Mel’s tracking a killer in the world of racing dachshunds.
Wiener takes all at the Laguna Beach Dachshund Dash. Melinda Langston, owner of Bow Wow Boutique, and her quirky assistant, Betty Foxx, are on hand to root for their favorite racers. But before the starting gun goes off, hated dachshund owner, Richard Eriksen, is found dead, and gun-toting Betty is suspect number one.
Determined to clear Betty’s name, Mel quickly picks up the scent of the cutthroat world of Doxie racing. Cheating. Doping. Gambling. Controversy lies at every turn. It seems everyone has a secret—including Betty. The killer is hot on Mel’s heels. Can Mel expose the truth before the killer catches her?
Chapter One
WE WERE ABOUT to experience more waving,
cheering, and crying than a TV audience during the crowning of Miss America.
Doxie Dash. Wiener Race. The Great
Dachshund Derby. The name wasn’t important. The crux of all the events was the
same: running dogs, excited families, squeaky rubber toys, frantically waved
treats, and a mega trophy for the winner. True, a trophy is not as glamorous as
a tiara, but we can’t all be beauty queens.
"Are you Team Zippy or Team Pickles?”
Betty Foxx raised her grape- colored eyebrows expectantly. "I bet it’s going to
be a real smackdown. Their bitter rivalry has been all over the news.”
Yes, you heard that correctly. Grape
eyebrows. My eighty-something assistant had yet to explain the occasional
lipstick-painted eyebrows, and I’ve wisely refrained from questioning her
makeup application process. I have my own hang-ups. Who am I to judge her
eyebrows?
Our race, the
Laguna Beach Dachshund Dash, was an outdoor event at the local dog park.
With a smattering of food booths and a slew of pet-related vendors, playful
contestants and pumped-up fans had plenty to do throughout the day. The aromas
of funnel cake, chili, and deep-fried mac and cheese collided in the air. My
stomach rumbled, craving for a sample of everything.
Betty had
nagged me to donate the official doxie jersey, which is how Bow Wow Boutique
ended up with a vendor booth for the first time since the race had arrived in
Laguna three years ago. What can I say? I’m a sucker for an assistant in silk
pajamas, pearls, and lipstick eyebrows.
She had
insisted the event organizers promise to pitch our booth, a shelter canopy with
three sidewalls to display merchandise, adjacent to the racing lanes. They
weren’t as easily persuaded by Betty’s pleas as I was. We were nowhere near the
track.
I stepped
around my sleeping bulldog, Missy. She looked dead, stretched out on a small
patch of grass, bathing in the morning sun. Don’t worry—she was alive and well,
with a puddle of drool watering the grass. That dog could sleep through an
earthquake.
I tossed a
stack of lime canine jerseys on the display table and quickly separated them by
size. The material felt a little thinner than I’d have liked, but, overall, the
uniforms were darling.
"You do
realize the feud is all media hype? Their rivalry is about ticket sales and
money.” I tried to hide my amusement at her insistence that the two dogs were
enemies.
Of all
people, Betty understood the power of the almighty dollar. Her retail
background and quirky personality had boosted sales for my pet boutique since
I’d hired her last Christmas. The success had gone to her head. Now she was
convinced she was the Rainmaker of pet accessories. She concocted outlandish plans
almost weekly, "guaranteed” to generate more sales. I adored her, but she was
a handful to manage.
"Not true,”
she said. "The new reporter from Channel 5 News, Callum MacAvoy”—Betty
took a breath long enough to shoot me her "hubba-hubba” face before she
continued—"well, he’s been talking about the bad blood between them for weeks.
At the last race, Pickles almost closed the gap, but Moby bumped Pickles out of
bounds before they crossed the finish line. Pickles was disqualified, and Zippy
was declared the winner.” Betty danced in place, about to burst the seams of
her tiger-print silk pajamas any second.
I laughed at
her outdated dance moves. "Are you done?”
She snagged a
stack of size-small jerseys and stacked them at the far end of the table. "Who
are you backing, Cookie?”
My name
wasn’t Cookie. I’m Melinda Langston. Mel, to my friends. For reasons only known
to Betty, she refused to call me by my name.
Unlike my
spry assistant, I’m not as well versed in the drama of wiener racing. What few
rules I knew would fit on a sticky note.
No running
alongside your dog.
No loud horns
or laser pointers.
The dog must
cross the finish line within the boundaries and without help.
If Betty had
the story straight, Pickles had a difficult time staying in bounds. Sounded
like someone else I knew. I eyed my assistant, who stood with a hand on her
hip, white sneaker firmly planted in the freshly mowed grass, waiting for an
answer.
Oh, I almost
forgot the most important rule. You have to pick up after your racer. I’m
amazed at the number of people who "forget” that last one.
"If I have to
choose, I guess I’m Team Pickles.”
Betty
wrinkled her nose in disapproval. "You would pick the dog named after food. I’m
Team Zippy. He’s the favorite. If I were a bettin’ gal, I’d put my money on
him. A win today would be his fourth title in less than a year.” Betty scurried
behind me to rearrange the display rack of collars hanging on the sidewall.
"What can I
say—I love an underdog.”
Wiener racing
was a little different than, say, horse racing or even greyhound racing. Wiener
enthusiasts adorn themselves in over-the-top doxie-themed outfits, with an
occasional superhero cape for added dramatic flair. Winners break into victory
dances, while geeked-out fans storm the grassy area to demand a photo op with
their favorite racer. That’s the humans.
Then there
are the dogs. Adorable low-riders with long, wiggly bodies, who race fifty
yards toward their beloved human or favorite toy. As they sprint down the
track, doggie tongues hang from their mouths, like Miley Cyrus mugging for the
camera.
The majority
of the pack has absolutely no idea what they’re doing and ends up plowing into
one another, reenacting the Puppy Bowl. But there are a few true competitors
who can concentrate on the finish line for more than eight seconds. They’re the
ones who sprint down the field, all heart, for a photo finish.
That’s where
my best friend, Darby Beckett, comes in. As the official Dachshund Dash
photographer, her job was to document the winner of each race. The number of
prima donnas who dispute the final results, certain their pup had won by a
nose, would surprise you.
By the end of
the day’s events, there will have been five heats, in three different weight
classes, with one winner in each category: miniature, lightweight, and
heavyweight.
Betty shoved
an empty box under the table. "It’s almost nine. The contestants will arrive
any minute.”
"Great. We’re
ready for them.” I pushed a stack of extra-large jerseys to the front of the
table.
"Oh, make
sure you’re here at ten o’clock.”
I stared at
the faux innocent expression on Betty’s face. "Why?”
"We have an
interview.”
Unpleasant
memories of my last year in the beauty pageant world sprang to mind. I shook my
head. "No. Not going to happen.”
Her grape
eyebrows shot upward. "What do you mean ‘no’?”
"I don’t like
reporters.”
In my
experience, reporters were neither balanced nor impartial. Their goal was to
tell a titillating story. Facts and truth were not necessary. To be fair,
Betty didn’t know that my mama had "persuaded” a male judge to vote for me
during my Miss America run. Nor did she know about the wacky publicity that had
resulted from my melodramatic disqualification. If she had, she’d understand my
distrust of reporters.
"She’s a
filmmaker, Cookie. She’s shooting a movie. Besides, it’s free publicity.”
Bless Betty’s
naïve soul. "Nothing’s free. We don’t even know what the film’s about.”
"What’s there
to know? It’s a dogumentary. A wiener racing biopic. The Long and the Short
of It.” Betty barked out a laugh and slapped her thin thigh in amusement.
"That’s the best title.”
I groaned.
"That’s an awful title.”
"When she
comes around, I’ll do the talking,” Betty announced. "And don’t stare at her.”
"Why in the
world would I stare?”
Betty tossed a sassy smile over her shoulder. "She’s not sexy like us.”
"Is that so?”
"She’s a
behind-the-camera kinda person. Smeared eyeliner, ratty short hair, ripped
jeans. You know, I should offer the poor girl pointers on her eyeliner.”
I ignored the
comment about eyeliner. "Sounds like any eighties glam band after a long
concert.”
Betty nodded
excitedly as she moved the treat jars from the top shelf to a shelf at eye
level. "So you’ve seen her?”
"How often
have you talked to this filmmaker?” I resisted using air quotes, my
skepticism obvious.
Betty patted
my arm reassuringly. "Don’t you worry, Cookie. I’ve got it all under control.”
I’d
experienced Betty’s version of control. Lord help us all. We were in trouble.
"HEY, MEL.
THE booth looks great.” Darby’s blond curls brushed her shoulders. Her normally
pale skin already sported a SoCal tan. We were dressed alike—jeans and the
event T-shirt Betty and I had designed. The shirts had turned out great—a
sunshine yellow material with the words "Wiener Takes All” in brown above a
smooth-haired dachshund. All the vendors had agreed to sell the shirts, the
profits to be donated to the rescue group, Doxie Lovers of OC.
As my best
friend, Darby knew my drink of choice and handed me a chai tea latte from the
Koffee Klatch.
"You are a
lifesaver.” I inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma of cardamom, cinnamon, and
vanilla. "Where’s Fluffy?” Fluffy was Darby’s Afghan hound who has a
superiority complex. I imagine she thought a doxie race was beneath her.
Darby slipped
the strap of her soft leather messenger bag over her head, then laid the bag on
the table. "I left her at home. This isn’t exactly her idea of a good time.
Where’d Betty run off to?”
"She took
Missy to check out the other vendors. Ensuring we can beat the competition. You
know how she gets. The boutique never sells enough of anything.”
Darby sipped
her favorite drink, a white chocolate mocha latte. "When are you going to tell
her you don’t need the money?”
She referred
to my "Texas money.” Montgomery family money I rarely touched, much to my
mama’s displeasure. Mama would prefer I attended charity balls and wasted my
days "stimulating” the economy by buying junk I didn’t need nor want. I
preferred to work for a living.
I shrugged.
"Not today. What have you been up to?”
She pulled
her camera from her messenger bag. "Snapping candid photos. I got some great
shots of the protesters. I found Zippy and Richard out front signing
autographs. I thought I’d grab Betty and see if she’d like to join me.”
"Wait. Did
you say ‘protesters’?”
She nodded,
brows furrowed. "A dozen people with picket signs. One woman had a poster-sized
photo of a dachshund racing in a wheelchair. To be honest, at first I found
the idea inspirational, but the longer I looked at the picture, it became a
little... disturbing.”
"This is the
first I’ve heard about any opposition to the race.”
"They’re part
of a local animal activist group concerned about the possibility of back
injuries. As the popularity of racing grows, they think the dachshunds may have
the same overbreeding issues as greyhounds.”
We sipped our
drinks in silence. Darby took a couple of random photos. I felt a little
uncomfortable. I’d never given any of those concerns a second thought. Could
that controversy be the impetus behind the dogumentary? I was about to ask
Darby if she’d seen the filmmaker when I caught a glimpse of my trusted
assistant.
"Here comes
Betty,” I said.
We watched
her stroll up the vendor aisle as she cast sly glances toward the other
merchants. Missy waddled behind. With her short nose and bulky frame, she
looked completely out of place around all the wiener dogs. The second Betty
caught sight of Darby, she transformed into The Prancing Grandma.
"Darby,
you’re slacking,” she announced. "As the official photographer, you should be
taking pictures of the booths. Start with ours.” She shoved Missy’s leash in my
hand, then scooted around the table. She struck a pose in front of a rack of
merchandise. "Make sure you get the sweaters. They’re on sale.”
Darby snapped
pictures as Betty acted out her interpretation of a supermodel photo shoot. I
watched, amused, as I drank my breakfast.
"I saw
Zippy,” Betty said. "I don’t like his owner. He tugged on Zippy’s leash and
made the poor dog walk in circles, backwards. I think Zippy hurt his leg. I saw
him limping. Instead of Ricky-Dicky being concerned, he yelled at him to stop
whining. He made me so mad. I’ve switched teams.”
Ricky-Dicky?
Since when had she started calling Richard Eriksen Ricky-Dicky? Betty suddenly
struck an awkward wide-legged stance and threw a punch.
"He’s lucky I
didn’t show him my new moves. You girls should have seen me in that
self-defense class I took a few months ago. I was a rock star.” Betty acted out
what could have been a scene from a Jackie Chan movie. Birdlike arms flailed in
front of her face; her right knee jabbed the air.
"Boom.” Step.
"Boom,” she shouted.
"Settle down,
girlfriend, before you attack the rack of dog collars.” I guided her away from
the merchandise.
"You don’t
get it. If anyone pulls a gun on us again, I’m ready for them.” Betty struck a
Charlie’s Angel stance, complete with clasped hands imitating a gun.
Last Christmas,
Betty and I had been held at gunpoint, a life-changing moment for both of us.
Apparently, she’d gone on the defensive, whereas I had decided to cross a line
without thought about the repercussions. More on my poor decision later.
"That was a
fluke,” I said.
"You don’t
know that,” she insisted.
For
everyone’s benefit, I’d better be right. "Let’s finish the pictures.”
"Stand next
to the sign,” Darby ordered. "I want the boutique’s name in a couple of shots.”
"Good idea.
Cookie, get over here.”
Betty’s previous
kung-fu impersonation over, Missy and I reluctantly obeyed. I set my
half-empty cup on the table.
Darby slowly
lowered her camera. "Mel, where’s your engagement ring?”
Was the
undertone of concern in her voice real, or had my own insecurities surrounding
my personal life made me oversensitive? That line I’d just mentioned? Well it
involved my fiancé, Grey Donovan, and he couldn’t seem to get past my impulsive
decision. He had every reason to be angry. I’d messed up. But that wasn’t the
real problem. The real issue was that, presented with the exact set of
circumstances, I’m pretty sure I’d make the same decision. Yeah, not good.
By the look
on their faces, you’d think a hairy wart had bloomed on my finger. I resisted
the urge to cover my bare left hand so they’d stop staring at it. If I were an
accomplished liar, I’d claim wearing a six-carat sapphire heirloom to a wiener
race wasn’t practical. But Darby knew I didn’t possess one ounce of
practicality.
I settled for
a half truth and prayed she would drop the subject. "I accidently left it on
the bathroom counter this morning.”
Darby placed
her camera next to my chai. "There’s only been one other time you’ve been
without your ring. Last year when you two ‘took a break.’ Is everything okay?”
I swallowed
hard. "There is nothing for you to worry about.”
"Where is
that sexy man of yours?” Betty yanked on the elastic waistband of her pants,
hiking them higher up. "I wore my new outfit for him. I got it off of that
all-night shopping TV channel.”
I rubbed my
ringless finger. "Grey flew to New York.”
Grey’s secret
life as an undercover FBI agent had, by default, become my secret life too.
What my friends and family believed to be gallery business trips were a cover
for his real job.
He was
actually in DC, preparing for a new white-collar case involving counterfeit
wine. By definition, white-collar crime (lying, cheating, and stealing) was
considered nonviolent. In Grey’s case it was the undercover aspect that
created the danger—raids, arrests, and, frankly, desperate criminals who
didn’t want to go to prison, and who had a tendency to act out in violent ways.
He’d promised
me the most dangerous situation he’d come across while in New York was a
hangover. I was holding him to it.
"He’ll miss
the race. He sounded like he was looking forward to it,” Darby said.
He had been,
until my little stunt. After that he looked forward to time apart to clear his
head.
Thank the
good Lord, Luis and his long-haired doxie, Barney, walked up to our table,
saving me from further discussion about Grey and my missing engagement ring.
Barney’s tail wagged double time when he noticed Betty.
"You’re the
first to arrive.” I blinded them with my brightest smile.
Betty grabbed
her orange clipboard from under the table and checked them off our list. Darby
snapped a photo, and I handed Luis a jersey for Barney—an extra-large.
"Mel, the
uniforms are great.” Luis was your average guy. He wore an event T-shirt with a
pair of cargo shorts and sneakers. Nice, unassuming, and he loved his dog.
Bless his heart. He didn’t hold Betty’s nagging about Barney’s need to drop a
few pounds against either of us.
Betty bent
over and patted Barney’s head. "You’re looking good.” She straightened and eyed
Luis. "You still use too much of that dog cologne. He smells like a
fifteen-year-old boy going out on his first date.”
Luis face
reddened. "He likes it.”
"He stinks.”
She was right. Barney’s cologne overpowered any smell within twenty
yards. My eyes watered a bit. "He looks like he’s lost a little weight. Has he
been training?”
Luis rubbed
his chin as he studied his dog. "A little. He has a lot of energy. He really
likes to socialize with the other dogs. Running at the park seemed like a good
idea.”
"Which
heavyweight heat is Barney in?” I asked.
"The first
one. We’re on our way there now. To check it out. Are you going to watch us
race?”
"Absolutely,”
Betty and Darby said in unison.
"Wouldn’t
miss it,” I said. "Did you bring the fried chicken? He’s definitely motivated
by food.” A character trait I could relate to.
Luis nodded,
a huge smile split his thick lips. He patted the fanny pack hidden under his
belly. "Right here. So, I guess we’ll see you there.” After a quick wave, Luis
ducked his head, and the two made their way toward the west end of the field.
Betty shook
her head in pity. "The minute Barney takes his eyes off that chicken he’ll
forget all about the race and meander out of bounds.”
I wanted to
disagree, but she was right on the money. Barney possessed only one
speed—distracted. The big guy wasn’t a natural competitor. He liked to roam,
explore, and hang out with his pals. Fried chicken was his only chance at
victory.
Within
minutes, a line of contestants stood in front of our table. Happy chatter
blended with excited barking as we processed the racers. Darby disappeared into
the noisy crowd of humans and dogs to photograph the day. An hour quickly
passed, and we’d handed out over half the jerseys. Presently, the line was only
a half-dozen people deep.
Betty held
her clipboard in front of her tiny body like a drill sergeant. "Name?” she
barked out.
"Pickles.”
The man’s voice was as thick as his bulging biceps. I looked at the
black-and-tan wire-haired dachshund he cradled gently.
I won’t lie;
inappropriate jokes sprang to mind, one right after another. I pinched off the
natural impulse to verbalize them.
"I got two
dogs named Pickles,” Betty said. "One’s racing with the miniatures. The other
must be you. You Lenny Santucci?”
Lenny looked
like an angry frat boy who was minutes away from discovering his "brothers”
were about to expel him due to anger mismanagement. I changed my opinion about
Lenny and Pickles being the underdog.
"That’s
right.” He adjusted Pickles so the dog rested on one gigantic forearm.
Betty scoffed
as she checked his name off her list. She mumbled something inappropriate under
her breath about a man naming his dog "Pickles.”
"Size?” I
asked.
"Medium.” It
was a dare, not a statement.
"There’s no
way he’s a medium.” Betty pointed a boney finger at Pickles. "A large.”
"You tellin’
me my dog is fat?” Lenny leaned closer. His hips bumped the table, and his
upper lip curled with intimidation.
Betty inched
up on her toes, meeting him halfway, undeterred by his surliness. "I’ve seen
fat dogs. Pickles is knocking on the door of tubby. Doesn’t matter, these
things run small.” She grabbed the large uniform I handed her and held it
toward him. "Here. If he can’t fit into a large, tell Cookie here. She’ll hook
you up with a bigger size.”
I hid an
amused smile. Betty always spoke her mind, unconcerned with what someone might
think. And at her age, who wanted to stop her? Frankly, I was thankful she was
finally comfortable pushing something other than paw-lish. Even if it was free
jerseys.
"Aren’t you
the sweetest little guy?” Betty held out her hand for Pickles to sniff. "You’ve
got winner written all over you.”
He squirmed
to get closer to Betty as she tried her darnedest to pet the little bugger, but
Lenny wasn’t cooperating. He kept his pooch just out of Betty’s reach.
Lenny jutted
his chin. "That’s right. This time those pesky Eriksens and their juiced dog,
Zippy, are going down.”
As Betty had
mentioned earlier, Zippy was the three-time champ. I’d heard some scuttlebutt
about a group of contestants who’d filed a lawsuit against the race organizers
in an effort to force the judges to declare Zippy ineligible to give the other
dogs a fair shake at the championship. I’d dismissed the talk as pure gossip.
Seriously, who sues over a wiener race? But Lenny presented a whole new level
of crazy.
"What do you
mean ‘juiced’?” I asked.
"Exactly what
it sounds like. The Eriksens dope Zippy.”
Betty gasped,
then quickly gathered herself and gave him the stink eye. "You got any proof?”
A million
years ago, I’d come from the beauty pageant world. I understood true
competition, and how the need to win could drive even the most honest person to
color outside the lines. Even today, the desire to compete pumped through my
veins.
But doping?
Really? Well, that was one allegation I never thought I’d hear in conjunction
with dachshund dashes. What did he think the Eriksens were doing? Slipping the
dogs creatine shakes? Shooting them up with steroids?
Had our fun
event turned into a bad reality show?
"I got plenty
of proof. In fact, I sent the dogumentary filmmaker after those cheaters.” His
eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
Lenny
Santucci didn’t seem like a guy above unleashing a little controversy in order
to secure a first-place win. It was time to pick a new team.
Chapter Two
"YOU’RE A
LIAR!” A tall curvy brunette shouted it from the back of the line.
Talk about a
facelift gone awry. At one time she had probably been very beautiful woman.
Today, she looked like ten miles of Texas back roads.
Gia Eriksen.
One of Zippy’s owners. I recognized her from the program. She sliced through
the mini-crowd in a preposterous peacock-colored jumpsuit. With each angry
step, her spike heels stabbed the lawn. It sounded like she took exception to
Lenny’s claim that she drugged her dog.
"No one
believes your ridiculous lies,” she bit out, stroking her long mud-colored
hair. She pursed her lips and tsked. "Speaking of ridiculous, Pickles looks a
little sad.”
I looked at
the tail-wagging pup gently cradled in the crook of Lenny’s arm. His brown eyes
sparkled and his ears perked up at the sound of his name. The dog. Not the
owner. Pickles looked particularly joyful. Lenny, on the other hand, radiated
frenetic energy.
He pulled
Pickles back in a protective move. "Shut. Up.”
Going out on
a limb here, but I got the feeling these two didn’t like each other.
Gia smiled
wickedly. "Oh, I’m sorry. Is he still depressed about second place? Again. For
the fifth time?”
"I’m warning
you, lady.”
"You wouldn’t
be interested in a friendly wager on the race would you? No, I guess you wouldn’t.
When are you going to learn? Your dog’s a loser.”
Lenny’s pooch
suddenly yelped. Missy, who’d been snoozing under the table, lifted her head
and barked.
"You’re
squeezing your Pickles.” Betty lunged across the table. I quickly grabbed her
by the waist and held her back as she wiggled to get free.
What the
heck? "Put down the dog,” I ordered.
Lenny snapped
out of his dark thoughts, and set Pickles on the grass.
"I’m watching
you.” Betty wagged a finger at Lenny.
"Will you
behave?” I asked my assistant.
She grunted
something unintelligible under her breath. I took it for an agreement to calm
down. Assured she wasn’t about to start a riot, I released her. Missy ambled
out from under the table to view the action. I shooed her back to her resting
spot.
Gia’s pouty
lips turned in Lenny’s direction. "Poor Lenny. Have you thought about therapy?”
"You rabid
porcupine.” His menacing voice made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on
end. "You know we’d have won that last race if Pickles hadn’t been pushed out
of bounds. We’ll see who’s crying at the end of the day.”
Gia scoffed,
completely unaffected by Lenny’s wrath. "The same person who cries after every
race. You. And your little dog.” She tossed an artificial smile over her
shoulder, then slinked away.
The veins on
Lenny’s forehead popped. "I hate her.”
I couldn’t
blame him. Lordy, I was exhausted. It wasn’t even noon, and there had already
been way too much drama. Everyone needed to take a deep breath and relax. This
was supposed to be a fun day.
An announcement
over the loudspeaker informed the crowd the first race was about to begin.
Lenny stomped off, muttering about how much he despised the Eriksens. Betty and
I channeled our energy to work our way through the line of folks who still
needed to pick up their jerseys.
Surely, the
day could only get better.
WITH A SHOT,
The Dachshund Dash started.
Instantly,
the park filled with triumphant cheers mish-mashed with cries of
disappointment. We couldn’t see the race, but we were close enough that we
could hear the rhythmic squeaking of the toys at the finish line. The closer
the dogs drew to the white line, the faster the cadence of excited clapping,
and the louder the cheers and whistles from the fans.
As the
morning passed, people swapped shopping at the vendor booths for watching the
wiener races. Since foot traffic was dead, Betty had rearranged our entire
stock of merchandise to pass the time. My mind was still on Lenny and Gia’s
public dogfight. Pickles and Zippy were sweet, adorable pooches, but after their
owners’ immature squabble, I wanted any other contestant to outrun them today.
I had a low tolerance for bad sportsmanship.
"I like the
water bowls and treats up front.” Betty rested her hands on her hips and
scrutinized her handiwork.
"Do you
realize the filmmaker never showed?” I asked.
She spun
around. "Oh, yeah. Do you think she heard about the fight? Maybe she secretly
filmed it. That would make great TV.”
I pulled a
couple bottles of water out of the cooler and handed one to Betty. "You never
mentioned her name.”
Betty
shrugged. "She didn’t tell me.”
I wiped a
dollop of water from my chin. "You didn’t ask her?”
"It never
came up. She wanted us to be in her movie. That was all that mattered to me.”
"Did she give
you a business card?”
"Sure.” Betty
rummaged through her Michael Kors straw handbag and pulled out a bright orange
camera-shaped card. "Bright Eyes Films.”
I grabbed it
and looked for a clue about the filmmaker. No name, no phone number, no street
address. Just a generic email address that could belong to anyone. I didn’t
have a good feeling about this woman.
"If you see
her again, let me know.” In the meantime, I’d dig around on my own to find out
if this was a legit operation. I pulled out my smartphone and launched the
Internet.
"I’m checking
on Zippy and Pickles,” Betty said.
"I’m sure
they’re fine,” I muttered, distracted by what I’d found online. Or more
accurately, the lack of what I’d found.
"I’ll be
back.”
My head
snapped up. "What are you up to?”
"Ricky-Dicky
mistreats Zippy. I’m going to make sure someone’s there to protect that pup.”
The determination in her voice rang in my ears.
Could this
really be the same woman who’d walked into my shop last December and declared
she didn’t want a canine and only barely tolerated cats? Something had turned
her into a pet activist. Or at least a dachshund activist.
"Look, I’m
not sure what you think you saw, but if he had truly hurt Zippy, his
nightmarish wife would have taken him down.”
Betty stared
at me, her gray eyes unblinking. "I know what I saw. I’m not blind. I don’t
even wear glasses. He dragged that poor helpless dog around by his leash.”
Now that she
pointed out her lack of eyeglasses, I wondered when she’d had her eyes checked
last. Sidetracked by Betty’s eyesight, I missed what she’d said.
"What’d you
say?”
"I’ll be
back,” she announced.
I sighed. She
was like a dog with a bone. "Do I need to come?”
Betty huffed,
offended. "I don’t need a babysitter.”
I held up my
hand. "I was just asking. Do us all a favor and keep a low profile.”
"What does
that mean?”
"You know
exactly what it means. Stay out of trouble.”
I don’t know
what I was thinking, but I should have known better. Betty Foxx and trouble
were joined at the geriatric hip.
IT
WAS ONE O’CLOCK, and Missy and I had been alone for over an hour. As much as I
didn’t want to act like the overly concerned employer, I was troubled that
Betty hadn’t returned. The miniature and lightweight races had wrapped up, and
the emcee had recently announced over the loud speaker that the heavyweight
races would start in an hour.
"Do you want
to go for a walk, girl?”
Missy lifted
her head and grunted. She stood up, stretched, then shook off her boredom.
Bark. Lick,
lick.
Missy-speak
for "Let’s hit the road.”
I snapped on
her leash with a loud click. We ambled around the park. Missy relieved herself,
and I people-watched. It was a great turnout. The warmth of the sun was like a
promise of good things to come. The energy in the air, palpable. I grabbed a
gyro, eating lunch as we threaded ourselves through the crowd.
"Hey, there’s
Zippy,” a young boy yelled out in excitement.
I looked in
the direction he pointed and caught a glimpse of what looked like Betty jumping
around like a toad on hot Texas pavement. The concentration on her face
suggested there was more to her determination to see Zippy than fandom.
Zippy and his
human, Richard Eriksen, were immediately surrounded by demanding fans. They
were far enough away that I could only hear bits and pieces of the
conversations over the chatter of the crowd. The longer they stayed, the more
people appeared. Missy and I moved closer.
Richard, or
as Betty liked to call him, Ricky-Dicky, was a tall lanky man with a forced
smile and a rigid stance.
"Get back,”
he shouted.
"Don’t be an
ass. They want his autograph.” Gia’s bossy voice sliced through the commotion.
The crowd
parted enough for me to see a young boy, no more than ten years old, reach out
to pet Zippy. Richard yanked on the leash, dragging Zippy backwards. The dog’s
feet slipped on the grass, dropping him to a sit position.
"They can
stop by the winner’s circle after the race. Right now, we have to get to the
waiting area,” Richard argued.
"It’s bad
luck to celebrate before a win.” I heard Betty’s reedy voice drift through the
crowd.
Please
behave. Please behave.
"Not when you
know you’ll come out on top.” Gia shoved her way into the middle of the group.
She reached for Zippy’s leash, but Richard refused to relinquish it. Directly
behind Gia stood a woman of average height and build with a video camera. Our
missing filmmaker? Missy and I slowly inched closer. Her face was obstructed,
but I could see her bad haircut clear as day. For once, Betty hadn’t
exaggerated.
"How would
you know that unless you’ve stacked the deck in your favor?” someone from the crowd
shouted.
"Who said
that?” Gia shrieked.
"We don’t
need to stack the deck.” Richard’s chest puffed with inflated confidence.
"Champions are built. Zippy loves to train. Right boy?”
Zippy, who’d
been obediently sitting during this entire exchange, barked on cue.
Everyone
cheered, and the circle tightened as people rushed to get closer to the dog.
"Back away,”
Richard growled. "He needs air. He must stretch.”
"Your stupid
ritual can wait. His fans want to meet him,” Gia screeched.
Husband and
wife squared off like two tomcats ready to defend their territory. Not exactly
the picture of a healthy relationship.
The reigning
champion wiggled his long body between a young admirer’s legs eager for some
well-deserved attention. Richard mumbled a mouthful of colorful language, then
tugged on the leash, dragging the pooch beside him.
"Hey,” Betty
yelled. "You’re hurting him.”
"He’s fine.
Mind your own business.”
Betty shot
Ricky-Dicky a hateful look. "I’ve seen how you tug on the leash and yank him
around. Just because he doesn’t whimper doesn’t mean he’s not hurt. You’re
choking him.”
Missy and I
moved faster trying to reach Betty before she said something she’d regret, but
the crowd blocked us from any forward progress. A couple of young surfers
tossed me a disgusted look. What was their problem? It wasn’t as if I was
trying to cut to the front of the Taco Bell line.
"Did I ask
for your opinion?” Ricky-Dicky’s face turned a dark shade of red. His cold
brown eyes bored into Betty. "That’s right, I didn’t.”
"I’ve been
watching you. You’re mean to that sweet dog. You don’t deserve him. Either of
you.” Her voice grew more agitated.
I’d never
heard her so angry. My stomach knotted. She’s wasn’t a spring chick. Someone
his size could easily hurt her.
I picked up
Missy, worried she’d be stepped on, and elbowed my way into the crowd. "Excuse
me, I need to get through.”
A handful of
people let us through, but the majority refused to let us get closer.
"Are you the
one who’s been following us today?” Gia’s unkind laugh filled the stunned
silence.
I hoped Gia
was mistaken, and Betty hadn’t followed anyone.
"He took away
his food. When Zippy wanted a drink, you took away his water bowl,” Betty
yelled.
She was too
short for me to see if she was in physical danger, but I imagined her balled
fists at her side, ready to defend herself or the dog. I continued to shove my
way through the crowd, praying I’d reach Betty before one of the Eriksens hurt
her.
"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.