Downton Tabby (19 page)

I was wrapping up my final visit of the day and was ready to head home when my phone rang.

“This is Caro.”

“Ms. Lamont, it’s Callum MacAvoy. Please don’t hang up.” The words came out in a whoosh; I don’t believe the man took a breath.

I didn’t respond. But I didn’t hang up.

I could hear him let out a big sigh. “Caro, uhm, Ms. Lamont, I owe you an apology for the last time we talked.”

“I’m listening.”

“I was out of line.” He sounded contrite. “I had no business bringing your family into the conversation.”

“That’s right.”

“Chalk it up to my enthusiasm.” I could almost see him fidgeting.

I waited for him to continue.

“Sometimes when I’m investigating, my zeal gets the best of me and I do or say things I shouldn’t. I am truly sorry.”

Well, I could surely relate. I often found myself in situations where my mouth got away from me.

“Apology accepted.” I would probably regret this. “On one condition.”

“What condition?”

“You leave all of my family out of things, you hear?”

“Agreed.”

“Okay, then. I think we understand each other.” I couldn’t believe I was letting him off the hook so easily. “So now tell me why you’re really calling me.”

“I truly am sorry, but also I need to talk to you. In person. It’s about Jake Wylie’s murder.”

“Then you should talk to Detective Malone, not me.”

“Not gonna happen. As you might have guessed, the detective and I aren’t on very good terms.”

“Not my problem, Mr. MacAvoy.”

“Seriously, Ms. Lamont. I have to talk to you.”

“Mr. MacAvoy, I’m very busy.” I’d accepted his apology, but I still didn’t trust him.

“You’re tough.” He sighed. “Would it help if I said I had a dog?”

“Do you have a dog?”

“No.”

“Then no, it wouldn’t help.” I wasn’t sure why I was still listening to the guy. “Get to the point, Mr. MacAvoy.

“I really need your help.” His voice dropped so low I could barely hear him. “I’ve uncovered some vital information.”

“All right. What do you know?” I could hear Detective Malone’s sigh echoing in my head.

“Not on the phone.” He was almost at a whisper now. “Can you meet me this evening?”

You know what they say about curiosity and the cat, right?

“Fine. Where?”

I STRUGGLED A teensy bit with not calling Detective Malone and sharing that Callum MacAvoy had called me. But I didn’t really have anything to share, and to tell you the truth, my ego was still stinging from his lecture.

I didn’t know how long my conversation with MacAvoy would take, so I ran home and took Dogbert out for a quick walk around the block.

Then with Mama Kat’s always-look-presentable admonitions running on auto-loop in my head, I changed into fresh jeans, a cream-colored handkerchief-linen shirt, and my new favorite sandals from Giuseppe Zanotti. I liked his style, part footwear, part jewelry.

Freshening up and changing from my doggie-fur-covered clothes also helped me adjust my attitude. There was nothing wrong with meeting Mr. TV and hearing him out. If after I talked to him, he truly did have some information relevant to the case, I’d call Malone.

We met at Mango Duck, MacAvoy’s pick. It was a nice little local bar with an outdoor café. I still didn’t see why we needed to meet in person. Surely whatever it was he needed to tell me or ask me could be said on the phone. But Mr. TV had been adamant.

It took me a few minutes to spot MacAvoy when I opened the gate to the outdoor café.

Seated near a grouping of greenery and lush hibiscus plants, he almost blended in with the surroundings. He was slouched in his chair, forest-green
News
5
polo neatly tucked in at the waist of his blue jeans, long legs stretched out under the table. His prime-time handsome face was intent as he scowled at the screen of his phone and tapped a silver pen on his ever-present notebook.

I sat down in the high-backed wicker chair opposite him.

I knew we’d cleared Zellwen, or at least according to Laguna Beach PD findings his alibi had checked out, and I hadn’t seen the black SUV again, but I was still a little on edge. I’d had the feeling all the way to the restaurant that I was being followed. If Zellwen had really been at anger management class and hadn’t been following me, it didn’t change my unease. Someone had been following me.

I shifted in my seat and looked around the patio. I didn’t recognize anyone. No familiar faces.

“Would you like something to drink?” MacAvoy offered and motioned the waitress over. There was a Guinness on the table that was already half gone.

“Sweet tea, please, hon.” I smiled at the girl. I turned back to him. “So what’s the big secret?”

He waited until the waitress was out of earshot. “Here’s the deal.” He leaned in. “I’ve done some research on the background of both Jake Wylie and Graham Cash.”

The waitress came back with my tea, and he stopped and waited until she’d gone.

“I have uncovered something about Graham Cash and who he really is, but I can’t confirm it.”

“What can’t you confirm?”

He hesitated. His eyes met mine.

Sheesh. Why call me up and get me here if he wasn’t going to tell me what it was he needed to confirm. “Listen, MacAvoy, you need to tell me what you found out. Or I’m leaving right now.”

Suddenly there was a loud crash of glass, and MacAvoy shot to his feet. A nearby tray of barware had tipped and slid to the floor.

A short, slight man in a trench coat and a 1980s Indiana Jones fedora fell out from behind the shrubs and hibiscus trees where he must have been hiding. He stumbled into the chair MacAvoy had just vacated and then ran smack into our table, knocking over the reporter’s Guinness and my iced tea.

Everyone in the café stopped, sandwiches and glasses mid-air. The hostess, as well as a slew of wait staff, came rushing over. MacAvoy had avoided damage by his quick reaction, but I was drenched in Irish beer and sweet tea.

The little trench-coat man righted himself. He looked like he was about to make a run for it.

I grabbed him around the neck.

His hat fell to the ground and left his tousled silver hair exposed.

Wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute; it wasn’t a man!

“Betty?” I turned her around to face me.

“Let go of me.” In her effort at an undercover disguise, her usually colorful eyebrows were two slashes of stark black. It gave her a sinister look. In a cartoon villain sort of way.

I dropped my hold. “What in the Sam Hill are you doing here?”

“Obviously”—she brushed at her trench coat and straightened the collar—“I’m trying to help you and Detective Malone solve this case.”

“How much did you hear?” MacAvoy asked.

“Not much cuz you kept whispering.” She looked up at him and patted her pocket.

His eyes followed the movement. “Hand over the tape recorder,” he demanded.

“What?” The little lady attempted an innocent look. Difficult with those eyebrows.

“That’s what you were trying to retrieve from the plant when you knocked over the tray of glasses, wasn’t it?” MacAvoy pressed.

She stuck her chin out.

“Give it up.”

She reluctantly reached in the pocket of her trench coat and pulled out a small recording device. MacAvoy held out his hand. Betty placed it in his open palm.

MacAvoy popped out a small tape, pocketed it, and handed the device back to her.

“It’s state of the art.” She slipped it back in her pocket.

“No, it’s not. There’s a lot better technology out there today.” He reached down and picked up the pen he’d had earlier. Betty’s stumble through the hibiscus had knocked it to the floor. He looked it over carefully.

“How would you know?” I asked.

He kept his head down not meeting my gaze.

“Is that a recording device?” I asked.

“Lemme see that.” Betty leaned in for a better look.

“It’s voice activated.” MacAvoy gave me a sheepish look.

I guess that answered my question.

“That’s really a recorder?” The senior sleuth gave a low whistle. “How does it work?”

“It has a strong microphone so you don’t have to be very close.” He tucked it away in his pocket. “And you can simply set it on the table instead of having to hide it in a plant.”

“Where do I get me one of them?”

“Great. You were both recording the conversation without my permission,” I interrupted. “Now, if you two are done comparing nifty spy gadgets, I think we should probably apologize to the staff and let everyone get back to their dinner.”

Mr. Prime Time Investigates and Inspector Gadget Grandma Edition suddenly realized everyone in the café was still staring, and those who were close enough were listening in on the conversation.

“Let’s go.” MacAvoy threw a few bills on the table and turned to go.

Betty tightened the belt on her trench coat and followed.

I brought up the rear, squishing my way between the tables.

Chapter Nineteen

WE STEPPED OUT onto the sidewalk, and my feet slid sideways in my wet sandals. So much for fashion before function. Callum MacAvoy held my arm to steady me as I slipped them off.

If I’d had an ounce of humor left in me, I would have laughed at the spectacle we presented. The tall, clean-cut, heart-throb newsman escorting one soggy, bare-footed redhead, and one trench-coated elderly mini-sleuth who was still clutching her straw handbag and looking like the “before” picture in a cosmetics company’s dos and don’ts for older women.

There was a park bench several stores down, and I pointed at it. We needed to regroup. I wasn’t sure what was next, but I was leaning toward sending Betty on her way and calling Malone to deal with Mr. TV and his research.

Our rag-tag troop of three had started down the walk when suddenly a shiny, black Lincoln Navigator came by. The big SUV pulled up to the curb and into an empty parking spot. The driver’s door swung open and out climbed Geoffrey Carlisle.

In a flash, I suddenly knew who’d been following me, and it wasn’t Jake and Cash’s neighbor, or a carful of British spies. It was my ex-husband.

He had made me feel unsafe, caused me to waste police time, and to what end? Because he saw a short-cut to a career change?

Geoff came around the car and opened the passenger side door. Davia Sinclair looked like she’d been poured into her Kim Kardashian black-lace pencil dress. He held her arm as she got out, and she took a moment to balance on her strappy six-inch, high-rent heels before tucking a silver Tom Ford clutch under her arm. Then she reached into the Navigator for her final accessory.

Nano.

The little dog was decked out in a matching lace dress and a red tutu.

Now I’ve got nothing against people dressing up their dogs, and the outfit was frankly adorable. But, this was one majorly unhappy dog. We’d made such progress on Nano’s depression, and it was clear Davia and Geoff were in danger of losing all the ground we’d gained.

Davia whipped out a matching red bow and attempted to situate it on Nano’s head. The pup looked up at her with small sad eyes, and my heart broke. Geoffrey reached over Davia’s lace-clad shoulder to help with the bow.

I turned away to follow MacAvoy and Betty who stood waiting on me. I shook my head.

None of my business, right? Davia had decided not to continue our work with Nano and, from the looks of things, had found herself a new pet therapist.

I heard a low growl and looked back just as Nano nipped at Geoffrey’s hand. In a swift move he plucked her out of Davia’s arms and tossed her into the SUV. The red bow flew through the air and landed at my feet.

I took it as a sign.

Without a moment’s hesitation I marched back to where they stood and latched onto Geoffrey’s wrist, twisting his arm like they’d shown us in self-defense class.

“
Never
throw a dog.”

“Ouch.” Geoff’s face contorted in surprised pain.

“Never. Ever. Throw. A dog.” I twisted his arm with each word to make sure he understood.

Then I let go and turned to Davia.

“And you.” I poked a finger at her. “I don’t give a flying fig if you don’t want me to work with Nano anymore. That’s fine. But get yourself a pet therapist who knows what he’s doing. Not this poor excuse for a human being.” I pointed toward Geoff who was rubbing his arm.

Davia, eyes wide, backed up and nearly fell off her Manolo Blahniks. “Geoffrey Carlisle.” I looked at Geoff, and he backed up, too, like I might hurt him again. “I am warning you for the last time. Stay away from me. Stay away from my clients.” I took a step closer with each sentence until we were nose to nose.

“I think—” he began in a placating tone.

“I don’t care what you think.” I cut him off in my best and loudest you-can’t-handle-the-truth tone. “If I ever hear even the slightest rumor of harm you have caused to some animal because of your ignorance and your enormous ego, you’ll be sorry, mister. You will be very sorry.”

He didn’t say anything, but the slight lift of his brow and the derisive smile told me he got a little thrill from making me lose control.

I pushed through the crowd that had collected and put some distance between me and the scene I’d just caused.

Two blocks away, I heard huffing and puffing at my back and realized Betty had followed me.

“Hold up, Carmelita.” Her thin arms pumped, and her trench coat flapped as she hurried to catch up. “You rocked!”

I let out a laugh that was part embarrassment and part surprise. “I rocked?”

“Yeah, you told him what for. Don’t—mess—with—our—dogs!” She punctuated each word with a punch. “Who was that guy?”

“My ex-husband,” I admitted, slowing my pace so Betty could keep up.

We walked a little farther.

“Your ex-husband, huh? My Tommy and me, we were happy.” Betty looked wistful. “Marriage is a good thing. But you shouldn’t stay married to a nut job.”

I suddenly realized I knew very little about her. “How long has your husband been gone?”

“Ten years.” She looked up at me, smudged black brows over sharp grey eyes. “Tommy and me packed in a lot of fun before he went. Don’t feel sorry for me, Carol.”