Raiders of the Lost Bark

by Sparkle Abbey

  Addison turned and waved at MacAvoy. “I don’t know, he’s very attractive. I thought you were going to get him to do a story on my rise to fame?”

  I don’t think I’d ever met such a self-absorbed blackmailer before. Not that I have an abundance of experience to compare her to, but honestly. You expect a level of evil . . . but narcissism? MacAvoy waved back, and took that as an invitation to come inside. Lovely.

  “Leave. Now,” I whispered to Addison. “Or the ‘agreement’ is off.”

  Addison hiked the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Melinda Sue.”

  As they passed each other, they exchanged a hello. Mr. TV watched her leave, then turned his attention to me. “What was that about?”

  I ignored his question. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your pushy microphone and cameraman. It helped that you had your face plastered against my window like a lightning bug on a windshield.”

  He flashed his trademark TV-ready smile, strolling toward the back of the store. “Who says I don’t have my microphone?” He watched me for a minute, his green eyes calculating how far he wanted to push me. “That looked intense. Who was that?”

  There was no reason to lie. “Addison Rae. I left you a message about her a couple of weeks ago. The pet chef I suggested you do a story on.”

  He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his trousers. “Interesting. That’s why I’m here. I had a couple of questions before I followed up on your hot tip.”

  He didn’t fool me for a second. “You didn’t need to see me. You could have just as easily called.”

  “True. But then I would have missed that fascinating exchange. I’m curious.” He rocked back on the heels of his leather loafers. “Why would you want me to run a high-profile story on someone you don’t like?”

  Well, hell’s bells. “I never said I didn’t like her.”

  “You don’t even treat me with that much disdain, and you don’t like me. What did she do?”

  “You’re reading way too much into this. Aren’t you late for . . . something?” I strode to the register and grabbed my tote from under the counter.

  He shook his head. “Not at all. I’ve got all night.”

  “Well, I don’t. I have to go home and pack.” I grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him around, and gave him a shove toward the door.

  “Running away?” he tossed over his shoulder.

  “Hardly. I’m attending the ARL fundraiser.”

  I know. I know. I said I wasn’t going to attend. But after that last exchange with Addison, I didn’t really have a choice if I wanted those letters.

  “I didn’t see your name on the guest list,” he said.

  Under normal circumstances, his persistence wouldn’t make me uneasy. But the last thing I needed was a hungry reporter with a nose for sniffing out trouble to think there was a story of any kind in his territory.

  “I’m Betty’s plus-one.”

  I guess I needed to let Betty know I’d changed my mind. She was getting a roommate after all.

  “WHAT IN SAM HILL is that?”

  “That’s a V-B-R.” Betty, dressed in an army-green jumpsuit with multiple pockets across her chest, waved her hand like a Price is Right model.

  I dropped the large duffle bag I’d brought outside and told my bulldog, Missy, to sit. “I hate myself for asking this, but what’s a VBR?”

  “A Very Big Rig.”

  Of course it was.

  “What do you think? It’s our home away from home for the next few days. Isn’t it delicious?” Betty bounced on the toes of her white tennis shoes.

  Delicious wasn’t the first word that came to mind. It was a behemoth of an RV that took up over two-thirds of my street. I mean there’s luxury, and then there’s luxury. This was over the top, yet perfect for an Orange County glamping trip.

  Sleek, pearl-black paint glistened in the California morning sunshine, promising a lavish lifestyle on the road. Missy sighed and lay on the pavement as Betty and I stood at the end of my driveway.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Hudson Jones, the program director for the event, emailed a list of companies that rent rigs—”

  “Rigs?” She was really getting into the RV lingo.

  “Recreational vehicle. Motorhome. Coach—”

  I held up my hand. “I get it. I get it. Please tell me you didn’t drive that here.”

  She puffed out her chest. “Of course I did. That Hudson Jones guy offered me a driver, but I told him to bug off. I’m a great driver.”

  “No, you’re not.” I’d ridden with Betty a handful of times. After each jaunt, I’d kissed the ground, thanking the Lord Almighty I was alive, and swore I’d never accept a ride with Racecar Betty again.

  “Don’t be a hater, Cookie. If it makes you feel better, Valerie insisted I take lessons.”

  “With who?” My skepticism alive and well.

  Betty lives in an adorable bungalow on her daughter, Valerie’s, property. I’ve spent some time with Valerie. I wasn’t impressed. She was more concerned with how Betty’s actions would reflect on Valerie’s social climb to the top of the Orange County social ladder than her mother’s well-being.

  “The RV rental place. If you had signed up for the party like me, you could have taken lessons too. Oh, I have a matching jumpsuit for you inside.”

  “No, thank you. I’ve driven a motorhome before. Granted, not a mammoth thing like that. How big is it?”

  “Forty-one feet. I could have gotten a forty-eight footer, but that seemed overkill, ya know?”

  “You don’t say.”

  Betty peered up at me, shielding her eyes from the bright sunshine. “Cookie, you never said on the phone. Why’d you change your mind?”

  I grinned. “Let’s just say you wore me down.”

  “I think it has to do with that pet chef.”

  For many reasons, I’d kept Betty unapprised about my dark relationship with Addison. One being, Betty couldn’t keep a secret if you paid her. The last thing I wanted was for the real reason Addison had come to Laguna Beach this summer to get out. And I definitely didn’t want word to get back to Texas to my mama and daddy.

  “Do me a favor, don’t get too close to Addison.”

  “No way. I’m sticking to her like glue. She’s going to make sure we all eat like kings.”

  She was the pet chef. She’d make sure the dogs ate like kings. “As long as you keep it to food.”

  Betty laughed. “Cookie, you’re not jealous are you? First Caro and now Addison. Don’t you worry. There’s plenty of me to go around.”

  I was not jealous of Caro. Sure, my feisty red-headed cousin and I weren’t technically speaking to each other, but that had nothing to do with jealousy, and everything to do with Caro taking offense to me expressing my opinion of her yellow-bellied, good-for-nothing, coward of an ex-husband. Not that she’d asked for my opinion. But I’d shared it anyway. And in the process, we’d had “words.” Truth be told, I missed Caro very much. And as soon as I got my brooch back from her, I planned on apologizing.

  Let me start at the beginning. The feud was rooted in our disagreement of who was the rightful owner of a multi-jeweled brooch. A twenty-two carat gold basket filled with fruit-shaped precious stones wasn’t only monetarily valuable, but was also emotional real estate. It had belonged to our Grandma Tillie—the calm in our crazy lives as young girls. She’d left the heirloom to her “favorite granddaughter.” I knew Grandma Tillie meant me. That said, Caro believed just as strongly that meant her. From that day forward, we were at odds. My inability to keep my opinion about her ex-husband, Geoffrey, to myself only exacerbated the problem.

  As for Addison, within ten minutes of arriving in our laidback town, she’d managed to destroy the u
nsteady relationship my mama and I had recently started to rebuild. Those damn love letters.

  “Enough chitchat. Raider is waiting inside. I need to let him out to do his business. Now, stand back and don’t offer him any treats. Your sassy cousin said to only give him a reward when he obeys.”

  “I guess he’s going without,” I murmured under my breath.

  Betty shot me a look.

  I shrugged. “Just calling it like I see it.” Betty had rescued the rascally Saint Bernard pup a few months ago. I’d been worried she’d get hurt if she didn’t learn how to control him. Her barely five-foot self would snap in two if she didn’t teach him three simple commands—sit, stay, and down. I’d recommended she work with Caro, a local pet therapist.

  Ever since, Betty’s believed she and Caro are best buddies. Betty even interfered in a recent murder investigation thinking she was “helping” Caro and homicide detective Judd Malone, AKA Detective Hottie.

  “I’ll have you know he’s been a very good boy. He hasn’t knocked me over in two months.”

  “That’s something, I suppose.”

  Betty pulled out a dried apple ring from her pocket. “Now, watch this.”

  She opened the passenger door, then quickly jumped to the side. Raider sat at attention at the top of the four steps, tail thumping on the marble tile. Thick slobber dripped like ropes from the sides of his humongous mouth. I was impressed. I’d never seen him sit for longer than two seconds. Missy jumped up and barked.

  “Stay,” I said. She obeyed, but didn’t take her eyes off Raider. I didn’t either.

  “Wait,” Betty commanded. She stepped back, making room for him when he exited.

  The Saint Bernard scooted his butt closer to the edge of the top step until his large front paws hung over the ledge. His face begged her to offer the dried apple.

  “Good grief, he’s going to fall out. Hurry up and give him his treat.”

  “Good boy. Come.” Betty slapped the side of her thin leg.

  Raider didn’t wait to be told twice. He bounded out of the motorhome with one leap, landing inches from Betty. Missy shifted until she leaned against my leg.

  Betty tossed the dried apple ring straight up; Raider snapped it out of the air with one bite.

  “Good dog.” Betty buried her face in his furry neck. “Good boy.”

  “He’s come a long way. You both have.”

  “I told you he was a good dog. He just needed someone to believe in him.” Betty’s face beamed with love and pride. I was relieved she’d been taking Caro’s advice.

  Betty stepped back into the RV and grabbed his leash off the passenger chair, then snapped it on his collar. She walked him to my front lawn. He marked just about every bush and the mailbox post before he ran out of urine. There was something to be said for female dogs.

  “Are we ready to go?” I picked up my duffle bag full of T-shirts, socks, a couple of pairs of jeans, and toiletries.

  Betty pulled a rag from under the passenger seat and quickly wiped the drool off the floor. Once she was finished, she loaded Raider into the RV. He trotted toward the back and jumped on the leather couch. He sprawled out, claiming his territory. Missy and I entered next. We both stood there for a moment, taking in the interior. I was awestruck. It was as elegant and lush as any mansion in Orange County.

  Leather couches, reclining chairs, a fireplace, a sixty-inch TV, and a ceiling fan. And that was just the living area.

  Betty stood behind me. “Isn’t that a hoot? We’re going to have fun, Cookie. Don’t you worry.”

  I tossed my bag and favorite black cross-body handbag on a reclining chair. “Let’s get settled and head out.”

  After a few adjustments, rearranging the dogs, and convincing Betty she wasn’t driving, we were finally ready to leave. I buckled my seatbelt with a decisive snap before I started the RV.

  “Wait!” Betty jumped up and pulled a plastic Saint Bernard bobble-head from her purse. She spit on the rubber cup on the bottom then smashed it onto the dashboard.

  “Let’s rock ’n roll, baby,” she sang out, pumping her fist in the air.

  I burst out laughing. “What does that even mean?”

  She shrugged. A mischievous smile lit her face. “I have no idea. I’ve always wanted to say it.”

  I shook my head. “Sit down and put on your seatbelt.”

  After triple checking I wasn’t about to cause a five-car pileup, I pulled away from the curb and headed toward Laguna Hills.

  Had we known about the pileup we were about to encounter, we might have thought twice about glamping under the stars for a week and stayed home instead.

  Chapter Two

  WE ROLLED TO a stop at the park ranger’s station. Our massive RV dwarfed the park office to dollhouse size.

  “I’m telling you, this is the wrong place. Look at it. It’s brown. Dead. This is not glamorous.” Betty sucked in a deep breath through her nose. “Gag. It even smells like death.”

  Earthy. Dusty. A faint lingering scent of campfire smoke clung to the air. But in no way did it smell like death.

  She’d been convinced we were heading in the wrong direction when I didn’t hang a right on El Toro Road. I’d explained I was not about to drive a forty-one foot motor coach through the middle of Laguna Hills. I didn’t care about shaving ten minutes off the route. I cared about getting us there in one piece.

  That said, Betty was right about one thing—it was far from glamorous. California was smack dab in the middle of the worst drought in history. I expected a brownish landscape. I didn’t expect a vast dry canyon with a smattering of sycamore shade trees and cacti clusters.

  I wasn’t much for dirt and dust either, but what made me want to turn the bus around and head home was the big brown sign that read, “Warning! Mountain Lion Country. A Risk!”

  Where the hell’s bells were we? I thought I’d left the big cats back in Texas.

  The park ranger strolled toward the RV. I rolled down the window.

  “Good morning, ladies. What can I do for ya?” His tenor voice shot into the vehicle like he was about to spring a joke on us any second. I guess the punch line was welcome to Laguna’s version of Death Valley.

  “We’re here for the ARL event. Betty Foxx and guest, Melinda Langston.”

  With his head down, Ranger Elliott, according to the name tag sewn on his drab green uniform, pawed through multiple pages of paper clamped in a wrinkled mess on the clipboard he held. “Do you ladies have dogs with you?” He never looked up. Just kept mauling through his lists.

  “Two. We’ve already provided licensing and vaccination information to the ARL.”

  He made a couple of notes on his paperwork, then looked up. “Take the first road to the left and follow the signs.” His brown eyes hinted at some unspoken joke as he handed me a packet of papers. “You can’t miss it.” The last part he’d said with a hint of sarcasm. The whole interaction totally threw me. I wondered what it was all about.

  “About that sign,” I started. He looked in the direction I pointed. “Are there really mountain lions here? Is this safe for the dogs?”

  Betty unfastened her seat belt and lurched toward me. I leaned back just in time as she stretched across me, sticking her head out the window. “Forget the dogs, what about us? Am I going to get dragged out of my rig in the middle of the night?”

  He jutted his chin. All humor and sarcasm evaporated into the warm air. “Ma’am, your dogs will be safe as long as you keep them on a leash and stay in the area specifically marked for your event. There is one marked trail for your group. All other trails are off limits. If you’re caught on those trails with your pet, you’ll be asked to leave. No exceptions. You’re more likely to encounter a rattlesnake than you will a mountain lion.”

  “I hate snakes,” Betty and I said
simultaneously.

  “Don’t forget to pick up after your dog. Just because this is the outdoors, it doesn’t mean you can leave your pet’s waste. By doing so, you’d upset the delicate balance of the ecosystem at the park.” Once he finished his lecture, he tipped his hat, turned his back, and returned to his shack.

  I was offended. Doubly offended. First, he called me “ma’am.” I was barely thirty. Second, he assumed he needed to explain the need for me to clean up after my dog.

  Betty grumbled, returning to her seat. “I didn’t like that guy the minute I saw him. He’s got small eyes.”

  I tossed the papers to Betty. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “It’s a fact. Most serial killers have small eyes.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Maybe. But you thought about it for a minute.” Her merlot-colored eyebrows bobbed up and down.

  I stared at her for a couple of seconds. “Ranger Elliott has an attitude, but he’s not a killer.”

  “If he goes all Friday the Thirteenth on us, remember I called it first.”

  “If that happens, we have bigger issues than you being right.” I put the RV in drive and pulled away from Ranger Bad Attitude.

  Great, not only did we have to keep an eye out for mountain lions, but snakes as well. This day just kept getting better. Not.

  We followed the paved road for half a mile. The hillside was nothing but brown dead grass and dirt, with a smattering of dull green shrubby trees. I was beginning to get worried. Betty, on the other hand, was ready to abandon ship.

  “We’ve been had,” she huffed.

  We turned a corner and suddenly it was like we were characters in the movie The Wizard of Oz. You know that part when the movie changes from black and white to color? We were seeing it in real life. I don’t know how they’d managed, but someone had laid lush thick sod in the middle of a four hundred yard semicircle of dry, dusty ground, transforming the landscape from sprawling dirt to plush green grass. Seriously, this grass was barefoot worthy.