Trigger Yappy

by Diana Orgain

  I laughed. “I can imagine. How are you feeling?” I pulled the green upholstered chair from underneath the window and pushed it toward her bed.

  “I’m feeling a lot better. I hope they’ll let me go home today.”

  I knew that was doubtful. Usually hospitals release patients in the morning and it was already mid-afternoon, but I didn’t want to ruin her mood. Instead, I said, “I brought your laptop.”

  “Thank you,” she said, then all of a sudden her face clouded over. “Maggie! Your cruise!”

  “Yeah, it left this morning.”

  Rachel’s face tightened and her eyes welled up with tears. “I’m so sorry. I feel like I keep messing things up for you.”

  I squeezed her hand. “It’s okay, Rach. I spoke with the hiring manager. There’s a cruise next month that I can start on.”

  Rachel’s face brightened. “I’m so glad!”

  I thought of Ronnie and the fact that Rachel hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with me about her love life. Just recently, she’d run off with a man I’d never met before to Vegas to elope, but things hadn’t worked out for them. I wanted my sister to trust me, to feel she could confide in me about anything.

  “I saw Ronnie today. He’s very nice,” I said.

  Rachel smiled shyly. “Isn’t he? Where did you see him?”

  “Yolanda and I drove out to his farm.”

  Confusion splashed across Rachel’s delicate features, a small line creasing her otherwise smooth forehead. “Why?”

  “How do you think you got the salmonella poisoning?” I asked.

  “Not from Ronnie!” Rachel suddenly became defensive. “The nurse thinks I got it from a frozen dinner that got contaminated.”

  “Is that so? I didn’t think you could get it like that.”

  That would definitely put Ronnie and his chicken farm in the clear.

  Which was a good thing, Ronnie was a much better match for Rachel than the last guy she’d dated.

  “Rachel, there’s something we need to talk about,” I said.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about him sooner,” she said in a rush. “I didn’t know if it was serious or not. We’ve only gone out on a couple dates, you know, but I think he’s super.”

  “It’s not about Ronnie,” I said. “Although, I’m glad you’re not ready to sneak off and elope!”

  Rachel smiled. “Not yet.”

  I pushed on her shoulder. “You better not even think about it. When you’re ready to get hitched we’ll have a big shindig for you at the Wine and Bark.”

  Rachel giggled. “I don’t know that dogs and chickens get along.”

  “Some do,” I said. We laughed for a moment, but then I turned serious enough that Rachel grabbed my hand.

  I told her about Fran and Rachel gasped, then covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Murdered?” she asked.

  “Yes. She was shot and killed on Friday night or Saturday morning anyway … Yolanda and I found her at her store yesterday. Brad and Ellington are investigating,” I said.

  “I can’t believe it!” Rachel said. “I just saw her the other day. She was going on and on about a huge fight she’d had.”

  “Fight? Fight with who? Cornelia?” I asked.

  Rachel shook her head. “No. Geraldine.”

  “Geraldine? Weren’t they good friends?”

  Rachel nodded. “As far as I know they were, but I know Geraldine was very upset with her.”

  “What did they fight about?” I asked.

  Rachel shrugged. “I don’t know. You should ask Geraldine.”

  “I will,” I said. “What about Cornelia? She seems too desperate to get a job somewhere else.” I dug into my bag and pulled out Rachel’s laptop along with the printed e-mail chain.

  Rachel stroked the laptop longingly. “Uh … I don’t think I have the energy for this now. Can you put it over there?” She motioned to the top of a counter that ran alongside the wall. Then Rachel laid back on the bed and pulled the sheet up under her chin. “Yeah, Cornelia and Fran hadn’t been getting along lately, either. But I think it was just one of those things. Cornelia had a lot of ideas and Fran wasn’t ready to let her run with them. Or worse, she took them and then never gave Cornelia any credit.”

  “What about Ronnie?” I asked.

  Rachel squinted at me. “What about him? He’s not a murderer, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “You’re his alibi?” I asked.

  Rachel half shrugged. “Let’s just say his whereabouts are accounted for.”

  “What about Hendrick?” I asked.

  “I only know they went out for a long time, years.” Rachel said. “He seems very nice. Did you do the wine tasting?”

  “I did. I also bought several cases for the Wine and Bark.”

  Rachel clapped her hands together in childlike delight. “I’m so glad. His winery is the next up-and-coming thing. Plus, I think the editor of Doggie Day will really dig their wine, being that the vineyard is wind powered and all. She’s really into eco-friendly businesses.”

  I tried not to cringe. I knew what was coming next.

  “So about the meeting with the editor: Why is she coming back on Tuesday?”

  Nerves fluttered through my stomach, telling her about the flop with Vrishali was going to be harder than telling her about Fran and even worse would be telling her about the Kitty Corner opening up down the street. Rachel’s face darkened as she watched me.

  “Well…” I hedged. “She is going to come back. Give us another opportunity.”

  Rachel’s face brightened, but only for a moment. “That’s great. I’m sure I’ll be out of the hospital soon. I really want to meet her. Put the Wine and Bark on the map.”

  I nodded. “Right. There’s a few things we need to take care of before then. Curtains, a couch…”

  Rachel’s mouth twisted in concern. “Curtains and a couch? We can’t have that sort of stuff. The couch would be full of dog hair in a minute! And draperies! They can be pricey. The dogs would ruin them…” She shook her head. “I don’t think we could even get them installed in time.” Rachel’s face paled, and she added, “Can you pass me the tub over there? I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I caught a cab from the hospital and found myself repeatedly looking out the back window for that ominous black van.

  Was it Darla following Yolanda and me in that black van? If so, why?

  I’d wanted to take a quick nap before heading out to meet Brad, but one glance at my watch told me I’d have to shower quickly and get ready post-haste if I had any chance of being on time.

  I ran up the stairs and shoved my key into the door. Racing through my apartment, I mentally inventoried my wardrobe. Brad was taking me to The Best Catch, which was the fancy local seafood restaurant. Did I have anything swanky enough for The Best Catch?

  Fingering the dresses in my closet, I decided on my white-and-navy embroidered dress. It had an ornate neckline that was decorated with intricate lace, and a full, tulle-lined skirt. It seemed perfect for dinner this evening. Elegant yet modern and playful enough that hopefully Brad wouldn’t consider me too stuffy.

  I wandering over to the bathroom and started the hot water. Just then, I thought I heard a scratching or rasping at the front door. I turned off the water and padded down my hallway, calling, “Coming!”

  I opened the door, but no one was there. A chill zipped up my spine.

  Did I imagine a noise?

  I shrugged off the chill and beelined to the bathroom. If I didn’t get a move on, Brad would be waiting. I quickly turned on the hot water again, stripped, and dove into the shower. I shampooed and threw in a little cream rinse for good measure. Suddenly a loud bang shook the apartment. What the heck was going on?

  Were the hot water pipes about to burst?

  I moved out of the way of the stream of the shower and turned off the hot water. The pipes shuddered loudly. Then, as soon as the hot wat
er dwindled to a tepid stream, the pipes were silenced. I strained to listen and heard no further noise, but my hair was full of deep conditioner that needed to be rinsed. I’d rather suffer the dreadful noise than be victim of a cold water rinse. I fearlessly turned the hot water back on and quickly finished my hair.

  The pipes rattled so loudly that I was relieved to turn off the water, only to realize the noise persisted. My throat went dry and my heart hammered in chest. There was a shuffling sound coming from my bedroom.

  Someone is in my apartment!

  I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my body. My cell phone was in my bedroom. What was I supposed to do?

  In a panic, I yelled out, “Brad? Is that you, Officer? You’re right on time, I’m sorry I’m running late!”

  Whoever was in my bedroom kicked it into overdrive. It sounded as if a raccoon had been let loose in the hallway as they dashed out my front door.

  I tore out of the bathroom and scrambled for my phone, preparing to give chase. I stopped cold when I saw the note on my bed. In big, loopy handwriting were the words: STOP asking questions or you’ll end up like Fran.

  I took a deep breath, hoping to slow my racing heart. Jamming my arms into the sleeves of my robe I sprinted over to the window, catching a glimpse of my street. There were a few people walking, a couple arm-in-arm, a mother pushing a stroller, and a man rushing toward the corner.

  Could that have been the man in my house?

  I looked again at the note. The handwriting seemed like it belonged to a woman to me, but it could have been a man. It could have been from a man wearing size twelve work boots.

  I glanced out the window again, but the man was gone. What footwear had he had on?

  I hadn’t noticed. Some detective I was.

  I checked the rest of my apartment. My front door was open, and a few pillows had been tossed around and the books from my bookcase were upended. Other than that, nothing seemed to be missing. He’d been looking for something? What?

  I paced up and down my small hallway racking my brain. Who could have left me that note?

  Fran’s murderer?

  What did I know about the killer? A man, who wore size twelve work boots, at least according to Yolanda. Could it have be Ronnie or Hendrick? What about her current boyfriend? Out of habit, I reached for my journal, to jot down some notes. My heart constricted as I realized the nightstand next to my bed was empty.

  My journal is gone!

  Whoever had just been in my apartment had taken my journal. Nausea threatened. I’d been keeping a journal since I was a child. In there, I’d recorded my dreams, my fears, my worries, anything that occurred to me really. I either wrote it down or sketched it out.

  Ever since I’d started getting panic attacks in New York, I’d been more regular about writing or sketching and it seemed to quell my fears. Now, anxiety crept under my skin, like an insidious creature that had been waiting for an opportune moment. I’d been using the Moleskine journal that’d been taken for a few months. It was almost complete, but now it was gone.

  In the hands of a stranger or, worse, a killer.

  I felt violated. It was the thought of someone else reading my notes and seeing my doodles, which weren’t meant for sharing, that made my stomach feel as if I’d eaten a ton of bricks.

  I sat heavily on the bed and rubbed at my temples. Competing priorities filled my head. I had to get ready for dinner, but at the same time I had to figure out who could have done this. I know for certain I shouldn’t tell Brad. He’d be angry to know I’d gone against his instructions and had been looking for answers to a crime he was supposed to solve.

  My phone buzzed in the palm of my hand and without thinking I pressed the green answer button.

  “Hey there, beautiful,” Gus’s voice filled the line. “I didn’t think I’d get you live. Where are you? First port yet? What it is, San Diego?”

  My shoulders relaxed just hearing his voice. “Hi, Gus! How are your auditions going?”

  “I made the first round.”

  “Woo-hoo! I knew you would. I’m so proud of you.”

  He laughed and I could feel his energy through the phone. “We’re going to tape show number one tomorrow, but the judging round will be live on Tuesday. Viewers call in and save the chef of their choice if they’re in the crisper.”

  “I’m sure you don’t have to worry about that,” I said.

  “I don’t know. The competition is pretty stiff. They only give you a few ingredients. You have to barter and stuff to get spices,” he paused. “You have to be a real people person, I think. You know, it’s not all about cooking.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “You are a people person, Gus. You’re going to do fine.”

  “If I land in the crisper, do you think you can call in, Maggie? Tuesday at five P.M. your time. I don’t know where you’ll be. Will you guys be at a port? Will you have reception?”

  Anxiety replied through me. “I’m not on the cruise, Gus.”

  “What?” he asked. “What happened?”

  “Long story. But part of it is, Rachel’s in the hospital with salmonella poisoning.”

  “Oh, no!” he said. “How’d she get it?”

  “We don’t know yet. She started dating this guy, Ronnie, he’s a poultry farmer—”

  “I know Ronnie,” Gus interrupted. “Nice guy. You don’t think he’s responsible, right?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Nah,” Gus said. “There’s no way. I buy all my poultry from him. His farm is tops on sanitation. Anyway, it’s not likely he was feeding her any raw chicken or eggs or anything. I bet she most likely got it from a commercial product that’s been recalled.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “Good to know you trust Ronnie.”

  “I do,” Gus said. “Tell Rachel I hope she recovers fast.”

  “I will,” I said. “So about Tuesday—yes, absolutely. I’ll be at the Wine and Bark on Tuesday. We’ll all watch. I’ll have the whole crew call in and save you, Gus. If it comes down to it.”

  “Ah, Mags, you’re … you’re the best.” He sighed loudly, then his voice came back lower and thick. “I miss you, Maggie.”

  My blood fizzed and before I could stop myself, I whispered. “I miss you, too, Gus.”

  And I did. I suddenly missed him so bad it hurt. I wanted to tell him about Fran, about someone nearly running us off the road earlier, about someone breaking into my apartment.

  I glanced at the clock. I was late. I knew I should hang up and get ready, but instead, I squeaked out. “Something’s happened, Gus. I found that terrible woman Fran dead.”

  “Fran? The chicken hat lady?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Oh my God! That’s awful. Are you alright?” he asked.

  “I’m alright,” I said.

  “I guess Geraldine finally snapped, huh?”

  Shock buzzed through me. Rachel had said they’d recently had a fight, but how would Gus know about that? “Why would you think it was Geraldine? I thought they were besties.”

  Gus was silent for a moment. “They had a feud going way back. It was around the time one of Geraldine’s show poodles chewed through some of Fran’s chicken hat merchandise, or something like that. Anyway, they told everyone they buried the hatchet, but Geraldine carries grudges. Just ask Yolanda.”

  * * *

  My navy-and-white embroidered dress fit like a dream, for which I was grateful, considering I was about to have another panic attack. The Best Catch was walking distance from my house. Most things in downtown Pacific Cove were. I clicked along the cobblestone path, around the fountain in the center of the town square, and toward the restaurant, with thoughts of murder and break-ins on my mind.

  I vowed not to share any of the day’s adventures with Brad. Tonight would be just about him and me getting to know each other better. He was a very nice man, and so far seemed interested in dating me. And while I’d never dated two men at the same time before, I didn’t
want to say or do anything that would jeopardize Brad’s affection.

  Standing at attention at the front door of The Best Catch was a doorman. He nodded at me as he held the door open. I walked into the lobby fighting the jitters that the butterflies in my tummy were causing. Then, I noticed something odd. Standing in front of me at the hostess podium was Sergeant Gottlieb.

  Uh-oh!

  Were Yolanda and the sergeant having dinner at the same restaurant as Brad and me?

  Sergeant Gottlieb smiled warmly at me. “Hello, Maggie. I think you and I are the first to arrive.”

  First to arrive?

  “Although,” he continued, “it’s not entirely surprising. I’m sure Yolanda takes her time getting ready.”

  I was dumbfounded. What did he mean “first to arrive”? Was this a double date? How had I not realized that?

  He took my elbow and guided me over to the bar. “We can wait here. You look lovely, by the way. What would you like to drink?”

  My tongue was suddenly thick and I found it difficult to speak. “Chardonnay,” I finally squeaked.

  He motioned over the bartender, just as the front door flew open and Brad stepped in. He was dressed in a blue suit that almost took my breath away. A teasing smile played on his face as he joined us. “Maggie!” He kissed both my cheeks. “You look beautiful.” Before I could speak he gave a resounding thump to Gottlieb’s shoulder. “Sarge!”

  The bartender placed two bottles of beer in front of us and poured my Chardonnay. Gottlieb handed Brad a beer and said, “I think Yolanda may be a while.”

  Brad nodded his understanding and took a swig of beer. “How was your day, Mags? Quiet?” He flashed me a look that I couldn’t quite read, but if I was a wagering soul, like my Grunkly, I’d bet he was warning me not to discuss Fran’s murder.

  Gottlieb was his superior, after all, and Brad wasn’t supposed to discuss official matters with civilians.

  “I went to visit Rachel in the hospital,” I said. “I don’t know that’s she getting any better, though. She was pretty sick when I left.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Gottlieb said. He punctuated the sentence by pursing his lips, which made his bushy mustache wiggle. For some insane reason I found it hard not to laugh, and I choked on my wine.