The Girl With the Dachshund Tattoo (9 page)

Lenny crawled out, yelling at me. “You’re a nosy bitch. If I want to drown my misery, that’s my business.” He slammed the door shut. Pickles immediately started to howl.

I pointed at the dog. “Is he okay?”

Lenny crossed his beefy arms across his chest, effectively blocking me from getting closer. “Does he sound okay? He’s depressed. If he’s not racing, a little piece of him dies.”

He wasn’t the only one. From Lenny’s rumpled state, he could have been referring to himself. He looked down at Missy and squinted. “My first dog was a bully. A faithful breed. Good choice.”

“Ah, thanks.” Instinctively, I gripped Missy’s leash tighter. “What about you? Are you upset about the race or Richard’s death?”

He stepped forward, eyes flashing. “Aren’t you upset about it?”

He was too close. I could smell his breath, which surprisingly didn’t smell like alcohol at all. His breath was actually quite refreshing. Like mouthwash. I stepped back. “Well sure, but I’m not going to get wasted because of it.”

“I’m not wasted. This is all her fault,” he ground out.

I was afraid to ask. “Whose?”

“Gia Eriksen.”

I thought for sure he was going to say
Betty
. “Do you think she shot Richard?”

He looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “What?”

I tried a different tactic. “What’s Gia’s fault?”

“She convinced Hagan to postpone the race. We were ready today. We would have won.” He smacked his humongous fist into the palm of his hand, flexing his bulging biceps in the process.

“Let’s be reasonable. Her husband had been murdered. I don’t think postponing the race was too much to ask.”

“But we were going to win.” His voice broke. “Finally.”

Good heavens. Was he going to cry? He was way too sauced to make any sense. And if he wasn’t making sense, he shouldn’t be behind the wheel of a car.

“Lenny, what hotel are you staying at? I’d be happy to drop you off.”

He puffed his chest, and for a second I thought his cotton shirt would rip in half and fall off his body. “I don’t need your help. Scram.”

“You shouldn’t be driving.”

“I told you. I’m not drunk.” He motioned toward the backseat of the car. “Besides, do I look like I’m going someplace? Get out of here.” I looked at the pillow and blankets shoved on the floorboards of the backseat. He was sleeping in his car?

As long as he wasn’t driving in his current condition, I was good with leaving. With a quick wave, Missy and I skedaddled to the Jeep.

On the drive home I wondered if there was more to Lenny’s outburst than he’d let on. I don’t care what he said—the man was toasted. Maybe he was embarrassed that I’d found him sleeping in his car. Poor Lenny really was down on his luck. No wonder he wanted to win so desperately.

Yet I couldn’t help but wonder if he wanted to win badly enough to kill Richard to ensure Pickles stood a fighting chance.

Love made people do crazy things.

Chapter Ten

ONCE HOME, I left the totes in the Jeep and set the alarm. The alarm was new. Not too long ago, my vehicle had been beaten within an inch of its precious Jeep life. I won’t bore you with all the details. After two months of bodywork and a new paint job, she was as good as new. I’d decided a state-of-the-art car alarm system was appropriate.

I took Missy for one last walk so she could do her business, which she managed in record time. As soon as we walked inside the house, I yanked off my motorcycle boots and ditched them by the front door. Missy headed straight for her dog bed.

Circle. Circle. Knead. Knead. Circle. Circle.

Once she worked the pillow exactly the way she wanted, she dropped with a sigh. After tossing my handbag on the couch, I padded toward the kitchen and grabbed a wineglass from the cupboard. I popped the cork from a bottle of Pinot, filled the glass, and sipped my wine. The warmth of the alcohol spread through my body. I sighed in contentment. For the first time today, I felt like I could breathe. Relax.

My thoughts immediately turned toward Grey. Nope. I wasn’t going there. Unwilling to wallow in self-pity about the possible demise of our engagement, and thus our relationship, I set my glass on the breakfast counter and attacked the dirty breakfast dishes I’d left in the sink.

I’d placed the last bowl in the dishwasher when it dawned on me that I hadn’t heard from Betty yet. Had she made it home okay? Would she tell her daughter that the police considered her a murder suspect? What would Betty tell Duane about the missing gun? Would the girl with the dachshund tattoo come back? And if she did, would she have Betty’s gun?

I heard my cell phone ring. It had to be Betty. I rushed to the couch where I’d left my bag. I managed to pull out my cell as the ringing stopped. Dang. Within seconds, a notification popped up that I’d missed a call from my mama.

I gripped the phone tighter. She never called to chat. I loved the woman, but she was a drama queen with an agenda. And usually the agenda was about what she wanted. The woman had a knack for finding a way to make any situation or circumstance, whether good or bad, about her. It was a true talent.

My cell chirped again. She wasn’t giving up easily. I took a fortifying breath before I answered. “Hey, Mama. I was just thinking about you.”

Her soft Texas sigh settled in my ear. “If that’s true, Melinda Sue, tell me—why did I have to hear from your brother that you and Grey were talking about a wedding date? Why do you hate me?”

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t hate you, Mama. By the way, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

She paused, then inquired in a polite, but overly sweet voice, “How are you, darling? How’s Grey?”

“I’m fine. Grey’s fine. How are you and Daddy?” I continued the charade. If my tone were any sweeter, I’d give myself a cavity.

“I’m busy as ever. Your daddy keeps to himself. Locked away in his office, planning who knows what without me. If you’re considering a fall wedding I need to know. The country club books years in advance. Although, if that’s what you really want, I can call in a few favors. Lord knows I’ve bailed out that Lydia Marshall more than a handful of times. Her society contacts are rather lackluster. She owes me.”

I returned to the kitchen for my wine. I’d need more than one glass for this chat. Membership at
the
Dallas Country Club was a long-standing tradition in the Montgomery family. One joined by invitation only, and to my knowledge, there hadn’t been a Montgomery yet that hadn’t been invited. It was the last place I’d choose to get married. I’d left that life behind and could honestly say I didn’t miss it. Not one iota.

I drank deeply before replying. “I don’t know what Mitch told you, but Grey and I have not set a date.” Heck, at this point, we couldn’t even be in the same room without arguing. Not that I’d admit that to her.

“Melinda, you listen to me, sugar. You must get a ring on his finger before you do something stupid. You know how you are. You’re a lucky girl, Grey seems enamored by your impulsiveness.”

I guzzled the last of the wine in my glass, then refilled—to the rim. “Thanks for the support, Mama.”

“Support is what you get from your friends. Truth is what you get from me. Now, when are you two picking a date? And do not even think of robbing me of a wedding. My heart couldn’t take another elopement. I can’t believe your brother was so selfish.”

I dropped to a bar stool and pretended to listen as she continued to prattle on about Mitch and his bride’s, Nikki, disregard for tradition. I liked to call this, “Confessions of a Drama Queen.”

I smiled wryly. Thank the good Lord, Mama didn’t know how to Skype.

I FINALLY GOT THE hot shower I’d been daydreaming about. It was exactly what I needed to wash away depressing thoughts of Grey, my crazy mother, and worrying about Betty, who, for the record, I still hadn’t heard from. I’d left her three messages to call me. Nothing. I had to believe that no news was good news.

I pulled on my favorite pair of yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt that read, “Don’t judge the dogs.” I grabbed a large glass of water, then sank onto the couch. Missy was still in her bed where I’d left her hours ago.

It was time for the news, and I was curious if MacAvoy had filed a report. I flipped on the TV in time to see his face pop up on the screen. Damn him. He looked refreshed and polished. He certainly hadn’t downed a half bottle of wine and survived a round of Mama Take-Down. The noon reporter had managed to make it to prime time.

“A day of fun turned into a day of terror. Richard Eriksen was found shot to death during the Laguna Dachshund Dash.” He paused. His beseeching eyes looked through the camera and landed into every viewer’s home. “In the dog-eat-dog world of wiener racing, has Zippy’s rivalry with his fellow competitors finally been pushed to a new level?”

“Oh, please,” I muttered, disgusted.

“The police have yet to make an official statement, but witnesses claimed to have seen an elderly woman threaten Mr. Eriksen with a gun earlier in the day. No word on the woman’s identity at this time. The final races are set to start Sunday at two o’clock,” he finished.

I knew he couldn’t be trusted. He’d just thrown Betty under the bus. Sure he didn’t call her by name, but it was only a matter of time before her identity became public knowledge.

Callum “Mac” MacAvoy had better hope I didn’t lay eyes on him tomorrow. I had a few choice words to give him. On the record.

Chapter Eleven

I’VE LEARNED THE best way to start the day is with an early morning jog on the beach. Today was no exception. The crisp air cleared the cobwebs from my head and gave me a jolt of energy. Energy I’d need for the day ahead.

After a quick shower, and a bowl of cereal, I pulled on a pair of skinny jeans, an event T-shirt, and my motorcycle boots. I’d remembered to slip on my engagement ring too. Considering all the action yesterday, I decided to leave Missy at home.

I backed out of the driveway and pointed the Jeep toward PCH, then headed to the boutique. Stray dark clouds had moved in. Morning fog wasn’t unusual in Laguna, but these clouds were different—heavy and low—plus the air didn’t smell salty, but like rain. Not a good sign for a race day.

Just blocks from the shop, I pulled over and parked in front of the Koffee Klatch. I was in desperate need of a chai latte.

The Koffee Klatch’s funky décor, large comfy couches, and free Internet, made it a local favorite. It didn’t hurt that the owner and employees loved dogs. The line was short for a Sunday morning. Sven, a lanky twenty-something who looked like he stepped off the pages of a Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale, towered over the customers from behind the glass counter. Three years ago, he’d left his family’s Danish vineyard in Santa Ynez Valley for our laid-back beach town. From all appearances, he seemed to like it here.

Before I could utter a word, Sven asked if I wanted my usual Sunday order of a chai latte and a blueberry muffin. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t
exactly
a last-minute decision to stop.

I nodded. “Please. To go.”

“Sure thing,” he said with wink and a nod. While he rang up my order, I stuffed a couple of ones into the tip jar.

“Is it true you were at the race yesterday? And you found the dead guy?” He didn’t sound excited, but he was certainly curious. News traveled fast in Laguna. Especially gossipy bad news.

“I did.” I paid for my food and stepped to the side, hoping that would be the end of the questions. I wasn’t about to get off that easily.

“What happened?” He dropped a blueberry muffin inside a small white bag and handed it to me.

I eyed the other two people waiting to place their order. Neither one was shy about hiding interest in my answer. I groaned silently. Malone liked to keep his information out of the public eye if possible. In the past, I’d followed his lead. There was no reason to stop now.

“Honestly, I’m waiting to hear just like everyone else.”

Sven wiped off the espresso machine’s steam wand with a wet cloth. “Do the police have any leads?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to anyone since I gave my initial statement.”

Two quick bursts of steam shot from the wand. “I met the wife. You just missed her.”

“Gia was here?”

He nodded. “She doesn’t appear to be too upset about her husband’s murder.”

“Why’s that?”

His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear a word. The noise of the espresso machine heating the milk drowned out most of his answer. The second the machine stopped, his raised voice shot through the café. “She acted like she didn’t have a care in the world. Other than her dog winning today’s race.”

I wished I could have heard the first part of what he’d said. Didn’t anyone tell Gia that the spouse is the first suspect? The best course of action for her would be to fly under the radar and not draw attention to herself. Was she really that obtuse? Or could it be that she believed she’d get away with killing her husband?

Sven finished preparing my chai, snapped on the lid, then slid it across the counter. “Are you going out there today?”

“I have a few things to take care of at the shop first. What about you?”

“I’m here all day. Would you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

He pulled a twenty from his pants pocket. “Would you make a bet for me? Put this on Pickles.” He shoved the money into my hand.

What the heck was he talking about? “You’re putting money on Pickles?”

He motioned for me to follow him toward the back of the café. I grabbed my drink and followed.

“After meeting Gia, I’m rooting for the underdog,” he said.

“Well, you obviously haven’t met Lenny, have you?” I said wryly. “Seriously, I don’t know anything about betting.”

Sven shoved his hands in his apron pockets. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know all about the underground gambling. I heard from a friend that the bagman will be behind the chili tent.”

“Bagman?”

“You know. Rodney. The money runner.”

“Since I’m the one with your money, doesn’t that make me the bagman?”