The Girl With the Dachshund Tattoo (4 page)

“You need to get your eyes checked, you pajama-wearing wacko. Have you looked in the mirror?” Ricky-Dicky bellowed.

Betty sucked in a breath. “You two are the crazy ones.”

“Stay out of my business. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He pushed past the group of gawkers.

I got a quick peek of Betty as she stepped directly into his path. “You don’t deserve that dog.”

He muttered something as he pushed Betty aside. She stumbled backward and fumbled for her handbag.

“Hey,” I yelled, propelling myself forward. “Don’t touch her.”

“You’re insane, lady. Put away the gun.” Ricky-Dicky’s tone was no longer angry, but scared.

Gun?

Chaos erupted. People screamed and ran directly into my path. Crap. Protecting Missy the best I could, I took off toward the crazy lady in silk pajamas, who pointed a handgun at a perfectly normal-looking man and his dog.

I half expected to hear gunshots over the frightened screeching any second. But by the time I reached Betty, she was alone. Everyone was gone.

And Betty’s gun along with them.

Chapter Three

SO MUCH FOR keeping a low profile.

I pulled Betty behind the corn dog trailer. It smelled like fear and hot grease.

“Where in all of Texas did
you
get a gun?” I bellowed, sounding like a mixture of Grey and my Grandma Tillie.

Betty blinked. “My son-in-law, Duane. After that crazy broad tried to kill us at Christmas.”

An older couple stared at us as they walked past. I flashed a smile, as I pulled Betty further away from the pathway.

I lowered my voice. “So he thought the answer was to give you a firearm? Do you have a permit?” Forgive me for my ageism, but what I really wanted know was if it was legal for someone her age to carry a weapon.

She tilted her head. “Of course. Weren’t you listening to me? I took a class.”

“A self-defense class. Not target practice to carry a concealed weapon.”

She sighed dramatically. “Cookie, you need to pay more attention. I took that self-defense course months ago. The same one your sneaky cousin, Caro, took. By the way, she was pretty good. You better not let her get the drop on you. Anyway, after I learned all those self-defense moves, I signed up for a gun safety class. Once I passed that, I applied for my permit. It arrived in the mail a few days ago.”

“That’s it? You get a piece of paper and suddenly you’re allowed to carry a gun?”

“It’s America,” Betty stated, as if that explained everything.

I took a deep calming breath, and pushed the bangs from my eyes. “Why did you aim it at Richard like a hoodlum?”

“He attacked me.”

“No, darlin’. He wasn’t attacking you. He wanted to get away from you.” Not that anyone would blame him.

She pondered that for a minute. Her narrow fingers tapped the outside of her purse in what sounded like an SOS signal. Any other time, I might have found her antics amusing. Not today.

“Where’s the gun?” I asked.

“She took it.”

“Who’s she?”

“The girl with the dachshund tattoo. The one making the dogumentary. She recorded everything.”

I rubbed my eyes. Bad, bad, bad. “I don’t understand. Why in Sam Hill did you give her your gun?”

She reached up to pat my shoulder. “Cookie, are you okay? You’re not keeping up with the conversation. It’s not mine. Remember, the gun belongs to my son-in-law? Um, you wouldn’t mind telling him
you
lost it, would you?”

“Hell, no. You’ve got to find, that girl—the girl with the dachshund tattoo—and get that gun back.”

I’ve been known to be impulsive and make some decisions that have turned out less than spectacular, but I would never let someone, especially a stranger, take my firearm.

When had I become the responsible one?

“Betty, you don’t know what she’ll do with it. We have to get it back.”

“What do you think she’d do? Hold up a group of doxies and demand their prize money?” She rolled her eyes.

I didn’t want to think about the ramifications of that whole episode being filmed by someone with an unknown agenda. And I certainly didn’t want to dwell on the possibilities of what a dishonest person might do with someone else’s firearm.

The look on my face must have communicated my seriousness.

Betty held up her hands in surrender. “Okay. Okay. She can’t be that hard to find. She’s got a camera. And a dachshund tattoo on the back of her neck.”

That did narrow it down. “Describe her. In detail,” I ordered.

“You aren’t paying attention today. I already told you what she looked like.”

Wonderful. I was looking for a sweaty rock star with a dog tattoo and smeared eyeliner, carrying a gun and an oversized camera. “You take the east side of the field and I’ll take the west. If either of us sees Darby, we fill her in. We need all the help we can get.”

Betty hiked her handbag onto her shoulder. “What about our booth? Who’s gonna sell our stuff? Who’s going to keep people from stealing it?”

“That’s the least of our problems.”

I had no idea how true those words were. But I was about to find out.

THE FIRST HEAT for the heavyweight category was scheduled to start in thirty minutes. I hadn’t found anyone I was searching for. It was as if they’d disappeared into thin air.

I finally spotted Darby snapping photos of a trio of Doxies—a couple of long hairs, and one short hair. The pups were young, maybe ten or twelve months, full of energy and playfulness. Their handler, a gray-haired older gentleman with a wide grin, asked if the photos would be available to purchase.

Darby looked up and caught my eye. I waved her over.

“Have you seen Betty?” I asked.

“Not since her fight with Richard.” She reached down and patted Missy on her head.

I looked at her questioningly. “You were there?”

She shook her head no. “Everyone’s talking about it. Did she really pull out a gun and threaten to shoot Richard Eriksen and his dog?”

“She had a gun. She would never hurt Zippy.” Notice I didn’t mention Ricky-Dicky. I quickly filled in Darby on the situation and Betty’s missing gun.

“Oh, no,” she exclaimed, wide-eyed. “Where do you think the girl with the dachshund tattoo went?”

I shook my head. “Your guess is as good as mine. She has to be here somewhere.”

“Would you like me to check out the racing area? If she’s there I can text you.”

“Please. If you see Betty, send her back to the booth.”

Darby hung her camera around her neck and scurried off. Missy and I backtracked through the vendor area and made our way toward the spectator section next to the racetrack.

“Fifteen minutes until the heat number two. All competitors report to the starting gate,” a garbled voice rumbled over the PA system.

Although she had offered to help find Betty, Darby was still the official photographer, and her first priority would be to photo document the race. I weaved my way through the group of yammering teenagers and made a beeline toward the track—a roped-off area with spray-painted white lines on the grass.

I could see the racers and their humans lined up at the starting gate, while their favorite person waited at the finish line. I imagined last minute instructions whispered into each racer’s ears. Everyone was eager for the race to begin. I noticed Darby speaking to a group of judges huddled together watching the lineup. One judge checked her wristwatch, then said something to the group.

“All competitors must report to the gate,” the emcee announced again. “This is the last call.” His tone held a strong sense of urgency.

Sounded like someone other than Betty was missing.

I joined Darby at the grassy edge. “Any sign of Betty?”

She shook her head, worried. “Mel.” She took a breath. “Zippy’s not at the gate. He’s supposed to run in this heat.”

I felt my face blanch. “What?”

“Apparently Gia has been looking for Richard and Zippy. She’s frantic. No one has seen him since his argument with Betty.”

I had a bad feeling. “We’ve got to find Betty.”

BETTY WAS AWOL.

So were Richard and Zippy.

I rubbed my temples in an effort to ward off the throbbing pain behind my eyes. I had a feeling Betty was behind Zippy and Richard’s disappearance. If she’d seen them, she wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from confronting him again. And that concerned me. I didn’t know what Richard was capable of if pushed too far. Judging by the show of temper he’d displayed earlier, it was possible he might try to intimidate Betty if she crossed the line.

Bless her heart—Betty hadn’t met a line she didn’t want to cross.

Darby agreed to keep Missy while I continued my search. I took a turn around the track again, checked out the vendor area, and did a quick scan in the spectator section, but didn’t see Betty. Either my timing was terrible or she wasn’t with Richard after all.

I stopped walking and concentrated. It was possible she’d taken off in her Mini Cooper. Where she might have gone, I didn’t have a clue, but her car was one of the few places I hadn’t looked yet. And I was out of options. I ignored the pit in my stomach.

The dog park had a tiny parking lot, with limited space, so most of us took the trolley from downtown or we parked along the canyon road. Since Betty and I had arrived about the same time, I knew she had driven herself and left her car along the street.

As I exited the park, a slight breeze rustled my hair. Goosebumps rose on my arms. Directly across the street from the entrance stood the group of protesters waving their signs and marching in one continuous circle. I picked up the pace until I was practically jogging. I ran across the street. A car horn honked as my foot hit the sidewalk. The driver slowed to a crawl and flipped me off as he passed by.

I’d run past a half-dozen vehicles when I saw a man leaning against a white sedan. Focused on finding Betty, I didn’t think much about him, until his body slid off the car, and with a dull thump, landed on the road.

Bright red blood oozed down the car’s snowy-white side panel where his body had been seconds ago. My first thought was that a car, probably the same person who’d honked at me minutes ago, had hit him. I ran toward him, yelling for help, digging my cell out of my back pocket to call 911.

“Sir! Sir, are you all right?”

Cars whizzed past us, oblivious to the man who lay face first on the ground. I dropped to my knees next to him. I rolled him over, praying he wasn’t seriously injured.

I gasped; my cell slipped from my fingers.

It was Richard Eriksen. And he hadn’t been hit by a car.

He’d been shot in his black heart.

Chapter Four

BETTY FOUND ME. Right after I found Richard Eriksen’s dead body. And if you’re paying attention, you know who found the two of us next. Homicide Detective Judd Malone.

Betty and I waited on the sidewalk as Detective Malone moved in our direction with a heaviness that suggested the last place he wanted to be was here. With us. I felt the same way. I sighed in dread knowing what was about to happen.

Betty, on the other hand, gasped in wide-eyed excitement. “That’s
my
kind of man.”

She sprinted across the gravel parking lot straight for Malone as if reuniting with her lover after a long separation. He immediately held out his arms in warning. A warning Betty blithely ignored as she threw her pint-sized body against him. “You’re here. I knew you’d come.”

Of course he’d come. It was his job.

Malone unhooked Betty’s arms from around his neck, and peeled her off his chest like a fruit roll-up. “Mrs. Foxx, don’t do that again.”

Yes, the three of us have a history. During our brief, but action-packed time together, Betty had developed a major schoolgirl crush on the good-looking detective.

“You’re all dusty.” As she brushed herself off, the bottom of her straw handbag repeatedly slapped Malone’s arm. With a resigned sigh, he stepped to the side.

“I’ve been at the shooting range.” He stared at me with reserved restraint. “It’s my day off.”

My stomach sank. Not good. I gathered my hair into a ponytail and lifted its weight off the back of my neck, unsure if I was sweaty from the heat of the sun or Malone’s glare.

He motioned to where I stood on the sidewalk, separated from the crowd of gawkers. “Let’s talk over here.”

Because Malone possessed the perfect poker face, pinpointing the exact emotion he was feeling was difficult. Based on personal experience, I would wager happiness and excitement were not options for today. I was one of the last two people he’d want to see at a crime scene. The other person would be my cousin, Caro. The two of us seem to possess an internal dead-body-detector.

Speaking of Caro. Normally, she would also attend a local pet event. Instead, she was championing the Orange County Greyhound fostering program in L.A. I’d heard through the grapevine she was teaching a class on how to read and understand a dog’s body language to a new group of foster parents. Caro was sort of a big deal in the pet behaviorist world. Not that I’d ever admit it to her, but I was proud of what she’d accomplished. In my humble opinion, kicking her cheating husband to the curb was her greatest achievement.

Not surprisingly, Malone wore dark jeans and a T-shirt, sans the leather jacket, even on his day off. Traffic slowed to a crawl as they passed us. Malone ordered a uniformed officer to direct the cars to move along.

“Melinda.”

I shoved my hands inside the back pockets of my jeans, and rocked on the heels of my Stuart Weitzman motorcycle boots. “Detective.”

“What happened?”

“I found him slumped against that white four-door sedan.” I pointed toward the car surrounded by yellow police tape. “I thought he’d been hit by a car, but when I rolled him over to see if he was conscious, it was obvious he’d been shot.” I kept my story free of whimsy and speculation, and full of facts. Malone wasn’t always interested in entertaining my theories.

Typical Malone didn’t bother to take notes; he listened intently. That sense of foreboding that I had thirty minutes earlier, while searching for Betty, exploded into heavy dread. Betty had waved a gun at the dead man. At some point Malone would find out. I mentally plotted a way to relate the facts in the least damaging way possible.