Doggone Dead

by Teresa Trent

I had never seen Leo angry. More than angry, he had seemed hurt. It had been such a simple idea to go and get some answers out of the man who was investigating my father on a false charge. Now the simple idea had turned into a bad situation with a man that I was pretty sure I had some strong feelings for. I didn't know if I was ready to head for the love thing, but being with Leo was just easy and felt right. My time with Leo was not something I wanted to lose in my life because of one dinner date.

  “You had better call him and make it right, Betsy. Fellas like that don’t mosey into your life every day,” said Maggie.

  I knew she was right and just had to hope he would read my email. I returned to my computer to go back to the email I had started.

  “Mom!” I heard from the next room. “Do we have any more hot dogs?”

  When I became a parent, I never knew my life would turn into the job of a 24-hour waitress who never earned a single tip. I quickly filled in both the men’s emails and sent them off.

  That night as I worked on my next column on fireworks anxiety and dogs, I checked my inbox to see if there was an email from Leo. If there was just a way I could get him to listen to me, then I could explain everything.

  My phone rang. This had to be Leo and my chance to set things straight. I grabbed for it.

  A male voice on the other end started the conversation before I could say hello. “Uh, Betsy. This is the guy who is trying to frame your father.”

  I recognized a voice that was now becoming familiar on the other side of the line. Would this ever end? How many times could I insult this man and get away with it?

  “Adam?” I know I had said it, but never to his face.

  “That’s me. I just received your email.” His tone was curt and to the point. “Look, although I’m not from around these here parts, I will treat your father’s case with fairness. Just because somebody makes a claim, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the truth. You should realize I’ve been around long enough to know that.”

  I slowly came to the realization that he was reacting to the email I sent Leo. Had I accidentally switched the email addresses of Adam and Leo? That would mean ... I ran to my computer,phone in hand, and checked my “sent” mail. Sure enough, I had done the unthinkable.

  Adam sounded like a pretty nice guy even if he was a major force of stress in my family’s life. He also seemed like the kind of guy I really would have dated if I hadn’t already met Leo. He was the kind of guy my dad would like. Somehow I had injured him further, and I knew I had to make it right.

  “I’m so glad you said that,” I replied. “That’s all I ask is that you examine both sides of the complaint. You have to admit, just because he’s leaning over in that picture it doesn’t mean he’s planting evidence.”

  “Point taken.”

  “Thank you, and – well, I’m sorry for trying to trick you, and you should know that email was meant for someone else.”

  “You mean the boyfriend your son keeps bringing up?”

  “Oh, you know about that, huh?”

  “Small-town news travels fast.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I went about it all the way I did, but you just have to understand this is my dad we’re talking about.”

  “And if you had mentioned that from the beginning, we would have had this very conversation a whole lot sooner.”

  “Just probably not on a date.”

  “Where someone might be shooting at us.”

  Relief flooded through me as he continued, “Do you have any idea who our gunman might be?”

  “No, but...” I hesitated to add this next part. “I know you were bleeding and all, but did you hear our waiter telling me he thought it was the ghost of Charlie Loper? The whole town thinks Charlie is out shooting anyone who has anything to do with his daughter.”

  “So who was he shooting at? You or me?”

  “Who knows, but there are witnesses now who say they actually saw him out there on the bank with his golden Colts.”

  “Do you know the names of these people?” he asked.

  “Not directly,” I said. “It’s just on the town gossip hotline.”

  “How do I get that number?”

  “Go get your hair done down at Ruby Green’s Best Little Hair House in Texas,” I told him.

  “Sorry, I like my present style. You didn’t see any old cowboys in the woods, did you?”

  “No, I saw smoke, and the light caught on something out there. The police checked the area where they think the shooter was standing and didn’t find anything much.”

  “Of course not, don’t they know apparitions don’t leave footprints?”

  “My dad did tell me that they had our new crime scene photographer go out and take pictures of the shooting location.”

  “I’ll check with the police department and see if I can look at the photos. What’s the name of this guy?”

  “Elena Morris.”

  “Oops, how sexist of me,” he said. “My mother would have a fit if she heard that.”

  “So, are we all right, even with my many blunders?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure at this point,” he said. “Just don’t give up your writing job. You make a sorry undercover cop.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Okay, so Betsy, you got all this straight, right?” asked Rocky as we walked around the Pecan Bayou park that had been transformed into a watermelon festival carnival with a beauty pageant platform. The gazebo side of the park had been decorated with red and blue bunting hung from every corner, and a portable stage had been set up on one side as a runway. I was joined by Stan, the manager from NUTV, Rocky from the paper and Tory Parker, a local dance teacher. Tory would be the other judge – someone who was much more qualified than I was in deciding the fate of all these little girls and their parents. Stan planned to have his crew out filming the entire pageant. He was also the unofficial producer/stage manager.

  “Uh, basically the little girls walk down the runway, and I judge them for poise and style.” I said, imagining the contestants on the assembled stage.

  “And confidence,” Stan added, straightening the hem of his Geoffrey Beene summer plaid shirt. His watch was circled by tiny diamonds that shone against the pristine black of the dial. He had started using mousse in his hair, which now stood up in small spikes at the front.

  “Right, confidence. Gotcha.”

  “We are looking for the complete package. A girl with style, poise and that special something,” Tory added.

  “We really appreciate you helping us with the judging duties for this,” Rocky said. He should be grateful, seeing as he had personally pushed my dad toward an unfair investigation. He knew our friendship was greatly strained and was being overly solicitous to me to make up for it.

  Rocky grinned and continued. “And don’t forget to pick a cute one. That’ll photograph well in the Gazette.”

  Tory Parker’s carefully lined eyes started to cross. To her a beauty pageant was an invitation to style, not a front-page “aww, gee” moment.

  “What if they’re all cute? All of the little girls I’ve seen so far were cute,” I said.

  “Then you need another criterion for judging. Something that you are looking for in a contestant,” Stan said.

  “And what would that be?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, Betsy. It’s up to you on that one. Use your judgment.”

  He really thought I knew what I was doing. He had always overestimated my abilities, dating back to the time he asked me to do a fifteen-minute weekly segment on helpful hints a couple of years ago. Even though now I appeared on “Betsy’s Helpful Hints” every week and had a following of sorts, it took me a few times to get it right. I just wasn’t all that comfortable being in front of a camera, until Leo gave me some pointers. I talked about cleaning tips, organization and recipes, and Stan received an occasional letter or email from viewers with questions. It didn’t hurt that I had my giant database of household hints and tips that I had collected over the y
ears.

  “And you are going to do all the master of ceremony stuff, right Stan?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, I have my tuxedo out of mothballs, and I’m ready to officiate.”

  “Just promise me you’re not going to sing,” Rocky said flatly.

  Tory Parker straightened the fold on her red slacks, and the diamond ring given to her by her husband, a much older man, glimmered in the light. She laid her lacquered red fingernails on Rocky’s arm. “Honestly, Mr. Whitson, do we want the Little Miss Watermelon going down the runway with no music behind her? It would be ghastly.”

  “Just what is the official watermelon song, anyway?” I asked.

  Stan tapped his chin. “There isn’t one yet. Seeing as this is our first pageant, we’ll have to think of one or maybe even have Waylon write one for us.” Waylon Rodriguez was our local country music talent. He played out at Tipsy’s every Friday night. I couldn’t wait to hear what that song would sound like.

  “You do know I’ve been confronted by most of the contestants and their mothers, don’t you?”

  “More than what I saw at the Gazette? I certainly hope you haven’t made any promises,” said Rocky.

  “I’m trying, but they don’t make it easy.”

  Tory laughed. “Ah yes, the perils of the job. When I was running for Miss Hill Country in 1995, my mother parked outside one of the judges’ houses for two days just so she could be on the same jogging path.”

  Stan laughed. “Now that’s dedication.”

  I heard a rustle behind us. After all this time, I was beginning to be able to identify the enemy just by sound. I took a look behind me for anyone dragging along a little girl in taffeta.

  A woman and her daughter smiled and waved, and then she lifted the little girl up onto the runway and started coaching her on walking techniques. The little girl, even though she seemed to be listening to her mother never once took her eyes off of our little group. It was more than a little creepy. She grinned as if she had been born with that facial expression and then took a special sashay in our direction. Her mother’s praise traveled across the field to us.

  “Deciding is going to be tough,” Tory said.

  Stan glanced at his watch, that black dial encircled by diamonds. It was a little flashier than most of his wardrobe, and it looked expensive. “You just choose who you think is right. I’ve got to run.”

  “I, too, must leave,” Tory said, grabbing her bag. “I have a tap class in less than an hour. See you on Saturday, Betsy. Oh, and be sure to dress up a little. It makes it more special for the girls.” What, my jean shorts and tank top wouldn’t work?

  Stan and Tory’s exit left Rocky and me alone together for the first time since he put my father’s picture in the paper.

  “Uh, listen Betsy,” Rocky started. Here it came, his apology and a promise of a retraction on the accusations made against my father. He stumbled a bit over his words, a surprising thing from someone who used vocabulary so well. “I just want you to know that even though I put that picture in the paper, I don’t have anything against your dad. If I had to call this one, he’s probably innocent.”

  “Probably?”

  “Sure. I’ve known your dad for years, and he’s never done anything like planting evidence.”

  “Then why did you say he did?”

  “They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and well, I had the picture, thanks to you.”

  “Did it matter to you that you might get my father fired?”

  “Of course it did, but you just have to understand that when it comes to news I have to follow my gut.”

  “Well your gut,” I said, picking up my purse and slinging it over my shoulder, “sucks.”

  “Before you question my motives, darlin’, I suggest you look at your own. I would like to ask just what you were doing out for a cozy little dinner with the district attorney handling your father’s investigation?”

  “Is this on the record or off the record?” I said. Before Rocky could reply, I stopped him. “Oh yes, I forgot, it’s all up to your gut. Well, for your information, Adam Cole had no idea I was Judd Kelsey’s daughter.”

  Rocky’s eyebrows raised. “Why Betsy, you surprise me. You were trying to pull one off on Adam Cole.”

  “Don’t be too surprised. He didn’t know until the guy started shooting.”

  “And I know I asked you this, but did you see the guy?”

  “Nope, just some smoke, and … something sparkled.”

  “Sparkled?”

  “That’s what I said. We have a notorious, sparkly killer, right here in Pecan Bayou.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Come on boy,” Zach said as he pulled Butch down the street. Even though Butch seemed happy at home with us, when freedom beckoned, he was willing to listen. He started wriggling out of the red white and blue yo-yo-laden collar Aunt Maggie had made him. To compliment the collar, he wore a dog-sized sailor hat with blue stars on the brim. No matter what, it seemed to stay on, and I just had to hope Zach and Danny hadn’t super-glued it to Butch’s head.

  “Zach, hold on to him.” Children and adults surrounded us, each holding their patriotically decorated pooches. Dr. Springer and Allison were trying to put the dogs and their owners into a line. This effort worked pretty well until a fight occurred between a Lady Liberty dachshund and an Uncle Sam shih tzu. I never did imagine that those two characters would actually like each other.

  “Mom, Butch is too strong. I can’t hold him.” Butch pulled on his new blue nylon leash, twisting it as he wrapped himself around Zach. I grabbed the leash from Zach’s small hands and unwound the dog from my son.

  “Betsy,” said Dr. Springer. “If I could get you and Butch over here?” Betsy and Zach followed the doctor’s orders.

  “And Mr. Cole, why don’t you and Sunshine walk behind them?” Dr. Springer seemed pretty pleased with herself for putting the two of us next to each other. She had only seen the picture in the paper and couldn’t have known we weren’t actually dating. Adam Cole smiled stiffly and stood behind us.

  “Dr. Springer!” A woman came running up behind us with a little girl. The dog, a white poodle, was reluctant to enter the parade line, and the woman had to drag him over. “We would like to stand next to Mrs. Livingston and her dog. He’s just a puppy, and our Noodles does well around puppies. Noodles can be a bit obstinate.” She turned toward me and extended a hand. “How do you do? I’m Mellie Nicholson, and this here is my granddaughter, Nora. She’s here visiting us for the Fourth, and when we saw the pageant in the paper, I just had to put her in it.” After finishing this sentence, Mellie Nicholson’s face froze in a smile as she gestured toward her granddaughter. The way she flourished her hands over the child, I felt like I was looking at a brand-new car on The Price is Right.

  Nora looked up at me, her expression a contrast to her grandmother’s. She flatly announced, “This is Noodles,” and pointed to the dog she was holding.

  Noodles was a white poodle with red striped ribbons on his ears. Noodles didn’t seem to be the least bit interested in whatever dog he was put next to, but his owner sure wanted to be next to me.

  “That’s okay, Dr. Springer. Why don’t Sunshine and I go to the back of the line?” said Cole. “We don’t mind bringing up the rear.” Following a bunch of dogs who thought they were going for a walk, I thought Adam Cole a brave man. He guided Sunshine to the back of the line, which was now stretching around the corner.

  “Betsy!” Danny came running over to us. He almost ran into Allison, who had walked over to pet Noodles. Danny shuffled his feet and blushed.

  He took in a big breath and came out with, “Hi, Allison.”

  “Hi, Danny,” Allison returned, smiling sweetly. No wonder he thought he was in love with her. It was like she didn’t see his disability at all.

  “This is Betsy’s dog, Butch,” he informed her.

  “I know. I remember Butch. He’s the only dog we’ve had that was kidnapped this year.”


  “Right,” said Danny. Allison patted Danny on the back and then walked over to a barking schnauzer to settle him down.

  “She’s pretty,” said Zach, now folding his arms and watching Allison walk away. My son looked like a barfly checking out the night’s catch.

  “Zach,” I said, “maybe she’s smart, too.”

  “She’s real smart,” said Danny, a quiver in his voice. Would she break his heart when he found out she didn’t feel about him the way he felt about her? I knew I needed to apply the redirect strategy.

  “Do you like Butch’s costume?” I asked him.

  Mellie Nicholson cut in. “I think it’s lovely and full of imagination.”

  “Thank you,” said Zach. “My aunt helped make it, but I dressed him myself.” He beamed.

  Nora Nicholson pushed up her glasses. Her skinny legs poked out of a white sundress with a blue stripe on the bottom and red bows on the straps. “It looks like it came from the drugstore to me,” she said, bluntly popping my son’s balloon of pride.

  Zach, not one to back down in a fight, responded, “What would you know about it? Your dog’s name is Noodles. Who names their dog after spaghetti?”

  The little girl took off her glasses and calmly placed them in her pocket. I couldn’t be sure, but I think she was about to punch my son in the nose. She was a year or two younger than Zach and also a prospective Little Miss Watermelon, so I stepped between them.

  “Noodles is a fine name.” I stared down at Zach. “Right?”

  Zach’s gaze wavered from the girl to me to the girl. “Sure,” he muttered. Butch started to pull on the leash again.

  “Is that my Scout?” Libby Loper came up to us through the crowd of trained dogs and untrained people. She bent down to Butch’s level and whistled. Butch ran to her pulling Zach behind him. The puppy licked her face as she laughed. Today she had on a white straw Stetson and blue leather vest with red trimming on it. She had regained the pride of the little girl on the white horse.

  “His name is Butch,” Zach insisted.

  “I know, dear, I know,” she said gently. “Your Butch here was the first friend I made after a long time of feeling alone. I hope you don’t mind an old lady being a little grateful.”