The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  Her heart was slamming in her chest and her hands shook so hard she had trouble locking the Pupmobile. She plastered a smile on her face and walked into the shop holding the whimpering Prince. Jeff was in the back room eating a pot-roast sandwich and drinking an orange soda. Helen realized she hadn’t had any lunch.

  “Well, you took long enough,” Jeff said. “Traffic bad this afternoon?”

  “The worst,” Helen said. “Plus I got stopped for a drawbridge over the Intracoastal and a train on the Dixie Highway.”

  Helen was amazed how easily she could lie.

  “All that, and I couldn’t deliver Prince. Tammie didn’t answer her door. I rang the doorbell and knocked until my knuckles were raw.”

  “She was probably passed out drunk,” Jeff said, and shrugged. “Unless she forgot. That woman is such an airhead. Don’t worry. I’ll charge her a boarding fee for Prince. What was she thinking, abandoning that poor dog? Listen how upset he is.”

  Jeff peeked inside the carrier and said, “Don’t you worry, guy. We’ll take care of you.” He fed the Yorkie pot roast from his sandwich. Prince licked Jeff’s fingers greedily. Helen looked hungrily at the remains of the sandwich, but Jeff didn’t notice.

  The phone rang. Jeff set his sandwich next to a pile of lamb-lung treats. Helen lost all taste for pot roast.

  “Francis,” he said, smiling into the phone. “Yes, Barkley is ready. Of course you can pick her up early. You’ll be right over? Terrific.”

  Helen went back to the cage room to get Barkley. The little labradoodle was irresistible. Her chocolate-brown eyes melted with love. Her tail wagged with delight. No wonder she’d snagged the Davis department stores contract. Helen wanted to pick up the pup and hug her.

  Her master, Francis Barclay, was at the grooming shop in two shakes of a Rolex. Jeff was busy with customers on the boutique side when the most anonymous man Helen had ever seen came into the shop.

  “Francis Barclay,” he said. He gave her a thin smile. There was something dislikeable about it. “Here for the dog.”

  Francis’s hair was the color of dead grass. He had a small, straight nose, thin lips, and beige eyes. Helen couldn’t remember if she’d met him before or not. There was nothing about him to remember, except maybe his knobby knees. Some men shouldn’t wear shorts.

  While Francis paid for Barkley’s grooming visit, Helen tried to talk to him.

  “Barkley is irresistible,” she said. “No wonder she has that big contract. I’ve never seen such a lovable dog.”

  Francis grunted.

  “Would she like a treat?” Helen asked.

  “Is it free?” Francis said.

  What a cheapskate. “Of course,” Helen said. She stepped out from behind the counter to get a cheese-and-bacon biscuit. As she bent over the bin, she felt a hand brush her bottom. Was the touch accidental? Now the fingers cupped her rump. Yuck. The knobby-kneed nonentity was feeling her up.

  “Sorry,” he said, and looked her right in the eye.

  Helen stepped back, stomping hard on Francis’s foot. “Oops,” she said. “You startled me. I didn’t mean to do that, any more than you meant to touch me.”

  “Of course,” he said with the same insincerity. He was still standing too close. She could feel his hot, damp breath.

  Helen backed farther away. How could any woman marry this creep? she thought. He couldn’t even hit on her like an adult. He almost wasn’t there, except for his knobby knees and roving hands. Even his clothes were anonymous. He wore khaki shorts and a blue polo shirt. He looked like someone she’d just seen.

  But Francis was special to Barkley. The curly-haired pup gave a joyful bark when she saw her owner and licked his chin. Francis didn’t even give her a pat.

  Some dogs don’t deserve their people, Helen thought.

  Francis was out the door without a good-bye, Barkley slung under his arm like a sack of laundry.

  Jonathon stuck his head out the grooming room door. “Any customers?” he asked. “I want a soda.” Jonathon didn’t like to be in the store when there were shoppers. Helen thought it was part of his mystique. She could see Todd peeking out behind him, still sulky. If the boy groomer was smart, he wouldn’t get too close to Jonathon.

  “The coast is clear, but I can’t promise for how long on a Saturday,” she said.

  Jonathon zipped into the back room and came out with a frosty bottle. “What’s the matter, Helen? You look upset.”

  “That creepy Francis Barclay felt me up,” Helen said.

  “Want me to neuter him next time he’s in?” Jonathon said.

  “Thanks, but I ‘accidentally’ stepped on his foot. He got the message,” Helen said.

  Jonathon laughed and slipped into the grooming room just as the doorbell rang. Todd was nowhere to be seen.

  Ten minutes later, Willoughby Barclay trotted into the Pampered Pet. She was almost as cute and curly as her dog. Even her shoes were lovable. Helen wished she could wear flowered flip-flops and not look like she was heading for the shower at summer camp.

  “Hi,” Willoughby said, all smiles. “I’m here to pick up Barkley.”

  “Your husband just got him,” Helen said.

  Willoughby turned white as a dog bone. “What? Francis was here? And you gave him my dog?”

  “Is something wrong?” Helen said.

  “Everything’s wrong,” Willoughby wailed. “I’m divorcing that jerk. We’re separated. I have temporary custody of Barkley.”

  “Divorce?” Jeff was there now, his face anxious. “You didn’t tell us you were divorcing, Mrs. Barclay.”

  “Yes, I did,” she said. “I called here today and talked with you. I said this was a sensitive subject and I didn’t want my personal life discussed in public and I wouldn’t mention it when I came in. You said you understood and you’d put the information in your computer.”

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t get a call like that,” Jeff said. “I would have remembered.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Willoughby said. She looked like she might bite.

  “There has to be some mistake,” Jeff said. “Are you sure you talked with me?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Francis has violated a court order. He’s kidnapped my dog. Call the police.”

  “The police?” Helen said. She felt the floor fall out from under her, and grabbed onto the counter.

  “Do you know what that dog is worth?” Willoughby said. “You gave him my dog. You’re an idiot. I’ll sue. I’ll haul you into court. I can’t believe you were so careless. I—”

  Willoughby kept raging, but the words no longer registered with Helen. She wanted to run. She wanted to hide. She wanted to rip off her face and find a new one. She was mixed up in kidnapping and murder. There was no way she could escape the police now. She was doomed.

  Willoughby had stopped yelling at Helen. Jeff was hovering nearby, looking like a concerned canine in a polo shirt. “Please, let’s talk this over.”

  He tried to calm her, but Willoughby ignored him, whipped out her cell phone, and called 911. Soon Helen could hear the police sirens.

  The dogs in the grooming room began to howl. Helen wanted to join them.

  CHAPTER 5

  Helen hated Detective Ted Brogers. She didn’t like most police on principle. But this was personal.

  Detective Brogers had a gold shield, but his real job was public relations. He had to please the rich residents of Wakefield Manor, a town grafted onto the north side of Fort Lauderdale. Wakefield Manor had historic charm by Florida standards. Real estate agents bragged that its houses were half a century old.

  So was Ted Brogers, but Helen found him short on charm. He should have been handsome with his gray-blue eyes and thick snow-white hair. He swaggered into the Pampered Pet gut-first. Helen decided it was a beer belly, not a doughnut gut. She bet he got it drinking in a bar that had a man’s name: Johnny’s, Bob’s, or Bill’s Hideaway.

  A bit of white dog fluff wafting on the air landed on his
navy suit. Helen had to restrain herself to keep from picking it off. The detective’s suit was well cut, but it didn’t quite fit him. The pants were a smidgen too short and the sleeves were a fraction too long. Helen wondered if he’d bought it at a resale shop. Brogers probably couldn’t afford custom tailoring on his salary, but he was shrewd enough to know rich people were offended by cheap suits. He knew everything that might upset the wealthy of Wakefield.

  The rich were temperamental as racehorses. They expected special treatment. A bigger city might send a uniformed officer for Willoughby’s call. Wakefield Manor sent a detective to hold the victim’s hand.

  Willoughby presented Detective Brogers with a dainty paw and smiled bravely. She was going to play the victim to the hilt. She was a man-pleasing combination of pink, pearls, and blond curls. Helen could see the detective calculating the price of Willoughby’s Kate Spade purse, designer clothes, and salon cut. Definitely someone to placate.

  “What seems to be the problem here?” the detective said. His face was broad and red as a slab of rare roast beef.

  “This person let my husband—my ex-husband, almost, we’re divorcing—steal my dog.”

  “I didn’t—” Helen said.

  “Let her finish,” Brogers said. Judging by his sharp tone, the detective had also added up the cost of Helen’s worn wardrobe and resoled shoes.

  “She gave my dog to Francis,” Willoughby said, pointing dramatically at Helen. “He’s my husband. She gave Barkley away without telling me. It’s so awful.” A tear glittered like a diamond in the corner of her eye. Helen wondered how Willoughby had mastered the art of ornamental crying. Helen’s nose always turned red and dripped.

  “It’s a very valuable dog, Detective Brogers, sir,” Willoughby said.

  Detective, sir? Oh, barf. Surely the detective was smart enough not to fall for that.

  Brogers’s chest swelled at this show of respect, and he gave Willoughby some of his vast worldly experience. “This happens a lot, mostly with cars and animals, when a couple is in the process of divorcing,” he said. “But unless a court has awarded you custody, then the dog is your hubby’s, too.”

  Hubby. Married to the little woman.

  “But I do have temporary custody,” Willoughby said. She looked up at him. “You’re the only one I can depend on, Detective. I certainly can’t count on her.” She glared at Helen.

  “I—” Helen said.

  Brogers ignored her.

  “What I can do is write out a civil complaint for you, Miss . . .” He paused.

  “Barclay,” she said. “Willoughby Barclay. I live in Wakefield Manor.” She sweetly let him know who paid his salary.

  “And I’m a Wakefield Manor businessperson,” Jeff spoke for the first time. “I’m terribly sorry this has happened, but we’re not responsible—”

  “You’re certainly not,” Willoughby said. “A responsible person would have never given my dog to Francis.”

  “Your husband often picks up the dog,” Jeff said.

  “Not since I threw that asshole out,” Willoughby said, forgetting she was supposed to be sweet and helpless. “I called you and told you we split.”

  “I never received such a call,” Jeff said.

  “OK, OK,” Brogers said. “Let’s settle down and talk one at a time.”

  The boutique doorbell rang. “Can I wait on my customers?” Jeff asked.

  Brogers waved him away. A manly detective had no interest in someone like Jeff.

  Jeff rushed to the boutique side, desperate to keep the customers away from the grooming room. A dog had disappeared while under his care. Helen knew Jeff must be frantic to keep this scandal quiet, but she still wished he hadn’t abandoned her. She hoped the new customers couldn’t hear what was going on. Industrial hair dryers were roaring. Water splashed in the washing tub. Bored caged dogs were barking themselves into frenzies, demanding their masters. Willoughby was weeping prettily.

  “Now,” Brogers said. “What happened, Mrs. Barclay?”

  “Call me Willoughby,” she said. She batted her tear-bright eyes. Helen noticed that Willoughby’s eyeliner didn’t run. How did she do that?

  “I took my dog Barkley in for her regular Saturday grooming with Jonathon. I always take her in about two. I was supposed to pick her up at five. But when I got here, this person had already given my dog to my husband.”

  “But—” Helen said.

  “I said, let her talk,” Brogers said.

  “You must help me.” Willoughby raised her eyes to the detective, like a Victorian maiden pleading for protection. “My dog is supposed to have a photo shoot in Miami tomorrow at ten. She’s the Davis department stores mascot. She can’t miss that shoot. They’ll cancel her contract. Do you know how much money I’ll lose? Thousands. Absolute thousands.” Helen thought she sounded more worried about her money than her dog.

  “Do you think your husband will take the dog to Miami himself?” Detective Brogers said.

  “No. Not now,” Willoughby said. “Not since I got temporary custody. He’s trying to ruin me. He’s been acting crazy ever since I filed for divorce. He’ll keep Barkley locked up somewhere. He could hurt my dog. He’ll do anything to get even with me.”

  Helen thought it would take a heartless human to harm Barkley. But Francis seemed colder than a Canadian winter. Barkley had begged for his attention, and he wouldn’t even give her a pat.

  “Are you sure it was your husband who took the dog and not someone else? A kidnapper maybe?” Detective Brogers said.

  “I’m positive,” Willoughby said firmly.

  Helen wasn’t. She’d only seen Francis once before, when he was with the charismatic Barkley. There was no other reason to notice the man. All she could say was he had roving hands. And he’d mumbled his name, like he wasn’t sure how to pronounce it. Helen had a sudden horrible thought. Maybe the detective was right, and a kidnapper had taken Barkley for ransom. Oh, God. Would he cut off the pup’s ear to show he meant business? Helen had a vision of a bloody pup ear in an envelope. Her stomach lurched. The little curly-haired pup had looked at her so trustingly, and Helen had carelessly betrayed that trust.

  “Are you going to take fingerprints?” Willoughby asked. She added five more to the grooming counter by putting her hand on it.

  Helen had wiped down the counter that morning, but since then thirty dog owners had left their prints on it, and thirty dogs had walked, shed, drooled, or, in the case of one elderly chihuahua, peed on the counter.

  “What’s to fingerprint?” Detective Brogers asked. Good point.

  “Someone on this staff knows something,” Willoughby said, staring at Helen. “I made that call, no matter what that Jeff person said. I told them not to give my dog to Francis, and she deliberately gave it away. He bribed her. I know he did.”

  “He did not!” Helen was furious. But Willoughby’s anger seemed righteous. Helen was sure the woman had called the store. A man answered the store’s phone and—either by accident or on purpose—did not enter the vital information in the computer. It couldn’t be Jeff. He’d never jeopardize his business. It had to be Todd or Jonathon. Did they forget the call in the drama of the morning? Or did someone want to punish Jeff by driving away his most important client?

  “You need to get to the bottom of this,” Willoughby said. At the word “bottom,” Helen felt Francis’s hand again, groping her.

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll interrogate the staff,” Detective Brogers said. He pointed to Helen. “We’ll start with you. Step into the back room.” Brogers wasn’t wasting any charm on a poor nonresident of Wakefield Manor. “Please wait here, Willoughby,” he said, and gave her a toothy smile.

  Todd was at the bathtub cleaning a poodle’s anal glands when Brogers walked through the grooming-room curtains. The detective turned slightly green and made a U-turn back into the shop. “And I thought crime scenes were bad,” he said.

  “Groomers earn their money,” Helen said. “We can talk in
the stockroom. It’s quiet there.” She’d keep him away from the lamb lungs.

  In the stockroom, Brogers took the only seat, the tall stool next to Jeff’s pot-roast sandwich. Helen dropped a towel over the lamb lungs. Lulu strolled in after them. Now she was wearing a rhinestone collar and a hot-pink feather boa. Her nails were fuchsia. On anyone else the outfit would have been overdone, but Lulu looked like a countess.

  “Whose little girl are you?” Brogers asked, and bent down to scratch her ears. The detective toadied to any resident of Wakefield, even the ones who weren’t human. Lulu wagged her tail and stared soulfully at Brogers. She could teach Willoughby a few lessons when it came to flirting.

  The detective wasn’t nearly as kind to Helen. He hit her with rapid-fire questions: “Who brought the dog in?”

  “Willoughby,” Helen said. “Mrs. Barclay.”

  “And the husband picked it up?”

  “Yes,” Helen said.

  “Is that normal?” Brogers said.

  “I don’t know if it’s normal, but he’s done it before.”

  “How often?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Helen said. “Often enough that Jeff knew the man’s voice.”

  “And the wife never complained before when her husband picked up the dog?”

  “No,” Helen said. She kept her answers short. The less she said, the less chance she had to trip herself up.

  “Do you know the husband?” Brogers said.

  “Not really,” Helen said. “I’ve only seen him once before.”

  “Did you talk to him on the phone today when he wanted to pick up the dog?”

  “No, my boss did. Francis called Jeff about four thirty and asked if the dog was ready. Jeff said he could pick up Barkley anytime. Francis was in the store two minutes later. He paid and left.”

  “Anything unusual about that?”

  “No,” Helen said. “People often call to see if their dogs are ready.”

  “Were you at the store all afternoon?” Detective Brogers said.

  “Most of it,” Helen said. “I had to go out for a dog pickup and return.”