“No way.” I back up a few steps, sticking the hand that’s holding the carton of leftovers behind me. “You already had your chance. This Kung Pao Chicken is all mine now.”
“I’ll trade you some Mongolian Beef.” He grabs the container of icky, mold-growing takeout out of the sink and moves menacingly toward me.
“Don’t you dare throw that at me, Gavin Shaw! This blouse is silk!” I shriek before turning tail and running out of the room. Gav and Willa’s hysterical laughter follows me all the way out to the foyer.
Chapter 5
(Willa)
I stand in front of the huge, semi-detached home halfway up Costa Street, awed by the sheer size of it, marveling at the massive deck on its third floor. I imagine what it must be like to sunbathe up there, so high that it would feel like the clouds were within reach. I sigh dreamily, then look down at my watch. It’s ten fifty-eight – time for me to stop admiring this impressive house and meet the owner of it. Lyla Atwood phoned me yesterday, after seeing my segment on Daybreak on the Bay (She’s the seventh new client I’ve picked up thanks to that show!), and said she had a “situation” with her dog that required my immediate attention. She didn’t elaborate on the nature of this situation, but she sounded overwrought. So, I told her I’d squeeze her in between my other morning appointments and my lunch with Gav.
I hike a couple of feet up the sidewalk until I get to the flight of stairs that leads to the front porch. I feel a not-unpleasant burn in my legs as I ascend the steps. With all the hills and steep sets of steps in San Francisco, a girl never has to worry about using the stair climber. I could probably crack walnuts with my thighs! The second I reach the top of the stairs, the front door flies open and I see a stick-thin brunette in cropped yoga pants and a bright green tank top. Guess Lyla doesn’t share my belief that gym workouts are redundant.
“I’m glad you’re punctual. Come in, come in.” She motions me into the house without bothering to welcome me or introduce herself. “We need to get this matter resolved once and for all.”
All right, down to business then. I step into the open foyer of the home and am momentarily blinded by the brightness. It’s not just the rays of sunshine filtering in through all the windows and reflecting off the multiple glass surfaces that are searing my retinas (I’ve never seen so many mirrors in my life, and I’ve been to Versailles!); it’s all the whiteness. When my eyes adjust, I see white furniture, white walls, white window treatments, the wood flooring in this house is even bleached of color. Is there such a thing as an albino tree?
“Cosette!” Lyla shouts impatiently as she leads me into the living room. I look around for any sign of a canine presence in this monochromatic abode, but it’s a fruitless search. There are no dog gates, no squeaky toys, no gnawed-on bones; I don’t even see a water bowl on the floor of the immaculate kitchen when we walk past it.
“She’s probably sleeping somewhere. That dog’s been so lazy lately. Cosette!” she screeches in an octave so high that I grit my teeth, expecting all the glass in the room to shatter. Fortunately, it doesn’t, and Lyla decides to change tack. “Cosette, Mommy has a treat for you,” she says in a syrupy, singsong voice.
I hear the pitter-patter of dog nails on wood flooring and soon we’re joined by a gorgeous poodle bedecked in a black velvet collar with some serious bling on it. Whether that bling is the real thing or not, I couldn’t say, but it sure sparkles like diamonds and Cosette wears it well.
“Ha! I knew she’d come for food. The dog is a glutton. Look at how fat she is!” Lyla points an accusing finger at her pooch who couldn’t weigh more than twenty pounds. Cosette, who’s snow white (I doubt I’m surprising anyone with that tidbit.), sits down in front of her mistress and gazes up, waiting for the promised treat. When Lyla doesn’t offer her one, I feel bad. I don’t think it’s right to trick a dog so that she’ll obey you.
Reaching into one of my dress’s side pockets, I extract a pumpkin treat and turn to Lyla.
“If you don’t mind . . .”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Is it wheat-free?”
“Yes. Also, corn-free and soy-free. I always buy organic treats.”
“Fine, but that’s the only one you’re getting today, Chubby,” she tells her poodle, who would probably have a serious complex if she could understand everything her mistress was saying.
I present the bite-size cookie to Cosette on an open palm, and she licks it out of my hand. I can sense her gratitude and I wonder how rare an occurrence getting a treat is for her. Not that I think dogs should be overindulged with tons of people food and snacks, but you have to provide them with a reward now and again to let them know when they’ve done something right and dogs do love their munchies.
I give Cosette a scratch under the chin, which she seems to enjoy. “So, why am I here today?” I ask her mistress as I’m not getting any unhappy vibes off the pup herself.
“I want to know who did this to her.”
“Did what?” I’m confused. Is she talking about Cosette’s haircut? She’s sporting a modified version of the Continental clip with poofy poms on the legs and tail, which is a bit silly-looking unless you’re a show poodle, but–
“Impregnated her! What kind of pet psychic are you? Didn’t you know Cosette was expecting?” Lyla crosses her bony arms over her flat chest and glares at me.
“I knew.” No special psychic powers required to see that the dog’s belly is distended.
“I thought her pregnant state was why you were so concerned about her diet.” And her weight. “You’re saying you didn’t breed her?”
“That was the plan. Her parents were prize-winning show dogs, so of course it behooves me to see that those quality genes are passed on to another generation. I’ve been waiting for what seems like forever for Cosette to be old enough to mate and have a healthy litter and finally she reached that point, so I arranged a date for her with one of the premier sires in the state. Zeus’s bloodline is flawless, just like hers, so I knew they’d make the perfect pups! Following protocol, I took Cosette in for a pre-breeding physical and I was stunned when the vet informed me she was already pregnant! I don’t even know how that’s possible. I never take my eyes off this dog. She’s on a leash at all times when she’s outside, and we don’t allow other animals in the house.” Of course not. Lyla wouldn’t want dirty paws or nervous bladders in her pristine home. Poor Cosette probably gets no socialization.
“As you can imagine, this whole thing has been very upsetting. It’s kept me up nights. Well, one night since I just found out about this yesterday, but last night was a very long and sleepless one. I took an Ambien, and it didn’t even help. I keep racking my brain, trying to figure out how and where this abomination could have occurred, and the only thing that makes sense is the groomer’s. Cosette goes there once a week to be bathed and styled, and it’s the only opportunity she would’ve had to consort with another dog.”
This theory doesn’t really work for me. “I’m pretty sure dogs are kept in separate cages when they’re not being bathed or cut at the groom–”
“Then someone fell down on the job at Ritzy Petz!” Lyla snaps. “The dogs weren’t contained, or they weren’t supervised. It’s probably a free-for-all with Caligula-style dog orgies going on in those rooms in the back. And to think they promote themselves as a high-class establishment. ‘Only the best for your precious pet.’” She snorts with derision. “I’m going to sue those incompetents into bankruptcy! Where’s my cell phone? I need to call my lawyer.”
“Why don’t you hold off on taking legal action until I’ve had a chance to get the full story from Cosette?” I counsel in a placating tone. Not that a dog’s recounting of events would be admissible in court . . . I just don’t want Lyla to go after this pet salon unless they’re truly at fault.
“Yes, yes, that’s good. Get me some proof. Interrogate Cosette and get all the facts you can about what happened.”
“I will talk to Cosette,” I say, kneel
ing down on the throw rug where the dog deposited herself some time in the middle of her human’s rant. My cornflower-colored skirt, which is dotted with pale blue circles, billows around me as I sit back on my heels and start petting the fluffy hair on Cosette’s back.
“Hello, pretty girl. My name is Willa,” I say gently. Cosette doesn’t stir; she just lies there, appreciating the rubdown. She’s a surprisingly mellow dog considering how high-strung her owner is. “I understand you find yourself in an interesting condition. How are you feeling?”
“Who cares how she’s fee–”
I look up at Lyla, frowning, and that silences her for the moment.
“Overall, Cosette feels well,” I pass on. “She’s a bit tired and her appetite’s increased, which is to be expected. I’d suggest feeding her several small meals throughout the day so that she always has something in her stomach.”
“Yes, yes.” Lyla moves her hand in a circular motion, indicating that I should hurry up. I’m about to tell her these things take time and she needs to be patient when I get a strong sensation from Cosette.
“Aw, that’s so sweet.” I smile and lean forward to give Cosette a hug. “She’s in love.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lyla scoffs. “A dog can’t be in love.”
“Sure they can. Dogs are capable of having the same complex emotions as humans. Right, Cosette?” I ask the poodle, and she wags her tail in response.
Lyla sighs with irritation. “So, who is this dog she thinks she’s in love with? Is he the father of her puppies? And if so, did she hook up with him at Ritzy Petz?”
I’m quiet as I try to sort through the images in Cosette’s head. After a couple of minutes, I say, “She first saw him when the two of you were out on a walk.”
“At the park?”
“No, here in the neighborhood.”
Lyla’s jaw drops. “This unapproved stud belongs to one of our neighbors?”
“Looks that way. It was love at first sight for Cosette. They locked eyes, and she was a goner. I’ve been there, Cosette. It’s amazing what a pair of chocolate brown eyes can do to a girl. Oh, my . . .” The images are coming fast and furious now . . . Cosette is lounging in the back yard on a sunny afternoon while Lyla downs a bottle of Merlot in the living room. (Red wine in that white shrine – shocking!) Having followed her scent, Cosette’s admirer manages to get through the gate in the fence. They spend some quality time together, enjoying each other’s company and the lovely spring day, then . . . EEK! Doggy porn, doggy porn. Time to shut down this connection. I do not need to see that.
“Everything okay?” Lyla queries. “You zoned out there for a sec.”
“Uh, yeah. I was just experiencing a little flashback, along with Cosette.” The naughty
minx! “Her pups were most definitely not conceived at Ritzy Petz.”
Lyla grimaces, clearly disappointed that she won’t be able to unleash her legal dogs on the grooming business. “Where then?”
Standing up, I jerk a thumb toward the doors that lead outside. “Your back yard.”
“What?!?!” Lyla shrieks, all the color draining out of her face. At least, she matches her décor now.
“Cosette and her boyfriend have been trysting out there for the past month, in the afternoons while you’re inside, uh, unwinding.”
“Oh, my God!” Lyla sways unsteadily on her feet and grabs the back of a chair to keep herself upright. “I feel sick.”
“Maybe you’re pregnant, too,” I posit cheerily. Doggy and owner having buns in the oven at the same time – how cute would that be?
She scowls at me. “That’s not funny. Describe this dog to me, this paramour of Cosette’s. He needs to be hunted down and held accountable.”
“It’s not like he can marry her,” I say, with a smirk.
“No, but I can give his owners a piece of my mind. Letting their unneutered dog roam around the neighborhood, looking for innocent females to defile– Oh, no!” Her hand flies to her mouth in horror. “Please don’t tell me this dog is a mongrel. It’s bad enough I have to inform my friends at the club that they won’t be getting their choice of purebred puppies from Zeus’s line. If Cosette whelps a bunch of pups that look like that scraggly mutt in those old children’s movies . . . What was his name?” She snaps her fingers in my face.
“Benji.” I loved those movies when I was a kid, and I’m offended on Cicero’s behalf by Lyla’s elitist attitude toward canines of the mixed-breed persuasion. Doesn’t she know that mutts generally have better temperaments than purebreds?
“Yes, that’s it. Benji. What am I going to do with a litter full of those creatures? No one will want to buy them. I probably won’t even be able to give them away.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry since Cosette’s baby daddy is a Lab. A full-blooded one if I’m not mistaken.”
“Really?” Lyla perks up. “Does he have papers?”
“Cosette didn’t ask him,” I say, trying not to smile at the thought of dogs exchanging AKC certificates before getting down to business. “Hybrid dogs are in great demand now, you know. And everyone loves a Labradoodle, so I don’t think you’ll have any trouble finding good homes for these pups.”
Lyla gets a calculating look in her eye. “You might be on to something there. My husband’s partner’s wife just paid a small fortune for a Maltipoo. She calls him a ‘designer dog’ and carries him around in a $2600 Gucci bag. If I slap that label on Cosette’s puppies and let everyone think their conception was planned rather than accidental, I might be able to bail this out and spare myself any embarrassment. Can you pick Cosette’s brain some more and get as many details as you can about this dog she fooled around with so that I can track him down? His name, what type of collar he wears, any distinguishing features other than the brown eyes, which isn’t really helpful since almost all dogs have brown eyes.”
I’m about to remind Lyla she only requested a thirty-minute session and that time’s about to expire, but before I can speak, she says, “Hold on, let me get a notepad and a pen so that you can write down everything Cosette tells you. Maybe I should hire a PI. That would be a lot easier and more discreet than going door-to-door myself. I don’t want the neighbors to start gossiping about this. If word of Cosette’s trampy behavior were to reach the ears of the ladies who run the Purebred Princess Guild, she, and I, will both be ruined.” She shudders at the thought of being ostracized by her fellow canine snobs, then leaves to look for writing supplies and possibly a Xanax.
Pulling my phone out of my purse, I text Gav, “Will be late for lunch. Helping super stressed dog mom find Lab who knocked up her poodle. Know any police sketch artists?”
Chapter 6
(Willa)
“Mmmm, you make a delicious PB and J,” I murmur happily after taking the first bite of the sandwich Gav whipped up for me. Organic crunchy peanut butter and blackberry jam on soft whole wheat bread . . . yum! It takes me right back to my childhood, sitting cross-legged in the thick grass of our back yard on a sunny summer day, with Sloane on one side and Gav on the other, washing down a PB and J with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade. I’d end up with sticky purple jelly all over my fingers, face, and whatever pretty dress my grandmother had picked out for me that morning while Sloane remained immaculate with not so much as a globule of the strawberry jam from her sandwich anywhere on her person. That was Sloane, always neat and orderly about everything she did. The chaotic state of her leftovers-packed refrigerator being the one major exception to that rule now that she’s an adult.
Gav smiles, creating a cute dimple in his left cheek. “Hope you’re not too disappointed about missing out on the sprout-and-fake-bacon sandwich at Juicetopia. I’ve been on such a roll storyboarding Volume Four today. I was afraid I might lose momentum if I took a long lunch break and met you in Richmond.”
“No problem. Coming over here was the least I could do after keeping you waiting for an hour-and-a-half. Sorry again about that.”
“It’s cool. I know you had your hands full with crazy poodle lady,” Gav says as he methodically tears the crust off his sandwich and hands it to Cicero, who’s sitting on the floor nestled in between our feet. Gav’s been feeding his sandwich crust to every dog I’ve ever had going all the way back to Millie, which doesn’t help him get his daily recommended intake of fiber, but I think it’s sweet.
“She was one of the more challenging clients I’ve had in a while.” Major understatement! “It was clear she wasn’t going to be happy until I found the Lothario Lab for her.”
“I can’t believe you went on a stakeout with that woman.”
I shrug while I swallow the mouthful of bread and gooey peanut butter I was chewing. “It seemed like the easiest way to track the Lab down. Return to the site where Cosette first saw her dream dog and wait until his owner brought him by on a walk.”
Gav smirks. “Poor guy got ambushed.”
“The owner, or the Lab?”
“Both! Based on your description of events, it was like a special ‘Who’s the Puppy Daddy?’ episode of Jerry Springer. Your running commentary was hilarious. I did a coffee spit-take when I read your text about poodle lady jumping out from behind a palm tree screaming, ‘Impregnator!’”
I chuckle at the memory. “Yeah, that was definitely one of the more comical moments in my career as a pet psychic. I’m just glad I was there to mediate and everything worked out in the end. Lyla has proof that Cosette’s pups have two purebred parents, a very contrite Mr. Shumacher has promised to keep a closer watch on his roving Lab, and true love prevailed as both parties agreed to let their pooches continue spending quality time together.” I was very pleased about the last item on that list. It would have been a tragedy if sweet Cosette was permanently separated from her beloved Romeo. (Yes, that’s the Lab’s actual name. I couldn’t make this stuff up!)
“You’re very good at what you do, you know.” Gav’s compliment makes me blush. He really is like the big brother I never had, and his opinion means a lot.
Twin Piques Page 5
