Part 30 (1/2)

I raised an eyebrow. I couldn't recall a time I'd ever seen her nervous. ”You smoked? When?”

She waved her hand dismissively, yet managed to make it look graceful. ”Years ago. Before you and Mitch.e.l.l were born.”

I smiled. ”That's scandalous.”

”I've had my moments. What did Grey do?”

I sighed. ”We, Mama. We stopped trusting each other.”

She didn't say a word for a full minute. We stood in silence with only the clock ticking in the background.

”What was supposed to be in the jacket?” she asked.

I pressed my lips together, warring with myself if I should tell her or not. In for a penny, in for a pound. ”Grandma Tillie's brooch.”

She expertly arched a dark brown eyebrow. ”I see. And where is it now?”

Yeah, this was the sticky part. ”I'm not sure. Probably with Caro.”

”Why in Sam Hill would he give your brooch to Carolina?”

I shrugged. ”Because he thinks I stole it from her unfairly.”

”Did you?”

I thought about it for a second. ”No, Mama, I didn't. However, my covert actions hurt Grey because I didn't trust him.”

”So you tried to fix the situation by giving your brooch to Grey?”

I nodded.

”Melinda, why would you close the barn door when the horses are already out?”

”I was tryin' to do the right thing,” I said exasperated. I knew it would become my fault.

Mama shook her head. ”You know what your daddy would say about all of this?”

I rolled my eyes so hard it took me back to my teenage years. ”Good judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.” I quoted. I'd heard that sayin' for most of my doggone life. Unfortunately, it was accurate.

”No. He'd tell you to keep your saddle oiled and your gun greased.”

The grat.i.tude and love I felt for Mama at the moment was evident by the humongous smile on my face. I guess sometimes a girl did need her mama. I heard what she was telling me loud and clear.

Always be prepared so when opportunity came knocking, you were ready to invite her inside.

Look out, Caro. Here I come.

The End (Please continue reading for an excerpts of Fifty Shades of Greyhound and lots more information about the author) Fifty Shades of Greyhound (excerpt) Mel's cousin Caro, a Laguna Beach pet therapist, has the same knack for finding trouble among the town's pampered pets and their equally pampered owners.

The crime was doggone sinister. Soon, the police would be barking up the wrong tree.

”Catnip for mystery fans!”

-Maggie, the cat of Donald Bain (Murder She Wrote Series)

Chapter One.

IT WAS A KILLER party.

Blanche LeRue, CEO of Greys Matter, barked orders for more seating, more native California bubbly, and more gourmet shrimp appetizers. I'm sure Blanche hoped the overflow crowd translated to big donations for the Greyhound rescue.

Her dress was a formal length charcoal satin that complemented her tall, reed-like figure. A commanding woman, she wore her chin-length silver hair in a way that framed her narrow face yet still managed to look more regal than severe. But make no mistake, Blanche LeRue was a regal with a cause. And that cause was Greyhound rescue.

I know it must seem to y'all that I'm always at some big fancy schmancy party. You've probably also noted that it's usually an animal-related fancy schmancy deal. You'd be right. That's me, Caro Lamont, pet therapist and big-time subscriber to the there-are-no-bad-pets-just-uneducated-pet-parents philosophy.

My Laguna Beach pet therapy business is called PAWS, which stands for Professional Animal Wellness Specialist, but, in truth, I work more with problem people than problem pets.

Invitations to charity events abound in this pet-friendly southern California haven, but tonight's gala was a special one, the Fifty Shades of Greyhound Charity Ball, at D'Orange Maison, a gorgeous historic ranch estate just outside of Laguna Beach. The main house had recently been spiffed up, the huge rooms used for wedding receptions, political affairs, celebrity functions, and events such as this five-thousand-dollar-a-ticket fund-raiser.

The room was shades of gray everywhere. Pale gray skirting and deep gray brocade tablecloths, slate-colored vases filled with silver floral arrangements.

I know what you're thinking: they were playing off the mega success of a book that started with the same phrase. Well, you'd probably be right, but you have to admit it was for a great cause. And there were truly fifty, count them, fifty real live Greyhounds of varying shades staged at strategic places around the room. Most sat at attention at the feet of their owners or handlers. Though all the dogs were not gray-some white, some black, and still others fawn or brindle-all were adorned with gray leather collars. Blanche LeRue was nothing if not a detail person.

There were many wonderful Greyhound rescue groups in California, but Greys Matter was, in my opinion, one of the best. I hoped the clink and clatter of the crystal and china as waiters refilled champagne gla.s.ses and people filled their plates was echoed by the cha-ching of hefty contributions to the rescue group.

Speaking of details, Blanche and her event committee had come up with the idea of silver-framed signs around the room printed with factoids about Greyhounds. It was a superb idea. What a great way to convey important information to attendees without some talking head standing at a microphone. I'd seen it time and time again-people who'd paid a pricey admission impatiently waiting for a speaker to be done so they could resume their conversations. People were still waiting, but they were waiting in line to pile gourmet food on their china. And the Greys Matter crew had made sure the buffet tables were placed strategically close to the framed signs. Brilliant.

Part of the fun of attending events like this one was the people-watching. There's always more to people than what you first noticed. Ever a student of human behavior, I loved the opportunity to observe.

Which was why I stood watching people while Sam Gallanos, my-well heck, what was Sam?

My friend? No, we're more than friends. My lover? No, less than that one? My escort? Now that just sounds wrong, doesn't it? My man? My main squeeze? Hmmm. What we were to each other was complicated. So for now, let's just call him my date for the evening.

Sam, my ”date” was off fighting the crowd for a plate of food. While I enjoyed the people-watching, I hoped he'd be back soon. Partly because I enjoyed his fabulous company, and partly because I'd begun to get hungry.

I looked around the spectacular ballroom. Several of my PAWS clients were in attendance. I spotted retired news tyc.o.o.n Davis Pinter standing near a sign that said, ”The origin of the Greyhound name has nothing to do with color. In fact, gray is not a common color among Greyhounds.” That was true.

Davis is a lovely man, always well-dressed, and he looked snappy tonight in his gray tux. Davis has an adorable Cavalier King Charles Spaniel named Huntley. A smart man and a smart dog, but sometimes there ensued a battle of wills between the two, which was how we'd become acquainted.

Each of the signs had an artistic outline of a Greyhound at the top. The one closest to me said, ”Before the 1980s, many racing Greyhounds were put down at the end of their careers. Now, thanks to rescue groups like Greys Matter, more than 20,000 are adopted each year.”

I knew the stats, but still seeing them in black and white was sobering. I could understand why Blanche and the other volunteers were so pa.s.sionate about Greyhound rescue.

I saw my friend, Diana Knight, across the way and a smile welled up inside me. Her elegant, perfectly-coiffed, blond head bobbed up and down as she talked. She'd cornered a California congressman near another sign which stated, ”Most Greyhounds are at the end of their racing careers at two to five years of age, but they still have a lot of life to live. The average lifespan is twelve to fourteen years.” Diana pointed at the words on the sign and pointed at the congressman.

What Diana Knight is to me isn't at all complicated. Diana is my very best friend in the world. She's eighty-something and old-school Hollywood at its best, having starred in a number of golden age romantic comedies as the perky heroine who always got the best of the guy.