“Hmm.” She didn’t say yes or no.
“You said you hadn’t met him before that night at the fund-raiser, right?”
“Right.” It was an affirmative, but one without a great deal of conviction.
“One of the clients I met with thought they’d seen him here at the office.”
“Who said that?”
“I’m not sure.” I wasn’t going to point the finger at Marjory Whedon. It could be she’d misunderstood what her husband had said. Or it was possible Raymond Whedon was wrong about what he’d seen. In any case, I wasn’t going to put them on the spot.
“Whoever it was must have been mistaken.” Blanche ran her hands over the freshwater pearl necklace she wore as if it were a rosary.
“That could be.” I hesitated, my hand on the door. “I’ll keep you posted on my progress with the other Greyhound owners.”
I walked to my car on autopilot, questions pinging in my head.
It was possible Raymond Whedon was mistaken.
However, given Blanche’s reaction, it was also possible he was right and Victor, or whatever his real name was, had been at the Greys Matter office.
But why would Blanche insist he hadn’t been there? Could he have come in when she wasn’t in the office?
I didn’t know why Blanche wouldn’t want to admit to having previously met the dead guy.
But one thing I knew for sure about Blanche’s denial was, as Grandma Tillie used to say, “That dog don’t hunt.”
Chapter Twelve
DOGBERT WAS A morning person.
I, however, was not. It took me a little wake-up time and a Texas-sized serving of caffeine to face the day. I started the coffee while Dog waited patiently at the door for his morning trip around the neighborhood. He was quiet, but his perky ears and his ready stance said, “Are you coming?”
I took a peek outside. The sun was just barely reaching finger rays over the hills, so it might be a little chilly. I grabbed a sweatshirt and Dogbert’s leash and walked out into the crisp salt-air morning.
Verdi’s car wasn’t in the driveway next door. I was surprised she was gone so early, but what with working two jobs—at the Koffee Klatch and as our receptionist—the girl’s day undoubtedly started early.
I clipped Dogbert’s leash to his collar and, as we reached the sidewalk, Verdi’s little green Fiat pulled in and she got out. Her backpack was slung over one shoulder and she had a paper bag and two cups of coffee in her hands. She must need even more caffeine than I did.
“’Morning,” I called.
Her head jerked up. “Ah—good morning.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Do you—” I was going to ask if she needed help, but she skittered into the house.
Verdi was usually very chatty, especially since she’d been helping out next door with April Mae’s cats, but she must have been pressed for time.
Dogbert moved at a fast clip through the neighborhood. I hoped Verdi wasn’t still feeling regret about getting me to recommend her brother to Dino for catering help. I was absolutely sure she had no way of knowing what would transpire at the ill-fated fund-raiser. I also hoped she wasn’t feeling bad about the trip down Crazy Street that had led us to dress up as video game characters and almost get arrested.
I shrugged. She probably had to get ready for work. I’d catch up with her later.
Dogbert and I finished our walk in no time. A little too soon for Dog, who would have liked a bit more time to stop and smell the roses. And the bushes, and the trees, and the mailboxes, and . . . well, you get the picture. Back home, I showered, dressed, and grabbed my list for the day. Unlike Blanche, I’m a pen and paper kind of gal and an in-hand list helps me tame the day if I know what’s ahead.
I checked it quickly, grabbed my Coach tote and headed to the garage. I’d left the top down on the Mercedes when I’d pulled it into the garage last night, and the forecast indicated I could leave it down.
When I pulled out of the garage, I noted Verdi’s car was again gone. She sure drank coffee fast. I turned toward Pacific Coast Highway and my first appointment of the day.
The Pacific sparkled with the promise of a blue-sky day, and I didn’t mind the stop-and-go traffic because I got a chance to enjoy the morning sun.
Even with the traffic, it took very little time to arrive at Diamond Cove. I pulled up to the guard shack. Although I’m not sure you would want to use the term “shack” in describing a checkpoint cottage as large as many southern California homes, and boasting technology that rivaled most corporate campuses.
The guard himself was right out of Hollywood casting. I presented my driver’s license to him so he could verify my name was on the visitor list. I’m all for safety, but with this much security, you’ve got to ask yourself what on earth people are keeping out or keeping in. Once I’d been verified, he came around and put a key in the gate and pushed the button to lift the arm. I drove through and headed to the last house on the street as I’d been instructed.
If the guard had been from central casting, Alice and Robert Tiburon’s home looked like something from a James Bond movie. White and sleek, it perched at the edge of a cliff like a giant sea creature. My taste ran more toward the traditional, but I could appreciate the beauty of the architecture which was iconic SoCal modern.
As I approached the frosted glass front door, it slid open soundlessly, and a lovely older woman greeted me.
“You must be Ms. Lamont.” She smiled. “We’re expecting you.”
“Yes, I am, but please call me Caro.” I glanced around the entryway. It was also a bit futuristic for me, but the lines were beautiful. As I suspected, the floor plan was open to take the best advantage of an incredible view. The house had been designed in such a way that the ocean seemed like an accessory, complementing the other furnishings.
“If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you to Jorene.” She motioned for me to follow.
I wasn’t sure who Jorene was, but I was glad to have an escort, and I hoped someone would be along for the return trip, because I didn’t think I could find my way back to the front door if my life depended on it. The twists and turns we took through the house guaranteed I’d be lost for sure.
“Here we are.” My guide stopped in an alcove off another full living area. The room was filled with dog paraphernalia. A curly-haired woman dressed in cargo shorts rose from the floor where she’d been rubbing the tummy of an ebony-furred fellow.
“I’m Jorene.” She brushed her palm on her shorts and then held it out.
“Caro Lamont.” I shook her hand. A good strong handshake. “You’re the dogs’ trainer?”
Nothing had been mentioned about Jorene in the notes Verdi had provided, just that the Tiburons would like their dogs checked out.
“Not really,” the woman explained. “I take care of the dogs—diet, exercise, vet appointments, etc.”
Ah, a dog nanny.
“This guy is Duke, and Sleeping Beauty over there is Lady.” She indicated a white Greyhound napping on the couch.
“How long have the Tiburons had the dogs?”
“I believe about three years.” Jorene reached down and patted Duke. “I’ve been here two.”
“Do they spend time with Duke and Lady?”
I knew it was none of my business. Most of my wealthy clients had pets because they loved animals and enjoyed the companionship. But not all, so I couldn’t help asking.
I understood there were different levels of animal love. Not everyone was like Diana. And as long as the dogs weren’t neglected, they were having a good life. Still, they’re such loyal and loving creatures, they deserve to get love in return.
“They do.” Her short answer said I should back off.
Right. None of my business. I tamped down my bristle. I was here to check on the dogs, not to pass judgment.
“Any change in behavior since the fund-raiser?” I went through my usual questions about anxiety indicators such as appetite, personali
ty, or other changes.
“Nothing.” Jorene shook her brunette locks. “As I said, they’re such sweet dogs.”
“That’s great.” I sat down on the floor by Duke and visited a little while longer with Jorene who clearly loved the dogs to pieces. Soon, Lady joined us and we did a little throw-the-ball playtime.
I’d accomplished what I’d come for and needed to move on to my next appointment, so I got to my feet and thanked Jorene for her time.
“Would you mind very much walking me out?” I asked. “I’m afraid I wasn’t paying close enough attention to the route we took to get here.”
“No problem.” Jorene gathered some of the dog toys and dropped them in a basket by the couch. “I used to get lost a lot when I first started.”
She led me back through the house and to the front door—a shorter distance than I’d realized. Unlike many of the clients I worked with, there were no dog toys strewn about. Perhaps Duke and Lady were kept to their own area. Again, not my business.
“There you go.” She walked me to the front door. “Thanks for your information about the dogs.”
“You’re welcome.” Just as I reached the door, it opened and Alice Tiburon stepped through. I’d only talked to her at the Greyhound event for a brief moment, but she was memorable.
Striking, if not beautiful. Today, she wore a business suit rather than an evening gown, but the silver streaks in her hair were drawn out by the silver threads running through the tweed knit. The jacket had a wide zipper, and the pencil skirt accented her height and slenderness.
“Oh.” She slid to a stop in her black stilettos. “Who are you?”
“Caro Lamont.”
“Oh, the dog person.” The deep contralto I remembered from the night of the Greyhound event was dismissive. She stepped past me. “They are fine, I assume.”
“They seem great. Jorene does a really wonderful job taking care of them.”
“Oh, yes.” She abruptly become aware of Jorene, as if surprised by her presence. “Thank you. You can go.”
The dog nanny slipped away.
Alice leaned back, crossed her arms, and looked at me. “Sorry to rush, but I’ve got to grab some papers and get back to the office.” She flashed a pinched smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“If you have just a moment,” I said to her back. I wasn’t the slip-away type.
She turned. “Yes?”
“You’re on the Grey Matters board, right?”
She nodded. “I’m the Chair.”
“The man who was killed, had you met him before? Maybe even seen him at the Greys Matter office?”
Blanche hadn’t actually suggested I ask about the dead guy. I had the impression what Blanche really cared about was whether anyone was so upset by the murder they would pull their support of the rescue group. I thought asking about the dead guy was a good place to start. The loss of Alice Tiburon’s support would be a huge hit for Greys Matter.
“No.” Alice left it at a one-syllable response.
She tugged at the zipper of her jacket and pulled the edge down, smoothing it against her tiny waist. I waited for her to go on. She didn’t.
“If you need anything, I’ve left my card with Jorene.”
She opened her mouth and then closed it. Then with a sigh she asked, “Was there anything else?”
“No, just let me know if the dogs begin to exhibit any signs of anxiety.”
“Of course,” she said. “Thank you again.” She walked away before I was out the door.
Mama Kat would have been appalled.
I’d seen that kind of abruptness before in high-powered women. For that matter, even the Texas pageant crowd had its share of no-time-for-the-niceties women. I couldn’t remember what Alice Tiburon did professionally, but it must play well in her world because it appeared she and her husband were doing just fine for themselves.
My next stop was another Greyhound owner on the list, and then I had a stop at Ruby Point to check in with Ollie Hembry and a problem he was having with a new addition to his pack. Ollie had a menagerie of mutts at his place, but, like Diana, he was always open to fostering another if there was a need.
I checked out with the guard and turned toward Pacific Coast Highway again, back to Laguna proper. I checked the address and headed up into the hills. I loved my house in The Village. Perfect size for me, awesome view, and minutes from my office. Still as I drove the steep road to the TOW, that’s Top of the World for those of you who aren’t local, I have to admit I fantasized just a little about life at the top.
The house where my next stop was scheduled was unlike the one I’d just come from. This house in the hills was a nice home and had a beautiful view, but beyond that, was much like the properties in my neighborhood.
The Greyhound owners were happy to see me and had some questions about their brindle hound. They had little to say about the incident at the fund-raiser. They’d been near their dog and had been able to get her calmed down quickly. We talked through some chewing issues. I believed them to be separation anxiety-related and provided some tips to deal with the issue. Greyhounds are people lovers and can be stressed by their people leaving.
The trick is to figure out what works for each individual dog. There are conditioning techniques that are often successful. I provided a list and suggested they experiment and keep track of which things worked best. I promised to check back and see how they were doing.
Once again, I left my card with the Greyhound owners and was off to visit Ollie. We’d met when a client of mine and his next-door neighbor had been killed. Since then, had become friends.
The man at the Ruby Point guard shack had me sign in, but he recognized me as I was a frequent visitor. I drove past Diana’s house to Ollie Hembry’s. The issue he’d called me about concerned Morkie, his Lhasa Apso and Poodle mix. She’d been part of a group of dogs rescued from a puppy mill, and he was fostering her. She’d bonded with Ollie, but was refusing to let the groomer touch her.
As I may have mentioned before, Ollie doesn’t leave the house. He’s a victim of agoraphobia. The Divine Dog Spa was the go-to grooming place in town, but Ollie couldn’t go there. He needed someone to come to him. I’d recommended Kendall, a friend of mine, who I knew would be gentle with the dog and the owner.
I parked in front of Ollie’s and picked up my bag as well as a batch of gluten-free dog treats I’d brought along. I often made dog treats to take to appointments as an icebreaker. Because Ollie had such a brood, it would be a great place to try my latest recipe, though I always had to remind Ollie the biscuits were for the dogs.
I rang the doorbell, and “God Save the Queen” filled the air. Unlike the visit at Diamond Cove and the Tiburon residence, Ollie answered the door himself, with dark sunglasses, long black hair, black jeans, and black T-shirt. I’d never seen him in anything else. I pictured a whole closet full of replicas lined up and ready.
“Hello, luv.” Ollie gave me a hug. “You’re looking especially smashing today.”
I pushed my unruly red locks out of my eyes and glanced down at my unremarkable black jeans and loose Elie Tahari blouse, which had looked fine when I’d left home that morning. But after I’d rolled around on the floor with Greyhounds and Greyhound parents, it left a lot to be desired. Maybe it was the all-black look Ollie identified with.
“Thank you,” I said. “You look smashing yourself.”
“Better than smashed, eh, luv?”
“Right.” I smiled at his attempt at humor. “Much better. Now where’s this little guy who’s giving you trouble?”
We walked into Ollie’s living room, which always reminded me of a castle with its opulence and heavy ornate furniture. Don’t get me wrong, it’s gorgeous but not my taste. To each his or her own, right? The modern Tiburon mansion had not been my cup of tea either. In addition to the contrast in styles, unlike the ultra-modern Tiburon mansion, Ollie’s living area was not free of dog paraphernalia. I stepped over a trail of chew toys, colorful ball
s, and plush toys as I walked through.
“Here’s the little troublemaker.” Ollie gently picked up the cutest Lhasa-Poo I’ve ever seen. He cuddled the little white dog against his chest and the dog licked his chin. “The wee doggie was a bit poorly when Diana brought her to me, but she’s better now.”
“Aww, she’s adorable.” I didn’t immediately touch the pup. “Hi, Morkie.”
“She’s a tad wonky. The vet did a scan, and she may have some brain damage or even eye problems.” He gently patted the bit of fluff. “Like to get my hands on those bloody berks . . . ,” Ollie didn’t finish the sentence but he didn’t have to.
With puppy mills, those types of injuries usually meant the dog was abused. I wasn’t sure about the term Ollie’d used, but I had several names of my own for people who hurt animals.
“She looks healthy, Ollie. You’ve done a good job.”
“At first I couldn’t put a collar on her.” He laid the dog carefully in the dog bed. “She would just scream. Eerie sound, that. Almost like a human cry.”
“You said she can’t tolerate the groomer?”
“No. Jade sent someone by, and it was total shambles.”
Jade was the head groomer at the Divine Dog Spa and would have been sensitive to Ollie’s situation as well as a dog with special needs.
“Let’s talk about how the visit went.” I encouraged him to step me through the details.
We talked about the incident, and I suggested a series of behavior modifications with rewards to get Morkie to tolerate being groomed. It could be a slow process and would take patience. But Ollie had a lot of patience and time on his hands.
Ollie had heard about the stabbing at the Fifty Shades of Greyhound event and had lots of questions. I told him what I knew, and, to my surprise, he knew Verdi’s brother.
“Sharp kid, Eugene,” he pronounced. “Helped me with some computer problems. He ran with a dodgy crowd, though, as kids will. I think he got himself straightened out. Who am I to pass judgment, you know?”
Fifty Shades of Greyhound (The Pampered Pets Mystery Series) Page 8
