by Amy Vansant
Charlotte straightened in her seat. “So doesn’t that make Crystal’s mom a terrific suspect?”
Darla slathered some sunblock on her nose, careful not to disturb the puppy on her lap. “Sure, if she wasn’t dead. She got out of jail and overdosed a few years later. Never came back for the girl before that, though, from what I heard.”
“How old was Crystal then?”
Darla mused on this for a moment. “Maybe nine? Ten?”
Mariska nodded. “Crystal was old enough to know Alice had taken her away from her mother, but not old enough to appreciate why. She probably never forgave her.”
“Fighting like cats and dogs since I can remember,” agreed Darla.
“It got worse when Alice fell ill. The girl used to take her antics up to the line and then pull back whenever Alice threatened to kick her out. Once Alice grew too weak to fight, Crystal just ran all over her.”
Charlotte slipped on her sunglasses as a beam of sunlight found a way to sneak past the palm leaves waving above the clubhouse. “So it isn’t crazy to think Crystal may have wanted Alice gone?”
“Other than the fact I can’t imagine anyone killing their flesh and blood, not at all,” said Mariska.
Charlotte recalled the scene she’d discovered earlier that morning. Crystal certainly seemed to be in a hurry to rid herself of everything Alice. “I walked by Alice’s house this morning with Abby and the curb was lined with trash bags filled with Alice’s things. It looked like she was building a sandbag levee.”
Mariska raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh no. Alice had such lovely things.”
Darla clucked her tongue. “Body is barely cold.”
“If I died and Bob tried to throw out a single one of my things, I’d come back to haunt him,” said Mariska.
Darla chuckled. “I’d haunt Frank either way. If he wasn’t doing something wrong at that second, I’d know it was coming. Might as well start early.”
“How can we prove she made another stollen with nuts?” continued Charlotte. She was talking to herself more than asking the ladies a question, which was good, because they had started arguing over whose husband would buy the cheaper coffin.
“You’re right. Bob would definitely go for the plywood,” said Darla, relenting.
Mariska scowled. “Are you calling Bob cheap?”
“You were the one calling Bob cheap.”
“But I’m allowed to.”
Darla huffed and looked at Charlotte. “Did you just say something?”
“I was wondering if there is a way to prove Crystal made an additional stollen. One rigged with almond flour.”
“I know how to tell,” said Mariska. “There was half a bag of dried fruits left. I left it right next to all the other baking things in the pantry. No reason she wouldn’t have used them if she’d decided to copy the recipe.”
Charlotte grimaced. “I dunno. Not exactly iron-clad proof. But it might be something to check.”
“I know how I left every last thing in that kitchen. I took pains to put everything neat so Alice wouldn’t have to bother herself with any of it. If I took a peek, I’d know for sure if someone had baked after me.”
Charlotte tapped her knuckles against her lips as she considered the possibilities. “So it would make sense to get you in there. Though, somehow I doubt we can just knock on the door and ask Crystal if we can look around.”
“I’ll tell Frank to let us in,” suggested Darla.
Charlotte shook her head. “He could ask her to let us in, but she wouldn’t have to say yes. Then he’d need a warrant and no judge is going to give him one based on half a bag of dried fruits.”
“Did you learn all that becoming a private eye?” asked Mariska.
“I learned that from every police procedural show ever on television.”
Darla clenched her fist. “That party-muffin is out every night. That means the house is empty every night. We’ll just sneak in there and take a quick look around.”
Charlotte scowled. “Did you just call Crystal a party-muffin?”
Darla arched an eyebrow. “It’s a nice way to say she’s a—”
Charlotte held up a hand. “Got it. Nevermind.”
There was a scream and the three of them jumped.
“Get her, Helen!” called someone from the far end of the pool.
The crystal turquoise water had erupted into a frenzy of splashing. Gina had Helen by the hair, the latter thrashing at her foe, trying to break free. Several of the aerobics ladies encircled the two fighting women, some trying to pry them apart, others cheering support for Helen against the new young upstart.
“Oh for crying out loud,” muttered Charlotte.
Darla slapped her leg. “Use your left, Helen!”
The puppy on her lap jumped to his feet and then toppled over again. Darla grabbed him to keep him safe as she bounced in her chair.
As Helen and Gina were pulled apart, Charlotte reached down into her bag to grab the paper she hadn’t had time to read that morning, hoping she could hide behind it and pretend there weren’t two retired women in the pool trying to whup each other out of Dirty Dirk’s life.
The front page screamed at her with oversized black font: Philanthropist Dies.
Hm. Potential client.
“You’re a tramp!” screamed someone. Charlotte guessed Helen.
She tried harder to concentrate on her reading. She wanted to take the high road, but couldn’t deny that the urge to see who won the wrestling match wasn’t pulling at her.
Kimber Miller was found dead in his home last night. Miller, best known for his show horses, philanthropy and prize-winning Yorkshire Terriers—
Charlotte turned from the paper and looked at the puffball in Darla’s hand.
Yorkshire Terriers?
Chapter Eight
Jackie Blankenship, grudging leader of pool aerobics, had her arms wrapped around Gina while two other women, one of whom Charlotte knew for a fact had had a hip replacement in the last six months, wrestled Helen away.
“Helen Bed’s got a heck of a left,” mused Darla, as if she were considering becoming the woman’s fight manager.
“Did you see this?” asked Charlotte holding out the headline for Mariska and Darla to see.
Mariska nodded. “The millionaire. Yes. They found him dead in his bedroom.”
“But it says he bred Yorkies.”
“What’s that have to do with anything?”
Charlotte pointed at the box of puppies. “These are Yorkies.”
Darla clucked her tongue. “So he died the same time someone was stealing his puppies? That’s an awful day.”
“Maybe he saw them stealing the puppies and that’s what gave him the heart attack,” suggested Mariska.
Charlotte poked the paper. “It didn’t say he had a heart attack, did it?”
Mariska shook her head. “I made that part up.”
“Maybe he was murdered for the puppies.” Charlotte scanned the article looking for more information, but as usual, the local paper’s crack team of journalists had failed to include any meaty facts. It was little more than a puff piece about a rich guy.
Mariska’s attention moved from Charlotte to the box sitting on the table. “You really think those are his puppies?”
“They have to be, don’t they? It would be a heck of a coincidence if puppies showed up here the same night he died.” Charlotte lowered her paper as the gate slammed shut at the opposite side of the pool. Gladys Sorenson and her broad, Swedish cheekbones entered the area with a beach bag over one arm and something small, furry and brown tucked in the crook of the other.
A puppy.
Gladys struck up a conversation with another woman who began fawning over the dog.
Charlotte tucked the paper under her arm, plucked the puppy from Darla’s grasp, replaced it in the box and carried the box towards Gladys. Darla barely registered her loss, so engrossed was she in the aftermath of Helen vs. Gina.
Gladys
smiled as she approached. “Hi Charlotte, have you met Magnum?” She held up the dog.
“You can’t keep him.”
Gladys paled. “What?”
Charlotte lowered the box so she could see inside. ‘Magnum’ peered into the box and began whining, eager to return to his littermates. His pleas awoke his brothers and sisters, who pawed at the sides of the box hoping to reach him. Gladys pulled him away.
“No.”
“I’m sorry, Gladys, but he’s stolen. Look.”
Charlotte put the box on a patio table and laid out the paper beside it so Gladys could see.
“I don’t have my glasses,” she said, beginning to pout.
“You can see the headline?”
“Philharmonic Days.”
Charlotte scowled. “It says Philanthropist Dies.”
“I told you I didn’t have my glasses.”
“Right. Anyway, point is, he bred Yorkies. I think these puppies are his.”
“Magnum is a purebred?”
“That’s not the point. Magnum isn’t Magnum. He has to go back. He’s stolen and he could be part of a murder investigation.”
Gladys sighed, staring at the puppy in her hand. “Roger wasn’t thrilled. I told him it was a sign, though. That we were supposed to have a dog.”
“Maybe it is. It just can’t be this dog. At least not yet. Maybe you could buy it from the estate when everything gets figured out.”
Gladys looked at Charlotte as if she’d sprouted a second head. “I’m not paying for a purebred dog.” She held out the puppy and Charlotte took it to place it in the box with the others.
When she looked up, Janice Rocco was standing at the gate, a puppy in her arms.
“You have to give it back,” said Gladys, jerking a thumb towards the box.
Janice spun to leave, tucking the dog beneath her beach coverup as she fumbled with the gate. Charlotte had never seen the woman move so fast.
“Janice, you have to give it back,” she called, running after her.
Chapter Nine
“I’m going to need a bigger box.”
It had taken some work, but Charlotte had finally convinced Janice Rocco to turn over her puppy. Now five dogs jumbled in her cardboard box.
“How many siblings do you guys have?” she asked them. “Did any of you take a head count?”
“What are you going to do with them?” asked Mariska.
Charlotte put her hands on her hips. “I don’t know. Maybe I should stay here and see if they just keep showing up at the pool. Maybe I should go knock on doors.”
“Ooh, we can help you with that,” said Darla.
Mariska nodded. “You know we love playing detective with you.”
“I’m not playing—” Charlotte’s phone rang in her pool bag and she fished for it.
“Hello?”
“It’s Frank. You know those puppies from last night?”
“They’re tied to the millionaire murder.”
Frank paused. “How’d you know that?”
“It was in the paper.”
“It was?”
“Not exactly. I think they hire their reporters directly out of grade school.”
Frank made a snorting noise she took as a laugh. “No, I’m saying the sheriff over there just realized there might be foul play. It couldn’t have been in the paper. Six of those puppies were stolen from the scene of the crime.”
“Six? I have five of them now.”
“Really? Good. How’d you go from three to five?”
“People started showing up at the pool with them.”
“To drown them?”
“What? No! Why would you even say that?”
“I don’t know. Why would people bring puppies to the pool?”
“To show them off.”
Frank grunted. “Oh. Right. That makes more sense.”
Charlotte covered her phone and looked at Darla. “What is wrong with your husband?”
Darla rolled her eyes. “Don’t get me started.”
She returned to her call. “Mariska and Darla said they’d help me knock on doors if you want us to find the straggler.”
“Sure. I’ll get Deputy Daniel to help. You can split the work. I’m going over to the mansion right now to turn over what we have. Buddy of mine’s son is the sheriff there. Are you home?”
“I’m at the pool but I’m heading home now. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes? I need to get changed.”
“For what?”
“For coming with you.”
“To the mansion?”
“I’m a part of this case now, aren’t I? I hold the crucial puppy piece of the puzzle.”
Frank chuckled. “If you say so. You can tag along. See you in ten.”
Charlotte hung up.
“We can start knocking on doors when I get back. Frank’s going to the crime scene and I’m going with him. It isn’t often I get to check out actual police crime scenes.”
Mariska balled her fists and, holding one on either side of her chin, shook them. “This is so exciting!”
Charlotte said her goodbyes and gathered the puppy box, grateful she’d driven her own golf cart to the pool and didn’t have to borrow Mariska’s and leave the ladies stranded. They’d need a way to get away if another fight broke out. Or maybe Mariska would need a vehicle to drag Darla away from the fight.
On the way back to her house she called the local vet and asked them to be on the lookout for the sixth puppy. Whoever found it might decide it’s a good idea to get it checked out.
Charlotte screeched to a stop in her driveway, burst into her home, set the puppies on the ground and changed out of her bathing suit. Abby sat in the doorway scowling as best she could. Not only had her mommy returned with those darn puppies, but she could tell she was rushing to leave again. A double insult.
Ten minutes later, Charlotte was dressed and sitting in the passenger seat of Frank’s cruiser. Abby watched them pull away from the window she could reach by hopping on the bed.
“Any leads on the sixth dog?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Not yet. I can tell you I practically had to wrestle the fifth one out of Janice Rocco’s hands. If whoever has the sixth dog hears the other women had to turn in their puppies, we’ll have to worry about them going into hiding.”
“If I see a puppy wearing a fake mustache, I’ll let you know.”
Charlotte laughed. “How about Alice? Any new leads there?”
“No. It’s an accidental death for now.”
“Hm.” Charlotte considered telling Frank about how she’d discussed searching Alice’s pantry with Mariska and Darla, but decided against it. At the time, she’d considered the conversation about breaking in tongue-in-cheek, but the fact she didn’t want to share the joke with Frank meant she was seriously considering it.
Why do I do these things to myself?
She pushed the idea into the back of her mind.
For now.
Frank pulled onto the long driveway of the Miller Estate and crunched down the gravel drive toward a large two-story brick home nestled in the center of fenced horse pastures. Horses picked up their heads and pricked their ears to investigate their arrival before returning to their grass-munching.
“Beautiful property,” said Charlotte.
Frank nodded as he rolled to a stop behind several other police vehicles parked in the large stone driveway at the front of the house. “Yep. From what I understand, it should all go to the nieces now. That’s probably them. Twins. He took them in when his brother and his wife were killed by a drunk driver.”
He pointed in the direction of a young lady trotting around an exercise ring on the back of a fine-boned chestnut gelding. The horse’s mane lined its curved neck in neat braided bunches. Behind her, at the far end of the ring, another girl stood with another horse. It was similar in color and equally as gorgeous as the first, but with a star of white in the center of its forehead. The girl held a long lead, at the en
d of which her horse circled, spurred by the long whip in her hand that she lowered but never snapped. Apparently, just knowing the whip was long enough to reach was enough to keep the animal moving.
Charlotte exited the car and the girl riding trotted to the closest fence. Charlotte guessed her to be in her late teens.
“You’re not a cop,” said the girl.
“No, but I play one on TV.”
The space between the rider’s eyes scrunched. “What?”
“Just kidding. I have your puppies.”
“What? How?”
The girl seemed surprised but not particularly excited, which Charlotte found odd. If she’d lost a box full of puppies, she’d be over the moon to have them returned.
She wrestled the box of squirming dogs from the cruiser to show the girl, who stared down at them from her perch. Her mount gave the puppies a quick glance with its large brown eyes and then returned to playing with the bit between its teeth.
“Someone dropped them off on the doorsteps of my neighbors.”
The girl scowled. “That doesn’t make any sense. I missed a show because of all this.” She shook her head and pulled her horse away from the fence, giving the beast a kick with her black-booted heels. The horse took a few long strides and then broke into a slow canter as she steered him toward the girl Charlotte presumed to be her sister. The animal at the end of the lunge line stopped and the two girls spoke. Both sets of eyes turned to stare at Charlotte, but a moment later the starred mount returned to its circling and the rider continued practicing.
Okey-dokey.
Any dreams Charlotte had of being hailed a puppy-finding hero had galloped away into the sunset. Frank had gone ahead and was already entering the home. She jogged to catch up with him, doing her best not to jostle the pups.
The floor of the mansion’s great foyer was laid with alternating black and white squares of what looked like marble. Someone had thrown several ratty rugs on the floor just inside the door and Charlotte used one to wipe her flip flops on. She suddenly felt very underdressed in shorts and a polo. Officers milled around the foyer in their uniforms looking very official. At the top of the center staircase was a landing, from which another officer stared down at her. Charlotte guessed the bedroom where they’d found the owner of the home was located at the top of those stairs.