Get Fluffy

I quickly pulled my cell from my purse and punched in her number. Within seconds a cell phone rang behind me. I spun around. Mona’s phone was on the hall table.

I grabbed it. “That’s not good.”

I ended the call, absently dumping the phones in my purse, and then dropping it on the hall table.

“Mona,” I called out louder. Where the heck was she? I couldn’t leave Fluffy behind until I knew Mona was home. Good grief, she better not have taken a spontaneous trip to the Caymans.

I climbed the stairs two at a time. “Mona. I’ve delivered your dog.”

Fluffy poked her head around the corner and barked as I reached the top of the stairs.

I jumped back. It was the first time I’d heard her bark without a cue. Or a camera.

“What’s gotten into you?”

Fluffy planted her feet and barked again.

“I’m not allowed up here?”

Her dark eyes bored into mine, then she quickly turned and trotted down the hallway.

“Oh, now I speak dog,” I muttered.

I bought her Lassie act and followed. We zigged through hallways, zagged past a half dozen rooms, and I wondered if I should’ve left a trail of bread crumbs. Finally Fluffy stopped in front of a closed door, looking more exasperated than usual.

I rolled my eyes. Lord, she was demanding. “All that barking because you can’t get to your throne?”

I opened the door. She pushed past me and sniffed around. I took a quick peek and realized it was Mona’s bedroom.

Being more than a little curious, I left my southern manners in the hallway and allowed myself a quick look. I was immediately drawn to the beautiful oil canvas of an Italian river sunset hanging at the head of her king sized bed. The blush colored duvet cost more than my brand new Jeep.

Way too much white, gold and fringe for my taste, but it fit Mona perfectly. A beautiful tall armless chair was precisely positioned in the corner. I could easily imagine Mona lounging aristocratically, Fluffy at her feet. It was all very old Hollywood.

My eye was drawn to the dozens of framed photos of Fluffy. On the beach, at a dog show, on the set of The Guiding Lighthouse, Fluffy with Julia Roberts. (Okay, I had to do a double take on that one. I swear to the Lord Almighty, Fluffy’s hair was styled exactly like Julia’s. They were twins.)

I turned to leave and stopped in my tracks. Right above the fireplace hung a life-sized gilded-framed painting of the dynamic duo-side-by-side, matching hair color and aristocratic expressions, with Mona’s arm draped over Fluffy’s back. The adoration on Mona’s face was obvious. The painting was beautiful and, at the same time, a little creepy.

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 her way and trotted down the hallway to the next room. Once again, I followed. Certainly, whatever was behind door number two would be equally draped in luxurious excess and might give a clue to Mona’s whereabouts.

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 dead. Deader than a stuffed Poodle.

Chapter Seven

Right after I’d dialed 9-1-1, I called the one person I trusted to tell me what to do next.

“Someone whacked Mona with Fluffy’s Emmy.” The words tumbled out of my mouth the second Grey had said hello.

“Are you injured?” he asked, voice thick with concern.

“No, just wigged out.”

“Where are you?”

I paced the length of the hallway between Fluffy and Mona’s room. “I’m still at Mona’s. This is my first dead body, and I have to tell you, it’s not like what you see on TV. I think I’m going to puke.”

“Hold on, I’m on my way.” He was in his secret FBI mode. Gone was the art dealer persona he carried for cover. His normal teasing tone had transformed into solid, calm and controlled.

“Mona would die if she knew people were going to see her like this.” I cringed at my bad choice of words, but it was true.

I could hear Mona’s bored monotone voice ordering me to pull the statue out of her head and clean up the mess before it stained her one-of-a-kind hardwood floor. Once the room had been cleaned to her satisfaction, she’d demand her hair and makeup touched-up before any crime scene photos were snapped.

It was the God’s honest truth. That was just Mona’s way.

And after what I’d seen, I can’t say I’d blame her. Speaking of cleaning up, where was Camilla?

“Mona’s one bloody mess,” I said.

Papers rustled on the other end of the line as Grey cleared his desk. “Don’t touch her,” he said. His deep timber instilled a calmness I needed.

“I didn’t.” I poked my head into the room. I cupped the bottom of the phone and whispered, “The dog’s covered in blood and won’t leave Mona.”

“If you need help, call Caro.”

“I can handle Fluffy.” The sick smell of blood was a different matter. I breathed through my mouth and willed my stomach to stop churning. I heard a car door slam and an engine start over the phone. He was on his way.

“Don’t move. Better yet, wait outside for the police. Don’t touch anything. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

In that mess, I doubted the cops would notice if I touched anything. Outside sirens screamed through the dignified gated community.

“You’d better hurry. The cavalry’s almost here,” I said.

We ended our call, and I realized I was shaking so badly I looked like I’d downed a case of energy drinks.

I shook my head trying to erase the scene on the other side of the wall. But Mona’s image was branded in my mind.

I methodically inched through the hallway maze, really wishing for those bread crumbs. By the time I’d made it