Fifty Shades of Greyhound (The Pampered Pets Mystery Series)

by Sparkle Abbey

  “The Feds have my brooch?”

  He nodded. “It’s safe, Caro. They’ll return it when their CSIs are done going through all the evidence.”

  “Excuse me, Detective! The Feds have Grandma Tillie’s brooch?” I knew I was sort of shrieking by now, but you know what? I didn’t care.

  “Yep.” Malone leaned forward in his chair. “The Feds have your grandma’s brooch and my murder investigation.”

  He didn’t shriek, but from the thunderclouds behind his eyes, I could tell he would have if it wouldn’t ruin his tough cop image.

  “Who do I need to talk to?” I would call them up and let them know I’d be expecting my property returned right away.

  “That was FBI field agent John Milner.” Malone pointed at the phone. “I believe you two have met. Would you like Agent Milner’s number?” He jotted the info on a scrap of paper and extended it to me.

  I snatched the note and rose to leave. “Agent Milner will be hearing from me.”

  “I’m sure he will.” I got the impression he thought Milner deserved the grief.

  I hurried from the office before Malone could think to mention how I was dressed the last time he’d seen me.

  I TRIED THE number Detective Malone had given me before I headed to my first appointment of the day.

  Voicemail. Great. I left a message.

  My message was no-nonsense, but my face burned as I realized he’d undoubtedly connect the name I’d left with the crazy jet-haired chick in the skimpy outfit from the other night.

  I could not believe Grandma Tillie’s brooch was now out of reach in Federal evidence. It was one thing when it was locked up a few blocks away and in the possession of Detective Malone. But now in federal evidence?

  Bizarre. Ridiculous. Unacceptable.

  Turning the Mercedes onto Laurel Canyon Road, I took some deep breaths. It was just a piece of jewelry. True, it was a family heirloom and important to me, but, seriously, no one had died.

  It was safe where it was, and I would get it back. It was simply going to take a little longer.

  The good news was even though I didn’t have the brooch, neither did my cousin, Mel.

  Chapter Eleven

  YOU’VE PROBABLY heard the adage about people looking like their pets.

  I have to say, in all the years I’ve been involved in pet therapy, while there are cases where that may be true, there are just as many where you wonder at some of the more incongruent pairings.

  Take my cousin, Melinda. Tall, elegant, and gorgeous. Yet Mel’s canine, Missy, is a crown-wearing, title-carrying, Ugliest Bulldog.

  No offense, Missy-girl, it’s just a fact.

  And take my friend, Diana. She’s nothing if not glamorous perfection. But her puggle, Mr. Wiggles, is far from perfection. The rescue pug-beagle mix was the sweetest dog ever, but a non-regulation ear and an underbite did not make for a glam dog.

  And then there’s my next client, Matt Bjarni, the big russet-haired bodybuilder guy from our self-defense class. He’d called after learning from some other attendees that I worked with problem pets.

  Matt was the owner of the tiniest foo-foo puppy you’ve ever seen. Chachi is a teacup Maltese that tips the cuteness scale at way beyond cute. On the weight scale—well, let’s just say soaking wet, Chachi might be all of two pounds.

  Matt had called me about Chachi, and we’d decided to meet at the dog park today, because the little pooch was having problems with—get this—being aggressive with other dogs. The Laguna Beach dog park is separated into two distinct areas with a large running area for big dogs and a smaller area for the medium to small to tiniest dogs. The small-dog side even had a bit of shade which was welcome on this blue-sky, warmer-than-normal Southern California day.

  Matt was already there with Chachi protectively cradled in his arms. I sat down beside them on the bench. Chachi was so adorable and so incredibly tiny. Matt’s massive forearms were bigger around than she was, and little bits of white fur stuck out between the fingers of his big beefy hands.

  “Let’s put her down and see how she does, okay?” I’d intervene if there was a problem, but I needed to see her in action to understand the problem.

  Matt reluctantly placed Chachi on the ground.

  The little white ball of fluff shivered a bit and then began to sniff around. The farther she got from our spot on the bench, the braver she became, straightening her stance and pouncing on blades of grass. The Maltese breed is generally playful and was once considered a sort of royal dog. “Ye ancient Dogge of Malta” as they were once called, originated in Malta, as you might expect from the name, but then Crusaders returning home from the Mediterranean brought them to England. The breed has been an aristocrat of the canine world for over twenty-eight centuries and recognized by the AKC since 1888.

  Generally, a pretty easy breed. At the moment, there didn’t seem to be any problem at all. At least, not one that was apparent. I wondered if there was something different in the environment when there’d been an issue.

  Matt tensed as a group of three teen girls approached, their pocket puppies trailing behind. I recognized one of the girls, Erikka, with her long-haired Chihuahua named Livi Tyler. I didn’t know the other two girls.

  Matt reached down to pick up Chachi as the group got closer, but I stopped him with a touch. “Let’s see how she does.”

  The dogs picked up speed and raced around the girls to greet Chachi. Livi, Erikka’s girl, sniffed first, and then the other dog, a miniature Pinscher, bounded forward.

  Pinschers have a distinctive gait, sort of a bounce. He also sniffed at Chachi without any reaction. Then the biggest, if you can use the word “big” in the context of these mini-pooches, raced up. A Yorkie-Poo, and though bigger than the other two—still probably no more than four pounds—she ran up, sniffed like the other two, and then barked right in Chachi’s face.

  Chachi’s expression was haughty outrage, but she didn’t back up. A low growl started in her throat and grew louder as the little Yorkie-Poo circled and barked once more.

  Again, Matt moved to scoop her up and out of harm’s way. As he did, she was distracted by his movement, and the other dogs looked his way as well. In zero seconds flat, Chachi was between Matt and the other dogs, and her short warning barks said, “Back off, girls, you’re scaring my human.”

  Or at least that’s how I interpreted it. It was clear to me the interaction was not so much about Chachi and the dogs, as it was about Matt. By being overprotective of Chachi, he’d actually made the situation unstable. Then, because he was worried and unsettled, the little dog reacted.

  “Matt, let’s try this. Lean back and let them sort it out,” I said in a low voice.

  I looked up at the girls. “Ladies, if you don’t mind, can we leave the dogs a bit?” I kept my voice low.

  The girls nodded.

  “Erikka, I know Livi. What are the other pups’ names?” Again, I kept my voice level.

  “Freddie’s my dog,” The tall blond pointed to the miniature Pinscher.

  “And Nina is mine.” The dark-haired girl snapped her fingers, and Nina looked up.

  “Hi, Nina. Hello, Freddie.” The dogs tipped their heads and looked at me as they recognized their names.

  “This little girl is Chachi.” I made the introductions. “I’m Caro and this is my friend, Matt. We’re working with Chachi on playing nice with friends.”

  “She’s adorable.” Erikka smiled.

  “Thanks.” Matt was still tense and barely looked up to acknowledge the girls. But he had leaned back, as I’d asked him to, and Chachi seemed a touch more stable.

  It’s often the case that the behavior is in some way related to the pet parent, and in this case, I thought Matt’s worry about Chachi’s safety had translated to her that it was an unsafe environment. Once he learned to chill out, she would, too.

  I had a few small toys in my bag and pulled out some bright-colored balls. They were smaller than tennis balls and just the right
size for the little dogs. The girls threw them, and the four pooches scampered off in chase. Soon, Chachi was joining in the play like one of the crowd.

  The girls—I’m afraid I still didn’t know all their names—moved out into the full sun, working on their tans, I imagined. Matt and I, both redheads and prone to burning, stayed in the shade.

  We talked a little about what he could do to work with Chachi and get her more comfortable. I, as always, encouraged exercise. However, I suspected that he now realized his part in the unstable behavior, and that Chachi’s problems with aggression were behind her.

  I began to pack up my bag to leave.

  “I understand you were at the Greyhound event where that guy was killed.” Matt took a deep drink from his water bottle, his eyes still on his dog. “That must have been scary.”

  “It was a little scary,” I admitted. “The man grabbed me just before he collapsed. Did you know him?”

  “No, I didn’t know him at all. Wasn’t one of my fitness clients.”

  “I guess he was pretty new to the area. No one seems to know much about him.”

  “Do the police have any leads?”

  I wasn’t sure how much I was supposed to share, so I opted for vague. “I understand it’s become a federal investigation and the FBI has taken over finding the killer. I hope they find him soon.”

  “Him? Do they know the killer was a man?” Matt leaned around me to keep his eyes on his dog.

  “I don’t think they’ve said, but I assumed it would be difficult for a woman to have enough strength to stab a good-sized guy with a carving knife.”

  “Not necessarily.” Matt glanced my way and then went back to watching Chachi. “Though upper body strength has to be developed, there are many women with enough power to stab someone. Especially if there’s an element of surprise.”

  “I guess you’ll be showing us those kinds of things in the ‘Be Safe’ course?” I was surprised at myself, but I’d been looking forward to the next class.

  I hadn’t thought about the possibility of a female killer, but Matt had a good point. I hoped Mr. Agent-in-Charge Milner was looking at all possibilities. Maybe I could glean some information when he called me back about my brooch.

  I said good-bye to Matt and checked my messages on the way to my car to see if Agent Milner had returned my call.

  No dice. There was a call, however, from Blanche LeRue.

  She wanted me to stop by the Greys Matter office and give her an update on the Greyhound owners I’d contacted. I was happy to do so, and I was ready with a question for Blanche.

  IT WASN’T TOURIST season, but it was Saturday, so parking was at a premium in downtown Laguna. I circled several times before finally finding a spot near the building where the Greyhound rescue had their offices. It was in an older part of downtown, nestled between a tailor shop and a pottery store. The brick front appeared to be original, but the whole block had been updated. The streetscape in front sported fun brightly-painted flowerpots and wrought-iron benches that were spaced at intervals.

  The front door had an outline of a graceful Greyhound and “Greys Matter” written in a flowing script.

  As I reached for the handle, a dark-haired man in a green polo shirt and plaid golf pants pushed past me. His face was dark with anger, and he stomped to the curb where he hit the button on a key fob.

  A yellow late-model Mercedes sedan answered. He yanked open the car door, got in, and slammed the door with such force I thought it might break the window.

  Wowza. I could only hope he’d cool down before he took to driving in traffic, because he already had the “rage” part of the road rage equation.

  I let myself into the Greys Matter office. The suite was nice, but not fancy. Large photos of Greyhounds lined the walls.

  The breed really was an elegant one, and the photographer had captured their unique traits. When a Greyhound is in full stride, all four feet leave the ground. One of the photos captured this to full advantage. Each racing Greyhound is tattooed with their birth date in the right ear and their litter number in the left. Another photo was a close-up of a racer’s ear, the tattooed numbers clearly visible—a photo that spoke to the story of these gentle dogs.

  Blanche came out to meet me, looking much more like herself today in a dark blue jacket over a khaki-colored skirt. Her white blouse was crisply pressed and stain-free. She escorted me back to her large office. We passed two small offices and a boardroom on the way back.

  “Thanks for stopping by, Caro.” While she was more pulled together, Blanche seemed only a little less tense than the last time we’d talked. “I know you’re busy with your regular clients. I really appreciate you working with our Greyhound parents.”

  “Who was the guy that just left?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer right away.

  “I passed him as I came in,” I prompted. I couldn’t imagine she’d forgotten him. He seemed pretty memorable to me.

  “Oh, that was George Thomas, our attorney.”

  “He seemed upset.” Understatement of the year.

  “A little disagreement over billable hours is all.” She tried a smile that ended up more of a grimace.

  “None of my business, but if that was a little disagreement, I’d hate to see a big disagreement.”

  “Oh, he’ll be fine.” She waved away my concern.

  I looked around. Her office was, like her, sleek and efficient. It was free of clutter, the workspace was clear, and the few papers in sight neatly stacked.

  “Are you the only full-time staff for Greys Matter?” I only knew a little about the rescue group and mostly second-hand, through Diana.

  “Pretty much.” She dropped into the leather desk chair. “Dave, who does the books, is part time. You know Dave, don’t you? I think his firm’s office is in your building.”

  I nodded. Dave didn’t really have a “firm.” There was just him and a desk, but I was sure his tax work paid well based on his wife, Alana’s, baubles and penchant for designer togs.

  “So, just you two?”

  “And George, our attorney whom you passed as he was leaving, is on retainer. We have a volunteer who does our website. And other volunteers who serve various roles. Often, we have a volunteer out front, but not today. But that’s not a problem. I can see the reception desk from here.” She pointed out a curved mirror in the hallway which gave a clear view of the corridor and front office.

  The small staff arrangement wasn’t unusual. Many rescues use volunteers, which helps to keep their overhead down and allows them to do more for their cause.

  I pulled out the spreadsheet Verdi had created and handed it to Blanche. “Here’s the list you sent me of attendees who had dogs at the event.”

  “And are most of them willing to consult with you?” She ran one manicured index finger down the list.

  “Some didn’t see any need.” I seated myself in one of the two chairs across from the desk. “Most are not reporting any problems, but were open to an evaluation. I’ve just begun working through the appointments.”

  “Are you familiar with file sharing?” she asked.

  “Um, not really.” I wasn’t really sure what she meant.

  “It would be useful because we could share this spreadsheet.” She pointed at the paper. “You can update it and I can look at it online.”

  “Sounds like it would be helpful.” I was amazed at Blanche’s technical prowess.

  “Just download this program.” She jotted a note and handed it to me. “I’ll send you the info we need in order to share documents.”

  “Great.” I was all for using less paper.

  “I am so happy you’re doing this.” She straightened in her chair and laid the list aside. Then picked it back up and then set it aside again.

  “I’m happy to help.”

  “I had such hopes that the Fifty Shades fund-raiser would bring in some much-needed donations for the rescue. There are so many Greyhounds out there who need our help.” Bla
nche hesitated, her lip quivering slightly. “So far, no one has asked for their money to be returned. I’m grateful for that.”

  I reached over and patted her hand. “I think they are all about helping the animals, and they understand the rescue organization had nothing to do with the problems.”

  “I hope you’re right.” She adjusted the collar on her jacket.

  “Has anyone figured out how the rabbit got into the room?” I had to ask.

  “D’Orange Maison tells me there had been a children’s birthday party earlier in the room next door, and the magician’s rabbit either got loose or someone opened the cage.”

  “Poor bunny.” I could see the room again in my mind. Dogs running, people chasing, tables crashing.

  “When you’re ready to bill for these evaluations with the Greyhound owners,” Blanche said, back to the business at hand, “please send the invoice to me directly. This is something I decided to do and not an expense the board approved.”

  “Certainly, I can do that.” She’d already told me to bill her when we talked at her house, but I didn’t remind her. With all the woman had on her plate between the murder, the disastrous fund-raiser, and now an angry attorney, it seemed like it would be enough to make anyone forgetful.

  She rose, and I did too.

  If I was to get to everyone today, I needed to keep moving.

  “Have you heard anything about the investigation?” she asked as we continued down the hall toward the reception area. “Are they still looking for the young man who was part of the catering staff?”

  “The only thing I know is that it’s now a Federal investigation.”

  “What?” She stopped mid-stride. “Why would the Feds be involved?” She seemed shaken by the news.

  “I don’t know.” There was still no one at the front desk, I noted. “It must have something to do with who the victim, Victor Lustig, really was.”

  Blanche had gone very quiet.

  “Did you know that wasn’t really his name?” I watched for a reaction.