Kitty Kitty Bang Bang

by Sparkle Abby

Zeus growled and adjusted his hold on the guy. Judging by the look on his face, dog teeth had reached flesh this time. He continued to swing the shovel.

  Kevin was within earshot and used the commands we’d practiced.

  “Zeus, Tommy Boy. Off.”

  The dogs released the worker, but looked disappointed. I didn’t really blame them. I mean, seriously, what would you do if someone came after you with a shovel?

  I finally caught up with them.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Are you an idiot?”

  Kevin and I spoke in tandem. His was the voice of concern, mine the ill-mannered one.

  Hey, I’m from Texas and we don’t cotton to stupidity. Especially where it concerns our horses or our dogs.

  The guy had crawled up onto the planter. Clearly not a dog person and these were some big dogs. Okay, so maybe he’d reacted out of fear but still—a shovel?

  Zeus and Tommy Boy sat at attention but continued to eye him with interest.

  “Are you hurt?” I addressed the man but rested my hand on Tommy Boy’s back. I could feel the tension in his body, but both dogs stayed in place.

  The guy was young and wiry. His spiky black hair and multiple piercings suggested a latent punk rocker look. The legs of his blue jeans were ripped but I think they might have been before his encounter with Zeus and Tommy Boy. He jumped down from the planter and rubbed his leg.

  “You need to keep your killer beasts under control.” His dark eyes were hard and his posture tense.

  If the dogs had actually broken skin and he went to the emergency room, it would definitely be the canine slammer.

  “Well for cryin’ in a bucket, let me take a look.” I reached for his leg.

  He jerked backward as if he thought I might bite, too.

  “I’m fine.” His voice was as tight as a fist.

  Zeus and Tommy Boy both growled a deep rumble.

  I looked at Kevin hoping he understood the seriousness of the situation. “Do you have a first aid kit at your house?”

  He nodded.

  “Let’s take the dogs home and I’ll grab the kit.” I turned to the gardener. “You sit and catch your breath. I’ll be right back. Then we can take a look at your leg.”

  The guy continued to glare. With his dark, spikey hair, he kind of reminded me of one of those Texas horned lizards that puff up so they’re all spiny when they’re upset.

  Kevin gave the command for the dogs to follow and the four of us trouped back down the street toward his house. The dogs periodically glanced back as if to make sure the guy was staying put.

  It took very little time for Kevin to find his first aid kit and for me to head back to where we’d left Mister Angry Pants, but by the time I returned to the planter, the landscape worker was nowhere to be found.

  What a fruitcake. I guess he must have been okay or he would’ve stuck around. Heading back to Kevin’s to gather my things, I looked for one of the landscaping company’s trucks, but didn’t see a vehicle of any kind. On second thought, in such a fancy schmancy community they don’t often leave the maintenance trucks out in plain sight. Maybe he’d needed to move on to another area of Ruby Point.

  The morning had warmed up. I stopped back in at Kevin’s and reminded him to keep up the behavior modification. I felt sure it would eventually work. Sometimes dogs can get into a barking cycle and you have to break that cycle. I left with a promise to Kevin I’d check in tomorrow to see what kind of progress he’d made.

  I pulled out of the drive and drove a short ways down the street to my friend, Diana’s, house. Er, castle.

  Diana’s showcase abode dwarfed Kevin’s, and her graceful flower-filled front entrance always made me think of the magic and glamour of a bygone era in Hollywood. The era that brought us stars like Elizabeth Taylor, Sophia Loren, Katherine Hepburn and yes, Diana Knight.

  You might recognize the name. Diana Knight had been a perky heroine in a series of big screen romantic comedies a few decades ago and, though it turned out her leading man had been gay, the public still loved her. In fact, there had been a recent nostalgic resurgence of interest in her movies. She was still perky, at least in the personality sense.

  In the physical sense, not so much.

  Diana was a widow, I believe for the fourth time, having out-lived a college sweetheart, a fellow actor, a banker, and finally a business tycoon. She’d recently been keeping company with a local restaurateur though she claimed it wasn’t serious. She no longer acted but now used her considerable celebrity to advance her first love—rescue animals.

  We’d met because Diana volunteered at the Laguna Beach Animal Rescue League, and I did, too. We were in the throes of planning the annual “Fur Ball” which was a “cough-up some cash” black-tie affair for the ARL. Diana had chaired the event for the past few years, and somehow this year I’d been roped into being her co-chair.

  Being a co-chair with Diana meant there really wasn’t much heavy lifting involved because she had it down to a fine science. She and I had spent a day last week calling corporate sponsors and setting up the advertising, which in most cases Diana’d been able to get comped. It was near impossible to tell this woman no.

  Since I was in the area, I decided to drop off the final ad copy I’d picked up the day before from the graphic designer. I thought it had turned out great.

  The picture was a handsome Doberman in a tux waltzing with a classy Siamese in a ball gown under a title that said: “Fur Ball—Cough Up Some Cash for the Laguna Beach ARL” and then gave all the details of the event. It was a picture the graphic designer had manipulated via magic software, you understand. I can assure you no animals were embarrassed in the making of this ad.

  I was sure Diana would love it but still this was her big event and so I wanted to run it by her.

  I rang the doorbell and her housekeeper answered the door.

  “Hello, Bella. Is Diana here?” I asked.

  “No, I am sorry. She is not in at the moment. Can I give her a message?” The dark-haired beauty raised her soft musical voice to be heard over the cacophony of barking in the background.

  Diana often took the more difficult rescue cases and at times had up to a dozen dogs in the house. Canine chaos.

  “Bella, honey, I don’t know how you do it.” I patted her arm. “Would you give her this, please?” I handed over the ad copy.

  Bella took the folder and promised to see that Diana got it.

  “Tell her I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”

  Back in my car, I waved at the Ruby Point guard, and then left the gated community. I turned in the direction of Main Beach. Heading down Broadway, I made a quick stop at Whole Foods, and then pointed myself toward home.

  My home is an eclectic blend of styles. It’s nothing like my mama’s house, which is always ready for a feature spread in House Beautiful. My house is hardly ever ready for its close-up. Not because I hadn’t been raised right but because I basically didn’t care about fancy things. It was clean, it was comfortable, it was mine.

  I walked in and kicked off my shoes.

  Dogbert, my rescue mixed-breed mutt, bounded across the room to greet me. He’s part Spaniel, part Terrier, and parts unknown. He’s the most adorable mutt alive.

  Always faithful, always thrilled to see me. He is the love of my life.

  I sat on the floor for some serious puppy hugs and flipped on the TV.

  I have an incredible view of the Pacific out my patio doors and an open floor plan that takes full advantage of it. I’d paid a pretty price for my gorgeous view but I’d never regretted it.

  Promising a long walk later, I gave Dog a final tummy rub and got to my feet. The television in my family room is visible from my kitchen, allowing me to monitor what’s happening in the world as I prepare dinner. I use the term �
��prepare dinner” loosely.

  I unpacked the organic mayonnaise I’d just purchased and opened a can of tuna. Sad, I know. Here I am within view of the ocean. You’d think I could get some fresh fish.

  I was soon swarmed by Thelma and Louise, my two cats. I dumped half the tuna into a bowl and set it on the floor. Dogbert hurried over but was too late.

  “None left for you, boy.” I smiled at his resigned sigh. Upstaged by the felines again.

  National news shifted to local news and I listened for an update on the weather as I stirred some fresh cilantro and mayo into what was left of the tuna.

  “Police are on the scene of what officers are calling an ‘unexplained death’ in the upscale gated community of Ruby Point.”

  That got my attention.

  Not just Diana and Kevin but practically all of the residents of Ruby Point are clients or acquaintances of mine.

  A female reporter, in a long-sleeved business suit that was much too warm for Southern California, and a hairdo that was much too big for this decade, gave the live report.

  “The body was found this afternoon and police are at this time going door to door speaking to residents. Officers have not yet identified the individual, but the investigation centers around the house you see behind me.”

  I tried to see the home behind Big-Hair but couldn’t quite make out the property. The homes in Ruby Point are all so different and individual that if I could get a glimpse I might recognized it, but I just couldn’t see enough to tell.

  The pounding on my door startled me. “Well, for cryin’ in a bucket! I’m coming and by the way I have a doorbell.” I stomped to the door and yanked it open.

  The doorway was filled with the poster boy for People’s Sexiest Man Alive. I’m not often speechless, but short of asking if Christmas had come early, I was at a loss for words.

  “Carolina Lamont?” His voice had a deep serious-as-a-heart-attack timbre.

  “Yes.”

  “Detective Judd Malone.”

  Uh-oh. I was pretty sure this was about my earlier break-in. I wouldn’t put it past Mel to call the police. But for the Laguna PD to send a detective? Really?

  “Do you have identification?” I asked.

  He hadn’t offered a badge or an ID and though I didn’t truly think serial killers looked like Brad Pitt’s brother and stalked pet therapists, you just can’t be too careful.

  He reached inside his jacket pocket and handed me a card.

  Apparently business cards had replaced badges.

  “May I come in?” He spoke awfully proper for a tough guy detective but, hey, I’m from Texas so it always seems to me that folks are puttin’ on airs.

  I opened the door a bit further and he shouldered past me.

  Judd Malone smacked of attitude. He wore black jeans, a black leather jacket and a chip on his shoulder. He scanned the room, his baby blues taking in my overstuffed couch, easy chairs and crowded bookshelves. Thelma and Louise, perched in the windowsill, replete with tuna, each opened an eye and then, unimpressed, went back to their beauty sleep. Dogbert climbed from his doggie bed, trotted over for a sniff, but then also dismissed Malone and went back to his nap.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Some southern hospitality is automatic. Even when you have an unannounced guest. Even a guest who might arrest you. “Coffee, coke, iced tea?”

  He shook his head and continued his scan.

  “Well, then. What can I help you with, Detective Judd Malone?”

  “I understand you visited Kevin Blackstone today?”

  Okay, maybe not about the brooch. “Yes, I did. What about Kevin?”

  I had a really bad feeling about this.

  “Kevin Blackstone is dead.”

  Get Fluffy

  “Colorful characters and a cheerfully compelling tone, all combined to make a mystery worth barking about.”

  —Linda O. Johnson, author of THE MORE THE TERRIER, Berkley Prime Crime

  Get Fluffy

  Book two, The Pampered Pets Mysteries

  By Sparkle Abbey

  Excerpt

  Yes, Melinda has been feuding with Mona, the queen of Laguna Beach’s dog-loving divas. But Mel never expected Mona to end up murdered.

  Mona loved Fluffy. No, Mona worshipped Fluffy. She’d never abandon her dog.

  Something was wrong. Why would Mona leave her front door unlocked, the alarm off and her cell phone behind?

  Fluffy shoved me out of the way and trotted down the hallway to the next room.

  I’d barely turned the knob when Fluffy barged past me, head-butting the door against the wall with a loud bang.

  I stumbled through the doorway. It wasn’t a room. It was a mini-palace fit for a movie star. Fluffy’s palace. A white sheepskin rug in front of her personal fireplace, a king sized sleigh bed and a dressing screen (why a dog needed a dressing screen was beyond me). Fresh filtered water dripped into her Wedgewood doggie bowl.

  It was also a disaster.

  Fluffy’s wardrobe was strewn throughout the room, draped precariously on the bed, and hanging out of open drawers. While Mona had an obscene amount of photos, Fluffy had her own slew of trophies and ribbons. All of them haphazardly tossed about.

  The room looked like it had been ransacked.

  Fluffy disappeared behind the disheveled bed. Her tail stopped wagging, and she whined softly.

  That’s when I saw her.

  At first, I wasn’t certain what I was looking at. Then it became clear. Mona was sprawled on the floor as if posing for a men’s magazine. It was almost picture perfect, except for the blood matting her five-hundred-dollar haircut and the gold statue stuck in her head.

  I hesitantly moved closer. Fluffy nuzzled Mona’s cheek. When she didn’t move, Fluffy pawed her shoulder, still whining.

  “I don’t think she’s getting up, girl,” I said softly.

  Mona was deader than a stuffed Poodle.

  Chapter One

  I am nothing like my cousin, Caro, the “pet shrink.”

  She’s a redhead, I’m a brunette. She’s kept her Texas twang, I busted my butt to lose mine. (Except when I’m honked off, then my southern drawl can strike like a Gulf coast hurricane.) She’s calm and direct. I’m equally direct. As for calm, I have to admit, sometimes my emotions tend to overrule my better judgment.

  So who would have thought I’d end up in the middle of a Laguna Beach murder investigation, just like Caro?

  From my very first breath, Mama had groomed me to be Miss America, just like her and her sister, Katherine. Or a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader, which in Texas was the more prestigious of the two. By my twenty-first birthday, I’d gathered ten first-place pageant crowns like Fourth of July parade candy. That’s when my beauty queen career had been dethroned in public scandal.

  Everyone believed she “encouraged” a male judge to cast his vote for me. As for what I thought, well, no daughter wants to believe her mama is a hustler. To this day, Mama still won’t talk about The Incident above a whisper.

  With the battle for the top crown over, I’d traded in my tiaras, sashes and hair spray for Swarovski crystal collars, cashmere dog sweaters and botanical flea dip. I left Texas and moved to Laguna Beach, California, a community known for its art, wealth and love of dogs. I opened Bow Wow Boutique and catered to the canine who had everything.

  I loved Laguna. Loved running my own business. I even loved the quirky folks whose lives revolved around their pooches. But sometimes I longed for Texas—wide open spaces, cowboy boots and big-big hair. Who wouldn’t?

  It was mid-October. The tourists had packed up and headed home. The locals ventured out of their gated communities to enjoy all the beachside town had to offer. Most importantly, there was available parking downtown. At least until next
May.

  The annual Fur Ball had finally arrived—a community event to raise money for the Laguna Beach Animal Rescue League. The balmy weather was perfect for an outdoor fundraiser.

  As always at these shindigs, the humans coughed up large chunks of dough for a worthy cause. Breezy air kisses and alcohol flowed freely, while we all pretended to be best friends. Trust me, we were one society catfight away from a hell of an entertaining evening.

  I looked down at Missy, my English Bulldog, who waited patiently at my feet. Her crystal-studded tiara sat lopsided on the top of her head, and a small puddle of drool had collected between her paws.

  I straightened her crown and whispered, “We’re up, girl. Let’s show them what we’ve got.”

  With our heads held high, Missy and I strutted our stuff down the red carpet. The pup-a-razzi cameras flashed, and the crowd cheered. One reporter asked who’d made my strapless leather gown (Michael Kors) and another wanted to know how Missy had won her tiara (she’d placed first in Laguna Beach’s Ugliest Bulldog contest last year).

  Once we reached the end of the walkway, I leaned down to dab the drool from Missy’s chin. “You did great.” I kissed the top of her head. “Let’s go find our friends.”

  Missy gave my hand a slobbery kiss, and then we made our way into the main event. Under an extravagant white tent and glittering lights, two hundred wealthy dog lovers and their four-legged friends paraded around in designer rags, both human and canine dripped with diamonds.

  I quickly spotted Kimber Shores and her pug Noodles making their way in our direction. Kimber oozed understated glamour in her mauve jumpsuit. She’d definitely make Laguna’s Best-Dressed List.

  “Mel, I’m so glad I found you,” she declared.

  As we air kissed, the low-cut back of her outfit offered a glimpse of her many tattoos.

  “Noodles looks amazing,” she continued in her melodious voice. “I’m so glad you talked me out of the velvet jacket.”

  Kimber and her pug had stopped by the shop earlier. Noodles had been in desperate need of a wardrobe update. I’d managed to wrangle him out of his Hugh Hefner smoking jacket and into a modest white tux and tails. Noodles sat in front of Missy, his marble eyes watching the slobber slide down the corners of her mouth.