by Liliana Hart
“Well, I don’t know what to do.” She pointed at the blonde. “She hit me.”
“You jumped on me. What was I supposed to do?”
Ro lunged. “That’s it.”
“Hey.” Joey body blocked her. “You settle down. Tim’s got this.” He jerked his chin. “Let’s go. Over there. I’m always turned on by a good chick fight, but you’re not helping.”
My brother the idiot.
Tim held his hand out and lifted Lucie off the blonde. His gaze wandered to her cheek where she’d gotten hit, his gentle fingers turning her face so he could get a better look. “You okay?”
“Yeah. She didn’t get a good shot.”
A police cruiser pulled into the aisle and two cops jumped out.
Again, Tim held up his badge. That sucker was seeing a lot of action today.
“Hey, fellas. Detective Tim O’Brien. Chicago PD.” He pointed to the blonde still on the ground. “This woman just tried to steal two dogs. She’s all yours.”
Chapter Six
While Tim dealt with the police and the arrest of the evil blonde, Lucie stood in the hallway in front of the auxiliary gym watching the Pickneys and Marlowe being interviewed by Melanie and her fabulous cameraman, Glen.
The two of them were in the midst of a fantastic scoop. Who knew a local dog show packed such drama?
“So,” Melanie said, her bright pink lips fanning wide, “our Marlowe here is quite the hero.”
Mrs. Pickney beamed. “He sure is. I’m thrilled we were here to help.”
Tim wandered up next to Lucie and dropped his arm over her shoulder. “Hey, pretty lady.”
She leaned into him, rested her head against him and breathed in the clean scent of his laundry soap. Everything about Tim O’Brien felt…good.
Like home.
“Hey yourself, Detective. What’s happening?”
“Your dognapper is on her way to lockup and Super Weiner earned himself a commendation.”
Lucie laughed. “Super Weiner?”
“Catchy, no?”
“Brilliant. And what about the evil blonde? What happens next?”
Tim shrugged. “She lawyered up, but we got enough out of her to know the Scottie was her original target. Then she spotted Otis and his limbo and all bets were off.”
Lucie’s mouth dropped open. Just dumbstruck. “Are you kidding me? Seriously?”
“As serious as a heart attack, babe.”
Babe. She loved when he called her that. It didn’t happen all that often, but something about the way it rolled off his tongue made her giddy.
“So,” Lucie said, “she came here to steal the Scottie. Why?”
Tim shrugged. “She claims she wanted him for herself.”
“You don’t believe her?”
For months now, Tim had been assisting on an investigation into a dog theft ring operating in the Midwest. They couldn’t pin down where the ring was headquartered, but dogs all over Illinois, Iowa, Wisconsin and Indiana were disappearing from dog shows.
“Not for a second,” he said. “This is standard for the dog theft ring. Whoever is running it sends a minion out to grab a dog. We can’t catch the son of a bitch.” He pumped his thumb toward the door. “The blonde isn’t talking. Hopefully her lawyer will wise her up to the fact that she just committed a felony and could do a few years.”
“Jail time? Really?”
“Oh, yeah. And if the prosecutor or judge is an animal lover? She’s toast.”
Burn, baby, burn.
Tim glanced around. “Where are Joey and Ro?”
“They were fighting. I sent them outside.”
“Aren’t they always fighting?”
True enough. With them the fighting was foreplay. Blech.
“Well, yeah, but the noise interfered with the interviews and I didn’t want them distracting anyone from Marlowe. By the time we’re done here, they’ll be making up and looking for a corner where they can hump each other.”
Tim grinned, then dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Too damned cute, Luce.”
“What can I say? It’s a gift.”
“It sure is.”
Melanie finished her interview with Marlowe and welcomed Mrs. Lutz and the fabulous Otis, winner of the talent competition.
“Woohoo!” Lucie clapped and pumped a fist. “Yay, Otis!”
Mrs. Lutz grinned at her and Lucie gave her a double thumbs up, even though she believed the fix was in. Truly, there was no way Otis’s limbo topped Marlowe’s sniffing skills. But since Marlowe got to be the hero, the judges more than likely had taken pity on Otis due to his trauma.
Either way, Lucie didn’t care. In her mind, both deserved whatever attention they’d get. As soon as she got home, she’d pick out something fun and blingy for each of them from Coco Barknell’s inventory. These dogs would be styling.
She slid her arm around Tim’s waist. “What do you say, Detective? Want to call this case closed and blow this joint?”
“Do I get to spend the rest of the day with you?”
“If I have anything to say about it you do.”
He nodded then dipped his head and kissed her lightly on the mouth, lingering for just a few seconds before pulling back. “Race you to the car.”
The End
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author Adrienne Giordano writes romantic suspense and mystery. She is a Jersey girl at heart, but now lives in the Midwest with her workaholic husband, sports obsessed son and Buddy the Wheaten Terrorist (Terrier). She is a co-founder of Romance University blog and Lady Jane’s Salon-Naperville, a reading series dedicated to romantic fiction. For more information on Adrienne’s books, please visit www.AdrienneGiordano.com. Adrienne can also be found on Facebook at facebook.com/AdrienneGiordanoAuthor, Twitter at twitter.com/AdriennGiordano and Goodreads at goodreads.com/AdrienneGiordano. For information on Adrienne’s street team, Dangerous Darlings, go to facebook.com/groups/dangerousdarlings.
Dear reader,
Thank you for reading Dog Collar Limbo. I hope you enjoyed spending time with Lucie and the gang. If you did, please help others find it by:
• Writing a review
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The Lucie Rizzo Mystery Series
Dog Collar Crime
Dog Collar Knockoff
Dog Collar Couture
Dog Collar Limbo
Acknowledgments
As with any project (even the short ones) there are people to thank.
John, Mara and Josh Leach, thank you for once again humoring me and letting me use your dog to complete a Lucie book. I never get tired of him. Thank you to Amy Hansen for the friendship and for saving me with the small details on television cameras.
A big thanks to Jolene Cazzola, whom I met randomly one day, but who wound up being an amazing resource for all things dog show related.
Scott Silverii and John Leach, thank you for never snickering (at least to my face) about the nutty law enforcement questions I ask.
Thank you always to my husband and son for the constant support. Without you, I couldn’t do this job that I love. I love you.
Alyssa Day
TRAVELLING EYE
A Tiger’s Eye Mystery
Copyright © 2016 Alesia Holliday
Chapter One
Jack Shepherd never would have gotten involved in the mystery of who shot Santa if it hadn’t been for the red-soled, high-heeled shoes. Well, the shoes, and the long, shapely female legs attached to the feet wearing the shoes. He didn’t pinpoint the source of the problem until later, though, when yet another Christmas Eve was almost over, and Hope Springs, Utah was only a twinkle in the rearview mirrors of his Harley.
Damn shoes.
It was another diner in a long string of diners, all so similar that Jack had quit noticing them a few weeks back. He’d been aimlessly wandering around the country on his bike, without much to do but think about life choices
. Specifically, his life choices. More to the point, his bad life choices.
Like joining the rebel forces. Spending ten years battling evil vampires and other supernatural punks who wanted to take over the world, or at least their corner of it. Criminals—the stupider they were, the more grandiose their plans, or so he’d figured out.
He and Quinn had even kept a mental “stupid criminals” file that they trotted out over a few beers when talking to trainees.
Quinn. Put her under bad life choices? Nah. Fighting with Quinn as his partner had been the best part of it all. They’d attempted a lot and achieved most of it.
Falling for Quinn, on the other hand? Seriously bad choice.
And not accepting that he had no chance with her after that damn Atlantean came into the picture? Went beyond bad to stupid.
So now he was on the way to Dead End, Florida, to wrap up his late uncle’s effects, because the lawyers hadn’t been able to find Jack in time for him to make it to the funeral. A shot of pain hit him in the gut at the reminder that he’d never see Jeremiah again. The man who’d raised him; the man who’d believed in him. Gone.
“More coffee, hon?” The waitress had a look on her worn but pretty face that said she might have asked him the question more than once. Her tone was gentle, though, so he smiled at her.
“Sure. And can I still get breakfast?” It was two-thirty in the afternoon, and the few people still there were probably enjoying a late lunch.
She nodded. “Sure. It’s Christmas Eve, after all. If you want eggs, you should get them. I’m Donna, by the way. Merry Christmas.”
Jack blinked. Christmas Eve. Hell, he hadn’t even realized what day it was. Not that it mattered. He was officially fresh out of family members, and he’d never had much in the way of friends. Quinn would be with Alaric…
Jack shook his head to get that unpleasant picture out of his mind, and glanced down at the menu, although he didn’t know why. Diner menus were all the same.
Except, not this one.
“Merry Christmas to you, too, Donna. Ah, what does this mean?” He pointed to the list under the word SPECIALS:
The Ericka
The Gloria Ellen
The Kimberley
The waitress laughed. “Oh, that’s Charley’s little bit of fun. Those are his three daughter’s names, and the specials are their favorite meals. So, the Ericka is a PB&J with cheese and pickles on it, Cheez Doodles on the side.”
Jack’s mouth twitched, in a grin or a grimace, he wasn’t sure which. “And the Gloria Ellen?”
“That’s my favorite,” she said, smiling back at him. “A banana, pineapple, and mayonnaise sandwich on white bread.”
Jack shook his head. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but the Kimberley?”
“Tomato soup with sliced hot dogs and macaroni in it,” Donna said.
“So, these are normal kid foods?” Jack hadn’t been around kids all that much, but if he’d ever thought about it, he probably would have expected them to eat normal food, on smaller plates.
Donna shrugged. “Kids are weird.”
He couldn’t argue with that. “Well, with all due respect to the girls, I’d like a stack of pancakes, four eggs over medium, wheat toast, bacon, and hash browns. Orange juice. And throw in a side of ham. And a steak.”
Donna didn’t even blink at the size of his order. “Got it. Shouldn’t be long.”
She took his menu and bustled off toward the counter, and he drank some more coffee. It had been six hours since his first breakfast, it was damned cold on the bike, and the last thing a tiger shapeshifter needed was to run low on fuel. Made him cranky, and cranky tigers weren’t fit for human company.
Not that he gave much of a shit about human company.
The bell over the door jangled, and the woman who walked in made him rethink his position on that last one. She was a sleek brunette, tall and lean in a dark green peacoat and jeans, and she was wearing a very un-diner-like pair of high, sexy black heels. Her hair curved in at chin-length and swept around her face when she turned her head. She noticed him noticing her and gave him the long, slow perusal of a woman who’s used to being stared at and can give as good as she gets. He was surprised to find himself mildly disappointed when she took a seat at the counter instead of walking over to talk to him.
“Hey, Vanessa, I’ll be there in a sec,” Donna called out, on her way to drop a steaming bowl off at the table of a tiny, elderly woman.
Vanessa languidly waved a hand, apparently in no rush. She took her coat off and put it on the stool next to her and then hooked one foot over the railing and swung the other in a slow arc, none of which Jack would have noticed if it hadn’t been for those damn shoes. The shoes were black, but the soles were red. Blood red. Hell, what did he know? Maybe there was a thing with women and shoes that they had to wear Christmas-colored soles in December, and Donna’s sturdy white sneakers secretly had green soles.
Or maybe Jack’s mind was going, and thinking about shoes was the first step toward the very early onset of senile dementia. He looked out the window, determined to quit speculating about sexy brunettes with weird shoes, until Donna showed up with his food.
“Okay, hon, this keep you a while?” She stood back and surveyed the table, now covered with heaping plates of food. One thing you could say for diners, they didn’t stint on portions.
“Thanks, I’m good,” he told her, and then he bent his attention to his second breakfast of the day and worked his way through the meal. He was on his third cup of coffee, and down to nothing but crumbs and a single honey-covered biscuit on his plate, when the diner door slammed open and a teenaged boy rushed in, red-faced and panting.
“Vanessa, you’ve got to come right now. Somebody shot Santa Claus!”
Chapter Two
Jack was halfway out of his seat before he remembered two important facts:
1. This was none of his business, because he was done with crime-fighting, and,
2. Santa Claus didn’t exist.
So he sat back down and shoved the rest of his biscuit in his mouth.
The effect on everyone else in the diner, however, was pretty damn dramatic. Donna dropped the coffee pot she was holding, and the glass carafe shattered on the black-and-white tiled floor. Vanessa jumped up, but her heel caught on the rung of the stool and tangled up her legs. When she pitched forward, her face was on a collision course with the shattered glass on the floor. Jack was up and across the room before he even realized he’d moved, and he caught her on the way down.
“Thanks,” Vanessa said, but she was already pushing away from him and turning toward the messenger who’d caused all the commotion. “Dad? Somebody shot Dad? Bobby, are you sure?”
Dad? Ah, that explained it. Her dad must be dressing up as Santa for some party or festival or other small-town holiday feel-good crap. Jack felt a twinge of empathy for the woman, considering he’d just lost his uncle, but still. Not his town, not his people, not his problem.
The door swung open again, and the bulky figure of Hope Springs law enforcement filled the doorway. The man was wider than he was tall, and he wasn’t short. His uniform was dark brown, just a shade lighter than his skin, and his bald head and badge both gleamed.
“Sheriff. What is going on?” Vanessa demanded, grabbing her coat and heading toward him. “Dad? Is—did something happen?”
The sheriff’s sharp gaze scanned the room and then came to a pointed stop on Jack, before returning to Vanessa. “Yeah, I’m sorry. Your dad is missing. Old Mr. Arbuthnot heard a shot from town hall, where Ray had the Santa chair set up for the little ones, and he called me. Of course, Hope Springs being Hope Springs, I had to run a dozen armed men—and Bessie Fortnoy—out of there before I could see what was what.”
Jack understood that. Concerned citizens carrying guns had caused more than a few problems in his job, too. Once in a while one of them came in handy, but usually civilians were prone either to shoot blindly at everyone—innocent or guilty�
��or to freeze in fear and get their guns taken away by the bad guys. Neither option was particularly useful in a firefight.
“Are you—how—” Vanessa paused to take a deep breath. “Bobby said somebody shot Dad. Where is he? Is he on the way to the hospital?”
The sheriff put his hands on his hips. “That’s the problem. We don’t know where your daddy is. But we found a good bit of blood on his chair.”
Vanessa’s face turned white, and Jack wondered if she was going to hit the floor after all, but she was apparently made of sterner stuff. She pulled on her coat and headed for the door.
“I’m going over there. This is my fault. If I’d stayed and helped wrap presents when that stupid elf didn’t show up on time, he wouldn’t have been alone,” she said, pulling her arm away when the sheriff reached for her. “I just dropped him off not half an hour ago. I’m going to go find him, Chuck.”
She was out the door before the sheriff could stop her. The big man sighed and then turned around to face Jack, who had already pulled out his wallet and put it on the table, open to his ID. He knew this drill. Stranger in town, something bad happened—the sheriff would be a fool if he didn’t check Jack out, and Chuck didn’t look like a fool.
“Name’s Jack Shepherd. Just got into town and came straight to the diner,” he said politely as the sheriff approached. “ID’s on the table.”
The sheriff cocked an eyebrow. “Get asked for ID a lot, do you?”
Jack shrugged but said nothing as the sheriff examined his license, which had been issued by the state of Florida and was probably set to expire soon.
“So, Jack Shepherd, why don’t you tell me why you’re in town and why your name sounds familiar?”
Donna crossed the floor toward the table. “Now, don’t you be harassing my customers, Chuck. This young man got here about ten minutes before Vanessa did, and I saw him drive down the street from the south. He wasn’t anywhere near town hall.”