Desperate Housedogs

by Sparkle Abbey

  “I think you mean agoraphobia. Arachnophobia is fear of spiders.”

  “Oh.” She paused for a moment. “I don’t think he’s afraid of spiders, although he might be, poor man. I think it’s just the other.”

  Ah, now I got it. It had seemed an unlikely friendship, but Diana can’t resist the wounded. Human or animal.

  “I guess he used to be in some big rock band.” Diana reached in the car to pat Mr. Wiggles’ head as she talked. “That’s how he made all his money and can afford such a nice home. It’s very nice. But he apparently was pretty wild in his day and his wife left him and took their two lovely children back to England with her. Now he has sobered up but they won’t come back.”

  “Diana, I’m not convinced he’s sobered up.”

  “Oh, Caro honey, you’re such a cynic.”

  “Yes, I am. And for good reason.” I smiled at her concern. “Let’s get you on your way. Mr. Wiggles is getting impatient.”

  I questioned Diana about the landscaper, but she didn’t remember seeing him at all. With that, Diana and Mr. Wiggles were off to take care of their afternoon errands, and I climbed in my car and headed back to the office. I wanted to pick up some files and then I had my own afternoon appointments.

  There were two more calls from Ruby Point residents. Seemed like there was a whole spate of pet problems in the enclave. Or perhaps a whole spate of snoopy pet parents who were wondering what I knew about the investigation into Kevin’s death.

  That would be one short conversation. What I knew was—nothing.

  Still the appointments gave me ample opportunity to ask a question or two about who and what my clients might have noticed the day Kevin died.

  I took the basket of cookies in with me and placed them on my desk. I was pretty sure it was safe to eat the cookies, but Diana was right. I am truly a total cynic.

  Paris was at the reception desk again today. I noted the blonde bimbo look she favored and wondered if any ambition at all lived inside her. Then I felt bad for my stereotyping. Sort of.

  I walked out to the desk.

  “Paris, hon, I have a question for you.”

  “Sure, Caro.” Her surfer girl hair flipped over one shoulder as she turned.

  “Have you ever heard of Ollie Hembry?”

  “Sure, absolutely everyone has. He’s lived in Laguna like forever.”

  “Really?” I must have missed the memo. “What do you know about him?”

  “Well . . . ” Paris laid one French manicured finger on her tanned cheek. “He used to have really wild parties. Major, major, like epic big rockers would come and there’d be, you know, like sex, drugs, and famous people. The police would have to go and tell everyone to chill and calm the neighbors. Then his wife left him and he went bonkers. Crazy. He’s crazy now, ya know. No one ever sees him.” She stopped. “Maybe he’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Do you think he’s dead?”

  “No, no, I’m sure he’s not dead.” I backed away and returned to my office and stared at the basket of cookies again. “No, I’m sure he’s very much alive. A bit wacky but very much alive.”

  I lifted the towel out of the basket careful not to lose any cookies or pieces of cookies.

  Holy crap.

  There nestled in the bottom of the wicker basket was the black book I’d found in Kevin’s drawer. I didn’t have to read the entire book to know it truly belonged to him. The first page was filled with notes in Kevin’s flamboyant handwriting. The same handwriting on the checks he paid me with every month or so.

  I flipped through, noting names I recognized, looking for my own.

  Ahh, there it was. I knew I’d seen it.

  Carolina Lamont, fmr ms tx, scdl clsd psych prtc, LB 4 yr, ho. Well, hell, that wasn’t hard to interpret. Former Miss Texas. (I was.) Scandal closed psychology practice. (It had.) I wasn’t sure about the LB four-year reference but I imagined it could mean Laguna Beach because I’d been in Laguna for four years. Actually working on my fifth year.

  I turned the page and looked at some of the other entries. It was a little more difficult when you didn’t know the person’s history.

  I finally found another whose history I knew intimately.

  Melinda Langston, fmr ms tx, disqual ms am, eng Gry Don, LB 4yr, ho.

  Again I could pretty easily decipher the entry about Mel. Also a former Miss Texas, she was disqualified in the Miss America pageant. (A story she’ll have to share with y’all. Not mine to tell.) Mel was engaged to Grey Donovan (today anyway, as far as I knew), and she and I had been in Laguna about the same amount of time.

  The “ho” after each of our names I wasn’t sure about but I didn’t think Kevin thought we were “hos” in the money for sex connotation. We were former beauty queens from Texas, not hoochie mamas from Hoochistan.

  There were other entries:

  Ollie Hembry, rck lgnd, sep w-fam, Rhde, arrst 1998 HK, LB 10yr, ho

  KR, cub gy dgr, frm SFB, so fk id, LB 2yr, rtr

  Mandy Beenerm, yga ldy, frmr chldr, swt dn, LB 6yr, ho fcls

  Mr. Mandy, inv fm, brk, aff SS, LB 6yr, ho fcls

  Sharmin Summers, schwartz, tvstr, frm neb, nt 17, LB 3yr, ho

  Mona Michaels, btch Fluffy, sep dh Cliff, ck inv, LB 19 yr, rtr

  I flipped through the pages and recognized many of the names. Most of them were known to me, and many were clients. Some I didn’t recognize at all. I tried to interpret other entries based on what I’d been able to figure out regarding the notes about Mel and me. Then there was a section at the back in another language. I wasn’t sure what language.

  There was one spot in the book where I could tell a page had been torn out. I wondered if Ollie had done it, but his page was still in there. Who else, besides Kevin, had seen the book?

  Maybe someone had a secret worth killing for.

  But why not take the whole book?

  I glanced at my watch and seeing the time tucked the book in my briefcase to look at later. Maybe with fresh eyes I’d be able to figure out Kevin’s shorthand notations.

  Maybe I needed to call Malone and fess up about the book.

  Okay, no “maybe.” I needed to call Malone and hand over the book.

  I picked up the files I’d pulled on my repeat offenders, and grabbed my notes on a new client, Hilda and her new puppy, a Saluki. Business was booming. I hated the idea that somehow my business was profiting from such a horrible incident almost as much as I hated people thinking I might have killed him.

  My cell phone rang as I was headed to my car. It was my friend, Walt, reminding me we were meeting for dinner that evening. We always met once a month for either dinner or a movie.

  Before you get your hopes up (you and my mama) this isn’t exactly date night. Walter Cambrian was a friend, a former photojournalist, and he had been my stepfather’s college roommate. He’d been a great help to me getting my company started, I enjoyed his company, and we had similar tastes in movies and restaurants.

  Walt was retired and always knew what was going on in the community. Maybe he’d heard something. Now that Kevin’s book had surfaced, I also had other avenues to investigate, avenues I hoped would lead far away from me.

  It’d been another busy day so I’d had to rush to get home, change clothes, and get to Riccio’s on time. Walt was already there by the time I arrived. Dino Riccio’s restaurant was known for its Italian fare and tonight it was packed. I was glad we’d made reservations.

  When I’d made my stop at home, I’d reviewed the pages of Kevin’s book again for any insights, but without understanding his shorthand it was difficult. He had only left out vowels and shortened words, but without a context, there were too many possibilities for most of it. My best bet was using the entries about people I knew.

  I looked for one about Walt.

  Got it.

  Walter Cambrian, aw pht, blgr, wdr, snp, LB 23yr, ho

  I jotted it down. I didn’t want to be seen with the notebook in case anyone
recognized it.

  As soon as we’d ordered, I filled Walt in on my adventures since we’d last gotten together. I began with Kevin and how wild his dogs had been, then moved on to Detective Malone and his insinuation that I was somehow involved in Kevin’s death. I recounted my adventures in retrieving my Grandma Tillie’s brooch and ended up with the basket of goodies from Ollie that had Kevin’s book hidden inside.

  Walt shook his head. “You, child, lead an exciting life.” His tone was gruff but I could tell from the suppressed line of his mouth he was trying not to laugh.

  “I’d rather have boring.”

  “Hell, Caro, boring is for old age.”

  The waiter appeared and placed our salads in front of us. “Anything else you need right now, folks?”

  We both shook our heads.

  As soon as the waiter left, he continued. “What do you think he was doing with the information he kept on people?”

  “I don’t know.” I took a bite of the greens. Perfect as always. “It could have just been a weird obsessive thing Kevin did. Keeping track of people. Or rather their secrets.”

  “Could be,” Walt agreed.

  “You know, like my daily list. Only my list-making obsession impacts me, not others.”

  “So what does the note about me say?”

  “Here.” I slipped him the piece of paper where I’d written it down.

  “Pretty easy to interpret.”

  “Most of it. Award-winning photographer, blogger, widower. I think the number after LB means you’ve lived in Laguna Beach for twenty-three years. Is that right?”

  “Exactly right.”

  “And I’m not sure but I’m wondering if the “ho” notation means home-owner because all the notes either said “ho” or “rtr” or “fcls.”

  “Makes sense.” Walt continued to stare at the paper. “Most of us own or rent. And unfortunately lately there are a good number of people who would fit the foreclosure category.”

  “Yes, sad but true.”

  “I don’t know what “snp” means.” Walt handed the paper back to me.

  “Hmmm. Not sure.” I thought it probably meant ‘snoop’ but I wasn’t about it tell Walt that.

  Our dinners had arrived and we dug in.

  “I’m not sure why the police think Kevin’s death is anything more than a home invasion.” Walt tasted his manicotti.

  “Good?”

  He nodded. “Seems more likely that Kevin would have tased the invader instead of the other way around if it was just a robbery.”

  “I agree.” I nodded. “I’m still bothered by the encounter with the landscape guy and how the dogs acted. I’ve been asking around about him.” I took a bite of my chicken piccata. It was incredible. “He seems to me to be the best bet for someone, besides me, who interacted with Kevin the afternoon he died. Though the police don’t seem to think so.”

  “I’ll keep my ear to the ground for any rumors or innuendos involving Kevin Blackstone,” Walt promised. “Useless police. Waste of our taxes.”

  We spent the rest of our dinner chatting about other things and only came back to the topic of Kevin as we walked to our cars.

  “Thanks for a great evening as always, Walt.” I kissed his rough cheek.

  “Can’t come here often.” Walt groused. “Food’s too good. I don’t get enough exercise to handle the calories.”

  I laughed. “Leave it to you to find something bad about good food.” I turned to open my car door. “We didn’t even have the tiramisu.”

  He put a hand out to stop me. “Caro?”

  “Yes, Walt.” I turned to face him.

  “You know I try hard not to tell you what to do. Figure you already have too darn many people doing that. But my advice on this notebook of Kevin’s is that you need to turn it over to the police. Right away.”

  Damned if I didn’t know Walt was right.

  I started toward home. I wanted nothing more than to go home, sit out on my patio, and enjoy the view. But Walt had nailed it. I had to get Kevin Blackstone’s little book of secrets to the police.

  Sooner, not later. I needed to quit being wishy-washy about it.

  I don’t know what I’d been thinking.

  Well, what I’d been thinking was of all the people who might be hurt if the information were mishandled. I’d operated under the assumption it would be mishandled because that was what had happened to me.

  During “The Big Mess” every embarrassing detail of my life was splashed all over the news. Reporters stalked my friends, they questioned my hairdresser, they made my life a living hell. Geoff and I had been a whole section in the Dallas Morning News Sunday Edition. Super-stars in their feature on high-profile ugly divorces.

  But the information in Kevin’s book wasn’t mine to keep.

  Still I wasn’t going to give up on figuring it out myself. So, before I turned it over I would make a copy. Kevin’s shorthand code was making me crazy, and I was determined to crack it.

  I changed direction and headed toward my office instead of home.

  There might be something in the information Kevin had noted that would help to figure out who had killed him. I knew these folks way better than the police did. And after all, it might help to dissuade them from the idea I was somehow involved.

  I parked in front of the office rather than in the back. My key slipped easily into the lock and I opened the door. Offices always seem a little creepy when there’s no one there, and I suddenly wished I’d waited until morning.

  But once I get my mind set on something, I just push forward. It was a blessing and a curse. Now I was feeling a little funny about being alone in a deserted office.

  Interesting how murder in your sleepy little community will do that do to a person.

  Our reception area held a circular wooden desk. The copier had been turned off to save energy, so I had to wait a bit for it to warm up.

  The real estate developer’s office was closed and locked. A few years ago when the housing boom was at its height I’d come in and find her here all hours of the day and night. Now I knew she was barely hanging on. In fact, she’d had to downsize her own real estate.

  The accountant had a steady business, busier during the tax season, but stable the rest of the time.

  The office beside him was always locked up. I’d not asked any of the others about it but I was a little afraid it was a front for something not quite legal. You know, one of the types of companies where 60 Minutes or one of those news programs comes in and everyone says they never saw anyone there, and the cameras go in and it’s just empty space used as a front to rip people off.

  The next office was the psychic’s. Now I know you’ve got a picture in your head of long gypsy skirts, bare feet, scarves and bangles. But this lady dressed more like your average business woman. Usually a pantsuit with a nice pastel blouse, low sensible shoes. I didn’t put any stock in psychics myself, but she seemed to have a steady stream of clients.

  The copier finally warmed up and I carefully copied each page, laying the book flat and making sure that I had a legible copy of each of the notations.

  There were twenty-seven pages in all. Most of the names I recognized but there were a few who were unfamiliar. There were also some other notes in the back, also in code, that seemed unrelated. I copied those, too, just in case.

  Once done, I slipped the book and the copies in my purse, locked the office, and climbed back in my car.

  I had animals to feed and a dog to walk. Tonight I would call Malone, and regardless of how angry he might be, explain how I had unintentionally picked up Kevin’s book when I had retrieved my grandmother’s brooch.

  Before I made that call I needed to figure out how I was going to explain the fact I’d intentionally omitted that information from our previous conversations.

  I wondered who I could count on to post bail.

  Chapter Twelve

  I called and got Malone’s voicemail. I said, “I have information about the c
ase.” Now that ought to merit a return phone call.

  I hit the sack. I felt, if not exactly great about facing the detective, then good about doing the right thing.

  The next morning it was another day, another dog. Life in the fast lane for your intrepid pet therapist to desperate house pets of every kind. Today it was a depressed Dachshund, a headstrong Basset Hound, and a kvetching Savannah kitty cat.

  I’d been up early. Taken Dogbert for a short walk. Promised him a longer one later and headed out the door.

  My first call was a little different from the usual. It wasn’t really a therapy call. Lydia Custler was out of town. Most of my clients were so attached to their furry friends they always figured out a way for Fido, Fluffy, or Figaro to go along. But Lydia was a hot-shot ad agency stylist and her specialty was food styling. You know, those beautiful mouth-watering shots of fresh peaches, piping hot biscuits, and juicy, calorie-oozing barbeque ribs. Good grief, I made myself hungry just thinking about it.

  Well, on-site food jobs and Eleanor Rigby, Lydia’s very spoiled Cardigan Welsh Corgi, did not play well together. After a disastrous photo shoot where Eleanor ate the client’s foie gras and then puked it up on said client’s expensive Italian shoes, Lydia had decided to make other arrangements.

  She could have boarded Eleanor at the vet’s (you remember, Dr. Daniel Darling, right?) luxurious digs or at the Laguna Dog Ranch, but no, that just wouldn’t do. She’d hired an in-home sitter. One who didn’t yet have a driver’s license. This way Eleanor would have all her own things around her so she wouldn’t miss Lydia so much. See “very spoiled” reference above.

  So, I was on my way to pick up Eleanor at the groomer. I’d had to double back to my house because I’d forgotten the dog car seat Lydia insisted on, and now I was running late.

  Just as I pulled out of my driveway for the second time my cell phone rang.

  I could see from my caller ID it was Walt.

  “Hey, Walt.” I headed my car toward the highway.

  “Hello, Caro, I have a clue for you.” His voice was a raspy whisper. Raspy because he used to be a smoker and a whisper, I could only assume, because there were other people around.