by Arlene Kay
“It’s time, Perri.” Babette patted my arm. “And a few highlights and some makeup would do wonders for you. After all, it’s been four years since you lost Pip. I loved him too, but life goes on. Time you stopped dodging Pruett and settled down. Competition is fierce out there you know.”
I turned sideways, ambushed by a sudden mist of tears. Babette meant well but she had no concept of what I had shared with my fiancé or the gaping chasm his death had created in my life. Philip Hahn, “Pip,” was the love of my life, a shy veterinarian with a million-dollar grin and a big heart. Melanoma, a cruel and stealthy killer, had taken him from me so fast that at times it still didn’t register. What a rebuke to the champion athlete and avid outdoorsman who had shared my life and still consumed my thoughts. Pruett and Ella helped to salve that wound but it still ached at times.
“Oh honey, I’m sorry.” Babette seemed close to tears herself. “I never learned to keep my big trap shut. Forgive me?”
I gave her a quick hug and clutched the door handle of my truck. “It’s okay. I’ll call you after my meeting.”
She sped off in her sporty red car oblivious to oncoming traffic or impending disaster. I shook my head, never dreaming what our future would hold.
Chapter 2
Luck was with me. Due to a scheduling change, I met my new client later that same afternoon. Even better, he scooped up the entire stock of belts and ordered four dozen more. I was proud of those belts—English bridle leather, solid brass accents and a convenient pouch for pet treats or keys. Several shops in Great Marsh already carried them and they had quickly sold to the style setters in the community. I downplayed my luck but secretly dreamed of a modest version of hitting the big time. If opportunity knocked, I might expand my reach to DC, Philadelphia, and even New York City. Hot dog!
I plopped down on my sofa, dislodging an outraged feline who considered it her domain. Thatcher—named for the Iron Lady herself—was one very opinionated Maine Coon who couldn’t wait to scold me. Pip had rescued her from a heartless client who wanted her “disposed of” because her coat shed on the furniture. Thatcher had adored him, although she barely tolerated me. When his time came, she gently purred Pip into the next world with a tenderness that was both unexpected and mystical. For that, I would always love her no matter how many times she clawed the furniture or ignored me.
The rest of my household included two Belgian Malinois, Keats and Poe, plus Zeke, a cantankerous pygmy goat with bizarre eating habits. They were family more than pets and made sure that I appreciated the fact.
My little homestead didn’t compare with the grand estates that dotted most of Great Marsh but that didn’t bother me. My hunk of heaven consisted of a comfortable ranch-style house with a renovated barn that served as my studio. Land was at a premium in Great Marsh and local covenants required a five-acre lot for each residence. With all the McMansions springing up, modest homesteads like mine had become an endangered species. Unfortunately, pleasure and pain aligned whenever I considered the bittersweet backstory that accompanied the place. Pip inherited the property from his aunt and when he passed, the home that held so many happy memories became mine. He never really left it though. His spirit inhabited every square foot of our home—always had, always would. That comforted me in the lonely times when I felt Pip’s arms hugging me or heard his booming laughter echoing throughout my studio. Pruett understood. At least I think he did. We both agreed to take things slowly and allow our feelings to grow.
I couldn’t wait to share my sales triumph with Babette. Unfortunately, Carleton answered the phone and regaled me with a prolonged discussion of his workday, and the usual litany of complaints. Finally, he summoned Ethel McCall to speak with me.
“Babette rescheduled her yoga class,” Ethel said. “She’s planning some big pow wow tomorrow morning. But I guess you know that.”
I explained that I was free after all and would attend the session.
Ethel paused for a moment and laughed. “That’s a relief. I’m off tomorrow and Babette needs one of us to keep her on an even keel. She means well, but man oh man that lady can go off like a firecracker.”
I pictured Ethel, sensible, faithful Ethel, with her freshly scrubbed face, no-nonsense grey hair and thick glasses. Although she was occasionally gruff, no one ever questioned either her work ethic or her devotion to Babette.
“She invited Glendon Jakes,” I said. “Is he coming?”
“Yep. Called him myself.” I detected the hint of humor in Ethel’s voice. “He sounded eager.”
“Anyone else?”
Ethel paused. “Just checking my list. Ken Reedy, Charlotte Westly, Jacqui Parks and Sheila Sands. All confirmed.”
I didn’t know all of them, but Ken and Sheila were fervent pet people, part of my customer base. “Anyone else?”
“Oh. The pretty one with the wavy black hair. I think you may know him.” Now I knew that Ethel was laughing at me. Pruett was a fixture in my life and she knew it well.
“He’ll be late. Has some big appearance scheduled on one of those morning shows—Good Morning America, I think.”
Despite her protests, I knew that Ethel nursed a major crush on newscasters and seldom missed the morning shows. If a fifty-something stalwart could be called a fan girl, Ethel was it.
“Should I bring anything? Food or soft drinks?”
“Got it covered,” Ethel said. “I have a surprise for Babette too. Something special to pep up that rally of hers.”
I was curious. “What is it? Give me a hint.”
Ethel was one tough customer. She chuckled but wouldn’t budge. “You’ll see it soon enough. By the way, she expects a dozen or so to show up. The usual crowd. There is one thing you could do to help. Maybe you could get here early—eight-thirty or so. Just to make sure everything’s set. The rest of the bunch won’t be here ’til around nine and half of ’em will probably be late. You know how much this means to Babette. Might make her a tad jumpy.”
I did a quick check of my calendar. “I’ll be there. Don’t worry.”
Ethel clucked approvingly. “Good. Want her to call you when she gets home?”
I planned on making and eating a leisurely dinner, then soothing my tired muscles in a hot bath and reading by the fireplace. Babette, bless her heart, would raise my anxiety level to overload by rehashing everything we had already covered that morning. “No need. I’ll see her in the morning.”
* * * *
I rarely oversleep but that’s what happened the next day. If Poe and Keats hadn’t rustled around, I might never have gotten up. As it was, I leapt into the shower, turned on my coffee machine and tended to my pets at warp speed. My mop of chestnut hair didn’t take much tending, so I clipped it back into a low ponytail and forgot about it. Makeup? Why bother? As I looked into the mirror it suddenly struck me: Pruett was guest of honor at Babette’s soiree and he was accustomed to svelte Washington socialites in designer duds. My wardrobe would flunk the Vogue test, but I could at least spare a few minutes to apply makeup. A dab of foundation, pinch of blush and a touch of mascara buoyed my spirits and salved my ego. Now I could face the Romeo of the printed page without flinching. No need to downplay my assets.
Poe and Keats leapt into the Suburban without being invited. They were military retirees, heroes of the canine corps, five years old with beauty and brains to spare. As an added bonus, both dogs had also mastered Schutzhund, the three-level training program consisting of tracking, obedience and protection specialties. My boys weren’t aggressive, but they were very serious about their mission. I felt safe with them around.
We tore out of the driveway with Zeke giving us the evil eye as he munched hay. That goat had a really bad attitude at times, but who could blame him? He was a pygmy, neutered at an early age and saved by Pip from becoming part of the food chain. Although the literature claimed that goats need others of their own kind to b
e content, Zeke seemed quite happy cuddling and playing with my dogs. He even maintained détente with Thatcher although each was suspicious of the other. Zeke’s talents as a milk producer were another matter entirely and his ambivalence about humans kept me wary of his horns.
I broke a few traffic rules on the ten-minute trek to Babette’s place. To be accurate, I drove like a maniac on the deserted back roads. Babette’s home was a mansion, a sprawling hilltop heaven set back from the main road behind a spacious guesthouse currently occupied by Ethel. I checked my watch, relieved to find that it was barely half past eight. That gave me plenty of time to tie up any loose ends before the other guests arrived. I zipped into the garage, a six-bay architectural wonder disguised as a farm building. Since it housed a valuable classic Corvette, the garage was typically locked down tight. Not today.
Poe and Keats followed my signal and leapt out to get a bit of exercise. They were immediately joined by Clara, Babette’s beloved Border Collie and closest ally. Clara was never left off lead unless she was in a fully fenced enclosure. Border collies run at a blistering pace that no mere human can match, but Babette was more concerned that marauding coyotes might harm Clara. She must have sneaked out amidst the hubbub over the big meeting.
I grabbed a spare lead from my truck, coaxed Clara close enough to slip a Martingale around her neck and stroked her shiny coat. “Here you go, my beauty. Your mama will have a fit if she finds you gone, naughty girl.” Clara’s normally placid demeanor vanished. She danced about on her toes like a nervous ballerina awaiting her cue.
What in the world could Babette be thinking of? She doted on Clara, lavishing love, attention, and money on her pet. A sense of foreboding swept through me, the same type of early warning system I had felt during my tour in Afghanistan. Those instincts had kept me alive more than once and I valued them. I whistled for my dogs and cautiously approached Babette’s house.
The front door was unlocked—nothing unusual about that. Despite my warnings, Babette insisted that Great Marsh was safe, an idyllic place where good will flourished. She was right—up to a point. The town had almost zero crime despite, or because of, the affluence of its inhabitants, but the heroin epidemic that was sweeping northern Virginia left everyone vulnerable.
“Babette? It’s Perri. Where are you?” I stepped cautiously into the great room, comforted by the presence of my dogs. Both Malinois went on alert, standing statue-still as their eyes surveyed the terrain. Clara broke free and tore up the winding marble staircase toward Babette’s bedroom with her lead trailing behind her. I shivered as I beckoned the Mals and followed. Was something sinister waiting around the corner?
Relax. Take a deep breath. You know how to handle dangerous situations. Been there, done that.
Babette’s master suite, a beautifully sculpted three-room space with sitting room and private bath was located at the end of the corridor. I had visited it many times but now something about it seemed sinister.
“Babette!” My voice sounded shrill even to my own ears. “It’s late. Better get going.” My hand trembled as I clutched the doorknob and knocked. Clara stood at the door, frantically clawing it and whimpering.
I slipped through a narrow opening, leaving the dogs to patrol the corridor. Then I saw it—crimson droplets of what had to be blood, dotting the satin bedspread. Sheets concealed a half-naked female form saturated with still more blood. The chaos contrasted sharply with a neatly folded pile of clothes on the bedside bench. I covered my mouth to suppress the scream building in my throat. She was gone. My friend, Babette. I’d seen enough corpses during the war to recognize a dead body even at a distance. Next to the boudoir chair rested a fire extinguisher covered with still more gore. I didn’t touch it, of course. Anyone with a television set knew better than that.
I blinked, forcing myself to approach the bed. Maybe she was still alive. Maybe I could summon help. A blast of cool air from the open French doors assaulted my senses. As I half-turned, a black-clad figure moved forward and struck me down.
* * * *
A chorus of noise not unlike the celestial choir roused me. Actually, those sounds were a cacophony of screams mixed with barks, howls and the sweet sensation of doggy kisses. Was I dreaming? My head sank into downy pillows and an eiderdown throw cosseted me. What the hell?
“Breathe slowly, darlin.’ Help is on the way.”
Either I was dreaming or swirling the drain waiting to die. By some cruel twist of fate, that voice sounded exactly like Babette’s. If I hadn’t seen her corpse, I might have believed it. I opened one eye and squinted. Which of Dante’s circles of hell had trapped me? “You’re dead! What’s happening to me?”
Ice-cold fingers grabbed my cheek and pinched it. “Persephone Morgan, wake up right now and stop babbling. Do you hear me?”
Very few people knew my full name and only one was crazy enough to pinch a woman in shock. Cautiously—very cautiously—I opened my eyes, looked up, and saw Babette’s smiling face. Her makeup was smeared, and her hair was a disaster, but my friend was alive.
“What happened?”
“You tell us.” A deep masculine voice that was both familiar and rather snarky assaulted my ears. I reached out, clutching my dogs’ soft fur as they formed an honor guard around me. I ignored him and turned toward Babette. “All that blood. I saw your body on the bed.”
Babette reached down and squeezed my hand ignoring the tears that coursed down her cheeks. “That was Ethel, honey. I ran out to get supplies and Ethel stayed at the house.” Her voice broke when she said her friend’s name. “I don’t know what in the world she was doing on my bed.”
I pulled myself up, balanced on my elbows and turned toward the other person. He was dressed in black just like the blurry figure who almost killed me. Assassins come in all shapes and sizes, but this man was no foe. Pruett held out his arms and hugged me tight.
“Who are you?” I asked.
He laughed. In the midst of murder and mayhem he actually laughed. “Still got that edge I see.” His voice was gentler now, almost hypnotic. A lock of thick black hair fell over his eyes as he bent down. Poe immediately went on alert, growling a warning.
“Easy, boy. It’s okay.” I forced myself to meet Pruett’s gaze. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”
“Perri, you know who he is.” Babette turned toward him. “She’s in shock.”
The situation felt artificial, more like a third-rate melodrama than a crime scene. Babette was preternaturally calm considering the circumstances. I blinked, hearing other voices just outside the room. “Who’s there?” I asked.
“Just friends, honey. Charlotte and Jacqui. Ken Reedy too. Sheila’s somewhere around the place and so is Carleton. Haven’t seen Jakes, thank the Lord.”
My throat ached, and I felt perilously close to throwing up. The enormity of things simply did not register. Murder, assault? Was this a dream?
Pruett said little but focused on me with laser-like precision. Obviously, he was concerned with my welfare, but he also sensed an opportunity. What better than a first-person account of a brutal murder among the upper crust? It was tailor made for those trashy true crime shows he routinely appeared on.
Deep breaths. Keep your dignity, Perri.
“How did I get out here?” I pointed to Babette’s sitting room. “Did I walk?”
“I carried you,” Pruett said. “The cops wouldn’t appreciate it if you messed up their crime scene any more than it already was.” He shuddered. “You’re quite an armful my lady.”
He was well over six feet tall with the taut body of a dedicated gym rat. More than able to carry me; he’d done it plenty of times before, so I knew he was teasing. A sudden wail of sirens galvanized the dogs into a spate of barking. The cavalry in the person of the local police had finally arrived.
Chapter 3
Fairfax County has a savvy, sophisticated police operation that r
esponds quickly to murder and mayhem at a mansion. By the time I was fully conscious, two squad cars and three detectives from the Major Crimes division had already arrived. After securing the crime scene, a disheveled, slightly tubby white guy with a shop-worn Burberry motioned us down the stairs into the living room.
“Lieutenant Titus Bascomb,” he said, flashing his credentials. “Who is the homeowner here?” His tone was all business.
Fear or shock rendered Babette mute. Instead of speaking, she raised her hand like a timid schoolgirl.
Bascomb adjusted his sunglasses and stared at his smartphone. “Mrs. Croy? Did you call this in?”
She shook her head and shivered.
“I did, Lieutenant.” Pruett rose gracefully and stood, legs spread wide, facing the cop. “Wing Pruett.”
If Bascomb recognized a celebrity in his midst he didn’t react. “Okay. Give me the basics.”
Even I admired the factual, no-nonsense account that Pruett supplied. His poise emboldened Babette who finally regained the power of speech.
“We all got here about the same time,” she said. “Dogs were barking, and the door was wide open. I knew Perri was here ’cause I saw her truck.” She pointed to me. “That’s Perri. Wing ran up the staircase, but he couldn’t get in. The dogs wouldn’t let him.” Babette blew her nose. “I pushed them aside and opened the door. I thought they were both dead. I’ve never seen anything like that…” An attack of hiccups rendered her speechless again, and she dissolved into sobs.