air of relaxed assurance along with his Greek heritage added up to something that turned heads. At least female ones. Call it charisma or sex appeal or whatever you want, Sam had it in spades.

There was a sudden break in the chatter around me and I turned away from the sight of Sam and my food to see what had drawn everyone’s attention. There was some sort of a commotion over by the room’s service door.

I stood on tiptoes to see over heads. No small feat, let me tell you, in my new silver-strappy Jimmy Choos. Eugene and one of the guests were in a heated exchange. There was a collective gasp as one of the Greyhound signs fell into a stack of used silverware which hit the floor with a clatter. Both men were red-faced.

I’d vouched for Eugene to Dino, who’d needed extra help for the party, but I knew him only in passing. I knew Verdi and I’d figured if they were related, he had some of her work ethic and multitasking skills. And Dino had been in a tight spot.

I hoped Eugene hadn’t spilled something on the guy.

The man was bigger and towered over Eugene, but the young man did not back down. At least his body language said so. Finally with a shove to Eugene’s shoulder, the ruddy-faced fellow stalked off and Eugene continued through the service door.

After a slight pause, we all went back to our conversations. I worried about the argument and if there’d been damage, but not overly. According to Dino, there are always mishaps and disgruntled guests at every function. Dino was a pro—he’d sort things out.

I’d turned to look for Sam and those plates of food, when Blanche suddenly appeared beside me. I’m tall, but the woman had to be at least six feet, and she practically vibrated with energy. She was in her element and having the time of her life.

“Hi, hon, how’s the event going?” I asked.

“Great. Just great.” Blanche’s blue eyes snapped with excitement. “I think we’ll hit our goal before the night is over.”

“Everything looks wonderful. The signs were a brilliant idea. And I can’t believe the ice sculpture of the Greyhound.” I pointed toward the banquet table. “And the rabbit looks so lifelike.”

“Rabbit?” She frowned and turned toward the table. “There’s no—”

Just then the rabbit moved.

“Well, for cryin’ in a bucket.” The rabbit looked like a real bunny rabbit because it
was
a real bunny.

The furry floppy-eared critter scampered the length of the loaded feast, honey-glazed carrot clamped in its teeth, leaving a trail of shrimp cocktail bunny tracks across the buffet. Then the rabbit went airborne onto the closest guest table.

Which was all it took. It was like the starting gun had been fired.

The Greyhound stationed near the table sighted the hare and began the chase. Instantly, chaos reigned.

Hound chased rabbit, hound chased hound, humans chased hounds. Leashes trailed, tables tipped, trays of glasses tumbled.

I could still see Sam, but he was carried backward by the wave of people and Greyhounds. Complete and utter pandemonium.

I surveyed the bedlam to see what I could do to help.

I decided one Greyhound at a time was the best tactic. I started toward the closest dog, a beautiful jet-black hound.

All at once, a man popped up in front of me. It was the big ruddy-faced man Eugene had fought with earlier. His face was now pale as he tried to speak, but he gasped for air instead.

Thinking perhaps he had claustrophobia or was having a panic attack of some sort, I laid my hand on his arm and asked, “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”