Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
It was a killer party.
Caro Lamont, Laguna
Beach’s favorite pet therapist, is thrilled to support the elite fundraising
gala forGreys Matter, a SoCal greyhound rescue group. All the
guests in the couture-attired crowd are clad in varying shades of grey, the
champagne and donations are flowing, and there are fifty gorgeous greyhounds in
attendance. But before the evening ends, a stranger in their midst is dead.
Caro sets out to help
the rescue group find the identity of the mystery guest but soon finds herself
in the doghouse with homicide detective, Judd Malone—oh, and federal agent,
John Milner. When there’s a second death, Caro is convinced she’s on the track
of someone who wants a secret to stay buried, but it’s a race to see whether
Caro can uncover the truth before the killer decides she’s next.
"Fifty Shades of
Greyhound gives ‘roll over and play dead’ a whole new meaning!" —Ethel Merman &
Ella Fitzgerald, canine companions to award-winning author, Holly Jacobs
Chapter One
IT WAS A KILLER party.
Blanche LeRue, CEO of Greys Matter,
barked orders for more seating, more native California bubbly, and more gourmet
shrimp appetizers. I’m sure Blanche hoped the overflow crowd translated to big
donations for the Greyhound rescue.
Her dress was a formal length charcoal
satin that complemented her tall, reed-like figure. A commanding woman, she
wore her chin-length silver hair in a way that framed her narrow face yet still
managed to look more regal than severe. But make no mistake, Blanche LeRue was
a regal with a cause. And that cause was Greyhound rescue.
I know it must seem to y’all that I’m
always at some big fancy schmancy party. You’ve probably also noted that it’s
usually an animal-related fancy schmancy deal. You’d be right. That’s me, Caro
Lamont, pet therapist and big-time subscriber to the there-are-no-
bad-pets-just-uneducated-pet-parents philosophy.
My Laguna Beach pet therapy business is
called PAWS, which stands for Professional Animal Wellness Specialist, but, in
truth, I work more with problem people than problem pets.
Invitations to charity events abound in
this pet-friendly southern California haven, but tonight’s gala was a special
one, the Fifty Shades of Greyhound Charity Ball, at D’Orange Maison, a
gorgeous historic ranch estate just outside of Laguna Beach. The main house had
recently been spiffed up, the huge rooms used for wedding receptions, political
affairs, celebrity functions, and events such as this five-
thousand-dollar-a-ticket fund-raiser.
The room was shades of gray everywhere.
Pale gray skirting and deep gray brocade tablecloths, slate-colored vases
filled with silver floral arrangements.
I know what you’re thinking: they were
playing off the mega success of a book that started with the same phrase. Well,
you’d probably be right, but you have to admit it was for a great cause. And
there were truly fifty, count them, fifty real live Greyhounds of
varying shades staged at strategic places around the room. Most sat at
attention at the feet of their owners or handlers. Though all the dogs were not
gray—some white, some black, and still others fawn or brindle—all were adorned
with gray leather collars. Blanche LeRue was nothing if not a detail person.
There were
many wonderful Greyhound rescue groups in California, but Greys Matter was, in
my opinion, one of the best. I hoped the clink and clatter of the crystal and
china as waiters refilled champagne glasses and people filled their plates was
echoed by the cha-ching of hefty contributions to the rescue group.
Speaking of
details, Blanche and her event committee had come up with the idea of
silver-framed signs around the room printed with factoids about Greyhounds. It
was a superb idea. What a great way to convey important information to
attendees without some talking head standing at a microphone. I’d seen it time
and time again—people who’d paid a pricey admission impatiently waiting for a
speaker to be done so they could resume their conversations. People were still
waiting, but they were waiting in line to pile gourmet food on their china. And
the Greys Matter crew had made sure the buffet tables were placed strategically
close to the framed signs. Brilliant.
Part of the
fun of attending events like this one was the people-watching. There’s always
more to people than what you first noticed. Ever a student of human behavior, I
loved the opportunity to observe.
Which was
why I stood watching people while Sam Gallanos, my—well heck, what was Sam?
My friend?
No, we’re more than friends. My lover? No, less than that one? My escort? Now
that just sounds wrong, doesn’t it? My man? My main squeeze? Hmmm. What we were
to each other was complicated. So for now, let’s just call him my date for the
evening.
Sam, my
"date” was off fighting the crowd for a plate of food. While I enjoyed the
people-watching, I hoped he’d be back soon. Partly because I enjoyed his
fabulous company, and partly because I’d begun to get hungry.
I looked
around the spectacular ballroom. Several of my PAWS clients were in attendance.
I spotted retired news tycoon Davis Pinter standing near a sign that said, "The
origin of the Greyhound name has nothing to do with color. In fact, gray is not
a common color among Greyhounds.” That was true.
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 wasa 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?”
He opened
his mouth, but still nothing.
The man
reached out to me and grabbed my shoulder. I winced as his hand leaned on
Grandma Tillie’s brooch and pushed it into my flesh. He lunged forward against
me knocking me off balance.
"Sir? Sir,
what’s the problem?”
As he fell
at my feet, my question was answered.
The problem
was there was a very large carving knife sticking out of his back.
Chapter Two
THE CROWD
PARTED around us like the Red Sea.
I was
tempted to yell out, "Is there a doctor in the house?” But I knew the answer.
There were no medical doctors on the guest list. However, before I yelled
anything, Dr. Daniel Darling, Laguna Beach’s premier veterinarian, hurried
along the cleared marble-floor path to my side.
He handed
me his cell phone and said, "Call 911.” Then he knelt beside the man and laid a
finger against his neck.
I made the
call, quickly explaining the situation and giving the location. The room was
still mass confusion as all the dogs had not yet been rounded up. I could hear
Blanche calling out to various helpers to take the dogs to an adjoining room so
they could be matched up with their owners. The whole situation was out of
control.
I stayed by
the prone man with Dr. Darling, but I felt useless.
"Isn’t there
something we can do?”
Dr. Darling
shook his head.
It seemed
like forever before the ambulance arrived, but I’m sure it was only a matter of
minutes. The paramedics moved onlookers out of the way and dropped their
equipment beside the man. I could see from Dr. Darling’s face, though, that it
was too late.
Sam helped
me up from where I’d been crouched on the floor. "Caro?” His dark eyes searched
my face.
"I’m okay.”
My hand shook as he held it, but, yeah, I was okay.
We moved
out of the way so the paramedics could do their job.
Homicide
Detective Judd Malone must have been nearby, because he arrived with a team of
crime scene techs even before the paramedics had packed up their bags.
We were all
herded to one side of the room and sorted into groups. Then, one by one, people
were taken to another room for questioning. Poor Blanche was beside herself at
that point. She paced back and forth. At least the police allowed Dino’s crew
to serve water to the stunned guests.
This was
not how people who pay five thousand dollars a ticket expected to be treated.
One tall
thin man, his gray bow tie in hand, simply got up and headed out the door.
A young
uniformed officer halted him. "I’m sorry, sir, you’re not cleared to leave.”
As the
uniform stepped in front of the fleeing guest, I realized it was Officer Hostas
whom I knew from a little broken taillight incident a while back.
"You can’t
stop me,” the thin man snapped, his face pinched, his look disgusted, like he’d
discovered he’d stepped in doggie doo.
They were
at a standoff, like two prizefighters sizing each other up. Blanche stood by
wringing her hands. My money was on Officer Hostas.
"I can
arrest you.” Hostas looked like he thought that would be exciting.Without breaking eye contact, he shifted his hand to the police baton on his
belt.
The errant
guest sat back down. And the rest of us decided we would wait until we were
cleared to leave. Whenever that might be.
They were
doing the interviews in an adjoining banquet room and it seemed they’d broken
us into three groups: those who were oblivious to what had happened, those
who’d been running around chasing Greyhounds when the incident occurred, and
those of us who were in the immediate vicinity when the man collapsed.
The
oblivious group had been questioned first. Sam and Diana were in the second
group as they’d been trying to help round up the dogs. I was, unfortunately, in
the third and final group.
People were
dismissed after they were questioned, and Blanche apologized profusely to each
of the exiting patrons. The rest of us, who’d not yet been interviewed, sat on
chairs we’d pulled up and talked about the evening’s events. I know it seems
callous, but people handle shock in different ways.
I settled
in to wait for my turn, only half-listening to the chatter. I tucked my
silver-gray gown around my knees. I felt a little shaky, a little chilled, but
mostly kind of out of it.
The
conversations eddied around me.
I caught a
gruff-voiced complaint from a man who fussed with whoever would listen that the
police could not hold "innocent people hostage.”
Alana’s
petulant voice came through, detailing who she’d been talking to and what
designer they were wearing, and she didn’t know why she had to stay because she
didn’t even see the man.
Finally,
Alice Tiburon’s deep contralto answered with a "Would you please shut
up?” which seemed to quiet Alana for a while.
Also, I
wasn’t sure who first said it, but there was a buzz that one of the waiters had
gone missing.
Alice said,
"I saw the young man who’d argued with the dead man go outside and then I saw
the man come in. So they’d been outside together.”
That got my
attention. Eugene had been outside with the victim? I was in the same area but
hadn’t noticed the two of them after the confrontation. Of course, I’d been
pretty focused on Sam and those plates of food.
The
ambience of an elegant fête had turned to post-apocalyptic cleanup as a crew
picked up broken furniture and glass. A medical person checked folks for
injuries, which thankfully appeared to be minor. I reached up to feel my cheeks
and as I raised my hands I suddenly realized my brooch was gone.
I shot out
of my seat and dashed over to where the CSI techs were gathering evidence.
Where the man’s body lay, thankfully covered. I looked around on the floor and
finally got down on my hands and knees.
"What do
you think you’re doing?”
I knew that
voice. Detective Judd Malone.
I looked
up, still on my hands and knees, not willing to give up the search. He stood,
arms crossed, typical Malone stance.
"I’m trying
to find a piece of jewelry.” I hitched up my fancy gray dress and stood,
teetering on silver-toned heels that’d seemed a good idea hours ago.
Malone
reached out a hand to steady me. Like I mentioned before, I’m tall. Detective
Malone is one of the few people who manages to make me feel petite. The
unsmiling expression on his handsome face told me I was in for it.
"Why me?”
He looked away and then looked back, pinning me with his hard blue gaze. "Tell
me, what does your jewelry have to do with my crime scene?”
"The man,”
I pointed to the sheet-covered body. "When he talked to me, he grabbed my
shoulder and must have dislodged my brooch.”
"It’s that
brooch, isn’t it?” he asked.
"What?”
"It’s the
family brooch, right?”
"Well,
yes.” I met his steely gaze. "Of course it is.”
"Was your
cousin, Mel, here to see it?”
"No, she
wasn’t.” I jammed my hair behind my ears.
"What a
shame.” His expression said he didn’t mean it.
He turned
to the crime scene tech who was painstakingly examining the area. "Did you see
a piece of jewelry?”
"No,” the
young man answered. "I didn’t.”
"There you
have it.” Malone wiped a hand over his face. "You must have lost it somewhere
else.”
"Could
it... ?” I swallowed. "Could it be under...
you know... him?” I pointed at the dead guy.
Malone
motioned another tech over and the two of them lifted the man slightly.
Nothing.
"See, no
brooch?” Malone shrugged. "I don’t know what to tell you.”
But when
they’d moved the body, I could see the man’s right hand, and sure enough, there
it was, clutched in his curled fingers. He must have held onto it when he
grabbed me and then fell.
"Um,
Detective?” I pointed at the brooch.
"Well, what
do you know?” The crime scene tech touched the pin with his tweezers.
I wanted to
tell him to be careful with the heirloom piece, but I knew I was already on
thin ice with Malone. And I’ve always been told you should never venture on
thin ice with a fancy skater.
"Okay,
Caro.” Detective Malone put his hands on my shoulders and turned me back toward
the chairs where the other witnesses sat waiting.
"But my—” I
pointed to my brooch.
"Not now.”
He was out of patience. "Right now, I need you to go sit down with the others.
We’ll sort this out and we’ll talk to everyone as quickly as we can.”
"Of
course.” It was a crime scene after all.
I went back
and sat down and, true to his word, it wasn’t long before it was my turn to be
questioned.
The
uniformed officers who’d been taking guests’ names and contact information took
mine, although I was pretty sure the Laguna Beach Homicide Division had me on
file. There’d been a couple of cases in the not-too-distant past where I’d been
involved, much to Malone’s chagrin, in the crime-solving.
Malone
asked me to describe what I’d seen and what exactly the man had said to me. I
explained he hadn’t been able to speak and recounted what I could remember of
what had transpired.
"Did you
know the victim?”
"No, I
don’t think I’d ever met him before tonight.”
"Did you
see him interact with other people throughout the evening?”
I
hesitated. He’d had words with Eugene. What had looked like angry words. But I
was sure there was a simple explanation for the exchange. Eugene would be able
to clear it up. Perhaps the man had been unhappy with his food. Or maybe, as
I’d thought at the time, Eugene had spilled something on him.
"Yes, I did
see him talking with Eugene Perry,” I finally said. "They both appeared to be
somewhat upset.”
"Really?”
Malone stared me down. He waited silently. I knew it was a technique used to
make people uncomfortable with the silence so they would talk. I had used it in
counseling sessions back when I was a therapist to people, before my switch to
four-legged clients. It seemed the police also used it in interrogation.
"Yes.” I
kept my answer simple.
"Several
people described it as a very heated exchange and said this waiter, Eugene,
shoved the man.”
I shook my
head. "It was the other way around. The man pushed Eugene’s shoulder.” I
demonstrated on Malone.
He didn’t
move. His leather jacket was soft but there was nothing soft about the muscle
underneath.
I pulled my
hand back. "Whatever happened, I’m sure Eugene can clear things up.”
"That’s
part of our problem, Caro. This waiter, Eugene, is missing and the carving
knife in the man’s back is the one from the buffet table where he was working.
Do you know him?”
"Eugene is
Verdi’s brother.” I explained. "You know, the barista from the Koffee Klatch.
She’s also our new receptionist at the office.”
"Well then,
you’d better give me your receptionist’s phone number because her brother has a
lot of explaining to do.”
I reached
in my evening bag for my cell phone and read off the number to Malone. He wrote
it down.
"Hopefully,
he’s been in touch with her and we can pick him up quickly.”
"I’m sure
there’s a reason he left.”
"For his
sake, I hope so.” Malone stood. "But it doesn’t look good.”
I also
stood and moved to leave. "Are you done with me?”
"For now.”
I started
toward the door and then remembered and turned back.
Malone was
already mid-dial on his cell. Probably calling Verdi.
"Detective,
my brooch?”
"Can’t give
it to you, Caro. It’s evidence.”
"What do
you mean, it’s evidence?”
"Found in
the victim’s hand. Evidence.”
"But you
know it’s mine.”
I was sorry
for the dead guy, really I was. But the idea that Grandma Tillie’s brooch had
anything to do with why he was dead was beyond belief.
"It will
probably be released in a short time, but for the time being, it stays in
police evidence.” Malone went back to his phone.
There
wasn’t a thing I could do, and I guess it was as safe a place as any. But seriously,
evidence?
No doubt
Grandma Matilda "Tillie” Montgomery was rolling over in her grave.
IT WAS A SHORT trip from D’Orange
Maison back to Laguna and to my house. Sam let the silence lay between us
on the drive. He seemed to know I needed the quiet time. In addition to being
the most eligible A-list bachelor, the charming Greek was also a genuinely nice
guy. An irresistible combination.
As soon as I was inside, I slipped out
of my gray frock and hung it in the front of my closet so I’d remember to take it
to the cleaners. I was exhausted, but sleep did not come easily.
I kept thinking about the man who’d been
stabbed at the Fifty Shades of Greyhound Charity Ball. I’d seen dead
people before, but I’d never had one die right in front of me.
Who was this man? I knew a lot of people
in Laguna, but I didn’t think I’d met him prior to the event.
And then there was Eugene, Verdi’s
brother, who had seemed like a safe bet. He’d argued with the man, and then the
man had shown up with a carving knife in his back. People had seen them both
come in from outside. Maybe Eugene had nothing to do with the stabbing but, if
not, why had he immediately disappeared?
And poor Blanche LeRue and the Greys
Matter rescue. What a disastrous ending to the evening. The group would survive,
according to Diana, but they’d really been banking on this event being a huge
success.
