Death by Dog Show

by Arlene Kay

  “Never did like that bitch,” he said. “She and Lee deserved each other.”

  As a thin stream of blood trickled down Yael’s face, both Pruett and I gasped. Would we be next? I surmised that Roar would arrange the three-way murder scenario to account for our bodies, with Yael shooting both of us before being slain herself. It was tricky unless you were the cop who arrived first on the scene. Easy to manipulate evidence that way and account for your presence. Besides, Pruett had called Roar and left a message, asking for his help. So had Yael. Reputable witnesses like Babette, Rafa, and Alf would attest to our presence in Yael’s suite and our belief that she was a double murderer. Neat and tidy, just like Sergeant Roar Jansen, the friendly local cop. He might even pin the blame on Genna, if the need arose. That gave me inspiration.

  “Was Genna part of this?” I asked.

  He scoffed. “Hardly. Despite your brilliant detective work, you got her wrong. Genna is a straight arrow. Every so-called clue you found pointed to me as much as Genna, but you were blinded by prejudice. I knew every corner and crevice of the Big E.”

  “Made things easy for you, I bet.” Pruett kept his cool, although I knew he had to be thinking of Ella and worrying.

  Roar enjoyed boasting. I’d never seen that massive ego of his unleashed before, but it was on full display now. He was right—prejudice had blinded me to the evil behind a handsome face and great body. My bad, as they say.

  “I grabbed those shears of Rafa’s first thing,” Roar said. “Just in case I needed to set him up as a fall guy. Holmes was too busy bragging to even sense the danger.” Another chuckle from the lying lips of Roar Jansen. “Take it from me, Perri, that German steel is top notch. It did the job with no problems whatsoever.”

  I managed a smile. “Good to know. I’ll be sure to stock more of them.”

  He wagged his finger at me. “Good one. Always did like a sassy woman. Too bad inventory won’t concern you anymore.”

  Pruett flexed his knees, a move that caught Roar’s attention. “Cramps.”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t suffer for long.” Roar checked his watch. “I’m waiting for the band downstairs to start. Things get noisy up here then. Easy to mask any sounds.” He pointed to the sagging corpse of his employer. “She bitched nonstop about it. She bitched about everything and everyone. Quite the princess, that one.”

  In death, Yael looked anything but regal. Corpses seldom do. I resisted picturing Pruett and me in the same pose. Ghoulish and unproductive. Better to devise a plan—any plan—that might save us from that fate. Pruett locked eyes with me, infusing me with his strength and, yes, love. I resolved to gamble on Roar’s need to brag. Shrinks called it grandiosity, an unrealistic sense of superiority.

  “I was fooled by your looks,” I said. “Most women would be, even Genna.”

  That appealed to Roar the narcissist. He snickered and nodded. “I figured that. If he hadn’t been around”—he pointed to Pruett—“we might have made sweet music. Too bad.”

  Pruett joined the game. He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Surely, you didn’t—I mean Genna?”

  “Nah. I have my standards. Besides I didn’t need to. She adored me from the start. Probably one of the reasons she hated Ms. Perri here.”

  “But she hounded us,” I said. “Genna did everything she could to annoy us.”

  Roar pointed my way. “Yeah. That was funny. She was trying to protect me. Trying to throw you off the scent.”

  “So she did know you murdered them.” Pruett whistled. “Wow. No wonder she planted that tie and framed Roy Vesco.”

  Our conversation was surreal, so banal that it made my head spin.

  “She never planted evidence or did anything wrong.” Roar seemed angered by slurs on his partner’s integrity. “I told you about that tie and you believed me. The tie business was one of Yael’s little touches. A mistake. I knew it immediately when you found that Facebook footage.” He sighed. “Oh well. Next time I’ll be more cautious.”

  Next time! “So you plan to continue your side job?” I asked.

  “Sure. Word gets out when your work is good. Don’t worry. I have plenty of customers lined up.”

  To my dismay, the band started an initial tune-up. Roar was right. The volume was already high. When the music reached its zenith, the noise would be deafening. More than enough to disguise the pop, pop of a silenced Glock.

  “Showtime, gang,” Roar said. “Let’s see. Stay seated. That way I’ll pretend that Yael shot you where you sat.”

  “How do you explain that?” Pruett asked pointing to Yael’s body.

  “Easily. I responded to your call, got here just a bit too late, and downed the murderer.” He walked over to the door, making sure it was ajar. When it came to scene setting, the man was a genius. Nothing left to chance.

  “Ladies first,” Roar said, pointing the Glock at me. I closed my eyes, waiting for the pain as that steel projectile penetrated my body. The shot sounded louder than I expected, yet I felt nothing. I opened my eyes and saw the reason.

  Genna Watts, gun in hand, burst through the open door and shot her partner. Tears streamed down her face and her hair stuck out in tufts. Never had a woman looked so beautiful.

  Chapter 26

  When “Death by Dog Show” went viral, our adventures quickly became the talk of the nation. Pruett’s handsome mug appeared on network television, cable news, and podcasts around the world. No one could dispute the veracity of his tale since that clever writer had recorded every word of our deadly encounter on his iPhone. No wonder he’d insisted on using it to contact Roar.

  I resisted all calls to appear with him despite the pleas of Babette and Pruett himself. The body count was too high for me to profit from my part in the whole mess. I also knew that media attention was a two-edged sword that both gave and took away. I valued my privacy too much to become public property, subject to dissection on blogs, Facebook, and Twitter. It simply wasn’t worth it.

  Not everyone agreed. Rafa Ramos profited immensely from a codicil in Yael’s will. He planned a palatial poodle breeding operation with some of the proceeds and welcomed any chance to discuss his role in the dog show deaths. My pal Punky had already signed up to work with him. I assumed the relationship was professional, but with Punky, who could say?

  Rafa’s looks and charisma served him well in those endeavors on the big stage. On the other hand, Whit Wiley’s bid for attention fell flat. Every overture made by the little weasel was rebuffed by news outlets, and he was reduced to self-publishing his own highly colored version of the events. Sales were extremely slow.

  True crime books pay well. Despite my decision to remain incommunicado, my business saw a substantial sales surge after Pruett’s book was published. I gratefully accepted that outcome and laughed all the way to the bank. In another positive development, Guinnie became a Silver Grand Champion in short order and was invited to participate in the forthcoming Westminster Dog Show with other canine superstars. She deserved it, and Ella’s happiness warmed my heart.

  Babette basked in reflected glory, especially since she was publicly credited with providing the vital clue about that pricey tie. The designer sent Pruett several of his products to wear during the media tour, and I must say that Pruett represented them well.

  I haven’t returned to the Big E since the murders, although the facility continues to host dog shows. I doubt that I ever will. Too many ghosts prowled the area; too many lives were destroyed.

  I avoided the limelight, telling myself that a quiet life with my pets, friends, and business was good enough for me. Despite the brave talk, I had to admit that our brush with death had been exhilarating. Pruett, Babette, and I made a formidable if unorthodox team that got results. We weren’t superheroes, and yet justice triumphed and a ruthless killer had been vanquished due to our efforts. That was pretty heady stuff.

 
When the media frenzy subsided, I quietly rejoined the show world. After all, there were leashes to make, collars to craft, and bridles to fashion. Who knew when our next adventure would call?

  Acknowledgments

  To my agent, Sharon Belcastro, for her diligence and sage counsel, and to breeder/owner/handler Juli-Lacey Black for her insights into the intriguing world of canine competition.

  Homicide by Horse Show

  Perri Morgan will return in the next Creature Comforts Mystery . . .

  Keep reading for a special sneak peek!

  A Lyrical Underground e-book on sale October 15, 2019.

  Chapter 1

  “It’s an outrage! Morally indefensible! Outright murder.” Babette Croy swept her arms in an arc as she built up a head of steam. When it came to outrage, Babette was second to none. However, on the issue of animal welfare our passions aligned. Her big brown eyes bulged with emotion as she ticked off the moral failings of her affluent neighbors in Great Marsh, Virginia. “All they care about is property. Their rights. What about the horses? They’ll go to kill lots and be slaughtered for dog food. Those selfish prigs don’t give a fig about the horses’ lives.” Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening several thick coats of mascara.

  Despite the protests of citizens like Babette, our local town council had recently sanctioned the removal of Cavalry Farms, a forty-acre facility devoted to rescuing horses. The official excuse was community safety, but no one believed that, even after a prominent landholder claimed that the stench and runoff from waste products had polluted her well and contaminated her drinking water. No one had much sympathy for the citizen either, a perpetual whiner who had far too much time and money at her disposal. The local newspaper had been filled with tart comments about her, some of which had bordered on libelous.

  Our little community valued property above all else and paid exorbitant taxes to prove it. Quite simply, the rescue facility infringed on those most sacred tenets of upper crust society—status and raw profit. It occupied one of the most coveted spots in town and drew what some referred to as a disreputable crowd, particularly on weekends. Certain Great Marsh residents prided themselves on the exclusivity of their enclave and paid big bucks to maintain it. Businesses and property owners had coalesced into a massive interest group that touted constitutional freedoms and vowed to “re-home” the horses and their rescuers in a more suitable spot, preferably in another universe. Eminent domain was the official tool for change, a tricky strategy that was subject to scrutiny and legal challenge. Several local attorneys argued on both sides of the issue, but to a simple soul like me, equity and compassion superseded everything.

  Babette and I commandeered a choice slot in the local coffee house that abutted the town square. She was a regular there, so her histrionics were shrugged off and regarded as nothing special, just a normal part of the scenery. Our server carefully set a cup brimming with espresso next to her and fled. No one, no one sane that is, wanted to tangle with Babette on the issue of animal welfare. I leaned across the table and patted my friend’s hand.

  “Maybe we can mobilize public opinion,” I said. “Most people in Great Marsh love horses. After all, we have all kinds of organizations devoted to equestrian stuff. Plenty of little girls and their mamas involved.” The equine industry and all the attendant suppliers was a billion-dollar bonanza in Virginia and constituted a good part of my business.

  Babette closed her eyes and raked her manicured fingernails through expertly highlighted tresses. She was no dilettante but a serious person who also cared about her appearance and had the money to indulge her needs. She didn’t look her age—not at all. Facials, floppy hats and the occasional shot of Juvéderm preserved Babette at a perpetual thirty-nine rather than her actual forty-eight. She always described herself as “thirty-nine and holding on for dear life.”

  I sported a tailored look more suited to my needs. No manicure. That would be wasted on a leathersmith who spent her time crafting items for dog and horse enthusiasts. Minimal makeup made sense too, although I still had enough girly impulses to apply blush and lip-gloss each day. My one point of vanity was my hair, a thick chestnut mane not unlike those of my equine clients. I usually tamed it in a French braid or a twist but on formal occasions it cascaded down my back in a blaze of glory.

  “You don’t get it, Perri. It’s a status thing. They say they love horses but only a certain class of them. You know, dressage, jumping, competition thoroughbreds. Cavalry Farms rescues draft horses, farm rejects—nothing that would show up in those glossy magazines they love. These so-called horse lovers see their animals as fashion accessories. Lesser specimens are candidates for dog food or the glue factory.”

  Babette’s sympathies were aroused by almost any animal cause and her perspective wasn’t always balanced. Some opposition was indeed based on property values and class distinctions, and while many of my friends and neighbors genuinely loved all animals, they differed on this issue. I’d heard the same arguments applied to dog shows by the “adopt don’t shop” crowd. Babette and I were both devoted to animal causes, but we also were enthusiasts of purebred dogs and attended shows all over the country. As a purveyor of custom leather goods, my livelihood depended on well-heeled people who spent lavishly on their four-legged friends both equine and canine. Balance was the key to getting things right but there was no sense in telling that to Babette.

  She chattered on, happily making plans. “You’re so right! I’ll showcase it on my next program. Pictures and first-hand accounts. That should throw a spanner in the works.” She clutched her cup and sipped greedily. “You can help me, Perri. People listen to you. After all, you’re a veteran.”

  Babette was the eternal optimist but unlike me she didn’t have to support herself or worry about offending customers. That gave her the luxury of time and the illusion that throngs of people actually watched her local television program. Unfortunately, reality differed sharply from perception. Community television shows tended to air at odd hours when most folks were fast asleep.

  “I’ll do what I can. You know that.” My response was weak and feckless but as a small business owner, I had nothing else to offer. Creature Comforts wasn’t booming but at least it was operating in the black. That could change in a flash if my clients—the canine and horsey set—turned away from me. High-end leashes, bridles, halters and collars were luxury items affordable to only a few of them or their doting spouses.

  “Maybe you should court controversy,” I said. “You know, invite the opposition on your show and have a debate. That might stir things up.”

  Babette drained her cup and gave me a caffeinated grin. “Like who?”

  I was playing with fire but what the heck. “What about Glendon Jakes? He certainly has a point of view and he’s pretty well known around here.”

  I hunkered down, waiting for an explosion, but Babette’s silence was even more ominous. Jakes was her sworn enemy, a buttoned-down biologist whose popular hunting blog, Bag It, took every opportunity to excoriate Babette and the causes she espoused. She folded her hands and sighed.

  “I get it. Meet the enemy. Bring him into the tent and fight mano a mano. Crafty. You’re a genius, Perri! Never met the little creep face to face but I’ve read enough of his posts to last a lifetime. I’ll get right on it. Better still, I’ll have Ethel handle that.” Ethel, her long-suffering secretary, was a demon of efficiency who could conquer any task.

  My cowardice immediately kicked in. Babette operated more on emotion than intellect, but she was a kindly soul who would help any creature, human or animal. I did not want to see her hurt or humiliated by a snarky PhD with a penchant for satire. The sticker prominently displayed on his truck said it all: “I love animals. They taste good.”

  “Maybe you should wait a bit,” I said. “You know, build your case. Marshall the facts.”

  She bared perfectly capped teeth. “Wait? That may mean a death
sentence for those horses. Re-home—that’s the term they always use. Sounds so much nicer than slaughter. Face it, Perri. Who wants to adopt those old bags of bones, loveable though they may be? Land is expensive anywhere you look.”

  Before I opened my mouth, Babette continued. “Look what happened at that county animal shelter last year. We picketed, pleaded and blocked the roads like well-behaved citizens but nothing stopped them. Bloodthirsty bastards gassed most of the dogs rescued from Katrina.”

  Babette dusted off her slacks and jumped to her feet. “Well, it won’t happen this time. No sir.”

  I made a rapid Hail Mary pass, hoping to slow her down. “What about Carleton? He’s a good tactician. Maybe he’ll have some ideas.” Unfortunately, the reference to her former husband had the opposite effect. Babette narrowed her eyes and glared at me, hands on hips.

  “Carleton has no interest whatsoever in my activities. My causes. That’s what he calls them. Can you believe it? Like I’m some silly teeny-bopper crushing on a rock star.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything.” A shroud of invisibility would have come in handy at that point. Anything was preferable to inserting myself into a nasty ex-marital spat.

  Babette grabbed the check and patted my hand. “It’s not your fault, darlin.’ Things haven’t been peachy keen between Car and me for some time. It’s probably my fault. When the wife holds the purse strings…” She shrugged. “I should’ve kicked him out when we got divorced but he was so pitiful. Begged to stay until he found another place. That was two years ago and countin’.”

  Carleton Croy had impeccable academic credentials, a prominent ego and a perpetual look of gloom. Several of my clients considered him a hunk although the reasons for that eluded me. It wasn’t necessarily his appearance. His features were pleasant enough, his body looked fit, and his thatch of fiery red hair gave him an air of distinction that was probably merited. As head guidance counsellor and drama coach at the prestigious Hamilton Arms School, he held a responsible post and by all accounts was quite good at it. Unfortunately, while pricey institutions charge whopping tuition they seldom share the spoils with their staff. Thus, every conversation with Carleton was studded with references to his days at Yale and his many well-heeled pals. The air of entitlement and dashed dreams that surrounded him was almost stifling.