Ladasha, Bea Haven, and Goldie Fawn dedicated a performance to their drag sister, Jackie O. There were tears, insults (aka “shade”), and a plethora of air kisses. I think Jack would have been very proud.
Once Gwen made a full recovery, she pressed assault charges against Stacie. Stacie threatened to sue everyone including the police.
As for Tova, she and Kiki wrapped up their photo shoot with Darby then left on a vacation to an undisclosed location. I couldn’t blame her, really. It seemed everyone in her inner circle had lied to her, and she needed to find her bearings. I wouldn’t call us friends, but we were no longer enemies. I was okay with that.
As for me, I was driving around town in a rented Lexus. I hated it. Grey and I stopped squabbling and made up. I agreed to make more of an effort to steer clear of dangerous situations. Grey agreed to trust me to make smart choices.
For now, I had everything I wanted, including Grandma Tillie’s brooch.
MISSY AND I were at Paw Prints, taking our turn at modeling. Darby decided to use us for the month of December. She even talked Grey into playing Santa Claus with a white beard and a pillow for a belly. I pinned the brooch—the ghastly heirloom I loved so dearly—to my elf costume. Bless her heart, Darby didn’t protest. She just let me flaunt the pin in each shot. I promised we’d take a few without my brooch at the end.
“Mel, straighten Missy’s crown,” Darby instructed from behind the camera.
Jingle Bell Rock played in the background, setting the mood. The Brenda Lee version. I preferred traditional Christmas music.
As I reached over and adjusted the tiara, my hair brushed Missy’s face. She sneezed, shooting dog slobber everywhere.
“Where’s that rag?” I asked. One thing about owning a bulldog, you’re always cleaning up drool.
Grey pulled the missing rag from his pocket. I wiped down my arm and then the folds of Missy’s face. I planted a kiss on Santa’s nose as I handed him the rag back. I heard the camera’s fast successions of clicks capturing the moment.
“Mel, put her on Grey’s lap so I have her profile. Then Grey, you lean down as if Missy’s telling you what she wants for Christmas. Mel, I want you to hold the mistletoe above Santa’s head. Then look at the camera and wink.”
Lordy, she was bossy.
“Move your hair back, it’s covering the brooch.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” Grey muttered. “Can’t we take one photo without that thing?”
“Stop talking and smile,” Darby ordered.
After a few more poses, we were done. “That’s a wrap,” Darby called out.
“Will you take one of me on Santa’s lap?” I asked.
“Only if you take off the ugly brooch,” Grey insisted.
I looked at Darby, who wasn’t bothering to hide her laughter. She held out her hand. I hadn’t let the brooch out of my sight since I’d retrieved it from Caro’s car. I’d been carrying it around in its box, tucked away in my purse for safe keeping.
Reluctantly, I handed the pin to Darby. She made a big show of nestling the brooch in the box. She walked it over to the counter and just left it there. Seriously, she left my pin unattended.
Grey pulled me into his lap and nuzzled my neck. I tried to get into the mood, but I kept thinking about the brooch, which was no longer in my line of sight.
Grey tightened his grip. “Relax. It’s not as if she’s going to walk in here and take it. She doesn’t even know you have it,” he whispered in my ear.
Yes, she did. She knew me backwards and forwards. Inside and out. That brooch meant just as much to her as it did to me.
Darby kept snapping photos, and I willed myself to relax. Grey whispered his idea for how we should spend the rest of the evening. My heart skipped a beat, and I felt my face blush.
Snap.
“That’s the one,” Darby said.
I hopped off Grey’s lap. “I’m going to change. Stay here and keep an eye on my pin. I’ll be right back.”
I headed toward the changing room. I’d just slipped off my skirt when I heard her.
Damn.
I rushed out of the dressing room in my pantyhose and Elf shirt with white fur collar. Grey and Darby were distracted, their backs turned as they packed up her photo equipment.
“Put that back, Carolina Lamont,” I yelled.
Caro whipped around. She smiled wickedly. “Come make me, Melinda Langston.”
Those were fighting words. I took off like a shot. So did Caro. She charged out the front door. I was right on her heels, until Grey, still dressed as Santa, grabbed me around the waist and stopped me.
“You can’t go running through downtown in your underwear.”
I didn’t care what I was or was not wearing. My brooch-stealing cousin was getting away.
“The hell I can’t. She’s got my brooch.”
Grey shook his head and sighed, tightening his hold on me. “What goes around comes around, Mel. Tonight, the brooch is Caro’s.”
We’d see about that.
(Please continue reading for an excerpt of Desperate Housedogs)
Desperate Housedogs
“You’ll be howling with laughter!”
—Kathy Bacus, author of CALAMITY JAYNE
Desperate Housedogs
Book One, The Pampered Pets Mysteries
By Sparkle Abbey
Excerpt
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 straight-forward. 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 tel
evision, 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.
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