How to Kennel a Killer

by Cat Clayton

  “How long will it take?” I asked.

  “Not as long as the autopsy. But at least we’ll know what kind of opioid. Then, we can move on from there,” he said. He nodded toward Gertie. “Not that I mind you brought her, but is she only along for the ride?”

  “I wish. No, I’m Gertie-sitting. My Pop had to drive into Houston to check on a lead about those strange pictures. He’ll be gone for two days, maybe longer. Gertie and I are Team Lamarr this weekend. Yay.” I held up my fists and shook them like two tiny pom-poms.

  “Look on the bright side. She’s entertaining,” he said and nodded toward the water. The dogs raced around and Gertie appeared to be dancing. “Your father told me about the photos and his idea about them having something to do with your older sister. What’s her name?”

  “Stoney,” I said, my hand moving to my heart locket containing her photo along with mine. “She’s five years older than me.” It still hurt to talk about her. Why had she run away? Where had she gone? Why hadn’t she come home? “One day I woke up, and she was gone.”

  “He told me she ran away,” Jackson said.

  Pop didn’t share much with others outside the family, and even when he talked to us, he didn’t give too many details. It shocked me to hear Pop had confided in Jackson.

  “Pop doesn’t confide in many people.” My lips formed a smile. Even though Pop hadn’t admitted his true feelings regarding Jackson and I, his telling Jackson about the pictures and Stoney sounded like an approval to me.

  “Dinner tonight?” he asked.

  “Sure, my place? Remember, it’ll be the three of us,” I said, nodding toward Gertie, who moseyed in our direction.

  “I’m thinking something different. Let’s go out for a change, maybe some dancing?” he asked.

  “Dancing?” When was the last time I’d gone dancing? “I don’t really dance.”

  Gertie’s face lit up. “Did someone say dancing? Who’s going dancing?” She plopped down on the edge of the blanket.

  “I guess we are,” I said.

  She grinned. “I love me some two-stepping!”

  I nudged Jackson’s shoulder. “Well, there’s your dance partner.”

  I TOOK ONE LOOK AT Gertie when she stepped into the kitchen and choked on my spit. I shook my head.

  “No.”

  She tossed her hands on her ruby red leather pants and pursed her shiny matching lips. She wore sky blue eye shadow, a ruffled white button-up, a pair of black cowboy boots, and a curly blonde wig, teased, East Texas style.

  “Jackson said I could dress up if I wanted to.” She twirled slowly.

  Holy taco, Chiquita. She is a hot mess.

  Cuff, Virgil, and I took in the scene. Cuff’s eyes bugged out, naturally. My jaw dropped. Virgil whined and plopped himself down on the rug.

  Back at the park when Jackson mentioned Little Bob’s, a local brewery, was having a Dolly Parton contest, I knew we were in for an interesting night.

  “Gertie, where on earth did you find those pants?” I asked, striding across the room and inspecting the red shiny things. I grazed my fingers across the fabric. Yep, they were leather. “And the wig?”

  “When we stopped by the house earlier, I found it all in your mama’s closet,” she said. “You like?”

  Cuff barked. Like, not so much.

  I agreed with Cuff. But once Gertie’s set her mind to something, there was usually no changing it.

  “I um, don’t know what to say.” I didn’t know if I was speechless about Gertie’s appearance or that my mother had these two items in her closet.

  If I am quiet and stay in your purse, can I go? Cuff danced around my feet.

  What will it hurt? I thought. I swapped out my pink hand clutch for a sling bag, my standard pooch purse. Virgil looked like he was out for the evening as he snored away on the floor.

  This will be fun, Chiquita!

  JACKSON HELPED GERTIE into the front seat of his Camaro.

  “Mrs. Lamarr, you look... your looks are arresting this evening,” he said, smiling down at her.

  I sat in the back seat, trying to fight off a giggle. Look at him being punny. Compared to Gertie, I’d dressed down for the evening in a pair of jeans, a magenta sweater, and my camo boots. I’d tucked in my skinny jeans for extra flair.

  “Oh shucks, Bolivar,” she said. “Your compliment is enough to make an old lady blush!”

  “Mrs. Lamarr,” he said. “You’re one of two people who can call me by my first name without being choked.”

  “Me and who else?” she asked.

  “My mother,” he said and closed the car door.

  Gertie leaned back and said, “A man who talks well about his mama is a keeper.” She positively swooned.

  I’ll second that, I thought.

  Little Bob’s Brewery was known for their craft beers, outdoor biergarten, and attracting an eclectic crowd. Little Bob’s didn’t gain the name because of the owner’s stature. Quite the opposite. With a giant’s stature, a wiry, long beard, turquoise and sterling rings on every finger, Little Bob took after his dad, Big Bob. Big Bob had managed the place before he’d passed away. Little Bob went to business school, then studied brewing, and reopened the bar as a brewery.

  A flashing sign out front announced the Dolly Parton contest. Cars and trucks filled the crowded lot. Twangy music bled through the window screens.

  “I’m gonna win tonight,” Gertie said as she and I waited in line to get her contestant number.

  Jackson stood at the bar, waiting for our beers.

  I glanced around at the other women dressed up in costume. Some looked so authentic. Gertie had stiff competition.

  Cuff weaseled his way out of my bag’s opening, attempting to survey the scene. Let me see, Chiquita.

  Wait until we get to the table, I thought. I pushed Cuff’s head back down.

  “You have a real shot at it,” I said to Gertie and gave her a thumbs up.

  “I have a surprise when it’s my turn on stage,” she said, winking.

  I leaned in toward Gertie. “I think you’re supposed to walk out and spin around two or three times. What’re you planning?” I whispered.

  “If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise,” she said.

  I shook my head and nudged her forward in line. I saw Caylee and Brandon Tripp sitting at the bar. Caylee, blonde and bodacious, dressed in a Dolly costume, looked beautiful. Caylee and I went way back, like childhood. She’d been one of Stoney’s good friends, and then later, my babysitter. We smiled and waved at one another.

  I recognized many of the locals dressed up, too. The most surprising was Lizzie Madden. Lloyd, and several people I didn’t recognize, probably Round Top people they’d met recently, sat at her table. Laughing and enjoying the company, she seemed better than yesterday after the passing of her dear friend.

  “One would think she’d still be in mourning,” Gertie said, pointing toward Lizzie. “Not signing up for a look-alike contest.”

  “Don’t point,” I said, pulling her hand down. “And this is for charity, remember?”

  “Well, I still don’t think it’s appropriate,” Gertie snapped. “Shame on her.”

  Jackson waved at us, signaling he’d picked a high-top table in the bar area. We grabbed Gertie’s number and headed over to join him.

  “Thanks for the beers,” I said.

  “Thanks for wearing those boots.” He grinned.

  The playfulness in his voice made me shiver.

  Gertie picked her beer up and clanked bottles with mine and his. “Yes, thank you. I need this.” She turned up her bottle and chugged half the contents.

  “Cheers,” Jackson said, nodding to me.

  “Cheers.” I tapped the mouth of his beer with mine. “So, this ought to be entertaining.” I peered at all the Dolly-clad contestants. They’d decorated the illuminated stage in red and gold. Glittery gold stars dangled from the ceiling. Country music played in the background.

  “You can say that aga
in,” Jackson said, examining the room.

  Cuff took a peek. Oh my... is this why Gertie dressed like a showgirl?

  I felt Jackson’s eyes on me. He nodded at Cuff’s head poking out. I shrugged my shoulders. An amused expression appeared on his face.

  Gertie finished her beer and took a long drag off Big Red. She blew out a puff of vapor. “I need another beer. I’m getting nervous.” She climbed down off the barstool and I handed her a ten-dollar bill. “Anyone else?”

  “No, thank you,” Jackson said.

  I shook my head.

  In the past, alcohol and I have had a tumultuous relationship. I’m usually a one-and-done deal, unless I lose my better judgment. And in that case, my mouth runs amuck and my manners match Gertie’s.

  Jackson reached over and laid his hand over mine, his tribal tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his black T-shirt. His slow, sexy grin made pulse tick up.

  “What?” I asked, my toes tingling.

  He shrugged, a mysterious shimmer in his eyes. “Because I’m stopping at one doesn’t mean you have to.” He pointed to his half-empty beer.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you kidding? Have you seen some of these Dolly’s? Gertie puts half of them to shame. If I drink too much, I won’t be able to keep my pie-hole shut.”

  “Your damn tootin’!” Gertie said and slammed her beer on the table. Her bottle bubbled over. “Oops.” She climbed back up onto her stool and used a napkin to clean the mess. “I told you, I’m gonna win this sucker.”

  “That’s a quarter.”

  She rolled her eyes and waved me off. She put in one ear bud. “Now, quiet. I need to practice my lines.” She bobbed her head to silent music and mouthed the words to an unheard song.

  Practice her lines? She knew this was only a costume contest, right?

  Maybe you ought to remind her. Cuff licked my hand.

  I nudged her arm. “You’re not thinking of doing something crazy, are you?”

  “Who me?” she said, a sly smile crept across her face. She attempted to make smoke circles above her head with Big Red. “Oooh, a good one!”

  Only my grandmother, I thought.

  “Maybe I will have another beer.”

  “Coming up,” Jackson said and sauntered off to the bar.

  I admired how his butt filled out his jeans. The way his broad shoulders led to a lean waist. The way his buzz cut dark hair led down to his muscular neck. The way...

  “I don’t mean to interrupt your thoughts about Mr. Stud Muffin,” Gertie said. “But they’ve called for all contestants to line up. I’ll see you later.” She hopped down and shuffled over toward the stage.

  “Gertie!” I called out. She still had her one ear bud in.

  She couldn’t hear me over the bar chatter.

  Jackson returned with my beer and his water. “What’s wrong?”

  I took a long swig of beer, nearly half the bottle. I shook my head. “I think we may regret letting her enter.”

  “Are you kidding?” he said and swiveled his stool to watch the stage-happenings. “This is gonna be awesome. What’s the background story on Dolly over there?” He pointed to the statue of Dolly Parton.

  “Oh, it’s a good one.” I recited the story I’d heard around town. “So, over the years, Little Bob’s Brewery has hosted a Dolly Parton look-alike contest around Halloween to raise money for Alzheimer’s disease, which is what led to his father’s passing back when I was in high school. I guess Little Bob has a thing for Dolly Parton. Mama took part several times back in the day. The look-alike contest had really gained interest, and it had even gained some media coverage, which apparently made its way all the way to Dolly Parton’s ears. Two years ago, Dolly herself came to Pleasant Hills and made a surprise visit. She donated $10,000 to Little Bob’s fundraising, and as creepy as it may sound, presented him and the brewery with a real-life wax version of herself.”

  The music seemed to get louder as I spoke. Or am I getting louder?

  You are yelling, Chiquita. Cuff had crawled halfway out of the bag. Most patrons watched the stage, so nobody noticed him.

  I peered down at my pup. Watch it, little buddy. Remember who feeds you.

  I took a few sips of my second beer.

  “This little town keeps getting more and more interesting,” Jackson said over the music. “Growing up here must’ve been exciting.”

  “I guess it depends on what you consider exciting. I’d think growing up in Galveston, on the beach like you did, would be way more thrilling than this dusty old town.”

  He shrugged. “I’d say going to a Dolly Parton look-alike contest, where your girlfriend’s grandmother is competing, is pretty damn fun,” he said.

  I heard a familiar voice behind us. Nick Campbell. Ugh. I slowly turned to look. Stacia Peacock, niece of Vivienne Peacock, my arch nemesis, sat perched on a barstool at a table with Nick. My eyes bulged. Hers rolled. She was in costume. Look out, it’s a ho-down. Jean cutoffs, a white button-up tied at the waist. A red and white checkered scarf tied around her neck. Good Lord. She and her long legs hopped off the stool, she planted a kiss on Nick’s lips, and she pranced to the stage.

  I wanted to throat-punch her. But the desire to inflict bodily injury to her could be alcohol related.

  “You know there’s no competition between you two,” Jackson said, interrupting my killer death rays I aimed in her direction.

  “Are you kidding me?” I gave him a have you lost your mind expression. “Clearly, you’re blind.”

  He let out a train sound, like when one sets its brakes. “No, not blind. It’s all about what I find attractive. I don’t do slutty. Or shallow. Her morals and ethics are nonexistent. And besides, I dig redheads who wear sexy boots and challenge me at every turn.”

  “My boots are sexy.” I smiled. “And I am challenging.”

  He nodded. “Enjoying the beer?”

  I glanced at the half-empty beer in front of me. “I’m not drunk if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Nobody said you were. Enjoy yourself.”

  His gravelly voice made me forget all about the cheating jerk sitting behind us.

  I asked him about the investigation of Petunia’s death.

  “We’re still trying to find Buzz, so we can question him. Apparently, he’s skipped town,” Jackson said, twisting the foam koozie on his beer bottle.

  I leaned closer to him. “What do you mean skipped town?”

  “Well, he’s not at home or his shop,” Jackson said. “We stopped by twice. We tried calling him, too. He hasn’t returned our calls.”

  I recalled the pipe wrench on the ground near Petunia. “The fact she had a busted pipe, and I found his business card near her, I’d say she’d called him or planned on calling him.”

  “Definitely. Which is why we need to find him,” Jackson said. “Disappearing doesn’t look good on his part.”

  “Has someone checked for him out at his deer lease?” I asked.

  Good thinking, Chiquita. Cuff set a tiny paw on my arm.

  Jackson nodded. “We tried calling the land line out there. But there was no answer. We’ll check by the place.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  I hoped sooner than later. A poisonous killer lurked the streets of Pleasant Hills and someone needed to stop him or her.

  Chapter 6

  Blaring music rang out over the speakers, interrupting our conversation about Petunia’s murder. We tabled the discussion and instead took in the flashy scene around us. It was a sea of big hair and big boobs.

  The contestants paraded across the stage. Versions of Dolly pranced, strutted, waltzed, stumbled, and sashayed. There’d been a lot of bras stuffed to prepare for tonight. Tons of makeup. And I bet each of them emptied an entire bottle of Aqua Net hairspray before they’d left the house.

  Cuff maneuvered himself so he could get a good view of the stage.

  Buddy, the emcee, belted into the microphone, “Put your hands
together for Gertrude Lamarr!”

  I braced myself.

  She waddled on stage. The only reason Gertie didn’t trip was because the boots she swiped from Mama’s closet had rubber soles and low heels. As she twirled to the center of the stage, she snatched the microphone away from Buddy and belted out Workin’ Nine to Five by Dolly. She danced around the stage. The microphone feedback’s piercing scream squealed out of the speakers.

  “Stay away from the speakers!” someone hollered out.

  She followed the advice and performed her surprise.

  Buddy and the lineup of contestants stood in shock, mouths gaping.

  The crowd roared.

  My cheeks flushed, not from embarrassment, but the two beers had hit my system. “Whoo, hoo!” I hooted. “You go, Gertie!”

  Jackson glanced at me and grinned.

  Gertie finished and gave a curtsy. Everyone in the audience clapped. The other contestants on stage frowned.

  After all of them strutted their Dollyness around stage, Buddy announced he’d get the judge’s decision and he’d be back to let us know who’d go on to finals. Gertie bounced over to our table.

  “How was that for Dolly Parton?” she said, beaming.

  I high-fived her. “Way to go! I tried telling you before you went up there you were still wearing one ear bud!”

  “I did it on purpose, so I could hear the song playing,” she said. “It’s how I keep such a good beat!”

  Jackson laughed. “Good job up there,” he said.

  “Thanks, darlin’,” Gertie replied. “Wait until you see my number for the finals.”

  Assuming the judge picked her to go on.

  Did you see those moves, Chiquita? Of course, she is moving to the final round.

  Ten minutes later, Gertie stood on stage with four other contestants. Stacia Peacock and Caylee Tripp were among the five. Jackson and I cheered for Gertie and Caylee. I considered booing when Buddy said Stacia’s name, but then, thought better of it. Take the high road as Mama would’ve said.

  They saved Gertie for last, probably expecting another performance.