Lunch was a feast that featured tasty comestibles for all palates. Pruett broke the bank with a vast selection suited to vegetarians and meat eaters alike.
“Wow,” Babette said as she inhaled a sizable portion of dim sum. “Remind me to send you out again. You’re a mealtime wonder.”
Ella beamed proudly. “My dad does takeout better than anyone.”
What an innocent child she was. Little did she know! Her dad did many things—some of them quite private—better than anyone. I smiled recalling the lines of a song that said just that about a certain British spy.
“Perri! Hello in there.” As usual Babette saw right through me. “You do a lot of dreaming for a business owner. You’ll never guess who came into your store.”
I know the best weapon against Babette. I folded my arms and patiently waited in utter silence.
Pruett broke the stalemate. “I, for one, can’t wait to hear, Babette.”
It didn’t take much encouragement for Babette to spill whatever she knew. One look at Pruett’s handsome mug turned her into a pile of mush.
“I’m glad someone appreciates me,” she said. “Thank you, Wing. The customer in question was none other than Roy Vesco.” She smirked. “Got your attention, didn’t I? Now you’re really interested.”
Pruett clapped his hands, giving Babette the applause she craved. “Tell us.”
“Well...Roy needed some kind of collar—I don’t know the type—but he did. Seems that ugly-lookin’ pit bull of his chewed one up. Probably aiming for the show rep instead.”
There was more to this story. I knew that with patience and fortitude it would all emerge.
“Anyhow, Roy and I started talking. He’s really a pretty nice guy, you know. Misunderstood. Anyhow, he said the cops grilled him like a porterhouse steak.”
“Genna, again?”
Babette shook her head. “Nope. This time gorgeous Roar let loose. Anyhow, Kiki and Roy had a rock-solid alibi for the night Lee Holmes bought it.”
I leaned in. “Really?”
After much posturing and teasing, Babette finally relented. “Yep. They spent two hours with the cops taking anger management class. Seems someone reported that little dustup with Lee Holmes, and this was their way out. Roy was boiling mad, I can tell you.”
I gave that some thought. Vesco hardly qualified as a mastermind. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t stick a pair of shears into somebody if provoked. In fact, it was precisely the type of impetuous action that fit a hothead like him to perfection.
Babette gave me the stink eye. “He’s really a nice guy, Perri, even if he drags that pit bull around with him everywhere. He’s got his own business and does quite well. Kiki is wife number two, by the way.”
“What happened to his first wife?” Pruett asked.
“Dumped him for a computer nerd. Told Roy she was trying to improve her mind by taking night courses. Huh!”
I rewarded Babette by trading information about Rafa and his encounter with the redoubtable Sergeant Watts. Before she could interrogate me or share her opinions, a glut of customers transformed me from Nancy Drew into Susie Saleswoman. Pruett, Babette, and Ella quickly vanished, leaving me with my boon companions, the doggy duo of Keats and Poe. After the crowd dissipated, I leafed idly through the sheaf of circulars on my counter and got a surprise. At six pm that very evening, the show organizers planned a tribute and memorial service for Lee Holmes. All exhibitors and vendors were invited to attend, and refreshments would be provided. Talk about kismet.
As fate would have it, I attended Lee’s memorial alone. Babette sent me a mysterious text urging me to go without her because she had plans. Meeting a friend—or so she said. The smug emoji accompanying it convinced me this friend was definitely male. Meanwhile, Pruett joined the text parade by notifying me that Ella, Guinnie, and he had gone for an extended hike and would probably catch dinner at Ella’s other favorite spot, Applebee’s. I didn’t mind being abandoned; in fact, it was liberating. It freed me to join the throng at Lee Holmes’s memorial event without constraints. Lacking Babette’s well-intentioned interference, I felt more empowered than I had since leaving Great Marsh. Who knew? If Roar Jansen put in an appearance without his trusty watchdog, Genna, I might throw caution to the winds and flirt shamelessly with him.
I sped back to Steady Eddie, fed and crated my dogs, and sharpened my female wiles. Nothing too dramatic—just a touch of makeup, a spritz of perfume, and a thorough grooming of my hair. I chose somber clothing in deference to the occasion and because it suited my mood and pocketbook. Babette’s wardrobe rivaled the holdings of a mid-size specialty store, but mine was far more limited. Happily, black was one color that made me feel feminine and a bit sultry in a modest leathersmithy way. That prompted a pep talk guaranteed to buoy my spirits. After all, I wasn’t married, engaged, or even promised to Pruett. Men still gave me the eye on occasion. I studied my reflection in the mirror and told myself that, at thirty years old, Persephone Morgan was still a catch. Too bad I had the right bait but zero interest in catching anyone.
Self-pity was pathetic in and of itself and so unlike a bold former squad leader and leathersmith. I shed my insecurities like my dogs did excess water. The game was definitely afoot tonight, and I planned to take full advantage of it. I trooped into the Better Living Center, merging with a stream of fellow dog enthusiasts. There was a certain irony in the building’s title, considering that, at least for the deceased, better living was no longer even a possibility. A modest crowd gathered in the main showroom to commemorate Lee Holmes or pretend to. Sorrow was kept to a minimum, and most guests seemed either impassive or nonchalant. Some hardly knew Lee but appreciated free booze, food, and temporary escape from the tedium of show life. Others probably attended out of respect for Yael. The third group, in which I included myself, had mixed motives.
I scrutinized those in attendance, noting Yael’s tight-lipped smile, Whit Wiley’s contemptuous grin, and Bethany Zahn’s very noticeable cleavage. Jess Pendrake was nowhere to be seen, but to my surprise both Rafa and Alf Walsh were present, lurking around the fringes of the room and trying to look inconspicuous. Neither had been a fan of the deceased, but their somber expressions and subdued clothing allowed them to blend seamlessly into the crowd. Immediately before the official starting time, Babette waltzed in arm and arm with her “friends.” A murmur spread through the crowd as Roy and Kiki Vesco took their place in the second row. I blinked at the duo, marveling at the transformation in the Vesco clan. Roy had traded his polyester gear for a handsome linen shirt and black denim jeans. True, he still clung to some of his old ways. Wearing a string tie was a debatable fashion choice, but in Roy’s case it was forgivable and the least of several possible fashion faux pas. Most of my attention was focused on his companion. With her face scrubbed free of makeup and that perpetual pout, Kiki resembled an ingénue rather than a harlot. Even her tattoos had been removed or were hidden by the long-sleeved shirt and dark slacks she wore. Score one for Babette. Her talent for scene setting and staging was clearly on display, and it worked like a charm. Both Roy and Kiki vaulted up the social scale from oddball to normal.
Babette gave me the royal wave and busied herself by whispering something to Roy. Whatever she said had impact: the tips of his ears grew cherry red, and the poor fellow ducked his head. Kiki ignored the rest of us and studied the pair with undisguised interest. Looking innocent and being virtuous were two very different things.
Promptly at six pm, the AKC rep called us to attention. He listed all of Yael’s many contributions to the dog world and briefly referenced Lee’s enthusiasm, energy, and spirit. No mention of friends or good deeds. This crowd knew way too much for that. Frankly, as the man droned on, I zoned out. My mind was cluttered with the image of those pretty pink shears protruding from Lee Holmes’s bloody back. Unlike other murder methods, stabbing was a full-contact sport that was oddly personal. I’d seen my share of gore during the war, and it wasn’t pretty. If poison was a female thing, knife wounds skewed more to the male side. I stopped and gave myself a mental shake. How incredibly sexist of me to hew to the old social conventions! Plenty of women were strong and fit, fully capable of dispatching a man with those lethal shears. Jess Pendrake, for one. I’d felt her wiry strength when she grabbed my arm the other day. That chick had major muscles.
“Penny for your thoughts.” A pleasant baritone rang in my ear.
I met the soulful gaze of Roar Jansen. “Penny doesn’t get you much these days, you know. You have to up the ante, Sergeant.”
He dazzled me with his pearly whites. “On a cop’s salary, that’s about all I can afford.” In deference to the occasion, he also chose to wear black. The Jansen version was leather—from head to toe. It leant a rakish air to a man who needed very little adornment to up his sex appeal. In self-defense, I kept my eyes firmly fixed on his face to avoid even the hint of temptation.
I quickly scanned the arena for any sign of trouble. No sense incurring the wrath of Genna. “Here all alone, are you? No one to safeguard your virtue?”
Another grin from Roar. “I could ask you the same thing, Ms. Persephone.”
I threw him my steely, stony stare and paraphrased Shakespeare. “I’m here to bury Lee Holmes, not to praise him. After all, he was a colleague of sorts.”
Roar threw back his head and laughed. Actually, he guffawed. “You slay me, Leather Lady. Peddle that line of bull to someone else, why don’t you? Now let’s cut to the chase. Tell me everything you know or suspect. I’m a colleague of sorts too.”
He had a point, even though I hated to admit it. I had no official standing whatsoever and no close connection to the victim. Truth be told, I didn’t even like him. In my opinion, his wife was no prize package either. Yael was one of those entitled plutocrats who automatically assumed she had a right to anything her little heart desired. She viewed the rest of the earth as a vast wilderness populated by serfs, like me, born to service their betters. A harsh but fairly accurate assessment. Despite all that, I felt a strange surge of sympathy for the woman. Men were a tricky proposition at the best of times, but a cheating, conniving spouse like Lee Holmes was downright lethal. If Yael had dispatched her slimy spouse, a panel of jurors might just vindicate her—assuming they were female, of course.
“Guess I’m losing my touch,” Roar said with a self-deprecating grin. That maneuver, accompanied by a show of fetching dimples, probably scored big-time with anyone even remotely female. Pruett had a few moves like that to unleash on his credulous fans, and they tended to work well. I let the nonsense sail right over my head, without moving a muscle, and beckoned to Roar, pointing to an empty bench near Ring Two. No sense in spilling my secrets to the entire show world. Besides, I really hadn’t made much progress. Roar remained impassive as I listed the major points: the harmful Le Chien supplement and its effects, romantic entanglements, and the nefarious double-dealing that characterized Lee Holmes’s life. There were motives aplenty but few suspects and even less evidence.
When I concluded, Roar flexed his hands and sighed. “Not much to go on, I’m afraid. You only confirmed what we already knew. Lee Holmes was a sleaze that nobody liked and some actively hated. Big deal. The same goes for half the politicians in this country and most of the news media.” He showed those dimples again. “Sorry, Perri. I don’t see where that helps us much. Naturally, Genna and I both appreciate your efforts.”
He was right, of course, but that didn’t mean I had to like it. My pride suffered an unexpected blow. Roar showed no respect at all for my investigative skills or instincts and regarded me as some sort of bumbling amateur. I vowed to prove him wrong.
“There might be another piece to the puzzle,” I said. “Nothing definite.”
Roar folded his arms. “Come on. Share. What are partners for? I don’t suppose it concerns Pruett, does it? He’s been nosing around this case since the get-go.”
“Why in the world would a world-class journalist get involved with a small-timer like Lee Holmes? Where’s your motive, Sergeant?”
“You tell me. You have the inside track on him.”
Smug men push every one of my buttons. I decided to investigate further before spilling anything, despite the winsome ways of Sergeant Roar Jansen. Did he really suspect Pruett of the murder, or was it simply another ploy? As soon as I ridded myself of his company, I planned to follow up on Bethany’s hints. The woman knew something, and I meant to extract that information from her by whatever means were necessary. I glanced over toward the center of the ring, keeping an eagle eye on the psychic in question. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, Bethany had no problem whispering, flirting, and flashing cleavage at anything remotely male that crossed her path. Small wonder that Pruett and a certain hot cop enjoyed her company. To my chagrin, instead of waiting for a decent interval, she flounced out the exit to the restroom area as soon as the speeches concluded and the liquor started flowing. That behavior was odd and completely atypical for the Bethany I knew. She could belly up to the bar with the best of them and usually did so, particularly when somebody else paid the freight.
Roar fiddled with his keys as he waited for my answer. The boy had patience, I’ll give him that. Fortunately, my salvation came in the curvaceous form of Babette Croy. My pal, accompanied by Kiki and Roy, sidled up to me and poured out her heart or something very like it. Through extravagant hand gestures and head tosses, Babette distracted me and enabled Roar to escape. It was purely accidental—at least I thought it was. When Babette was involved, one never really knew.
After ten minutes of aimless palaver, I slipped away and checked out the restroom. For once, it was vacant—ominously so. Bethany must have used the side exit to make her escape. I dashed back to the auditorium to check things out, deflecting questions from handlers and one of Punky’s pals. Nothing could deter me. I was a woman on a mission, determined to confront Bethany and find answers. She billed herself as a pet psychic without much evidence that I could see. If it were true—and I had my doubts—she must realize that hiding any knowledge about a murder was dangerous. Lordy. Didn’t these people read crime novels or watch television? Were they too busy clipping, bathing, and brushing their canine charges to join the real world? I planned to confront Bethany and shake some sense into her. One way or another, she would confide in me.
Free-flowing alcohol had loosened up the gathering and unleashed occasional peals of laughter. Babette had cornered Rafa, to the displeasure of a number of ladies, but Bethany was nowhere to be found. I checked the central clock—9:45 on the dot. Just as I admitted defeat, a wisp of metallic fabric floated out the exit to Gate Nine. It was Bethany—had to be. No one else dared to wear such festive garb at a memorial service. I resolved to follow her and have a final showdown. Pruett had disappeared, and Babette was too far away to be of help. Time to play the Lone Ranger.
Snow was still piled in heaping mounds around the entryway, and ice shards lined the paths. I gingerly picked my way through the sodden mess, straining to get my bearings and avoid a nasty fall. Bethany far outpaced me. I could see the faint glow of her flashlight—at least I thought it was hers—gliding through the parking lot like a disembodied spirit. If only Keats and Poe were with me to buoy my confidence. Dogs have phenomenal hearing and night vision, traits that most humans sorely lack. My boys had saved many lives during our military service and several times since. They could sense danger before my training and instincts even began to kick in.
I reached into my bag and retrieved my trusty flashlight. It might alert Bethany, but at that point, I opted for safety over stealth. I hoped I wouldn’t discover her in a clinch with some man, particularly a certain investigative scribe. A fleeting thought—which I banished immediately—featured Bethany wound around Pruett like a nubile serpent. Nope. Not likely. Surely Pruett had enough class to rent a hotel room for a rendezvous.
I followed the thread of light, trudging through the fields toward the Equine Pavilion. Was I following Bethany or some innocent stranger? More to the point, what in the world was she doing out in the elements? I suspected an assignation. Unless she was particularly hearty, any outdoor antics were highly unlikely. Bethany had been dressed for display rather than hiking, and she wore only a wool shawl to fend off the icy wind. She had to be freezing. I adore cold weather, but that frigid wind whipping through the trees was fierce enough to make me relish my winter hat and gloves.
The cavernous equine arena was abandoned during the winter months. Horses were too likely to slip on the snow and damage their delicate legs. Come spring, the area would awaken, and the pavilion would hum with glorious creatures, riders, and throngs of spectators. Suddenly, the light vanished, and I heard a faint thud. Had she injured herself? Hardly the best way to spark a romantic encounter or to further a career in the show ring. I strained to hear something—anything. Never did that old cliché “The silence was deafening” seem truer. Time for me to abandon stealth and act. “Bethany,” I called in a voice that sounded suspiciously tinny even to me. “It’s Perri. Are you okay? Where are you?”
At first, there was no response. I edged cautiously toward the pavilion, skirting the main area until I reached Horse Barn E. Time was not my friend as I searched in vain for an unlocked entrance. I glanced at my watch. At least fifteen minutes had elapsed since I last saw a hint of light. To quell the dread building up inside me, I tried humor. Maybe Bethany was the earthy type who preferred a literal roll in the hay to the comfort of clean sheets. Even now she and her paramour might be primed for action, emitting moans and groans of pleasure. I shuddered, imagining an abandoned barn as a passion pit. Straw was filled with all manner of noxious things. If Pruett were involved, that would serve the faithless wretch right. A bout of hay fever would almost be punishment enough.
The main building was locked up tight, but someone had wedged open the side barn door. I called out to Bethany again and heard a faint moan. Stupid woman! She’d probably wrenched her ankle in a hole and couldn’t walk. Emboldened, I panned the area with my flashlight and felt an immediate jolt. Jess Pendrake, her eyes vacant and unseeing, crouched next to the crumpled body of Bethany Zahn. Blood gushed from a vicious wound in the psychic’s throat as she tried unsuccessfully to speak. After one final gasp, her body went limp. No need to wonder which weapon had been used. A gore-soaked plough gauge, a tool often used by leathersmiths, lay beside her. It housed a blade that was sharp enough to eviscerate cowhide. Penetrating human flesh was no problem at all.
I fumbled in my bag, found my cell phone and dialed 911.