The Girl With the Dachshund Tattoo (12 page)

“Maybe he just needs a treat.” Missy always seems to perk up at the mention of the “T” word.

Right on cue, Pickles lifted his head. After a thump of his tail, he let out a small bark.

“He looks happier already,” I said with an encouraging smile.

Lenny, on the other hand, looked like he was about to cry. He squatted next to the love of his life and stroked him adoringly. “I’ll do everything in my power to keep him that way.”

Everything? That was such a subjective word. I’m guessing “everything” probably didn’t mean the same to me as it did to Lenny. And since we’re now keeping score, did that mean Lenny would kill Richard Eriksen in order to keep Pickles happy? Where was Lenny when Richard was killed?

I kept my questions to myself because I was not sticking my nose into Malone’s investigation. But I have to tell you—it was killing me to keep my curiosity to myself.

Lenny stood. “Hey, have you seen that filmmaker lady around?”

“No. I’ve been looking for her myself, but I haven’t seen her yet.”

He looked concerned. “She better be here. She’s supposed to film our race. She promised.”

Interesting. Why would she make that promise? “When was that?”

“Yesterday, when she interviewed us.”

“Was that before or after Richard’s body was found?” I know, I know. I just said I wasn’t going to ask those types of questions.

“I thought you said you weren’t working with the police?” He twisted his head side to side, popping his neck. He crossed his humongous arms across his chest, flexing every muscle I could see. And probably flexing those I couldn’t. I noticed a brightly colored tattoo of the word “Marine.”

It would take more than a military tattoo, some neck-cracking, and bulging muscles to intimidate me. “I’m curious. I haven’t met the filmmaker yet. Do you know if she interviewed Richard?”

He snorted. “Of course.”

“You really hated the guy.”

“He was a cheat and a phony.”

Interestingly enough, according to Gia, Richard had felt the same about him. “Did Richard tell you about the interview?”

“No. She followed him to the waiting area. It was disgusting the way she fell all over him. Zippy’s not special. God, I hope she filmed Richard’s stupid rituals. He was such a fool.”

“Rituals?”

“About six months ago, in San Diego, I overheard him and Gia arguing about Richard’s superstitions. Get this—he carried a lucky rabbit’s foot like a freakin’ kid. He brought a special water dish to every event. The fool even made Zippy walk in six large circles, backwards, two hours before each race. He was a nut job.”

That could have been what Betty had witnessed, except she’d thought he’d hurt Zippy. “Was that all they argued about?”

“Heck no. What do all married couples argue about?” He rubbed his thumb against his sausage fingers. “Money. His therapy sucked up all their funds. Can you believe it?” An evil laugh rumbled up from deep inside him, causing Pickles to bark.

I could. I also believed Lenny knew an awful lot about a person he hated. What was that saying, “Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer?”

I added Lenny to my suspect list.

Chapter Fourteen

AFTER I LEFT LENNY and Pickles, I dashed toward the veterinarian tent to talk to Daniel who, according to Gia, might know where I could find the girl with the dachshund tattoo, aka Stephanie, the mysterious filmmaker. I found it rather suspect so many others, except for me, had talked to her. Plus, I suddenly had a number of questions to ask my favorite vet about depressed dogs.

The tent, which was really a portable clinic, was nestled in between the Doxie Lovers of OC and The Pet Palace—the finest five-star doghouses money could buy. The clinic’s doors were propped open, which I took as an invitation to enter.

Amazing. It was a fully functioning clinic stocked with general supplies and all the necessary equipment—including an x-ray machine—to care for a sick or injured animal.

I found Daniel crouched in front of a rolling cabinet at the back of the tent.

“Knock, knock,” I called out lightly, not wanting to startle him.

He stood and brushed off his khakis. His welcoming smile spread to his warm brown eyes when he realized it was me. “Hi, Mel. Come on in.”

Daniel was ripe with boyish charm and sharp intellect. Somehow he’d dodged the broken-down-hockey-player look after he’d busted his nose three years ago in a freak surfing accident.

“Hey, Daniel. How are you?”

“I’m good. How about yourself? How’s Missy’s new toothbrush working out?”

I grimaced. “She hates it. To be honest, so do I. The triple headed brush is difficult to get into her mouth. I’m going back to the regular toothbrush I had.”

“Whatever works. Dental care is equally important for canines as for us humans. Although, I’m sure you didn’t stop by for a lecture about dental care. What can I do for you?”

“Do you have time for a couple of questions?”

“Sure. Have a seat.” He pointed at three plastic chairs that looked uncomfortable and not conducive to long-term sitting.

I glanced around for another option, but unless I was willing to sit on an exam table, an unforgiving chair was it. “Trying to keep the line short, huh?”

He chuckled. “Definitely not the most comfortable, are they?”

We dragged a couple of chairs to face each other, the metal legs chewing up the grass then spitting up dirt. I dropped my backpack on the ground and sat.

He rolled the sleeves of his gingham-checked blue sport shirt to mid-forearm. “So, what’s going on?”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “I was curious; how would you treat a depressed dog?”

His eyebrows knitted in concern. “Are you worried about Missy?”

“No. I was talking to Lenny Santucci a few minutes ago. His dog Pickles is racing today. He was telling me how depressed Pickles has been lately.”

He nodded. “Pickles could be picking up on Lenny’s anxiety.”

That was a definite possibility. From what I had seen, Lenny was not only high-strung but he also had a lot to be anxious about. “Do you medicate for that? Or, you know, do dogs go to therapy?”

Daniel smiled knowingly. “Caro could talk to you about therapy.”

I leaned back in my chair and rolled my eyes. He knew my cousin and I weren’t on speaking terms. He’d heard both sides of our whole muddled history. As a true friend to both of us, he refused to pick a side. “I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

Daniel popped up. “I have something for you.” He walked across the tent to the rolling cabinet and dug through the top drawer. He pulled out a pamphlet and brought it over to me.
Behavioral Medications for Your Dog.
The front page was a photo of an adorable Corgi barking at his owner.

“Treatment depends on the animal. It doesn’t have to be one or the other. They can be medicated and attend therapy. Either one can be costly. Without insurance, the medication can cost as much as seventy dollars a month.”

I flipped through the brochure. “If Pickles was on antidepressants, would he have an unfair advantage?”

He shot me a half smile. “Pickles might experience an increased heart rate, but an antidepressant could actually slow him down.”

Could Pickles be on medication, and that’s why he continued to lose? I tapped the pamphlet, debating what I should do next. Lenny didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d appreciate unsolicited help. I shoved the information in my backpack.

Daniel checked his watch. “The race starts in about ninety minutes. Did I answer all your questions?”

I grabbed my backpack and stood. I needed to make this fast; I still had to set up the booth. “I ran into Judd Malone yesterday and he mentioned you examined Zippy. How was he?”

He raised an eyebrow in amused skepticism. “You just
happened
to run into a homicide detective?”

I grinned. “Well, you know.”

He leaned against the exam table. “No, I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to. But to answer your question, yes, I examined Zippy Eriksen. Other than acting a little skittish after being handled by a couple of strangers, he seemed fine.”

I wasn’t a specialist, but in my humble opinion, I also thought he seemed fine when he was at the boutique this morning. “So you cleared him to race today?”

He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Even after all the doping rumors?”

He blinked in surprised. “What have you heard?”

“Mostly Lenny spouting off about the Eriksens juicing their dog. But it was Gia’s reaction that got me curious. If she has nothing to hide, why not volunteer Zippy for a urine test?”

“Actually, Gia agreed to let me run a few tests. Everything came back negative.”

Why keep that a secret? She was proving to be an accomplished liar. “She’s not doping him?”

The boyish grin transformed into his serious doctor scowl. “It’s not that simple. I have to test for specific drugs. I tested for five drugs; he tested negative for those five.”

“Did you suggest which drugs to test for?”

He nodded. “I did. After I’d talked to the filmmaker—”

“I wanted to talk to you about her,” I said.

Daniel looked confused by my sudden interjection. I was about to ask him about Stephanie, when Mr. TV strolled inside, hijacking my tête-à-tête.

“Well, hello there. We meet again.” He flashed a roguish smile at me.

“I thought I left you at the coffee shop. I’d think a
serious
journalist wouldn’t choose to hang out at a wiener race.”

“Ah, but as you pointed out yesterday, not everything is what it seems.”

There was no way to tell if he was talking about himself, me, or the race. Either way, I didn’t want to know. I’m sure there were those who found his twinkling eyes and witty conversation adorable, but I wasn’t one of them.

“I find that we’re both here to question the good doctor intriguing.” He held out his hand in Daniel’s direction. “Callum MacAvoy,
Channel 5 News
.”

“Noon reporter,” I clarified, with a cheeky smile.

They clasped hands. “Daniel Darling.” Daniel’s curious gaze darted between the reporter and me.

“Daniel and I are friends. I wasn’t questioning him,” I said, clearing up Mr. TV’s assumption.

“My apologies. It only
sounded
like an interrogation.”

Daniel’s brown eyes narrowed. “How can I help you, Mr. MacAvoy?”

“I was hoping you could shed light on the doping allegation. I’ve heard from a couple of sources who are concerned about Zippy taking a supplement. Can you confirm if that’s true?”

I was surprised to hear he was investigating the doping angle. Had he overheard my conversation with Daniel?

“To my knowledge, the dog is clean.”

Mr. TV pulled out a pen and notebook from inside his blazer pocket. “Then you
have
tested the dog?”

“I thought murder was your story?” I asked.

“A good reporter follows every thread.”

A good reporter follows every thread,
I mimicked silently. I didn’t want to listen to him pontificate on how to be a great reporter. Could he possibly be anymore condescending?

“Doctor, did you test Zippy at the urging of the racing organization?”

Daniel shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m not at liberty to answer your questions. Perhaps you should talk to Hagan Stone. Mel, is there anything else you needed?”

I wanted to ask him about Stephanie. I bit my lip as I quickly searched for a way to get rid of Mr. TV.

MacAvoy tapped his notebook with his pen. “I can tell you’re itching to ask him something, Melinda. Don’t let my presence stop you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” I faced Daniel wide-eyed, hoping he’d get the message I was sending. “About your early morning visitor,” I prompted.

Daniel looked like a confused charade player who had no idea how to interpret his partner’s clues.

“She’s talking about the girl with the dachshund tattoo,” MacAvoy butted in.

I jerked my head around and slung an irritated glare at him. “You are annoying.”

“Who?” Daniel asked.

“The filmmaker,” I explained. “Did she say where she’d be today?”

“Not specifically.”

I smiled insincerely at MacAvoy. “Excuse us.” There was no need to play coy any longer.

I grabbed Daniel’s arm and dragged him away from MacAvoy. As quietly as I could, I recounted Betty’s story about how Stephanie, aka the girl with the dachshund tattoo, had taken Betty’s gun.

“I wish I’d known about this sooner. I could have helped,” he said softly. “I wonder why Betty didn’t mentioned this when I saw her yesterday,” he mused.

“You saw Betty yesterday too?” My voice squeaked. I looked over my shoulder at MacAvoy. He waved. Ugh.

“Yes,” Daniel said.

I knew him well enough to know when he was keeping something confidential. “When exactly? Give me a time.”

He walked toward the door. “I’m not sure. I wasn’t watching the clock.”

I grabbed his arm, forgetting all about MacAvoy. “If you can give her alibi, please do.”

He shook his head. “I can’t. I saw her after Richard’s shooting.”

“Did she come here or did you see her around the park?”

With a heavy sigh, he crossed his arms and asked, “What’s with all the questions, Mel?”

“Besides the fact that she’s a murder suspect, and Mr. TV over there stopped short of reporting her as a person of interest on the news last night?”

He whistled softly. “There’s more?”

“Yes. Betty’s disappearing without a word to anyone, dodging her daughter, and missing work. I’m concerned.”

Daniel turned more tightlipped than usual. “If she is hiding something, I’m sure she has a very good reason.”

I wanted to shake the information out of him. “She confided in you?” I had no idea they were so close.

Daniel shrugged. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”

“I might be able to help.” MacAvoy’s rich voice shot through the tent like an arrow.

For a price. He didn’t say the words, but they hung in the air nonetheless.

Accepting assistance from Callum MacAvoy would be like dancing with the devil.