Part 1 (1/2)
The Girl With the Dachshund Tattoo.
Sparkle Abbey.
A killer took aim, and now one disliked doxie owner is dead on the sidelines at Laguna Beach's Dachshund Derby Races. Naturally, Mel is ankles-deep in dachshund drama.
I WAS LOOKING for a sweaty rock star with a dog tattoo and smeared eyeliner carrying Betty's stolen gun and an oversized camera. ”You take the east side of the field and I'll take the west. If either of us sees Darby, we fill her in. We need all the help we can get.”
Betty hiked her handbag onto her shoulder. ”What about our booth? Who's gonna sell our stuff? Who's going to keep people from stealing it?”
”That's the least of our problems.”
I had no idea how true those words were. But I was about to find out.
Dedication.
For all the doxie lovers and the wiener racing fans.
Chapter One.
WE WERE ABOUT to experience more waving, cheering, and crying than a TV audience during the crowning of Miss America.
Doxie Dash. Wiener Race. The Great Dachshund Derby. The name wasn't important. The crux of all the events was the same: running dogs, excited families, squeaky rubber toys, frantically waved treats, and a mega trophy for the winner. True, a trophy is not as glamorous as a tiara, but we can't all be beauty queens.
”Are you Team Zippy or Team Pickles?” Betty Foxx raised her grape-colored eyebrows expectantly. ”I bet it's going to be a real smackdown. Their bitter rivalry has been all over the news.”
Yes, you heard that correctly. Grape eyebrows. My eighty-something a.s.sistant had yet to explain the occasional lipstick-painted eyebrows, and I've wisely refrained from questioning her makeup application process. I have my own hang-ups. Who am I to judge her eyebrows?
Our race, the Laguna Beach Dachshund Dash, was an outdoor event at the local dog park. With a smattering of food booths and a slew of pet-related vendors, playful contestants and pumped-up fans had plenty to do throughout the day. The aromas of funnel cake, chili, and deep-fried mac and cheese collided in the air. My stomach rumbled, craving for a sample of everything.
Betty had nagged me to donate the official doxie jersey, which is how Bow Wow Boutique ended up with a vendor booth for the first time since the race had arrived in Laguna three years ago. What can I say? I'm a sucker for an a.s.sistant in silk pajamas, pearls, and lipstick eyebrows.
She had insisted the event organizers promise to pitch our booth, a shelter canopy with three sidewalls to display merchandise, adjacent to the racing lanes. They weren't as easily persuaded by Betty's pleas as I was. We were nowhere near the track.
I stepped around my sleeping bulldog, Missy. She looked dead, stretched out on a small patch of gra.s.s, bathing in the morning sun. Don't worry-she was alive and well, with a puddle of drool watering the gra.s.s. That dog could sleep through an earthquake.
I tossed a stack of lime canine jerseys on the display table and quickly separated them by size. The material felt a little thinner than I'd have liked, but, overall, the uniforms were darling.
”You do realize the feud is all media hype? Their rivalry is about ticket sales and money.” I tried to hide my amus.e.m.e.nt at her insistence that the two dogs were enemies.
Of all people, Betty understood the power of the almighty dollar. Her retail background and quirky personality had boosted sales for my pet boutique since I'd hired her last Christmas. The success had gone to her head. Now she was convinced she was the Rainmaker of pet accessories. She concocted outlandish plans almost weekly, ”guaranteed” to generate more sales. I adored her, but she was a handful to manage.
”Not true,” she said. ”The new reporter from Channel 5 News, Callum MacAvoy”-Betty took a breath long enough to shoot me her ”hubba-hubba” face before she continued-”well, he's been talking about the bad blood between them for weeks. At the last race, Pickles almost closed the gap, but Moby b.u.mped Pickles out of bounds before they crossed the finish line. Pickles was disqualified, and Zippy was declared the winner.” Betty danced in place, about to burst the seams of her tiger-print silk pajamas any second.
I laughed at her outdated dance moves. ”Are you done?”
She snagged a stack of size-small jerseys and stacked them at the far end of the table. ”Who are you backing, Cookie?”
My name wasn't Cookie. I'm Melinda Langston. Mel, to my friends. For reasons only known to Betty, she refused to call me by my name.
Unlike my spry a.s.sistant, I'm not as well versed in the drama of wiener racing. What few rules I knew would fit on a sticky note.
No running alongside your dog.
No loud horns or laser pointers.
The dog must cross the finish line within the boundaries and without help.
If Betty had the story straight, Pickles had a difficult time staying in bounds. Sounded like someone else I knew. I eyed my a.s.sistant, who stood with a hand on her hip, white sneaker firmly planted in the freshly mowed gra.s.s, waiting for an answer.
Oh, I almost forgot the most important rule. You have to pick up after your racer. I'm amazed at the number of people who ”forget” that last one.
”If I have to choose, I guess I'm Team Pickles.”
Betty wrinkled her nose in disapproval. ”You would pick the dog named after food. I'm Team Zippy. He's the favorite. If I were a bettin' gal, I'd put my money on him. A win today would be his fourth t.i.tle in less than a year.” Betty scurried behind me to rearrange the display rack of collars hanging on the sidewall.
”What can I say-I love an underdog.”
Wiener racing was a little different than, say, horse racing or even greyhound racing. Wiener enthusiasts adorn themselves in over-the-top doxie-themed outfits, with an occasional superhero cape for added dramatic flair. Winners break into victory dances, while geeked-out fans storm the gra.s.sy area to demand a photo op with their favorite racer. That's the humans.
Then there are the dogs. Adorable low-riders with long, wiggly bodies, who race fifty yards toward their beloved human or favorite toy. As they sprint down the track, doggie tongues hang from their mouths, like Miley Cyrus mugging for the camera.
The majority of the pack has absolutely no idea what they're doing and ends up plowing into one another, reenacting the Puppy Bowl. But there are a few true compet.i.tors who can concentrate on the finish line for more than eight seconds. They're the ones who sprint down the field, all heart, for a photo finish.
That's where my best friend, Darby Beckett, comes in. As the official Dachshund Dash photographer, her job was to doc.u.ment the winner of each race. The number of prima donnas who dispute the final results, certain their pup had won by a nose, would surprise you.
By the end of the day's events, there will have been five heats, in three different weight cla.s.ses, with one winner in each category: miniature, lightweight, and heavyweight.
Betty shoved an empty box under the table. ”It's almost nine. The contestants will arrive any minute.”
”Great. We're ready for them.” I pushed a stack of extra-large jerseys to the front of the table.
”Oh, make sure you're here at ten o'clock.”
I stared at the faux innocent expression on Betty's face. ”Why?”
”We have an interview.”
Unpleasant memories of my last year in the beauty pageant world sprang to mind. I shook my head. ”No. Not going to happen.”
Her grape eyebrows shot upward. ”What do you mean 'no'?”
”I don't like reporters.”
In my experience, reporters were neither balanced nor impartial. Their goal was to tell a t.i.tillating story. Facts and truth were not necessary. To be fair, Betty didn't know that my mama had ”persuaded” a male judge to vote for me during my Miss America run. Nor did she know about the wacky publicity that had resulted from my melodramatic disqualification. If she had, she'd understand my distrust of reporters.