Peg, the cat you tattooed on your arm is somebody else’s cat, and that somebody else wants his cat back. His real name is Boomgarden, by the way. The cat, not the somebody else. I’m sure this is shocking, and I’m really sorry it happened, but I’m just trying to do the right thing by giving you a heads up.”
Her reply: silence as deep as the snow on Mount Everest and as long as a bored yawn from Odette.
“Peg? Did you hear me?”
More silence. And then, just as I was about to check our connection, she wailed.
“But I love my cat! Yoda is my family-the only thing in my life that gives me joy! You don’t think I love slinging coffee and cookies, do you? Let alone selling tattoos! And as for being mayor of this little town, what’s to love? It’s high risk, low income. I don’t have to tell you what happened to the last guy in that job!”
She was referring to the fact that I had discovered the previous mayor’s dead body. Before I could think of a soothing reply, or any reply at all for that matter, Odette grabbed my phone.
“Peg, this is Odette. What Whiskey’s trying to say is that the cat’s got to go. Back to its owner. ASAP. But there’s an upside: the owner’s got cash, so he’ll make it worth your while. You can bank on it!”
She closed the connection and returned my phone.
“You can’t promise her cash!” I sputtered.
“Of course, I can.”
She nodded toward Perry Stiles, who had paused on his way to the show ring to chat with a handler.
“Any guy who’d rent a cabin on the beach with another guy is not only gay but rich. He will pay a reward for the return of the cat.”
“But the cat is Yoda,” I protested.
“There’s no accounting for taste,” Odette said. “But there is accounting.”
“I’ll go talk to him,” I said.
“No. I’ll go talk to him. We want to get as much money as possible for Peg.”
I nodded humbly. Nobody did deals as well as Odette.
“But first I’ve got to ask you a question,” she said.
“Shoot.”
“From what I hear, there’s been more than enough of that. Is there always this much drama at a dog show?”
“Well, this is my first. But I’m pretty sure most dog shows don’t involve gunfire.”
“Aside from gunfire,” Odette said, “why the petty personal squabbles? I hear one every time I turn my head. Who cares who handles whose dog?”
“Are you talking about Susan’s dog, for example? The one Matt brought over to the Davies’ table?”
“Matt the young hottie,” Odette confirmed.
I didn’t add that he was Susan’s young hottie. It wasn’t the right moment to tell Odette that Liam’s wife was as notorious for cheating as… well, as Liam was. I didn’t know how much Odette knew. Or how much she wanted to let me know she knew.
“Silverado is headed for the finals,” Odette remarked without interest. “Susan wants Matt to handle him. But Liam and his niece think the niece should handle him. Frankly, who the hell cares? And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get Peg’s money.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“I’m sorry to hear about your bitch.”
Sandy Slater had entered the concession area, apparently on break from selling snoods.
“You mean Abra?” I asked, just to be sure we weren’t talking about someone else.
She nodded sympathetically. “I heard that she ran away with some goats. I’ll pray for you both. If she comes back this weekend, stop by my booth for a complimentary snood of your choosing. The rose sateen snoods are especially popular today.”
When she pulled one out of a pocket to show me, a breeder eating nachos nearby said, “I want that one, Sandy! Save it for me.”
The woman was a snood-selling machine. I thanked her and turned to go. Then I realized that Sandy should have answers to my remaining questions about Mitchell Slater. The only real question was whether she’d cooperate.
“I’ll buy you anything but a burger,” I offered and explained that the burgers were bad. Or had been yesterday.
Sandy hesitated. “It’s not the food,” she said. “I shouldn’t fraternize with Bad Examples. I don’t mind selling you snoods, of course, but hanging out with you could hurt my business. In case you haven’t noticed, this crowd is snooty.”
“Snooty about snoods?” I couldn’t resist.
“Snooty about you. They don’t like you. Or your bitch.”
“I’ve noticed. At least Perry Stiles is nice.”
When Sandy frowned, I realized that, unlike her late first husband, she looked her age. Whereas Mitchell Slater had been tanned, teeth-bleached, and Botoxed, Sandy was the absolute absence of vanity. She wore no make-up, had coffee-stained teeth, and sported every single wrinkle she’d earned. Lots of gray hairs, too.
“Perry Stiles is a snake,” she hissed.
“He said nice things about you,” I lied.
“I doubt it. He didn’t like Mitchell, either. And I’m sure he gossips about my son Matthew.”
“With regard to what?” I tried to sound naive.
“You’re not as dumb as you look,” Sandy snapped.
“How kind of you.”
“All I’m saying is you can’t trust Perry to tell you the truth. About anybody. He especially disliked Mitchell.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“Maybe I am as dumb as I look.”
Sandy glanced around and then stepped closer. “Mitchell was gay.”
“What?!!”
Nothing she could have said would have stunned me more. Or been less believable.
“He was married four times!” I said.
“Gay men marry women.”
“Four times,” I repeated.
“Why do you think all those marriages failed?” she asked.
“Because he was a ladies’ man. Anyway, why would Perry Stiles dislike Mitchell because he was gay? Perry is obviously gay.”
“Obviously,” Sandy agreed. “Two reasons: First, Mitchell never came out. Perry doesn’t like men who live in the closet. Second, Mitchell wasn’t attracted to Perry. And Perry never forgave him for that.”
I couldn’t buy Sandy’s story. Mitchell Slater had struck me as one hundred percent straight, granted that I hadn’t known him for long. Could my Gaydar have been that far out of whack? Why would Sandy, who had been married to Mitchell, lie about his sexual preference? There was only one likely answer: revenge.
Mitchell had repeatedly spurned her, after all. And then there was the reality of Matt Koniger, whom Mitchell had never publicly acknowledged as his son. The gay rumor was probably Sandy’s way of punishing Mitchell. But why include Perry in that plan? Unless Sandy had an axe to grind with Perry, too…
I didn’t know Sandy well enough to politely inquire about the legitimacy of her son. So I stated what I’d heard and waited for her response.
“Rumor has it that Mitchell was Matt’s father.”
Her reply was a predictably icy stare. After a long silence, during which I vainly tried to think of ways to change the subject, Sandy said, “Let me guess. Perry told you that.”
“I can’t remember exactly, but, uh, yes, it might have been Perry,” I mumbled. “I haven’t had time to talk to a
