by Arlene Kay
“What do we do next?” asked Babette, ever practical. “We’ve burned some bridges tonight, Perri. Roar probably hates you. I could see it in his eyes, and we know already how Genna feels about you.”
Sometimes my best friend lacks tact. This was one of those times.
“Gee, thanks for the morale boost,” I said. “If Roar were any kind of cop, he’d welcome new theories. He’s too close to his partner to be objective. As for Genna . . .” I said a really bad word that shocked Babette. Anything that shattered her concept of genteel living shocked Babette.
We needed to go back to basics. Yael mentioned her new love, a person from the dog world. Frankly, eligible males were in short supply there, so our list of potential suitors was limited. A casual glance around the Big E confirmed that. She and Rafa became intimate the other evening at O’Doul’s. Maybe he was the stud in question. Babette would really hate that train of thought, but so be it. I broke the plan to her cautiously, and as expected, it didn’t go well.
“Why bother with Yael?” she asked. “Who cares if the old trout got some action on the side? Her cheatin’ skunk of a spouse wasn’t giving her any, and Rafa knows his way around women.” She choked back a sob as she said that.
“Don’t you see? Rafa fits the bill as the killer almost as well as Genna. He could really feather his nest if he hooked up with Yael. Let’s not forget that the murder weapon was his.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Babette paused for thought. “Not that leather thing. Besides, why would Bethany meet him?”
“You said it—sex or money. Or both.”
She had no answer to that, so we took the dogs for one last romp, locked Steady Eddie up good and tight, and agreed to sleep on it.
Chapter 21
Pruett didn’t return or call that night. As a result, I slept fitfully, waking periodically to check the clock and rue my tactical blunder. At five am, I gave up. After showering and dressing, I fortified myself with an espresso and took Guinnie and the Mals out for a romp. Sunup was still an hour away, and the playing fields at the Big E were deserted. Ordinarily, I would have been on alert, but I was deep in thought, and the company of three dogs allayed my suspicions. A loud crunch in the snow made me whirl around. A shadow melted into the copse of trees behind me and vanished. Probably nothing, I told myself. Some guy who needed a quick bathroom break.
The dogs were well ahead of me, covering the ground in long, loping strides that were marvelous to watch. It was Friday—two days left at the show. In all probability, we would pack up on Sunday and leave the Big E without ever knowing the identity of the killer. I meandered through the grounds until I reached the Equine Pavilion. Returning to the scene of the crime was macabre even by my standards. I reconstructed that awful night when Bethany died, visualizing the leather tool slicing into that soft white flesh, watching the blood as it soaked into the hay. Horses were spooked by blood. Had the stalls been filled, there would have been pandemonium.
Dogs reacted differently, but they smelled blood long before we humans with our paltry senses did. Was the killer still there when I arrived, assuming, of course, that it wasn’t poor, bedraggled Jess Pendrake? That was a fairly safe assumption since even the cops had released her for lack of evidence. I firmly believed in her innocence. She was certainly strong enough to do the deed, but underneath that rough exterior, I sensed a type of vulnerability that most murderers sorely lacked. Our culprit was a stone-cold killer. That was my assessment, and I was sticking to it. If Wing Pruett and Roar didn’t agree, so be it.
I didn’t open the barn door. The scene was still too vivid to face up front and personal. Bad enough reliving it in my dreams.
A litany of barks and growls startled me. Keats and Poe stood on alert, guard hairs bristling as they emitted their fiercest sounds. Guinnie joined in, but her contribution was half-hearted. Pointing to prey was more in her genetic code than guarding. I peered at the tree line. There was that shadowy figure again, just out of eyesight. This time I went on high alert. I called the Mals to me and gave them the Schutzhund command Achtung, meaning “watch and stay alert.” If danger threatened, my next word would be Fass. That meant “attack,” and Keats and Poe were primed to respond. I didn’t know if the shadow person was friend or foe. That called for restraint, lest I injure an innocent citizen out for a walk. I had no plans to investigate the situation or draw any closer. Discretion appealed to me far more than aggression this time.
I shivered, even though the temperature had risen to a balmy thirty degrees. Some primitive instinct warned me that danger was imminent. If the attacker had a gun, we were in trouble. Otherwise, the distance between us gave me more than a fighting chance. I leashed Guinnie and cautiously retraced my steps, circling back toward Steady Eddie and safety. Keats and Poe stayed by my side, never losing sight of the potential enemy. I heard my name called as a dark figure—a man’s shape—came from the other side of the Equine Pavilion and advanced toward us. Keats and Poe stayed poised for action, but Guinnie broke away and galloped toward the man. She flung herself into his arms and began to enthusiastically lick his face.
As he stepped into the light, I knew the reason why. Alf Walsh beamed his semi-smile and loped toward me. In his hand, he carried a rusty draw gauge, cousin to the instrument that had ended Bethany’s life.
“Alf! What in the world were you thinking of? You scared the hell out of me.”
He looked startled, not sinister. “Gee, Perri, I’m sorry. I saw you guys and decided to join you. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He nodded toward Keats and Poe. “Though with those two along, I’m the one who should feel threatened.”
It made sense, but I wasn’t ready to relax my guard. Alf had a motive for murdering Lee Holmes—a rather good one, in fact. Lee had virtually murdered a dog that Alf adored. A jury of pet lovers would exonerate him in a flash.
“Where did you find that draw gauge?” I asked, pointing at the weapon. It looked like a discard, with the blade rusted but still lethal.
Once again, he looked puzzled. “This thing? Found it in the weeds near the horse barn and figured I’d turn it in to the show organizers. Careless of someone to leave it like that. A dog or horse could have been hurt.”
He was right, of course. A human had already been injured by the relative of that device. Either Alf was a consummate actor, or he wasn’t too swift. Prancing around the scene of a grisly murder with a similar weapon could land him in a heap of trouble. Sergeant Watts would add one and one and get three. Who knew what Roar would think? Since opportunity knocked, I decided to question Alf about a few things.
“You were at Lee’s memorial, weren’t you?”
He nodded and snorted something unintelligible.
“When did you leave? I’m trying to establish a timeline.”
Alf bit his lip. “Why? Not doing the cops’ job now, are you, Ms. Perri?”
He caught me. I had no defense but the simple truth. “I have my reasons,” I said loftily. “Bethany died in front of me, and I feel obligated.”
“Let the cops handle it.”
I was weary of lectures from imperious males who set limits for me. “The police haven’t made much progress. Maybe they need a little help.”
Alf chuckled. “Okay. I’ll play along. I took advantage of the free booze and vamoosed around ten-thirty. Yael was still holding court, and folks were milling around.”
I decided to push my luck. “Anyone absent who should have been there or vice versa?”
He wrinkled his brow. “Let’s see. The cops left, but your friend Babette was there and most of the other handlers. Can’t recall where Rafa or Whit were, though.” Alf leaned down to stroke Guinnie’s fur. “Today’s a big day for this lady. I have a feeling she’ll make Best in Show. No guarantees, of course.” He walked away, carrying the blade gingerly by its tip.
* * * *
Babette was busily prepar
ing breakfast when we returned. I played dog chef while she flipped flapjacks with blueberries. The portions were large enough to accommodate an extra guest should he arrive. He did not.
My scoop on Alf Walsh made her stop mid-pancake and gasp. “Could he be the killer? I never even considered him, but that blade thingy sounded ominous. Don’t you go wandering off again by yourself, Persephone Morgan. You could have ended up just like Bethany.”
I shrugged off any comparison to the dead psychic. Bethany had been careless, and she lacked my secret weapons—Keats and Poe. She obviously trusted someone and had been cruelly deceived. I wouldn’t make the same mistake. After inhaling a second espresso, I summoned the pups and headed out to my store. Business was business, murder or not. Besides, work was a great tonic for mending a broken heart. With any luck, I wouldn’t have time to even think about Pruett or his hasty exit.
The moment I opened Creature Comforts, a knot of frantic customers appeared. Between dishing up bait, hawking leads, and measuring collars, I stayed busy until lunchtime. Guinnie was slated for an early-morning appearance, and before joining her, there was some important business I planned to finish. I surveyed the crowd before venturing out. Despite my brave words, I had no desire to encounter the odious Genna today. No doubt Roar had briefed her on my theory of the crime and the identity of the killer. I had a notion that she wouldn’t take that very well. I told myself to focus on Guinnie and be indifferent to Pruett, should he resurface. Everything was about the dogs—actual canines, not horndogs like a certain scrumptious scribe.
The Sporting Group was in Ring Nine this day. That meant a long, perilous walk past throngs of spectators and exhibitors and the possibility of encountering any number of hostile actors. As it turned out, my fears were groundless. The real problem occurred when I reached the ring. First, my name was called, and a pint-size missile launched herself into my arms.
“Perri,” Ella said, giving me a vigorous hug. “I missed you and Guinnie, so Daddy let me come back.”
Daddy Pruett stood at ringside, looking suspiciously guilty. One glance to his left told me the reason. Monique Allaire, famous photojournalist and mother of Ella, had already attracted a crowd of fans. No wonder. Amidst a mostly average crowd, she was a beacon of beauty and poise. I felt no envy. How could any mortal compete with a goddess? No way. At least not in the looks department. I admired Monique for capitalizing on her talent and forging an incredibly lucrative career in a tough business. Her ruthless nature and indifference to Ella were another matter entirely.
I smoothed my hair and wet my lips. No telling how I looked after a hectic day and sleep deprivation. Pruett slunk over and kissed my cheek. It was a brotherly touch, not that of a lover. “I hoped you’d join us,” he said mendaciously. “Ella was going crazy. Come say hi to Monique.”
I squared my shoulders and followed his lead. As usual, Monique gave me a vaguely startled look, as if she had no idea who I was. Two could play that game. I grinned as if we were besties and embraced her. That unexpected move set her back. She leaned toward Pruett and whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was—and I had my suspicions—caused him to flush. I moved toward the benches and found a perch near the judging area. Ella wedged her way in next to me.
“I saw Guinnie’s movie,” Ella said, “She won a prize.”
“Indeed, she did,” I said. “She’s a superstar.”
The little girl beamed. “Just like my mommy.” Needless to say, my only response was to hug Ella and nod.
We hushed as the dogs entered the ring in a circle around the judge. I had to admit it was a beautiful assortment of spaniels, retrievers, setters, and Guinnie, a pointer. Ella squirmed in her seat, trying to contain her excitement as Alf Walsh paraded Guinnie in front of the judge. Other than our girl, I was taken by the spinone Italiano, and the clumber spaniel. Although each was very different, both were splendid examples of their breed. I focused on the stars of the ring, forcing myself to ignore Pruett and his ladylove. Dignity over desire was my mantra. Unfortunately, some slogans were easier to chant than fulfill.
“Scoot over, Perri. Don’t hog the seat.” That insipid voice had to be Whit Wiley. I made room for him, wishing mightily that he would descend into the depths from which he came.
“I see you have competition today,” he sniffed. “Hard to compete with a superstar.”
“Right. I think you’ve met Ella, Pruett’s daughter.” I pointed to the little girl, who beamed her perfect smile his way.
Whit produced a grin that had more snark than smile. “Who are you cheering for?” he asked.
“Guinnie.” Ella gestured toward her dog. “She’s a pointer, and Mr. Alf is her handler.”
“Nice,” Whit said. “By the way, Perri, I suppose you’ve heard the news about Rafa.”
I caught my breath, waiting for the blow to fall. Roar said an arrest was imminent, and he must have made good on his word. To annoy Whit, I feigned indifference.
“Nope. We’ve been swamped by dog stuff all day. No time for gossip.”
He curled his lip. Clearly, I had spoiled his conversational gambit. Meanwhile, Ella grabbed my arm as Guinnie was waved in to join the final four competitors. The kid had quite a grip on her for a seven-year-old, as my arm could attest. We watched breathlessly as the spinone Italiano, clumber spaniel, and a stunning Irish setter strutted their stuff. During Guinnie’s turn around the ring, we cheered lustily and clapped until our hands stung. When the judge anointed Guinnie as Best of the Sporting Group, I heard Pruett’s baritone leading the cheers. Ella jumped up and leapt into her father’s arms. Even Monique managed to look passably pleasant. I stayed in my seat as the three of them joined Alf and Guinnie for a photo session.
“Feeling left out?” Whit asked with synthetic charm. “I know I would.”
I treated the vile creature to my brightest Brownie smile. “Why should I? That child is with her parents and dog. It doesn’t get much better than that when you’re seven.”
Whit grinned. “As I was telling you, big doings today.”
“Yeah?”
“Yael and Rafa formed a partnership. Announced it just this morning.”
Naturally, I was curious. “Personal or professional?”
He patted my hand. “Both, sweetie. Yael bought that kennel land nearby for a breeding program. Rafa agreed to run it.” His eyes narrowed. “They’ve gotten close since Lee died, you know. Inseparable. Lots can happen when you concentrate on breeding.”
That inference and its progenitor sickened me. I try to be neutral, but sometimes I regress. “You must feel dreadful about that, Whit,” I said matching his feigned friendship. “We all thought that you and Yael...well, you know.”
His color rose, and Whit stifled a cough with his handkerchief. “Certainly not. I merely comforted her as a friend, nothing more.” He mumbled some sort of excuse and made a rapid exit.
Score one for the mean girl! The sick thrill of triumph that I felt was unworthy of me, but I didn’t regret it one bit.
I rose from my chair and found Pruett standing behind me, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Hey,” he said looking down at his feet, “that was pretty great, wasn’t it? Ella went crazy.” He brushed aside a lock of his thick black hair, a nervous habit that was a dead give-away. “Listen, we’re going to grab some lunch. Want to join us?”
When I begged off with some feeble excuse, his relief was palpable. Apparently, Monique and Ella planned to stay until the Best in Show competition at the end of the day. No word on their sleeping arrangements. I quickly shared my earlier encounter with Alf and Whit’s bombshell about Rafa and Yael.
“Wow,” Pruett said. “Talk about motive! You may have been on the right track all along. Just had the wrong suspect.”
“Perhaps,” I said. My voice had a slight edge to it.
“Babette will feel bad, though,” Pruett said.
&
nbsp; I summoned my mean girl self again and delivered this zinger. “She’ll be fine. After all, men come and they go. There’s always another one hanging around.”
Chapter 22
I hustled back to Creature Comforts to find Babette. She had to know the truth before someone else spread the news about Rafa. As her best pal, I owed her that. Punky, accompanied by her standard poodle, was hovering around the door when I got there. I could tell by the look on her face that she had news she couldn’t wait to share.
“Have you heard?” she asked. “Can you believe it?”
“If you mean Yael and Rafa, someone beat you to the punch.” I gritted my teeth as I delivered that message.
Punky tilted her head. She was clearly puzzled by my response. “That’s old news, sugar. We all figured that out when they disappeared from O’Doul’s. The business part was just icing on the cake. I’m talking about the arrest.”
I gaped at her like the fool on the hill.
Punky’s expression went way past smug. “Come on. You’re the detective. Can’t you guess?”
I clutched her wrist. “Nope. I’m a bad guesser. Help me out.”
“Chill, for crying out loud. The hot cop and the hag came out and arrested Roy Vesco for both murders.” She pulled away and flexed her fingers. “I don’t buy it, though. He’s probably covering for Kiki.”
For once, I was too stunned to speak. Roy Vesco was the last suspect on my list, despite the depredations of his ex-wife. Besides, he had an alibi for Bethany’s death—my best friend.
“What made them arrest him now?”