The Dogfather

by Sparkle Abbey

  I couldn’t keep the surprise off my face.

  “I guess I know something you don’t,” he taunted.

  I narrowed my eyes. It was hard to tell if he was lying. Not that it mattered, he was right; I had no idea they had a sketch, let alone a suspect. But like I’d told him, I wasn’t a cop so it wasn’t as if I was failing at my job.

  “Do you know who gave the description?” I asked. I knew I should have dropped it. But darn, as much as I knew how to get his attention, he knew how to get mine. Plus, if they were close to solving the rash of break-ins, I’d feel comfortable to bring Missy back to the shop.

  “Oh, so now you can have a conversation with me.” He picked up a rhinestone collar and studied it. “You know, I’ve been in this weird little town for a couple of years now, and I still can’t believe anyone would pay seventy dollars for this.”

  I gently took the collar out of his hand and returned it to the display case on the counter. “And that is why you are still considered an outsider. You of all people should know there are more dogs here than there are children. And for some of us, our pets are our children. Once you understand that, and learn to appreciate it, you might be accepted into the community.”

  He studied me with a serious expression. “You’re really into this.”

  “Into what? My business? Of course.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement. What do you know about Mason Reed?”

  I felt my heart skip a beat. He’d done a great job of getting me to drop my guard. Darn him. He wasn’t here about the break-ins; that was just an ice-breaker for the real scoop snooping. “The same as you. He owns Hot Handbags with his wife Quinn.”

  “What else can you tell me about him? Is he a difficult neighbor? Is he easy to get along with? Did anyone have it out for him?”

  I knew from experience that if there was a murder investigation, Malone did not talk about it. Especially to the media. If he didn’t already know Mason was dead, I didn’t want to tip him that it was possible his death could be something more than an accident.

  “He’s not a big talker. And he’s not someone who is engaged in the business community so I can’t give you too much on him. Why do you ask?”

  “Well according to my contact at the police station . . .” He stared at me for a moment, making sure I understood he had an ‘in.’ “He’s dead.”

  “Really?” I squeaked out. At this point I didn’t know what he knew, and I was extremely aware I was talking to a reporter. As far as I knew only Betty was convinced he was pushed down the staircase.

  He frowned. “You don’t seem surprised by the news.”

  “That’s because I’m the one who found him, Smarty Pants.” Betty sashayed closer. “I’d be happy to give you an exclusive.”

  My shush to Betty fell on deaf ears.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I shook my head. Betty ignored me.

  “Are you up for it?” She batted her eyes in Mr. TV’s direction.

  He swallowed hard. “On camera?”

  “Of course. As you know, I’m excellent on TV. But I’ll have to clear it with that hottie, Detective Malone.”

  I let out a pent-up breath. Maybe Betty had learned a few things the past couple of years.

  Mason returned his attention to me. “Word on the street is he argued with your fiancé about a bad art deal.”

  “Grey would never negotiate a bad art deal for anyone. Secondly, he’s not my fiancé, and you know that. You’re being obstinate.”

  He scoffed. “Still defending him to the death even after he dumped you. I don’t understand your blind allegiance.”

  “Lookie here, Buster.” Betty poked him in the chest. “Just because Mason picked a fight with Grey in our shop, doesn’t mean Grey had anything to do with Mason’s death. And it was Cookie who did the dumping.”

  I closed my eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. She couldn’t help herself. I looked at MacAvoy who was all ears at Betty’s juicy tidbits.

  “So they argued? Are you suggesting Mason’s death wasn’t an accident, that he was murdered?” He turned an excited expression in my direction. “By that arrogant ex of yours?” He pulled out a notepad from the inner pocket of his jacket and scribbled away.

  My blood pressure soared. “Of course not. If you’re here to get dirt on Grey, you can turn right around and leave.”

  The front door opened again. We all turned to see Grey step inside looking casual, at least for him—dress slacks, crisp white shirt, sans suit jacket. Immediately his eyes darted around the room taking in the scene, assessing the situation. Sometimes he had the worst timing; other times he had the best timing. Today his timing couldn’t be more alarming.

  “MacAvoy.” His greeting held a deceivingly dismissive tone.

  Grey’s intimidating gait was impressive. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of it. I had to give it to MacAvoy. He didn’t flinch. At least not outwardly.

  The TV reporter squared his shoulders. “Donovan. Anything you’d like to say, on the record of course?”

  “No.” My ex-fiancé had pulled out his tried-and-true one-word answer. We were on our way to a word-boxing match.

  “You’re back.” Betty bounced on the toes of her white sneakers. She pointed her thumb toward MacAvoy. “He was trying to get information out of us, but we’re steel traps.” She pretended to zip her lips.

  I coughed, hiding my laughter. Betty’s imaginary zipper couldn’t hold tight for five seconds. “MacAvoy was just leaving.”

  “I don’t think I was.” He faced Grey. “Ms. Foxx said you had an argument with Mason Reed and now he’s dead. Are you a suspect?”

  Grey looked at me. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Mason Reed really is dead. At first glance it looks like he fell down the stairs.”

  “First glance?”

  “He was pushed,” Betty chimed in.

  I could see the questions piling up in Grey’s head. I pulled him aside, keeping my back to our unwanted audience. My palms were sweaty. I kept my voice low. “It’s possible Betty is on to something. When you fall down the stairs you don’t land face first.”

  Grey’s face was unreadable. “Not typically.” He looked over my shoulder at Betty. “How do you know this?”

  I followed his gaze to where Betty and MacAvoy stood, eavesdropping on our conversation.

  Betty puffed her chest out, proud as a peacock. “I found him. Deader than a doornail.”

  MacAvoy flashed his condescending TV smile in our direction. “I file the story in a few hours. If you change your mind about the interview, you know where to find me.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” Grey said.

  I sighed in relief when Mr. TV walked out the door.

  Betty sauntered up to Grey, and slipped her thin arm through his. “He’s a sexy guy, but a royal pain in the butt. Don’t you worry. Cookie and I have your back.”

  He patted her hand. “Thanks, Betty, but you don’t need to worry yourself about it.”

  I studied the rugged handsome face I knew so well. The look in his eyes said we did need to worry. My ex-fiancé’s undercover business was about to wreak havoc on my personal life.

  Chapter Four

  GREY HAD FOLLOWED MacAvoy out the door without ever explaining why he’d stopped by in the first place. Had Grey not rushed off in the opposite direction of MacAvoy, I’d have worried Grey had changed his mind about the in-depth interview. And not in a good way.

  Due to Grey’s abrupt departure, I didn’t have a chance to mention my trip and my win-win arrangement. Not that I’d have to convince him, in the end he was getting what he wanted. I shot him a quick text asking him to come back to the shop when he had a few minutes.

  Business was brisk, and the afternoon passed b
y in a blur. As promised, Nina Fernandez and puppy Dash stopped by to try on his costume. He looked adorable in his black tux, red rose pin, and fake mustache. He was fixated with eating the mustache, so she bought two extra. His energetic puppy prance didn’t channel “intimidating mobster,” but it wouldn’t matter, he would be a guaranteed show stopper on the Mobster Film Festival red carpet next month.

  I was still undecided on what Missy should wear. The obvious female mobster costume was a wedding dress, but I wasn’t known for doing what was expected. I leaned toward Bonnie and Clyde (Missy as Bonnie, me as Clyde) or even prisoner uniforms. Oh, Mama would skin me alive if she even knew I was considering dressing as an inmate, knowing my photo would be taken. Of course, that just made it all the more enticing.

  Nina and Dash left with a promise to see us at the festival, if not sooner. While I was helping a new customer decide on a collar and leash ensemble, Betty’s order of porcelain treat jars arrived. All fifty jars.

  She assured me she had ordered only ten containers. Too bad she hadn’t read the whole description—five jars to a box. I had no idea how long it would take to sell the lot. I made a mental note to tell Grey only he could place special orders and to keep Betty away from the computer.

  I sent her to the storage room to unpack and price the new merchandise. The sooner the jars were on the floor, the sooner we’d move them out the door. Betty vowed to sell them all by Christmas. Her heart was in the right place, but the jars would likely come to the same fate as the dog sweaters. Maybe we could have a buy-a-treat-jar-get-a-dog-sweater-for-free sale.

  It was time to take away Betty’s purchasing privileges. How did you tell an eighty-something year-old she was grounded? Surely, parenting a teenager was easier than dealing with my favorite senior citizen.

  While Betty was in the back, I turned my attention to the Mobster Film Festival, which was only five weeks away. I was short five thousand dollars of the Paws for Angels’s sponsorship goal. Although, with Mason dead, it was possible I was ten thousand behind if Quinn decided she didn’t want to, in her words, “clean up Mason’s mess.” I wasn’t even sure what that meant.

  I wish I’d listened closer to Mama when she was blabbering about the appropriate length of time to pass before approaching a new widow regarding volunteering and begging for charitable donations, but I had been fourteen and more interested in barrel racing than learning my role in Dallas society.

  I was jotting down a new list of possible sponsors when Luis and his pudgy, long-haired dachshund, Barney, waddled into the shop.

  I greeted them as they made their way toward me. “Hey there. Two of my favorite customers. Barney’s looking good.”

  Barney had had a weight problem since I’d known him. Dr. Darling, local veterinarian and good friend, had convinced Luis to put Barney on a strict diet and exercise program. It was working. The lovable pooch had lost a significant amount of weight over the past few months. Luis, on the other hand, seemed to be gaining whatever Barney had lost.

  “Thanks, Mel.” He looked around, rubbing his new double chin. “Is Betty in today?”

  “She’s in the back.” Luis liked to dress his dog in costumes. Today he had dressed the dog like a purple jumbo crayon. The perfect outfit for the chubby doxie. I came out from behind the counter. I bent down and scratched Barney behind the ear. I really wanted to give him a treat, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t on his doggie menu. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “She placed a special order for us.”

  Barney sighed and stretched out next to Luis’s feet.

  Lord, please tell me it was for a treat jar.

  “I don’t recall seeing anything come in with your name on, but that doesn’t mean it’s not here. I’ll take a look in the back. What did you order?”

  “No, no. That’s okay.” He stopped me with a sharp shake of his head. He cleared his throat. “Word around town is Betty found Mason Reed dead.” He spoke softly as if sharing a dark family secret.

  He wasn’t just here to pick up a special order; he was shopping for gossip.

  “News travels fast.”

  “Sure. Do you think his murder had anything to do with the break-ins?”

  “No one said anything about murder. How about we let Detective Malone do his job?”

  He perked up. “If it’s not a murder, why’s the homicide guy involved?”

  Geez. Good question. I wasn’t doing a very good job of tamping down a murder rumor. “Honestly, we don’t know. But if he is, you know Malone; he’s a thorough kinda guy.” It was a weak explanation, and we both knew it.

  “I thought I heard your voice.” Betty shuffled her way toward us holding a brown cardboard box. “I got your special order, Luis. Did you hear I found another dead guy? I’m on a roll.”

  He avoided making eye contact with me and instead focused on Betty. “I heard he broke his neck.”

  I sighed. The dead body gossip train had left the station. History had proven that once it had departed, it was impossible to stop, especially with Betty as the conductor.

  “He was sprawled out like a shattered stick figure. Never thought a body could bend like that. I would have taken a picture, but I didn’t think about it. Maybe next time.”

  Good grief. Next time? Time to derail the train. “Luis, we just got in a brand-new shipment of treat jars. Maybe you’d like to look at one?”

  Betty snickered. “She doesn’t want us talking about the investigation. I’m thinking about getting my PI license. You’d hire me, right, Luis?”

  “Sure. Not sure what for, but if I needed an investigator, I’d hire you and Mel.”

  “Not Cookie, just me.”

  He looked between us, panicked indecision written on his face. “Oh, well . . . uh, sure. Probably. Maybe.”

  Offended, Betty dropped his box on the counter. “You’ll change your mind once you need me. Maybe to find your lost dog.”

  Barney was sawing logs. The only running he was doing was in his dreams.

  “By the way, I still think you should’ve bought the one with the skull and crossbones. This one is wimpy.” Betty handed him the box.

  “Barney is more of a Mohawk kind of guy.”

  We all looked at Barney. His serious dark eyes and tubby belly straining against his purple crayon costume didn’t shout “born to be wild.” More like “born to snarf dog treats.”

  “What exactly did you order?” I asked.

  “A motorcycle helmet.”

  Luis was an average-looking guy, a little on the shy side. I’d never pegged him for someone who desired freedom and adventure of the road.

  “I didn’t realize you rode. What type of bike do you have?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t. It’s for a costume I’m putting together.”

  Of course. What was I thinking? “You must be getting ready for the Paws for Angels’s fundraiser next month.”

  His lips split into a fat grin. “Oh, yes. Did I ever tell you Barney had been trained to be a service dog?”

  Betty and I looked at each other. I’m sure she was thinking the same thing I was. Barney? Don’t get me wrong, dog breeds other than the traditional Labradors, Golden Retrievers, and German Shepherds could be trained to perform specific tasks for their owners, but a wiener dog dressed up like someone’s kid for Halloween?

  Luis took our silence as an invitation to continue, which it was. I was dying to hear the rest of the story and learn about Barney’s hidden talents other than winning the local wiener race. (How Barney managed to win a Dachshund race was a whole other story.)

  “He’s a true lap dog. Loves people—”

  “And loves naps,” Betty interrupted.

  Luis blushed. “Anyway, we were all set to begin companion hospital visits, but we found out he’s allergic to bleach
.” He lowered his head to stare adoringly at his dachshund. “There’s a lot of bleach fumes in a hospital. He sneezed and coughed for days after our initial visit. Doc Darling said Barney needed to retire before he developed tremors or seizures.”

  That seemed extreme, but I wasn’t a vet, so who was I second guess the diagnosis?

  “Are you sure he’s not allergic to all the dog cologne you spray on him?” Betty asked.

  Luis liked purchasing dog cologne the same way Betty liked selling pawlish—they were obsessed. I had to agree with Betty; normally, Barney’s cologne was overpowering. Today, it wasn’t bad.

  Luis’s face reddened. “I took your advice and only squirt him three times now.”

  “That’s better than bathing him in it. I bet his dandruff has improved.”

  I glared at Betty to stop harassing poor Luis.

  “You’re doing a great job with his cologne,” I encouraged him.

  Luis ducked his head. “Thanks.”

  “I have a question. Don’t you mean Barney was training to be a therapy dog?” I asked.

  Luis was confused about the differences between a service dog and a therapy dog. He wasn’t alone. Since working with Paws for Angels, I learned that was the number-one misunderstanding. A service dog has been specially trained for their owner’s disability. Such as opening and closing doors, diabetic seizure alerts, mobility help, pushing elevator buttons, or turning lights on and off. Barney was a little short to reach the light switch.

  Luis tilted his head and pursed his lips. “It’s all the same. Isn’t it?”

  I smiled gently. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or embarrass him. “No. If Barney was a service dog, he wouldn’t belong to you anymore. He’d live with the person he was helping. A therapy dog is a pet that’s trained to help other people become healthier. Like visiting hospital patients to cheer them up.”

  “Oh, no. I would never give Barney away. I don’t know what I’d do without my little buddy.” Luis’s eyes welled with unshed tears as he thought about being separated from his beloved pooch.