Fifty Shades of Greyhound (The Pampered Pets Mystery Series)

by Sparkle Abbey

  What?

  “What is this?” I looked up at Milner.

  The trinket in my hand was beautifully garish and probably expensive, but it was not Grandma Tillie’s brooch.

  Shining gold formed delicate pointy ears. A collar of seed pearls wrapped around an elegant neck, brilliant emeralds winked in the eyes, and a ruby button nose sparkled. Sparkling diamond baguettes made up the teeth of the smiling face of a Cheshire cat.

  I didn’t know how it was possible.

  I didn’t know how she’d done it.

  But one thing I knew for sure was that somewhere my cousin, Mel, was smiling that exact same smile.

  The End

  (Please continue reading for more information about the author)

  Desperate Housedogs

  Excerpt

  “You’ll be howling with laughter!”

  —Kathy Bacus, author of CALAMITY JAYNE

  Desperate Housedogs

  Book One, The Pampered Pets Mysteries

  By Sparkle Abbey

  Crime in Laguna Beach Has Just Gone to the Dogs . . .

  When Caro Lamont, former psychologist turned pet therapist, makes a house call in posh southern California to help Kevin Blackstone with his two misbehaving German Shepherds, she expects frantic dogs, she expects a frantic dog owner, she even expects frantic neighbors. What she doesn’t expect is that two hours later the police will find Kevin dead, and that as the last person to see Kevin alive (well, except for the killer), she is suddenly a person of interest, at least according to Homicide Detective Judd Malone.

  Caro, animal lover and former Texas beauty queen, moved to Laguna Beach for a fresh start after a very nasty and public divorce which ended with the closing of the private counseling practice she and her ex-husband shared. With eleven-thousand dogs—more dogs than kids—Laguna seemed like the perfect spot to open a pet therapy business. And it had been, up until she had to catch a killer by the tail.

  Chapter One

  I don’t normally break into people’s homes, but today I was making an exception.

  Not wanting to make the burglary too obvious, I’d parked my car down the street and fought through the bougainvillea hedge to the back of the house. In southern California the bougainvillea blooms everywhere, luxurious but tough, like old starlets wearing too much pink lipstick. Determination thumped in my chest, but I was still as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs. Glancing left and then right to make sure none of the neighbors were around, I flipped up the sand-crusted mat and grabbed the key that lay under it.

  My cousin, Melinda, always kept her spare key in the same spot. This particular mat said, “Wipe Your Paws.”

  Mel’s place was nice. Not posh, but very nice even by Laguna Beach standards. Not at all like the open spaces we’d grown up with in Texas but nothing to sneeze at. Palm trees and Jacaranda trees surrounded her patio, and morning was already warming the ocean breeze. I unlocked the door and slipped inside. If I were lucky I’d find my target right away and get out quick. If I were really lucky, it would be a few days before Mel realized the brooch was gone.

  I stepped into her sunshine-bright kitchen and noted the stack of dirty dishes. I truly wished the girl wouldn’t leave dishes in the sink. Here in the semi-desert you run the risk of bugs. Bugs the size of cocker spaniels.

  Eww. I shivered, shaking off the thought like a wet dog shaking off summer rain.

  First, I checked the freezer. Not a very original hiding place and not a very effective one either, as I myself had discovered. I’d tried freezer paper and a label that said “Pig Hearts” but Mel had figured it out.

  Okay, nothing in there.

  Missy, Mel’s bulldog, lumbered into the kitchen, her only greeting an eye roll that said, “Oh, it’s just you.”

  I reached down and scratched behind her ears. She leaned into the ear rub. “If only you could talk, sugar. You’d tell me where Mel put it, wouldn’t you?”

  Missy gave a low, snuffly bark and butted my hand, effectively sliming it. Bulldogs are pretty darn loyal. Could be she wouldn’t give up the hiding spot even if she knew. She waddled back to the living room and her spot by the picture window, as if to say, “You’re on your own, girl.”

  “Fine, Missy. You’re as stubborn as your mama.” I wiped dog drool on my jeans and got back to the task at hand.

  Hmmm . . . where would my beautiful (but devious) cousin put the thing? Like a bad Texas summer heat rash, irritation prickled.

  Geez Louise, Mel, how long would it have taken to clean up after yourself?

  I ran water in the sink and started stacking plates in the dishwasher.

  See, that was the problem. Mel’s not a bad kid, and only a couple of years younger than me, but she’s so dang impulsive it seems I’m always cleaning up her messes. Take Mel’s fight with the zoning board over not getting a permit for her new patio or her on-and-off-again relationship with Grey Donovan.

  Grey is a prince (in the metaphorical sense) and is caught in the unfortunate position of having befriended two headstrong southern women with a competitive streak. We’d inherited it—the competitive streak, I mean. Our mamas had both been Texas beauty queens, and we’d both lived the pageant life—for a while.

  That’s to say, until we rebelled. We’d each defied our mothers in our own unique way. Mine a little pushier, but straightforward. Mel’s a little wilder and out there. But then that kinda sums up everything y’all need to know about the two of us.

  More about that later. Right now I had some searching to do before my cousin came home or her lovely neighbors called the cops.

  I tried her bedroom, the study (junk room in Mel’s case), the bathroom (I was happy to see she was still on her allergy meds), the closet (smaller junk room) and still came up empty-handed. Now, I was back to the kitchen.

  Stumped, I stood and looked around, hands on my hips, arms akimbo, mind on hyper drive. It was a funky kitchen but decorated more for fun than utility. Mel’s cookie jar was in the shape of a golden retriever. It was just flat adorable, the dog in a playful ready-to-pounce position. I wondered where she’d gotten it. If we were speaking, I’d ask her. But we’re not.

  I couldn’t help it. I shook my finger at the cookie jar. Melinda Langston, you should not be living on junk food and sweets.

  Her freezer’d been full of microwave dinners and her refrigerator completely devoid of any healthy fruits and vegetables. Probably living on processed food and sugar.

  Still, Mel had always been a fabulous cook. She just didn’t necessarily follow a recipe. The girl was a bang-up baker though, and cookies were her specialty. My mouth watered. One cookie would never be missed.

  Don’t mind if I do, cousin. I lifted the dog’s butt to help myself and plunged my hand in the cookie jar.

  Well, for cryin’ in a bucket! Was the dang thing empty?

  I couldn’t believe I’d made the decision to indulge in empty calories only to be thwarted. I rooted around the inside of the cookie jar, my fingers only touching smooth pottery.

  Wait. What was that?

  Instead of cookies, my hand connected with metal. Grandma Tillie’s brooch. She’d put Grandma Tillie’s brooch—my brooch—in a cookie jar.

  I pulled it out, brushed off the cookie crumbs, and turned it over carefully to check for damage.

  Grandma “Tillie” Matilda Montgomery’s brooch is the ugliest piece of jewelry you’ve ever laid eyes on. A twenty-two karat gold basket filled to the brim with fruit made from precious stones. Diamonds, topaz, emeralds, rubies. It is beyond garish.

  Garish and gaudy, but significant. In her will, Grandma Tillie had left it to her “favorite granddaughter.” I knew she meant to leave it to me. Mel was just as convinced she’d left it to her.

  I prodded it with my finger. One of the emeralds might be a teeny bit loose. Promising myself I’d check more thoroughly for damage when I got home, I tucked the brooch in the outside pocket of my handbag and gave it a little pat. />
  Back with me, where it belonged.

  I finished stacking the dishwasher, turned it on, called good-bye to Missy (who ignored me), and let myself out the back. I was just replacing the key when my cell phone rang.

  “Hello.” I answered in a low tone. No need to alert the neighbors. I’d made it so far without drawing any attention. Making my way to the front of the house, I walked quickly toward my car.

  “Hey, Caro, this is Kevin. Kevin Blackstone.” He sounded frantic. But then I’m used to frantic clients. “I need your help.”

  Oh, I don’t think I mentioned it, but I’m Caro Lamont, and when I’m not breaking and entering, I’m the proprietor of Laguna Beach’s Professional Animal Wellness Specialist Clinic (the PAWS Clinic for short).

  I’m not a dog trainer. Tons of other folks are more qualified in that arena. I basically deal with problem pets, which as a rule involves dealing more with the behavior of the humans than the pet. If I suspect a medical problem I refer pet parents to my veterinarian friend, Dr. Daniel Darling.

  I could hear the deep barks of his two German Shepherd dogs in the background. It sounded like Kevin had a problem.

  Kevin lived in the exclusive Ruby Point gated community just off of Pacific Coast Highway (fondly referred to as PCH by the locals).

  With all the noise, I couldn’t hear what it was Kevin needed.

  “I’ll come by in a few minutes.”

  I think he said, “okay” but it was difficult to tell over the chaos on his end.

  Extremely pleased with myself over the successful retrieval of my inheritance, I climbed in my silver vintage Mercedes convertible. Humming, I thought about the brooch, my brooch, safe in my handbag.

  It was turning out to be a beautiful day in lovely Laguna Beach.

  Life was good.

  Chapter Two

  The dogs were desperate and so was Kevin.

  He was clearly at the end of his rope. Or would that be leash?

  Kevin’s two German Shepherd dogs circled and barked and circled and barked while the television blasted above the din, and Kevin Blackstone shouted at me.

  “They’ve been at this for two whole days.”

  That was Kevin.

  “Bark. Bark.”

  “Bark. Bark.”

  That was the dogs.

  “Come in for the spring clearance sale at Orange County European Motors.”

  The TV announcer.

  It had been going on since I’d arrived at Kevin’s, and it was enough to make me desperate.

  “I’ve tried everything to get them to stop. They continually run to the patio doors, but there’s nothing out there.” Kevin was a good-sized guy and had a strong grip on their collars, but clearly the dogs were distraught. Kevin looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

  “Bark. Bark.”

  “Bark. Bark.”

  “Breaking news: The body of a man found at Crystal Cove State Park has not yet been identified. Authorities are releasing few details but TV 10 News will talk with hikers who discovered the body.”

  Kevin continued shouting over the clamor. “I tried letting them outside thinking it was maybe a squirrel or something, but at first they wouldn’t go. They just stood in the doorway and growled.”

  I didn’t approach the dogs just yet. “Tell me about what’s been going on. Has anything changed in their routine?”

  Shepherds aren’t a nervous breed. When they bark, they’re barking at something.

  “No, nothing has changed.”

  Or at least I think that’s what Kevin said.

  Between the bark, bark and the “Now we go live to . . . ” from the television, I could hardly hear myself think, let alone carry on a conversation.

  “Kevin, sugar, would you mind turning the television off?”

  “What?”

  I pointed toward the super-sized wide-screen TV.

  “Oh.” He released his hold on the dogs, picked up a manly remote, and clicked the TV off.

  I sighed. At least one din-producing item down. The dogs continued to bark, but the noise level was a bit more tolerable.

  Okay, where were we?

  I’d worked with Kevin’s dogs before. About a year ago they’d had a problem with chewing up his new furniture. The doggy therapy seemed to have done the trick. At least the furniture I could see from my vantage point appeared to be intact.

  “Tell me again, when did this start?” I asked.

  “Two days ago.”

  “Tell me specifically when you first noticed the dogs’ behavior problems.”

  “Well, I’d been at the gym. I came home, and they came to greet me like they always do. No jumping up.”

  He saw my raised brow.

  “Then they just started going ape-shit. Running to the patio door and then back to me. Patio door—me. Patio door—me.” Kevin flung his arms back and forth for emphasis. “I let them outside, and they ran out there. They ran around and barked and then ran back to me. I finally had to bring them inside for fear Mandy next-door would turn me in to the homeowners’ association for noise pollution.”

  Ruby Point was way over the top about their association rules. Apparently Kevin had gotten sideways with Mandy Beenerman, his next door neighbor, a few months ago over a non-conforming mailbox he’d put up. It had been LA Lakers purple and gold, and Mandy, who was a former Celtics cheerleader turned super-snob, had turned him in.

  I thought it probably had more to do with spite than good taste. But I could see where Kevin Blackstone might occasionally need a reminder.

  To tell you the God’s honest truth, I wasn’t sure what Kevin Blackstone did for a living, but the same could be said for a lot of my clients. None of my business, you know. All I knew was he lived alone in his huge, multi-level, modern contemporary mansion, and he asked me out at least once a month. I turned him down just as regularly.

  While the house was tastefully decorated, I’m certain it had been professionally done with little input from Kevin because he, today as most days, sported really bad plaid shorts paired with a loud orange-colored polo. Who knows, maybe the guy was color-blind.

  And me? Who was I to judge? I guess today I sure didn’t look like I knew Dior couture from the Dollar Discount store. It would drive my mama insane, but then pretty much everything I did drove her bananas.

  Anymore I dressed more for comfort than fashion. Jeans, T-shirt, tennies. My vocation often required rolling around on the ground with puppies or crawling behind ten-thousand-dollar couches to retrieve recalcitrant kitty cats. I loved to get gussied up on occasion, but lately those occasions had been few and far between.

  Kevin raked a meaty hand through his reddish hair. “They’re always such good dogs. I thought maybe they were just stir-crazy, so I took them for a walk, but drama princess Shar was outside with her dinky dog. She claimed ‘her baby’ was being traumatized by Zeus and Tommy Boy, and told me if I didn’t get my dogs under control, I’d ‘be sorry.’ Woo, Shar, I’m so scared.” Kevin held up his hands and did a fake frightened look.

  His neighbor a few mansions down the street, Shar Summers, had a tiny Chinese Crested named Babycakes. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the breed, they are delicate, very needy pooches that look more like small alien creatures than dogs. Easily traumatized. A toy poodle would do it, let alone Zeus and Tommy Boy and their bark-fest.

  Bottom line, Kevin’s housemates were out of control, and if the barking continued there was the distinct possibility someone (probably Mandy) would lodge a neighborhood complaint and Laguna Beach Animal Control could impound the dogs. In lieu of an explanation, we’d start with behavior modification.

  “Bring me their treats.” I’d been ignoring the dogs. The last thing you want to do when dealing with bad behavior is inadvertently reinforce it. Unfortunately that’s exactly what a lot of pet owners do under the mistaken impression they’re comforting the animal.

  Kevin returned with a box of Bowser Treats from my cousin Mel’s shop, the Bow
Wow Boutique. Their favorite.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna to do.” I picked up one of the treats, closed my hand over it, and turned my back on the dogs.

  When they stopped barking, I spun around and gave it to them. It worked only for a moment and then they were back at it.

  After a few more tries, I handed the box to Kevin. “You try.”

  He mimicked my ignore/reward method, and eventually the spans between barking spates increased.

  After an hour of working with Zeus and Tommy Boy (and Kevin), I felt like we’d made some progress. I bent and hugged the two dogs, partly to assess their tension and partly because I sincerely liked the guys.

  Initially, the times they weren’t barking were very few, but eventually there were longer gaps. I tell you, I’ve worked with a bunch of barkers, and I’d never seen anything quite like it.

  “You said you let them out on the patio?”

  “I did the first day,” Kevin said. “I thought maybe they’d smelled a wild animal or something. But there was nothing. Nothing I could see, anyway.”

  “Well, let’s try it again.” Maybe there was a dead bird or squirrel and they’d picked up the scent. Could be it was the nose thing. Their super nose is why German Shepherd dogs make such great police K-9s, sniffing out drugs at airports or during traffic stops.

  Kevin opened the door, and the dogs were out like a shot. They loped around the pool and after a circle or two, tramped through his flowers, and then headed down the side yard. We followed and got to the edge of the house just as the dogs galloped through the open gate.

  I looked at Kevin.

  He shrugged his line-backer shoulders in denial. “I didn’t leave it open.”

  If the dogs were running loose, there was an even better possibility they’d end up in doggie jail. I started after them, thanking my lucky stars I’d worn my running shoes instead of the really cute Marc Jacobs sandals I’d just bought. Still, Kevin got to the front of the house before I did.