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The front page of the Pleasant Hills Banner caught my attention with the headline: “Frenchie Pups Pilfered at Gunpoint and Owner Killed.”
Daniel and I gaped at the photo of five adorable, squishy-faced puppies and two adult dogs. Perched on a stool behind the front counter of the shop, I read the article aloud.
“Yesterday, a local breeder, Marcus Foley, died from gunshot wounds during a home burglary. Kate Foley, his wife, told authorities they’d recently placed an ad to sell a litter of French bulldog pups on their breeder website, and an ad on a local buy, sell, or trade group on social media. The social media ad spurred thousands of shares, questions, and comments. Mrs. Foley suspects someone who saw the ad is responsible for the burglary and murder. Kate Foley tells the reporter, ‘We made the mistake of giving a potential buyer our home address to come look at the dogs. The person interested never showed up for his appointment with us. We thought nothing about it. But two nights later, a man wearing a black ski mask broke into the house and held us at gunpoint. The dogs were what he wanted. I told my husband to give him the dogs, but he refused and put up a fight. After a physical struggle, the masked man shot my husband and stole all seven dogs.’”
“This makes me nauseous.” Daniel gulped, sitting beside me.
Me too, Chiquita. A low, rumbling growl escaped Cuff as he shivered in my lap.
“I know. I’m right there with y’all.” It had been nine months since my head-on collision with a solid wood door, resulting in the odd ability to hear my senior Chihuahua’s thoughts.
Hey, watch who you’re calling senior.
I patted Cuff. No offense, little buddy.
“Y’all?” Daniel said with a curious tilt of his head. “Gertie’s not even paying attention. She’s too busy texting with Mr. Peters.”
My grandmother grunted from over near the window where she sat next to her friend Mr. Peters. With their eyes glued to their cell phone screens, their index fingers tapped away.
“They’re like two teenagers,” I said, chuckling.
“We’re not texting,” Gertie said, without glancing up. “For your information, we’re playing a game.”
Mr. Peters’s shotgun he called “Patrice” stood like a sentry propped against the wall next to him. He carried his shotgun with him everywhere. With his gambling debt issues, I guessed it made him feel safe. We’d grown used to him bringing it into the shop.
Daniel’s eyes shifted from Gertie to me, one eyebrow shooting upward. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense about the puppies. What else does the article say?”
Daniel, my best friend and head groomer of Scrubadub, my dog-grooming shop I inherited from my grandmother last year, had a soft spot for all things furry. We all did. But Daniel, especially.
I scanned the last part of the article. My eyes landed on the financial loss, and I nearly fainted. “Wow, you’re not going to believe this. The missing dogs are worth $29,000 combined.”
Cuff twisted his head and eyed me. Is that a lot of money, Chiquita?
Yes, it is, little buddy.
Daniel gasped. “It must be a typo.”
I shook my head. “Nope. The reporter, Trixie Green, says French bulldogs are an expensive breed. She also says she received a voicemail on her work phone from an anonymous source claiming to have information about the case.”
“Twenty-nine grand is a lot of damn money,” Gertie said from the lobby, her ex-smoker’s voice raspy. Of course, her ears would perk up when I mentioned money. Two things dominated Gertie’s thoughts. Money and food. I narrowed my eyes and pointed to her swear jar on the counter.
She fumbled with her phone. “You know, taking cold, hard cash from an old woman to fund your pie addiction should be a crime.” She reached into her apron pocket, scoffing and pulled out a dollar bill. She waved it in my direction. “Come and take it.” She pursed her lips and squinted.
Daniel slapped a palm over his mouth, stifling a giggle.
Beside Gertie, Mr. Peters chuckled. “Watch out, Steely, she’s got her Spartan war face on.” I tossed the newspaper on the counter.
“Gertie, quit being defiant. I’m trying to help you clean up your language.” I handed Cuff over to Daniel and hopped off the stool.
“Who says I need to stop cussin’?” she asked.
“Me. Your boss.” I strolled over and fetched the dollar with a smile. “And buying pie with the money collected in your swear jar is a bonus we all enjoy around here.”
As I dropped her money in the jar, I heard her whisper to Mr. Peters, “Callin’ me ‘Gertie.’ I’m her grandmother. And did you hear her? She’s my boss. I gave her this damn shop.”
I whirled around, raised my finger to correct her, and Daniel snapped behind me.
“Steely,” he said. Still holding Cuff, he stood and pointed.
Cuff barked and his ears perked.
Glancing out the front window, I saw Melinda Goldberg crossing Main Street, heading in our direction. Dressed in a red floral maxi dress, Melinda led a dog that wasn’t Beulah, her old English sheepdog. At the end of a black leash, an adorable French bulldog puppy trotted alongside her.
I dashed behind the counter as Melinda breezed into the shop with a sunshiny smile. “Melinda, is that one of the—”
Hushing me, Daniel stepped on the toe of my beloved camo boot. “Did you get a new puppy?” he asked.
I reached over and pinched the underside of Daniel’s elbow.
Daniel scoffed, rubbing his arm.
“Hi, y’all! Yes, meet Nugget!” Melinda bounced up to the counter. The pudgy canine stumbled behind her.
Look, Chiquita, he has sticky-up ears like mine! I’m not a fan of puppies, but he’s sort of cute.
I agreed with Cuff. Nugget was adorable. Attempting to conceal my shock and disbelief, I leaned over and peered down at the panting pup. Its docked tail waggled in excitement. Unable to speak, I snatched the copy of the newspaper. Hiding the photo of the missing dogs from Melinda, I studied the wiggling plump-bottomed puppy in front of us. He resembled those in the picture. Surely it couldn’t be. Melinda was no dog thief or a killer.
Squirming in Daniel’s arm, Cuff whined. Put me down!
For a few seconds, Daniel tried consoling Cuff by petting him. But unable to control my pup’s eagerness, Daniel leaned over and spilled Cuff on the floor.
Cuff trotted around the counter and inspected Nugget. Wanting to play, the rambunctious pup pawed at Cuff. In return, Cuff growled. Hold still, young one. I need to smell you.
Daniel reached over and tapped my lower jaw. I snapped out of my puppy trance and pointed to the photo of the missing dogs on the frontpage of the newspaper. Daniel nodded, grabbed the paper, and stashed it under the counter.
“What can we do for you, Melinda?” Daniel asked.
Melinda bent and collected the pup. “I wanted to stop by and see if y’all can work the little guy into your schedule today.”
Cuff let out a yip. Humans have no respect for the sniffing process. I need a nap, Chiquita. I bit back a grin as Cuff skulked out of the lobby and headed for my office.
“Hmm,” Daniel said, glancing at the computer screen. “We’re completely booked—”
“Of course, we can!” I blurted out.
“We can?” Daniel asked, twisting his head and giving me a have-you-lost-your-mind look. He motioned to the computer. “Have you looked at the schedule?”
I brushed him off. “Fiddlesticks, Daniel.” I grabbed the Polaroid camera from the drawer in front of me and rounded the counter. “For our pet-picture wall.” I snapped a picture, and the automatic device spit out a square, milky film. Waving the photo to dry, I set the camera on the counter. “We’ll work him in.” I smiled. “Where on earth did you get him?” I felt Daniel’s eyes behind me.
“It was the wildest thing,” Melinda said. “Last night, Phil came home from the office and surprised me with him!”
“Wow,” I said, twisting around and mouthing Interesting at Daniel. I leaned against the front counter and studied Nugget. “Is he a rescue or from a breeder?”
“Well, neither. As a realtor, Phil is part of the Wallerton County Business Association. Yesterday, they had their monthly Meet & Mingle at the Peacock residence. You know they always have their April meeting there so that they can take the annual member photo in the Peacock’s bluebonnet field.”
“Yes, I’m aware. But I don’t attend the events. Gertie said the WCBA never did much for her or the shop, and not to waste my time. Did Phil get the puppy from Vivienne Peacock or someone else?” The history between Mrs. Vivienne Peacock and me had been unpleasant.
“I’m not exactly sure. He didn’t say. But Phil knows I’ve always wanted a Frenchie. To be quite honest, I don’t care where he came from. I’m only thrilled he’s mine!” Melinda’s face beamed like a sixty-watt light bulb.
“How much did he pay for him?” I asked.
Daniel jabbed me in the back with something pointy.
“Ouch!” I pitched forward, out of his reach. “I mean, wow. Frenchies are usually so pricey. Was he super expensive?”
Melinda scoffed. “Three-thousand dollars. Can you believe that? It’s astronomical, I know. But it’s Phil’s money.”
Although I could say plenty, I held my tongue at her comment about Phil’s money. Poor Melinda, the good wife of a deceptive salesman. Everyone knew Phil’s smarmy reputation in town. “That’s a lot of cash,” Mr. Peters said.
“You can say that again,” Gertie said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Steely, isn’t he one of those kinds of dogs in the paper you were reading about earlier? The stolen ones?”
I twirled, shaking my head at her. “I don’t think so.”
“Stolen?” Melinda asked.
“Yeah, I’m sure it is,” Gertie said, struggling to stand. She waddled over toward us. “Here, I’ll show you.”
I blocked her from going to the counter. She moved to her right. I followed. She moved to her left. I intercepted her.
“What in tarnation are you doing?” she asked.
I winked. “Wanna dance?”
She slid back to the right, and I cut her off again.
“Stop that,” she said, ducking her head and bulldozing past me like a linebacker. Shuffling through the paperwork on the countertop, she searched. “The newspaper article you read us. I know it’s here somewhere. And you said the dogs are worth a lot of money!”
“Gertie, you must be hearing things,” I said, reaching for Nugget’s lead. “Melinda, I’d be more than happy to put him in the back. We’ll work little Nugget in and call you when he’s done.”
“Oh, okay, thank you,” she said, her expression bewildered. “What did your grandmother mean about stolen puppies?”
“I meant what I said. And I’m not hearing things.” Gertie shot me a look then went back to rummaging under the counter. “It’s true. The person who took the pups shot Marcus Foley dead.”
Melinda sucked in a breath. “Oh no! Mr. Foley? Poor Kate.”
I gave Gertie a disapproving look for blurting the sad news. “Do you know the Foley’s well?” I asked Melinda.
She nodded. “Yes, I do. But Nugget couldn’t be one of those puppies. Vivi ... I mean, no one we associate with would steal dogs and commit murder.”
Vivi was the nickname that Vivienne Peacock’s friends called her. Melinda’s slip of the tongue piqued my curiosity. If the thefts and murder involved Vivienne, I intended on finding out.