Part 1 (2/2)
”She's a filmmaker, Cookie. She's shooting a movie. Besides, it's free publicity.”
Bless Betty's nave soul. ”Nothing's free. We don't even know what the film's about.”
”What's there to know? It's a dogumentary. A wiener racing biopic. The Long and the Short of It.” Betty barked out a laugh and slapped her thin thigh in amus.e.m.e.nt. ”That's the best t.i.tle.”
I groaned. ”That's an awful t.i.tle.”
”When she comes around, I'll do the talking,” Betty announced. ”And don't stare at her.”
”Why in the world would I stare?”
Betty tossed a sa.s.sy smile over her shoulder. ”She's not s.e.xy like us.”
”Is that so?”
”She's a behind-the-camera kinda person. Smeared eyeliner, ratty short hair, ripped jeans. You know, I should offer the poor girl pointers on her eyeliner.”
I ignored the comment about eyeliner. ”Sounds like any eighties glam band after a long concert.”
Betty nodded excitedly as she moved the treat jars from the top shelf to a shelf at eye level. ”So you've seen her?”
”How often have you talked to this filmmaker?” I resisted using air quotes, my skepticism obvious.
Betty patted my arm rea.s.suringly. ”Don't you worry, Cookie. I've got it all under control.”
I'd experienced Betty's version of control. Lord help us all. We were in trouble.
”HEY, MEL. THE booth looks great.” Darby's blond curls brushed her shoulders. Her normally pale skin already sported a SoCal tan. We were dressed alike-jeans and the event T-s.h.i.+rt Betty and I had designed. The s.h.i.+rts had turned out great-a suns.h.i.+ne yellow material with the words ”Wiener Takes All” in brown above a smooth-haired dachshund. All the vendors had agreed to sell the s.h.i.+rts, the profits to be donated to the rescue group, Doxie Lovers of OC.
As my best friend, Darby knew my drink of choice and handed me a chai tea latte from the Koffee Klatch.
”You are a lifesaver.” I inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma of cardamom, cinnamon, and vanilla. ”Where's Fluffy?” Fluffy was Darby's Afghan hound who has a superiority complex. I imagine she thought a doxie race was beneath her.
Darby slipped the strap of her soft leather messenger bag over her head, then laid the bag on the table. ”I left her at home. This isn't exactly her idea of a good time. Where'd Betty run off to?”
”She took Missy to check out the other vendors. Ensuring we can beat the compet.i.tion. You know how she gets. The boutique never sells enough of anything.”
Darby sipped her favorite drink, a white chocolate mocha latte. ”When are you going to tell her you don't need the money?”
She referred to my ”Texas money.” Montgomery family money I rarely touched, much to my mama's displeasure. Mama would prefer I attended charity b.a.l.l.s and wasted my days ”stimulating” the economy by buying junk I didn't need nor want. I preferred to work for a living.
I shrugged. ”Not today. What have you been up to?”
She pulled her camera from her messenger bag. ”Snapping candid photos. I got some great shots of the protesters. I found Zippy and Richard out front signing autographs. I thought I'd grab Betty and see if she'd like to join me.”
”Wait. Did you say 'protesters'?”
She nodded, brows furrowed. ”A dozen people with picket signs. One woman had a poster-sized photo of a dachshund racing in a wheelchair. To be honest, at first I found the idea inspirational, but the longer I looked at the picture, it became a little . . . disturbing.”
”This is the first I've heard about any opposition to the race.”
”They're part of a local animal activist group concerned about the possibility of back injuries. As the popularity of racing grows, they think the dachshunds may have the same overbreeding issues as greyhounds.”
We sipped our drinks in silence. Darby took a couple of random photos. I felt a little uncomfortable. I'd never given any of those concerns a second thought. Could that controversy be the impetus behind the dogumentary? I was about to ask Darby if she'd seen the filmmaker when I caught a glimpse of my trusted a.s.sistant.
”Here comes Betty,” I said.
We watched her stroll up the vendor aisle as she cast sly glances toward the other merchants. Missy waddled behind. With her short nose and bulky frame, she looked completely out of place around all the wiener dogs. The second Betty caught sight of Darby, she transformed into The Prancing Grandma.
”Darby, you're slacking,” she announced. ”As the official photographer, you should be taking pictures of the booths. Start with ours.” She shoved Missy's leash in my hand, then scooted around the table. She struck a pose in front of a rack of merchandise. ”Make sure you get the sweaters. They're on sale.”
Darby snapped pictures as Betty acted out her interpretation of a supermodel photo shoot. I watched, amused, as I drank my breakfast.
”I saw Zippy,” Betty said. ”I don't like his owner. He tugged on Zippy's leash and made the poor dog walk in circles, backwards. I think Zippy hurt his leg. I saw him limping. Instead of Ricky-d.i.c.ky being concerned, he yelled at him to stop whining. He made me so mad. I've switched teams.”
Ricky-d.i.c.ky? Since when had she started calling Richard Eriksen Ricky-d.i.c.ky? Betty suddenly struck an awkward wide-legged stance and threw a punch.
”He's lucky I didn't show him my new moves. You girls should have seen me in that self-defense cla.s.s I took a few months ago. I was a rock star.” Betty acted out what could have been a scene from a Jackie Chan movie. Birdlike arms flailed in front of her face; her right knee jabbed the air.
”Boom.” Step. ”Boom,” she shouted.
”Settle down, girlfriend, before you attack the rack of dog collars.” I guided her away from the merchandise.
”You don't get it. If anyone pulls a gun on us again, I'm ready for them.” Betty struck a Charlie's Angel stance, complete with clasped hands imitating a gun.
Last Christmas, Betty and I had been held at gunpoint, a life-changing moment for both of us. Apparently, she'd gone on the defensive, whereas I had decided to cross a line without thought about the repercussions. More on my poor decision later.
”That was a fluke,” I said.
”You don't know that,” she insisted.
For everyone's benefit, I'd better be right. ”Let's finish the pictures.”
”Stand next to the sign,” Darby ordered. ”I want the boutique's name in a couple of shots.”
”Good idea. Cookie, get over here.”
Betty's previous kung-fu impersonation over, Missy and I reluctantly obeyed. I set my half-empty cup on the table.
Darby slowly lowered her camera. ”Mel, where's your engagement ring?”
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