“And I’m still working with him. Might not be able to keep him if he doesn’t learn to stay on the line and quit skirtin’ off and goin’ after trash game.”
I was nodding, though I only had a vague idea of what he was talking about.
We left the barn, and I let out a sigh as soon as I could drop the shield I’d had to hold up in order to keep so many excited animals out of my head.
“You sure you’re all right?”
“It’s been a long couple of days.” I regretted the words as soon as I said them. “Oh God, I’m sorry. You’ve had it much worse than me.”
Bo lifted a shoulder. “It ain’t easy. I just keep thinking I should have known.”
“Bo, there’s nothing you could have done.”
“Maybe.” His face took on a hard edge. Having someone you love murdered was bound to piss you off. But the intensity of his sudden anger was startling.
“Um . . . if you want, I can bring Jax down here for a visit.”
Bo’s features softened. “Yeah?”
“Sure. I need to see how he does in a new place. But if all goes well with the visit, it’ll be a done deal. You’ll just have to sign some paperwork.”
“It would be nice to have Jax. Mark was like a brother.”
“I noticed you don’t have the same last name.” I’d heard the story from the housekeeper, but I wanted to know Bo’s take on it.
“Buck and Gardenia took me in when my parents died. I owe ’um everything.”
I glanced around the little cabin. It wasn’t much. Most people would look at the battered truck and grimy yard and feel sorry for Bo. An orphan who’d been given the short end of the stick compared to his famous, wealthy “brother.”
But people were different. Not everyone wanted fame and fortune—some people wanted a quiet life with their dogs. I understood that.
“I’m supposed to go talk to the cops,” Bo said. “But I don’t know what I can say. I left the party early.”
“You were at Mark’s house the night of the murder?” I’m not sure why it surprised me, but it did. The two men seemed to lead such separate lives.
“Yeah. I saw LaBryce jump Mark, but I don’t think it was him.”
We reached the Suburban, and I turned to look Bo in the eye. “Why not?”
“He was mad. But he wasn’t killin’ mad. He was just drunk.”
“If you believe that, you need to tell the police.” It would be nice to have someone else join my chorus. “You knew Mark and his friends—you might know more than you think you do.”
Bo seemed to mull that idea over for a while. “There is one thing. Mark told me about a guy that was following him a lot.”
“Following him. You mean like stalking him?”
Bo wrinkled his brow. “I don’t know. He was always showin’ up and asking for Mark’s autograph. Mark said that the guy was fruity or somethin’.”
“Fruity?” I frowned at the term. “You think the man was gay?”
“Yeah, you know.”
I didn’t, but I’d thought of another, more important question. “Do you know his name?”
Bo shook his head. “Don’t think Mark ever told me.”
“Bo, if Mark was being stalked by an obsessed fan, the police definitely need to know.” I turned and pulled open my door. Leaning across the seat, I fished my cell out of my purse. I tried Kai’s number, but my phone let out a slow, forlorn beep.
No signal.
“When are you supposed to meet with the police?”
“Tomorrow. After I take care of the dogs.”
Which probably meant midmorning. “I really think you should go in now. Let me give you a number.” I opened the car door and, after rummaging around on the floorboard, came up with a pen and crinkled Whataburger receipt.
I flattened out the paper and scribbled the number I’d stored in my phone. “Ask for Sergeant Duncan. He’ll want to know what you just told me.”
I felt a rush of excitement. For a moment, I understood the appeal of being a detective. Searching for clues, tracking leads, and then finally, after prowling through information and evidence, moving in for the kill.
Solving a mystery would be a heady, seductive thing.
CHAPTER 12
Bark and Bowl, though not a complete failure, was not the success Sonja had hoped for. The dim lighting and echoing crash of the pins frightened some of the dogs. I tried to calm them down, but my mind can only link to so many brains at a time.
Still, we were able to adopt out a litter of puppies and even an adult Labrador mix. Sonja and I helped the other volunteers load the vans, and as we watched them head back to the ASPCA, she let out a slow sigh. I turned, expecting to find her downtrodden, and was surprised when she grinned.
“All in all, not bad, right?” she said. “Let’s celebrate with a drink and some nachos.”
“The nachos here are made with cheese that comes in a two-gallon can.”
“I know! They put jalapeño juice in it, too. You can’t get that everywhere.”
I made a face but followed her back into the bowling alley. The bar was separated from the rest of the building by a set of saloon doors and was even more dimly lit than the alley itself.
The place was fairly busy, and the bartender, a rail-thin woman with lank, dark hair, could only acknowledge us with a nod as she waited on a cluster of elderly men in identical blue bowling shirts.
We found seats at the bar and sat on cracked, pleather-clad stool cushions.
The bartender scurried over to us and took our order. True to her word, Sonja went with the nachos. I decided to play it safe with a bag of Doritos. We each ordered a Corona, which the bartender supplied at lightning speed before handing me my chips and zipping into the back to prepare Sonja’s “meal.” We chatted as we sipped our beers, and I gave Sonja the short version of the fiasco with Charm and LaBryce and, apparently, mentioned Kai a few too many times, because she eyed me slyly and asked, “So who’s this investigator you keep talking about?”
I shrugged but she wasn’t about to let it go that easily. “Come on, give an old married lady something juicy to think about.”
“You’re not old.”
She raised her brows and waited.
“It’s complicated.”
“How’s it complicated?”
I couldn’t explain the situation. I’d never told Sonja about my ability and I wasn’t about to confess in a crowded bowling alley bar.
The bartender plopped the plate of nachos in front of Sonja and I took advantage of the momentary distraction and tried to come up with a way to change the subject.
“Emma gives me a hard time because I don’t give anyone a chance—she thinks I should’ve gone out with Hugh.”
“Hugh? Please, girl, that boy ain’t nothin’ but a flirt.”
“So you don’t think he was serious when he asked me out?”
“I didn’t say that.” She took moment to lick a glob of cheese off her finger. “I’m sure he could get serious about someone, but most of the time, he’s just a flirt.”
“I’m not following you.”
“He can’t help it. It’s the way he communicates.”
I took a sip of beer and thought about it. I had never really considered the idea that Hugh hadn’t been as serious about pursuing me as I had assumed. The thought was humbling, but more important, it was a relief.
“Why are you smiling?” Sonja asked.
“Because I’m an idiot.” I told her about the encounter Hugh and I’d had in his office earlier. “I was worried I gave him the wrong impression when I kissed his cheek, but maybe not.”
Sonja shook her head. “Girl, you really do need to spend more time with people.”
“That’s debatable.
I screw up with people, Sonja. If I’m not getting the wrong impression about someone, I’m giving it. It’s like my one party trick.”
“Come on—you’re not that bad. You just need more practice.”
When I shot her a doubtful look, she pointed down the bar and said, “See that nice young man over there? Why don’t you go over and sit next to him—I bet he’ll say hello. All you have to do is say hello back.”
I swiveled in my seat to see who she was talking about and had to grip the bar to stop from falling off my stool. The guy was wearing a bowling shirt so spangled with sequins I almost had to shade my eyes in the glare. He looked like a bad Elvis impersonator.
“Is that a pompadour toupee?”
“Looks like it.”
I swiveled back to face her. “Why would I—”
“Practice. Who else at this bar gives as strong a first impression? You’ll have to look past the exterior and really listen to what he says.” Her eyes sparkled with humor. “Think of it as an experiment.”
“You’re nuttier than squirrel poo if you think I’m going to go hit on that guy.”
“I never said anything about hitting on anyone. Just go talk to him. Come on, girl. Why not? You know there’s a story that goes with that outfit—go find out what it is.”
• • •
As it turned out, the bedazzled bowler did have a story. Hound Dog Jim, or just Hound Dog, as he liked to be called, was a genuine bowling alley karaoke star.
He’d performed all over the world. When I asked if he was big in Japan, he chucked and nodded, saying, “I even have a T-shirt to prove it.”
All in all, talking to him wasn’t a terribly painful experience. I even considered staying to hear him sing until he invited Sonja and me to sing backup.
At that point, I came up with an excuse to leave and hauled Sonja out of there.
“I think we would have been great,” Sonja said as we walked out of the bowling alley into the muggy night. “We could have done choreography.”
She did a side shuffle step and began snapping her fingers.
“Trust me, you don’t want me to try to dance and sing at the same time,” I told her. “I’m not that coordinated.”
“‘I’m not good with people. I’m not coordinated.’ You’ve got to stop being so negative.”
“I’m being honest.”
“You’re being stubborn.” She used her key fob to unlock her car door with a tweet.
“Hey, I talked to Hound Dog Jim, didn’t I?”
“Exactly! You met a famous karaoke singer—you never know what life has in store.”
She grinned and we said our good-byes. As I drove back to the condo, I had a feeling I knew all too well what life had planned for me, and after my meeting with Gardenia Richardson, I was sure it wasn’t good.
The dogs greeted me enthusiastically and I gave them each a pat on my way into the kitchen to fill their bowls with kibble. Emma had left me a note saying she would be out late and had collected ten sticky notes from Mr. Cavanaugh. A new record.
My stomach grumbled and I threw a bunch of salad greens into a bowl, chopped up a small tomato, topped the whole deal with ranch, and sat at the peninsula that separated the kitchen and the living room. I stabbed at the lettuce and thought.
I didn’t want to tell Emma about Gardenia’s threat, or that she knew about my ability. That would mean telling Emma about Dane, and I really didn’t feel like going there. The fact that I had dated a Harrington and had not told her would be a problem in and of itself.
The fact that I had been thrown out like so much trash by said Harrington would be a bigger problem. It would tick Emma right off to think I’d been hurt and hadn’t confided in her.
The buzz of canine brain and the sound of licking chops made me glance down at Moss. Finished with his meal, he was now thinking he needed some of mine.
Bite.
“It’s a salad. You don’t want any.” This tactic never worked. I don’t know why I tried.
Bite.
No.
Bite.
I shook my head and pulled my mental shield into place. At least I didn’t have to listen to the begging. Proving me wrong, Moss whined loudly, then licked his chops.
Jax click-clacked into the room and watched us. I ignored them and finished my salad. Both dogs followed me as I walked into the kitchen, gazing up at me with wide, hopeful eyes. No animal did the “I haven’t eaten for months” look like a dog. It’s in their genes. Sometime way back, a wild dog gave a caveman that look and it was all over.
Man’s best friend—created from one part kindness and two parts leftovers.
I reached into my shorts pocket and pulled out a surplus treat from my visit with Charm.
I tossed the treat to Jax and set the bowl down for Moss to prerinse for me. It was something I never did in front of Emma. She would go ballistic at the thought of a dish being licked by a dog, even though her commercial-grade dishwasher got hot enough to sanitize medical instruments.
Thinking of Emma brought me back around to Gardenia Richardson. I was already looking into her son’s murder because one of my friends was being implicated. LaBryce would be cleared soon . . . I hoped. Bo Bishop’s claim that Mark was being stalked should be enough to help the police take off their blinders.
So in truth, Gardenia wasn’t really asking me to do anything I hadn’t already been doing. I just hated the way she’d done it. No one likes to be bullied and threatened.
As immature as it was, I wanted to find her weakness like she’d found mine. I wanted to locate a sore spot and poke it—hard.
Bitchy? Yes. But hey, the woman had threatened my sister.
I called the only person I knew who might actually have some dirt on the Richardson family.
“Hello, beauty. What’s up?” Wes shouted over loud music and the din of people in a large group.
“Hey, can you hear me?”
“Sort of, hang on.” The music and noise began to fade. “Hey, sorry, what’s up?”
“Are you still in town?”
“I am. I’m at La Vida Loca. It’s a new salsa place your sister took me to last night.”
I wanted to ask about Gardenia Richardson, but didn’t think it was a good idea to have Wes screaming about the governor’s wife in a public place. I was being paranoid, but for all I knew, the woman had bugged my phone.
“How long are you going to be there?”
“You’re coming out?”
I grimaced. “Yeah, I think so. For a little while.”
“To make it up to me for missing last night? You are so sweet! I’m sending my car; it will be there to pick you up in twenty. Wear something sexy. I’m teaching you to Merengue!”
Crap. “Uh, Wes?”
He’d already hung up.
I took a moment to curse myself and what a crappy friend I was, then went into Emma’s bedroom to hunt up something to wear. I couldn’t let Wes know that the reason I wanted to see him was to find some dirt on the Richardson family.
Moss and Jax followed me. “I am a bad friend,” I told the dogs. “And you know what I get for being a bad friend? I get to drag my tired ass out. And I get to put on something sexy, and learn to cha-cha.”
I let out a sigh, flipped on the closet light, and took a step over the threshold.
This was Emma’s inner sanctum. The source of all her happiness lined one wall in neat pairs. Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blahnik, Christian Louboutin. These were the real men in Emma’s life. I couldn’t wear my sister’s shoes; most were too big, thank God. Her jeans were too long and her tops too tight. Unfortunately, the too tight part was what I was going for.
I found a scoop neck red top that had a lot of stretch and was edged with a kind of ruffle. I’d seen Emma wear it bef
ore. She’d looked daring and flirty. I knew it wouldn’t look quite the same on me but whatever . . .
I went into her bathroom and let my hair out of the drooping bun. Keeping it tied like that all day made it wavy. I brushed my hair, and just to go the extra mile to ease my guilt, I swiped some eye shadow over my lids and dug around in Emma’s makeup till I found a lipstick called Diablo Red.
I learned a lesson very quickly. Precision is important when applying red lipstick. Who knew that coloring inside the lines as a little girl had been vital training? Each time I tried to correct the application by tracing a little farther past the edge of my lips, the worse it got. I tried to wipe the lipstick off, but it must have been one of those long-wear super lipsticks.
Giving up, I headed back to my room to throw on some jeans and ballet flats.
My cell rang. It was the driver letting me know he was waiting.
I told the dogs to be good and grabbed my purse. When I passed the hall mirror, I jumped. Holy Cow! Skanky the Clown had broken into the condo! No wait . . . that was just me.
Chuckling to myself all the way to the limo, it took all my restraint not to burst out laughing when the driver opened the door and said, “Good evening, Ms. Wilde. You look lovely.”
A short time later, we rolled to a stop in front of La Vida Loca. I climbed out of the limo and the driver handed me a little plastic bracelet that had LVL VIP printed on it. He helped snap it on my wrist, and I started for the door.
It was a Tuesday night, but the club was packed. I asked a beefy bouncer where the VIP section was, and he pointed up a staircase to my right. I weaved through the crowd and showed the second beefy bouncer at the bottom of the stairs my nifty bracelet and was allowed to pass. At the top, the vibe was a bit different.
Fewer people, more cocktail waitresses, lots more bottles of champagne.
I spotted Wes. He was chatting up a guy who was so feminine I only knew he was a guy because of his Adam’s apple. They were sitting at a round banquette, and I suddenly felt doubly bad about crashing Wes’s night.
Wes saw me before I could bolt. He smiled and waved.
Woof at the Door Page 15