“Okay, let’s get started.” Matt’s booming voice drew everyone’s attention. “Most self-defense classes teach you what to do as long as your assailant does what’s expected. Problem is, nine times out of ten, they don’t. What we’re going to show you is how to use a few easy techniques and the element of surprise to protect yourself in the most common types of attacks. For the first part of the class, we’ll talk about what you can do if someone physically attacks. The second part of the class, we’ll talk about what if your attacker has a weapon.”
“Hubba hubba.” Betty pointed a purple-tipped finger toward the front of the room.
Two big beefy guys had joined the class. “Zeke and Erik will be helping out tonight.”
I glanced over at Diana. “Oh, I agree.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “Hubba hubba, indeed.”
Matt moved to the center of the room. “Let’s split you into two smaller groups so we can practice.” We obediently formed two groups and Matt assigned a “hubba hubba” guy to each one.
“Here are the important things to keep in mind.” Matt stood between the two clusters of women. “Move fast without telegraphing what you’re going to do. If your attacker has a grip on you, use the strongest parts of your body to break free.
“If he comes from behind, like this,” Matt demonstrated. “Then stomp on his foot, kick him in the shins, or an elbow to the ribs is always effective.”
He kept a careful distance from Lavender Betty who mimicked each move as he talked about it. Her silk pajamas flew like a lavender veil dance as she quickly adopted each move.
“If he’s got your arm, like this”—Matt grabbed the arm of the woman standing closest to him—“use all your strength to break that hold, moving in the direction of his thumb.”
“Here,” Betty said to one of the burly young men. “Grab my arm.”
He did and she immediately pulled back on his thumb. He winced, but to his credit, didn’t cry out.
“If he doesn’t have a hold of you, don’t let him. Try to avoid moves that will allow him to grab you. For instance, kick him in the shin or knee.”
Betty backed up and lifted her white tennis shoe as if to strike, but the young bodybuilder backed away out of reach.
“That allows you to keep your balance,” Matt went on. “If you go for the groin, although it will cause more pain for him, it could leave you vulnerable. You could fall. He could grab your leg.
“If you have an object like a backpack, purse or umbrella, hit him hard and decisively with it.”
Betty swung her black patent-leather purse with enough force that she continued for two full twirls. Luckily, no one was in range.
“Okay, ladies, let’s practice.” Matt motioned to the two other guys to assist.
Betty had her hand up, but Matt was not about to call on her. “Mike,” she called. “Mike?”
“It’s Matt.” He walked over to her. “Yes, Betty.”
“Right.” Betty opened her handbag and pulled out a canister of pepper spray. “Wouldn’t it just be easier to douse ’em with this.”
She had her finger on the trigger and pointed at Matt’s face. He quickly plucked the canister from her fingers. “Let’s put this away, shall we?”
He dropped it back into her open bag.
“It’s effective, but you may not have time to get something like that out of your bag.” Matt walked back to the front.
Zeke, who was assigned to our group, went through each of the moves with us and, like Matt, emphasized that we should use our individual strengths to get away from an assailant. I was tall and could probably elbow someone in the ribs. Diana was more petite and might want to go for a kick to the knee.
We took a short break before the next session, and I took the opportunity to ask Betty about any Greyhound clients who shopped at Bow Wow.
“You investigating that murder?” Betty asked. “Cookie said you would be.”
“Not really. I’m more concerned with the dogs.”
“Yeah, right.” Betty sniffed. “That Detective Malone is hot.”
“It’s a federal case now,” I explained. “Malone is no longer involved.”
“So the feds have Cookie’s brooch?” she asked.
“I didn’t say that.” I didn’t need her running to tell Mel I’d lost possession of Grandma Tillie’s brooch to federal evidence.
“Some of those Greyhound people shop at Bow Wow,” Betty noted. “Those are nice dogs.”
I wondered if Betty knew any of the people from the rescue group. Marjory and Raymond Whedon had had some high-end toys for their dogs. Alana had probably purchased her dog’s jackets from Mel’s shop. Bow Wow carried a line of clothing specifically for the breed.
“You have people you see that need those kind of things, you should send them to Bow Wow Boutique. After all, you two are family whether you’re talking to each other or not.”
Diana stayed silent, clearly getting a kick out of my lecture from the five-foot tall, blue-eyebrowed gnome.
“We have this customer, Lenny Santucci,” Betty continued, on a roll. “He has this wiener dog, Pickles, who he says is depressed.” She used her two “paw-lished” index fingers to make the corners of her mouth turn down into a sad face. “Cookie tells him he should call you. See? See how that works?”
“Uh-huh.” I saw. It was nice of Mel to refer people to me, but I’d talked with Lenny before and wasn’t sure we were on the same page as far as how to deal with a depressed dachshund.
It was good it was time to start the second half of the class.
In the next session the “hubba hubba” guys sat out while Matt talked to us about situations where our attacker might have a weapon such as a gun or a knife.
“Let’s start with a gun. If your attacker is close to you”—Matt demonstrated with one of the female assistants from the first night—“you may have a chance to disarm them. The technique you’ll learn and practice will show you how to distract them, move to the side, grab the muzzle, quickly slap the tender muscles of your attacker’s forearm, and get away.”
He pointed a fake gun at the girl’s head. She screamed, moved to the side, grabbed the gun he still held, slapped his forearm, and took the gun.
It all happened so fast, it was like magic. I could see where someone who thought they had the upper hand would be surprised.
Zeke and Erik practiced with us, while Matt went from group to group making suggestions.
When it was Diana’s turn, she surprised us all with a sharp high-pitched scream. Actually, that undersells it. It was, by far, the shrillest, most ear-splitting scream I’ve ever witnessed. And remember, I’ve lived through the Miss Texas pageant preliminaries where hormones run rampant.
“Hey, that’s a good scream, lady.” Betty looked at Diana with new respect. “How do you do that?”
“Method acting.” Diana explained. “I used it in all those horror movies I was in, like I Married a Zombie. I did a lot of those early in my career. Just imagine you’re confronted with the thing you’re most frightened of, take a big deep breath, and let it rip.”
We all had to try it, and soon the room was filled with twenty-some women screaming for their lives. Matt finally asked us to quit.
“Okay now, let’s try the other part of the exercise.” Matt looked like he’d need a belt of something more than a health shake once the evening was over.
He demonstrated again: the move to the side, grab the weapon, slap the attacker’s forearm, and take the gun. We practiced the move over and over with the hard rubber guns, each of us taking a turn at disarming Zeke and Erik. It was great practice, but I was pretty it sure was much harder if the guy you were faced with held a real gun. One that could discharge at any moment.
Matt dismissed the class, but was quickly surrounded by women with questions about the use of the technique. None of us had gotten too excited about his cautions on jogging with a buddy or talking someone out of attacking us. But disarming a gunman, now that was exciting. I gue
ssed I’d have to call him about Chachi. And about his relationship with Alana Benda.
As we walked to where we’d parked, Diana reported no luck in reaching Blanche. She’d try again in the morning and let me know.
Betty race-walked down the block and hopped into a little Mini Cooper. She started the car and pulled out, squealing her tires when she turned the corner. As she drove past, she waved a lavender-clad arm out the window.
I chuckled at the sight. I’d just bet Pajama Betty kept her boss on her toes.
It had been a long day, and it wasn’t until I got home that I remembered I’d meant to stop by the office and pick up my files for the next day’s appointments.
Chapter Nineteen
AFTER THE PAST few days of phony identities, half-truths, and blue eyebrows, I thought I was prepared for anything.
I wasn’t.
I arrived at the office still amused by the thought of Betty giving Mel a hard time. I was ready for a full day of doing what I loved. Working with people who loved their pets, but who just needed a nudge and a little education to improve things for both. What could be better?
It was a light appointment day, but I still opted for clothes that could take it if I ended up on the floor rolling around with misbehaving pets. Blue jeans, white T-shirt, blue scarf and I was out the door.
I’d forgotten a hair band and couldn’t immediately find one in my bag, so I left the top up on the convertible. My hair is uncontrollable enough in good conditions—in the wind, all bets were off. I didn’t want to scare clients.
Verdi was at the reception desk. Dave’s office was dark. I could see Kay, the real estate agent in the other office. She was on the phone animatedly closing a deal. Things were looking up in the housing market. Suzanne, the psychic, wasn’t in. Her office was also lights out, but that wasn’t unusual. She often came in at different times. Who knew? Perhaps the psychic vibes were better at certain times of day. And may I just say, how disappointed in her I am?
Where was the professional courtesy? If she had a pet with problems, I’d help her free and clear. If she needed real estate advice, Kay would advise. What in the Sam Hill was the use of having a psychic in your office group if she didn’t see the bad juju coming your way and warn you?
I stopped at the desk. “Have you heard anything from Eugene?” I had to ask, though I was sure Verdi would have let me know if she had.
“No. Nothing.” Verdi shook her burgundy locks. “I wish he would call or text, and at least let me know he’s okay.”
I wished he would, too. If he had information about the man who was killed, he needed to talk to Malone or Agent Milner. The news media had gone silent on the case—no updates of any kind. So who knew if Eugene realized the FBI was now investigating?
“I’m sure he will when he thinks he can.” I gave Verdi’s hand a squeeze. The poor thing looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
“I sure hope so.”
“Thanks for your help with the spreadsheet of Greyhound owners. I think I’m almost through the list.” I turned toward my office. “I’ll be able to provide a report to Blanche as soon as I get my notes filled in.”
I settled at my desk and began the task of transferring my handwritten notes to the spreadsheet. I figured I’d get them ready and then drop them off at the Greys Matter office sometime today.
I’d just gotten started when my cell phone rang.
I dug the phone from my purse. “Hello?”
It was Sam.
“Caro.” His voice was quiet. “I need to tell you something before you hear it from someone else or on the television.” Sam’s voice was even and steady, but I sensed this wasn’t going to be good news.
“Blanche LeRue is dead.”
I felt cold to my core.
“What? How?” I could hardly get the words out.
“We’ve been told it was suicide. I don’t have any other details.” He waited for me to compose myself. “The police are contacting all the Greys Matter board members.”
“Dave’s not here.”
“I imagine they called him, just as they called me.”
“Diana?” I asked. Diana is so spunky, sometimes we all forget about her advanced age. This would be a shock—she was close to Blanche. Much closer than the rest of us.
“The police have agreed I can be the one to tell her. I am on my way to her house now.”
Leave it to Sam to think about how best to break the news to Diana. “Sam, I don’t know what to say. Or what to think.”
“I know, kopelia mou.” His voice was soft. “I’m sure we’ll know more soon. I just didn’t want you to have the shock of someone else telling you. Or worse, hearing it on the news.”
“Thanks, Sam. I appreciate it.” I looked up to see Verdi standing in my doorway. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay.” I hit the disconnect button and sat staring at the wall.
“Caro?” Verdi said from beside me. “Are you all right?”
I turned to face her. “Blanche LeRue is dead.”
“How?” She dropped into one of the side chairs. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. Sam said the police are still sorting things out, but they think it was suicide.”
“Oh, wow.”
We sat for a while without speaking, each of us lost in our thoughts.
I hadn’t asked any details about timing, but I had to wonder if Blanche had already been dead when I’d sat waiting for her at the Koffee Klatch.
I felt sick.
Verdi didn’t know Blanche personally at all, but she had to know the search for her brother would intensify. Blanche’s death might be a suicide, but the likelihood it was somehow linked to the other death was a pretty sure bet.
After a few minutes of sitting in silence, Verdi rose. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“No thanks, hon.” I tried to collect myself. I looked down at the spreadsheet of Greyhound owners I’d been working on when Sam called. What had happened with Blanche? Suicide didn’t make sense to me. There must be another explanation.
“Okay, let me know if there’s anything I can help with.” Verdi slipped out of my office and went back to her station at the front desk.
I sat for a while and tried to get my bearings before gathering my things to begin my appointments for the day.
AN HOUR LATER, I was in my car and headed to my first appointment of the day. I drove past the Greys Matter office on my way through town. There was a “Closed” sign in the window.
I needed to know more about what had happened, and there was really only one person who could fill in the blanks. I dialed Detective Malone’s number and he picked up.
“Are you at Blanche’s house?” I asked without preamble.
“I am, but don’t even think about coming here, Caro.” The tone of his voice was no-nonsense, and I’d bet the look on his handsome face was, too.
“So Blanche’s death must be considered a homicide if you’re there.”
“No, it’s pretty clearly a suicide.” I could hear the bustle and buzz of conversation in the background. It sounded like a full crew.
“It can’t be.”
“Why do you think that?” Malone voice sharpened. “There was a note signed by Ms. LeRue.”
Malone was being summoned; I could hear someone calling his name.
“So is this your case or the FBI’s?” I asked quickly.
“Oh no, this one is ours.”
“I may have information.” Not strictly true. I didn’t have much information; I mostly had a lot of questions.
“Stop by the office later this afternoon. I’ll be in.” He clicked off before I could say “no thanks” or “okay” or even good-bye.
My first appointment of the day was an easy one. It was a follow-up with a regular client, Ellen, who routinely took in foster animals. She had a new foster pup, and just wanted to make sure she was socializing him properly with her regular brood. Ramone was a little Pomeranian dog whose fo
rmer owner had surrendered him at the ARL because he was too active. However, at Ellen’s, he seemed to be doing fine with her other animals. I made a few suggestions, but her instincts were good, and Ellen had enough experience that she was already on the right track.
You’d be surprised at the number of people who adopted a dog in good faith and then, at the first sign of a problem, brought them back to the shelter. I’m sure they start out with good intentions, but rescues often need time to adjust. Which is especially true if the home already has pets. If adoptive families can understand what’s going on, then they can make the changes needed to assimilate the new fur kid into the family. Too many people give up far too soon.
Okay, off my soapbox.
As I walked to my car, it occurred to me I hadn’t asked about Blanche’s dogs. Blaze and Trixie had to be lost without her. There was nothing I could do for Blanche at this point, but the one thing I could do was make sure her two Greyhounds were taken care of.
Her dogs were another reason that the idea Blanche LeRue had killed herself didn’t fit. Even if she had, she would have made sure the dogs were taken care of first.
Maybe she had. Maybe they hadn’t been at the house. In any case, I needed to find out what had happened with the dogs, or it would continue to bug me. I called Malone’s cell, but the call went directly to voicemail. I tried the police station next.
Lorraine answered, and I explained to her I was concerned about Blanche LeRue’s dogs and hadn’t been able to reach Malone.
“He’s still at the house, Caro,” she reported. “I expect he’ll be back in the station this afternoon, but he’s been over there all morning.”
“Thanks, Lorraine. I’m between appointments, so I might just drive by.”
“Uh-huh.” She didn’t say not to, and I couldn’t see her roll her eyes, but we both knew what kind of a reception I would get from Malone.
Fifty Shades of Greyhound (The Pampered Pets Mystery Series) Page 12
