by Arlene Kay
* * * *
I awakened the next morning with a smile on my face. Perhaps the sun streaming through the window of Steady Eddie had warmed my soul. More likely it was the sensation of Wing Pruett’s arms wrapped around me good and tight. Occam’s razor at work—sometimes the simplest explanation was the best.
In my first moments of consciousness, I planned the day ahead. Promoting and selling my leather wares was number one on the list, although a discreet spot of detecting was close behind. True, I had no need to involve myself in solving a stranger’s murder. By all accounts, Lee Holmes was no loss to humanity, and Roar Jansen and his redoubtable partner were probably quite competent. I stopped there while I still retained even a shred of integrity and examined my conscience.
Finding his corpse had thrust me into the Holmes case in the most graphic way possible, but Pruett’s mysterious behavior worried me. Suppose the cops pinned the murder on him? That was foolish thinking, but Pruett had used his martial arts skills on the deceased. He hadn’t murdered him, of course, but it might look suspicious to Sergeant Roar. Every time my eyes closed, I visualized those pretty pink shears, blood-stained and protruding from the victim’s chest. Even the word “victim” was value-laden. No one—well, very few—should be murdered, but some people deliberately tempt fate. Lee Holmes may well have been one of them. A chorus of otherwise sane voices argued that vengeance could sometimes be justified. I know the names that pop up every time that argument surfaces: Hitler, Stalin, and Theodore Bundy. The list goes on. My reaction was different. I focused instead on murder itself, the act that violated every tenant of civilized behavior and cried out for punishment. Pruett and I often debated the law versus justice argument, and I knew the two were not always aligned. But training and experience had taught me how vital those concepts were. I upbraided Pruett about the thin line between law and anarchy, and the need to adhere to a standard. Neither one of us would yield, and we always ended by calling a truce. I sighed as I considered Wing Pruett’s very creative methods of conflict resolution. That man deserved the Nobel Peace Prize at least!
“Penny for your thoughts, Ms. Morgan,” he said. “Or has the price risen with inflation?” He moved closer and massaged my back until I purred like a kitten. “Bet you’re still thinking about that murder,” he said.
I pled guilty. “Crazy Jess said that Lee was a predator. True or not, being called that could make someone react.”
He responded immediately and without hesitation. “Only natural to defend those you love. I know a dozen ways of dealing with his kind that would never even be noticed.”
“I’ll keep that in mind in case any more corpses appear. Dangerous men turn me on, so watch your step.” I snuggled closer, considering Pruett’s words.
His reaction didn’t surprise me. It was normal and also quite understandable. Kiki’s performance in front of Lee and her former husband was certainly provocative, especially when a volatile man like Roy was involved. Perhaps a conversation with the coquette in question would be helpful.
I switched on the bedside lamp and glanced at Pruett. Never mind that mascara probably ringed my eyes and my hair was askew. Wing Pruett was perfect—utterly perfect. It wasn’t fair, but there it was. The guy transformed rumpled hair and beard growth into an art form. Like many men, he slept nude, something I could never bring myself to do. Made me feel way too vulnerable, even though I knew that the watchful eyes and ears of my dogs would keep me safe. There was also the question of physical perfection. Like most women, I had my share of inhibitions. Body shaming or not, it was a fact of life. Pruett had not one iota of self-doubt about his appearance or almost any other aspect of life. No wonder. I had seen sculptures in fine European museums, and all six feet something of Pruett surpassed any hunk of marble on display. I could attest to that in the most personal of ways.
“Something wrong?” he asked. “Man, I need caffeine in the worst way. I’m dying here.” He leapt up, grabbed his robe, and headed out the bedroom door.
“Babette brought her espresso machine,” I said. “Knock yourself out while I get dressed.” I scuttled toward the shower and immersed myself in lavender-scented suds. For a moment, I forgot the grisly murder and its probable aftermath and reveled in the sense of renewal that the waves of water brought. I emerged, fragrant, fresh, and ready for battle.
A cozy, domestic scene featuring Ella, Pruett, and Babette confronted me. My pal, wrapped in a Williams-Sonoma apron, poured freshly squeezed juice and carefully arranged matching linen napkins at each place. Betty Crocker never had it so good.
I blinked twice. Babette and aprons simply did not compute. She was a woman of many parts, none of which spelled earth mother.
“Sit down, Perri,” she said. “You need protein. Big day ahead.” She beamed at Ella. “Guinnie goes into the ring today, sweetie. Perri promised she’d make her win!”
That was a total fabrication, typical of Babette, who lived in a fantasy world of her own making. No one could guarantee anything at a dog show. I’d urged Pruett to find a professional handler for Guinnie, but he had dropped the ball. Now the onus was on me to avoid disappointing the child I loved.
“Don’t worry, honey,” I said. “Guinnie is a winner no matter what happens.”
Babette beamed at both of us and added her special touch. “No problem about your store, Perri. I’ll hold down the fort. You know how I connect with customers.”
Salesmanship was not within her skill set, but I had other plans for Babette. Plans that involved deception and snooping—two of her strong suits.
“Come into the other room,” I said. “I want to show you something.” Fortunately, Babette abandoned her happy homemaker pose and complied. Pruett distracted Ella by asking about her favorite topic, dogs.
“What’s up?” Babette asked. “You’re acting kinda squirrelly.”
I quickly outlined the problem and her assignment for the day.
“Why get involved?” she asked. It was a reasonable enough question, one that I had wrestled with last night. I targeted Babette’s prime area of vulnerability—romance.
“Pruett could be in trouble,” I said, “or maybe even Rafa. Rafa was MIA last night, and Pruett was at the scene of the crime. That Sergeant Watts acts like she has an axe to grind, and I don’t want it to fall on anyone we care about. Besides, you might find out something Roar can’t.”
I knew she was hooked, but she played hard to get for a bit. “Maybe. I’ll mingle with the hard-core show types and see what they say.” She shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt, I suppose.”
After feeding and exercising the dogs, we grabbed our gear and headed toward the Better Living Center with some degree of optimism. Pruett was pursuing a story, while I sought the truth. Who knew how closely aligned those objectives were?
Chapter 7
Saturday was boom time in the show world. Handlers, owners, and the general public stormed into the Better Living Center, determined to enjoy their day, sell their wares, or go for glory. The beautiful creatures prancing around the rings were often oblivious to the hubbub. Show dogs—even the hyper-active breeds—tended to accept both canine and human hordes with equanimity. Bad temperament was a fatal flaw for canine competitors and was closely monitored by judges. Humans not so much. A number of them would never make the cut in any category where nipping, growling, or backbiting was strictly forbidden.
Pruett played the role of doting daddy to perfection. He trotted after Ella and Lady Guinevere, trading greetings with anyone he met as they did a wide circle of the complex. From the number of admiring glances he drew, I was quite certain that Pruett could claim platinum Grand Champion, Best of Breed, and Best in Show without any real competition.
Babette and I split up in a divide-and-conquer move. I scoped out Ring Nine, where the pointer competition would convene. Babette fluttered over to the main station and started chattering with club officials.
>
I was astounded—no, shocked—to see Yael Lindsay standing in the line in front of me. Nary a hair escaped from that impeccable French twist, and her jewelry was discreet but perfect. In an apparent concession to tragedy, Yael wore low-heeled black shoes and a severe navy knit suit with minimal gold braid. Her face was pale but composed—not exactly the picture of a bereaved spouse. On the other hand, I knew that people processed grief very differently. Some women would be prostrate; others worked through their misery and put on a brave face. My own sad experience illustrated that. The day after Pip passed was the start of one of my most productive periods. Hard work counteracted the crushing numbness I felt and masked the pain of his loss. I sailed along until two weeks later, when a cheery Christmas card arrived addressed to both of us. That leveled me, hitting with the force of a nuclear blast. Babette found me dissolved in a sobbing heap and gently nursed me back to reality. I would never forget her kindness. Perhaps Yael was in the same place and needed a friendly shoulder for comfort.
I didn’t know her that well, but after retrieving my armband, I approached her and expressed my condolences. Her reaction left me speechless.
“I suppose you were one of them,” she hissed. Her voice was low, audible only to me.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t think I had any illusions about my husband.” Her voice was brittle, steeped in bitterness. “Lee chased women like hounds do rabbits.” She looked me up and down in a distinctly unflattering way. “All kinds.”
Grief buys one only so much leeway. “I didn’t know your husband, Mrs. Holmes. I found his body.” I kept my words clipped and impersonal, harkening back to my prior training. “That’s my only connection to his death.”
Something must have penetrated Yael’s defenses. She raised a hand to her mouth and swayed back and forth. “Forgive me. Lee wasn’t perfect, but he was a big part of my life.”
“Can I get you some coffee or tea?”
She shook her head but allowed me to guide her toward one of the benches facing the ring. I sat beside her in total silence as she collected herself. Yael Lindsay was a proud woman, unwilling to parade her feelings in public. I could identify with that.
“The police questioned me,” she said. “As if I knew who killed him. Lee was tempestuous. Blood feuds were his stock in trade. He lived for conflict. You probably saw that nonsense with that Vesco woman. Slut! She should be eliminated from the show ring. And that husband of hers . . .” Yael’s lips pursed in disgust.
I nodded, trying to seem sympathetic without appearing intrusive. “Lots of shenanigans going on in the show world.” Before I could safely broach Rafa’s name, we were rudely interrupted by Whit Wiley. He hunkered down, put his arms around Yael, and gave her a hug. “My dear Yael. So brave in the face of tragedy.”
His fawning manner was therapeutic, just the tonic the widow needed to revive her spirit. She stiffened, shrugged off his grasp, and spoke crisply. “Thank you for your concern, Whitney. Lee often spoke of you.”
After a moment of frigid silence, Whit patted her shoulder and slowly slunk away. Yael narrowed her eyes as he retreated. “Odious little man. Lee detested him, and so do I.”
Once again, silence served me well. I stared at the terriers trotting around the ring, silently admiring their sprightly gait and “true terrier temperament.” Nada. Not a word from either one of us. After the open dog class concluded, Yael turned to me.
“I understand you were once an army officer.”
“Sergeant,” I said. “Three years in Afghanistan.”
She nodded. “We got off to a bad start, but I now have a favor to ask.”
I turned to face her, expecting the worst. For all I knew, this entitled Brahmin might order me off the premises or hurl more insults.
“Help me,” Yael Lindsay asked.
“What are you thinking of?” I asked. “Roar Jansen seems quite competent.”
Yael leveled me with the same type of look her ancestors probably used with indentured servants. “Nonsense. No one will tell him anything. Everyone has something to hide. I need someone who is part of this world.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think . . .”
“Of course, I’ll pay you.” She dismissed my objections as she would any tradesman. In her world, everything was apparently a matter of money.
My sympathy for the bereaved widow quickly evaporated. With a Gorgon-like Yael at home, small wonder that her husband had trolled the arena for female company. I summoned every shred of dignity I possessed.
“I neither need nor want your money, Mrs. Lindsay. Any information I get will be promptly shared with the police.” I stood and faced her directly. “Excuse me. I have a dog to show.”
* * * *
While Ella Pruett danced around my little store on tiptoes, Lady Guinevere was far more reserved. The pointer was everything a top show dog should be, plus a bit more. Pointers were the original emblem of the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show and still commanded a loyal following. She calmly floated around the ring, commanding the eye of judges, spectators, and competitors alike. Handling her was a dream, even among a host of top-flight contenders. In the past, Guinnie had bested Yael Lindsay and Whit Wiley’s entrants, a fact that galled both of them. Pruett had already promised Ella that if Guinnie continued her winning ways, he would sponsor her for the biggest prize in dogdom—the Westminster show in Manhattan. Fine and dandy, but first he had to retain a top-class handler. I did a passable job in the ring, but there was no substitute for a competent professional. Dogs knew it, and so did judges. Bless her heart, Lady Guinevere was astounding. Under the tutelage of the right handler, she would be extraordinary and have a real shot at Westminster. Maybe even Crufts, the big international show.
To my delight, Guinnie won the Best of Breed and four Grand Champion points to boot. I kept my eyes downcast to avoid Yael’s grim visage and the shot of pure venom radiating my way from Whit Wiley. Ella and Pruett were delighted. The little girl danced around me and gave Guinnie a huge hug. Her dashing daddy put his arm around me and whispered something quite naughty in my ear. Unfortunately, we had to defer addressing that suggestion until Guinnie competed in the group ring.
“How about getting a bite of lunch?” Pruett said. “I saw your favorite on the way over here. Popeye’s.”
The man knew almost all of my secret vices and wasn’t shy about using them against me. Popeye’s! Just thinking of that spicy chicken, beans, and rice made me salivate.
“Can we, Daddy? Oh, boy!” Ella pirouetted with Guinnie as her partner.
A man with a body like Pruett’s can eat just about anything with impunity. I knew for a fact, however, that Ella’s mom banned any kind of fried food from her child’s diet.
“I have to check my store,” I said. “Tell you what. Take Ms. Babette and my dogs with you and bring me back a big batch of Popeye’s!”
Pruett shrugged but accepted the inevitable. “Okay, spoilsport. Let’s round up Babette and get this show on the road.”
We sped toward the entrance of my stall, where Babette awaited us. After the lunch bunch headed out the door, I checked the cash register, rearranged stock, and did a quick grooming of Guinnie. Veteran that she was, the pointer jumped up on the steel table and waited patiently as I assembled the tools for sprucing her up. I was daydreaming, but her ears pricked up at a sound I hadn’t even heard. Not surprising, since canine hearing was at least four times more acute than humans’. I quickly whirled around and saw the smiling face of Rafael Ramos.
“You startled me,” I said, giving him a tight smile. “Babette’s not here, if you’re looking for her.”
Rafa shook his head. He was taller than I had realized, over six feet and well-muscled. I knew how to defend myself, but somehow, I saw no need to panic. I took a step back behind the grooming table, keeping Guinnie between us. Better safe than sorry—a trite but tr
ue saying. Even with Keats and Poe watching over me, I erred on the side of caution.
“It’s you I came to see,” Rafa said.
I kept the conversation nice and easy. “Okay. What can I do for you?”
He leaned against the counter, locking both hands in front of him. “The police suspect me. I know they do.”
“Have you spoken to them?” I hadn’t seen Roar or his redoubtable partner since last evening.
Rafa grimaced. “Once. They knew we didn’t get along. Then there’s the problem of those damned shears. Poodle shears. My breed.”
“Lots of shears in this place. Why connect them to you?”
He took two steps toward me. “Because they were mine. They went missing last night. I had them in my bag and lost sight of them when that brawl started.”
Not good. In fact, it was close to catastrophic. The murder weapon probably harbored all sorts of fingerprints, most of them from Rafa himself.
“Have you found an attorney?” I asked. “Sounds like you might need one.”
He shook his head. “That’s like hanging a big guilty sign around my neck.” My expression must have telegraphed my thoughts, because Rafa held up his arms in surrender. “Okay. I get it. If the cops start making moves, I’ll hire someone. Wing gave me some names already. But I remain optimistic. Between the two of you, I know you can find the killer.”
Trust Pruett to worm his way into the investigation without telling me. I took a deep breath and counted way past ten. “Whoa. Wait just a minute. What did you have in mind?”
Rafa bared a set of perfect teeth, sharing a winning grin with me. It had probably earned him plenty of fans over the years, but this time he was out of luck. I was not in the market for whatever he was selling. Besides, Pruett was in a class all his own; no other man even came close. Poor Babette. She was already putty in Rafa’s hands. No telling what stunts she would pull to help him out.