The Girl With the Dachshund Tattoo

by Sparkle Abbey

  “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 ra
ce 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.