by Arlene Kay
Unfortunately, Babette was very much in evidence, ensconced on the sofa with the faithful Clara and a box of tissues in hand. She gave us a winsome smile punctuated by a pronounced series of sniffles. An attack of the vapors was nothing new to my pal and usually involved man troubles. Been there, done that. The only solution was to divert her attention from her woes.
“Where’s Rafa?” I asked, dreading the answer.
Babette waved her arms and immediately began to hiccup. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “You two go have fun. I’m not in the mood for company.”
Pruett leapt into the breach. “Nonsense. I have it on good authority that the dog people are convening in O’Doul’s, that Irish pub across the street. Live music and plenty of booze. What more could you ask for?”
I could have named several things offhand, but I played along. “Ah, come on. No need to brood. We’ll all feel better for it.”
After several minutes of wheedling and coaxing, Babette agreed to the plan. Naturally, she demanded time to freshen up while we exercised the pups, but that was a small price to pay for harmony. Pruett and I harnessed Guinnie, Clara, and the Malinois boys and headed for the open fields. Fortunately, a full moon shed its shimmery light over the snowy fields, illuminating the entire area. No dark crevices or shadowy bushes this time. My nerves could ill afford to find another corpse, especially with Genna on the prowl for suspects.
Pruett took my hand and gently squeezed it. “We haven’t spent any time alone for a while. Miss you.”
I ignored the surge of warmth that suffused my being. Instead, I nodded and kept my own counsel. If snuggling with his former lover and baby mama satisfied him, what could I possibly say or do? “Me too,” I whispered. “Let’s hope this thing ends soon.”
“What do you know about Alfred Walsh?” Pruett asked. “Ella adores him, but she loves anyone who likes Guinnie.”
I thought before replying. “Not that much. Punky recommended him, and he’s an AKC-certified handler. Naturally, Babette raves about him, but she’s not alone. The other breeders and handlers like him too.”
Pruett donned his alpha-male persona. “I’ll check out his history on the Internet. Some of those search engines are really scary the way they get down to the nitty-gritty. You can’t always go on a person’s reputation, you know. Remember what happened last time.”
Déjà vu. I had badly misjudged someone who ended up being a murderer, and Pruett never let me forget it. Fortunately, my bodyguards Keats and Poe had keener instincts than their loving mama and came to my rescue. I threw Pruett off the scent by agreeing with him. “You’re so right. These days, every little thing ends up on the Internet.” Apparently, he had missed Page Six, the snarky gossip section of the New York Post. This morning’s edition featured a candid shot of Monique Allaire draped over the hot bod of a certain journalist. Unfortunately, both Pruett and Monique looked camera-ready and very pleased with themselves. Some might even mistake them for lovers.
“What’s our plan for this shindig tonight?” I asked Pruett. “Divide and conquer might be a sound strategy.”
He nodded. “Caution flies out the window when people get lubricated. Naturally, I’ll stick to sparkling water.”
We hoofed it back to Steady Eddie in time to freshen up and admire the refurbished Babette Croy. By fluffing her hair and adjusting her makeup, she managed to eliminate all traces of wear and traded tears for a becoming shade of rose blush.
“Very nice,” I told her. “Just the right touch.”
Babette mugged for an imaginary camera and pirouetted. “That shade of blush would work for you too, Perri. They call it ‘Orgasm.’”
Pruett’s laugh was more of a guffaw—deep, hearty, and very masculine. “Sign her up. Anything to get Perri in the mood.”
Babette immediately plunged into a detailed discussion of scent, nail polish, and foundation. When I reached capacity, I held out my palm and cried, “Stop.” Pruett looked chastened, but Babette was in her glory.
I used my official voice. “Hey, time’s a-wasting. Let me change so we can get moving.” With a bit of help from the cosmetic gods and the addition of a black silk shirt, I prepared to face my critics. My friends’ reaction buoyed my spirits: Pruett whistled, and Babette cheered. We crated the pups and surfed a wave of optimism all the way to O’Doul’s.
Chapter 16
I’m not crazy about crowds. Too much alcohol fuels all manner of feuds, fisticuffs, and romantic encounters, most of which lead to trouble. In my prior life, I’d been forced to sort out lots of these shindigs. Mediating nasty scenes was simply not my thing anymore. Despite those misgivings, I tried to be a good sport. I agreed to Pruett’s divide-and-conquer strategy and vowed to do my part. Babette, on the other hand, was thrilled to participate in what she gleefully termed a “sting operation.”
“Sounds more like a pincer movement,” I observed.
Pruett drew me close and kissed my forehead. “Bet you learned that in the army, show-off. That’s okay. I love brainy broads.”
Not to be outdone, Babette paraded her knowledge too. “It means attacking both enemy flanks simultaneously,” she said proudly licking her lips. “Remember: hubby number one was an ex-general. Omar loved talking dirty with those military terms. Really turned him on. Enjoyed everything except the Battle of the Bulge.” She chortled. “That’s one fight the poor baby lost.”
Since none of us could top that, we got down to business. Pruett was typecast. His assignment was to ingratiate himself with the ladies, particularly the younger handlers like Punky and her crew. Babette agreed to shadow Yael Lindsay. Since they moved in similar social circles, Yael might well confide in her instead of a peasant like me. My assignment involved quizzing Rafa, Alf Wash, and, Lord help me, Whit Wiley. As the designated corpse collector, I attracted the curious among the group, who would gobble up any tidbits on offer. Information was power in the dog world, just like everywhere else.
Most Irish pubs have a similar vibe, scent, and structure. Donnie O’Doul’s was certainly no different. The posters boasted generous portions of food, craft beers, and live music provided by a contingent of locals with big dreams and middling talent. By the time we arrived, the vinyl booths were packed, and every bar stool was taken. We quickly split up and went about our assigned tasks with at least the appearance of good cheer. Pruett had no trouble at all insinuating himself into a group of female handlers, most of whom were already past the legal drinking limit. Unlike their canine charges, these ladies didn’t pant or drool when they saw him, but they came too damn close for my taste. When last seen or heard from, he had lent his surprisingly pleasant baritone to a spirited rendition of “Me and Bobby McGee” and was being pressed for an encore. Funny thing. I had never before heard Wing Pruett sing. How many facets of this man were still hidden from me?
Babette, her face a mask of solicitude, made a beeline for the corner booth housing the not-so-grieving widow, Yael Lindsay. Fortunately, Whit Wiley, the constant suitor, was at the bar ordering drinks. That gave Babette the very opening that she sought. By the time Whit returned, Yael was too deep into conversation with Mrs. Croy to even acknowledge his existence. She dismissed him with a peremptory wave of her hand.
I sauntered toward a corner booth, where a trio of show hands was gathered. Alf, Rafa, and Roy Vesco hunched over their beers as they swapped secrets and boasts. Joining their group was a piece of cake since most of my working life had been spent bonding with guys just like them. It took only a measure of courage and a pinch of guile to worm my way into their inner circle.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked. “Just promise not to talk about murder. That’s off the menu. Anything else is fine.”
They hooted at that as if it were comic gold. Everyone in O’Doul’s was jawing about the murders and little else. One could hardly blame them. Dog shows have a lot of down time, and the pros who staff them welcome any d
iversion. Double murder qualified as the ultimate diversion.
Rafa hoisted his beer, sipped, and poured a glass for me. I loathe beer, but in the spirit of fellowship I bravely downed a swallow.
“Hmm,” he said licking his lips. “Sure tastes good. For a while, I thought I’d had my last one of these.”
“What?” Roy Vesco wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. That didn’t mean he wasn’t the murderer, of course. Didn’t take a genius to stab a drunk or an unsuspecting woman, but cunning was obviously absent from Roy’s repertoire.
“He’s talking jail, Roy. No beers in the hoosegow. Keep up, boy.” Alf patted his buddy on the back. His touch was gentle and his manner kind. Hard not to like this guy, I thought.
Rafa turned to me. “Any hot rumors, Perri? You’re pretty tight with that sergeant.”
“That ugly broad?” Roy yelped. “She’s a menace. Always prowling around the place even before the trouble. Doesn’t like dogs, if you can believe it.”
Alf laughed so hard he almost slid off the patched vinyl seat. “You slay me, Roy boy. Perri has pull with the pretty guy. Roar, that’s his name, isn’t it, Perri? He did some private security work at the Big E last year too. Seemed like a pretty nice guy.”
I nodded. “He doesn’t confide in me, of course, but at least he’s civil. Unlike his partner.”
Rafa curled his lip. “Just because I’m a Spaniard, they think I’m guilty.”
“It probably had more to do with those shears,” I said. “After all, they were yours.”
Rafa shrugged, but Alf immediately joined the fray. “Anyone could have pinched those shears. We all leave our stuff out during the day, Perri. You know that. Besides, Lee Holmes was a crumb who deserved to die.” No more Mr. Nice Guy. Alf Walsh was on the warpath, ready to rumble. He brushed back a strand of thinning brown hair and grimaced.
“You can say that again,” Vesco said. “Didn’t trust him one bit around my wife.”
No one dared to follow up on that comment. My own view was that little Kiki could take care of herself without any help. When conversation lagged, I decided to prime the pump.
“Bethany, though—that was a real puzzler. She said she knew who the killer was, you know.” I scanned the faces around the table.
Rafa jumped right in. “You weren’t the only one she told. Bethany spread the word.”
“Yeah,” Roy said, “that girl was flapping her jaw to everyone. Didn’t have a lick of sense. She even told Kiki, for gosh sakes, and that’s like tellin’ the whole show world.”
That answered one of my questions and expanded the pool of suspects to anyone within earshot. Poor, deluded Bethany. She thought she was just a tad smarter than everyone else, but the murderer proved her wrong.
I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial level. “Someone told me blackmail was involved. Might explain everything.”
Rafa refilled each of our mugs and signaled for another pitcher of beer. “Seems to me you’re too curious for your own good with a murderer around. You took a big chance following her. Better watch your back, Ms. Perri, or you might be next.” His tone was grim, and I couldn’t determine if he was trying to protect or warn me. “I kind of liked Ms. Bethany. Beautiful women are hard to ignore, and she was foxy.”
“Didn’t put out none,” Roy sniffed. “Least ways, not to me.”
“Don’t feel bad, buddy. She had some other fish on the line. Whit told me all about it.” Alf shook his head in disbelief.
“Whit Wiley? Surely not.” A swallow of brew got stuck in my throat and nearly choked me. Bethany involved with that truly dreadful man? Death or abstinence was preferable to that.
Alf reached over and wacked my back. “You okay, Perri? Whit told me about it, but it wasn’t him. Some outsider, he said.” Alf’s smile transformed his rather plain face into something almost handsome. “Here we are, gossiping like old washerwomen, with the best-looking gal in the room sitting beside us. Don’t blame us, honey. Rafa got a good going over from that cop, and it shook him up. Roy had those other cops to deal with. We’re all worried that the AKC might clamp down on us.”
If that were true, my friend’s very livelihood was at stake. Reputation was everything in the show world, and gossip ranked as high as a five-point major. Might make a man—or woman—jumpy enough to commit murder.
Alf closed his eyes as if he were meditating. “You know, Bethany wasn’t really one of us, not a real dog person. Oh, she bred a few dogs and showed them some. Had a pug she finished once. Grand Champion. Got all the way up to bronze. Nice dog, not that she ever did much with him. Bethany just sort of hung around on the fringes, scooping up what business she could. Mostly she drew in the civilians and sold them nonsense about their pets. Harmless enough, though.”
Not in someone’s eyes. Bethany gambled on her instincts, and for once, they had let her down. I calculated the pocketbooks of the most likely suspects and came up empty. What could Bethany gain from extorting anyone except Yael? I knew on good authority that Yael had a solid alibi for both murders. Roar had confirmed that, and the redoubtable Genna nodded her agreement. The others had mostly pocket change to offer and plenty to lose.
“I hear Ella’s left the show,” Alf said. “Too bad. I sure liked that little lady.”
“Don’t worry. It’s just until this unpleasantness is cleared up. Pruett left her with her mom. We still have Guinnie, though, so your services are desperately needed.”
Rafa gave me a thumbs-up and sipped his beer. “Just four more days and this show is history. Can’t come soon enough for me.”
That was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. “Are you going back to Spain to see your family?” I asked. Duplicity comes naturally to me but carries with it a scintilla of guilt. Still, I owed it to Babette to learn the truth.
Rafa cocked his head and gave me a look that was far from friendly. “Family? My dogs are the only family I have in Spain, other than my brother. We raise standard poodles, as you probably know.”
Not everyone can hold his liquor, and Roy Vesco was squarely in the sloppy drunk camp. As he slid toward total inebriation, his speech became slightly slurred and his eyes blurry. With any luck, impaired judgment would soon follow, along with a free flow of information. “Too bad Lee screwed you around about that property. Would have made a perfect kennel. Right here near the Big E. Couldn’t get much better than that.”
Rafa’s jaw was locked tighter than a vault, and Alf shifted in his seat. Obviously, Roy had hit a very sore subject. I knew better than to say anything. Watchful waiting was in order.
After an awkward pause, Rafa spoke. “It’s no big secret around here. Lee made a damn fool out of me. Cost me a bundle too. Should have known better than to trust that malparido anyway.”
“That’s Spanish for bastard, Perri,” Roy offered helpfully. “Rafa taught me.”
Roy’s absolute cluelessness dissipated the tension, as the rest of us dissolved into laughter. He looked quizzically at us, as though puzzled. Once again, Alf rode to the rescue.
“Things never get dull with Roy around,” he laughed. “Count on it.”
Rafa put down his drink and sighed. “Guess that makes me suspect number one in your book, eh, Perri?” His eyes were watchful as he spoke, as if expecting an accusation.
In all honesty, Rafa placed near the top of my suspect list—except for one thing. I could easily picture him plunging those shears into Lee Holmes, but not stalking and slaying a woman, even a perfidious one like Bethany Zahn. Passion, yes. Premeditation, no.
“I won’t run to the police with this,” I said. “That’s their job, not mine. Just as long as I don’t trip over any more bodies. Sergeant Watts practically accused me of murdering them to impress Pruett! She suspects him too.”
That caused an explosion of grunts and guffaws from the guys and allayed their distrust of me. Apparently, Genna ma
de quite a vivid impression everywhere she went. I should have defended my gender, but she made it impossible to do so.
Roy stifled a belch and weighed in once again. “No one wanted her here, but that mean cop has been sniffing around here a lot. Only one she ever talked to was Yael. Something about ‘waste management’—that’s what she called it.”
I suspected that Genna, ever vigilant, had caught Yael disposing of waste in the wrong location. A big no-no in dog show circles. No doubt, Yael ignored her or brushed off warnings like lint.
Alf pointed across the room, where Pruett was holding court. “Looks like your boy has his hands full with those ladies. Better watch out or you could lose him.”
Several of the handlers draped themselves over Pruett, and Punky edged closer and closer to his lap. That didn’t worry me, although he obviously believed in method acting—Stanislavsky lived on in Wing Pruett. Meanwhile, Babette and Yael Lindsay stayed in their corner, gossiping like old friends. As the saying goes, blood and money are thicker than water.
I excused myself and wandered toward the restroom, all the while keeping a weather eye out for Whit Whitly. It was a distasteful task, but I had agreed to quiz that loathsome creature about Bethany. A sudden tap on my shoulder startled me. There stood a vision of male pulchritude in the person of Sergeant Roar Jansen, out of uniform but more in step than ever. Tonight, he was wearing a pricey-looking baby-blue cable-knit sweater and form-fitting gray flannels. His ringlets formed a heavenly nimbus around his head. Fortunately, my store of self-control kicked in just in time to tether me to earth.