by Arlene Kay
“But Perri will be alone,” Ella said, her voice quivering. “She might get scared in the dark.” Once he mentioned Poe and Keats, the little girl relaxed. In her world, two dogs were all the company anybody needed to feel safe. Pruett held Ella’s hand and, with Clara and Guinnie in tow, jogged toward Steady Eddie. I switched my flashlight on high beam and shone it over the surrounding area. The barren field stretched endlessly toward the Equine Pavilion, yielding no place for anyone to lurk. The grass was not fully saturated with snow, although it would soon be. I was quite alone under a star-filled sky with two ex-military dogs and a corpse for company.
Keats and Poe remained vigilant, settling into a down stay while awaiting my next command. To while away the time, I paced back and forth, trying to reconstruct the scene at the cocktail party and the participants. Had it only been an hour ago? Somehow it felt like another lifetime. In a flash, Lee Holmes had provoked his wife, a jealous ex-husband, and an unbalanced dog handler. No telling how many others loathed him, including the other owners, handlers, and show officials. No telling why a certain journalist was first on the scene either. It was nothing sinister—I felt confident of that. Pruett had probably wandered that way looking for me and Ella. The incident with Lee Holmes was a minor blip, nothing serious enough to provoke a murder. Surely the authorities would see it that way.
It wasn’t personal for me. I didn’t know the victim or care much about him, no matter what kind of sleazy suggestions he made about me. But the act of murder was an affront to all civilized people. The use of those pretty pink sheers added a garish touch, as if the murderer was playing a macabre prank, a contemptuous tweak to the deceased and everyone else as well. It smacked of premeditation and braggadocio, as if the killer were taunting us. “Aren’t I clever? Look what I did.”
No harm in trying to assess the scene, I told myself. The authorities might appreciate help from an astute observer like me. That was hogwash, and I knew it, but it was a comforting fiction. In the real world, police detested interference from any outsider. Civilians like me were meddlers from their point of view. Meddlers spelled nothing but trouble.
I studied the pretty pink grooming shears. They were probably a weapon of convenience, used in the heat of battle. There was another possibility as well. Was the killer avenging some crime connected with the poodle community? Lee moved in many dog show circles, and his wife was even better connected.
The curved blades of the weapon were extremely sharp, making it a most efficient device, one that would penetrate flesh easily. In this instance, someone had thrust those blades directly into Lee’s heart. From the amount of blood pooled around him, I guessed that the aorta had been punctured. Blood spatter would likely have drenched the culprit’s shoes and clothing. Unfortunately, the cops would have their hands full searching for evidence in the caravans, cars, and trucks that filled the parking area. Most show professionals wore plastic capes to preserve their clothing when grooming their charges. Plastic capes protected from fluids quite handily—even blood. They could also be disposed of rather easily, with nobody the wiser.
I was not fanciful, especially when accompanied by Keats and Poe. From our first encounter in a war zone, they had stood by my side, protecting and loving me. Still, when a sudden breeze swept through the tall grass, I shivered. What was that old saw: someone walking over my grave? Fortunately, in this instance, the grave belonged to Lee Holmes, not me. According to legend, Lee was a ladies’ man, lothario, roué, and all-around cad with a string of conquests to his credit. In my experience, jealousy, especially sexual jealousy, was a potent motive for revenge, and anyone—man or woman—could have done the deed. For the sake of convenience, many dog people carried the tools of their trade with them in pockets, purses, or satchels. Fancy shears were expensive, and experienced hands kept a weather eye on them. No one would think twice if a colleague had them on his or her person.
I peered at the murder weapon in case someone had scratched initials or other identifying marks into the blades. No such luck. With over 1,200 canines entered in the show, the list of human suspects was vast. Owners, handlers, vendors, and show officials would all be prime suspects. According to Whit Wiley, the victim was infamous in show circles for his sexual shenanigans. If there was any truth at all to the scene at the cocktail party, the character of the deceased left much to be desired. I hoped that Roy Vesco had a gold-plated alibi. Pruett and Rafa weren’t out of the woods either. Someone was certain to blab about that dustup to the police. Come to think of it, Babette might let it slip. She tended to babble uncontrollably during moments of stress.
Pruett was taking his own sweet time getting back. Probably calling his editor with the big scoop. It was in his blood, and he had the Pulitzers to prove it. I’d learned to live with it, not like it. Since he was Johnny on the spot, the authorities were sure to quiz him about his presence. I was rather curious about that myself.
I heard them before I saw them. Naturally, Keats and Poe were far ahead of me, straining toward the source of the sound, ears alert, svelte bodies readied for action. A posse composed of Pruett and two uniformed officers swinging large flashlights strode briskly toward us. Babette was probably hunkered down in Steady Eddie with Ella. Although she denied it, my pal dissolved when any type of physical confrontation involved blood. Total meltdown. She took to her bed with a case of the vapors when she got even a hangnail.
The Malinois growled a warning until I gave them the Fuss command—Schutzhund for “heel.” Like clockwork, they immediately hugged my left side and sat at attention.
The police officers approached warily, watching my dogs for any movement, resting their hands on their gun holsters. I didn’t blame them. They were young and probably unfamiliar with homicides. Pruett stayed right on their heels, pointing toward me, my dogs, and the victim.
“This is Persephone Morgan,” he said. “She’s a highly regarded leathersmith.” Neither cop seemed impressed by this information. They cautiously approached Lee’s body.
“Stand back,” the older one said to me and Pruett. “Don’t compromise the crime scene.” It sounded unnatural, as if he were reciting a line of bad dialogue from a B movie. More than likely, it was a by-product of television overload, the much-vaunted CSI effect.
I nodded and zipped my lip. Young guys tended to place emphasis on respect from civilians and reacted badly if they felt challenged. No need to antagonize either one of them. The older one, a muscular twentysomething, sported a thick mustache and a receding hairline that promised major male-pattern baldness in the future. His swagger suggested an ego problem and need to be in charge. His partner was a gangly youth with pale skin that still held a trace of adolescent acne. He hung back, allowing his partner to dictate terms. Naturally, the first question zeroed in on Lee Holmes and my knowledge of him.
I explained my brief acquaintance with Lee and his wife, without mentioning the fracas at the party. Call me elitist, but I knew that detectives would soon arrive to handle the case. Why waste time on rookies?
“What about you?” The older cop kept his hand on his holster and stood toe to toe with Pruett.
“I just met him tonight.” Pruett’s face had a suspiciously innocent look that didn’t fool me one bit. Something was definitely up.
“Detectives are on their way,” the younger cop said. “Sergeant Jansen. He’ll take your statement.” He rolled his eyes and smirked. “Crime scene techs too.”
“Any chance we could go back to our trailer until then,” Pruett asked. “It’s mighty cold out here. I’m worried about my daughter too. She’s only seven, and the shock . . .” He spread his hands out wide, using his most ingratiating smile and humble act. It didn’t fool me, but both police officers were satisfied.
The tall cop suddenly asserted himself, stepping directly in Pruett’s path. “Hey, aren’t you that newspaper guy? Wing somebody. You wrote about those murders in Virginia last year.”
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br /> Pruett kept his composure, but both officers stiffened immediately at the thought of media involvement. Police and the press don’t always mix well for very obvious reasons. A careless word or thoughtless deed within earshot of a newshound could end anyone’s career.
Pruett launched a charm offensive. I could attest to the fact that his line of patter worked wonders on recalcitrant officials. It was even more effective on susceptible females.
“Just a bystander,” he said. “Here with my daughter and Ms. Morgan. As I said, Mr. Holmes was a stranger to me. Never laid eyes on him until tonight.”
They gave both of us the “cop stare,” a hard-eyed look designed to ferret out guilt. Sad to say, they were preaching to the choir, and I knew chapter and verse of that sermon. A similar guidance came straight out of the army manual for sergeants. Tactics 101. I folded my arms and matched his glare with a fierce one of my own.
“We’ll gladly cooperate, officers, but we really need to shed these wet clothes and comfort that child.” I stayed respectful but firm.
They agreed, and Pruett and I did a quick pivot, called the dogs, and loped toward Steady Eddie before either cop could change his mind.
“How much does your editor know?” I asked Pruett once we were safely away. “Moreover, what were you doing there? Don’t tell me Lee Holmes was one of your sources.”
Pruett shrugged. “My editor just knows the basics. He jumped at the headline, though—‘Death by Dog Show.’ Pretty catchy, don’t you think?”
When he caught the scent of a big story, Pruett lost all perspective. His approach was reminiscent of a hound on the trail—the lion dog, a sleek, male Rhodesian ridgeback, would fit the bill, all tawny muscles and energy. Oh my!
“Remember. I have to make a living here,” I said. “Don’t alienate the dog show crowd unnecessarily.” Every now and then, Pruett needed a stern lecture on civilians and their right to privacy. Not to mention the economic viability of my business.
“I was hoping you’d help me,” he said. “You know. Show me the ropes. Dog shows are foreign territory for me.”
Pruett’s look of wounded innocence was a transparent ploy. Fortunately for our relationship, we reached Steady Eddie just as Babette flung open the door.
“You’re back! Perri! Oh, Lord. Tell me everything right now!” Babette always spoke in italics and all caps when she was excited or upset—which was often. Clara and Guinnie stood behind her, as did Ella. I noted that Rafael Ramos was nowhere to be found. No big deal. Judges huddled together at meetings and briefings before most shows. It meant nothing. Then I recalled that Rafa’s breed of choice was the standard poodle, the same breed most often barbered with ten-inch titanium shears just like the murder weapon.
“Where’s Rafa?” I asked.
Babette gulped. That told me all I needed to know. She was worried, and for good reason. We knew next to nothing about Rafa. His relationship with Lee Holmes might have been contentious. For all we knew, there might have been a follow-up to the party brawl that ended badly. Babette was the ultimate dreamer who believed she could sense the essence of a man. Her romantic misadventures suggested otherwise.
Pruett nodded toward his daughter. “Come on, honey. Bedtime. Say good night to the ladies. Guinnie has a big day tomorrow.” He said the magic word and focused all of Ella’s attention on her beloved Guinnie.
Babette immediately played matchmaker. “Ella can sleep with me tonight. You and Perri take the other bedroom. No sense in driving with the bad weather.” When my pal played the coquette, she was unstoppable. I had learned through experience to go with the flow.
Pruett’s eyes met mine, telegraphing an unmistakable message. “I’m bushed,” he said, and then yawned. “We probably won’t get much sleep, though. Those detectives will be here soon.”
I staunched a yawn myself and ambled toward the bedroom. “Might as well do our best.”
Fortunately, sleep was the last thing on either of our minds.
* * * *
Wing Pruett could shed his clothes faster than any man on the planet. By the time I had performed perfunctory ablutions, he was tucked into that comfy queen bed with his arms wide open.
“I missed you,” he whispered, gently brushing his lips up and down my neck. “So much.” My neck was one erogenous zone that I immediately yielded to. In deference to Ella, however, I subdued my moans.
Pruett felt good, all muscular abs, taut muscles, and other manly parts. Quite irresistible. Since I subscribed to the theory that life was short, and temptation inevitable, I succumbed immediately.
“Come closer, baby,” Pruett whispered. “Let me feel that sweet, soft skin of yours.”
Before I could oblige, we heard a sharp rap on the trailer door. I switched on the lights and heaved a gigantic sigh. No sense in fighting fate. Everything from moppets to murder conspired against romance tonight. Pruett threw on his clothes and joined in the merriment.
Our faces wore big smiles as we confronted the law.
Chapter 5
Detective Sergeant Roar Jansen confounded every stereotype of the pudgy, donut-loving cop. I sized him up as he flashed his badge and introduced himself and his sidekick, Sergeant Genna Watts. Based on his curly brown hair, tan skin, and ice-blue eyes, I suspected he was a felicitous mix of Norwegian and African genes. Sergeant Watts, a sturdy no-nonsense woman in her forties with thin, neatly pinned gray hair and a cosmetic-free face, grunted a greeting and let her partner take the lead.
When Babette joined us, her reaction was both priceless and predictable. She widened her eyes, gaped at Roar Jansen, and immediately gushed a welcome.
“Can I get you some refreshments?” she asked, batting those thick eyelashes of hers. “Coffee, or something sweet?” Knowing Babette as I did, there were other unnamed menu items at the ready. Fortunately, both police officers refused and immediately got down to business. Sergeant Jansen’s voice was deep and pleasing, rather like crashing waves. So was his partner’s, minus the pleasing part.
“Roar? That’s Scandinavian, isn’t it?” Babette chirped. “So evocative.”
Roar shared a special smile with her. Sergeant Watts glared. He asked the questions, while his partner observed us and took notes. They made an effective team that way. Since Pruett and I had discovered the corpse at almost the same time, they interviewed us simultaneously. I failed to mention that he had preceded me to the murder scene. They didn’t ask, and I didn’t volunteer. Every army alumna knew that old saw. Babette was allowed to remain strictly as a spectator and would-be hostess.
“How well did you know the victim, ah, Mr. Holmes?” Roar looked straight at me. It was not an unpleasant experience.
I explained that Lee Holmes was a veritable stranger to me, but that I knew his wife slightly.
Babette interrupted immediately. “I’ve known Yael for years. Same social set. Cocktail parties, fund-raisers. Yael comes from big Boston money.”
Roar nodded as if encouraging a bright pupil. “And her husband?”
Nothing could stop the Croy express once that train left the station, especially when the audience included a gorgeous man. “She married Lee last year. Boy toy, you know. Happens to the best of us.”
Sergeant Watts narrowed her eyes but remained silent. Her opinion of rich, randy matrons seemed clear.
“Any trouble between them?” Roar asked. He used that sultry smile again. “Tensions in the marriage?”
Even Babette knew when to stop. If only she had done so from the beginning, things might have gone better. She clamped her jaws shut and bowed her head. “Not really,” she muttered. “Unless you count that dustup tonight. But Yael wasn’t part of that.”
Naturally, Roar Jansen pounced like the sleek, jungle cat he so closely resembled. “Let us be the judge. Tell me about this dustup.”
After Babette described the evening’s fracas, Roar turne
d to Pruett. “What’s your take on it, Mr. Pruett. You are Wing Pruett, the journalist, I presume. I’ve enjoyed reading your pieces over the years. Were you a friend of the victim?”
Pruett gave the cop a quick, piercing glance and sketched out the incident between Holmes and Roy Vesco. He left nothing out, but neither did he embellish his account.
Roar kept a bland expression on his face that was difficult to decipher. His partner was far easier to read.
“You sure you didn’t know Lee Holmes?” she asked Pruett. “We heard you were asking around about him. Poking into his personal life and such.”
Pruett gave her his nice guy grin. “Occupational hazard, I’m afraid. Journalists have an insatiable curiosity about almost everyone.”
Babette joined right in. “They’re nosy, and that’s a fact. Wing Pruett is no different than any other reporter. Besides, everyone except Perri knew the scoop on Lee Holmes. Major sleaze.”
“That how you saw it, Ms. Morgan? You must have some opinion.” I’d forgotten that Genna Watts was even in the room. Her sharp tone reminded me that she was very much part of the team. I waited a bit before answering to collect my thoughts. I’d learned that a witness’s immediate response tended to be unguarded and often unwise.
“My first reaction was surprise,” I said. “Everything happened quite suddenly. Also, I’d never heard any gossip about Lee before. Nothing troubling, that is.”
Babette interjected again, by chortling a response. “That’s our Perri. All business. Doesn’t approve of rumors.” She shared a smirk with Roar Jansen.
“Your friends left you alone when they went walking,” Roar said to Babette.
In her zeal to please the dishy detective, Babette fell headlong into his trap. “Oh. I wanted to stay. I was waiting for Rafa to join us.”
“Rafa?”