Fluffy rested her head in the palm of my hand, her dark eyes speaking thoughts I didn’t understand. There was that dog language thing again.
I knew,
I was taking home a dog I didn’t really like to a dog I loved.
I whirled around, hands on hips, eyes narrowed. Defenses and attitude back in place. “For one night only. Got it? Tomorrow she goes home with Cliff.”
“Fine,” Malone agreed.
Thinking back on it, he didn’t really agree it was just for one night.
“It’s going to be okay.” I patted Fluffy’s head and stroked the few non-sticky parts I could find.
“Oh, girl, there is no way you’re getting into my Jeep covered in blood. We’ve got to call Armando. You need some TLC.”
I looked up and caught my reflection in the antique mirror across the room.
“Holy cow, we both need some TLC.”
Chapter Eight
Malone was more than a little touchy about the number of civilians who’d already tromped through his crime scene. I patiently explained, for the third time, Armando was the only stylist allowed to touch Mona’s dog.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about
I snickered because I knew he’d gotten the name wrong on purpose. Hanging out with the guy for the last hour, I’d realized he was a lot like Grey.
“You can stand guard. Make sure I don’t touch anything. I only need his phone number.”
“I can arrest you instead.” There was no doubt in his tone. I had crossed the line.
Yup, he was a lot like Grey. Except Grey loved me and overlooked my flaws. Malone, on the other hand, had zero patience for me.
We were at a stubborn impasse. Unfortunately, he had the law on his side. I turned my back on Malone and dug out my cell from the bottom of my black Alexander Wang tote.
I had waited for an hour while Fluffy was “processed” before she was officially released into my care. She wasn’t getting into my Jeep without a shampoo, blow out and a trim to even out the chunk of hair the police had snipped for evidence.
If I couldn’t have Armando, I’d take Jade, the senior stylist at Divine Dog Spa. Everyone, human and animal, loved her. She was presumptuous, bold and one of those rare stylists who actually had great hair. To top it all off, she possessed the most endearing British accent.
It was that adorable accent that disguised her acid tongue. Most people were so enraptured with the tone of her voice they didn’t pay attention to the meaning of her words. It could be minutes, or days, until you realized she’d just verbally spanked you
I had Jade’s number in my contacts and quickly reached her.
“I need your help.” I gave the
“Mona’s dead?” she squeaked.
I caught my breath as the reality of the situation hit me again. “Yes.”
“I just love a good scandal. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Her excessive willingness to help wasn’t about her concern for Mona. It was all about getting her hands on Fluffy. And morbid curiosity.
“I’ll tell the security guard-”
Malone walked in front of me and cut me off. “Salinas,” he shouted at the rookie cop guarding the front door. “If one more person shows up uninvited, arrest Ms. Langston on the spot.”
I practically dropped the phone. “What?”
“Get off the phone, or I’ll bag it as evidence.”
Man, Mr. Personality he wasn’t. “Fine. I get it. Jade, I’ll have to bring Fluffy to you.”
I ended the call and shoved my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, feeling somewhat reassured Malone wouldn’t go digging around without a search warrant.
My back was up against the wall. There was no shampoo, no doggie conditioner, no detangler. And no professional on her way.
I’d be damned if I’d let Detective Malone get the best of me.
It seemed my best ideas came from the precipice of desperation. I hunted down Fluffy and coaxed her out of the house. I snapped on her leash and led her to the driveway.
That’s how we ended up in Mona’s fountain.
Girls Gone Wild, doggie style.
“I know this is your first time, but don’t be afraid to splash a little.” I led Fluffy slowly, giving her ample opportunity to roll around and become miraculously clean without having to touch her.
Her head hung, and her eyes lacked her typical sparkle. She wasn’t a dog gone wild type. No splashing. No chomping water. She was nothing like Missy, who’d be prancing and eating water as if it were goose pate on a gourmet dog biscuit.
Truth be told, Fluffy looked a touch embarrassed to be bathing where all the neighbors could see her. And another thing-once wet, she resembled a skinny greyhound.
“Hey Salinas,” I yelled out, “can you ask Malone for a towel?” I looked at my soaked jeans. “Make that two. Oh, and Fluffy’s hair brush.”
He shook his bulbous bald head. “The house is a crime scene.”
I was seriously going to yell the next time someone spoke the words “crime scene.”
“I think it’s obvious what killed Mona, and it wasn’t a dog brush or a couple of towels.”
Officer Salinas puffed out his chest and crossed his arms. “There may have been a robbery. We have to account for everything. I can’t do it.”
Of course he couldn’t. Cops were such pansy rule followers.
I looked over at Grey who was leaning against his favorite toy, his brand new Mercedes SUV. I was disappointed he’d opted out of the Roadster. Grey said he needed something to transport his “art” more than he needed speed. I suggested he get both; he could afford it. He rejected that idea as “too extravagant.”
We lived in Orange County. “Extravagant” was our zip code.
Fluffy shook, sending streams of water everywhere. My anxiety level was at its max.
Grey watched me squeeze water from my t-shirt while he talked on his cell phone. At some point he’d slipped off his suit jacket and had rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows.
“Grey,” I called out, pointing at Fluffy who looked like a giant wet rat.
He nodded and wrapped up his call, then moved to the back of his car and popped the trunk.
He pulled out a beach blanket and brought it over, covering Fluffy. “I always imagined she was bigger under all that hair.”
Fluffy shivered for a few seconds as she burrowed into the soft flannel material. My heart broke for Grey when I realized the blanket was Colbalt’s, Grey’s foster Weimaraner.
Last month, the Weimaraner rescue agency in LA had found a permanent home for Colbie. Grey had been heartbroken. Both Caro and I had warned him he’d ultimately want to keep the dog, but Grey hadn’t heeded our advice. This was one instance I wish I’d been wrong.
“Who were you talking to?” I asked as I rubbed down Fluffy.
“It’s not important.”
Code for, I can’t tell you.
“Can you believe Malone wouldn’t cough up a measly towel?” I asked, willing to change the subject.
“Heartless,” he deadpanned.
