Raiders of the Lost Bark

by Sparkle Abbey

“Hang up and call that fiancé of yours.”

  I groaned. “You do know we’ve broken up.”

  “I can’t help you. That’s not my jurisdiction. Stop being stubborn and call Mr. Donovan.” And with that, he hung up.

  After I ended the call, I slid my phone across the kitchen table. I sighed deeply, unsure what move to make next. I smoothed my hair back from my face. It had been six weeks since Grey and I had spoken last. He could be in town, or he could be in D.C.; he wasn’t mine to keep track of any longer.

  It was a crapshoot if he’d even take my call.

  Betty huffed impatiently. “Did Detective Hottie give you a name?”

  I turned to face her. “Nope.”

  MacAvoy pounded on the door again. The mere fact that he asked for Betty most likely meant he knew she had found the body. We couldn’t continue to hide. It was time to face the annoying reporter.

  I grabbed my cell from the table. “Don’t fall under his manipulative charm. The only answer you give him is ‘no comment.’ Got it?”

  Betty nodded. She fluffed her hair, brushed off the bodice of her jumper, then patted her various pockets, primping for MacAvoy’s camera.

  I swept past her toward the exit. “Keep your head high, look straight ahead. Don’t make eye contact with him. Let’s go find out what’s going on.”

  She inched behind me and grabbed a handful of my cotton T-shirt. “I have one more thing to tell you.”

  “In a minute.” I swung open the door. “No comment, MacAvoy.”

  Only it wasn’t the nosey reporter.

  It was two tall, plainclothes cops who blocked our exit. “Ma’am, Laguna Hills Police.”

  “I lost your Granny’s brooch,” Betty confessed at the same time as a cool blond police officer showed me her badge.

  I don’t know how long I stood there, door open, mouth open, gaze bouncing between Callum MacAvoy, the two cops, and Betty.

  In the end, Betty won my attention first. “Did you just say you lost my brooch?” Yes, that came out a wee higher pitched than was comfortable.

  “I stol—” Betty eyed our unexpected guest. “I retrieved it from your cousin. I wanted to surprise you with it here. Don’t you worry. I’m on the case. I’ll find it. It’s got to be around here somewhere.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand. Why did you have it?”

  “I hate to interrupt this riveting admission of carelessness, but we’re here to investigate a murder,” the female officer said, all business. “I’m Detective Lucy Finn, and this is my partner, Detective Thomas Lark. May we come inside? We’d like to ask you both a few questions.”

  Who decreed all homicide detectives were devoid of charm and good humor? I nudged Betty with my elbow to back up and give me room to allow the officers inside. “We’ll talk later,” I whispered to her. She had some explaining to do.

  A smidge of satisfaction warmed my heart when the frumpy male detective shut the door on MacAvoy, denying him entrance. Did Mr. TV really think he could waltz inside and listen to them question us?

  I led them toward the living area and offered them a recliner. Betty kicked Raider off the couch and we sat side by side. Raider trotted to the king-sized bed at the back end of the rig and made himself at home.

  Detective Lark pulled a brown notebook from the inside of his wrinkled suit jacket. He mumbled to Detective Finn. She rolled her eyes, reached inside her perfectly pressed blue blazer, and handed him a pen.

  “I want it back.”

  He snatched it from her with a sullen, “Yeah, yeah.” He flipped the pages of his notebook quickly.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the envelope meant for Addison on the table. My heart raced. I willed myself to not draw attention to it.

  Finn nodded toward Missy. “Whose dog?”

  “Mine,” I said.

  “The Saint Bernard in the back is mine,” Betty said proudly.

  “Which one of you is Betty Foxx?” Lark asked without looking up from his notes.

  Betty raised her hand like she was in grade school. “That’s me.”

  “You found the victim?”

  “Sure did. Nasty business finding dead bodies.”

  That made him look up mid-scribble. He rubbed his scruffy jaw. “What were you doing at the spa?”

  “Cookie and I were going to get a massage. I stopped by to get available times.” She rested her bony elbows on her knees, bending forward for a closer look at the detective. Lord only knew what she was about to say next. “You know, I bet if you told them you were a cop, they’d fit you in for a shave. I got twenty bucks that says you’re a good-looking guy under those gray whiskers.”

  I coughed back my laugh. I swear Detective Finn snickered, but her lips never moved.

  Lark loosened his retro floral tie until it hung a good three inches below his Adam’s apple. “Everybody wants Rick Castle—until there’s a real dead body stinking up the neighborhood. Back to real life, Grandma. Did you make an appointment?”

  “You’re a prickly one. I like that, so I won’t hold it against you.”

  His face remained stoic. “Gee, thanks. Can you answer the question?”

  “The place was empty. Except for the dead pet chef. Did she really die from the fork? That doesn’t seem possible. Once, we found a drag-queen-plastic-surgeon strangled with a dog leash in front of our pet boutique. Maybe the pet chef was strangled first, and then the killer stuck her with the fork. Ya know, since she’s a chef.”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. When Betty got like this, there was no stopping her. The best you could hope for was to slow her down or maybe detour the conversation. As for the story she was currently spinning, Betty hadn’t found Dr. O’Doggle. My best friend, Darby, and I had stumbled across him. But to correct her would only encourage her to continue.

  He had either tuned her out or had ignored her as a batty grandma spinning stories. “Did you touch anything?”

  “No, sirree. We’ve seen enough dead bodies to know to never disrupt the crime scene. That makes people like you even crankier.”

  I shot Betty a look to stop offering information.

  Lark lowered his notebook and raised his brows. He was paying attention now. “How many crime scenes have you seen?”

  Either she didn’t get what I was silently communicating, or she didn’t care. I’m pretty sure it was the latter. Betty just kept on flapping her lips. “This is my second. But Cookie here, she’s seen th—” I kicked her with the side of my foot. “What’d you do that for?” she squeaked.

  “I can speak for myself.” I didn’t need Betty throwing me under the bus in her attempt to be helpful. I already had my own issues, thank you very much.

  The detectives looked at each other. Finn stood, pointed her long index finger at me. “How about you and I talk outside?”

  Sure, that sounded like a question, but I knew from experience with Malone, it was an order. Wonderful. Who knew what Betty would say once she was alone with Lark? I told Missy to stay, and then followed Finn to the front of the RV.

  She opened the door, ramming it into MacAvoy’s shoulder. “I thought I told you to leave.”

  “No, you never said I had to go. Callum MacAvoy, Channel 5 News.” He held out his hand. Announcing where he worked was unnecessary; the station logo was sewn on his blue polo shirt.

  “Beat it.” She pushed past him without a second glance.

  He stepped in front of me. “I want to talk to Betty.”

  I stepped out of the RV, closing the door behind me. “She’s busy.” I skirted past him and rushed to catch up to Finn.

  Mr. TV kept step with me. “What about you?”

  I cut him with a get-real look. “No time.”

  The detective stopped and spun around, the grass squ
eaking under her boot. “Scram.”

  MacAvoy blinked rapidly. “Excuse me?”

  She pushed back her blazer, shoving her hands on her wide hips, revealing her badge and firearm. “We don’t give interviews to the media. If we have information to share, we’ll hold a press conference. Now beat it before I call over one of my bored officers and give him something to do.”

  Malone’s dislike of the media couldn’t compare to Finn’s. MacAvoy opened his mouth but must have thought better about what he wanted to say. He snapped his mouth closed. With a curt nod, he slinked away.

  He’d be back like a bad rash. There was no question about it.

  Finn led us up the stone pathway to the headquarters tent. I paused at the threshold. The area had unmistakably been transformed into a temporary police command center. I recognized the investigative crime scene tool box and supplies strewn across the large tables against the sidewalls. The same equipment used by Laguna Beach’s finest. A handful of uniformed officers huddled together, their low murmurs carrying a sense of gravity.

  Finn pointed to a small makeshift desk at the back of the tent. Heads turned as we made our way through the area. I worried what type of reputation she had with her co-workers that she commanded their attention so easily.

  She pulled out a creaky wooden chair and motioned for me to sit. She positioned herself directly across from me, leaned against the desk, and crossed her arms, her face unreadable, her tone neutral. “What’s your name?”

  “Melinda Langston.”

  “How did you know the victim?”

  “She’s new to Laguna Beach. I’ve been helping her plug into the community.”

  Her gaze locked on mine like she suspected me of lying. “You’re the one who got her the job.”

  I willed myself to hold still and not squirm like an ant under a magnifying glass on a sunny day. Any move I’d make, the loose-jointed chair would give me away. “I recommended her for the job,” I corrected.

  “How long have you known each other?”

  I shrugged. “A couple of months maybe.”

  “Why’d you recommend her?”

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “If you’ve only known her for six or eight weeks, why would you recommend her for a job?

  “I—ah—I . . . she asked me to?” Anyone who knew me at all knew that was an excuse, not a reason.

  Finn studied me with an intensity that should have been reserved for those who committed heinous crimes. The thought that she might think I fit into that category made my chest tighten. I forced air into my lungs.

  “Do you do everything people ask you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “But you did this time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you also responsible for getting the original chef fired?”

  “What?” My legs twitched, and the chair moaned underneath me.

  Someone had been fired because of me? Who? When? Before I could fully process that bombshell, Detective Finn continued her rapid-fire questioning. “Did Mrs. Foxx have anything to do with the murder of the victim?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She liked her. She didn’t have any reason to hurt Addison.”

  “Did you like her?”

  “Not really.”

  “But you ‘recommended’ her for the job. Someone you didn’t like?”

  I sighed. “Yes. Liking someone doesn’t factor into if they’re good at what they do. Addison is—was—a good chef.”

  “Do you know anyone who’d want to kill her?”

  Her sous-chef came to mind, but I wasn’t in any position to throw stones. “Like I said, I didn’t really know her all that long.”

  “Right. Just long enough to get her the job here, resulting in the original chef, Pepper Maddox, being fired. Do you have reason to want the victim dead?”

  Pepper Maddox. The name sounded familiar. Wait, what did she ask me? “What did you say?”

  The tension was broken by a commotion behind us. For the first time since she started questioning me, Finn broke eye contact and looked over my shoulder toward the front of the tent where the hostile voice came from. Curious, I turned around to see what the hubbub was all about. That was a mistake.

  “That’s her!” It was the tattooed sous-chef, Redmond, shouting to a couple of uniformed officers. And he was pointing at me. “She’s the one who argued with Addison just before she was murdered.”

  I whipped around and looked at Finn. That gawdawful look was back. She pushed away from the desk, straightening to her full height, and looked down at me. “I’ll ask you again. Did you have a reason to want her dead?”

  I swallowed hard and lied. “No.”

  The lies just kept coming and coming.

  Eventually, I’d pay for them.

  Chapter Six

  I’VE ALWAYS LIVED my life as an open book. I’m impulsive, curious, and loyal to a fault. Often, my snap decisions don’t necessarily work out in my favor, but I’ve always owned up to my mistakes. If I were to psychoanalyze myself, that’s probably why I’ve detested liars and people who keep secrets.

  Now I’m one of those people I’ve chastised for their refusal to tell the truth. The irony wasn’t lost on me. It was possible I’d harshly judged others when I should have given them the benefit of the doubt. Well, maybe just the secret-keepers. The liars were liars. Enough said.

  Detective Finn had dismissed me with the order to stick around camp when she realized I wasn’t going to divulge useful information. Not that this was the first time I’d ever been told to not leave town. On the bright side, Finn didn’t threaten to throw me in jail. Yet. Detective Malone liked to dangle that temporary housing situation over my head at least once every two or three months. Along with telling me to stop sticking my nose in his murder investigations. Blah, blah, blah.

  When it came to Addison’s untimely death, the truth of the matter was, what I did know would reflect negatively on me. The knot in my stomach tightened as I realized I was probably a suspect in Finn’s murder investigation.

  I left the interview with two thoughts: get those letters before the police found them in Addison’s personal effects, and talk to Betty about the brooch. I returned to the RV to find Betty and Raider gone. I breathed a sigh of relief to see my envelope on the kitchen table. I tucked it away in my bag. I wondered if the cookbook would still go to publication since Addison was no longer alive.

  Betty had propped a note on the dining table to let me know she went to look for the brooch. I couldn’t begin to wrap my mind around how Betty might have outfoxed my conniving cousin. Caro and I had been stealing the heirloom from each other for years. She was a master at locking it up and guarding it with her life. I was usually a master at finding a way to retrieve it. When had my feisty assistant managed to nab the brooch?

  With Betty out looking for the pin, I turned my attention to finding Addison’s sleeping quarters and retrieving my mother’s letters. I pulled on a ball cap and my favorite Dior sunglasses. I put Missy on her leash and took her outside for a short walk to do her business while I asked around about where Addison had been staying.

  I was a little taken aback at the hushed conversations and stares as Missy and I walked by. I waved at an older couple with a bouncy Pom on a pink leash. They ducked their heads, pretending they didn’t see me. Dang. Betty may have been on to something. Rumors in an RV community spread faster than a prairie fire with a tailwind.

  The spa was the closest activity tent to our RV. Using Missy’s need to explore as an excuse, I edged toward the entrance, hoping for a peek inside. No can do. Yellow crime scene tape restricted access for unauthorized persons. That would be me.

  Missy sniffed a row of tree trunks next to the window. I drifted alo
ng, eavesdropping on the two officers standing guard at the spa doorway. Unfortunately, they were talking about the Guns ’n Hoses softball charity event next week.

  Missy tugged on her leash, ready to move on. I leaned down and patted her head. “Sorry, girl,” I whispered.

  I was about to walk away when one officer said, “Did they find the dog?”

  His partner grunted. “Not yet. If I was in charge, I’d line up all the dogs and check their paws for blood. But hey, I’m just a uniformed cop. What do I know?” He punctuated the last part by thumbing his chest.

  It sounded like there were bloody paw prints at the crime scene. Did that mean the killer had a dog? Was that why Finn was asking about our dogs? My heart sank. At some point, Raider and Missy had been lost. Who knew where they went or what they’d gotten into?

  I looked down at Missy. At first glance, her paws didn’t look bloody. The minute we were back in the privacy of our motorhome, I’d give her a thorough once-over.

  The two cops resumed their talk about which baseball team was better; the Dodgers or the Giants. I scoffed silently. Everyone knew the Texas Rangers were the best. While they argued good-naturedly, I took the opportunity to bug out before we were noticed.

  Head down, I turned, and smacked into Hudson. Hard. His fedora and my ball cap fell to the grass. My sunglasses smashed into the bridge of my nose, making my eyes water. I bobbled my sunglasses as I steadied myself after almost tripping over Missy.

  Shoot. Why did I have to literally run into the one person other than Betty who knew I was going to meet Addison today? Had he ratted me out to Finn and Lark?

  We both apologized for knocking into each other as we reached for our hats. I quickly slipped my glasses back on and shoved my cap on my head. I wasn’t normally one to tuck tail and run, but I needed to concentrate on Addison’s sleeping arrangements, not hang around to possibly be questioned about a meeting with Addison.

  I mumbled a quick good-bye and led Missy away.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” he called out.

  I pretended I hadn’t heard him and continued toward the firepit where dinner was supposed to be served in a few hours. I hoped the sous-chef might be there prepping for dinner. Surely he’d know where his boss had been staying.