Downton Tabby (4 page)

I walked away from the reporter and his microphone. Then I worked my way to my car and excused myself to those who stood behind it, letting them know I would be coming through.

For a moment, I sat there trying to take it in, willing myself to erase Jake’s face from my mind’s eye. Finally, feeling like I had it together enough to drive, I backed out of the driveway and into the street. Just as I turned the wheel to move forward, Heidi Sussman, Cash’s girlfriend, rapped on my window. I pushed the button to roll the window down and talk to her.

“Caro, do you know what’s going on?” With her short shorts, spray-on tan, and diamond tennis bracelet, she had sort of a surfer-girl-meets-nouveau-riche look going on. Her unnatural-turquoise eyes blinked furiously. “Is everything okay?”

I paused and sighed. “No, it’s not.”

“Ohmigod, ohmigod.” Heidi’s pink, perfectly manicured fingers grabbed her throat. “What’s the matter with Ja—? What’s going on?”

“Honey, get in the car.” I pulled forward a bit and parked at the curb. Heidi came around and slid into the passenger seat.

“I was on my way here when I saw all the people and then I saw the flashing lights and the police.” She shook like a nervous Chihuahua.

I placed my hand on her arm. “Listen, hon, something really bad has happened.” I swallowed. “Jake has drowned and I don’t know where Cash is. I know this is very hard, but you need to talk to the police and let them know anything you can.”

“Drowned like he’s okay or drowned like he’s dead?” She gulped and continued to shake.

“Heidi, hon, Jake is dead.” I waited for her to process what I’d just told her. “Had you seen either of them today?”

She twisted the diamond bracelet around and around on her slim wrist and hesitated before answering. “No.”

“Did you talk to Cash this morning?” Maybe he’d told her where he was going.

“No, like I said, I was on my way over to swim.” At the word “swim” she choked up.

I put my arm around her shoulder as best I could as she took huge gulps of air. After a few minutes, she dabbed at her eyes and pushed her blond hair off of her face.

“Thanks for telling me, Caro. I’m okay.”

I dropped her off at her bright-red Escalade Hybrid which was parked a couple of blocks away.

I thought about what she’d said.

Did she truly have no idea where Cash was? And had she been about to ask whether Jake was okay? If so, how had she known it was Jake and not Cash in the house?

I STOPPED BY home to change out of my wet clothes and get Toria settled. My house is pet-friendly so it didn’t take a lot to accommodate one more feline. I opened the carrier, and Toria tentatively stepped out. Thelma and Louise didn’t exactly roll out the welcome wagon, but there wasn’t instant cat smackdown either. That was a good sign.

Clothes changed and animals settled, I packed up and set off for my appointment with Betty Foxx.

The address Betty had given me was inside one of Laguna Beach’s gated communities. The entry gate was imposing, the palm trees perfectly spaced, and I knew the real-estate prices had to be as massive as the homes themselves. Once security passed me through, I checked the address and found the house in no time. Or the driveway at least.

I pulled in, followed the long drive, and parked. Betty had apparently been watching for me. She stood out front, attired as usual in pearls and pajamas. Don’t ask me. I have no idea why the little lady had decided PJs were daytime attire, but I’d never seen her in anything else. This particular ensemble was vivid green and trimmed in red satin. Perhaps left over from holiday festivities. I parked, got out, and grabbed my bag from the car.

She motioned me toward a smaller stucco guest cottage that was situated behind the larger main house. The big house was grand and imposing, ostentatious and lofty, impressed with itself. The smaller residence was quaint and homey with window boxes overflowing with lush greens and a riot of flowers. Warm, cheerful, cozy. It had all the makings of a traditional grandmother’s cottage.

“Is my car okay here?” I turned to ask my not-so-traditional grandmotherly escort. I wasn’t sure how long we’d be.

She didn’t answer but gave a dismissive Queen Mum wave of her fingers in response.

“Come on.” The little elf moved quickly to the steps of the smaller house. She stopped her hand on the doorknob. “We gotta move fast once I open the door. You ready?”

I nodded. The scratching and whining on the other side of the door escalated as she eased it open and popped inside. I followed quickly and then stopped in shock.

The cute cottage looked like it had either hosted rock-and-roll royalty or had been ransacked by a band of robbers. Shoes, clothing, and papers were scattered around the room. A Saint Bernard bounded toward Betty, his excited bark rattling the cups in the nearby antique china hutch.

“Down, Raider,” Betty ordered. She reached in her pocket for some treats.

“Down, boy,” she tried again. He ignored her and continued barking and jumping on her. I was worried he would knock her down, but her feet were planted firmly apart.

“How long have you had Raider?” I asked.

“Why?” She looked up, raising bright-red eyebrows.

Yes, that’s right. Betty’s eyebrows were a brilliant shade of red that looked like they’d been drawn on with lipstick. I’d noticed the interesting makeup application when we’d been in self-defense class, but Diana and I had both figured it was best left alone. I mean how do you ask about something like that?

“What does how long I’ve had the dog have to do with anything?” she demanded.

This was a case that clearly called for directness. “I need to know how long you’ve been reinforcing bad behavior if I’m going to help you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s a good dog.” Betty frowned at me.

I crossed my arms and gave her the I-can-wait-you-out look.

She caved. “I’ve had him for about a month.”

“Okay, let’s start with when you come home. I’m guessing he’s always like this. Right?”

“Yep. He’s a high-spirited guy.” She smiled and held his big head in her hands.

I thought “high-spirited” was a gross understatement, but I kept my thoughts to myself. Raider was a handsome fellow, and I could see why Betty was enamored with him. Sweet brown eyes looked up at her adoringly, and she seemed completely unbothered by the drool that slipped down his furry chin and onto her thumbs.

“The first thing we’ll need to work on is absolutely no treats for him when he’s in a hyper-excited state.” I held out my hand for the treats, and she reluctantly handed them over. “He only gets these as a reward for when he’s calm.” I walked across the room and picked up things from the floor as I went. “Okay?”

“Okay, fine.”

“And Betty?” I turned and leaned down to look her in the eye. “Raider has to get some exercise. A big part of his problem is that he’s still a pup and he’s got to have some way to expend all this energy.”

“Hmmm . . .” Her eyes dropped.

“If you don’t feel you’re up to walking him, I could suggest a couple of very dependable dog-walkers. Shall we take him outside for a little walk right now?”

“No.” Her answer came back too quickly. “He’s been out. I took him when I was waiting for you. Just tell me what I need to do. I’ll take care of it.”

“First, you’ll need to make sure that he gets exercised every single day. Second, no dog treats when he’s in an excited state. Raider is going to eventually be even bigger than he is, and if you’re going to manage this dog you’ve got to get control now. What is he, a little over a year old?”

“Eighteen months.” She patted Raider’s head and then leaned down to place a kiss on top of his massive crown. “And I am keeping him. No one is taking him away.”

I felt my heart tighten. I had to find a way to help the little stubborn lady. I understood the attachment, but I was seriously convinced there was a good chance the dog would eventually injure her if she didn’t get the situation under control.

“What were you doing with Detective Hot Stuff?” She wiggled crimson brows. “I thought Cookie said you were engaged to the Greek. You two-timing him?”

By “Cookie” I knew she meant my cousin, Melinda. When we were in the self-defense class, Betty had always referred to Mel as “Cookie.” And the “Greek” she referred to was Sam Gallanos, who I was not engaged to, much to my mother’s disappointment.

“Sam?” I sighed. “We’re not engaged. We’re just . . .” I hesitated. Why was I explaining to Betty my relationship with Sam? “Anyway, my interaction with Detective Malone wasn’t social. It was business.”

“A murder then?” She continued to pat Raider’s head, and he settled against her legs. “Who died? Why were you there?”

The bright-green pixie was full of questions.

“I discovered the body.” I stopped. Surely the story would be on the news, and I hadn’t been asked to keep anything confidential. But it seemed wrong to share too much info. “It was someone I knew.”

I continued to pick up items from the floor as we talked. I absentmindedly sorted them into recognizable and no-longer-recognizable categories.

“Where did you get that red hair? I thought you and Cookie were related.” Betty looked up from where she now sat on the floor. Raider licked her face, leaving a trail of slobber, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“We are. Our mothers are sisters.” Melinda was a gorgeous brunette with smooth dark hair I’d always envied. “I think one of my great-aunts was a redhead.”

“How come you two don’t just call a truce? You’ve got your granny’s pin, right?”

“I do.” She referred, of course, to the family brooch I’d mentioned earlier. “Well . . .” I hesitated and bent to pick up a colorful rag that looked like it might have once been a piece of clothing.

How could I explain two grown women in a battle over an ugly piece of jewelry? Better people (or at least people with more clout) than Betty had attempted to convince us to stand down on the Brooch Wars, but neither of us could see a way for a win-win. Someone would have to be the loser. Not happening.

As I straightened, I noticed Betty slip Raider a treat. It was clear she’d only turned over part of her doggie-treat stash.

Seriously? How could I help her and Raider if she refused to be honest?

“Betty?” I waited until she made eye contact. “I’m not the treat police, but if you continue to give your dog treats at inappropriate times, you aren’t going to be able to control him, and you’ll end up losing him. I don’t think that’s what you want. Is it?” I held her gaze, and suddenly her snappy blue eyes misted over.

“No, it isn’t.” Her voice quavered, and that was almost my undoing. I sat down beside her on the floor and patted Raider’s big head.

“Hon, it’s just like raising a child. You can love them with all your heart, but you have to set boundaries and not over-indulge them or you’ll end up with a spoiled brat.”

Betty muttered a comment. It sounded like she said, “Amen to that.” But I couldn’t quite hear as she was struggling to stand.

“Okay, Caramel.” She popped up in front of me. “I’ll hold back on the spoiling.”

“It’s Caro,” I automatically corrected. “All right then, let’s make a deal.

You start with the exercise and no treats when Raider is excited.” I handed her my card. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Okey dokey, Carol.” She tucked the card in her pocket.

I sighed. It didn’t really matter what she called me as long as she did as I asked. “I’ll check back later in the week to see how you’re doing.”

I sincerely hoped Betty would make the effort. Raider was a sweet dog, but it was going to take a lot of time to work with him and get his behavior under control. And the rambunctious pup would easily end up at one-hundred-and-fifty pounds, perhaps more, when he was full grown.

I’d seen it before. These types of situations could go both ways. It was all about commitment.

I had dinner plans with “The Greek” as Betty had called him, but I had one stop I needed to make before heading home to get ready for the evening.

I parked in the adjoining lot and ducked into Coast Hardware. There might be fancier coffeemakers available elsewhere, but I wasn’t picky. A basic coffeepot would do the trick.

One thing I knew for sure, I abso-dang-lutely was
not
going to face another day without my morning coffee.

Chapter Four

AFTER A REALLY bad day, a quiet dinner with Sam Gallanos was just what the doctor ordered.

The restaurant was top drawer and the company even better. Bistro A was a new Orange-County hot spot with locally grown veggies and fresh California seafood. And Sam Gallanos was the perfect company, the perfect date, and the perfect friend. It was what went beyond friendship that I just couldn’t seem to commit to. Sam had made it clear he wanted to be more. He’d even taken me to meet his grandmother. A big step in his world.

Sam’s grandparents had raised him after his mother and stepfather were killed in a car accident. The grands dealt in olives, his stepfather had dealt in movies, and his birth father was never talked about. Though his grandfather had been gone for years, from Sam’s accounts Dorothea, his grandmother, had always run the olive import/export business. She was still very involved but was transitioning much of the day-to-day affairs to Sam. Dark eyes and hair, like Sam, she was ageless and sharp; he called her
Yia-Yia
which he pronounced
Ya-Ya
. I had loved her at first sight.

The bistro’s décor was trendy but crisp and clean. Pacific blues and greens blended with cloth-covered tables arranged around a trickling fountain and a large, vivid cobalt-colored burst of glass reminiscent of Dale Chihuly’s blown-glass sculptures. With the natural light and subtle focus lighting, it was somehow both striking and soothing.

We were seated almost immediately, but I still could sense heads turn as the maître d’ led us to our table. Sam had that effect on a room.

Don’t get me wrong; I know I don’t exactly blend into the background. I’m a tall redhead, and my days on the beauty pageant-circuit had left me with great runway posture. And my new deep-navy Jenny Packham dress was nice. Sleek, sleeveless, slimming. But, make no mistake, it was my date who created the stir. Sam was drop-dead (if you’ll pardon the term) handsome and always put together like he’d just walked off the pages of a magazine.