Murder Unleashed (9 page)

“Never,” Kent said. “That thing’s not mine. It’s hers. I hate it. It’s nothing but a long-haired rat.”

“But, sir, what am I going to do with—”

Kent cut him off. “You can put it to sleep for all I care. I never want to see that useless little bastard again. All it ever did was bark and piss.”

“But—” Jeff said.

“Don’t try to bring that nasty yapper here. I’ll wring its neck right in front of you. Got that?”

Kent slammed down the phone.

Helen’s ears rang from Kent’s phone slam. She shook her head to clear it. That was a bad idea. Her head clanged and wobbled. She was still rocky from last night’s wine, but her anger at Kent’s cruelty was burning away her hangover.

“That creep,” she said. “I can’t believe Kent would do that. Prince is a terrific dog. He’s loyal and smart—everything Kent isn’t. I’d love to beat some sense into that gym-sculpted hunk of lard.”

“You’ll never get any sense into Kent’s rock head,” Jeff said. His long spaniel face was paler than usual. He was shaken by Kent’s threats to kill Prince.

“How can he threaten that harmless little animal?” Helen said. “Prince is the only living reminder of his murdered wife.”

“I think you just answered your question,” Jeff said.

“Does he hate Tammie that much?” Helen said. “Do you think he hated his wife enough to kill her?”

“He certainly doesn’t sound like a grieving husband,” Jeff said. “Prince is more upset over Tammie’s death than he is.”

“How are we going to make Kent take care of that dog?” Helen said.

“We aren’t,” Jeff said. “I won’t turn Prince over to that heartless maniac. I’ll find him a decent home.”

Jeff had an amazing ability to find homes for stray kittens, lost dogs, and other abandoned animals. He knew whose dog or cat had died and when his customers were ready to adopt another pet.

“If you could find a home for that Jack Russell, you should be able to place a two-year-old Yorkie,” Helen said.

“Gizmo was my greatest triumph,” Jeff said.

The old, white-muzzled Jack Russell terrier was brought in by a weeping blonde who hobbled in on needle-nosed Prada slingbacks. “We’re moving to a condo that won’t allow animals, and my husband says I have to get rid of Gizmo,” she said. “My husband says Gizmo’s too old and I should put him to sleep. But I can’t. There’s nothing wrong with him. I’ve had him for ten years. You have to help me.

“Here.” She’d handed Jeff the dignified old dog, who studied him with trusting eyes. The woman’s tears stained Jeff’s counter. She wasn’t a regular customer, but Jeff promised to find Gizmo a home.

“Personally, I’d get rid of the husband,” Helen said when the weeping woman left.

“Gizmo won’t keep her in Prada,” Jeff said. “She’s made her choice and she has to live with it—and herself.”

At ten years old, Gizmo was hardly an ideal age for adoption. But thirty phone calls later, Jeff found the dog a home. A man was looking for a four-legged fishing buddy, and he enjoyed older dogs. Like most Jack Russells, Gizmo loved the water. The man and his old dog now spent many hours fishing together, eating ham sandwiches, and drinking beer.

A mournful yowl reminded Jeff of his current duty.

“I hope I do half as well finding a home for Prince.” Jeff flexed his dialing finger and said, “Now the magic begins.”

While Jeff made his calls, Helen waited on customers and Todd gave Lulu a bath, a massage, and a manicure. Wish I could have a day of beauty, Helen thought. No wonder Lulu looks like a million bucks and I look like a dog.

But Helen knew she needed more than pampering to feel better. She was weighted down with dread. Margery was right: Helen should have told the police about finding Tammie’s body. She should have never destroyed that evidence. Tammie’s killer was getting away with murder, and Helen had helped him. She was sure it was a man—Tammie’s husband, Kent. She remembered his hulking form filling the grooming-room door. He was at the salon that day. He could have stolen Jonathon’s scissors.

Four aspirins later, Helen’s headache was still pounding. Helen had to grit her teeth to wait on a twenty-something blonde with fake boobs and a belly shirt that showed her flat stomach. On her finger was a diamond the size of a Chicken McNugget. On her arm was a white fluff muffin. At her side was a fifty-something man, barking orders.

A trophy wife, Helen decided, with a demanding husband. He was a generic businessman with a seventy-dollar haircut, a gray suit, and bulldog jowls.

“Come on,” the man said. “Let’s go. How much more of my money can you spend in here?”

Mr. Charm, Helen thought. He’d just reminded his wife who had the bucks.

“Now, sweetie, remember what you promised,” Mrs. Trophy said softly, as she covered the counter with five hundred dollars’ worth of dog statues, Christmas ornaments, and needlepoint pillows, all immortalizing her silent white bichon.

“And remember what you promised,” the husband said. “You better get that ass into bed as soon as we get home.”

The guy wasn’t housebroken, Helen thought.

“This dog saved my life, you know what I mean?” the woman whispered to Helen, as she hugged the fluffy little bichon. “He’s a great dog. He goes where I want and never says anything.”

“Come on,” her husband barked. “I want to go. Now.”

“Just let me buy this leash,” Mrs. Trophy said. “It’s for special occasions.” She quickly piled a rhinestone leash, a candy-striped pet caddy, and two designer food bowls with a matching stand on the counter. Another five hundred dollars in a single sweep.

Was the money worth it? Helen wondered as she rang up the woman’s purchases. In my old St. Louis life, I could have spent a thousand dollars on trifles, just like Mrs. Trophy. All I had to do was shut my eyes to my unfaithful husband. But I couldn’t.

Helen studied the stress lines around the woman’s frantic eyes and frightened mouth. I worry about paying my rent, but I still don’t think I’d trade places with you, she thought.

Her husband stood at the store door. “Get your ass out here. Now,” he said. He stalked outside, slamming the door. The bell jangled. The blonde grabbed her shopping bags and trotted after her man, clutching her white dog. The black-eyed bichon was silent as a ghost.

Helen wiped down the door after she left, as if she could erase the woman’s desperation.

“What is it about useless little women and their useless little dogs?” Helen said.

“You’re in a mood today,” Jeff said. “You need to understand the difference between little-dog and big-dog people. Little dogs are babies. Big dogs are adults. They’re buddies. You can have a beer and watch a movie with a big dog.

“Little dogs stay babies twelve or fourteen years. You can pick them up and carry them. You can hold them in your arms. They won’t grow up and turn into teenagers. They don’t go off to college. They stay babies until the day they die—and then you carry them to the vet for the final time.”

Helen shuddered. “What about us cat people?”

“You are another breed altogether.” Jeff, tactful as ever, would say no more.

Shortly before noon, a small woman in a smart black suit clattered in on Gucci heels. She was about sixty, with the delicate bones of the overdieted. She carried a matching Gucci pet caddy.

“I’m Mrs. Mellman,” she said. “Jeff called me about the abandoned Yorkie. I said it was too soon for me to adopt another dog. My Yorkie, Gucci, has only been dead two months. But Jeff said my Prince had come, and I couldn’t be in mourning when another doggie needed me.”

“He does, Mrs. Mellman,” Helen said. “Can you hear him?”

Prince let loose another heartrending howl.

“He’s so sad,” Mrs. Mellman said.

“Not for long,” Helen said. “I’ll get him for you.”

Todd had brushed the Yorkie’s coat and put in a fresh blue bow. “Now he’s ready for his new home,” the handsome young groomer said. He gave the dog a kiss on the nose.

Helen thanked him. She noticed that Todd had reclaimed his prized spot in the grooming room. There was no sign of the temperamental star, Jonathon.

“OK, Prince, this is your chance,” she whispered. “Play it right, old boy, and you’ll never see Kent again. I’ll make sure you live on filet forever.”

Helen thought the Yorkie might actually understand what she was saying. He still looked sorrowful, but he held his head a little higher. Helen carried him out to the counter.

“Oh, you are a Prince indeed,” Mrs. Mellman said. The little dog managed a weak tail wag and a whimper. Mrs. Mellman reached for him. Prince settled regally into the crook of her arm. She patted his well-groomed coat.

“He only eats filet, and he has to be hand-fed,” Helen said. Mrs. Mellman nodded. She would glory in Prince’s demands.

“It’s love at first sight,” Jeff said. “See, I was right, Mrs. Mellman. Your Gucci wouldn’t want you to wall yourself away. You have too much love to give, and Prince needs you. Here are a few gifts for your new baby.” Jeff handed her a beribboned bag of toys and bonbons.

Helen threw in a package of turkey jerky. “This is his favorite treat,” she said. “He needs at least one a day.”

Prince stared at her with knowing eyes, but said nothing. Gratitude was for lesser animals. He was royalty.

T
he woman wore her boredom like an expensive perfume. She seemed to issue a challenge when she walked into the Pampered Pet: Amuse me. But I know you’ll fail.

She looked like Paris Hilton thirty years later. Her blond hair was long and dyed. Her lips were puffed with collagen. Her fake breasts bulged out of an underwire bra. Her eyes had been done and her forehead Botoxed, but nothing could remove her world-weary expression.

Jeff pushed Helen out on the floor. “That’s Lucinda,” he said. “Go wait on her. She’s a trip.” Helen didn’t like the sly grin on his face.

“Hi,” Helen said. “May I help you?”

Lucinda’s eyes flicked over Helen, but she said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her clothes shrieked money. Her skimpy sundress cost more per square inch than water-front real estate. Helen saw no sign of a rich husband, not even a wedding ring. Lucinda was escorted by a respectful young man with innocent eyes and a peach-fuzz complexion.

That’s nice, Helen thought. Her son is home from college.

Lucinda rummaged silently through the racks of dog collars. She picked out one suitable for a junkyard dog. It was wide black leather with metal studs.

At last Lucinda spoke. “I want a dog collar. For him.” She pointed to the young man.

So much for sonny boy’s innocent eyes. Helen didn’t know what to say. She’d never sold a dog collar for a human. She didn’t know what size the guy wore. Dog collars were measured in inches, and she wasn’t about to ask how many inches he was.

Jeff took over from the flummoxed Helen. “No, no, Lucinda,” he said. “Everyone buys that. You want this one.” Jeff picked out a black leather collar with chrome disks. Lucinda bought it and left without another word, her boy toy obediently loping alongside her.

“What was that?” Helen said.

“Lucinda is richer than God and wicked as the devil,” Jeff said. “She’s an education.”

“Do I want to know these things?” Helen said.

“They could come in handy.” Jeff’s words would prove prophetic, but Helen didn’t listen to him.

After a rocky morning, the store was nearly back to normal. Jeff had jangled his nerves with three monster mugs of coffee. Now he was eating comfort food: a giant pot-roast sandwich, which he hid behind the cash register when customers came in. People didn’t see it, but their dogs sniffed it out and headed straight for the counter, tails wagging. Jeff had to buy them off with cheese-and-bacon treats.

Lulu was dressed and working the room. She sauntered through the store modeling a fake-fur coat in hot pink. Her nails were painted rose. Helen’s own winter coat was a sensible black and five years old. Her nails were chipped.

I wish I had a dog’s life, she thought.

Todd was in the back room, grooming and kissing his dogs. Only Jonathon was missing. Jeff had to call and cancel the star’s grooming sessions for the day. He offered to reschedule their dogs with Todd, but most of the regulars said no. They wanted Jonathon or nobody.

“Is Jonathon OK?” Helen said.

“He’s recovering,” Jeff said. “The police questioned him for hours yesterday. He was too exhausted to come into work. I told him to take the day off.”

Helen was gripped with guilt and fear. The cops had grilled Jonathon like a backyard barbecue. What would they do if they found out she’d lied? They won’t, she told herself. They were too busy questioning the wrong people, like Jonathon. She was safe. So why didn’t she feel safe?

“How can the police go after Jonathon? Tammie’s husband killed her,” Helen said. “It’s obvious. You heard Kent. His wife was murdered, and all he cared about was whether he could use the pool. Then he wanted to kill her little dog. The man is heartless. We should tell the police.”

“Tell them what?” Jeff said. “That Kent didn’t want his wife’s dog? Do you think Detective Crayton would want a foo-foo dog? He’d probably send Prince to the pound, too.”

“But it makes no sense. Why would Jonathon kill Tammie? He wouldn’t murder her because she barged into the grooming room.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Jeff said. “But the police keep asking me questions about Jonathon’s missing grooming shears. The ten-inch ones. The detectives were in here this morning, before the store opened. This time they wanted to know if Jonathon had reported their loss to me.”

“Tammie was stabbed in the chest with grooming shears,” Helen said, then quickly shut her mouth before she spilled more. What a babbling idiot I am, she thought. I’m not supposed to know that the scissors were the murder weapon—or where Tammie was stabbed. Jeff will know I saw the body.

“That’s my guess, too,” Jeff said.